Damaged Goods Page 6

  Cindy shook her head, still smiling. “My poor investment-ignorant Hannibal. One of the biggest problems with DPOs is the lack of a secondary market to trade these securities in. I mean, unlike shares of say, TRW or IBM that change hands by the millions every day on the New York Stock Exchange, the stock of DPO companies is kind of illiquid.”

  “Meaning it’s hard to sell,” Hannibal said.

  “Well, yeah. There are sales restrictions, and they’re not on an exchange so, yeah, we have to sell them.” She stood, smoothed her skirt, and leaned over for another kiss. “You know, lunch was nice, but I owe you a real, home cooked meal. I’m thinking pollo con quimbobó y platanos with some black beans and rice.”

  “Okay, pollo is chicken, right?” Hannibal stared into her eyes with both hands on her waist, gently tugging, trying to drop her onto his lap. “That does sound good. Tonight around eight? That would give me time to straighten up.”

  Her eyes broke from his as conflict flashed across her face. “I’ve got a lot to do here, baby. Not sure how I can swing it tonight.”

  “Yes, I know, you’re ever so busy. But tell me this: when will be a better time? When will you not be busy?”

  At the gentle urging of Hannibal’s hands on her waist, Cindy lowered herself onto his knees, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and brushing his nose with her own.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay. Dinner tonight, at your place. My man comes first.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Hannibal said in a very soft voice, “and maybe I’ll have a little surprise for you then. Of course, if something comes up…”

  “No, I absolutely promise.” Cindy’s mouth pouted and she batted her seductive eyelashes. “I would never want to disappoint my honey. If I don’t come through…”

  “If you don’t then you get a spanking,” Hannibal said, wagging a finger at her.

  “Oh?” Cindy said, turning her face to look at him out of the corner of her eyes. “Do YOU promise?”

  It was close to three o’clock when Hannibal again parked in front of Anita’s home. He noticed that her lawn was turning brown, partially from being cut too short. Sometimes a person can pay too much attention to some jobs and do more harm than good. He imagined this girl polishing the finish off furniture too, or destroying clothes by washing them too often.

  Anita opened the door before he could ring the bell. “It’s good to see you again,” she said. “Have you solved it all so quickly? Found Rod and brought back whatever he took away?”

  “Not quite.” Hannibal stepped into her sterile front room. “Thank you for meeting me here. I’m glad your schedule is so flexible.”

  “Oh, I have a full day’s work but I always start early and finish early,” Anita said with evident pride. “So please, have a seat and tell me what you’ve learned. Coffee?”

  Hannibal continued to stand at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. “Sure, coffee’s fine. I wanted to tell you where we are with the investigation. First of all, your friend Rod will not be easy to find. He’s covering his tracks pretty well, using false addresses and so forth. So I’ve decided to approach this from two different directions. First, I’m afraid I’ll need to question this LaPage woman. You said you saw Rod coming out of her house.”

  He watched Anita nod as she fussed about the kitchen. She was dumping out the coffee she had brewed for herself, making him a fresh pot. “Mr. Blair might not like that. They’re neighbors and I think they belong to some of the same associations and such.”

  “I’ll check with him,” Hannibal said. “The other best chance is to figure out what your father left here that anyone would want to steal. He must have told Rod about his treasure. People get lonely in prison, and sometimes that makes them talkative. Maybe he really did expect the man to come here and protect you. In any case, I think it must have been something he took away from work, maybe insider trading information or pharmaceutical trade secrets.”

  “I don’t think Daddy would do anything like that,” Anita said as she poured freshly filtered water into the back of her coffee maker.

  “Even so, I think I need to talk to some of the people he worked with.”

  Anita paused for a moment in the middle of measuring scoops of coffee. “I’m afraid I don’t know any of the people Daddy worked with.”

  “I see. Well, I might find some leads in his office, if I can poke around in there a little more.”

  “Of course,” Anita said. “Whatever might help. Say, I’ve got some corn muffins here. Why don’t you go ahead to the study and when everything’s ready I’ll bring a tray down to you.”

