Blood and Bone (29 page)

“Look,” Rissik said, as if explaining a simple concept to a child, “we only had her while she wasn't in a hurry. Wherever she decided to go, she was very much in a hurry today. I'd like to blame somebody too, but the fact is, I got nothing in my motor pool that could chase down that Porsche.”

Hannibal turned away, fighting to contain his anger. As much as he hated it, he knew what Rissik said was the ugly truth. In her vehicle, Angela could have disappeared whenever she wanted to. He had no way of knowing where she might be. But he did know one place she went. While he contemplated this, Lippincott tugged on his sleeve.

“She has my son. Can you bring him back?”

“I don't know,” Hannibal said. “All depends on if I can find them.” He turned toward the door.

“I'll pay you,” Lippincott said, laying a hand on Hannibal's arm. “I'll hire you on the spot to find my son and bring him back.”

Hannibal shook free of Lippincott's grasp. “I don't exactly think he's a captive here.” Then he scanned the room for Cindy. Not seeing her, he scanned his memory. She passed him, he recalled, while he was trying to speak to Rissik. She had passed through the door, as had a dazed and handcuffed Abby Nieswand. Hannibal went to the door and leaned out. A new sprinkle had commenced. Cindy stood beside a police car, consoling the woman who minutes ago threatened to shoot them all. He trotted out into the lengthening shadows and tapped her shoulder.

“By now Bonnie and Clyde must have paid a visit to Daisy Sonneville,” he said. “She might know something. You coming?”

Racing down the highway, Hannibal considered he had done way too much traveling on this case. The sun was a dull red fireball low in the sky on his left. A persistent busy signal drowned out the whine of his tires on the asphalt. He reached up and pressed the button to stop the noise.

“It's too long. They've got it off the hook.”

“They must be terrified,” Cindy said. “Sure hope those kids haven't done anything stupid.”

Hannibal pulled out left to pass a tractor trailer. “Little late for that.”

“And Malcolm Lippincott is as much a part of it as Angela now,” Cindy said. “His father's heartbroken. What would make a person betray their own flesh and blood that way?”

“He's no worse than his old man if you ask me,” Hannibal said. He cut off a Camry to get onto the off ramp, raising a blare of horn which he ignored. “Lippincott's about the same age as Harlan Mortimer. He's been hanging around the Mortimers for decades, waiting for a fat inheritance to finance his clinic downtown when he's gone. His legacy, I guess. He hired me to bust Angela, not because he cared about Mortimer, but because she threatened his golden egg. And don't forget, he kept Abby Nieswand drugged and hidden as best he could at her husband's request, without ever once questioning why.”

Cindy stayed quiet as they entered suburbia. Hannibal knew the way to the Sonneville house by heart, but he did not remember the neighborhood looking so much like a prison. Each house as much like the next as cells in a penitentiary, and providing each family about as much privacy. Many of these people, he knew, hardly ever went beyond this little
community, except on their daily run to work and back. Even then, they usually took the same route. They were not locked in by others who feared them. Their own fear kept them prisoner. Prisoner to their routines, their jobs, their four walls with a television in every room.

Hannibal parked around the corner from the Sonneville house, which apparently got Cindy thinking.

“You don't suppose they're still there?” she asked. “Oh, God, maybe the Sonnevilles are hostages.”

“Not likely,” Hannibal said, opening his door. But standing outside the car, he bent his head back inside. “Why don't you sit tight while I see if they're home?”

“Like hell,” Cindy snapped, bouncing out of the car. “This is not one of those movies where the woman stays behind.”

Despite her bravado, Cindy hung well back from Hannibal as he approached the front door. Once on the welcome mat bearing the Sonneville name he rang the bell, then pivoted so his back was to the wall beside the door. He drew his pistol and held it down at his side, wondering if any of Daisy's neighbors were watching. While he waited for an answer, his mind ran every possible scenario, including those which stopped with him calling the police and letting them knock on the door. None looked better than the others to him. Then he focused on the doorknob, watching it slowly revolve.

“Who's there?” a man's voice asked. The door opened a crack and an eye pressed to it, staring over a heavy security chain.

“It's me, Mister Sonneville. Hannibal Jones.”

“Go away,” Phil Sonneville said, staring up into Hannibal's face. “We've had enough trouble.”

Hannibal slid slowly forward, so he and Phil could make eye contact. “Are they still in there?” he asked.

“Nobody here but me and my wife,” Phil Sonneville said, “and she's been scared enough.”

“Mister Sonneville,” Cindy called from the end of the cement path leading to the door. “We're here to help. May we please come in?”

From inside Hannibal heard Daisy's voice. “Oh, Phil, let them in. What more could they do?”

The door slammed and Hannibal was not sure what was happening, but he slid his gun back into its holster. He heard muffled conversation from inside, then the chain slid away and the door swung slowly open. Phil's lips were pressed together and his hands clenched and opened rhythmically. He said “Come in” in the same cadence and hard tone a person might usually say, “screw you.”

Hannibal nodded his head, showed his empty hands as a sign of friendship, and eased past the man of the house. There was nothing to be gained by challenging him. Cindy followed Hannibal inside. Daisy Sonneville sat on the sofa, her hands clasped desperately, her blonde locks hanging forlornly around her brown face. Hannibal stood against the front wall, backed by the bay window, hoping to present a less intimidating appearance. He even considered removing his dark glasses and gloves, but he would be too uncomfortable. Instead, he looked to Cindy, wordlessly telling her she should speak first.

“We're looking for the girl calling herself Angela Mortimer,” Cindy began. Daisy nodded without looking up. “We think she came here, with a man.”
Another nod. “And I guess they frightened you. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I'll tell you what happened,” Phil shouted. “They had a gun. I sent my little girl to stay with friends in case they come back for more trouble.”

