Damaged Goods (22 page)

“Interesting that you didn't ask if I've learned what he took. But, you've known all along, haven't you? Or at least suspected, right?”

Blair's smile didn't drop, but it hardened. “I'm not sure I get your meaning.”

“It never occurred to me that you knew anything about your cleaning woman's father,” Hannibal said, “but Anita says you knew enough to tell her that he was a genius. I'm thinking you suspected from the beginning that the only thing he'd hide for her that could be of great value was some new pharmaceutical breakthrough. Then I remembered that among your holdings is an on-line pharmaceutical company.”

Blair lowered his foot to the floor and sat forward just a bit. “Whatever Cooper came up with has to be of great value, based on what he told her. Someone is going to make a great deal of money from his discovery. Now it's out there where anybody might capitalize on it. I'm the only one who would make sure Ms Cooper gets her fair share of the wealth a new wonder drug will generate. But I can't do that unless the formula is recovered.”

“How very altruistic of you,” Hannibal said, standing. “Well, you're my client and I will do all I can to protect your interests. But you should know that Anita has retained an excellent business attorney who will make sure her interests are protected as well.”

Blair's smile returned to its former lightness. “Ah, this would be Miss Santiago, right? She's with Baylor, Truman and Ray I believe, one of the finest business firms in Washington. I'm quite sure that we will work quite smoothly with them on this matter, once you've recovered Ms Cooper's prize.”

Any response Hannibal might have considered was pushed out of his head by the ring of his cell phone. Blair indicated that he should take the call, so he pulled his phone out and pushed the button. At first all he heard was distant sobbing.

“Hannibal? Sarge. I don't know what to do.”

Hannibal didn't think he had ever heard desperation in Sarge's voice before.

“What's going on, man? Where are you? Is that Marquita in the background? Is she all right?”

“I brought her down to Virginia Beach to relax a bit. Now she's freaking out,” Sarge said, his voice pumping fear into the telephone. “I've just now calmed her down enough for her to tell me why. She saw him Hannibal. She spotted Rod Mantooth down here.”

Finding a parking space on the narrow streets of Georgetown late in the morning challenged even those who lived and worked in the area. Because Hannibal seldom frequented the northwestern quadrant of The District, the search became a major test of his ingenuity. The row houses in Georgetown didn't seem significantly bigger than the ones in his own neighborhood or anywhere else, nor did they have any more space around or behind them. Yards seemed tiny, and to him a brick front was a brick front. The fact that these places sold for upwards of a million dollars made little sense to him. But he wasn't there looking for a home. After failing to learn anything about Mantooth from public sources, he was looking for a man who might have access to less official but more valuable information.

It had taken Hannibal a few minutes to calm Sarge down. He had insisted that Sarge stay with Marquita and not go looking for Mantooth on the beach where she had spotted him. He had promised that he would join them that night. Then he headed for The District to find an old acquaintance. He was driving against the major flow of traffic on I-66 at this time of day and had no trouble holding a speed in the sixties. While he drove he contacted the one person he knew in Virginia Beach who might be able to help him.

“Huge Wilson, you are one hard man to talk to on the phone.”

“Well my posse has to protect me from the nut jobs, the local fans, and especially the would-be rappers and hip-hop singers who'll do anything for an audition,” Wilson replied. His voice's purity, reminiscent of Eddie Kendricks' falsetto, always surprised Hannibal.

“Listen, Huge, I can use some help and I think you once said that if I needed anything…”

“Of course,” Huge said, and Hannibal could hear him smiling into the phone at the other end. “In my biz, street cred is very necessary, dog. I said if you ever need anything and I meant it. Now what we talking about?”

“As it happens, it's your street credibility that will make you so valuable right now,” Hannibal said. “I need to find a guy named Rod Mantooth. He robbed and beat up a sister up here, and I have reliable intel that he's hanging in Virginia Beach right now. He's a white guy, but he's got underworld connections and likes to live large. I figure if he's making contact with the drug dealer crowd your contacts might spot him.”

“Beat up a sister?” Huge said. “Shit, if he's on the streets of Virginia Beach my posse will run him down. You want me to take care of this, or just save him for you?”

“Please just locate the fool for me if you can,” Hannibal said. “I'll be down there tonight and I'd like a shot at recovering the stolen property.”

“You just lay back and leave this one to me,” Huge said. “E-mail me a good description of this asshole and a picture if you've got one, and we'll get down to business.”

That conversation had ended just in time for Hannibal to switch onto Route 29 and let the Key Bridge carry him over the Potomac. That dropped him within a couple of blocks of his destination, Café Milano. Still, it came as no surprise that after wandering the claustrophobic warren of one-way streets for a few minutes he ended up parking behind the Shops at Georgetown Park. It was too hot for even a short walk. Hannibal pulled off his suit coat and locked his shoulder holster in the Volvo's trunk before proceeding. He covered
the necessary three blocks with his jacket draped over his arm.

Hannibal had called ahead, knowing that he was likely to find Anthony Ronzini having an early lunch. Freddy, Ronzini's personal protector, greeted Hannibal at the door. Hannibal knew that square head, thin sandy hair and broken nose. Freddy had the mass of a heavyweight fighter and the light tread one would expect a middleweight to have. Hannibal nodded a greeting and raised his arms for a pat down. They had not met under the best of circumstances.

“No need for that,” Freddy said. “You clean?”

“Of course. I won't disrespect Mr. Ronzini at a meal.”

