Praise for Austin S. Camacho's

Hannibal Jones Mystery series

"…a hair-raising roller coaster ride of a story, and Hannibal Jones bursts into the world of the fictional private eye like a pack of high explosives. I can't wait to see him in action again." –Warren Murphy, Edgar award winning author of the Destroyer series

"…an action-packed, sensitively written thriller…a hero whom anyone would want on their side…so many twists and turns that the reader can only hang on until the exciting crescendo. The action spans continents; the characters are chameleons; and the plot is a real corkscrew. A great read from a talented story craftsman!" –Midwest Book Reviews

"Camacho has created a mystery worth puzzling over. Every time you think you've got it figured out, the story takes another unexpected twist. Camacho's writing is crisp, his pace quick, and his characters fun. Quite simply… a damn good read." –Jeff Markowitz - author of Who is Killing Doah's Deer?

"…a sophisticated plot…just when I thought the story was about to end, you carved out a new trail and always provided a reason to keep turning the page….a great story teller and gamesman…kept me guessing throughout." –June Forte, Air Force Public Communications

"Move over Walter Mosley, there's another novelist in town and he's hot. Austin Camacho grabs you from page one and takes you all the way on an exciting rollercoaster ride full of thrills, intrigue, mystery, the works!" –Zanzibar

A Hannibal Jones Mystery

Blood and Bone

Austin S. Camacho

BLOOD AND BONE

A Hannibal Jones Mystery

Book One

An Echelon Press Book

First Echelon Press paperback printing / December 2006

Previously published by Intrigue Publishing

Cover and illustration © Nathalie Moore

2004 Ariana "Best in Category" Award winner

Echelon Press

9735 Country Meadows Lane 1-D

Laurel, MD 20723

www.echelonpress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Echelon Press.

ISBN 978-1-59080-504-6

1-59080-504-6 Paper

1-59080-505-4 E-Book

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006931308

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

-1-

SUNDAY

"Wake up, Joey," Floyd said to his bodyguard. "You might have to kill this one."

The stranger drew Floyd's attention the second he walked into the club. Something marked him as a dangerous man, but it took Floyd a minute to figure out what. Like everyone else at The Tip Top that night, he was black–actually, light skinned for a black man, kind of a golden color, with wavy brown haircut short. He was not particularly big, barely six feet and a little on the thin side. His clothes did not stand out. He wore a basic black suit and tie.

A man's eyes would sometimes draw Floyd's attention, but that could not be it this time. The stranger wore very dark wraparound shades. As the man moved around the crowded tables toward him, Floyd realized it was the stranger's attitude that had drawn his eye. This man carried a calm confidence seldom seen in a place like this in Northeast Washington D.C.

The music in the Tip Top was throbbing so loud Floyd could not make out the words, although he could feel the beat. It made conversation almost impossible. But he heard this man clearly.

"Jones," the stranger said. "Hannibal Jones."

The music lowered, and Floyd noticed every eye in the place was on him. All of them, drunks, whores, drug addicts, and a few real people who wanted to relax for a while. They all smelled of liquor, or drugs, or cigarettes, or desperation. This Hannibal Jones did not smell of any of that. He was an island in this place, isolated and alone. Floyd glanced to his left with a wry smirk.

"Look here, stud. This here's Joey. He takes care of my light work. And that guy behind you, Lawrence, he cleans up the messes Joey leaves behind. If I was you I'd get to stepping before I pissed somebody off. You getting my message?"

Joey was good. There was no telegraph, no warning body language. But somehow, when his big right fist reached its target, Hannibal's face was no longer there. Floyd saw his bodyguard take a hard snap kick in the gut and a back fist across his face before Lawrence got his arms around Hannibal, locking his arms down. Somebody stopped the music but nobody spoke. It was a private hassle, but everybody wanted to watch.

"Not bad, stud," Floyd said, "but you can't expect to come in here with that Jackie Chan shit against the big boys."

"Uh-huh," Hannibal said. He smashed his head back, bloodying Lawrence's nose. Then he snapped forward, grabbed Lawrence's ankle and jerked up. Floyd heard Lawrence's head thump the floor behind Hannibal. Joey moved in again, but black gloves blocked both his best punches. Then two crisp jabs and an uppercut put Joey over Floyd's table, spilling his scotch. More confused than scared, Floyd reached for the nine millimeter at the back of his waistband.

