Blood and Bone (3 page)

“Yes, I suppose it comes down to a missing person's case.”

The anonymous girl replaced their plates with new ones, each holding half a cantaloupe. “Not my usual type of thing,” Hannibal said, bracing for the kick under the table and accepting it silently. Then the rapid-fire patter of footsteps drew everyone's attention to the house. The man who burst through the French doors had a round, sepia-toned face under a shiny pate. Gray cotton wool ringed the back of his head from ear to ear. An expensive suit hung loosely on his skeletal form.

“Ah, our fourth has arrived, albeit a bit late,” Nieswand said, standing. “Cynthia, Mister Jones, Doctor Lawrence Lippincott.”

“A pleasure,” Cindy said, taking the older man's hand.

“That goes double for me,” Hannibal said, shaking the doctor's hand briskly. “Your free clinic isn't far from my place in Anacostia. Got to admire a man who gives back after he's made it.”

“Glad you know a little about Lawrence,” Nieswand said as they all sat. “He's the Mortimer family doctor. As they are both my clients he's the one who brought the problem to my attention.”

Hannibal pointed to his cup and the phantom girl refilled it. “I'm not sure I understand. Just what is the problem with Mortimer's son?”

“His son isn't really the problem,” Lippincott said in a precise Harvard accent. “Well, perhaps after all he is, but the problem I must face is the son he left behind. A son now grown to his teens in Harlan's home. A boy who's spent the last five years wrestling with chronic myelogenous leukemia. An old man's disease, for God's sake.”

The pain on Cindy's face made Hannibal's heart ache. Silence settled over their table in the peaceful woods. Even nearby birds became still. And the melon in his mouth was still pulpy, but not nearly as sweet as it tasted a second ago. Swallowing was difficult, but he managed.

“Excuse me, Doctor, but I always thought leukemia was a children's disease.”

“Not this type,” Lippincott said. “What you hear about generally is lymphocytic leukemia. It attacks children, but if we find it early we can usually beat it with chemicals and radiation. Myelogenous,”
Lippincott gulped a mouthful of coffee, “well, it's rather a tougher opponent. We've taken radiation and chemotherapy just about to their limits with Kyle.”

Lippincott lapsed into silence and Nieswand picked up the ball. “Lawrence here thinks a bone marrow transplant could be the answer, but you can't get it from just anybody. Blood and bone marrow have to be the same type. Parents and siblings have the best chance of a match.”

“I see it,” Hannibal said, mostly to spare Nieswand having to say more. “The known family's been tested I assume, with no luck. That's why the manhunt.”

Nieswand raising his left hand. The server appeared with a box of cigars. Only Nieswand took one. “It is, as you say, a missing person's case,” he said, lighting his cigar, “but if I understand your business correctly, this is indeed your type of thing.”

Hannibal turned to Lippincott who was clinking a spoon around in his cup. “How much time does the boy have?”

“We're clutching at straws here.”

“Okay, I get it,” Hannibal said, easing his glasses off. “Last chances are by definition what we try when all else has failed and time is running out. That's okay. Desperation is my business. How much time?”

“Two, maybe three weeks if his progress doesn't change.”

Hannibal sat back in his chair. Lilacs and forsythia growing beneath the deck seemed inappropriately sweet. “Gone eighteen years. Three weeks to find him and bring him back.”

“Money is no barrier,” Nieswand said. “You can drop any other jobs you're working on and give this your complete attention.”

The low clouds were breaking up, but instead of true sunshine, the sky cast a ghostly glow around objects. Hannibal slid his Oakleys back into place. “I don't drop prior cases. They are commitments just as this would be. And my fees don't change. I get five hundred dollars a day plus expenses, and my expenses are never questioned. Anybody I subcontract gets another two-fifty a day.”

“This means you'll take the case?” Nieswand asked.

“Maybe. But I won't take a penny until I know there's some chance of success. I'll have to see what kind of leads the family can give me, then we'll see.”

Cindy squeezed his hand, implying she knew his answer before he did.

