The little examining room felt even smaller with three men in it. The room smelled of antiseptic, as all doctor’s offices do, but somehow with an extra strength, which stung Hannibal’s nose. He stood to the side, in his usual black suit, gloves and sunglasses, watching the two men. He was fascinated by their reactions to each other.
The stoop-shouldered Doctor Cummings invited them in pleasantly enough, but his discomfort with Nieswand was palpable. The lawyer was nattily attired in a custom-made gray pinstriped suit, his toupee almost undetectable. Hannibal was impressed by his presentation, his style, his ability to communicate with and relate to his audience. However, the old family doctor was unimpressed. Hannibal was not sure if the years had given him a distrust of lawyers, Jews, or men with money. In any case, while he listened politely to the story, it was clear he considered Nieswand the enemy.
“So you see, the man you knew as Bobby Newton was, in reality, Jacob Mortimer,” Nieswand said. “And we have definite proof, thanks to DNA analysis, of that man’s death. Jacob Mortimer was the only child of a very wealthy man. Any progeny of his would be heirs in line for part of the sizable Mortimer estate. Under those circumstances, you can surely see why we must be very careful to verify such a person’s identity.”
Cummings glanced around as if he was looking for a good place to spit. When his eyes finally lit on Nieswand they narrowed to slits only wide enough for daggers to fly out of them. “You smile too much. I like him better,” he said, jerking a thumb toward Hannibal. “He only smiles when something’s funny. I can tell you I delivered Angela Newton eighteen or so years ago. She came here to see me because she found my name on her birth certificate. But all I can verify for sure is this girl’s a sweet kid and if she isn’t heir to a fortune, she ought to be. Any family would be better off with her than without her.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Nieswand said, “but I’ll have to talk to her myself before I introduce her to the family I’m sworn to serve. I’d hate to embarrass her by walking in on her at her place of work, but so far, it’s the only place we know to find her.”
Cummings looked at Nieswand for a moment before turning to Hannibal. “Who talks to her?”
“Just the two of us,” Hannibal said. “No crowd, no police, no hassles. I’ll guarantee it.”
After another long pause, Cummings pulled an address book from a cabinet drawer and scribbled on a pad. Another pause, a long sigh, and he tore the top sheet off the pad, handing it to Nieswand.
“I don’t want her rousted at her job,” Cummings snarled. “Here’s her address. She doesn’t start work until ten, so if you hurry you can catch her at home. But if there’s any trouble,” Cummings pushed his dried features and cloud of white hair into Nieswand’s face, “you’ll answer to me, shyster.”
Angela’s apartment was not very far from, nor any nicer than, Wally Lerner’s. Nieswand was nervous about leaving his Mercedes parked behind Hannibal’s Volvo on the street.
Nieswand continued his complaints inside. They faced a three-story walkup in a stairway someone had used for a bathroom not too long ago. The hallway leading to Angela’s apartment was claustrophobic, with bare bulbs casting harsh shadows around it. They passed one young man on the way whose eyes advertised his drug use. And when they reached the right door, someone had spray painted a crude word across it. Hannibal knocked, then stood back as far as the hall allowed. There was no answering call asking who it was, but he knew he was being inspected through the tiny viewport such doors have. Then he heard two locks disengage and the door swung inward to the length of a small chain. Angela’s face peeked through, and Nieswand whistled almost too low to be heard. Her eyes went from him to Hannibal. She neither smiled nor frowned, looking way too world-weary for her age.
“You, I know,” she told Hannibal. “Him, I don’t.”
“I’m Gabe Nieswand,” the lawyer said, turning on his courtroom smile. “I represent the family of the man who might be your father. They’re very interested in clearing up all this uncertainty, as I’m sure you are as well. We’d like to talk to you for a minute. May we come in?”
The face disappeared. The door closed. The chain rattled. Then the door swung open. Angela was walking back into the studio apartment before either of her guests moved. Hannibal entered first, taking the room in quickly before waving Nieswand in behind him. The living room hardly looked lived in. True, the sofa and chair were worn, the table old, the walls dingy from going years unpainted. But the furniture and even the worn linoleum were clean. There was no clutter, no mess. No curtains at the windows. No pictures hanging. No knick knacks, books or magazines. No television.
