Pyramid Deception (16 page)

“You said you had questions about investing with Weston-Wellesley?” Straight to the point. This guy just bled nervous energy. He was like a puppy having trouble sitting still, and his biceps told Hannibal that he burned off a lot of that energy in the gym. His wife, on the other hand, was a portrait of calm confidence. They would be a good team.

“Yes, and I hope I didn't give you cause for concern,” Hannibal said. “I'm only here to talk today.”

Leotta turned his head to the side the way a dog does, with a look of confusion. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Hannibal cast an eye toward the door. “Cramer here is not your personal assistant.”

“No, Cramer is security. He's not here because of you, he's here to watch over Joan.”

“You're concerned for her safety?” Cindy asked.

“Yes. That's in connection with Weston-Wellesley investments too.”

Hannibal leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Mr. Leotta I really need to discuss some financial details with you. Perhaps we should excuse ourselves and leave the ladies to…”

“Nono,” Leotta said, waving the notion away. “We discuss this together. I have no secrets from my wife.”

Hannibal had heard that from any number of husbands, and wondered if it was ever true. In this case, he would proceed as if it was the truth.

“John, you should know that I'm here because of George Washington Monroe. He told me that you and he have done business.”

“Did he?” Leotta asked. “Did he? I see. You and your lawyer here, you're trying to tie me in to Wash's crooked business, is that it?”

Cindy spoke up. “Mr. Leotta I don't think we're…”

“That son of a bitch,” Leotta said. “Did he tell you how he came in here, to this club, cozying up to the most successful guys? Did he tell you that after I sold him that house he offered me a special opportunity? Did he tell you how I eventually sank more than 800,000 dollars into Weston-Wellesley investments? Yeah, that's how much of my money vanished when the company went under. What else did you want to know?”

Cindy started to speak again, but Hannibal waved her to silence. “That sounds like a pretty good reason to be angry.”

“You bet I'm pissed. I'm not in with that crook.”

“Angry enough to want to hurt him, I think,” Hannibal said, glancing back at Cramer. “Mr. Monroe was attacked recently.”

“What? So I'm a suspect now?” Leotta bounced to his feet. Hannibal matched his action so they stood face to face. He felt Cramer step closer behind him.

From deep in her chair, Joan Leotta said, “If you think that, you don't know my husband at all. That's not his style. He's suing Monroe of course. But nothing primitive. Besides, Monroe has more important things on his mind.”

“You are referring to the rumor that his wife has run off with a younger man?” Cindy asked.

“Boy, you guys are out of it,” Leotta said. He sat, Hannibal followed suit, and Cramer returned to his post at the door. “I know that's the official story. But…” Leotta slid forward to the edge of his chair and leaned in as if some outsider might be listening. In a low tone he said, “My insider with the Fairfax County police tells me the truth is, she was abducted and murdered. I figure whoever had it in for Wash went after his wife instead.”

Hannibal and Cindy exchanged a glance. With a serious expression, Cindy said, “You think Mrs. Monroe met with foul play?”

“Why do you think we have Cramer here? I figured if Wash had that kind of enemies it had to have something to do with his investment firm. Whoever he pissed off could just as soon go after anybody he was in business with. And even though I lost a bundle, all anybody really knows is that I sank a boatload of dollars into Wash's enterprises. That's kind of public knowledge around here.”

“So to be safe you hired a bodyguard,” Hannibal said.

“Yep. Called him in yesterday morning first thing when I got the word about Wash's wife.”

“You mean he watched you, and Joan, all day?” Hannibal asked.

“Look at my wife, Mr. Jones. You think I want to risk losing this?” He turned a puppy-dog smile on her, then turned back to Hannibal. “Home and away, until I'm sure the threat is over. Last night he kept an eye on us at Morton's when we went to
dinner. We met friends at the bar in the Hyatt and stayed out pretty late actually, but I felt safe as long as I could put eyes on Cramer, and he could see us.”

“Yes, I'm sure he provides a feeling of security.”

