Pyramid Deception (7 page)

“Hey, we know they were imposters,” Hannibal said. “That's a valuable piece of the puzzle. And we know some valuable things about them. But we also know some other things the police don't know, things they don't care about because they're investigating a disappearance while we're investigating a murder.”

Cindy leaned her head back and sighed. “Okay, Sherlock, what do we know?”

Hannibal poked at his sound system controls and the tight harmony of The Temptations filled the vehicle. Then he nudged the climate control to a slightly higher temperature. “Irene told me that she had gone to an accountant to try to prove that her husband had milked her inheritance. With some legwork I might be able to figure out who she talked to, and he might be able to add a motive to our murder theory.”

“I'll bet we won't have to search,” Cindy said, turning the temperature setting back down. “Here's what I think. If Irene and Jason were that tight she'd have asked him who to get, and he'd have recommended one of the CPAs we work with at the firm.”

“Hey, that's a great start,” Hannibal said with a smile. “How many accountant firms do you work with?”

“As I think about it, they'd want to be low profile,” Cindy said, poking the button to switch the stereo to radio play. One of those rappers who uses only initials for his name burst into the car. Cindy was bobbing her head to the beat while she spoke. “That would mean Paul Queen. He's an independent, not part of a big firm, but very discreet.” She began to rhyme along with the tune.

Hannibal stopped at a light, his eyes clamped shut for a second, his teeth clenched tight. Then the moment passed. His
right hand moved to the console, pressing the button that returned The Temptations to the airwaves.

“Look here,” Hannibal said, eyes straight ahead as he drove through the intersection. “I'll be too hot for you. I'll be too cold for you. But the driver picks the music, all right?”

While Hannibal pointed his Volvo down Route 1 out of Alexandria toward Washington DC, Cindy faced away from him to call her office. Before they had passed the Ronald Reagan National Airport she had gotten all she needed on Paul Queen from Mrs. Abrogast. By the time Hannibal was driving across the 14
^th
Street Bridge she had made a second call to Queen's office where she was able to confirm that his schedule was open that day. When she announced her success, Hannibal gave her thigh an encouraging pat.

Queen's office was down on M Street, a couple of blocks due south of Dupont Circle. Hannibal was stunned to find a parking space within easy walking distance on Connecticut Avenue. He took it as an omen that life was getting better. He was marching toward their destination when Cindy tugged on his arm.

“Hey, we've been running all morning. Buy a girl lunch?”

Hannibal expected her to be in a hurry but now it seemed she wanted to slow the pace. It was his nature to drive forward as long as he could see the trail on a case, but Cindy seemed delicate right then. Maybe she needed time to digest what they had before they had to swallow new input about her dead friend. He looked around for a good compromise and pointed at the first option he saw.

“How about DGS, right there?”

DGS was a real delicatessen. The atmosphere was loud, the service fast, the food solid and good. Not a place for a business meeting, DGS was where you went when your only objective was to eat. It smelled delicious. And it was one of the few places in The District that reminded him of his days as a cop in New York. He stepped to the counter with Cindy peering over his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy! I need a hot pastrami on rye with mustard, and she'll have,” he turned to Cindy, “a Reuben, right?”

“You know me too well.”

“And to split, some… coleslaw?”

“Oh, potato salad,” Cindy said, flashing a real smile. “Theirs is real good.”

“Yep. That and a couple cokes will do it.”

They settled into one of the tables-for-two lining the brick wall facing the counter. Food came quickly and Hannibal wasted no time biting into his sandwich. It was as juicy and flavorful as any he had ever gotten in Manhattan. He grinned at Cindy and she returned his smile as she bit into her own lunch. Then she seemed to darken and she chewed more slowly. Her foot touched his under the table. When she swallowed, he was ready.

“Hannibal. Honey. I'm sorry for that… you know, in the car.”

“It ain't even a thing,” Hannibal said. “Forget it.” He hesitated to say, “I get it,” but in fact he understood and regretted his sharp words. Of course she wanted to be in control. After all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours she wanted to feel that she was in control of something. It should have been okay for it to be him.

