Pyramid Deception (13 page)

Hannibal noticed that Hernandez was an exception among Latin men he knew. Instead of intensifying as he became more emotional, his accent faded. Monroe blinked in apparent astonishment.

“You sold me out to the feds?”

“You fucked me over good, Wash,”

“Come on, Manny,” Monroe said. “We both know what we are. It's how you play this game. We stood face to face.”

“Yeah, we did. You made a good move to protect yourself. I made the best move I had. I cut a deal with the IRS. They were happy to have the dirt I gave them on you, and it put me in the clear. It'll still take them years to put together a case on you. I gave up a lot, but I didn't give them everything.”

Monroe looked down and after a minute he said, “Thanks.”

“And I really am sorry about Irene.”

For a brief moment Hannibal was afraid they were going to hug.

“Let's go Wash. If this guy had no motive for killing Irene, we got no reason to be here. We don't need to let the trail get any colder.”

Monroe nodded to Hernandez but they didn't shake hands. Hannibal stayed close to him on the way out, keeping his eyes on the bouncer. Back in his car Monroe was silent as they took off. He shook his head, then nodded, as if he were having a conversation with himself. Hannibal tapped buttons on his steering wheel and vintage Isaac Hayes burst from the speakers. He hadn't selected a song, but once “Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone” had started, he thought it would be worse to cut it off.

“She's really gone,” Monroe said during the instrumental section. “It didn't seem real until I told Manny. It wasn't the truth until I said it out loud.”

“You got a funny relationship with the truth,” Hannibal said.

“Yeah, we ain't exactly friends,” Monroe said. “Maybe I ought to see her more often.”

Hannibal steered unhurried toward I-395 to break free of The District. “Her?”

“The truth,” Monroe said. “Is there any doubt the truth is a woman? She's so stubborn, and yet so changeable. So beautiful, especially when you see her naked.”

“Hernandez was wrong. You're the one blessed with the silver tongue. You got any particular truths you want to face today?”

Monroe took a deep breath, and Hannibal suddenly felt as if he had been set up for something. “Yeah. Yeah there is. Are you rushing someplace?”

Hannibal wanted to get back to Cindy, not just to have dinner with her, but because he didn't want her to spend too much time alone right then. He wanted to touch base with Rissik to evaluate what he got out of Walter. And he wanted to see if there was a way to learn all that Hernandez had told the IRS.

“No, no hurry.”

“Good,” Monroe said. “Take me there. Take me to the place where it happened. Right now, that's the only truth I need to face.”

Shadows were long by the time Hannibal pulled into the shopping center parking lot. There were few people walking in the area, and only a couple cars scattered around the lot. That was all probably good news for Wash Monroe's public image.

Monroe had asked Hannibal to stop at a VABC store, where he picked up a bottle of cognac and a wine cooler. He poured out the cooler before getting back into the car and with a very steady hand half-filled the bottle with Courvoisier. He offered the small bottle to Hannibal, who declined. During the drive Monroe sipped at the bottle until it was empty, and then refilled it to the halfway mark.

When they climbed out of the car Hannibal was impressed by Monroe's steadiness. He may have needed liquid support to face the truth, but he did it without showing any obvious signs of intoxication. Hannibal walked to the spot where he had watched the murder. He waved a hand toward the spot in front of him where Irene Monroe had crumpled at his feet. There was no mark, no stain, no sign or indication. But he knew it was the spot.

Monroe stared at the place Hannibal indicated and took a deep breath, as if inhaling the moment, as if he could smell the horrific event that took place there. He didn't look left or right, and Hannibal wondered what it was he thought he saw there. If he stared long enough would he see who did it, or why? Not likely. But standing a foot away from Wash Monroe, separated only by the place the man's wife fell, Hannibal was finally certain that he did not kill her.

“Did she know?” Monroe asked after a minute of silence.

“You mean, know who it was?”

“No,” Monroe said with a bitter smile. “Did she know what happened? Did she know she was dead?”

“It was sudden and unexpected,” Hannibal said. “I guess, well probably not. She probably never knew what happened.”

