-19-
Sunday
Like writers and artists, detectives often do their most important work when they appear to be doing nothing. Hannibal knew he looked idle, sitting there in the morning sun, staring down at his desk. His desk was almost covered by pictures taken from Ivanovich’s album. The photo featuring Boris Tolstaya was front and center, with other pictures taken in the Russia House surrounding it. All the pretty ladies were in their evening gowns and the men in suits or, in Dani Gana’s case, a tuxedo. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, and he knew that the answer lay someplace in those photographs.
Ivanovich sat a steaming mug of coffee beside the photos. The aroma told Hannibal that his houseguest had found the Hawaiian kona beans. After a sip, he let the nutty, woody flavor linger on his tongue before swallowing.
“Do you intend to visit Cochran in the hospital?” Ivanovich asked. He had slept on the guest bed in the room beyond the office again. Both men seemed to know they were in this together until it was finished, one way or another.
“It was too late to go up there last night,” Hannibal said, “but yeah, I’ll go talk to him today when I’m sure he’s awake.”
“You do realize that Gana did this.”
Hannibal sighed and looked up from the photos. “Yes, Aleksandr, that is my current theory. I think Gana must have caught Cochran spying on him and beat his face in. Then he probably loaded the man into his own trunk, bound and gagged, and drove the car over to that side street. He probably knew that if it sat there for any length of time, unlocked, someone would steal it. They did. But it didn’t go to a chop shop as he likely expected. Some joy-riding kid took the car, smacked it into a tree, and left it there. Cochran was lucky they found him back there.”
“Is there no evidence of all this?”
“Only my stupid eyes.” When Ivanovich gave him a quizzical look, Hannibal said, “When I went to the house, I heard the girl scream and rushed in. I saw Gana with blood on one hand, and there was blood on the back doorsill. I figure he had just returned.”
“And Viktoriya screamed when she saw him with blood on his hand,” Ivanovich said, finishing the thought. “You were so close but could not know.”
“Yeah, just like with this,” Hannibal said, turning back to the pictures. Ivanovich nodded, pushed the visitor’s chair over by the big front windows, and sat with his coffee. A minute of silence passed before Ivanovich spoke again.
“You know my people were watching your woman very closely.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said, not wanting to explore that subject.
“They saw you watching her that day.”
“I had to see her, Aleksandr,” Hannibal said. “I know you understand that.”
“Yes, I do. Who is the man?”
“What man?” Hannibal asked, trying to keep his focus on the pictures.
“The man she went into that house with. You saw him.”
“Oh. He’s nobody. Just the real estate agent.”
“Really?” Ivanovich asked, sipping his coffee and crossing his legs. “I didn’t think real estate agents took their clients to dinner.”
“Look, that’s just a courtesy.” Hannibal’s head snapped up toward Ivanovich, his eyes blazing. “I’m telling you there’s nothing between them. He’s just the hired help.” He opened his mouth to say more but other thoughts arrested his attention. He turned back to the photos and slapped his palm down on the table.
“Of course,” he said, almost shouting. “They all but told me when I was there. Sit tight, Aleksandr. I’ve got to run to the Russia House. It turns out you were right all along. Dani Gana is nowhere near who he says he is.”
* * * * *
The same man answered the door when Hannibal arrived this time, so getting into the Russia House was no problem. He was surprised to learn that this fellow was called Billy. Before Hannibal could ask, Billy told him that the Sidorovs were not there, and were not expected that day. Yes, Billy had heard about poor Mrs. Petrova and no, no one could believe anyone would want to hurt her. When Hannibal asked to speak to the manager, Billy showed him to a small office that was a good deal more austere than the rest of the establishment. A wide man with bulging forearms growing out of his rolled up sleeves walked around his desk to shake Hannibal’s hand. His jovial, ruddy face was topped with a thatch of hair that had the texture and color of straw.
“I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me Mr...”
“Call me Mike,” the manager said with the slight trace of an accent. “Everyone else does. And any friend of Dr. Sidorov is always an honored guest here.”
