Damaged Goods (7 page)

“You mean the car?”

Nash returned to the counter and slammed a big binder down on it to accent his words. “Damn straight. You know how the sixty-eight ‘Vette had that crease on the side of the front quarter panel and the doors?”

“I have to admit I don't know much about old cars.”

“Well, they had a crease along them, horizontally, see?” Nash talked while he flipped through blue, perforated pages. “Ran down the side. So when I cut the body in half…”

“You cut the car in half?”

“Such a beauty too,” Nash said, shaking his head. “But, yeah, he only wanted the front part, before the doors. Just back to the windshield. Then I had to reform the fiberglass on the sides, to make it match up when I mounted it on the El Dorado. That meant cutting the front off that beautiful nineteen fifty-nine Caddy. It's what he wanted, and he paid big money for it too, but believe me, driving that thing must be a bitch.”

“My client said he called it a Corvorado,” Hannibal said. “Why would a guy want to do that?”

“Why?” Nash looked up, surprised. “Boy, you're talking about driving the biggest, flashiest thing on the road. The ‘Vette's all nose, and that El Dorado was all ass, so you end up with this long, racy, high powered bitch that can haul ass while it's hauling you and a half dozen of your best friends. And with the fiberglass nose making her tail heavy, I bet you she's a hell of a street racer. And he could take care of her.”

“Meaning?”

Nash looked up again, surprised. “Meaning that he knew the machine. Think he must have been quite a shade tree mechanic, something you city boys wouldn't know nothing about. Hell of a driver too. I rode with him on her shakedown drive. Ah, here he is. Rod Mantooth.”

“You sound a little like you admired him,” Hannibal said, staring down at the receipt in Nash's book.

“No sir, he was a genuine son of a bitch,” Nash said, looking as if he was about to spit. “Had a hateful word for anybody you could name, and thought he was God's gift to the world. Never seen a man swagger like that, except on TV on the wrestling shows. And the way he talked about the ladies. Damn.”

Hannibal smiled a bit. It was getting easier and easier to hate this Mantooth guy. “Sounds like I want to watch my back when I find him. But I guess he made an impression on you. Can you give me a description?”

Nash's lower lip pushed forward, and his eyes went up and to his left as he searched his brain. “Five-ten, maybe, but he had to be pushing two hundred pounds and solid as an old
oak. Black hair, and black eyes that were, I don't know, kind of cold, you know? Kind of dark skin, too. Not like you, I mean like spics or Italians get. Real hairy arms too. And kind of a craggy face, although I bet women go for him.”

Hannibal assembled a picture in his mind, much as a police sketch artist might. He would consult it later if he thought he had the man in his sights. “I'm picturing loud, short sleeve shirts, jeans and cowboy boots.”

Nash snapped back. “How'd you know that? Well, it's just the kind of stuff he always had on. He's sure not from around here. He might have been a wannabe surfer dude but from that accent I'd bet he's an Alabama boy. You know, the kind that barely get through fifth grade and learn about loving from their sister.”

Hannibal nodded that he got the idea, all the while marveling at the way some rednecks can put other rednecks down. At least he had Nash on his side. He pointed at the receipt again. “So, do you have a copy of his check? I might be able to trace him through his bank.”

“Don't really know much about this business, do you?” Nash asked, scratching himself in a way that made Hannibal uncomfortable. “Don't see many checks in this business. But most of my customers don't pay in crisp, brand new hundred dollar bills.”

Hannibal's face revealed nothing, but that news hit him like an unexpected punch. Lots of money probably meant that Mantooth had already sold whatever information he found at Anita's home. But maybe, if Hannibal found him soon enough, he could at least recoup some of the money he had received for it.

“Okay, you clearly didn't trust this guy. I'm betting you made him give you an address.”

Nash grinned, flashing tobacco-stained teeth. “Sure did. He was living good, too. Had him a room at the Hilton in Washington. He didn't belong in no decent hotel but, I guess in one way them hotel boys is just like me. They take care of you as long as your money's green. Maybe he's even still
there. I sure hope you catch up with that son of a bitch. And I hope when you do, you kick his ass.”

The second he had the Volvo started, Hannibal cranked the air conditioning up to maximum. Pulling out of Nash's yard his uppermost thought was how much dust he had stirred up and how much of it had settled onto The Tornado's hood. He would have to run through a car wash before the day was out.

By the time he reached Route 5 his mind had returned to his case. He turned the fan down to its lowest setting and pushed buttons on his car phone. The robotic voice of an operator informed him that there were ten Hilton Hotels in the Capital area, but he was only interested in the four technically in Washington. With the Maryland countryside flowing past in an endless wave of green, he called the first hotel.

Hannibal's years as a policeman in New York had taught him how to act like a cop, but one of the less obvious things he had learned in the Secret Service was how to sound like a cop. There is a tone, a pace, an approach to asking questions that people recognize as official. Using the right amount of authority, Hannibal was able to get three hotels to confirm that they had not had a guest named Rod, Roderick or Roger Mantooth in the appropriate timeframe. The fourth Hilton explained that they could not divulge that kind of information over the telephone. Hannibal thanked them and drove on, now knowing where Rod had stayed.

