-25-

Monday

Mornings were getting tough for Hannibal, but he figured that was due to the amount of drinking he had been doing in the last week. He admitted to himself that it might also have to do with the twisted case he was working on. He had gotten in pretty late the night before and gone straight to his apartment to get some sleep. Now, tying his tie, he stared into the mirror and remembered the conversation he had with Yakov Sidorov the night before.

“I’m afraid you have another nasty job ahead of you,” Hannibal told Yakov, with one eye on Viktoriya in the car. “The locals have already found Dani. In his rented vehicle. Dead from a second gunshot wound.”

“Oh no,” Yakov said. “She can’t take any more.”

“Not that it matters that much, but they didn’t find the money,” Hannibal said. “If the hunters got it, maybe the danger to her is over.”

Yakov nodded. “True, but is it not just as possible that Dani hid the money someplace before he died?”

“I’m afraid so.”

That had led to a very difficult drive back to Washington, after a quick stop for Hannibal to run in to the rented house and pick up a few of Viktoriya’s necessities. By the time Hannibal got her checked into a low-profile motel, delivered Yakov into the hands of his worried wife and got himself home, Hannibal needed a solid night’s rest. Now he was ready to get back to work as soon as he got something to eat. He grabbed a carton of milk, a box of cereal and a couple of bowls and headed across the hall, figuring he could eat while he updated Ivanovich.

Walking into his office he found Ivanovich in the second room, topless, working out on the heavy bag Hannibal kept hanging there. Based on the musky smell, the bag work must have started quite a while earlier. He registered Ivanovich’s smooth musculature and upper body definition, as all fighters do when they see another in training. This would be a hard man to put down, Hannibal thought, and wondered if his guest had been working out every day.

“Good morning,” Ivanovich called, wiping his face with a towel and returning to the office. “There is a message on the phone from a Chief Orson Rissik. What happened to you yesterday? Do you have any news?”

 “I’m sure you’ll consider it good news,” Hannibal said, setting the bowls on his desk. “Viktoriya is now a widow.”

“You killed the bastard?”

“No, Aleksandr, I didn’t kill the bastard, but somebody did.” Hannibal settled into his desk chair, dialed Rissik’s number and poured cereal into the bowls. Ivanovich poured two cups of coffee and placed them beside the bowls.

“Now she is all alone in the world,” Ivanovich said. “She is lonely and defenseless. Where is she?”

“She’s in a safe place,” Hannibal said, pouring milk into both bowls. “Eat your breakfast.”

“You must take me to her,” Ivanovich said, walking around the desk to stare down at Hannibal. Hannibal held up his palm as the call connected.

“Good morning, Orson. What can I do for you?”

“First and foremost, you can tell me where this Queenie Cochran is. She’s wanted for questioning in connection with her husband being hospitalized and now in connection with the death of your missing man, Dani Gana.”

“Afraid I don’t know her whereabouts,” Hannibal said, glancing at Ivanovich’s impatient eyes. “I left her at the hospital, planning to go up and visit her old man.”

“Yeah, well she never did go back up to visit him again,” Rissik said,

“It might help to know that she’s from this area,” Hannibal said, “and that she was known as Renata Tolstaya before she married into the Cochran name.”

“That should be useful,” Rissik said. “You know, if we put our heads together we might be able to make sense of these cases.”

“I think you’re right,” Hannibal said, returning Ivanovich’s stare. “Tell you what. As soon as I grab a quick bite to eat, I’ll come on over to your office and we can compare notes.”

Hannibal could feel Invanovich’s impatience as he hung up the phone.

“What?” Hannibal asked.

“Viktoriya,” Ivanovich said, eyes wide as if his question was obvious.

“What about her?”

“You know where she is,” Ivanovich said, in an accusatory tone. “I need to see her. You have got to take me to her.”

Hannibal sneered up at him. “No, actually, I ain’t got to do shit.”

Ivanovich gripped the front of Hannibal’s shirt with both hands. “You will take me to her.”

Hannibal sprang to his feet, his right fist cocked at his side, his left hand holding Ivanovich’s wrist, his teeth bared, his breathing fast and deep. The two men stood with their eyes less than five inches apart.

“You want to go?” Hannibal asked. “We going to do this right here, right now? I’m saying the girl needs some time alone, to get her head together before she starts having to deal with your lovesick puppy routine. You think you can beat her location out of me, then bring it, bitch, and we’ll see who gets up when we’re done. Otherwise, back the fuck off.”

Ivanovich locked eyes with Hannibal for five long seconds before taking a small step backward. Hannibal released his arm to point a finger in Ivanovich’s face while looking at him out the corner of his eye.

“Push me like that again, mother fucker and it’s on. Now shut up, sit down, and eat your cereal.”

* * * * *

Hannibal was comfortable in Orson Rissik’s office because it was one of the most orderly places in the universe. There was never any paper on his desk except in the OUT box or the one marked HOLD. Hannibal had never seen anything in his IN box. The three framed citations hanging on the wall to the left and right of the desk must have been put there using a T-square and a laser sight. And he loved the poster just behind Rissik’s head. It showed a pelican trying to eat a frog. His head already in the bird’s mouth, the frog had reached out and wrapped a hand around the pelican’s throat, preventing it from swallowing him. A caption under the picture said “Never Give Up.” That defined Rissik better than any citation or award ever could.

In front of the poster, Rissik leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head.

“So my old murder case has spawned not one but two follow-up cases, eh?”

“Well, either that or this is one damned unlucky family,” Hannibal said.

