“So he is on the run.”
“Better believe it,” Queenie said, shooting a narrow stream of smoke his way. “That’s what happens when you steal from your betters. The boss is pretty pissed.”
“Your boss?” Hannibal asked. He regretted the question as soon as he voiced it. Asking too many can make some people suspicious.
“Who did you say you were again?”
“Hannibal Jones.” He gave her a card as a sign of his legitimacy. “I’m a local private investigator. I don’t want to mess up Ben’s action, but it’s hard when I don’t know what the action is.”
“Ben didn’t tell you why he was there?”
“We didn’t have much of a chance to talk before Gana came out of the house after us,” Hannibal said.
“You kidding?” Queenie said, flicking her cigarette’s ash into a tray. “What did he do?”
“I took off before Gana caught up to Ben. I think he broke the camera though.”
“Damn,” she said, breathing smoke as she spoke. “That thing was expensive.”
“How does he know Gana anyway?”
“He don’t know him. I do.” Queenie took a long drag on her cigarette and started marching her spiked heels around the room. “This Dani Gana character and I worked together once. He had a sweet deal. Then one day he disappeared with some of the boss’ money. Very uncool. The boss wanted us to hunt him down but I figure there’s no percentage in turning him over to the boss. My thinking is he’ll be willing to trade the money for his freedom.”
“Ben didn’t seem to me the kind of guy who’d be up to blackmailing somebody like that,” Hannibal said, leaning on the back of the chair that still held the imprint of Queenie’s heel.
Queenie stopped pacing and looked at Hannibal over her shoulder. “You look like you’re up the challenge,” she said in a way that made Hannibal doubt she was talking about blackmail. “Maybe you could help us out.”
“Help you out how?”
“You’re a detective,” she said, as if that made everything obvious. “You just help us find the money and get it back, and we’ll give you a nice cut.”
Hannibal eased down onto the chair. “You’re all about the money, ain’t you? If I was you, I’d be more worried about Ben.”
“Why? What’s he done now?”
“I don’t really know,” Hannibal said. “But I do know his car is abandoned on a little side street. It’s been sitting there for two days.”
“Abandoned?” Queenie stared into Hannibal’s dark lenses and for the first time he thought he saw genuine concern in her eyes. “Where is it?”
“A few blocks from Gana’s place.”
“Jesus. I hope nothing’s happened to the big lug.”
“Well, when you go chasing after thieves…” Big lug? Hannibal hadn’t heard that phrase since he was watching old movies with his mother back in Germany.
“If it’s by Gana’s, then it can’t be too far from here,” she said, pulling a white satin windbreaker out of the closet. “Take me to the car.” When Hannibal didn’t move, she clamped her eyes shut and added, “Please?”
Hannibal led her out to his Volvo, telling himself that there might be some useful information inside the vehicle. Maybe Ben took notes during his surveillance of Gana, or maybe he had a lead on the money. If Gana’s fortune was indeed stolen, he needed to know the source to finish his assignment. Queenie was playing things close, but if he did her a favor or two, got on her side, she might tell Hannibal who she worked for and how much Gana stole.
While he drove, Queenie stared out the window, examining every face that passed as if it might be her husband. She may have been both the brains and the guts of this team, but it appeared that Ben was the heart. She seemed lost without him.
She was getting antsy when they pulled into the block where Hannibal had twice passed the Saturn. Traffic was lighter in midafternoon and he rolled very slowly down the street, looking for the fire hydrant that was his landmark.
“Come on,” Queenie said when they were a little more than half way down the block. “Where is it?”
Hannibal couldn’t answer. The little brown Saturn was gone.
14
“Oh my God, where is he?” Queenie asked, shaking another cigarette out of her pack.
“He probably just came back for the car,” Hannibal said. “And you’re not going to smoke in my car.”
“No, no, no,” she said. “If he was OK, he would have called. He wouldn’t let more than twenty-four hours pass without calling me.” She stared at the dashboard for a second, realized that what she was looking for wasn’t there, and fumbled for her matches.
“The car shouldn’t be hard to find. Hey, did you hear me?”
Queenie managed to get the matchbook out of her pocket. She rolled down her window and struck a match. Hannibal’s right arm snapped out, his gloved hand closing around the match and cigarette, snatching them both away.
“You are not going to smoke in my car,” he repeated. “Now, does Ben own the car?”
“The Saturn? That’s my car.”
“Great,” Hannibal said, making another turn to get pointed back toward the Cochrans’ hotel. “Do you carry a copy of the registration?”
“The registration stays in the car.”
“Too bad,” Hannibal said, tapping buttons on his steering wheel. The car speakers put out the sound of numbers being pressed on a telephone.
“Are you making a phone call?”
“Yes, I’m about to report your car stolen. I have a friend who’s a chief of detectives with a nearby police department and I think he could put some emphasis on it. This would have been a lot easier with the VIN number.”
“Oh. Hey, is that number on the insurance card? I’ve got that in my purse.”
“Good girl,” Hannibal said just before making the telephone connection. When the answer came from the other end, Hannibal said, “Orson? This is Hannibal.”
“That was quick. You get something out of the wife?”
Rissik’s remark made Hannibal regret that he had the phone on speaker. Queenie opened her mouth to speak, but Hannibal held up a hand to silence her.
“I got sidetracked, but it’s related, and I need your help.”
“So what else is new?”
“Here’s what’s new,” Hannibal said. “You’re not the only one still interested in that particular death. I’ve got a prime suspect and somebody else was following said suspect before I came on the scene.”
“I see. And is our follower a mob guy?”
Hannibal looked at Queenie. Her eyes grew to saucer size and her breathing became shallow panting. He took the deer-in-the-headlights response to mean that Ben did have organized crime connections.
“Don’t really know, pal. But I think if we find the missing car it might yield some forensic evidence that could lead right back to my suspect and then I think we could possibly tie him to that killing.”
After a pause, Rissik said, “Could? Possibly? You know, Jones, you and me we play this game where you BS me for what you think is a good reason. You pretend to be doing something for me, to help the law, and I pretend to believe you.”
“Aww, you’re breaking the illusion, Chief.”
Rissik chuckled. “Yeah, and I promise never to do it again. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I knew.”
“Seriously, Orson, I promise you that I’ll never ask you to do anything you’ll regret later,” Hannibal said. He could feel Rissik nodding on the other end of the phone. He figured that his friend was just clarifying the ground rules, which he thought was important in any long-term relationship.
“OK,” Rissik said, “What can you give me on the missing vehicle.”
“I got the registered owner’s name and address. I got the year, make, model, color, and VIN number of the car. But right this minute, I’m also fighting my way through midtown traffic so if you promise not to ask any embarrassing questions, I’ll let the missing guy’s wife give you the details.”
“Good,” Rissik said. “I can get a description of the man too, just in case he’s sitting in a cell or a hospital somewhere under a wrong name.”