Hannibal released the door and Krada slammed it shut. He started the car, slammed it into gear, and pulled back out of the driveway. In seconds he was gone. Hannibal wondered if Krada was being evasive or just plain lying. If he was in contact with Gana, he could be part of the cover-up.
While Hannibal stood beside his car, Nina Krada opened the door and took a tentative step outside. Her eyes scanned the world, looking for evidence that her jailer was returning. She stepped down the three front steps on bare feet, moving as if she was sneaking out. She walked toward Hannibal even though her eyes never touched him. She stopped beside him, pressing her upper arm against his, as if for warmth. She looked at the photo in Hannibal’s hand and grimaced, then raised a hand and touched one face with a fingertip.
“Her.”
Hannibal looked at her nervous eyes. “You know this woman? You’ve met Viktoriya Petrova?”
Nina nodded. Hannibal waited for her to talk.
“He has these parties,” she said, staring into Hannibal’s collarbone. “He invites all his students. Many of them are also African. I have to serve them. They are children, but I have to serve them.”
He could feel her resentment. She must have felt that she had to serve them like a servant girl in her master’s house. He could imagine Krada showing off his importance to these young students while his wife brought them snacks and drinks and cleaned up after them. At that moment, Hannibal wished that Jamal Krada had killed someone, so he would have an excuse to beat the man’s face in.
“Nina, are you saying this girl attended your husband’s parties?”
“Yes,” she said. “He wanted her.” Her finger stabbed Gana’s face.
“So they were schoolmates,” Hannibal said. “Thank you, Nina.” She smiled at him and, on an impulse, he kissed her very softly on the cheek. She beamed back at him the way a dog does when you pat its head. Hannibal got back into his car. She watched as he backed out of the driveway.
21
Like Hannibal’s building, the old brownstone had once been someone’s home. Now it was divided into a number of apartments that college students shared. As he parked across the street from Dani Gana’s address during his college days, Hannibal thought that luck was with him at last. An older black man sat on the stoop with his feet two steps down, watching everything in his little slice of the world. His hair was now a gray laurel wreath that reached three quarters of the way around his head, leaving the front open. His top front teeth were gone.
This was almost certain to be the man Hannibal wanted to see. He crossed the street, walked up the steps just high enough to put one foot on the stoop, and offered the older man his hand.
“How you doing, brother? My name’s Hannibal and I’m betting you’re the owner of this place.”
The return shake was firm and energetic. “What’s up, there? No, I don’t own the place, I’m the super. Folks call me Junior.”
“The superintendent? Even better, man. I needed the man who runs things.”
“You with the insurance?” Junior asked.
“Me?” Hannibal chuckled. “Oh, hell no. I just need some help. A guy who used to live here might be in some real trouble. I figure you’re in and out of the building whenever anything breaks down, so you have to know what’s going on in there on a day to day basis. Am I right?”
“Well, I can probably tell you a little about every young man who’s lived here in the last ten years.” Junior shuffled over a few inches on the stoop.
“I kind of figured you could,” Hannibal said, sitting on the stoop beside Junior. “I think if you see this guy you’ll know him right away. I think his name’s Roberts.”
Junior accepted the picture that Hannibal had begun to think of as the class photo. He could see Junior’s mind working behind his clouded yet perceptive eyes, taking in the faces and backing down their ages.
“Yep, that’s him all right,” Junior said with a smile. “Had a wild ass first name. Yeah, Gar-tee.”
“Yep, that’s the guy,” Hannibal said. “You act like you might have known him.”
“Oh, yeah.” Junior laughed. “I usually get to know the boys.” A student burst through the door behind them. Junior and Hannibal shuffled to opposite sides to let him pass. “That there is Sonny Woods. Plays baseball, studies archeology.”
“Really?” Hannibal said, leaning his arms on his knees. “And what was young Mr. Roberts into?”
“Him? His thing was history,” Junior said, smiling his open smile. Hannibal caught the tang of cheap wine on his breath. “Crazy about history, that boy. And what a talker. Jesus.”
Hannibal laughed along. “What did he talk about?”
“Wild, crazy stories,” Junior said, shaking his head at something he must have heard years ago. “He was a runaway, you know. Spies were chasing him, from his real home, back in Liberia he said. Like, how would a guy from Liberia have a name like Roberts, right?”
Hannibal shook his head, wanting Junior to continue. The super didn’t know Liberia’s history, that the African nation was founded by free blacks from America in the mid-1800s. But Roberts was a history major, so he would know that history well. It seemed the odds were about even that he really was from Liberia, but Hannibal could see how that might be the lie and Algeria the reality. Right then, it didn’t seem to matter much. Either way he was a liar, and there were more pressing questions to ask.
“I guess he talked a lot about where he was from,” Hannibal said. “Did he say anything about where he was going?”
“Not a word.” Junior leaned to one side and took his chin in his hand. “You know, he left in a hurry, all in one day, smack in the middle of the term. Maybe somebody was after him after all.”
“So he left suddenly,” Hannibal said, staring forward trying to see Gana’s future path.
“Uh huh. In fact, I think it was them two helped him pack. I’m thinking they drove him away too.”
Hannibal’s head snapped around to share Junior’s view of the photo. The cracked nail of Junior’s index finger indicated the central couple.
“These two?” Hannibal asked. “You sure, Junior?”
“Brother, you don’t forget a woman with a body like that one,” Junior said, grinning again. “And the man’s name stuck in my mind. Boris, just like the little guy in Rocky and Bullwinkle. Kind of looked like him too, only taller of course.”
So they go back to his college days, Hannibal said to himself. Then to Junior, “You sounded surprised that he left.”
“Oh, yeah,” Junior said. “I’m surprised he left the girl behind. He was crazy about this broad, Vicky. He always said he was going to go off, get rich, and come back and marry that girl. So I guess he’s out making his fortune somewhere, huh?”
“Maybe,” Hannibal said. “And I just might know somebody who knows where the fortune was supposed to come from. The more I hear, the more I want to find Gartee Roberts.”
“Well, when you do, say hello for me,” Junior said.
The short drive to Georgetown University Hospital gave Hannibal just enough time to think about what he wanted to say to Ben Cochran. A brief telephone call confirmed that Cochran was awake and able to receive visitors. Hannibal hoped that Cochran was getting plenty of pain medication, but then cursed himself for the thought. He didn’t really want the man to be injured and in pain just so he would be easier to question. Besides, after having his head handed to him by Gana, he might be more than willing to share the truth even about personal matters like how he ended up with Boris Tolstaya’s woman.
Hannibal had spent too much time in hospitals to suit him, almost always visiting someone who did not deserve to be there. Hospitals always seemed too bright to him, as if someone thought the light would kill germs. Or maybe it was just all that white. Walking down the sterile halls he knew he would never get accustomed to the smell. Why, in the high-tech twenty-first century, did hospitals still have to smell like alcohol. Did they even use alcohol anymore? Maybe the odor was all in his head.