Blood and Bone (2 page)

Work? Hannibal spun onto his back to get his brain into focus, then sat up quickly. His hand hit something beside him.

“You're not mad, are you?” Cindy asked. “I feel kind of guilty talking business on Sunday morning, but it's kind of important to me.”

He was listening with only half his mind. What his hand had hit was a body. Jewel's body. She must have crept in while he slept. He watched her eyes open dreamily. He knew what was next. In Hannibal's experience, a woman's eyes opened only seconds before her mouth. As Jewel prepared to speak, he clamped his free hand down over her mouth.

“Nothing to feel guilty about,” Hannibal replied, sensing the irony of his remark. “If it matters to you, it matters to me. Somebody in trouble?”

“That's your business, isn't it?” He could hear Cindy's soft chuckle. “It's one of Mister Nieswand's personal clients. Kind of a delicate situation. I told him you could handle it and he asked if you could make it to his place for brunch.”

“Brunch?” Hannibal asked to fill time. Jewel started to sit up and the sheet fell away. She was naked. Actually, THEY were naked. “Sounds good. How should I dress?”

“Well, it is business. Better make it suit and tie. It's out in Oakton. They dress for snacks in that neighborhood.”

“Oakton? I better get going then. Give me the address.” Hannibal glared a threat at Jewel before he removed his hand. She froze in place while he found a pen and pad by the phone.

“No, pick me up,” Cindy said. “He wants me there too. I'll be ready when you get here, so we can make his place by eleven, okay? See you later. Love you,” she added, throwing a kiss into the receiver.

“Me too,” Hannibal said, forcing a smile into his voice. “See you soon.” He settled the phone gently into its cradle, but in the time it took him to turn around, his expression turned to rage. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

Jewel shrank back against the headboard as if struck. “I was lonely. You were alone and I thought, I mean, I figured…”

“If I didn't think that pimp would kill you, I'd put your ass in the street right now,” Hannibal snapped. “Now get across the hall, lock the door and get some clothes on.” Despite his anger, he watched her dancer's behind squirm into a too tight miniskirt and admired her legs in motion until they reached the other end of his apartment and slinked through the
door. As the door latch clicked he leaped to his feet and headed for the kitchen. He did not have much time to get his act together and he had a stop to make before he left.

At eight-thirty, Hannibal knocked on the door directly upstairs from his own living room.

“Yeah, who?” came a grumbly voice from inside. Already up and in the living room, Hannibal thought.

“It's me, Sarge.”

The door popped open and a stocky black man wearing only boxer shorts thrust his head out. He looked Hannibal up and down, taking in the black suit and tightly knotted tie. “You going to church?”

“Cindy called with a job,” Hannibal said, “but I've already got one. Want to make some money?”

Sarge rubbed a hand across his scalp, past his hairline, which had receded halfway back on his head. His flexing biceps made the fouled anchor tattoo jump. “Well, you'll be coming for October's rent pretty soon and the place I been playing bouncer in looks like it might go belly up soon. Sure, I can use a few extra bucks.”

“Good. Got a client down in the office side. She's paying my full daily fee to have a safe place to crash while she sorts out her life. It's worth my usual subcontractor pay if you'll keep an eye out for trouble next couple of days.”

“Two fifty a day?” Sarge grinned. “I hope she never leaves. Is she cute?”

“Beautiful.”

“Then for three hundred she can stay up here with me,” Sarge said, smiling even broader.

“Actually, she's used to getting money for that,” Hannibal said. Sarge's face fell. “But she's trying to break that habit, if you get my meaning.”

Sarge nodded and a new alertness showed on his face. “And somebody don't want one of his meal tickets taking a walk, right? Okay. She's safe long as she stays in the building. You and me, we chased whores, junkies and who knows what all out of this building before we moved in. I guess I can hold off a pimp.”

“Sarge, I trust you more than the FBI, but I got my pager and phone just in case something comes up.”

