Damaged Goods (19 page)

Hannibal's mind took flight before Hathaway finished. Could Cooper's formula really mean the end of junkies on the street? Freedom from the grip that crack had on his city and its people? Maybe even an end to alcoholism? How much would a pharmaceutical company pay to control the prescription medication of a lifetime?

“Well then,” he said, rising from his seat, “I guess I'd better be about the business of finding this magic formula, eh?”

“And I'd better get to work,” Hathaway said as he moved toward the steps. “Hey, I sure wish you luck. And you know what? Forget about them boys last night. They gave me a good scare, but they could have been a lot rougher and I guess you needed to know what I knew.”

“I'm sure they'll appreciate your understanding, Mr. Hathaway.”

“Buddy,” he called from the sidewalk. At least you know where to start your search. Who else but a pharmaceutical company would want Cooper's secret?”

“Who else indeed?” Hannibal wondered aloud. Could there be an underground market for this stuff, maybe to sell bundled with illegal drugs? Or, might someone want to hold this chemical, keep it off the market, to sell to wealthy cocaine users for an exorbitant price?

A pensive Hannibal moved toward the door to check out and settle his bill but some buried instinct caused him to turn around. There was a nondescript man across the street near Hannibal's car. He wore running clothes and stood with hands on knees, but Hannibal had the feeling this jogger had been staring at him. As soon as Hannibal spotted him, the runner moved down the street at a fair runner's pace. Probably just his own paranoia, Hannibal thought.

Except that the man hadn't had a drop of sweat on him.

Cindy met Hannibal in the hall outside Anita's hospital room. His pulse always gained a few beats per minute when he saw his woman and reacted to her smile, her hair, and her impressive shape. But lately he was more aware of her accessories. Her blue, man-tailored business suit was from Ann Taylor's. The matching heels were Jimmy Chou. Her small clutch purse was a Louis Vuitton if his memory served him. She had always looked like a million dollars. Now he wondered how many thousands she was wearing.

“Thanks for pulling away from the office,” he said, taking her into his arms for a quick peck on the lips. “I know you're busy, babe.”

“I can still claim a lunch hour, and I'm always glad to meet you, lover. Besides, things are running themselves pretty well. The offering is taking off at a surprising pace. We've got some good buzz on the street.”

“Great,” Hannibal said with a smile. Her scent only amplified the warmth her smile granted him. She was wild flowers and vanilla and maybe some sweet wood and something else. Was this the Estee Lauder Intuition he gave her for Christmas?

“You okay?” Cindy asked.

“Just breathing you in, babe,” Hannibal said. “Did you have time to work with Marquita on her finances?”

Cindy slipped an arm through Hannibal's and started toward Anita's room. “Hey, when my man puts me on a mission, I take action. The first thing we did was list her property on the market. She doesn't need that much house, and it's a lot to take care of anyway. She also has quite a bit of rental property scattered around the area, some heavily mortgages but some almost free and clear. A few letters to creditors will keep them off her back until we can raise some cash and streamline her debt picture. Now we just need to get her packed up and in a nice new place in time for the sale of this place.”

“Sale? Kind of optimistic aren't you?”

“You don't know the market in that area, lover,” Cindy said, flashing her triumphant smile. “We've already got two offers, both higher than the asking price.”

The tinny intercom calling for an anesthesiologist reminded Hannibal why they were there. As he steered Cindy into Anita's room he whispered, “Remember, you're the good cop.”

The room was quiet except for the intrusive beeping of electronic monitoring equipment. Isaac towered at the foot of the bed with his thick arms crossed, his pale Nordic eyes already focused on the door. His face lit with a smile as he recognized the newcomers. On the far side of the bed, Henry stood in what Hannibal feared were the only clothes he owned, just staring down at Anita's sleeping face as if he thought he could heal her through force of will alone. Hannibal gestured toward Henry, but spoke to Isaac.

“He been here the whole time?”

“Well, he takes breaks for food and sleep, but, yeah,” Isaac said. “Devoted.” Isaac knew about devotion the way a recovering alcoholic knows about sobriety. A reformed spouse abuser, he responded to classes and therapy by becoming a fanatical family man. Hannibal didn't think it worked that way very often, but when it did it was an encouraging triumph of the spirit.

“Isaac, would you please take Henry out for a cup of coffee or something?” Hannibal said. Henry's head jerked up and he moved to Hannibal's side with a quiet grace that had to be the result of long training.

“I'm charged with monitoring her progress,” he said, his words very quiet and yet very hard.

“I need to speak to her without interference,” Hannibal said. “You were right before. I may have to be stern to get the information I need and I can't have her looking to someone else for support. Don't worry. Ms. Santiago will look out for her interests.”

Henry glanced in Anita's direction, muttered, “Five minutes,” and left the room. Isaac followed, and Hannibal turned his attention to the patient.

Anita had no mouth or nose tubes, but fluids were still dripping into her arms. The bruise on her right cheek had turned a pale orange, which did not match the purplish crescents under her eyes. Someone had straightened her nose, a process that Hannibal knew from experience was painful. A red line and a tiny bit of thread showed that her lower lip had taken a stitch or two.

Hannibal took Henry's post on Anita's right and nudged her arm. Her eyes opened and a warm smile was stillborn as she realized that a substitute had taken Henry's place. Her eyes darted from Hannibal to Cindy on the other side of the bed and back again. Her brow creased with worry.

“Mr. Jones, what are you doing here, and who is your friend?”