“So talk,” Angela said. She was taking clothes from a laundry basket on the table at the kitchenette end of the room, folding each piece with machine-like precision and placing them neatly on the table. Her clothes were stacked by category, socks here, underwear there, skirts, blouses, pants, all neatly folded.
“You told Doctor Cummings you were Bobby Newton’s daughter,” Nieswand said, standing at the other end of the table. “How does your name come to be Briggs.”
“My last foster father,” she said, never looking up from her careful folding. “All I can remember of childhood is a series of foster parents. Then, in junior high, I got picked up by Samuel Briggs. He was a sweet old man. I didn’t like school but he turned me on to books and, you know, learning because you want to know.”
“And this was in?”
Angela glared at Nieswand, bristling at his apparent skepticism. “We lived in Corpus Christi. I went through high school there. Graduated third in my class.”
Near the door, Hannibal watched the hard look on Nieswand’s face. A few questions had turned into an interrogation. Nieswand’s face was cold and Hannibal suddenly realized this man could do anything he thought necessary. He must be vicious in court, Hannibal thought.
“He was obviously a kind, loving man,” Nieswand said, stepping a bit closer. “I’ll bet he considered you his own daughter in every way. I’m rather surprised he told you about your birth parents.”
“Mister Briggs died right after I graduated,” she said. There was no emotion in the statement, but the empty space it left implied the pain and sorrow had simply dried up. “He didn’t leave much money, but he did leave me a note and a birth certificate. He thought I should know who I really was. I’m still looking.”
She turned empty eyes toward Nieswand and he smiled in return. But Hannibal knew it was not the genuine smile he had seen before. This was his game face. So his next words surprised Hannibal.
“Angela, Bobby Newton was a stage name for Jacob Mortimer. The Mortimer family has been searching for Jacob for years without success. Now, you might be their only link to him. Would you be willing to come with me to meet them?”
Life sprang into Angela’s face, and she put a tee shirt down without folding it. “Meet them? If they might be related to me, of course I’ll meet them. When can we go?”
Angela grabbed a small purse and headed toward her door. As Hannibal turned to open it for her, his phone rang. He answered it on the way down the hall.
“Jones? This is Dalton. Got some news for you.”
He sounded tired to Hannibal, but then he always sounded tired. “You going to tell me where Wally Lerner went when he finally left his place?”
“I’m going to tell you my guys screwed up,” Dalton said. “Somehow, they lost him. He got out without them seeing him. I’m afraid he’s gone.”
“Damn. Well, will you keep the place under surveillance? Never know. He might be stupid enough to come back.”
Hannibal reached the bottom of the stairs and went out into the sunlight, but behind his lenses it was still dark. He barely heard Nieswand saying good-bye as he and Angela climbed into the Mercedes. He did notice an annoying lack of surprise on Angela’s face. When he was her age, boarding a Mercedes would have been an electric experience. But he said nothing, because his mind was on other matters.
“Dalton, do you have any leads on Lerner? You know his brother’s the prime suspect in a Virginia murder now. Aside from that, I owe him a beating, and I owe him for taking my car and driving it like a demolition derby.”
“Look, son, I’m doing what I can,” Dalton said, “but I don’t give a rat’s ass about your personal revenge. I’ll chase him like any other murder suspect and no snot-nosed P.I. is going to tell me how. Hey. What’s that noise?”
Damn! “Got another call coming in,” Hannibal said. “I’ll talk to you later.” He cut the connection with Dalton while getting into his own car. Frustrated, he let his forehead drop to the steering wheel. “What the hell else can happen?” he asked aloud, then answered the phone.
“Hannibal, this is Sarge.”
“Sarge, how’s it going?” Hannibal asked, turning the key to nudge the Volvo’s smooth engine into life. “Is our guest getting restless?”
“Not exactly, Hannibal.” The tension in Sarge’s voice drew Hannibal’s close attention. “We had a little action here.”
“Floyd’s boys come back to play?” Hannibal asked.
“Not like the last time, no, but I think it was them. This was a drive by. Five nine millimeter bullets through your front windows.”