Collateral Damage (26 page)

“I don't think so either,” Hannibal put it. The roast beef was juicy and tender and he made a mental note to get the name of the deli it came from before he left. “Of course, for me it's all conjecture. Why don't you tell us why you're so sure she's innocent.”

Young stopped chewing for a moment, then looked at Hannibal more sternly. “Take them glasses off.” Hannibal complied and Young returned to chewing his food while he stared some more. Hannibal kept his head up but continued with his lunch. He liked a man who judged by eye contact. Young finished the first half of his sandwich, wiped his mouth and took a long sip from his drink.

“What you really want to know is, why'd I plead her out for manslaughter on a heat of passion defense.”

Hannibal glanced at Cindy, who still didn't look comfortable, so he turned back to Young. “Forgive me for saying so, but innocent does have a nicer ring to it. If she was.”

“Oh she was, Mister Jones, count on it. But sometimes the truth only carries so far in court.”

“You had a suspect?” Cindy asked.

“What I know for sure is that Grant Edwards was having an affair,” Grant said, picking up the second half of his lunch. “And I know that girl he married was full of spit and fire but it wasn't in her to kill the man she loved. And make no mistake about it, she loved Grant. His family pulled him away from her.”

“Couldn't kill him?” Hannibal asked. “Even if he was fooling around with another woman?”

“How did you know of the affair?” Cindy asked.

“One at a time,” Young said. “I knew about the other woman because the boy told me. But Dean wouldn't put that on his dad on the witness stand, not so soon after his death. And I do understand that. And no, Francis could never have killed the man no matter what. But I figure the other woman's man, or maybe her father, slipped in and did the deed.”

This introduced a new source of guilt for Dean. By not vilifying his father, he pushed his mother closer to a conviction.

Cindy emptied her mouth completely before speaking again. “Why not simply subpoena the other woman and let the jury judge for themselves?”

At that Young slammed a hand down on his desk. “Don't you think I would have if I could find her? I had no clue to her identity. Who could have helped me? The boy wouldn't talk. The sister, Ursula, didn't want to see anything except for my client to go to jail. She hated Francis, even before the murder.”

“You know,” Cindy said, “Your ten year old suspicions might not seem so silly today, and they might help establish reasonable doubt for my client. One theory is that Dean told Oscar something about Grant Edwards' murder, something someone didn't want Oscar to share. Dean might trust you enough to open up a little bit. Would you consider coming in as co-counsel on this?”

“Perhaps. If you can explain to me how these three murders might be connected.”

Hannibal finished his lunch and noisily emptied his drink. “Cindy can explain all the theories to you. I want to interview Joan Kitteridge again to try to verify a part of her story. And if you two don't mind, I'm thinking maybe I can get Emma Peters to tell me more about Gil Donner's involvement in all this. I'm going to stop by her hotel room and have a little chat with her.”

The first errand was somewhat disappointing. Emma's room was empty. For a small gratuity he learned from a bellman that she had left with a man whose description matched that of Gil Donner. Of course Monty was nowhere in sight. He would have followed at a discreet distance. When he could get to a telephone he would let Hannibal know of any significant activity. Hannibal cursed himself for not getting a phone for Monty.

So he turned his car to the offices of Kitteridge Computer Systems, Incorporated. The Stepford Wives receptionist smiled with recognition when he entered and anticipated his first question.

“If you're looking for Miss Kitteridge, Mister Jones, she isn't in today.”

With an effort Hannibal managed not to focus his frustration on her. “That's all right. Could you buzz Mark Norton for me please.”

“Oh dear, I'm afraid Mister Norton isn't in today either.”

Hannibal nodded, his eyes closed behind his dark glasses. That, he supposed, was predictable. He thought they would fly back in the wee hours to make their relationship less obvious, but he supposed they just decided to enjoy a long weekend together. That, or they had disappeared for good. Joan's absence only made her connection to Oscar's murder more suspicious. He was about to leave when he decided to try another wild shot, his second of the day.