Freddy turned to lead Hannibal into the restaurant. On their way to Ronzini's table they passed three or four familiar faces. Café Milano was one of those places that attracted Washington's power elite. Hannibal had his coat back on by the time they reached the patio. Stepping into the glass-fronted area was a quick trip to Europe. Plants and flowers flanked two long rows of tables wearing white tablecloths. The blossoms and leaves looked as if they were catered to as much as the diners. Hannibal guessed the room's capacity at around a hundred, and he was sure that it was ninety percent full that day.

When he reached Ronzini's table, Hannibal looked around slowly, wondering how many of the men nearby were in Ronzini's employ. While not a major force in the local crime scene, Ronzini was a player and was not without influence. His round Italian face turned toward Hannibal and offered a congenial smile.

“Sit, Mr. Jones. Have you had lunch? At least have an espresso with me.” Ronzini raised his left hand and a waiter stepped toward them.

Hannibal lowered himself into the seat facing Ronzini, who sat behind a huge salad filled with things Hannibal wasn't sure he could name. He saw eggplant, peppers, tomatoes and the fake lettuce Cindy called arugula. The other stuff hardly looked like food, although some of it might be cheese of some sort.

“Thank you, Mr. Ronzini,” Hannibal said, more for Freddy's benefit than his host's. “I wasn't expecting so warm a welcome.”

Ronzini stabbed the salad, raising the sour cheese odor. “Hey, you've held up your end of the deal. I wasn't so sure.”

“I never doubted you,” Hannibal replied. “We had an understanding. I had less faith in your son, but there haven't been any problems.” Ronzini's son had been running a crack house until Hannibal was hired to chase the bad element out of that building. Hannibal declared the building and the neighbors on its block, to be under his personal protection. Ronzini had been drawn into the conflict and overstepped his son to end it by making an agreement with Hannibal. He would keep his son's drug business out of Hannibal's neighborhood, and Hannibal would take no further action against the young drug dealer. The agreement created a relationship between the two men based on honor and mutual respect. And after fighting for the building Hannibal decided to make it both his home and his place of business.

“And what brings you to see me now?” Ronzini asked between bites of his antipasto. “I'm thinking this isn't a social call.”

Hannibal bit back his pride and forced a less arrogant expression onto his face. “Actually, I'm here to ask for a favor,” Hannibal said.

“Of course you are.”

“I have no idea how I might repay you for this favor.”

“We will not speak of such things,” Ronzini said. “I know what you will and will not do. At some time I may need a favor and you will do the right thing.” Then, to the waiter, “Please bring my friend here a cup of espresso, no lemon I think.” Then his eyes returned to Hannibal. They were the eyes of a fox, incisive, dissecting Hannibal as he spoke.

“I'm looking for a man,” Hannibal said, choosing his words with care. “This man has beaten and abused women. He also stole something important from one of these women. I need to get it back. I may also want this man to pay for his treatment of these women. Unfortunately, I haven't been able
to find out anything about this man through the normal avenues.”

“And you think I should know something of this man?”

“This man has a criminal history and I believe he may have connections, important connections you might know about.” Hannibal said. Two nearby diners' eyes flicked toward him, and Hannibal knew they were Ronzini's men. “The more I know about my quarry, the easier it will be to locate and deal with him. And before I take this man down, I'd like to know what kind of enemies I might be making. This man's name is Rod Mantooth.”

Ronzini continued through his antipasto. No hint of recognition showed on his face. Just before he finished his food, the waiter reappeared with espresso for Hannibal and pasta for Ronzini. Freddy, at the next table, didn't seem to eat. Hannibal's face showed his surprise at Ronzini's food.

“You should have ordered.” Ronzini said.

“Not hungry. Just never seen ravioli in a cream sauce like that.”

“When it's round we call it
cappellacci
,” Ronzini said, spreading a clean napkin across his lap to protect what had to be a two thousand dollar wool suit. “These are filled with spinach and ricotta. A wonderful flavor. And I know this man, Mantooth. At least, I know of him. He's from the old neighborhood, Bensonhurst.”

“Really? I had the impression he was a low life,” Hannibal sipped his espresso. It was very hot, and maybe the strongest he had tasted. He smiled and took another sip before putting his cup down.

“Yeah, ten years ago he was busting into banks. Five or six years ago he got busted, but I think he's on the streets again.”

“Can you tell me who he's working for, or with?” Hannibal asked.

Ronzini chewed a pocket of pasta, shaking his head slowly, either at how good the food was or at how silly Hannibal's question was. “What you really want to know is, who is this guy and what kind of friends does he make. Do you know where this man is?”

“I've tracked him to Virginia Beach,” Hannibal said. “I intend to confront him there. Our meeting could get messy.”

Ronzini laughed out loud. “Really? Well, wait twenty-four hours and let me check into Mantooth. It shouldn't be hard to find out what you want to know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ronzini.” Hannibal said, swallowing the last of his espresso. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get on this bastard's trail. I'll wait until tomorrow and call you.”

“No,” Ronzini said, in a stern voice that made Hannibal stop half way to standing up. “You won't contact me again. I'll call you when I have information for you.”

The smell of fine Italian cuisine had accentuated the one lie Hannibal had told Ronzini. His stomach was growling for food. As soon as he reached his car he headed for the nearest Wendy's drive through. The drive home was a lot more pleasant with a burger on his lap and a container of French fries in his door's map pocket. By the time he pulled into his parking space lunch was a memory and Hannibal's mind was focused on packing for a long drive south. His thoughts shifted only when Monte met him on the sidewalk.

“What's up, Hannibal. Still working a hot case?”

“As a matter of fact, I still am,” Hannibal said, “and I have to take off for Virginia Beach this afternoon.”