“I think I want to go get drunk. Would you like to get drunk, Mr. Jones?”

“I think you're doing fine for both of us,” Hannibal said. “Maybe you should get some food in you.”

“That is only a good idea if you will sit with me. Now, that tavern at the end of the block there serves an excellent crab cake, and has both Guinness Stout and Founder's Breakfast Stout on tap.”

The crab cakes did turn out to be good, and Hannibal washed them down with a good draft beer. He was unfamiliar with Founder's Stout but when the bartender told him it was brewed with flaked oats, Kona coffee and chocolate he had to try it. He was not disappointed.

Monroe also ate, but he kept the cognac flowing quickly enough to offset the effects of a good meal. As the room began to fill with the early shift of Saturday night regulars, Hannibal hoped Monroe had eaten enough at least to keep from getting sick. His and Monroe's were the only dark faces in the little corner bar, and he had no desire to draw everyone's attention.

The place featured oak plank flooring and dark wood furniture and decor that seemed to absorb what little light there was. Spilled spirits had soaked into the tables and probably the floor to release a subtle aroma that probably made men feel that drinking too much was expected. Sports on two different televisions combined with random conversations to become one big white noise generator. Hannibal sat on the edge of his chair with his back to the bar, facing the only entrance and exit. He had done protection details in places just like this. It was his idea of a great place to drink, but a terrible place to have to work. He watched Monroe upend another glass.

“So, any more truth you want to face?”

A new glass landed beside Monroe's elbow and he raised it as if in tribute. “Charles Ponzi,” he said, taking a drink. “Do you know what a Ponzi scheme is, Hannibal?”

“Well, sure,” Hannibal said, sipping his beer. “It's a financial plan that offers abnormally high short-term returns to entice new investors. The high profits a Ponzi scheme pays require an ever-increasing flow of money from new investors to keep the scheme going. The person running the scheme pays Peter with the new investment money from Paul.”

Monroe nodded as if imparting great wisdom to an initiate. “At the turn of the century, the last century, Charles Ponzi came to this country from Italy with nothing but the shoes on his feet. He was a genius and smooth as polished brass. The greatest swindler in American history. The father of the classic financial con.” Again he raised his glass in tribute, and took another swallow.

Hannibal lowered his voice and leaned closer. “This is your thing, isn't it? Was that Weston-Wellesley Investment Services?”

“A focused investment firm,” Monroe said, swirling his drink. “We specialized in purchasing small firms in the transportation, trash, courier and fuel oil industries. Nicely diversified, don't you think?”

“Just what the beginning investor wants to hear,” Hannibal said. “But in fact, just a multimillion-dollar pyramid scheme that offered exorbitant returns but long term just pumped money into your pocket.”

“Look, my regular investment work did real well,” Monroe said, his words slurring just enough for Hannibal to notice. “But when the market moved against us, we knew how to keep the investors happy. The way we combined the standard pyramid scheme with Ponzi was an inspired innovation. So whenever things got too slow, or I had a liquidity problem, well, I'd just fire up a company like Weston-Wellesley Investments for a while.”

“So this is how you took Cindy Santiago's money. And Jason Moore's. And whoever else threw big money at you?” Hannibal had to raise his voice just a little over two men arguing at the bar.

“Well, it might surprise you to know that I don't even recognize those names, so they didn't invest what I consider big money. Now real estate mogul John Leotta, that guy was a whale. In fact he single handedly funded a whole wave of dividends. It was his money that drew in that last crop of young lawyers.”

“Really? Cindy was just one of a basket full of young lawyers you suckered?”

Monroe stared at him with lowered brows, as if he hadn't heard at first. Then his mouth dropped open and he nodded. “I see. This Cindy, this is your woman, isn't it?” he said, grinning and winking. “I took your woman, and maybe a close friend. Sure. That's why you're involved. You don't give a damn about Irene.”

A blinding flash of rage locked Hannibal's jaws making him speechless for a moment. It would be so easy to knock a few of this drunken swindler's teeth down his throat, but that would serve no purpose. Hannibal did have a few choice words for Wash, once he got his anger back under control.