Leotta leaned back with arms folded, looking smug the way some people do when they're sure they know something you don't. “So, Mr. Jones, what else did you want to ask me? Or accuse me of?”

“I think that will do it for now,” Hannibal said, standing. “I appreciate your openness, and I'll contact you if we need anything else.”

Hannibal took Cindy's hand to help her to her feet. The Leottas also stood, and Joan asked, “The police will find the people who did this, won't they?”

“They will, or I will,” Hannibal said.

“It is terrible whatever happened to Mrs. Monroe of course but, well, do you think these people will hurt anyone else?”

Cindy clenched her eyes tight and looked down and away. Only Hannibal saw the pain on her face. He saw no point in sharing any more detail with the Leottas, so he kept his answer to, “We'll do everything we can to get to the bottom of this.”

On the way to the car Hannibal wondered if walking through eighteen holes of well-tended woods would relax the kind of tensions he deals with on a daily basis. When he had the engine purring he told Cindy, “We've got one more stop.”

“You don't think Leotta has anything to do with what happened to Irene Monroe and Jason, do you?”

“Doesn't seem likely,” Hannibal said. “I can see why Wash might have picked him out of the crowd here. Leotta may as well have ‘mark' written on his forehead. No grafter could resist taking advantage of him. But I'm thinking Wash is starting to regret taking advantage of so many people to climb to the top of his personal mountain. He was kind of weird when I dropped him off.”

Once they were on the road they lapsed into silence. Even through Hannibal's Oakleys, the sun gave the world around him a surreal brightness. He flipped the CD player to the energetic jazz of the Crusaders and pushed his car to just a few miles per hour over the speed limit. Cindy leaned against the passenger door and turned so that her left knee pressed against Hannibal's thigh.

“So tell me about him. Who is George Washington Monroe?”

“Wash?” Hannibal mulled the question for a moment. “Well, he's black. He's handsome. He's as smooth as any con man I've ever met, but downright charming, even when he isn't running a game.”

“Or at least, when you don't think he's running a game.” Cindy said with a wink.

“Okay, counselor, fair enough. If he's as good as I think he is, I wouldn't know when he was scamming me. But I'm absolutely convinced of one thing. The man loved his wife.”

When the car phone buzzed it startled them both. Cindy had never heard it before. Hannibal had only given the number to a few people and she was the most frequent user. He didn't figure it could be good news, but it was probably news he wanted. He tapped the button on his steering wheel to answer the call and turn on the speakers.

“This is Hannibal.”

“Hey, Jones, it's Orson.” The voice filled the car. “I see I caught you in the car so you're headed somewhere, but I think you'll want to postpone that appointment.”

“No emergency,” Hannibal said. “Where are you? And what are you doing calling me on a Sunday? Don't you ever take a day off?”

“Crime don't take the weekends off,” Rissik said. “I'm at Monroe's place, and I think you ought to get out here too.”

“You're in luck, buddy,” Hannibal said. “I'm five minutes away.”

The remainder of the drive was a blur for Hannibal. With almost no traffic resistance he was able to push the Volvo to its
limits on mostly straight, well-paved roads. Even in Northern Virginia, they were far enough south that autumn looked a lot like spring. Most of the trees never fully shed their leaves and the evergreens filled in the spaces. Snow almost never covered the ground and grass just turned from a bright green to a duller shade of the same color. But the world did smell different, and as he approached Monroe's home the odor took a definite sharp turn. The comforting scent he associated with fireplaces proved grating that day.

Hannibal pulled into the circular driveway and stepped out of his car without a word. He stared over the vehicle's roof at the broad swath of smoking timbers and ash where the palatial colonial home was the day before. The pile of rubble hardly seemed big enough to represent the house it had replaced, and shrubs and bushes that stood too close to the house had paid the price.

“Last night, or rather this morning, apparently just before dawn.” Rissik kept his voice low, as if they were already at the funeral. He seemed dressed for one too, in a navy blue suit, starched dress shirt and tie. He stood just behind Hannibal and to one side with his hands in his pockets. Cindy walked around the car to stand beside Hannibal. She slid her hand into his and followed his gaze to the smoking rubble.