“There's one other person who could help me. Do you know a native American named Many Bad Horses?”

The girl smiled her chilling mechanical smile. “Victor? Of course, one doesn't forget a name like that. But he's, um, no longer with us.”

“Really?” Hannibal said, trying hard to sound conspiratorial. “A talent like him, I would have expected Miss Kitteridge to hang on to. Was he, you know, let go?”

The receptionist lowered her eyes and smiled. “Well, he was allowed to resign of course but…”

Hannibal lowered himself into the chair beside her desk. “But?”

“Well there were rumors,” the woman said. “I heard Miss Kitteridge asked him to go because she caught him messing around in the employee files, you know, digging into people's personal information. You know those computer types. Can't stay out of files marked confidential.”

“You're so right,” Hannibal said. And what did this mean? Was it an indication that Fancy was in the blackmail business? That would certainly point to a motive for Oscar's death. Did he learn something from his good friend that got him killed? Or did he pass information to Fancy which was traced back to its source?

Hannibal was the lone rider in a down bound elevator when his phone rang again. He flipped it open, hoping to hear from Monty, but prepared for bad news from Cindy about Dean's hospitalization. When he heard Sarge's voice, he remembered that he should have expected a call from him as well.

“Hey, my man, what's the latest from out west?”

“Hey, we're having a good time, man,” Sarge said. “Quaker's already gambled away his fee for this little jaunt. But I think we found what you were looking for, so maybe we can get back to DC before we go completely broke.”

“So Joan was in Vegas last summer to do the chapel thing?” Hannibal asked as he got into his car.

“Close but no cigar,” Sarge said. “It was a divorce she was after, and she got it finalized too,”

“Divorce? I thought they were relative newlyweds.”

“Different husband,” Sarge said. “They wouldn't give us any info about the man down at the courthouse, but they said Joan Kitteridge got divorced. Didn't want to tell us that much but, well, we kind of finagled it out of this broad.”

“I probably don't want to know the details,” Hannibal said. “Enough to know she was married before. And for some reason or other, she sure didn't want it to be public knowledge. Gives me a bit more to talk to her about. And since she didn't go to work today, I think I'll just head over to the house and roust her.”

Hannibal roared up onto Route 395 headed north and east to Arlington. Afternoon traffic was light and in a handful of minutes he was again in the driveway of the substantial Kitteridge home. He was wondering if one of its occupants was as solid as that structure. It even crossed his mind that perhaps he should have brought Virgil along as backup. Could the woman really be dangerous?

When Langford Kitteridge opened the door, Hannibal thought he saw worry lines on his face, but as he registered who his visitor was, he broke into a smile and waved him inside.

“Mister Jones, here's a surprise. Won't you come in.”

They went into the living room, furnished in very modern black chrome decor. Between that and the spring in Langford's step, Hannibal had to remind himself that this man was not his own age. Like a good host, Langford went straight to the wet bar and poured out a pair of cocktails. Hannibal didn't know they were martinis until the olives dropped in. He seemed to be meeting a lot of people lately who thought they knew what he wanted.

As Langford handed up the glass he said, “Well, have you talked to Joanie in the last couple of days?”

“Actually, I came by hoping to see her here.” Hannibal removed his glasses to admire the military oil paintings hanging in well lighted places around the room, and his eyes were drawn to one framed certificate. It expressed the thanks of the President of the United States for thirty years of faithful service. The retirement certificate of a brigadier general in the United States Army. Well that went a long way to explain the man's level of fitness, no to mention his ramrod straight posture. But then his face drew Hannibal again, the worry lines returning.

“I haven't seen her,” Langford said, as if speaking of a small child. “The girl hasn't been home in three days. Hasn't called. Not even an e-mail note.”

No, Hannibal thought, she was busy spending time with her hidden husband and dealing with her old employee. For now, Hannibal suspected Oscar had been blackmailing her
with information he got from Fancy. She would want to silence the source somehow, but it's dangerous to kill an old pro at the blackmail game. Maybe the secret had to do with the divorce she kept so quiet.