  Walking down the carpeted steps to the office, Hannibal was shaking his head, silently admitting that Anita’s subservient attitude was starting to irritate him. But then, if the girl had shown a bit more backbone, this Rod would never have been able to take advantage of her as he did. Hannibal always thought all women raised by men would be more like Cindy, who spent her formative years with just her father. Perhaps Anita was looking for a replacement for her lost father when Rod appeared on the scene. If so, he must have enjoyed being taken care of and catered to in a way Hannibal never would.

  While one part of his mind toyed with that personality puzzle, the rest of it explored the office, searching for some evidence that Anita’s father had connections with anyone else at Isermann -Börner. Nothing on the desk or any of its cubbyholes yielded a clue. He leafed quickly through the books on the dust-free shelves. It didn’t take long to ascertain that Mr. Cooper never made personal references.

  Letters? Memos? Hannibal turned his attention to the gray metal filing cabinet in the corner. He yanked at the handle. Locked. Well, that was a good sign. Maybe there was something inside worth hiding. Not wanting to wait for Anita, Hannibal drew a small plastic kit from an inside jacket pocket. The case was about the size of a credit card and no thicker than a computer floppy disc. From it he drew two slender bits of spring steel. He slid the metal slivers into the filing cabinet’s lock and five seconds later, pulled the top drawer open.

  The file folders were all neatly labeled, and most of the labels meant nothing to Hannibal. Chemical compounds, he guessed, or abbreviations for them, except for the folder at the very back whose label read, “rules.” Curiosity drew his hand toward it, then past it. In the dark in the back of the drawer a sparkle had caught his eye. It was the glint of metal on what appeared to be a leather strap.

  Hannibal pulled the unexpected object from the drawer. A dog’s collar, he thought, but for a good sized animal. It was a simple black leather strap about fourteen or fifteen inches long, with a square silver buckle. Odd that the collar would be locked in a file cabinet, he thought, and stranger still that he had seen no evidence of a dog or even a cat in the house. He had seen no food, water bowl, pet toys, or any of the usual telltale signs.

  The collar made him curious, but didn’t seem relevant to his investigation. Idly, he pulled the “rules” folder out with his free hand, dropped it on top of the filing cabinet, and flipped it open. It appeared to contain only five or six sheets of paper, with several lines handwritten in a very fine and precise script, with gold ink. Not a man’s hand, more likely Anita’s. The hair on the back of Hannibal’s neck rose to attention as he scanned the first few numbered lines.

  #1. I worship my Master.

  #2. I worship my Master’s body.

  #3. I will serve, obey and please my Master.

  The numbers went up to ninety, but that was enough for him. Hannibal flipped the folder closed and just managed to get it back where he found it when he heard a gasp behind him, followed by another sound, like a partial sob. He turned to see Anita, her mouth open and her face flushed bright crimson. Her eyes darted left and right, as if she would run off if not for the tray she was holding. The tray held a coffee pot, cup, sugar and creamer set, and a plate of muffins. After a moment of paralysis, she appeared to buckle at the knees. Hannibal moved to help her, but she carefully pl
aced the tray onto a chair and knelt in front of it, facing down at the tray as if the empty cup was endlessly fascinating. Hannibal suddenly felt like an intruder. He also felt very slow, having not realized at first that the object in his hand was a symbol of shame for the woman he was trying to help.

  “This is yours,” he said slowly, before realizing how pointless that comment was.

  Anita squeezed her knees with her hands, and nodded her head.

  Hannibal was treading into unfamiliar waters, but some things seemed to string together. “Rod?”

  Her head moved up and down again, and he saw a tear drop to her skirt.

  “Please,” he said aloud, “please stand up.” In his mind he was screaming, “For God’s sake, get off your knees.”

  Anita rose and turned to face him with unexpected grace. She seemed to be staring at his navel, but for the firs time Hannibal wondered if her downcast gaze was the result of shame or training. He let the silence hang, quite sure that she knew the questions that needed answers. When at last she spoke it was in a voice so well controlled that it surprised him.