“You going far?” Sarge asked as Hannibal headed for the stairs.

“Another world,” Hannibal called back. “Oakton.”

“Look, I'm sorry if I ruined your Sunday morning,” Cindy said as they eased into the wooded cul-de-sac, then rolled slowly up a long blacktop driveway toward a three-car garage. “You've hardly said a word.”

“Sorry, honey. I'm not mad, just tired I guess, and the weather isn't helping.” Not really a lie, he thought. It was the kind of overcast day that made you think you could reach up and touch the gray cloud ceiling. Drops sprinkled down slowly enough to cause his windshield wipers to make that awful noise, even at the lowest intermittent setting.

Hannibal had driven from Southeast Washington, D.C. across the Fourteenth Street bridge and down to Old Town Alexandria to pick up Cindy Santiago in front of her home. Then he drove ten miles west on Route 7 in sluggish Sunday morning traffic to turn down the equally congested Route 66, to reach a Washington suburb where people bought homes for what the realtors called “gracious country living.” But half his mind was occupied by the houseguest who
had sneaked into his bed, a guest he had somehow failed to mention to Cindy.

He pulled his Volvo to a stop and stared up at the stately colonial in which Gabriel Nieswand stored his life, barely outside the beltway. It was exactly the type of brick monstrosity he knew Cindy aspired to. And he would love to give her one, the next time he found himself with three quarters of a million spare dollars laying around.

Hannibal was out of his car and planning his long stroll up the flagstone path when he heard an engine roar to life and a long Mercedes came screaming backward down the center of the wide driveway.

“Whoa!” he shouted, waving his arms. The limousine's brakes locked, filling the air with the smell of burned tread. He caught a glimpse of a woman in the back seat. Fortyish, with blond hair that did not fit with her complexion and a pleasant face which was losing the battle with gravity.

Then the driver got out, a beefy black man in chauffeur's livery, curling and opening his huge hands. His nose showed he had not won every fight in his life, but his eyes said he did not particularly care. He seemed to take a second to appraise Hannibal, deciding they were in the same class.

“Move it before I push it out of my way.”

Hannibal straightened his jacket and stepped forward. “Look, I'm not somebody's driver here. That car's my baby. You put a scratch on her I'll break your legs.”

The chauffeur spit out of the side of his mouth. Hannibal heard Cindy in his right ear say “You're tired. Don't do this,” in a pleading tone, but he was in no mood for taking crap off some servant.

“Them shades supposed to scare me?” the chauffeur asked. “You don't look like one of the lawyers, so I don't have to take your shit. Move the frigging car.”

“I'll bet you been in a lot of fights,” Hannibal said, pointing at the horseshoe-shaped scar on the back of the chauffeur's right hand, “but that don't mean jack to me.”

The bigger man's eyes flared open. He swung his big right fist at Hannibal's head. Hannibal blocked that punch, then the left, and drove his own left into the bigger man's stomach. The driver grunted but swung a right cross that connected this time. Hannibal's ears were ringing, partially with Cindy's scream. He let two more hard punches bounce off his upraised forearms. Then he managed a pair of jabs into the other man's already broken nose. Seeing an opening, he drove an overhand right into the man's jaw. The driver staggered against the Mercedes and Hannibal saw one more good shot would do it.

“Paton!” the shout turned Hannibal's head. A man was trotting down the path from the house, moving like he was unaccustomed to anything more than a mild walk. He wore an expensive sport coat and a less expensive toupee.

“Miss Santiago, what is the meaning of this?” he asked. Hannibal lowered his hands, realizing how stupid he was being. Cindy stepped forward, turning on the smile she used to calm both clients and prosecutors.

“Mister Nieswand, may I present Mister Hannibal Jones. I'm sorry, but there was some misunderstanding with your driver.”