Mike sat at his oaken desk with the Tiffany lamp at one side and poured two glasses of a brand of vodka Hannibal didn’t recognize. The label said Turi.
“This is Estonian,” Mike said. “Exceptional clarity and smoothness. Good for the mornings.”
For the mornings? Hannibal thought. They drink it like coffee. When he pulled out the photo, he saw surprise in Mike’s eyes.
“I’ve been looking for one of the men in this picture, and I realized this morning that I’ve been going about it all wrong. The clue has been staring me in the face ever since I came here yesterday. Your man thought I should go to the back entrance.”
“I am so very sorry for that,” Mike said. “He was ignorant and that is not how we are here. I can have him disciplined.”
“No, no,” Hannibal said, raising a palm. “I didn’t say that to complain. It just made me aware that you don’t get too many guests here who are, well, people of color. Do you?”
“Our clientele is mostly Russian nationals and Eastern European immigrants,” Mike said, looking nervous. “We do not discourage any type of person from eating and drinking here. Some just don’t come.”
“That’s the thing about this guy,” Hannibal said, laying the photo on Mike’s desk and pointing to Gana. “He’s not a guest, is he?”
“Gary? No. He was tending bar that night.” He looked up and then back down. “It is true that the help are often, as you say, people of color.”
Hannibal brushed Mike’s defensive remarks away with a wave of his hand. “Gary?”
“Well, Gartee was his actual name,” Mike said. “We often give our people nicknames that are more American.”
“Like Billy—and Mike.”
“Yes, just so,” Mike said with a grin.
“Funny,” Hannibal said. “I know this fellow as Dani.”
“Danny?” Mike sat back in his chair and slid thumbs under his suspenders. “I don’t remember anyone calling him that. Only Gary. And I know that Gartee is his real name because I hired him myself.”
“You seem to be the man I should have been talking to all along,” Hannibal said. “Do you know the other people in the photo? This woman, for instance?”
Mike sat back again, this time with his big arms crossed. “Sir, I always try to be helpful, but I do need to know what is your interest in our clients.”
Clearly, questions about the hired help were not an issue, but the paying customers were different. Hannibal looked back at the door, then turned to face Mike and pushed his glasses up tighter on his face.
“Tell me, Mike, do you know Aleksandr Ivanovich?”
Mike’s voice lowered. “I know of him.”
“Well, he is the one who has asked me to look into this matter,” Hannibal said. “He hoped I could take care of this inquiry for him but if it proves necessary, he can come and talk to you himself. Would you prefer that?”
Mike licked his lips, his eyes darting from side to side. His face looked pale in the soft light of the Tiffany lamp. When he spoke, his words were soft. “I don’t think that it will be necessary for him to trouble himself. You and I, we can take care of this.”
“I thought so,” Hannibal said with a broad smile. “Now this woman. I know her as Mrs. Ben Cochran.”
“That’s right,” Mike said. “Although at the time this was taken she was living with this man, Boris Tolstaya.”
“I see,” Hannibal said. Mike’s eyes were wide, as if he was eager to answer another question. Hannibal thought he should not leave him feeling unfulfilled. “Looking at this photo, one could get the idea that this Tolstaya was the ring leader. Did he gather these people together? The Sidorovs, the Petrovas?”
Mike swallowed. “I can’t really say who the leader of the ring was. I do know that it was Dr. Sidorov who brought Mr. Petrova and Mr. Tolstaya to the club.”
“So this was Yakov’s posse?” Hannibal asked. Mike looked confused, but the question was rhetorical. “Yeah, but you brought Dani Gana, aka Gartee, to the party. You say you hired him to work here?”
“I like to give students a chance,” Mike said with an emphatic nod. “He was one of the Howard University students who waited tables and tended bar.”
“When did he leave and where did he go?”
“I don’t know where he went,” Mike said, picking up his glass and swallowing half its contents. “I really don’t. But I know when he left. We were talking about it today after we heard the awful news about Mrs. Petrova.”
