Austin Camacho - Damaged goods

“And that is?”

“That you don’t wear black for once. Okay?”

Henry pulled up to the curb and Hannibal parked his Volvo next to the Lexus in Ben Blair’s driveway. The intensity of the late May sunshine gave the world a sharpness and brightness that seemed beyond reality, even through Hannibal’s Oakley’s. He paused on the blacktop for a moment to acclimate himself to his present environment. After all, there are town houses and there are town houses. This one was wider than most, and had a two car garage, but was still only three stories tall. Not the grandest he’d seen, but certainly comfortable. It was an end unit on an immaculate, well-manicured cul-de-sac that was designed to imitate a friendly suburban neighborhood, and largely succeeding. Flowers surrounded several of the mailboxes, and basketball hoops stood guard over many of the driveways, including this one. Then Henry called down the stairs from the front door.

“Mr. Jones. Please come in. I’ll ask you to have a seat, and Mr. Blair will be with you in a moment.”

A three-story townhouse with a formal butler. This spoke volumes to Hannibal.

Inside, everything he saw fit his initial judgment. Too many paintings covered the walls. Globes, sculptures and expensive toys were everywhere. The decor was chrome and wood with functional furniture. This was new money still learning how to behave at this level.

The butler deposited Hannibal in the large eat-in kitchen, handed him a cup of coffee, and disappeared. Hannibal had perhaps two minutes to enjoy the soft jazz piping through the room from some invisible source before a New England spiced voice called his name.

“Hannibal Jones. The troubleshooter. You got to love the way that sounds.”

Hannibal stood to shake hands. “Well, not quite as nice as Ben Blair, boy billionaire.”

Blair responded with an easy grin. That and the hair apparently plopped onto his head like a pile of straw did give him a boyish look. In fact, he was still on the good side of forty, which made him fairly young for a business success. In Dockers and a golf shirt, he seemed unusually comfortable in his own skin. At the same time he was a bundle of nervous energy, one of those people who have trouble sitting still for long. His trim physique implied that he burned off a good deal of that energy playing sports. He headed for the refrigerator while he spoke to Hannibal.

“I’m really glad you were able to get over here to see me, Mr. Jones. I’m faced with a puzzle that I don’t have time to solve, you know? Although I do like puzzles. Consider this: some months have 30 days and some have 31. How many months have 28 days?”

Hannibal smiled. “Well, if you want to be technical about it, all of them.”

Blair nodded toward Hannibal as if some suspicion had been confirmed. “Anyway, a friend of mine has been taken advantage of and I want to get the situation fixed. Juice?”

“Um, sure,” Hannibal said. Blair placed two tall glasses of orange juice on the table and settled into a chair facing Hannibal. He dropped a cell phone on the table also, next to one that was already there. Hannibal wondered if they were designated business and pleasure, or maybe friend and foe.

“Here’s the deal,” Blair said, leaning in toward Hannibal. “A friend of mine was robbed of something very valuable to them by someone they trusted. This item could make a world of difference to my friend’s life, you know? I need to find the thief and get the item returned. Do you like puzzles, Mr. Jones?”

“You called me about someone else’s problem?”

“Well, I can afford your fee, Mr. Jones,” Blair said. “My friend can’t, you know?

But they saw you in the Zei Club last weekend and told me you were the man who could help them.”

“I see. Is she particularly close to you?”

Blair had to be a canny businessman, but Hannibal figured he must be an awful poker player. “Did I say she?”

“No,” Hannibal said. “You said they. If it was a man you’d have said 'he' easily enough. I just want to know how personal this is for you.”

The lady involved is my cleaning lady, if you must know. No romantic connection or anything like that. But I like and respect her very much, and I want her to have what’s hers, you know? And it is a puzzle.”

“Is the missing item of great value financially?”

“I’m not really sure,” Blair said, standing. “I know it was a gift from her father, and I know he wasn’t wealthy. Besides, I don’t want you to think this is a money thing to me. Piece of fruit?” Blair was poking in the refrigerator again. It was as orderly as a supermarket cooler. Hannibal noticed that the kitchen held no smell at all, not even of breakfast, and thought the cleaning woman must be quite special indeed.

“I know you’re not all about the money,” he said to Blair’s back. “That Lexus in your driveway has to be six years old.”

“You’re pretty observant,” Blair said, tossing an orange to Hannibal. “You must like puzzles too. I think you’re the right guy for this treasure hunt.”

“And just what is the treasure?” Hannibal asked, accepting the paper towel Blair offered him.

Blair regained his seat and set to peeling his orange over his own paper towel. “Don’t really know. Ms. Cooper told me her father left her a treasure map to what he promised would be a pot of gold. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t being literal, but what ever it is, the thief probably has it now. Find the thief, you find the treasure.”

Blair was popping orange sections into his mouth while his eyes wandered out the window. Hannibal, slowly peeling his own orange, felt he was also slowly peeling away the layers of his host’s mystery. He wondered if this guy suffered from attention deficit disorder or hyperactivity.

“Yes, well to do that I’ll have to talk to the lady who’s been robbed. I have to know if there’s enough to go on for me to even take the case.”

“Naturally,” Blair said, standing. “Wait here. I’ll have Franklin bring her in.”

“She’s here?” Hannibal asked, also getting to his feet. But Blair was already bouncing out of the room. Hannibal stood confused for just a moment. Then the butler entered from the living room. The woman following him stopped behind a chair.

“Miss Anita Cooper,” the butler announced just before he withdrew.

As silences go, this one was pretty awkward. Anita Cooper was a small woman, certainly less then a hundred pounds and no more than an inch over five feet tall. She was blessed with shiny black skin and the small nose, full lips, high cheekbones and erect carriage Hannibal associated with pictures of ancient Egyptian princesses.

“Mister Blair said you wanted to talk to me?”

“I understood that you needed some help,” Hannibal said, finally biting into his orange. It was so sweet he could almost forget the acid it carried.

“I’ve got some trouble, and your card says you’re a troubleshooter,” she said, looking up to make eye contact.

“And how do you come to have my card?”

Anita’s feet shuffled, and her eyes went down again. “I saw you at the Zei Friday night. I picked your card up off that guy you knocked out.”

Hannibal couldn’t suppress his smile at that. This girl was more than she showed on the surface. She wore her kinky hair in a short but natural style. Her makeup was so subtle it could be overlooked. And her fingernails were perfectly done, which he knew could not be easy to maintain when one cleaned houses for a living. all of a sudden, he wanted to know her story.

“Why don’t we sit down, and you can tell me what the trouble is.”

Anita nodded, and smoothed the back of the simple sundress hanging from her shoulders as she sat. She seemed to be waiting for something. Hannibal guessed it might be instructions, or simply permission to speak.