Hannibal wished he could travel by helicopter. Great Falls, Virginia, where Harlan Mortimer lived, was about ten miles due north of Nieswand's home. But roads never travel due anything, so he followed Nieswand's Saab on a zigzag path for forty-five minutes, up Hunter Mill Road to Springvale Road then across the Georgetown Pike. The clouds blew back in during the drive, and an occasional drop dotted Hannibal's windshield.

Finally they turned into a subdivision aptly named Riverscape. The grade was not steep on Mortimer's cul-de-sac, but as they pulled into the driveway in front of his three-car garage, they could see the Potomac through the woods behind the house. Hannibal let Nieswand and Lippincott climb out of the doctor's Saab before he unhooked his own shoulder harness. He wanted to see who paid deference to whom. Nieswand waved to Hannibal and Cindy to follow him to the house, but he invited Lippincott to lead the way.

He expected to be greeted by a servant at the top of the brick stoop, but the woman who opened the door was too well dressed. A natural color mohair sweater suit showed off her well maintained shape, but straightened black hair and overly correct posture
dated her. Her dark eyes roamed the four faces as if trying to make connections between them.

“We need to see Harlan, Camille,” Lippincott said. “It's about helping Kyle.” The woman backed away and the group entered. Lippincott and Nieswand obviously knew where they were going but Hannibal stopped to extend a gloved hand.

“Hannibal Jones. One nameless person per day is my limit.”

“Camille,” she answered, gently shaking Hannibal's fingertips. “Camille Mortimer. I'm…”

“She's Mister Mortimer's daughter-in-law.” The new voice came from the direction the other men were heading, but it was neither of them. Hannibal turned to see a short, clean cut, Ivy League looking black man striding toward him. The navy blazer and rep tie said Harvard, the next generation. His hair was short, but already receding on a scalp that probably had not seen forty years yet.

“Malcolm Lippincott,” the newcomer said, pumping Hannibal's hand. “Are you with Nieswand and Balor?”

“I'm the other attorney,” Cindy said, pushing her hand forward for another solid shaking. “Cynthia Santiago. Mister Jones here is a consultant we sometimes employ.”

“Sorry for the brisk welcome,” Malcolm said, not sounding sorry in the least. “I didn't know your business here.”

“Mal's a little overprotective sometimes,” Camille said, her dark face blushing still darker. “but he's been my best friend through all this.”

“Jones.” It was Lippincott, calling from the next room. “Can I see you for a moment?”

Hannibal excused himself and joined Lippincott. The archway led to a two-story, bayed great room.
Lippincott leaned against the brick fireplace. Above it hung an ornately framed painting of a woman in a field of flowers. The name at the bottom was Monet. Coin display cases lined the mantle like toy soldiers guarding the painting.

“Nieswand?” Hannibal asked.

“Gone to make a phone call, which is fine. I wanted a moment with you alone.” He paused until he realized Hannibal was waiting for him to go on. He seemed uncomfortable with the silence.

“Camille is rather distraught,” Lippincott finally said. “With good reason. She's been through a lot. I saw what it did to her to be abandoned by her husband. And now it looks as though she'll lose her son as well.” Hannibal stood quietly through another long pause, waiting for Lippincott to make his real point. When the doctor cleared his throat, he thought this must be it.

“This search for Jacob is Camille's idea, not Harlan's,” Lippincott said, avoiding Hannibal's shaded gaze. “He'd clutch at any imagined chance because losing his grandson will kill him. But she's the one who wants to see Jacob again. I don't think she's ever gotten over him.”

“You've been the family doctor that long?”

“Doctor and friend,” Lippincott said.

“Okay, tell me about the missing son.”

Lippincott began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a figure on a German clock. “Jacob was a bad seed, Mister Jones. Undisciplined. Ungrateful. Irrationally immature. Wanted to be a hippie, or a black revolutionary or something. The boy brought nothing but pain to those who loved him. His disappearance certainly helped his mother into an
early grave. He left a woman who loved him and his own unborn son for a street girl. And he abused her.”

“Abused her?” Hannibal asked, settling into a deep easy chair. He worked to stay relaxed, trying to counterbalance Lippincott's increasing agitation. “You mean physically?”