“Not sure I see the connection,” Hannibal said.
Mike downed the last of his vodka and stared into Hannibal’s eyes. “It was almost spooky. I mean, Nikita Petrova dies. Gary resigns the next day. The day after that, Mr. Tolstaya leaves the city, never to return. Three years later, you come in, asking about the Tolstayas. The same day, Mrs. Petrova dies. And now, the next day, you return, asking about Gary.”
“Yeah,” Hannibal said, looking back down at the photo. “Spooky.”
* * * * *
Howard University sits like a modest houseguest at the northern edge of LeDroit Park, one neighborhood in the District that gives visitors the feeling of stepping into an earlier era of the city’s development. When he lived in New York, Hannibal heard all about Harlem and its renaissance. But when he moved to Washington, he learned that this little neighborhood was the real center of African American intellectual and cultural life until about 1950. This was where black doctors, lawyers, professors and businessmen lived. Many of them taught at Howard. Fifty years later, the area had a bit of a split personality. Parts were badly run down, but younger people who could appreciate the area’s heritage and distinct architecture were moving in to try to revitalize it.
Howard itself was exactly what Hannibal thought a college campus should be. Huge brick, colonial looking buildings and well-treed walking paths gave him the feel of Philadelphia in 1776. Ten steps past the main gate, Washington, DC, disappeared from sight. In the middle of the city, this little settlement was a complete escape from urban life. Hannibal shook his head, thinking of how much he would have loved this higher learning experience rather than the combination of correspondence courses and nights at City College that brought him his degree. For now, he would just hope it was the place where he could confirm who Dani Gana really was and where he was from.
He was very pleased and only a little surprised to find the registrar’s office open on the weekend. He doubted it was really necessary, but he knew they made up jobs to find excuses to pay students who needed financial aid. It was obvious that the young woman in charge of the office that day was a student. Her round, dark face wore a bright smile and big, inquisitive eyes. She had pulled her hair back and wrapped it with a rubber band, where it puffed out into a soft, fuzzy ball. She asked, in exacting English, if she could help him.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m trying to find one of your alumni, a man named Gartee Roberts. Do you have any record of where he may have gone?”
“I’m sorry, sir. We sometimes have forwarding addresses, but we don’t make them available to the public.” Her smile never wavered.
“Look, I’m a detective,” Hannibal said, displaying his identification. “I’m trying to track this man down to make sure he gets what’s coming to him as a result of the recent death of an older relative.”
“I understand, sir,” the girl said with unrelenting pleasantness. “I wish I could help.”
Hannibal nodded. “Is there a rule about telling me where he was from? Or his last known address while he was a student? That would at least help me to verify that I’m looking for the right young man.”
He matched her smile for smile and after a few seconds, she turned to her computer and started tapping on the keyboard. Hannibal stood by making a show of patience. The girl seemed to get lost in the monitor and he feared for a moment that she had forgotten him and was playing a video game. Then he saw her face pull back in surprise.
“Sir, when you say, where he came from, do you mean originally, or...”
“Both.” When it was offered, he would take all the information available.
“Well, originally, he was from Liberia City, Liberia,” she said. “But he came here from UVA.” Not just a different name, but a different country of origin as well. And he had studied at the University of Virginia before moving to Washington. Hannibal was considering the significance of that fact when the girl made a hmph sound, that sort of surprised sound that people make when they want to tell you something but know you probably wouldn’t care. Of course, Hannibal did.
“What’s that?” he asked, leaning over the counter to see the screen.
“Oh, I was just thinking how predictable some people are,” she said.
Scanning the screen, Hannibal’s eyes hit a familiar name. “There, on his schedule. Krada. Is that professor Jamal Krada?”
“You know Dr. Krada?” she asked. “I was laughing because he’s from Africa and he gets all the African students. Myself, I want to learn America, so I try to get all the American instructors.”
“You know, I think you’ve got the right idea, young lady,” Hannibal said. “In fact, I think I’ll go talk to Dr. Krada right now. I’d like to know just how close he gets to his African students.”