  “When Rod got here my life had no direction, no purpose. I had dedicated much of my life to my father, and he to me. When he died I had nothing. No one. Life just happened to me. It was all spinning out of control. Rod, he explained my purpose, gave me a role in life. Mostly he was good to me. Gave me direction and trained me.”

  “Trained you?” Hannibal’s stomach twisted tight, like a knotted dishrag. “To do what, to be his servant, his slave?”

  Silent tears began to slide down Anita’s face. “I needed guidance. He showed me how to behave and what to do.”

  The water on Hannibal’s skin wasn’t tears, but sweat, sending a chill up his spine. “Did he,” no easy way to ask, he decided. “Did he beat you?”

  “He didn’t want to,” she said. “Only when I made him do it. Only when I was bad. Or if I wasn’t learning.”

  Hannibal suddenly remembered the collar in his hand, black leather that matched his glove. He dropped it on the filing cabinet. “Learning what, I wonder,” he said, mostly to himself.

  Anita’s tears flowed more freely and she gave a soft sob before answering this time. “He made me do things. Things I never did before. But it made him happy for me to do these things and I needed to learn the joy of making him happy.”

  She sounded as if she was giving a memorized speech. Hannibal’s hands trembled with rage and he clenched his fists to stop them. She stood still, as if waiting for something. His reaction? Condemnation? Her next order?

  Hannibal reached slowly forward, to place his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Look at me.” No reaction. He raised his left hand to whip his glasses off. She flinched when his hand moved. He pointed to his own eyes. “Look at me.”

  Anita raised her face slowly, as if fighting against some invisible hand pressing down on her head. When she made eye contact, Hannibal thought he could see all the way down into her fractured soul. He clenched his teeth, but it did not stop his breath from hissing through them.

  “Listen to me. I know this man did things that damaged your spirit, maybe some things you’re very ashamed of. But none of this is your fault. You hear me? This man turned you, twisted you in ways you couldn’t possibly defend against. But believe me, I will find him, and I will make sure he pays you back for everything he took from you. I swear to you he will pay.”

  Anita broke down completely, crying aloud, her face twisted into that mask that looks so much like laughing if you could turn off the sound. Sobs rocked her body and she leaned close enough for her tears to dampen Hannibal’s shirt.

  “Please,” she gasped out, in rhythm with her crying, “Please, sir. Please don’t hurt him.”

  -6-

  The little town of Vienna, Virginia sits about a dozen miles due west of Washington, D.C., a straight shot down I-66. By that time in the afternoon there was quite a bit of traffic flowing in both directions. Ben Blair’s office was there, on the 12th floor of a glass tower. Hannibal was grateful he was headed there from Anita’s home, a pleasant ten minute drive due south. Just enough time for him to appreciate Blair’s commute, and have an idea why he chose to live in a townhouse in Tysons Corner instead of the mansions he could afford that gathered around Washington like Hollywood Indians surrounding the fort, an hour or more away. Not quite enough time for him to recover from Anita’s final words before he left her, or to manhandle his rage at Rod Mantooth into a manageable form. His jaws ached from clenching them against his own anger.

  The parking lot was free, at least for the first two hours, and Hannibal had no plans to be there that long. He found the air conditioning a little overdone in the lobby. It made the marble columns and tile flooring seem even more impersonal. Two other people waited for the elevator, but neither spoke during that wait, or during the elevator ride.

  When at last he entered the Tactical Datamation offices, Hannibal faced a mature receptionist who sat as a calm veneer in front of a beehive of activity. Her dyed auburn hair was well lacquered in place, and her smile was equally frozen. To her left and right, people clattered at computer keyboards or wheeled their chairs around to confer with coworkers. He could see that they worked in a bullpen atmosphere, without the usual cubicle walls separating the workers. When anyone stood, they walked quickly, as if the person they wanted to speak with might get away. Or, more likely, they moved in fear that their latest inspired idea might escape them before they could share it. A week in this place would drive Hannibal to try to leap through one of the sealed windows. Maybe that was why buildings like this one never had windows you could open.

