Collateral Damage (19 page)

“What a rude people,” she said under her breath. “They stare at you, or ignore you, and they don't know how to smile, do they?”

“Really?” Hannibal said through his bratwurst. “I don't find them rude at all. Maybe they're staring because they don't see too many Latin beauties like you come through here.”

In fact, Hannibal found Frankfurt Main very much like New York's Kennedy Airport. The decor, the hustling crowds, even the general layout of the sprawling terminal seemed very American to him. And the people looked and dressed like New Yorkers. He actually missed being surrounded by people who clearly had someplace to go and wanted to get there.

“Well, maybe it's easy for you because you speak their ugly language,” Cindy said. In fact, Hannibal had hardly noticed that he ordered their food in fluent German. Once on the ground, with his mother's language pouring into his ears, it came as second nature.

Cindy began to relax when they had found their way out of the parking lot and were on their way down the A5
Autobahn toward Heidelberg in a rented Volkswagen Jetta. An hour's worth of countryside flew past, looking more like New England than Virginia, and when they turned off the highway she actually smiled.

“Well, is this more like it?” Hannibal asked as he slowed to a stoplight. “If I wanted to sell Germany to anyone, I'd always start them off in Heidelberg.”

The Hotel Neu Heidelberg looked like an overgrown cottage, its peaked roof and wraparound porch reminiscent of Smurf village homes. The woman at the desk greeted them in English, asking if they were new to her city. Hannibal explained that while it was Cindy's first visit to Heidelberg, he grew up in Germany as an American military dependent and knew the town pretty well. The remark seemed to increase his popularity.

Their hostess was older, heavyset and very Aryan in appearance, but she welcomed them with the kind of smile and grace one gets in America only when one has a platinum card or serves in public office. Minutes later they were installed in a room Cindy admitted was comfortable and downright cozy. She was particularly pleased that the furnishings were clearly individual, not part of a stock of hotel furniture. She would have been happy to sit for a while and catch her breath, but Hannibal was anxious to get on with the mission, as he put it.

The Peters home was a modest brick structure perched on a slight rise, far enough north of the hotel that they had a clear view of the sparkling waters of the Neckar River. Hannibal expected Cindy's attention to be arrested by the river that dominates the city, but instead it was on the door they were approaching.

“Don't you think we should have called first?” Cindy asked as they walked up the path between carefully tended flowerbeds.

“He's expecting us,” Hannibal said. “Mrs. Peters called and he said he'd be home this afternoon to talk to us. Calling would have given him the opportunity to cancel.”

Hannibal lifted the heavy doorknocker and let it drop against the wood panel twice, then waited. Any soldier would have identified the man who opened the door seconds later as a sergeant major, regardless of his lack of uniform. Foster Peters wore a well-pressed white shirt and charcoal slacks that matched the hair at the sides of his head. The gray at his temples graded up to hair as black and shiny as his shoes. The man stood ramrod straight, his dark eyes boring right through Hannibal's dark glasses. Hannibal subtly straightened his posture.

“You're the people who knew Oscar,” Foster said. A statement, not a question.

“Yes sir,” Hannibal said. “Your charming wife told me we could have a few minutes with you this afternoon. I'm Hannibal Jones and this is Cindy Santiago.”

“Come in,” Foster said. He shook Hannibal's hand, nodded to Cindy and executed a smooth about face. “I can offer you some refreshment. But please don't call me sir. I work for a living.”

He led them through a front room that clearly was his wife's area. All the collectibles were there: the cuckoo clock, the hand-carved miniatures, the Hummel figurines. But when they entered the den, Hannibal knew this was the man's space. The displays on the walls were military awards, or commemorative firearms, or paintings with a military or hunting theme. Foster stepped behind the bar and busied himself without looking at them.

“I know we're less than an hour from the Weinstrasse, the heart of the German wine country. But the term ‘German wine country' never made much sense to me, anyway, so how about a beer? I've got some Rauch bier on tap.”

“Rauch?” Hannibal asked. “As in German for smoke?” Foster cocked an eyebrow, so Hannibal added, “I'm an army brat, sergeant major. Grew up in Berlin.”

Foster nodded, then drew three schooners from a home tap and placed them evenly in a rank across the bar. “Berlin used to be a good town. Like Frankfurt was. Twice the military city Heidelberg will ever be. This place loves its tourists too much. But USAREUR moved here back in ninety-four and after twenty-five years the Army had become my life I guess. Got a good civilian job with V Corps after I retired.” He and Hannibal lifted their glasses and drank together. The brew was almost black, with a yeasty aroma and smoky flavor that combined to make it one of the best beers Hannibal had ever tasted.

Cindy tapped his elbow. “Who moved here?” she asked quietly. “You-sar-your?”

“It's an acronym, honey,” Hannibal replied. “It stands for United States Army, Europe. See? USAREUR.”

“Oh.” She sipped from her glass, smiled politely, and put it down. Foster looked at her as if his suspicions had been confirmed. Then he pointedly ignored her, turning his attention to Hannibal.

“But you didn't come all this way to hear about local military history. What'd you want to ask an old soldier like me?”

Hannibal really wanted to ask how a man could miss his own son's funeral. Instead he leaned an elbow on the bar and said, “I understand that you led the investigation into the death of a woman named Carla Donner some years ago. It seems Oscar disagreed with the official reports. Would you be willing to tell me what really happened?”