"Don't even go there, stupid." Hannibal pulled an automatic from under his right shoulder and shoved its muzzle into Floyd's cheek. "You get your piece out, it's pure self defense and I turn your face into abstract art."

Silence gripped the room and the Tip Top became a still life while Floyd watched himself sweat in Hannibal's Oakleys. He thought about business and his rep and his honor. Mostly he thought about dying.

"It's your world," Floyd said. "What now?"

"Now we negotiate and come to an agreement," Hannibal said, sitting on the table and pulling his gun back an inch. "My terms are simple. Let it go. One girl less. No comeback."

Floyd sat taller and straightened his face. No fear, he told himself. Back to business. "Who you work for, stud? New player coming in?"

"I work for me," Hannibal said. "Solve other people's problems. Jewel had a problem. She wanted to get off the streets. I solved it. Now, is this over?"

Floyd considered himself a good judge of character. He could negotiate a position with this one. The man was leaving him an out, so it would not look like he was getting ripped off.

"All right, if the bitch wants out, she's out. But this better be for real. I find out she's working the streets I'll kill her. I mean anywhere, dig? I got friends all up and down the coast, and they know every whore out there. She starts hooking, her ass is mine."

"Fair enough," Hannibal said. "I'll pass that on. As long as she's out of the life, I'll keep her safe. Otherwise, I'm out of it." Then he holstered his weapon and stood up. "Pleasure doing business with you. When your two friends wake up, tell them I said practice."

-2-

Hannibal pulled into his parking space and killed the engine of his white Volvo 850 GLT. There were no markings, no sign, or label, but the space was universally recognized as his.

He was on the move since early Saturday morning and his long day ended with a bar fight and a half-hour drive down to Anacostia and home. Weary as he was, Hannibal scanned the area before he opened his door. The cone of a street light covered his car's hood and peeked in through its windshield. His street looked quiet as he eased out of his white leather seat and set his anti-theft device. He smiled at his neighborhood's split personality. He had come home at a rare quiet moment, too early for the hip folks to be coming home from the party, or for the church crowd to be heading out.

His rubber soles fell silently on the red sandstone steps leading up to the front door of his red brick, three-story building. He used two keys to open the outer door. Once in the hall, he faced the central staircase but instead of turning left to his own flat he veered right. The front room of this apartment was his office. His heavy oak desk faced the door, flanked by a pair of file cabinets. A smaller desk stood beside the door on his left. He stepped across the oval broadloom rug, but before he could even riffle through the papers in his IN box he heard footsteps from the far end of the railroad flat.

Her perfume preceded her, the sharp sting of Patchouli. "Did you talk to him?" Jewel asked in a nasal New Jersey accent. Her high-pitched voice always sounded to Hannibal as if she were about to cry.

"I took care of it, on condition you stay off the street," Hannibal said, but his casual response did not remove the fear from Jewel's cat-like eyes. She was Hannibal's height, model thin and very black, a Nubian princess whose beauty was marred by the wear showing at the corners of her eyes. A thoroughbred, Hannibal thought, passed through too many owners and broken down by being ridden by too many jockeys.

"You won't go back on our deal?" she asked, smoothing a hand down her straight black hair. "You said if I was nervous I could stay here a few days."

"Jewel, I'm a businessman and you know my rates. If you're willing to go the fee you can stay right there in my guest room until you feel safe. I just don't think..."

"Well I do." Her fingers pressed into his right arm with disturbing familiarity. "You don't know Floyd. Anyway, I got plenty of money stashed away and I don't mind spending it staying alive until I figure out where I'm going. You want cash?"

"Any way you want to pay," Hannibal said, dropping his messages back into his IN box. Nothing pressing. He would file these and check for email messages in the morning. His eyes were starting to droop.

"Any way?" Jewel asked, pressing her thumping heart against his. Hannibal stared into her frightened eyes, and they dropped closed, even as her lips parted, inviting his tongue in. His tired mind reeled. She was beautiful, exotic, certainly talented. She was also a client.

"Let's stick to negotiable currency." He gently pushed her shoulders away with his index fingers. "Something I can put on my books. Besides, it's so late it's early and I'm beat. Why don't we call it a night?"