“This is Cindy Santiago,” Hannibal said. “She's an attorney, here to make sure I don't violate your legal rights in any way. She is also connected to your case in another way
I'll explain later. As for me, I'm here to find out who hurt you. In order for me to continue, you will have to be open and honest with me.”

Anita's jaw set. “I told you, I don't know who hit me. Why won't you believe me?”

“He could come back,” Hannibal said. He detected blood on Anita's breath. Had her assailant loosened a tooth?

“It's not your job to protect me. You should be out finding my father's legacy, whatever it is.”

Before Hannibal could explain, Cindy leaned forward to take Anita's hand. “Ms. Cooper, I want you to know that I've spent some time in the last couple of days with another woman who might be classified as a victim of this man, Rod Mantooth. He left her emotionally crippled and on the verge of suicide by drinking herself to death. Forget about Hannibal's quest or whatever connection you might be able to regain with your father by receiving your mystery inheritance. I need to know where this man is, and if you know, you owe it to every woman alive to tell me.”

The beeping accelerated and seemed to become louder in the otherwise silent hospital room. Anita stared hard into Cindy's eyes and squeezed her hand until their fingers were white. Her eyes crinkled, fighting to contain tears and begging the other woman for understanding.

“I don't want revenge,” she said. “I just want my money.”

“You contacted him somehow?” Hannibal asked.

“I saw him,” Anita said. She seemed to overcome the tears, but words poured out instead. “I saw him. I was coming out of the Giant and there was that car, sitting in the parking lot. I dropped my groceries and waited for him. When he came to the car he looked right through me, as if he didn't recognize me. I told him I knew he had taken something from the house.”

“You confronted him?”

“He must have sold whatever he took, I figured, so I demanded a share of what he got. I told him he owed me at least that much.”

Hannibal doubted the conversation went quite that way, but the result was pretty clear. “He laughed in your face, right? I mean, he sure didn't see you as any kind of threat. So why would he be so rough?”

“He said I was stale. Used. He needed fresh…” Anita's entire face clenched and the tears finally flowed down the sides of her face.

Cindy completed her sentence. “He needs fresh meat. That bastard.”

“I was so angry, and ashamed.” Anita sobbed now, not trying to hide it or hold back. “I wanted to hurt him, but I couldn't. So I took my keys and I made a scratch. Right on the door of his precious car.”

Good for you, Hannibal thought.

“That was very brave,” Cindy said. “Very brave and stupid. Look what he did to you. But Anita, why didn't you tell the police who it was?”

“They'd put him in jail,” Anita said. “If he's in jail, I'll never get any of my money.”

Hannibal knew she had other, deeper reasons for not sending Rod to jail. Hannibal couldn't guess how it might affect her if she was the reason for Rod getting arrested.

“Okay, you just stay here and rest up and heal,” Hannibal said. “I'll find this guy and when I do I'll make sure you're made whole. I swear it.” Hannibal knew that commitment could have two meanings, and he meant it both ways.

Only Cindy's presence enabled Hannibal to contain his frustration as he slogged through the stagnant midday traffic. Fairfax Inova was in fact in Falls Church, Virginia, positioned so that Washington was accessible without having to leave the highway. But even after the Monday lunch hour, driving the beltway was like swimming through maple syrup. After a couple of miles on I-495 he turned onto I-66, which moved even more slowly. His tension was compounded by the fact that he had surrendered the stereo to Cindy, who
flipped the radio to the smooth jazz station. In this kind of traffic, with the air conditioner blowing full blast, he desperately wanted to rock out.

Eventually he reached the Constitution Avenue exit, dropped Cindy at her building, switched to an AC/DC CD and got back on Constitution for what he knew would be a leisurely roll east. Driving slowly through the city didn't bother him the way slow motion on the highway did. After all his years in residence, Hannibal still enjoyed the eclectic architecture that downtown D.C. offered. Nodding his head to “Highway to Hell,” he smiled at the city's internal conflict, symbolized by the contrast of the ostentatious Smithsonian buildings on his left and the park-like stillness of the Capital Mall on his right. Tourists rushed about on his left, trying to see how much they could see in one day. On his right, locals meandered across the thin grass on their bikes or on foot.

Then he maneuvered onto I-395, which moved a little faster and dropped him onto I-295, which flowed faster still. That carried him down past the Navy Yard and across the river into his own neighborhood, Anacostia.

Hannibal stepped out into the humidity, surprised to see Marquita's silver Lexus a few spaces ahead of his own. In the hallway he was even more surprised to hear movement in his office. The door was ajar. Hannibal rested his hand on the Sig Sauer hanging under his right arm and stepped toward the door, careful not to make a sound. The opening was just wide enough for one eye to see through, but the view prompted a soft smile. Marquita stood leaning back against Hannibal's desk. Sarge had an arm around her waist and was pressing forward slowly for a kiss. It was the kind of moment that makes a man feel like a voyeur, but also makes it hard to turn away.

Then Sarge's free hand tenderly touched Marquita's thigh, and Hannibal saw her flinch. Sarge froze, the moment shattered. Hannibal felt Marquita's pain, but he knew that Sarge carried his own scars. He was a survivor, a man who had come through firefights in Vietnam, fistfights in Mississippi, the spiral into homelessness and the long climb
back to self-respect. Hannibal wasn't sure he could take another blow to the heart. He was strong, but Marquita was damaged goods, and trying to hold her together could break him apart.