The final phone call ended just as Hannibal was merging onto the Beltway, turning his CD player back up, and noticing the gray Ford in his rearview mirror. Traffic on I-495 was light at this time of the morning, but moving quickly. He wouldn't be on that road five minutes at this pace, so he stayed in the right lane. ZZ Top's raucous white-boy blues slammed out of his four-speaker system, informing him that “Jesus Just Left Chicago.” Mouthing the words along with the music, he focused on the vehicle three cars back in his mirror.

The flat gray Ford Fairmont was as close to nondescript as a car could be. Boxy but not too big or small, it would be the perfect tail car, if someone wanted to follow someone else. Nothing distinguished it from the mass of Detroit molded metal on the road that morning. Nothing except familiarity. Hannibal was almost sure he'd seen this car behind him just before he reached Route 5, half an hour ago. Of course, it might not be the same car. Even if it was, there was nothing so strange about another driver taking the best route from the Eastern Shore to the District. Still…

A Land Cruiser was slowly sliding past Hannibal on his left. To Hannibal, nobody needed a vehicle that size unless they were entering a demolition derby. A Voyager trailed it by a little more than a car length, its driver's attention divided by four children bouncing in the seats behind her. Hadn't they heard about seat belts in that household? Well, maybe he would give them a reminder.

A slow smile spread across Hannibal's face and he was singing along with the music under his breath. As he and the band reached the chorus, “Beer drinkers, yeah, hell raisers,” Hannibal released his accelerator to let his Volvo drift back so that the four wheel drive Cruiser was completely past him.

“Let's do it, Tornado,” he muttered between lyrics. Watching his mirrors closely, he slapped the shifter down into second gear and made a sharp slide to his left. Chauffeur Mom slammed her brakes and Hannibal moved through the space and directly into the third lane. The woman was yelling at her charges, who had flown all about the inside of the van. Hannibal could spare only a sliver of attention to the kids buckling up, because he was watching the Ford, which also jogged hard left. It paused in the middle lane for a moment before moving over to the third and settling in three cars behind Hannibal.

“Well, I guess that settles that,” Hannibal said. But already his exit was coming up - exit 2B, leading to that little stretch of I-295 that would take him to Maine Avenue downtown. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, Hannibal felt his engine move comfortably into overdrive as he pulled the steering
wheel to dive in front of the Land Cruiser. Again he slid across two lanes of traffic to dart onto the exit ramp, and then downshifted as his car leaned into the sharp right curve. His tires made a small squeal of protest, but only for a second. When he slotted into traffic between two other skillful and determined drivers, there was no gray Fairmont in his rearview mirror. And from there, no one could guess where in Washington he may be headed. Hilton hotels were not among Hannibal's usual haunts.

When Hannibal stepped out of the elevator in Cindy's building he saw that the sign on the door had finally been changed. “Niesewand and Baylor” had lost its senior partner shortly after Gabriel Niesewand went to prison for his involvement in a conspiracy to defraud a wealthy client, and the murder he committed trying to keep that conspiracy a secret. Hannibal had something to do with that conviction. Now the sign read “Baylor, Truman and Ray.”

“And Tinker to Evers to Chance,” Hannibal thought, reminded of the famous triple play. However, moving those other two partners onto the firm's masthead did put Cindy a step or two closer to full partnership some day soon. Her star was rising very quickly indeed.

Like any major law firm, this one had its gatekeepers, but they all knew Hannibal and hardly raised their heads as he entered the office. When he did get someone's attention, he just pointed at Cindy's door and smiled.

“No one this morning,” the receptionist said, meaning that Cindy had no appointments. Nodding thanks, Hannibal pushed Cindy's door open and stepped quietly inside.

Not a corner office yet, he reflected, but still quite an impressive space for a young associate. Her desk was covered with papers, books, and small sheets containing her hastily scribbled notes. Tastefully decorated he thought, with a lovely, subtle fragrance from the bowl of floating violets on a side table.

Cindy herself was nowhere to be seen, so he dropped into the visitor's chair closest to her desk. While he waited he picked up one of the firm's brochures, curious to see what else had changed since Niesewand's departure. He saw now that the firm specialized in “Emerging Business, Technology and E-Commerce (EBTEC).” Must everything have an acronym, he wondered? “At Baylor, Truman and Ray we recognize that fast-moving businesses have special needs. We have assembled a multidisciplinary team of attorneys to serve those needs — including attorneys with backgrounds in the intellectual property, securities, corporate, real estate, land use, telecommunications, environmental, labor and litigation practice areas…”

Hannibal wasn't sure how you could use the word “specialize” with a collection of areas like that, but there was pride attached to the fact that his woman, Cindy Santiago, represented the “securities” part of that list for emerging businesses. What would his brochure say, if he had one? “Hannibal Jones recognizes that life is hard and unfair. He specializes in helping people who are in trouble and need help to get out of it.” Not so impressive, he thought, but it did sound more like real work.

Cindy rushed into her office in a navy blue suit and heels. She froze when she saw Hannibal, delight dancing in her dark eyes. Her arms were filled with large bound volumes of legal precedent, and she clutched a pencil between her teeth. One long strand of hair had worked loose and hung down to tickle the tip of her pert Latin nose.

“Now here's a lovely surprise,” she said, once she had dropped the books on her desk and pulled the pencil free of her mouth. Hannibal stood and they shared a brief but warm embraced, ending the hug with a quick kiss. “Just in the neighborhood?”