Across the hall, Hannibal walked back to the fourth door from the front and unlocked it. Loud beeps reminded him to cross his living room, reach around the bathroom door, and punch in his four-digit code, disabling his alarm system. Too tired to think further, he walked through his flat to the front room, dropped his clothes in a pile, and crawled into bed. He silently thanked God it was Sunday morning before his eyes slid shut.

-3-

"Morning, lover," Cindy said. "You still in bed, sleepyhead?"

Hannibal checked the absurdly expensive Porsche titanium watch Cindy gave him for Christmas. Eight fifteen. He had slept for more than four hours, but it felt like five minutes.

"Worked late," he said, trying to pull his mind together. "Isn't it Sunday? Why're you up so early? God, I need coffee. Something going on?"

"Well, this might sound weird but I've got a job for you."

Work? Hannibal spun onto his back to get his brain into focus, then sat up quickly. His hand hit something beside him.

"You're not mad, are you?" Cindy asked. "I feel kind of guilty talking business on Sunday morning, but it's kind of important to me."

He was listening with only half his mind. What his hand had hit was a body. Jewel's body. She must have crept in while he slept. He watched her eyes open dreamily. He knew what was next. In Hannibal's experience, a woman's eyes opened only seconds before her mouth. As Jewel prepared to speak, he clamped his free hand down over her mouth.

"Nothing to feel guilty about," Hannibal replied, sensing the irony of his remark. "If it matters to you, it matters to me. Somebody in trouble?"

"That's your business, isn't it?" He could hear Cindy's soft chuckle. "It's one of Mister Niesewand's personal clients. Kind of a delicate situation. I told him you could handle it and he asked if you could make it to his place for brunch."

"Brunch?" Hannibal asked to fill time. Jewel started to sit up and the sheet fell away. She was naked. Actually, THEY were naked. "Sounds good. How should I dress?"

"Well, it is business. Better make it suit and tie. It's out in Oakton. They dress for snacks in that neighborhood."

"Oakton? I better get going then. Give me the address." Hannibal glared a threat at Jewel before he removed his hand. She froze in place while he found a pen and pad by the phone.

"No, pick me up," Cindy said. "He wants me there too. I'll be ready when you get here, so we can make his place by eleven, okay? See you later. Love you," she added, throwing a kiss into the receiver.

"Me too," Hannibal said, forcing a smile into his voice. "See you soon." He settled the phone gently into its cradle, but in the time it took him to turn around, his expression turned to rage. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

Jewel shrank back against the headboard as if struck. "I was lonely. You were alone and I thought, I mean, I figured..."

"If I didn't think that pimp would kill you, I'd put your ass in the street right now," Hannibal snapped. "Now get across the hall, lock the door, and get some clothes on." Despite his anger, he watched her dancer's behind squirm into a too tight miniskirt and admired her legs in motion until they reached the other end of his apartment and slinked through the door. As the door latch clicked he leaped to his feet and headed for the kitchen. He did not have much time to get his act together and he had a stop to make before he left.

At eight-thirty, Hannibal knocked on the door directly upstairs from his own living room.

"Yeah, who?" came a grumbly voice from inside. Already up and in the living room, Hannibal thought.

"It's me, Sarge."

The door popped open and a stocky black man wearing only boxer shorts thrust his head out. He looked Hannibal up and down, taking in the black suit and tightly knotted tie. "You going to church?"

"Cindy called with a job," Hannibal said, "but I've already got one. Want to make some money?"

Sarge rubbed a hand across his scalp, past his hairline, which had receded halfway back on his head. His flexing biceps made the fouled anchor tattoo jump. "Well, you'll be coming for October's rent pretty soon and the place I been playing bouncer in looks like it might go belly up soon. Sure, I can use a few extra bucks."

"Good. Got a client down in the office side. She's paying my full daily fee to have a safe place to crash while she sorts out her life. It's worth my usual subcontractor pay if you'll keep an eye out for trouble next couple of days."

"Two fifty a day?" Sarge grinned. "I hope she never leaves. Is she cute?"

"Beautiful."

"Then for three hundred she can stay up here with me," Sarge said, smiling even broader.

"Actually, she's used to getting money for that," Hannibal said. Sarge's face fell. "But she's trying to break that habit, if you get my meaning."

