Silence and a sweet aroma greeted his entrance. The outer office was empty except for Mrs. Abrogast, who was floating fresh begonias in a shallow bowl filled with water. The office manager turned toward the door with an expression that somehow combined an unimpressed smirk with a scowl of impatience.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Jones, or are you here to rob us?”
“My apologies, ma’am,” Hannibal said, holstering his gun. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here this early. I thought I’d end up waiting for you in the hall.”
“Someone has to prepare this place for the all the young lions,” she said, moving around behind her desk. Mrs. Abrogast was one of those lovable, blue-haired, old-school ladies who never smiled but loved her charges despite her constant criticism of them. This, and her stone visage, made her the perfect gatekeeper.
“Well, since you’re here, I’d like to leave Mr. Miller with you,” Hannibal said.
“You do know that Ms. Santiago is not in yet,” Abrogast said. “I’m the only one here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hannibal said, “but I have another case that I have to attend to. I’m pretty sure Miller here will be safe in your charge and the rest of the crowd will be in soon enough.”
“You need to stop by more often, young man, and I don’t just mean when it’s business related,” she said, fussing with things on her desk as if Hannibal wasn’t worth paying attention to. “You give her more attention, or we’ll find someone else for her to waste her time on.”
Hannibal leaned one palm on the desk. “You are absolutely right, Mrs. A. You don’t know how badly I wish I could be talking to her right now. But when you see her, give her this, OK?”
He kissed the tip of a gloved pointer finger and pressed it on Mrs. Abrogast’s head. She gave him a skeptical glance and a small piece of a smile.
“That won’t hold her for long, young man.”
Hannibal’s smile faded by the time he was driving north and west down Connecticut Avenue, the major thoroughfare that slices into the heart of Northwest DC. He was at the leading edge of rush hour, the sky not quite light thanks to low cloud cover, the pedestrians not quite awake. Heading toward Viktoriya Petrova’s place, he had more time than he wanted to consider Ivanovich’s threat against the person he cared most about in the world.
It was a big stick, maybe bigger than necessary. After all, Ivanovich was not asking him to do anything illegal or that would put anyone at risk. In fact, Hannibal knew he might have taken the job anyway if Ivanovich had asked him nicely. It was nothing that would make him even think about putting his woman at risk, and he saw no reason to leave an alarming note for her at work or make any attempt to inform her of the situation because it would only frighten her. Besides, he might be able to end the case quickly. He would start by talking with Gana; his girl, Petrova; and her mother. If the man had nothing to hide, Hannibal would know right away.
To reach the Petrova house Hannibal drove past the Omni Shoreham Hotel and down the block he called restaurant row in his mind. He had once counted twenty-five international restaurants on that one city block. Most of them pumped hypnotic aromas into the street. Crawling through traffic with his windows down, Hannibal found the scent of food changing with each breath.
He drove past stately rowhouses whose ornate architecture cast him back a century or so before trees and lawns took over and the rowhouses gave way to upscale single-family houses. These were not the contemporary dwellings sprouting like kudzu all around the Beltway, but old-school mansionettes, most of which were still inhabited by old money.
Hannibal was watching the numbers on the mailboxes. After he drove past the Petrova house, he turned the corner and parked almost at the end of the block. He was dressed for business in black suit and gloves and his ever-present Oakleys, but he didn’t feel conspicuous. In that neighborhood, most people would assume he was a member of a government or private protective service, or perhaps working at one of the nearby embassies.
It was a crisp day, as if all the trees in the neighborhood were working overtime on oxygen production, and he wanted to walk the area a bit before knocking on a stranger’s door. On a whim, he decided to walk toward the closer corner and stroll up the block to pass the house that backed to the Petrova residence. It also belonged to Mrs. Petrova and was leased to Dani Gana. If Hannibal got lucky he might even catch a glimpse of Gana, although he still wanted to speak to Mrs. Petrova first.
A brown suit caught his attention as he walked. It was wrapped around a man holding a camera. The camera’s lens was big enough that the man had to support it with his spare hand. He was leaning against a brown Saturn wearing New Jersey plates, itself more out of place on that block than Hannibal’s Volvo. The longer Hannibal looked at the man, the less he seemed to belong there. He was trying to be casual but was watching for something at the other end of a steep driveway. If Hannibal was judging the distance to the man’s position correctly, the house he was watching was the Petrova rental property. That was enough to make Hannibal want to know more.
He could walk straight down the sidewalk to greet the stranger, but instead he crossed the street. Soon he was standing behind the man, separated by a narrow strip of asphalt. The white, modified split-level house stared down from its perch surrounded by a variety of foliage. A tall bank of hedges offered the house some privacy. Hannibal wondered if Dani Gana could have done anything to warrant being stalked by paparazzi.
The stranger with the camera let any random sound yank his attention to the left or right. When he looked uphill through the hedges, he lifted the camera to his eye, as if using the lens as a spotting scope. Could this be the man Ivanovich saw watching Gana?
Hannibal waited for a taxi to pass before stepping into the street. He walked at a normal pace, not trying to conceal his presence, yet the stranger looked startled when he heard Hannibal’s voice beside him.
“What are you doing here?” Hannibal asked.
The stranger’s head whipped around and his right hand slid into his jacket as if he were looking for something. “Get away from here. I’m authorized. I’m INS.” He pulled out a badge but Hannibal ignored it. He looked at the man’s suit, his shoes, and the quality of his haircut. He was soft around the middle and his sandy brown hair was just a little too long. His shoulders were slight for a man Hannibal’s height.
“No, you’re not,” Hannibal said.
“Sure I am. Now beat it. I’m following a suspect.”
Hannibal glanced at the fake badge and wondered if “special agent” Ben Cochran had used his real name on it. Having seen the real thing so many times, he didn’t have to stare long to see this badge was made from a much cheaper metal. Not that it mattered, since nothing about this man’s style, appearance or approach felt like a real INS agent.
“You’re not immigration and you’re not FBI. So who are you?”
Cochran hesitated for a moment, then lowered his hand and put his badge away. “Who said I was FBI?”
“A guy I know, but he must not have gotten a good look at you.” Hannibal watched Cochran’s eyes wilt.
“OK, look, I’m really a private detective.”
Hannibal leaned back against the car, side by side with Cochran. “Wrong again. That’s my gig and I know every private op licensed to work in the District.” It was a casual lie, but he had little fear of contradiction.
“So you’re watching Gana too?” Cochran asked. Hannibal smiled and Cochran took that as his answer. “I’m from out of town. I’m here helping a friend who wants to know who Gana really is. Damn, I hate being stuck in the Ramada day after day, but I told my pal I’d help him out, you know? I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you’ll just…”