“I examined her once,” Lippincott said, his eyes floating back into the past. “Just a child, a year or two younger than Jacob. She laughed about the scars, but I couldn't. Cigarette burns, Mister Jones. Scattered around her stomach, her buttocks, and the upper part of her legs.”

“Pretty?” Hannibal asked to keep Lippincott talking.

“If you like that type. Half black, half Chicano. Small, but with big breasts and a big behind. Big, watery cow eyes.” He suddenly stopped, as if he thought he had said too much.

“What was her name?”

“I don't remember, and it doesn't matter,” Lippincott shot back. “This is about here and now. And you working for Harlan Mortimer. Look, I may still be able to find a suitable donor for Kyle in time. But Harlan won't have it, not while he thinks this wild goose chase has a chance of success.”

“And what would you have me do?”

“Take the money and take a nice vacation to Florida, Mister Jones.” Lippincott's face was rigid, but his hands were begging. “Send back a report in a couple of days saying there are no leads and it's hopeless.”

“Fake an investigation?” Hannibal asked, slowly rising to his feet. Lippincott nodded. Hannibal stepped close to the doctor and slid his dark glasses away from his face. His eyes flared deep green and he pressed one fingertip deep into Lippincott's chest.

“Listen well, Doctor,” he said through clenched teeth. “I might not take this case. If I figure it's hopeless I'll say so. Or, I might give it a shot, and if I do, I'll do my very best to find the boy. But understand there is no third option for me. I work in two modes. The best I got, or not at all.”

“Sounds like you're the man I want.”

Hannibal looked up to watch the source of that deep booming voice stalking toward him, very fast for a man his size. The handshake was fierce, the eyes crinkled points of brown fire. “I'm Harlan Mortimer.”

“Will you find my son, Mister Jones?” Mortimer asked.

“I'll decide when I've got a little more to go on,” Hannibal said, pushing his dark glasses back into place.

“Right,” Mortimer said dropping into the chair Hannibal had occupied before. “What can I do to help you do your job?”

“Well, first you can tell me something about your son, like why he left.”

Camille entered carrying a tray and walked straight to her father-in-law. He took a tall glass from the tray, after which she moved around the room, prompting everyone to a seat by placing a lemonade for them. Hannibal took his glass from its place on the coffee table but chose to stand. His eyes stayed on Mortimer.

“Jacob left my home because I removed him from my will,” Mortimer said. Hannibal saw not a trace of remorse or guilt on his face.

“You cast him out.”

“No, just out of my money,” Mortimer said. “Jacob, his wife and his then unborn son would have been welcome in my home forever. He lost his inheritance because he got another girl pregnant.”

“Ah, yes, the other girl.” Hannibal sipped his lemonade and glared at Lippincott. “Do YOU remember her name, Mister Mortimer?”

“Jacob called her Dolly. I don't think that was her real name, but rather a nickname. A pet name. Don't know her real name. Girl looked like a whore. Acted like it too.”

“I see.” Hannibal stepped a bit closer to Mortimer's chair. “How about some of his friends? People he hung out with?”

A small grimace. “Never knew any of his friends. When he dropped out of George Washington University, he fell in with a bad crowd. Left over left wing drug types.”

“Uh huh. Not much there.” Hannibal gulped the last of his lemonade. Then he moved forward until only inches of gleaming hardwood flooring separated his toes from Mortimer's. “Where did he go? What were his favorite places to hang out?”

To his credit, Mortimer showed a glimmer of regret now. “Afraid I don't know any of the places he used to go.”

Hannibal bent to place his now empty glass on the table beside Mortimer's. His head turned toward Mortimer and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Look. This kid we're talking about. Did you know him at all? Had you met this guy?”

Mortimer's voice returned to booming. “If I knew where he went, do you think I'd have let him just disappear with my coins?”

The copper disc glinted between Hannibal's fingers. Even in its fancy case it looked no more valuable than any other newly minted penny to him. He tried to imagine the pleasure in owning something so outwardly common.

“That's a nineteen fifty-five double die obverse,” Mortimer said behind him. “See how the back is restruck off center? That's a minting mistake. There probably aren't a dozen of those around. I keep a few of my prizes on display. That night, before he left, Jacob…”