He watched two investigators picking through the debris. The sun warmed his exposed skin and he imagined that it was from the fire that had raged through the house just hours before. “Wash was inside?” he asked in the same muted tone Rissik had used.

“In bed,” Rissik said. “Smoking a cigar, according to the examiners. And with the remains of three bottles on the bed, one could assume that two were empty.”

“Hard to believe this could even happen,” Hannibal said. “I know the house had a sprinkler system. The construction on places like these is amazing. And these days, firefighter response times are so impressive.”

“Yeah, but before they can scramble somebody has to notice the fire and then call it in. Look around you. Imagine how big the blaze would have had to be before any of the neighbors could even see it. The firemen fought this one hard but as I understand it, the house was fully engulfed by the time they got the word.”

Cindy continued to stare straight ahead. “You can't think this was an accident.”

“Despite what you may have heard, Miss Santiago,” Rissik said, “Becoming a police detective doesn't make you stupid. Still, an objective eye or a defense attorney could make a
credible case for suicide. Expensive booze aside, there is no evidence of an accelerant. The condition of the body will make it impossible for anyone to know just how drunk he was when the fire started.”

Cindy swallowed. “Point taken. You mentioned the body. He's not still in there, is he?”

Rissik smiled. “Taken away hours before the local cops thought to let me know about the fire, ma'am. But I understand there wasn't much to examine.”

“Thanks for your patience. And please call me Cindy. Once we've taken a meal together…”

Hannibal interrupted. “Got a cause of death?”

“They're thinking smoke inhalation,” Rissik said. “But the medical examiner isn't completely sure he can tie all of the damage to the body to the falling debris. For example, there is the matter of the seventh vertebrae.”

Hannibal tried to picture Monroe, drunk in his bed and surrounded by partially empty bottles. He passes out late in the night. Alcohol spills onto the covers. A lit cigar drops from his mouth. Flames spread quickly through the room. Death from smoke inhalation. Minutes later, before the fire department arrives, a heavy timber drops from above crashing into his head and breaking his neck.

Possible. Plausible. But the human hands of a trained killer seemed somehow easier for him to believe. If someone could get into the house. But the alarm was set. Who would Wash have invited in? He was lost in thought until he felt his hand being squeezed.

“Hannibal? Is there a reason we need to keep standing here?”

The breeze shifted, forcing the smoke from the smoldering mass to follow them as they walked down the driveway toward the street. The smoke wasn't thick, or even visible, but it filled Hannibal's lungs like a thick cloud of guilt.

“Right out from under me,” he muttered. “Again.”

“Don't you even start that shit,” Rissik said. “He didn't get the message in that bar, did he? How many times can you save a man's life in 24 hours?”

“It's the same guy, isn't it?” Cindy asked. “I mean, it has to be, right?”

“Sure seems that way,” Rissik said. “Which I guess takes Monroe out of the suspect pool for his wife's death.” A green Jaguar slowed to a crawl as it passed in front of the house. Rissik held up his badge and waved the car on. “Damn rubberneckers. So what do you think of Leotta? You talk to him?”

“Yeah, but I don't like him for this,” Hannibal said. “First of all, he just doesn't feel like a guy who would kill for money. Besides, he has a solid alibi for the time Wash was attacked, and for that matter so does his bodyguard, Cramer. Alibis we could easily check if we wanted to.”

“So we're still in the same place,” Rissik said. “Who had a motive to kill both Monroe and his wife?”

“And Jason,” Cindy added.

“No motive there,” Rissik said. “They killed him just cause it was convenient. We are dealing with a cold blooded son of a bitch.”

Cindy nodded, crossed her arms and leaned back against the brick column at the end of the driveway. “How about just a cold blooded bitch? Did he have another woman in his life? She had a man. He might have been playing the same game. A jealous woman might kill the wife to hurt him, and then if she was scorned she might kill him.”

“If he had a girlfriend, he'd let her in,” Rissik said, nodding. “That gets us around the whole alarm thing.”