Austin Camacho - Collateral damage

Hannibal parked in the numbered space designated for Bea’s home. The new bank of colorful townhouses called Ford’s Landing hung at the edge of the Potomac shore. All brick homes, with private garages, private patios facing the water, and price tags cresting over the million dollar mark. Hannibal gained a new appreciation for the value of interior design. Or at least, for the value some wealthy people must put on interior design.

Bea’s home was almost in the shadow of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, which carried a couple hundred thousand commuters from Maryland to Virginia and back every day. Today the bridge was quiet but Hannibal could imagine the din of the traffic she must hear every weekday. The coarse smell of the Potomac splashed across his face as he opened his car door. Actually most of the smell would come from the waste treatment plant across the river, not far down on his left. He wondered briefly how this could become one of the most sought after addresses in the city.

Bea gripped his hand before he could quite get out of the car. When he looked back she said, “Will you find him, Mister Jones?”

“Hannibal,” he repeated, smiling into her soft eyes. “And if I don’t find the man, it won’t be for lack of trying. You hired me to do a job, not to judge anyone. You’ll have to trust me. Can you trust me?”

Bea smiled, and looked even more vulnerable for it. “I handed the keys to my Lexus to your girlfriend, didn’t I? Yes, I trust you. You, and Mother Washington, and the Lord who brought us together.”

Bea’s three-level home told Hannibal volumes about her, but there was scant evidence of a male resident. Bea explained that she had spent most of Saturday in an ever-increasing panic, and when she was upset, she cleaned. He noticed a copy of Architectural Digest on a glass end table, open to the picture of what looked like a huge, rambling hotel.

“My work,” Bea said. He saw Bea cited as interior designer, and read part of the description under the heading “Best Rental Development.”

This 262-unit rental community features an upscale appearance and quality finishes in apartments designed to appeal to employees of local high-tech companies. The development features two distinct building styles: high density, 1- and 2-bedroom”atrium” units that range in size from 717 to 1208 square feet and feature subterranean parking; and low-density, 1-, 2- and 3-bedroom “villa” units that form the perimeter of the development and have direct-access garages and private entries. Units feature such desirable amenities as ceramic tile counters, custom cabinets and flooring, marble fireplaces, crown molding, and upgraded lighting…

Hannibal whistled aloud. “You did this? I imagined you picking the drapes in rich people's houses.”

“All my work,” Bea said, “and not just the residence areas. I designed the interiors of the 10,000-square-foot resident pavilion, the business center, gourmet commercial kitchen, billiards room and even the fitness center.”

Hannibal dropped the magazine and moved to the kitchen. “Not many start in the hood and fly so high. Is that what Sidwell Friends School does for you?”

Bea stopped mid-step. “How did you…?”

“Lucky guess,” Hannibal said, opening an extremely orderly cabinet filled with glassware. “You don’t talk like public school. Your folks must have worked their butts off to get you into that place.”

Hannibal closed the cabinet and continued to explore Bea’s home. She was proud when he went through her kitchen, and showed embarrassment when he entered her bedroom, despite the fact that it looked like a showroom. At Hannibal’s insistence Bea checked her jewelry case and announced with some arrogance that nothing was missing.

“Good,” Hannibal said, exploring the dresser she had assigned to Dean. “Did you have any cash in the house?”

Pause. “Maybe a couple of hundred dollars I guess.”

“And where is that?”

“Well I figure he must have needed some expense money, after all.”

The big walk-in closet was clearly divided. Her clothes hung or lay folded in perfect order on the left, while his were on the right. Dean had left most of his clothes behind, but they were in no way remarkable. Hannibal found what would be a set of luggage on the overhead racks, but the second largest piece was missing.

Hannibal found British Sterling cologne in the bathroom. Otherwise Dean must have used her toothpaste, soap and shampoo, with no brands of his own. And Hannibal doubted a fingerprint team could prove that a second person ever lived there after Bea’s cleaning binge. Dean’s toothbrush and comb were gone, so not even a stray sample of the man’s hair remained.

Yes, Dean was remarkable for the footprint he did not leave behind. Bea confirmed he had brought no pictures when he moved in, no music, no games, and only a handful of books, which he took when he left. After forty-five minutes in her apartment, Hannibal knew no more about Dean Edwards than when he arrived.

On Bea’s front landing the afternoon sun made the world seem a lot cleaner than it was. They moved at an easy pace on their way to the car, floating through an idyllic setting that had nothing to do with the ache on Bea’s face. She waved sullenly to a middle aged white man who was lovingly paste waxing a maroon Jaguar XJ6 of indeterminate age.

“If he keeps at it, that car will shine as bright as his scalp,” Hannibal said.

“Oh, Murray’s okay,” Bea said. “No crime against being chubby, white and bald. He’s a good neighbor, and he’s out here doing something on that car every Saturday and Sunday.”

“Really? Did he see Dean leave?”

“Maybe,” she said, reaching for the Volvo’s door handle.

“Maybe? You mean you haven’t asked him?”

Hannibal turned and headed back toward the Jaguar. Murray kept his head down and his arm moving in a smooth circular motion. Hannibal understood. He was an unknown and Murray didn’t want any trouble with his neighbor. So Hannibal stood, watching his own reflection in the maroon hood until Bea reached his side. Then he took Bea’s hand and broadened his smile to its limit.

“Excuse me. Got a minute?”

Murray looked up, his eyes flicking from Hannibal to Bea and back. Then Murray smiled in return, nodded and muttered, “Much better” under his breath. His expression said he approved of the new man more than the last one. “What can I do for you?”

“That car’s a beauty. Must take a lot of work, eh?”

Murray grinned bigger. “Sorry sport, she’s not for sale if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Actually, Bea tells me you were working on her yesterday too. Thought you might have seen Dean go out.”

“Maybe,” Murray said. His eyes grew wary and his focus shifted to Bea. “Why? You after him?”

Hannibal patted Bea’s hand in his. “Well he hasn’t been back since yesterday morning and, well, Bea’s a bit worried about him. I thought you might have noticed what time it was or which way he went.”

Conflict contorted Murray’s face. Hannibal thought he might not want to get involved with a neighbor’s personal life. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Or maybe he knew something he wasn’t sure he should share. Hannibal reevaluated the man’s age and probable social background, and decided how he should proceed. He turned to Bea and his smile became condescending.

“Honey, why don’t you go ahead and get in the car and let the men talk for a minute, okay?”

Bea looked confused but obeyed. Hannibal resisted slapping her fanny for effect, but he did pick up a chamois and start rubbing the Jaguar’s fender. Murray was silent for a moment, until he seemed to realize he had control of the conversation. Some people are comfortable with silence. Hannibal had judged correctly that Murray was not.