Austin Camacho - Collateral damage

“You shoot in Beta format?” Hannibal asked.

“Right,” Kate said. “Beta SP actually. The boys shoot on little twenty-minute cassettes, but each reporter can archive their stories on one of these sixties. You know something about this stuff?”

“Not really,” Hannibal said, watching the blurred images fly past on a small monitor. “Do people ask you to do this all the time?”

The images slowed and an anchor came into view, introducing the story. “Actually it’s pretty rare,” Kate said. “Not many people even know we can do this. But I had to print out a still for somebody else from this particular story a few days ago. In fact it was Monday night, not long after we aired it. The usual thing, they wanted a clear picture of a relative. I assume that’s not your purpose.”

“No, I need copies to distribute. The person we’re looking for has come up missing.”

“Oh, well in that case you want more than a print.” Servomotors whined as Kate put the tape player into normal speed. She pushed her wheeled chair a few feet to the side and punched a button, starting a computer. “Once you pick out the image I’ll copy it to a floppy. You can get as many copies of that digital image as you want from lots of places.”

“Appreciate it,” Hannibal said, watching the action move along, watching Bea come into view, and the zoom he’d seen before, to lock onto Dean’s face. “That’s our boy.”

“Really?” Kate said, stretching the word for out for three or four seconds. She was moving the tape forward and back. Seen one frame at a time, it looked very much like a piece of motion picture film going past.

“A lot to choose from,” Hannibal said. “I thought the sequence was shorter.”

“At thirty frames a second, there are a lot of images to choose from. But this is the best one.” She pushed more buttons, and a variety of hums and clicks started. “So what’s up with this fellow? He in some kind of trouble or something?”

“Like I said, he’s missing,” Hannibal said. “If there’s more to the story, I don’t know it yet.”

Kate lapsed into silence while she gathered the print of Dean’s face and the floppy disc she had loaded the image onto. Then she left the room. Hannibal followed her into a cubicle barely big enough to stand and turn around in. The desk she sat at was covered with papers, most of which bore a small precise handwriting he assumed was hers. She gestured to a chair in the next cubicle, and Hannibal dragged it over. He sat, crossed his legs, flipped the top page on the forms pad over and began to fill in the requested information.

“Not yet,” Kate repeated. “Well, the woman who came Monday wanted a shot of the same boy.” Direct and to the point. Hannibal liked that. “She said she was related, but now I have to wonder.”

Hannibal kept writing. He wasn’t sure yet how he should handle this. What was this young reporter after?

Kate moved a bit closer. Not the kind of closeness that implies intimacy, but rather the kind that applies a subtle pressure. “Look, just tell me if there’s a story here, huh? I don’t want to do festivals in the park the rest of my life.”

Now he knew. He didn’t think he had anything newsworthy, but this woman might be helpful if she thought there could be something in it for her. He gave his answer careful consideration, because lying would be counterproductive. “Miss Andrews, I’ve been on this case only a few hours. Right now it’s a man who’s run away without telling his fiancee. Not much there, but it could be anything. What if he’s running from the law? Or from the mob? Or the woman you met earlier in the week could be his sister, separated at birth, searching for him.”

“Not likely,” Kate said. “This woman looked a couple decades older than your boy there.”

“Really?” Hannibal said. He sat quite still, his hands on the arms of his chair, but the middle finger of his left hand began to tap up and down. “Blonde woman, on the thin side?”

“That’s right, bottle blonde. Brown eyes. Long, conservative cut flowered dress. Makeup carefully applied. And there is something going on here.”

“Won’t know until I find him will I?” Hannibal asked, handing over the completed form. Kate scanned the form the same way she had scanned Hannibal. He braced to stand, but her upraised hand stopped him.

“Just two questions. Please. First, is Jones your real name?” In response Hannibal handed her one of his simple white cards. There wasn’t much there: His name, address, telephone number and the word “Troubleshooter” in bold block letters.

“I think I may have heard something about you,” Kate said. “All right. If. If this turns out to be a story that could be of general interest. If it does, will you call me?”

Hannibal stood and removed his glasses. She stared at his eyes, the way they often did. “If this ends up on the news in any way, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’re the reporter who breaks it, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Kate said rising and extending her hand. Hannibal accepted it and the strong handshake that came with it. “And you’re a story in yourself, aren’t you? A black man with blue eyes. Or are they?”

Hannibal drove just two blocks away from the television station before he pulled to the curb again. His instincts told him that Kate was a good reporter, and right now that was a bad thing. He had gotten lucky and tripped over a clue to Dean’s location. But she had the clue as well, and if she got involved she might chase it all away.

He flipped on the interior light and unfolded the form he had pocketed on his way to Kate’s desk. It had been on top of the pad of forms he filled out. Feeling a bit childish, Hannibal pulled a pencil from his glove compartment and began rubbing the side of the point across the form. Of course there was no way to be sure the woman who wanted Dean’s picture was the last person to fill one of these out. But it seemed a pretty secure guess.

A woman’s flowery script slowly came into view. The name was Mary Irons. The address looked to be a hotel room on Richmond Highway, just south of Alexandria. That made sense if Hannibal’s theory was correct. He turned off the light and put his car into gear. He knew Kate could find the same address in Channel 8’s files in the morning. She might be tempted to go looking for the thin blonde woman and chase her away. With luck, he could pin Dean down tonight, before Kate went looking for the mystery woman tomorrow.

On his way through the darkened streets, Hannibal popped an old Elton John CD into his player and began to rethink his position. Why would Dean’s accomplice need his picture from the news? Perhaps just to prove to him he wasn’t keeping a low enough profile. Was that a good reason to tell him to move on? Maybe, but the idea wasn’t hanging together as well as it once had.

It made even less sense as Hannibal pulled into the Alexandria Motel’s parking area. The motel was one long building, one story tall and one room wide, sitting with its short side facing the street but at an off angle. Its front doors faced the back of a brick building, a Chinese restaurant judging from the smell of the dumpsters. Peeling white paint covered the structure, and a row of narrow pillars supported a short overhang in front of the dozen or so doors. In the dying sunlight the place almost looked haunted, but he figured the only spirit around there was the ghost of disuse. Hannibal drove past the target door and parked at the far end of the drive. When he shut his car door it created an ominous echo, the sound bouncing between the motel and the back of the restaurant.

Hannibal knocked on the door of the room registered to Mary Irons, then stepped back from it. He had no idea what to expect but he was sure of one thing. No successful confidence man or woman would stay here. This was not the motel room of anyone fleecing wealthy marks.