“I’m betting you’ve got a theory.”

“Natch, Chief.” Hannibal stood up and handed over the group photo, pointing out the man in the center. “This guy. Boris Tolstaya. I like him for the original murder. The one that’s officially a suicide.”

Rissik accepted the picture, staring at his new target. “Enlighten me. Motive?”

“Take your pick,” Hannibal said. “One scenario says that Nikita Petrova owed this guy a substantial gambling debt. I can substantiate that by at least two eyewitnesses. When he refused to pay, Tolstaya had him thrown off the roof.”

“Weak but workable. You don’t usually kill a guy who holds your marker, you want to hurt him and scare him. But maybe something went wrong. Next?”

“Try this,” Hannibal said. “The daughter, Viktoriya, says Tolstaya wanted to take her on a trip to some exotic Africa country. She was up for it, but Daddy refused. Maybe Tolstaya wanted her bad and when Nikita put the chill on the idea, he went off his nut.”

“That’s weak too,” Rissik said, “but together they might add up to a reason to find this guy for questioning.”

“I figure that could spin into a reason for the wife’s death too,” Hannibal said. “Not sure about the husband, Gana, AKA Roberts, but maybe when I get a positive fix on who he really is I can tie it all up. Right now, I’m not even sure what country he’s from.”

“He’s a foreigner, right?”

“One way or the other,” Hannibal said. “Gana is from Algeria. Roberts is from Liberia. Will the real African immigrant please stand up?”

“Have you checked with the embassies?”

“Orson, they won’t tell me shit. I have no official government status. I’m not even a cop. Or have you forgotten that fact?”

“You ain’t, but I am.” Rissik smiled and pushed a button on his intercom. “Hey, Gert, could you stop in here a sec?” Then to Hannibal, he said, “As far as I’m concerned, any resident foreigner using an alias could be a terrorist. You got any other leads on this guy?”

Hannibal thought for a second about giving up everything he had to Rissik. It was uncomfortable, but he couldn’t come up with one good reason not to.

“A girl in the Howard registration office told me he transferred in from UVA’s history department. If she’s right, maybe they can be the tie breaker on where this guy really came from.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Rissik said.

A few seconds later, a brunette of indeterminate age in a gray suit with the skirt hanging three inches below her knees paced in. She was a little heavy, but well proportioned and would have seemed tall if not for the sensible shoes. She stopped in front of Rissik’s desk so precisely that Hannibal half expected her to go to parade rest.

“It’s a multipart assignment,” Rissik said. Gert flipped open a notebook and held a pen at the ready. Rissik pushed the photo forward across his desk. “First, scan this photograph in. Separate out the man in the middle and the man standing behind him, and enhance them as much as you can.” He placed a sheet of notepaper on top of the photo.

“That top name is the guy in front. Check the usual databases and see what we can find on him. The next two names both belong to the guy in back. Fax his photograph and the names to these two embassies and see if anybody can tell us for sure who he is and where he came from. Then send his face and names to the University of Virginia registrar and see if they can find me a professor who had this guy in class. He’d have been a history major. That’s it. Any questions?”

“No sir. I’m good,” she said.

Gert did an almost military about-face and hurried off to complete her assignment. Hannibal’s eyes tracked her out the door, but he said nothing. When he turned back, Rissik raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if asking if Hannibal had a question. He did, but he would not ask anything about Gert.

“So, do we know anything about Raisa’s murder? Forensic evidence maybe, or a substantial clue?”

“Not much you could work with,” Rissik said, “but there was one point of interest. The murder weapon was unusual.”

“Really?” Hannibal said. “I figured a small caliber automatic, like a .22.”

Rissik shook his head. “Even smaller and faster. Our guys say it was a .17-caliber bullet that poked that hole in Mrs. Petrova.”

“Seventeen?” Hannibal slid to the edge of his chair. “That’s mostly a rifle round, but this was done in the house at handgun range. I think Ruger chambers an automatic for that caliber. And I think Smith and Wesson has a revolver, but these guns are for popping squirrels or target matches, not murders. Unless…I guess a head shot would do the job.”

“Yeah these things would poke through the skull but probably not exit,” Rissik said. “Make a hell of a mess rattling around in there too. Really quite logical for in-city assassinations.”

Hannibal nodded. “Yeah, except in this case the shooter went for center mass.”

“That tells me this perp didn’t know what he was doing,” Rissik said.

“And that’s part of what makes me want to reject the whole mob murder scenario. Besides, there are plenty of people who could have personal motivations for her death.”

Rissik’s intercom buzzed. “Sir, I have a Dr. Van Buren on the line. He’s head of the history department, University of Virginia.”

“Put him through,” Rissik said. “I’ll leave it on speaker for my guest.” After hearing the right set of clicks Rissik said hello and introduced himself.

“This is Eric Van Buren,” the tiny speaker said. “I am very short on time, Detective, but I understand you need information about a former student of mine in relation to an investigation?”

“Yes,” Rissik said, “I appreciate you calling back so fast.”

“The dean kind of encouraged my cooperation,” Van Buren said.

“Yes, well I’ll try to keep this brief. I hope the photo we faxed you is clear. We’re having a little difficulty finding background on this man because he has apparently changed his name and personal history. Did you know him as Dani Gana from Algerian, or Gartee Roberts from Liberia?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Van Buren said, and Hannibal sat forward on his chair. “I’d have to say neither. I remember this young man; he was an excellent student. But I knew him as Hamed Barek and he had come to this country from Morocco.”