“Professor Krada, thank you for talking to me,” Hannibal said. “I just wanted to ask you…”
Krada help up both index fingers like tiny stop signs. “Please. Food first. Nina!”
The woman in the kitchen moved forward, carrying a tray. She was average height but the kind of thin that made Hannibal think that if she had not been wearing that simple, natural colored shift, he could have counted her ribs. Her skin almost matched the natural cotton garment, and her hair was a darker shade of the same neutral color. She was pretty, but not in a way that jumped out at you. Her eyes were like those in some paintings that seem to follow you as you move around the room.
“Mr. Jones, this is my wife, Nina,” Krada said as she settled the tray on the table. Without a word she placed a bowl of soup, and a plate holding a sandwich in front of each of them.
“This looks great,” Hannibal said, pulling off his black driving gloves. “But you really didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“Nonsense,” Krada said, patting his woman on the backside. “You are a guest in my home. Still, it is nice to be appreciated, eh, Nina?”
“Yes. It is.” She locked eyes with Hannibal, just for a moment, and he thought her few words carried far more meaning than her husband noticed. Then she tipped her head toward him and moved away. Krada picked up his spoon and sipped.
“Nina has learned to make the best lentil soup. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Jones?”
“Hannibal, please. And Cindy thought that you could help me with a case I’m working on. I’m doing a background check on a man who claims to be a native of Algeria, and I need to establish if he really is. Any ideas?” Hannibal sipped from his spoon and smiled. It really was good. He thought there was as much beef as lentils in the tomato-based soup. In fact, it was more like a stew, with potato, carrots, celery, garlic, onion, and lots of spices.
“You know, I do have an idea or two,” Krada said, shaking his spoon at Hannibal. “As a professor of history I am always amused at what is or isn’t common knowledge in different locations. Is this man educated?”
“I believe so,” Hannibal said, picking up half of his ham sandwich.
“People in other countries know a lot more about America than Americans know about them. They understand your political system, they know why Nixon was impeached and how you became involved in the Vietnamese civil war. However, few of them know that George Washington told the truth about chopping down a cherry tree or that Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred ninety-two.”
“The useless stuff we learn in grade school,” Hannibal said.
“Just so,” Krada said, warming to his subject. “These are things that only American school children are taught. There are similar things taught to schoolchildren all over the world. I believe I could come up with a list of questions that only an Algerian child, or someone who had been one, might know.”
“That sounds great,” Hannibal said, this apparent solution warming his heart the way the spicy soup warmed his belly. “If you could put together a few questions this afternoon, maybe after your classes, it would really help me.”
Krada wiped his hands on his napkin before extending one to Hannibal. “I will do my best. Please thank Miss Santiago for sending you my way. And now, I really must prepare for my classes.”
Hannibal rose and walked with Krada to the threshold. Nina appeared just as her husband was opening the door. On an impulse, Hannibal stepped around his host to shake her hand as well.
“I just wanted to say it was a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, and to thank you for a very nice lunch.”
“My pleasure,” she said, but only offered a half smile. As Hannibal was saying good-bye to Krada, she looked over his shoulder and the look she gave Hannibal seemed to have meaning.
On his way to his car, Hannibal’s mind returned to the wonderful stew Krada’s wife had made. It must have required a great deal of time and effort. A woman who would do that deserved more respect in his estimation. He would not question how things were done in another man’s house, but he regretted that Mrs. Krada didn’t join them for lunch.
It was the kind of minor detail he would sometimes dwell on, but once behind the wheel of the Volvo, Hannibal pushed the Kradas to the back of his mind. Time was very short and he wanted Ivanovich out of his life as quickly as possible. He began assembling what would be his report, just as he would for any client. He had to be able to account for his time and explain why he thought he was closer to knowing what the client wanted to know. As long as he thought of Invanovich in those terms, as the client, he figured he could keep his rage under control.
Still, by the time he parked across the street from his home he had a hard time pulling his black leather driving gloves away from the black-leather-covered steering wheel. He stood and leaned against his closed car door, centering himself by watching the recently planted tree on the sidewalk just up the block.
The poor little guy was just beginning to lose its first set of leaves. If Hannibal had a least favorite season it was this one, autumn. Winter and summer were sure of their identity, and spring was the time of renewal. Fall was not the time of death. That was winter. Fall was the time of dying, which Hannibal found much more tragic. Fall was watching the life seep out of living things that were fighting and struggling to hold on to it. And even though Hannibal knew that the tree would be back in full bloom by March, he was sure the tree didn’t know it. All it knew was that the life it gained in the last eight months was being stolen and it was sinking into a deep sleep.
Filling his lungs with the crisp air, he pushed off of Black Beauty’s lacquered hide and crossed the street. When he opened the building door he intended to steer left into his apartment for fresh coffee and a small, quiet dinner. The sound of his office doorknob being rattled snapped his head around to the right. The man at the door, Cindy’s father, was short and bulky, and his hair was gathered on the sides and back of his head. Ray Santiago turned from the door, smiling at his downstairs neighbor.
“Hannibal, where you been? I’m not used to finding your office locked in the middle of the afternoon unless you’re on a hot case. Open her up, Paco. From the look of you, we could both use a beer.”
7
Hannibal returned his friend’s smile but kept his feet rooted in place. “Ray. What’s up, buddy? Bad day? I’m not used to seeing you around this early.”
“Yeah, running the limo company been taking up way too much of my life,” Ray said, pulling the stub of a cigar from his mouth. “Figured I’d just visit with you for a while before I went to have dinner with Cintia. Now come on, open this door that’s standing between me and my beer.”
“You deserve a break,” Hannibal said, wondering if his visitor was on the other side of that door aiming a pistol at it. “Unfortunately, the fridge on that side is tapped out. But I got a beer or two in the apartment. Come on.”
Hannibal turned and headed for his apartment door, fighting the urge to scream a warning at Ray. He anticipated the sound of gunfire any second but instead he heard a brief pause, then Ray’s footsteps behind him.
“Yeah, I guess you’ve had enough of the office for one day,” Ray said, following Hannibal into his kitchen and right to the refrigerator. He kept an assortment of beer for visitors, but he knew that Ray’s tastes mirrored his so he pulled out a pair of Sam Adams black lagers. They carried the bottles into the living room before twisting off the caps. Hannibal dropped into his recliner while Ray settled into the center of the sofa.
“So, rough day, eh?” Hannibal asked, chasing the question down with a long swallow from his bottle. The thick, smooth liquid rolled down his throat, relaxing him on its way down.