At the mention of the name Donner, Hannibal could see Foster stiffen and draw himself even straighter, if that was possible. His weathered face grew harder, like cement setting into granite. His eyes focused on Hannibal's face and he hardly blinked as he spoke.

“The case was a simple one, albeit tragic. Carla was alone in the house. She slipped in the tub, banged her head against the edge and drowned. End of story. Oscar, well Oscar was confused about some things.”

“I see,” Hannibal said, raising his glass again. It was good beer, but he hardly tasted it now.

As if she had received a secret signal, Cindy spoke up. “You knew the Donners, didn't you?”

“Gil Donner was a good friend,” Foster said. “And still is. While I had to investigate his wife's death, I had to get him through the ordeal.”

“Friends of the family,” Hannibal said. “So Oscar knew them as well?”

At that Foster smiled. “Yes, Oscar actually had quite a crush on Mrs. Donner. She was one of his teachers. It was his freshman year of high school. He took her death hard, as did we all, but he took offense at the fact that the investigation was kept low key.”

Cindy finally poured dark beer onto her soft voice before speaking again. “Gil Donner was Major Donner then, isn't that right? He was Provost Marshall at the time. Now I don't know much about the military, but I think that made him your boss, isn't that right? Is that why you kept the circumstances of her death so, what did you call it? Low key?”

Foster walked around the bar and pulled a large but thin hardcover book out of a shelf. He began to leaf absently through it while he talked. “People may have thought that, but they were wrong. No matter who he was, there was no point in hurting him further by letting the details out.”

Hannibal stood beside Foster, looking over his shoulder at what he thought at first was a photo album. “Well, Mister Peters, I doubt those details would matter to anyone now.”

“It might still matter to Gil. You see, Carla was cheating on him. Too close an investigation would have surely brought that out.”

The ruffle of pages being turned was the only sound in the room for a while. Hannibal returned to the bar for another big swallow of beer. He realized now that Foster Peters had never really given up on his son.

“Oscar sensed some secret was being kept. And you never told him?”

“I'm a professional, Mister Jones,” Foster said, not raising his head. “You don't make exceptions for family, especially frantic teenagers.”

Hannibal looked to Cindy to ask the hard question.

“Mister Peters, I understand why Oscar might think Carla was murdered. But why would he tell anyone he knew a witness to that crime?”

Foster looked up calmly. “Miss, he lied. He lied to make it look as if I would falsify an investigation. He knew that impugning my police work was the most effective way to hurt me. He was good at that.”

Hannibal drained his glass. Watching Foster stare down at the glossy pages he realized he had gotten all he could from this man. Foster Peters was more alone than Hannibal ever wanted to be.

“We'll be going now,” Hannibal said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Oh here,” Foster said, flipping the book to Hannibal as they walked toward the door. “Take that with you.”

Hannibal caught the book but immediately held it out toward Foster again. It was a yearbook from Frankfurt American High School. “You don't want to give this away.”

“Why not?” Foster held the door open for them. “Maybe his friends in the States will want to see it. It was all I had of him until he got back, but now he's not…. you think I should be there, don't you? With his mother. Well, it's too late now, don't you see? Too late to have him back again.”

Cindy averted her eyes and moved off toward the car. Hannibal hesitated, then realized it was too late for this man. “I'll give this to your wife,” he finally said. “I don't think she'll let him go so easily.”

“I'll never call my neighborhood in Alexandria, Old Town again,” Cindy said, clutching a painting she had just purchased from a street vendor.

“Yes, this is the real thing,” Hannibal said. He was glad to see Cindy smiling again. Their conversation with Foster Peters had left her depressed, but he didn't think that man's self serving bitterness should be allowed to ruin her day. Besides, that was not what he brought her to Germany for. So he took her to Heidelberg's old town, thinking a stroll there would lighten her mood.

In the crisp clarity of the afternoon sun, he walked her to Hauptstrasse walkplatz, the half-mile long pedestrian mall in the middle of the old town district. He felt a brief moment of deja vu because Alexandria, Virginia's old town area clings to the banks of a narrow river as well. But the Neckar River flows more swiftly than the Potomac, and so is much cleaner. This day the sun skipped golden discs across its crystal blue surface when he caught sight of it.

Cindy wandered aimlessly through the warren of cobblestone streets with Hannibal in tow. An endless flow of shops and cafes caught her attention, offering all the usual tourist paraphernalia and a few less usual choices like artwork and antique books.

They shared an outdoor table at a small but delicious smelling restaurant before reality again intruded, and it was Cindy who broached the subject at hand.

“So, do you think Oscar might have been right about a murder?”

Hannibal bit into his schnitzel like a long lost friend. The pork was crisp and golden beneath the thick brown sauce. He made an “mmmmm” sound and smiled contentedly behind a faraway look.

“Hannibal, please.” Cindy said, grinning herself. “It's a pork chop in mushroom gravy for crying out loud. Now what do you think?”

“Schnitzel is not a pork chop,” Hannibal said with a nearly straight face. “And jaegersoße is not simply mushroom gravy. And I'm not sure what to think about Oscar's suspicions. There's certainly good reason to wonder. I mean, his father pretty much admitted he was covering something up.