Before Hannibal could put his thoughts into words a loud thump behind him drew his attention. He turned to see one husky fellow in a plaid shirt and jeans had slammed another into the bar. If this place had a bouncer, he needed to evict those two before it got ugly.

“You're wrong, Wash. I didn't know her, but I sure as hell care. I care that some asshole gunned her down right in front of me, like me being a witness didn't matter. And I care because I think she was a nice woman trying to do the right thing for two people you screwed over. But they weren't the only two. You might not have hurt Irene, but I'm betting this is why you sent the Larsons away. They knew too much and you were afraid they might talk. And now, you got nobody.”

Out the corner of his eye Hannibal saw that a third man had joined in with the two at the bar. Instead of calming them down he seemed to be making it worse. Others were starting to egg them on, pushing for a fight to relieve their own boredom.

“Hey, you can't be too sure about that stuff.” Monroe said, getting louder over the general babble in the room. “I was pretty wild in my younger days. For all you know I got a little bastard out there looking for me.”

Hannibal was only half listening to Monroe, his eyes on the growing turmoil at the bar. All eyes were on the three men now wrestling around, still on foot but sure to hit the floor soon. The bartender was shouting now, and pulled out a small bat with which he presumably intended to reduce the number of troublemakers. And in the midst of the loud voices he heard glass breaking.

Hannibal spun to look at Monroe. Like everyone else in the room, Monroe's eyes were on the fight at the bar. Well, almost everyone else. The black man coming up behind Monroe looked Hannibal right in the eye. He wore a gray George Mason University sweatshirt with the hood up, shadowing his face. His right hand held the neck of a broken bottle. He swung the green glass weapon up in a wide arc toward Monroe's neck.

There was no time to be gentle.

Hannibal swung his right palm in a quick backhand, slapping Monroe's head out of the way. Then his left hand snapped out, capturing the wrist behind the bottle. He spun as he stood, turning his back to the attacker and locking the captured arm under his left armpit. Leaning hard, he slammed the attacker's face down on the table. Then he just had to give the man's pinky a good yank to make him drop the bottle.

“What the hell?” Monroe said, pulling himself up from the floor by leaning on the edge of the table. His voice was just one more distraction before one of the bruisers shoved another, who slammed into someone else, who crashed down on Hannibal's table. The table flipped. Hannibal swung his right arm around to break his fall as he hit the floor. His wrist thumped the edge of a
neighboring table, sending a nasty jolt of pain up his arm. A woman, thrown off balance, crashed down on him, her behind shoving the breath out of his stomach. He shoved her away, only regretting his roughness for a second. He had to get to his feet.

Then a nightstick slammed down on a table and a coarse voice bellowed, “All right, let's have some order here.”

The two uniformed policemen at the door looked across the roomful of men and women like stern parents and for their part the tavern's residents looked suitably embarrassed. Hannibal figured the bartender probably called for them at the first sign of trouble. He scanned the bar quickly but didn't see the gray hoodie. Monroe's attacker must have made it out the door in the confusion. Hannibal charged for the entrance, shoving two men out of his way. Two steps later a palm shoved into his chest stopped his forward momentum.

“What's your hurry, sir?” the cop asked, somehow making the word “sir” sound just like “boy.”

“Officer, a guy just tried to kill my friend and if we move fast enough we might catch him.” Hannibal tried to force his way past the two cops but one used his nightstick to shove him back.

“Yeah, I know we missed a couple of the guys that were here, but we'll want to question the rest and that includes you.”

Hannibal cursed silently and backed off, showing his palms. He figured he wanted these guys to see him as the cooperative sort. That was the image he wanted them to have if they decided to start frisking people and found the automatic under his left arm. But as he backed up Monroe stepped forward, standing too straight the way drunks so often do.

“Gentlemen I am George Washington Monroe and this fellow is in my employ. I can vouch for him. We have been working with inspector Orson Rissik.”

“Well if you'll have a seat there, Mr. Monroe, we'll see if we can contact Detective Rissik for you.”