Daisy released a loud sob and started pouring tears on the floor. “I don't know where they came from, but they were crazy. I came home from work like normal. Soon as I unlocked the door, they came up behind me, pushed me in the house and slammed the door. She didn't look no more than a teenager, but she had this gun.” Then Daisy's tears overwhelmed her voice and she started crying. Phil sat beside her, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and shook with her weeping.

Hannibal dropped to his haunches to be at eye level with Daisy. “Did they hurt you?” Daisy shook her head.

“What did they want?” Cindy asked.

“The baby,” Daisy wailed. “They wanted to know about the baby. The family. All about Bobby Newton and his family, only she said Bobby's real name was Jake something. She was fanatic, frantic. It was like she thought I was a criminal or something. Yelling, yelling, yelling, demanding details about everything. It was so long ago. I thought it was over.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, sneering at Hannibal. “And you brought it all back.”

“Did they say where they were going?” Hannibal asked.

“She just said she was going home,” Daisy replied.

Phil gave Hannibal an even harder look. “Why don't you just leave her alone?”

Hannibal stood. “I'm trying to end this. I need to find this Angela. If you want, I can get somebody to watch the house for a day or two until…”

Phil was off the sofa and in Hannibal's face in a second. “Look here. I love my wife. I'll take care of her, and I don't give a damn about her past or her ex-husband or any of that stuff.”

“Don't tell me, tell her,” Hannibal snapped back. “Don't worry about seeing me again. As of now, I'm out of your life. Her first husband is dead. Jake Mortimer, the man she knew as Bobby Newton, is dead. And once I catch up to the girl, the two of you can bury the past for good. I promise you that.”

Hannibal wanted to tell Phil Sonneville what a good man he was, how his love would heal all of Daisy's old scars, how men like him made up for the weak and evil and selfish men he saw every day in his business. But it was not something to say, just to know. With a nod and thank you to Daisy, he waved Cindy out the door. They walked all the way to the street before he escaped the sound of Daisy's crying. Without any conversation he strapped in, started his car, and headed back toward Washington.

Daylight was fading quickly, the shadows slowly but inevitably growing and stretching until soon they would take over. While focused on the road ahead, Hannibal was aware of his seat mate. Cindy stared at him a long time before she spoke. He wondered what she was reading in his face, but was afraid to ask.

“What if she's there? I mean I can't imagine you calling the police,” she said. There, he knew, was the Mortimer house. “You've got no more evidence of her guilt now than before. And she has a lot more detail of her supposed childhood and family. Do you think they'll give her up?”

“Got to try,” Hannibal said. “If they have all the facts and still choose wrong, well, that's their problem. Her only real crime is fraud, and if Mortimer won't charge her, there's nothing the police or anybody else can do. Maybe I can at least shake Malcolm Lippincott loose. Angela's crimes aside, he's twice her age for God's sake.”

In the dark, Great Falls looked very much like any other neighborhood. True, the streets were a little wider, and the space between dwellings greater than a lot of places, but young men still hung out under street lamps and half lit windows still harbored deep secrets. Mortimer's house was dark and quiet, the opposite of the way Hannibal found it on his last visit. He imagined everyone was settled into a quiet game of cribbage or Parcheesi, or whatever wealthy families did on weekday evenings. Or maybe they were all crowded around a big screen television, watching the latest Merchant Ivory film.

Hannibal rang the doorbell and waited. Time passed slowly until someone approached the door. He heard a latch reluctantly release, freeing the deadbolt lock. Then the door slowly swung inward, revealing Harlan Mortimer's face. Hannibal could not hide his surprise. From past visits he thought answering the door was one of Camille's assigned duties. Yet here was the master of the house himself, in smoking jacket and slippers, his salt and pepper beard looking straggly. He was visually testing Hannibal's face like unfamiliar waters. Hannibal felt Harlan's gaze burn right through to the back of his skull. He was about to ask if he could come in, but Harlan spoke first.

“You wear those things at night?” He asked, then turned and walked back into the house, leaving the
door open. Hannibal took this as an invitation, and he and Cindy followed Harlan in. A library silence filled the house, prompting them to move quietly. They paused at the door to the cavernous great room. Harlan continued on, dropping heavily into an overstuffed chair and staring straight ahead at the fireplace. Hannibal entered slowly and walked around to stand left of Harlan's visual target.

“We're looking for Angela,” Hannibal said. “Has she been here?”

“Oh yes. She's been here all right,” Harlan said, nodding toward the fireplace.

Cindy moved forward until she stood beside Hannibal. “Mister Mortimer, we have reason to believe Angela is involved in a carefully developed fraud targeting you.”

Harlan snorted one silent laugh. “Oh, I don't think so. She's gone now, and she won't be back. Like father, like daughter, you know.”

Harlan's grim smile made Hannibal think he was missing something. He followed Harlan's gaze to the fireplace. What he finally saw there turned his blood to ice water and for a beat of time his heart ached in sympathy with Harlan's.

Cindy squeezed his hand and whispered “What's wrong?”

“The mantle,” Hannibal said. “It's empty.” The rare coin display cases which had stood in a row, on guard like stiff beefeaters above the fireplace, had all deserted. Or been taken prisoner in a war without rules. Hannibal knew their absence would not dent Harlan Mortimer's fortune, but it would tear open an old wound which had barely begun to heal.

“I'm sorry,” was all Hannibal could think of to say.

Harlan looked at him with more curiosity than malice. “You must be happy to be proven right,” he said. “You've been busy, I understand. My attorney, my friend of many years, is under arrest. As I understand it, he was also busy trying to rip me off. But you stopped that, didn't you? And now,” Harlan looked back at the emptiness over the fireplace, “now I'm alone.”