Hannibal wished he could travel by helicopter. Great Falls, Virginia, where Harlan Mortimer lived, was about ten miles due north of Nieswand’s home. But roads never travel due anything, so he followed Nieswand’s Saab on a zigzag path for forty-five minutes, up Hunter Mill Road to Springvale Road then across the Georgetown Pike. The clouds blew back in during the drive, and an occasional drop dotted Hannibal’s windshield.
Finally they turned into a subdivision aptly named Riverscape. The grade was not steep on Mortimer’s cul-de-sac, but as they pulled into the driveway in front of his three-car garage, they could see the Potomac through the woods behind the house. Hannibal let Nieswand and Lippincott climb out of the doctor’s Saab before he unhooked his own shoulder harness. He wanted to see who paid deference to whom. Nieswand waved to Hannibal and Cindy to follow him to the house, but he invited Lippincott to lead the way.
He expected to be greeted by a servant at the top of the brick stoop, but the woman who opened the door was too well dressed. A natural color mohair sweater suit showed off her well maintained shape, but straightened black hair and overly correct posture dated her. Her dark eyes roamed the four faces as if trying to make connections between them.
“We need to see Harlan, Camille,” Lippincott said. “It’s about helping Kyle.” The woman backed away and the group entered. Lippincott and Nieswand obviously knew where they were going but Hannibal stopped to extend a gloved hand.
“Hannibal Jones. One nameless person per day is my limit.”
“Camille,” she answered, gently shaking Hannibal’s fingertips. “Camille Mortimer. I’m…”
“She’s Mister Mortimer’s daughter-in-law.” The new voice came from the direction the other men were heading, but it was neither of them. Hannibal turned to see a short, clean cut, Ivy League looking black man striding toward him. The navy blazer and rep tie said Harvard, the next generation. His hair was short, but already receding on a scalp that probably had not seen forty years yet.
“Malcolm Lippincott,” the newcomer said, pumping Hannibal’s hand. “Are you with Nieswand and Balor?”
“I’m the other attorney,” Cindy said, pushing her hand forward for another solid shaking. “Cynthia Santiago. Mister Jones here is a consultant we sometimes employ.”
“Sorry for the brisk welcome,” Malcolm said, not sounding sorry in the least. “I didn’t know your business here.”
“Mal’s a little overprotective sometimes,” Camille said, her dark face blushing still darker. “but he’s been my best friend through all this.”
“Jones.” It was Lippincott, calling from the next room. “Can I see you for a moment?”
Hannibal excused himself and joined Lippincott. The archway led to a two-story, bayed great room. Lippincott leaned against the brick fireplace. Above it hung an ornately framed painting of a woman in a field of flowers. The name at the bottom was Monet. Coin display cases lined the mantle like toy soldiers guarding the painting.
“Nieswand?” Hannibal asked.
“Gone to make a phone call, which is fine. I wanted a moment with you alone.” He paused until he realized Hannibal was waiting for him to go on. He seemed uncomfortable with the silence.
“Camille is rather distraught,” Lippincott finally said. “With good reason. She’s been through a lot. I saw what it did to her to be abandoned by her husband. And now it looks as though she’ll lose her son as well.” Hannibal stood quietly through another long pause, waiting for Lippincott to make his real point. When the doctor cleared his throat, he thought this must be it.
“This search for Jacob is Camille’s idea, not Harlan’s,” Lippincott said, avoiding Hannibal’s shaded gaze. “He’d clutch at any imagined chance because losing his grandson will kill him. But she’s the one who wants to see Jacob again. I don’t think she’s ever gotten over him.”
“You’ve been the family doctor that long?”
“Doctor and friend,” Lippincott said.
“Okay, tell me about the missing son.”
Lippincott began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a figure on a German clock. “Jacob was a bad seed, Mister Jones. Undisciplined. Ungrateful. Irrationally immature. Wanted to be a hippie, or a black revolutionary or something. The boy brought nothing but pain to those who loved him. His disappearance certainly helped his mother into an early grave. He left a woman who loved him and his own unborn son for a street girl. And he abused her.”
“Abused her?” Hannibal asked, settling into a deep easy chair. He worked to stay relaxed, trying to counterbalance Lippincott’s increasing agitation. “You mean physically?”
“I examined her once,” Lippincott said, his eyes floating back into the past. “Just a child, a year or two younger than Jacob. She laughed about the scars, but I couldn’t. Cigarette burns, Mister Jones. Scattered around her stomach, her buttocks, and the upper part of her legs.”
“Pretty?” Hannibal asked to keep Lippincott talking.
“If you like that type. Half black, half Chicano. Small, but with big breasts and a big behind. Big, watery cow eyes.” He suddenly stopped, as if he thought he had said too much.
“What was her name?”
“I don’t remember, and it doesn’t matter,” Lippincott shot back. “This is about here and now. And you working for Harlan Mortimer. Look, I may still be able to find a suitable donor for Kyle in time. But Harlan won’t have it, not while he thinks this wild goose chase has a chance of success.”
“And what would you have me do?”
“Take the money and take a nice vacation to Florida, Mister Jones.” Lippincott’s face was rigid, but his hands were begging. “Send back a report in a couple of days saying there are no leads and it’s hopeless.”
“Fake an investigation?” Hannibal asked, slowly rising to his feet. Lippincott nodded. Hannibal stepped close to the doctor and slid his dark glasses away from his face. His eyes flared deep green and he pressed one fingertip deep into Lippincott’s chest.
“Listen well, Doctor,” he said through clenched teeth. “I might not take this case. If I figure it’s hopeless I’ll say so. Or, I might give it a shot, and if I do, I’ll do my very best to find the boy. But understand there is no third option for me. I work in two modes. The best I got, or not at all.”
“Sounds like you’re the man I want.”
Hannibal looked up to watch the source of that deep booming voice stalking toward him, very fast for a man his size. The handshake was fierce, the eyes crinkled points of brown fire. “I’m Harlan Mortimer.”