“Tell me, has she been behaving oddly lately? Like since her divorce?”

“Divorce?” Langford tipped his glass up and settled onto a bar stool. “I think perhaps you've gotten hold of some bad information, my young friend. A person has to be married before they can be divorced. And my Joanie's just never found the right fellow. Afraid to stray too far from home I suppose. Besides, as soon as she got out of school I started KCS and gave it to her to run. It's kept her out of trouble, but it's also become her life.”

For Langford, this was a spate of running off at the mouth. Hannibal saw Joan as aggressive and independent. Her uncle's doting must suffocate her. He could almost see that as a motive for keeping a marriage secret, but not quite. Either way, he saw no reason to hurt the old man.

“Sorry, must have gotten something mixed up. When I got the report of her time in Las Vegas last summer…”

At this, Langford threw his head back and laughed, his white hair shaking behind him. “Oh my, you have been sold a bill of goods. Joan wasn't even in the country most of the summer. She went down under for a computer conference and made a long vacation out of it.”

“Really?” Hannibal tried to suppress his reaction. But now he knew for sure that Joan was up to something she did not want her uncle to know. “Was she in touch with you during that time?”

Langford smiled even wider. “Come downstairs with me, young fellow, and let me show you something.”

Langford ducked his head and led the way. A long flight of stairs led them to a broad family room complete with big screen television and yet another bar. Off to the right was a smaller, more intimate den lined with maple bookcases, all filled with hardcover volumes. On the left stood a small fireplace. A computer console dominated the right side.
Langford dropped into the well-cushioned chair and began tapping at the keys faster than Hannibal could follow. He saw an e-mail account come up, and Langford opened a letter from the received file.

“There, take a look at that. ‘Greatly enjoyed Sydney. Started my journey across the country today on the Great South Pacific Express. It's like the Orient Express down here, and it runs from Sydney's harbor up to Cairns and Port Douglas in North Queensland. It's pretty luxurious…' and so forth.”

“How considerate,” Hannibal said in an even tone. “Notes from her laptop I assume. How often did she write?”

“Darn near every day,” Langford said with a chuckle. “And every few days I got one of these from where she was.” Langford drew a picture postcard from a cubbyhole in the computer desk. Hannibal accepted the card, which featured the Sydney Opera House. It was dated August 12th and could have been bought in any souvenir shop on the Australian continent. Of course, it would not be found anyplace else. The message, in a sharp but still feminine hand, read, “Didn't stay for an opera today, but it was well worth stopping just to see this place. Love you always, your Joanie.”

And now Hannibal had to wonder how Joan Kitteridge managed to be in two places at once.

The thick pane of glass was not all that separated Sarge from Fancy. Sarge wore a knit shirt he had chosen, while Fancy wore the coveralls issued by the state of Nevada. Sarge's face reflected a relaxed confidence, while Fancy's betrayed the fear of a man who finally realized just how grim his life could become. Most importantly, when their conversation ended, Sarge could stand up and walk back out into the bright Southwestern sunshine. Fancy desperately wanted to.

“Could I really go up for murder?” Fancy asked, as if Sarge's answer could somehow make a difference to his fate.

“Could be,” Sarge said. “People have been sent to the chair on lots less.”

Fancy leaned forward on his elbows. “But you know damn well I didn't kill Oscar. If I go up, the real killer gets away.”

“Yeah, that's true. And my man Hannibal, he might be able to find the real killer too, which would get you cut loose.”

Fancy was good at cutting through the red tape straight to the point. “Okay, I get it. What do you want? I don't know anything useful.”

Sarge scratched his chin and looked up at the dim florescent tubes in the ceiling. “Well, now, Hannibal don't agree with that. He called and told me he's got a few too many mysteries going. Wants me to help clear them up. If you can solve one of those mysteries, he'll be one step closer to finding the real killer.”

Fancy pressed his palms against the glass. Sarge could smell his desperation right through the dense pane. “But I told you I don't know anything.”