Sarge nodded and a new alertness showed on his face. "And somebody don't want one of his meal tickets taking a walk, right? Okay. She's safe long as she stays in the building. You and me, we chased whores, junkies and who knows what all out of this building before we moved in. I guess I can hold off a pimp."

"Sarge, I trust you more than the FBI, but I got my pager and phone just in case something comes up."

"You going far?" Sarge asked as Hannibal headed for the stairs.

"Another world," Hannibal called back. "Oakton."

"Look, I'm sorry if I ruined your Sunday morning," Cindy said as they eased into the wooded cul-de-sac, then rolled slowly up a long blacktop driveway toward a three-car garage. "You've hardly said a word."

"Sorry, honey. I'm not mad, just tired I guess, and the weather isn't helping." Not really a lie, he thought. It was the kind of overcast day that made you think you could reach up and touch the gray cloud ceiling. Drops sprinkled down slowly enough to cause his windshield wipers to make that awful noise, even at the lowest intermittent setting.

Hannibal had driven from Southeast Washington, D.C. across the Fourteenth Street Bridge and down to Old Town Alexandria to pick up Cindy Santiago in front of her home. Then he drove ten miles west on Route 7 in sluggish Sunday morning traffic to turn down the equally congested Route 66, to reach a Washington suburb where people bought homes for what the realtors called "gracious country living." But half his mind was occupied by the houseguest who had sneaked into his bed, a guest he had somehow failed to mention to Cindy.

He pulled his Volvo to a stop and stared up at the stately colonial in which Gabriel Niesewand stored his life, barely outside the beltway. It was exactly the type of brick monstrosity he knew Cindy aspired to. And he would love to give her one, the next time he found himself with three quarters of a million spare dollars laying around.

Hannibal was out of his car and planning his long stroll up the flagstone path when he heard an engine roar to life and a long Mercedes came screaming backward down the center of the wide driveway.

"Whoa!" he shouted, waving his arms. The limousine's brakes locked, filling the air with the smell of burned tread. He caught a glimpse of a woman in the back seat. Fortyish, with blonde hair that did not fit with her complexion and a pleasant face which was losing the battle with gravity.

Then the driver got out, a beefy black man in chauffeur's livery, curling and opening his huge hands. His nose showed he had not won every fight in his life, but his eyes said he did not particularly care. He seemed to take a second to appraise Hannibal, deciding they were in the same class.

"Move it before I push it out of my way."

Hannibal straightened his jacket and stepped forward. "Look, I'm not somebody's driver here. That car's my baby. You put a scratch on her I'll break your legs."

The chauffeur spit out of the side of his mouth. Hannibal heard Cindy in his right ear say, "You're tired. Don't do this," in a pleading tone, but he was in no mood for taking crap off some servant.

"Them shades supposed to scare me?" the chauffeur asked. "You don't look like one of the lawyers, so I don't have to take your shit. Move the frigging car."

"I'll bet you been in a lot of fights," Hannibal said, pointing at the horseshoe-shaped scar on the back of the chauffeur's right hand, "but that don't mean jack to me."

The bigger man's eyes flared open. He swung his big right fist at Hannibal's head. Hannibal blocked that punch, then the left, and drove his own left into the bigger man's stomach. The driver grunted but swung a right cross that connected this time. Hannibal's ears were ringing, partially with Cindy's scream. He let two more hard punches bounce off his upraised forearms. Then he managed a pair of jabs into the other man's already broken nose. Seeing an opening, he drove an overhand right into the man's jaw. The driver staggered against the Mercedes and Hannibal saw one more good shot would do it.

"Paton!" the shout turned Hannibal's head. A man was trotting down the path from the house, moving like he was unaccustomed to anything more than a mild walk. He wore an expensive sport coat and a less expensive toupee.

"Miss Santiago, what is the meaning of this?" he asked. Hannibal lowered his hands, realizing how stupid he was being. Cindy stepped forward, turning on the smile she used to calm both clients and prosecutors.

"Mister Niesewand, may I present Mister Hannibal Jones. I'm sorry, but there was a misunderstanding with your driver."

"Paton, I don't believe this," Niesewand said with an air of superiority Hannibal found stifling. "Now you go on and take Mrs. Niesewand on those errands. Mister Jones, I am terribly sorry."

