Blood and Bone (10 page)

Not wanting to disturb his finding, Hannibal began brushing dirt away from the area, like an archeologist who does not want to disturb whatever artifacts he may find. Only after considerable digging did he begin to see what he was uncovering.

“Oh my God.”

Ray went down the stairs to stand behind Hannibal. While Ray held his flashlight, Hannibal brushed dirt away with his hands, revealing rotting cloth over a pair of parallel bones. They were ribs, and the knife was standing between them.

“What have you found?” Ray asked, almost hysterically.

Hannibal considered the cinderblock's placement, right where the head would have been. “Found? I guess I've found a trace.”

Hannibal hated to be in the middle of a scene. Years of training in the Secret Service made low profile his natural mode of operation. Yet he and Ray stood in the middle of the kind of scene that made neighborhoods like Edmundson Village very nervous. A pair of blue and whites sat parked on either side of the street in front of the condemned building, sirens off but bubble lights revolving. Policemen swarmed around the sidewalk and front stoop-like blue yellow jackets at the outhouse door. Two suits leaned against their unmarked car, pretending to direct the investigation. A police forensic van pulled up. Two men and a woman in white lab coats got out, looked around as if to orient themselves, and headed into the house. A few women in mules and housecoats gathered to watch the show, but Hannibal knew most of the people in this area would rather not draw the attention of the police.

The sun hanging directly overhead reminded Hannibal how much he had done before noon. He was tired way too soon and getting hungry besides. He bent to brush dirt off his knees and when he looked up, another unmarked car skidded to a stop in the street. A door popped open and the car disgorged a blob of fatback wrapped in a gray suit. The detective's deep brown skin was stuffed almost to
bursting, but he managed to waddle over to Hannibal and glower.

“You Jones? Guy who made the call?”

“Glad to meet you,” Hannibal said, watching the light glinting off the man's bald head. “Yes, I'm Hannibal Jones and I'll bet you're the detective in charge.”

“Terry Dalton,” the detective said, not offering a hand. “Yeah, this is my hassle. Now what the hell were you doing poking around in an abandoned building this morning?”

Hannibal stepped down from the sidewalk to the street to even their heights. While he spoke, he displayed his investigator's license. “Working a missing persons, and I might have found him.”

Dalton pulled out a cigarette and touched the flame of a disposable lighter to it. “How nice for you. You any idea how much work this makes. People got to poke through that place, pull in every bit of bone. Then the identification process. Got to bounce this against every disappearance and murder in this area in the last thirty years.”

“I might be able to save you some time,” Hannibal said. He was walking toward the limo and Ray was already at the wheel. “After I called the cops, I called my client, Gabriel Nieswand. He's a high-powered lawyer. By now he's probably got the paperwork through to get those remains DNA tested. I don't understand it all, but they've got to compare the DNA in these bones to a known reference sample. They found some of the missing man's hair in a comb his widow never got around to throwing out. That ought to pin him down.”

“So you're helpful, eh?” Dalton said. “Well, that's good. Drag your ass down to the station. Got a few questions for you, so I can finish my report.”

“I'll be down later,” Hannibal said, pulling his car door open. “Hot leads to follow up on, and all that.” Before Dalton could say another word, Hannibal slammed the door and Ray popped the clutch. The limo's engine gave a deep, throaty roar and it charged down the street.

Two blocks later, Ray stared into his rear view mirror and asked “Where to, Hannibal? I mean, I could see you wanted to get out of there, but I didn't know what was next, you know?”

Hannibal pulled his flip phone out of his jacket. “Next, I need to get hold of Doc Cummings. I want to know where Angela the mystery girl hangs out.”

Quentin Moon jumped as if shot when Hannibal burst into his office. As the door slammed the wall behind him, Hannibal marched across the small room and planted his fists on Moon's desk. Moon shrank backward in direct reflection of Hannibal leaning forward.

“I need you to come to a late lunch with me,” Hannibal said, a little louder than he meant to. Moon sat silent, as if he thought speaking might somehow drive Hannibal over the edge. His radio played Oldies 100 softly behind him, reminding Hannibal that Moon lived largely in the past. Moving slowly to relax the other man, Hannibal dragged a chair to the front of the desk and sat down.