“You are always so sweet to me,” she said, eyes down. “Too sweet.” He gave her a wink and continued with his lunch. The chatter in the deli made it easier to eat without conversation. He was watching her when he bit into his slice of kosher dill pickle. He saw her eyes flash on something and then return to the table.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He reached for her hand. “No. What?”

“Well, okay, this accountant. Paul Queen.” She looked into his eyes, almost daring them to lie to her. “Seriously, do you think this could be a real lead to your murderer and my swindler? Or are you just humoring me?”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Babe, I wouldn't waste time when we're trying to solve this thing just to humor you. In my life, this is how it works. Welcome to the world of the
private detective. I follow whatever trail surfaces until it runs to a dead end, then I pick up another one. I can't be sure if this trail will lead to where we want to go, but it's what we've got right now, and yes, it is a legitimate lead. So let's go see where it might lead to.”

The short walk to their destination was not enough to work off the sandwich and Hannibal knew he would need to do a little extra road work later on. Cindy kept up with his pace and again appeared eager to make some progress. They found the right building and then the right suite. Just before they walked in, Cindy stopped Hannibal to wipe a dot of mustard from the corner of his mouth. She gave him a soft kiss to that corner, took a deep breath, and turned to the door.

Inside, a very plain secretary told them that she had informed Mr. Queen about their phone call and that he would in fact be very happy to speak with them. She stood up from her very plain wooden desk to lead them the twelve paces to the inner office door. She opened it and ushered them inside with a wave of her hand. Hannibal followed Cindy inside to stand in front of a larger, yet still very plain wooden desk.

The man behind the desk looked up and smiled, and then lurched to his feet to shake their hands. He was a big man, easily three hundred pounds with a round bald head and thick fingers. With his suit jacket off his body looked gelatinous inside his white shirt, as if the shirt were holding his mass together. He wore suspenders and his sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms. The term “jolly old elf” came into Hannibal's mind.

“Please, have a seat. I understand you know Irene Monroe. Fine lady.”

“I met her,” Hannibal said, settling down on a ladder backed chair as Queen squished back into his own. “Have you heard from her in the last few days?”

Queen rolled forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Miss Santiago, are you part of the team looking for her? I'm afraid I don't know anything that would help you find her. And I'm not so sure I'd tell you if I did.”

“You've heard she ran off,” Cindy said. Queen nodded. Cindy turned to Hannibal. Queen's eyes followed.

“Mrs. Monroe has not run away,” Hannibal said. “She is in fact dead. She was murdered.”

Queen leaned back, and Hannibal thought he smelled bacon grease. “You're shitting me,” the accountant said.

“This is very real,” Hannibal said.

“That just doesn't make any sense,” Queen said. “Why is the news saying she took off to Canada or someplace?”

“Because whoever wanted Irene Monroe dead is very clever,” Hannibal said. “In order to make the runaway story stick they got a substitute to buy a ticket in Irene's name and get on a train headed north. I know it sounds crazy, but believe me, she was gunned down in the street. I saw it happen. I just can't prove it.”

Queen nodded into his neck. “So you're not here looking for her. You're looking for the killer. Or maybe you think you know who it is and you're looking for a motive. Am I right?”

“Paul, I know there are issues of client confidentiality here,” Cindy said, leaning forward. “We don't want to pry into the details of her personal business. We just want to know why she hired you.”

“Hey, I ain't no lawyer,” Queen said, pulling a large handkerchief out of his hip pocket. “I only protect client information to protect them. Doesn't sound to me like Irene needs any more protecting. Besides, I think you're on the right track. You're looking at the husband, right?”

“What makes you think so?” Hannibal asked.

“Irene came to me because she was worried about her money,” Queen said, wiping his face with the handkerchief. “She had a little piece of a trust fund when she got married, sort of an emergency fund her daddy left her. Well, as she put it, George Washington was a speculative business man, with a lot of ups and downs. He kind of steered her away from checking on her trust fund, so she wanted me to see if it was invested well.”