“Paton, I don't believe this,” Nieswand said with an air of superiority Hannibal found stifling. “Now you go
on and take Mrs. Nieswand on those errands. Mister Jones, I am terribly sorry.”

“My fault,” he said, suddenly not wanting to get Paton into more trouble. “As Ms. Santiago said, a misunderstanding.” Then he faced Paton. “You've got quite a right there.”

“You got a pretty mean punch yourself,” the driver said, extending his right hand. “I'm Ike. Sorry about this. I'm kind of sensitive about…”

“I understand.” Hannibal saw Paton's eyes cut to Nieswand and realized it was important to shake Paton's hand, showing no hard feelings, which, in fact, was the case. Paton had shrunk back into his servant's role. With an insecure smile he got back in the limo, pulled it forward a bit and eased it carefully around Hannibal's car.

“I know he's a little rough,” Nieswand said, “But he looks out for the Missus. And I use him as a courier sometimes. You give a package to Paton, you know it's going to get where you want it to go.” Hannibal judged Nieswand to be in his mid-fifties. Lawyers, in his experience, came in three brands. Crusaders, like Cindy. Honorable businessmen, like her other boss Dan Balor. And slippery, legalized con men. While he smiled and nodded, he placed Gabe Nieswand into category three.

Once inside, they walked across a marble floor through a two-story foyer, and out onto a custom redwood deck. Soft classical music leaked out to the deck from the house. The table was set for four. A nameless woman in modernized maid's attire poured coffee and delivered Belgian waffles with fat, brown sausages. Actually, Hannibal assumed she did not have a name. She simply had not been introduced; a
sign of her unimportance, which he would have expected to offend Cindy.

“I must say, you're looking lovely today Miss Santiago,” Nieswand said once they were settled in their chairs. She smiled and nodded, and Hannibal had to admit the man was right. His woman was stately and slender, with a high, narrow waist. Her deep brown hair was carefully waved in a contemporary style a couple of inches beyond shoulder length. Yes, she knew how to wear that expensive navy business suit, but her real beauty was born to her in her Hispanic heritage. It was in her smooth, clear skin, her sharp cheek bones, her dark eyes and broad smile. It was the face of an angel and, because he preferred women with ample brassiere filling, he thought her body blew Jewel's away.

Why had he not noticed her beauty when he picked her up today? Was he taking her for granted? It was too late to say anything now, after her boss had already complimented her.

“So, Mister Jones,” Nieswand began around a mouth full of waffle, “Miss Santiago tells me you help people in trouble.”

Hannibal pushed whipped cream up onto the bit of waffle on his fork. “Cindy is familiar with my business,” he said. “But so is the other senior partner in your firm, Dan Balor. Surely you spoke with him.”

“Of course. I know how you cleaned out that apartment building of his that turned out to be a crack house. He tells me you live there now and act as building superintendent. Like Miss Santiago, he raves about your ability to get things done. In fact, I've checked you out rather thoroughly. Your police career, both as a patrolman and a detective. And your time with the Secret Service. Everything I know now
makes me certain you're the right person to help a client of mine named Harlan Mortimer.”

“You're careful about your client's welfare,” Hannibal said across the top of his coffee cup.

“He's also a friend.”

“He's also black,” Hannibal said, slicing the end off a sausage. “That why you want me?” He ignored Cindy's dagger eyes.

“What else do you know about Harlan?”

Hannibal gathered his thoughts while he chewed, then cleared his mouth with coffee. “I know he started out buying real estate in the district, then got real rich buying and selling land in northern Virginia. I know he's got a rep for being tough in business, but fair.”

“Did you know his only son ran off eighteen years ago? That he was nineteen when he took off? That he left behind a wife and his infant son?”

“That the problem?” Hannibal asked. He was noticing how well the closely planted trees protected Nieswand's deck from the rest of the world. A brightly colored jay was chatting with his plainer mate on a branch a few feet from Hannibal's head. These noisy neighbors seemed to make the scene more peaceful.