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I sat there for a while, watching nothing happen. No action in Hannibal's house. No action in either of his neighbors' houses. Very boring. No one on the bike path. No dog walkers. No joggers. Too dark. This is why I love surveillance. Nothing ever happens. Then you have to go to the bathroom and you miss a double homicide.
After an hour my butt was asleep and my legs were feeling twitchy from inactivity. Bag this, I thought. I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking for, anyway.
I turned to climb down, lost my balance, and flopped to the ground. Wump! Flat on my back. In Hannibal's backyard.
The patio light flashed on, and Hannibal looked out at me. “What the hell?” he said.
I wiggled my fingers and moved my legs. Everything seemed to be working.
Hannibal stood over me, hands on hips, looking like he wanted an explanation.
“I fell out of the tree,” I said. Pretty obvious, since there were pine needles and twigs scattered around me.
Hannibal didn't move a muscle.
I dragged myself to my feet. “I was trying to get my cat to come down. ”He's been up there since this afternoon."
He looked up at the tree. “Is your cat still there?” Not sounding like he believed a word of it.
“I think he jumped when I fell.”
Hannibal Ramos was California tan and couch-potato soft. I'd seen photos of him so I wasn't surprised. What I hadn't expected was the exhaustion in his face. But then, he'd just lost a brother, and that had to be taking a toll. His brown hair was thin and receding. His eyes were assessing behind tortoiseshell glasses. He was wearing gray suit slacks that were badly in need of pressing, and a white dress shirt, open at the collar, also rumpled. Mr. Average Businessman after a hard day at the office. I guessed he was in his early forties and a couple years away from a quadruple bypass.
“And I suppose he ran away?” Ramos said.
“God, I hope not. I'm tired of chasing after him.” I am the best liar. Sometimes I amaze even myself.
Hannibal opened the door to the fence and gave the bike path a cursory glance. “Bad news. I don't see a cat.”
I looked over Hannibal's shoulder. “Here, kitty, kitty,” I called. I was feeling pretty stupid now, but there was no place to go with this but forward.
“You know what I think?” Hannibal said. “I think there's no cat. I think you were in that tree spying on me.”
I gave him a look of total incredulity. Like . . . oh, duh? “Listen,” I said, scooting around him to the door. “I've got to go. I need to find my cat.”
“What color is it?”
“Black.”
“Good luck.”
I looked under a couple bushes en route to the bike path. “Here kitty, kitty.”
“Maybe you should give me your name and phone number in case I find him,” Hannibal said.
Our eyes locked for a couple beats, and my heart stumbled in my chest.
“No,” I told him. “I don't think I want to do that.” And then I left, walking in the opposite direction I came.
I exited the bike path and circled the block to get to my car. I crossed the street and stood in the shadows for a few minutes, looking at Hannibal's house, wondering about the man. If I'd seen him on the street I'd have pegged him as an insurance salesman. Or maybe middle management in corporate America. That he was the crown prince of black market arms wouldn't occur to me.
A light blinked on in an upstairs window. The crown prince was probably changing into something more comfortable. Too early for bed, and the lights were still on downstairs. I was about to leave when a car cruised down the street and turned into Hannibal's driveway.
Woman at the wheel. Couldn't see her face. The driver's door opened and a long, stocking-clad leg swung out, followed by a killer body in a dark suit. Short blond hair. Briefcase under her arm.
I copied the license number on the pad I kept in my shoulder bag, got my mini-binoculars out of the glove compartment, and scuttled around to the back of Hannibal's house. Again. Everything was quiet. Hannibal probably felt confident that he'd scared me off. I mean, what idiot would be crazy enough to try to snoop on him twice in one night?
This idiot, that's who.