  “How may I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked, with that air of power one gets when one stands guard at the gates of the rich and famous.

  “Hannibal Jones to see Ben Blair.”

  The Gatekeeper seemed to scroll Blair’s schedule behind her eyes. “I’m afraid no one sees Mr. Blair without an appointment. Can I write you in for tomorrow morning?”

  “He’ll see me,” Hannibal said with a calm smile. “We have personal business.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, matching his calm demeanor. “Mr. Blair sees no one without an appointment.”

  “Just tell him I’m here.”

  “Sir,” she added just an ounce of weight to her voice, “Mr. Blair’s schedule is extremely tight.”

  This could become tedious. Hannibal placed his gloved palms on the oak reception desk. “Neither of us has time for this, so we will proceed in one of two ways. In the next ten seconds, one of us is going to walk into Mr. Blair’s office and ask if he will see me right now. Which do you prefer?”

  Hannibal kept his eyes on The Gatekeeper’s but his other senses told him that the buzz of activity to his left and right had stopped. Perhaps they had never seen this woman challenged and waited to see if she would scream or call the security guard or pull a revolver out of her desk. In the end, nine seconds later, she stood and walked with perfect posture down the hall behind her. Normal activity did not return until Hannibal could hear her heels clicking back toward him. When she returned her smile had not moved an inch.

  “Please follow me, Mr. Jones,” she said with a small nod. She escorted Hannibal down the hall, which took two turns before ending at a closed office door. When she turned to wave him inside, her smile was as cordial as when he first saw her.

  Blair’s office was laid out in three areas. To Hannibal’s right a sofa and love seat in soft beige formed a conversation area. On his left, a round table and five steel chairs seemed to constitute a business area. The control center was dead ahead.

  The desk was no deeper than an arm’s length, with a stack of four shelves on each end. Wings on each side formed a “U” shape, and each wing held a keyboard and flat screen. Papers were stacked neatly on each of the shelves and across the desk. In the midst of this power cockpit, Blair looked up at Hannibal with one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

  “I’m impressed Jones. Nobo
dy gets past Margaret, you know?”

  “You just have to know how to ask,” Hannibal said.

  “So do we have progress?” Blair asked, then as an afterthought, “Oh, have a seat.”

  Blair waved toward the loveseat, but Hannibal stepped toward the round table. “I had a question, but first I wanted to clear my next step in the investigation.”

  Blair nodded, and then refocused on his right hand computer. Hannibal stood still while Blair finished whatever he was in the middle of. He appeared uaware of how rude most people would find his actions. Less than two minutes later he stood and walked toward the table. He pulled a chair out, spun it, and sat straddling the seat.

  “Okay, what can I do to help you find our man?”

  Hannibal stood behind a chair, his hands on the corners of the back. “Well, the obvious things didn’t get me anywhere. Our boy Rod is clearly working at not being traced. The most obvious and best lead has got to be your neighbor, Ms. LaPage. But Anita told me you were members of the same clubs and such. Wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be causing any trouble if I questioned her.”

  Blair lowered his eyelids to half-mast and pushed out his lips. His thinking pose, Hannibal assumed. “No, I don’t think you’re likely to cause any repercussions. She probably thinks I’m crass and crude already, so what harm can you do to my rep, you know?” At Hannibal’s quizzical expression, Blair added, “Marquita LaPage is old money, Mr. Jones. I’m a tech driven upstart. We go to the same clubs and eat in the same restaurants, but we live in different worlds. If you think you can get anything out of her that will lead us to this Rod and Anita’s valuables, go for it.”

  “Good. I’ll be interviewing her when I leave here.”

  “Fine,” Blair said, his eyes straying briefly to his computers. “Now, you had questions?”

  “Just a couple,” Hannibal said.

  “Me first,” Blair said. “What five letter word become shorter when you add two letters to it?”

  What?”

  “Nevermind. Just a puzzle. You’re the man who likes puzzles. Anyway, what did you want to ask me?”