“Look, Moon, I just left the police,” Hannibal said in slow, calming tones. “I think I may have found Bobby Newton. At least what's left of him. He may have been buried in the basement of that building he lived in. They're testing what's left to confirm his identity. But
another possibility has appeared and I think you should see it.”

The little restaurant was within five blocks of Moon's own club, still well inside the area known as Fells Point. The decor was outdoor olive garden, with murals painted realistically enough to convince urban diners they were in Italy, at least for a little while. It was not very big, but they arrived behind the lunch rush and had no trouble getting a table. The aroma of homemade sauces tugged at Hannibal's stomach. He and Ray flanked Moon at a small table. He had followed reluctantly, numbed by Hannibal's words. Now he was slowly absorbing all of what Hannibal said. “You think Bobby is dead?”

“Right now, all I've got is a stack of bones,” Hannibal said. “But I'll bet it's Bobby, or else Bobby's the killer and that's why he ran. The police have the bones, and my client's lawyer, Gabe Nieswand, is getting tests done to find out if it's him.”

“Bobby was no killer,” Moon said, staring over a menu. “But I'd hate to think he was murdered. In fact, I don't want to think about it at all. Why'd you bring me here?”

“You know a doctor named Cummings?” Hannibal asked, sipping his water.

“Nope.”

“He sent me here,” Hannibal said, waving a finger at a waitress. “He got a visit from somebody you might know a couple of weeks ago. She works here now and I wanted you to meet her.”

The hard part, Hannibal knew, would be to sit quiet and watch. The waitress reached their table and asked for their orders. Hannibal thought Moon's eyes would drop to the table. She was indeed beautiful. A black girl, no darker than Hannibal and not quite out
of her teens. Dark brown, wavy hair hung to her shoulders. Her lips were full, and her chin aggressive, but her nose was thin, almost pointed.

“The Alfred special looks awfully good,” Hannibal said. “I think we'll all have that. And pick us out a bottle of wine, would you?”

She graced him with a smile. Her eyes were very bright, her teeth very even and very white. When she walked away, Moon blinked and returned to motion, as if waking from a long coma.

“It's the little girl, isn't it?” Moon whispered. “What was her name?”

“Angela,” Hannibal said.

On Moon's face, shock wrestled with hysterical joy for dominance. “God, she looks just like Bobby. Well, a little lighter skinned, but the resemblance is amazing. Jones, that has got to be his daughter.”

Ray, usually the opposite of the typical talkative cabby, tapped Hannibal's shoulder. “Looks like the girl's the real thing. So what now? You going to hand her to Mortimer?”

“You think they'll want to meet her?” Hannibal asked.

“You think she'll want to meet them?”

Before Hannibal could answer, Angela returned with their meals. She politely placed their plates before them, clearly trying to ignore Moon's stare. Finished serving, she hung beside the table for a moment in apparent indecision. Speaking up might cost her a tip, but Hannibal thought he knew what a person of character would do. To his unexpected pleasure, she did.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Angela's light brown eyes were like lasers, tunneling into Moon's face.
Physically slight, her body language said she was nonetheless ready for trouble.

After a brief pause, Moon's face slid into a crooked smile of reminiscence. “I believe I knew your father, Angela.”

“My father?” She took one long step back. “You from Texas? You knew Sam Briggs?” Hannibal had to admit her accent was at least authentic Tex-Mex. Her voice was the surest giveaway to the Latin side of her ancestry.

“Briggs?” Moon repeated. An invisible weight had caved in part of his face. “Texas? No, no your name's not Briggs. I mean your real father. You're Angela Newton from right here in Baltimore.”

While Moon talked, Angela took three small steps backward, then moved forward the same distance. Her face reflected shock, hope, disbelief and joy all at once. Hannibal was a natural skeptic, but could anyone be this good an actress?

“What makes you think, I mean, how do you know this?” Her hands moved in small, opposing outward circles, and her vocal pitch was out of control. Her eyes begged for confirmation. Moon leaned forward, working at sounding sincere.