“Yes,” Cindy said. “Mr. Washington seems to have the golden touch with money.”

“Yeah? Not from what I could see,” Queen said. “I got a good long look at that account and the fund itself was shrinking over time. From what I could see, he kept putting her money into losing investments. On the surface it looked like he was a pretty poor investor, consistently betting on investments that cost him money.”

Queen fell silent, looking into Hannibal's lenses. Hannibal watched his face closely. “You said, ‘on the surface.' What do you think was going on underneath.”

Now it was Queen's turn to lean forward and lower his voice. “I think he was purposely stealing her money out from under her. There was evidence that he was making deals that were plausible on the surface, but unwise if you looked closer. I think he was unloading her assets through dummy setups. Sort of like selling stuff to himself. Then he would buy it back from himself on the cheap, through another company. It's real smooth, almost invisible, unless you happen to be a CPA who has seen this kind of thing before.”

“All right!” Cindy said, sliding to the edge of her chair.

“It wouldn't be enough to open a murder investigation,” Hannibal said.

“No, but if we take this to the police it should prompt them to investigate Monroe's finances. He's probably got my money too, and Jason's.”

Cindy's sudden enthusiasm shook Hannibal as much as her comments did, but before he could gather the words for a response he was distracted by a chuckle that bubbled up out of Paul Queen like gas escaping the La Brea tar pits.

“Ms. Santiago, really. There is nothing to take to the police.”

“But you said…”

“I said there was some evidence. My nose tells me that this guy's finances aren't on the up and up. But to prove it? To dig through the layers of shell companies and dummy corporations owned by other dummy corporations? Well, give me a half dozen good forensic accountants and get me full access to
Monroe's records and a year or so to go through them and I could give you something you could take to court.”

Cindy gripped Hannibal's sleeve. “You used to work at Treasury. Can't you get them or the IRS to look into this guy's business dealings?”

“They'd need some kind of event as an excuse.” Hannibal had said it out loud before he put it together. “Paul, if this guy's wife is dead, that's a real good excuse to evaluate his entire estate, right? For estate tax purposes. Maybe a missing wife is just as good an excuse.”

Cindy and Queen said, “No,” at the same time. Queen continued, “They won't move on her until she's declared dead. Unless they turn up her body that gives this guy seven years to reconfigure his finances or shift it all overseas, or just disappear to another country himself.”

Cindy closed her eyes, shaking with frustration. “He's too smart. How can we get at this guy?” It was a rhetorical question, but Queen answered.

“Well, you could look for the one guy who might know all about his financial dealings, his old business partner.”

“He had a partner?” Hannibal asked.

Queen sat back, smug in that way people are when they think they have all the answers you need. “Yep. Manny Hernandez. Monroe is like Teflon, nothing sticks to him, but Hernandez was a little shady. They don't run together no more but I'm betting Hernandez knows where all the bodies are buried.” Cindy's shiver must have made Queen realize what he had said because he interrupted himself to say, “Sorry. Poor choice of words. But if Hernandez is sore about being cut out of whatever Monroe is doing he might be happy to talk about it.”

“That's a good lead,” Hannibal said. “Any idea where…?” The ring of his cell phone cut him off. With an exasperated sigh he pulled it out and flipped it open.

“Where the hell are you?” Detective Orson Rissik growled. “Am I going to have to solve your case all by myself?”

Rissik had not called Hannibal to his office in the Fairfax County municipal complex, but rather asked to meet him in the county impound lot. Hannibal led Cindy down the rows of vehicles until they found Rissik, standing with his arms crossed, leaning back against Jason's Prius. In his tan suit and straw colored crew cut he looked like any average businessman except for the dangerous blue eyes and perpetually bitter expression.

“Good morning, Miss Santiago,” he said, and then looked at Hannibal. “So, I hear you gave Carlton a hard way to go.”