“Your name is Angela Davis Newton. Your father was a soul singer who used to work at my club. Your mother was a beautiful Spanish girl, small and thin like you. I used to visit your folks in an apartment across town. I actually bounced you on my knee. They were a family full of love, your parents and the blond girl they had there to be your nurse.”

Hannibal was paying more attention to Angela's face than Moon's babble, but a few words got through. He turned his lenses on Moon, gripping his arm to get his attention.

“Blond? Bobby Newton's cleaning woman was white?”

“I didn't say she was white,” Moon said, percolating a chuckle up from his throat. “This was a black woman, but a natural blond, right down to her roots. You don't forget a thing like that.”

Hannibal had seen this police station before, in every old movie he watched growing up. His mother loved Edward G. Robinson, Jimmy Cagney and George Raft, and they always seemed to end up in a place like this. And she was fascinated by the gritty humanism of American policemen, so different from the cold efficiency of the German poletzei. Anything American was exotic to her, partly because she never managed to see America. Hannibal thought it a cruel tragedy that his father did not live long enough to show her his homeland.

A sergeant had seated Hannibal and Ray in a pair of plastic chairs outside Dalton's tiny, glass walled office. Lighting was dim in the room, and what there was got absorbed by dingy once-white walls and dark green floor tiles. Ray waited poorly, fidgeting and grumbling so much Hannibal finally asked him to explore the building to see if there was a snack bar or something.

As Ray stepped out of sight, Terry Dalton lurched up the hall from the other direction. He seemed less aggressive now. Dragging himself along, he looked as old as the building he worked in, and as run down. Continuous use and a lack of maintenance, Hannibal thought, the same as the building. Eventually both would be replaced by a newer model.

As Dalton moved past, he waved Hannibal behind him into his office. Hannibal followed, closing the door behind himself. Dalton got comfortable in his oversized wooden chair and lit a cigarette. The chair opposite the desk was only inches from it, so Hannibal turned it sideways and sat.

“Sorry it took me so long to get here,” Hannibal said.

“No big thing,” Dalton answered. “I'll be here until eight tonight. You, on the other hand, don't have to be. Your lawyer friend's got the remains. I got nothing. Why don't we do this the easy way and you tell me who the bones were.”

Refreshing, Hannibal thought. A man who knows how to come to the point. “Deceased is probably the last resident of the first floor apartment. He disappeared about eighteen years ago. His name was Bobby Newton.” Not exactly the truth, but not really a lie either. It was certainly the name on the lease.

“Could be,” Dalton said, leaning forward to support himself on his elbows. “Our people said a quick test put those bones at close to twenty years old. That was a pretty rough area back then.”

“Then?” Hannibal remarked without thinking. Dalton looked up and nailed him with a hard look, right through his dark glasses.

“Back then, a lot of people come up missing in Edmundson Village,” Dalton said in a low, distant voice. “I was just a patrolman then, new, full of piss and vinegar. Every night there was shootings. Stabbings. Fights. Usually over drugs, or gambling, or women. Mostly in that little circle, five or six blocks around Killer's.”

Dalton lapsed into silence, staring through Hannibal like a mechanical fortune teller after your
quarter runs out. Hannibal did not really want to put in another coin, but it was outside his nature to leave a story unfinished. He had to start the machine again, and he knew the price was to ask a question.

“Okay, so what was Killer's?”

“Just a bar a couple blocks from where you found the bones.” Dalton shrugged and took a deep drag from his cigarette. The smoke burned Hannibal's nose and added to the bar room atmosphere in the small office. Then Dalton continued his story in a smoke roughened voice.

“The place was run by Vernon Nilson, a guy everybody called Killer. Like in lady killer, you know, but by the time I met him he'd already earned the nickname for real. Yep, Killer Nilson. Big nigger, must have been six-four or five. He disappeared too.” Then Dalton gave a crooked smile. “Maybe that's old Killer you dug up. More likely he killed the John Doe and faded out.”

Something tickled the back of Hannibal's mind. It seemed this case was staying within a narrow geographic area. Both cases, actually, the one he was paid to do and the other. He decided to gamble again.