"My fault," he said, suddenly not wanting to get Paton into more trouble. "As Ms. Santiago said, a misunderstanding." Then he faced Paton. "You've got quite a right there."

"You got a pretty mean punch yourself," the driver said, extending his right hand. "I'm Ike. Sorry about this. I'm kind of sensitive about..."

"I understand." Hannibal saw Paton's eyes cut to Niesewand and realized it was important to shake Paton's hand, showing no hard feelings, which, in fact, was the case. Paton had shrunk back into his servant's role. With an insecure smile he got back in the limo, pulled it forward a bit, and eased it carefully around Hannibal's car.

"I know he's a little rough," Niesewand said, "But he looks out for the Missus. I use him as a courier sometimes. You give a package to Paton, you know it's going to get where you want it to go." Hannibal judged Niesewand to be in his mid-fifties. Lawyers, in his experience, came in three brands. Crusaders, like Cindy. Honorable businessmen, like her other boss Dan Balor. And slippery, legalized con men. While he smiled and nodded, he placed Gabe Niesewand into category three.

Once inside, they walked across a marble floor through a two-story foyer, and out onto a custom redwood deck. Soft classical music leaked out to the deck from the house. The table was set for four. A nameless woman in modernized maid's attire poured coffee and delivered Belgian waffles with fat, brown sausages. Actually, Hannibal assumed she did not have a name. She simply had not been introduced; a sign of her unimportance, which he would have expected to offend Cindy.

"I must say, you're looking lovely today Miss Santiago," Niesewand said once they were settled in their chairs. She smiled and nodded, and Hannibal had to admit the man was right. His woman was stately and slender, with a high, narrow waist. Her deep brown hair was carefully waved in a contemporary style a couple of inches beyond shoulder length. Yes, she knew how to wear that expensive navy business suit, but her real beauty was born to her in her Hispanic heritage. It was in her smooth, clear skin, her sharp cheekbones, her dark eyes, and broad smile. It was the face of an angel and, because he preferred women with ample brassiere filling, he thought her body blew Jewel's away.

Why had he not noticed her beauty when he picked her up today? Was he taking her for granted? It was too late to say anything now, after her boss had already complimented her.

"So, Mister Jones," Niesewand began around a mouth full of waffle, "Miss Santiago tells me you help people in trouble."

Hannibal pushed whipped cream up onto the bit of waffle on his fork. "Cindy is familiar with my business," he said. "But so is the other senior partner in your firm, Dan Balor. Surely you spoke with him."

"Of course. I know how you cleaned out that apartment building of his that turned out to be a crack house. He tells me you live there now and act as building superintendent. Like Miss Santiago, he raves about your ability to get things done. In fact, I've checked you out rather thoroughly. Your police career, both as a patrolman and a detective. And your time with the Secret Service. Everything I know now makes me certain you're the right person to help a client of mine named Harlan Mortimer."

"You're careful about your client's welfare," Hannibal said across the top of his coffee cup.

"He's also a friend."

"He's also black," Hannibal said, slicing the end off a sausage. "That why you want me?" He ignored Cindy's dagger eyes.

"What else do you know about Harlan?"

Hannibal gathered his thoughts while he chewed, then cleared his mouth with coffee. "I know he started out buying real estate in the district, then got real rich buying and selling land in northern Virginia. I know he's got a rep for being tough in business, but fair."

"Did you know his only son ran off eighteen years ago? That he was nineteen when he took off? That he left behind a wife and his infant son?"

"That the problem?" Hannibal asked. He was noticing how well the closely planted trees protected Niesewand's deck from the rest of the world. A brightly colored jay was chatting with his plainer mate on a branch a few feet from Hannibal's head. These noisy neighbors seemed to make the scene more peaceful.

"Yes, I suppose it comes down to a missing person's case."

The anonymous girl replaced their plates with new ones, each holding half a cantaloupe. "Not my usual type of thing," Hannibal said, bracing for the kick under the table and accepting it silently. Then the rapid-fire patter of footsteps drew everyone's attention to the house. The man who burst through the French doors had a round, sepia-toned face under a shiny pate. Gray cotton wool ringed the back of his head from ear to ear. An expensive suit hung loosely on his skeletal form.

"Ah, our fourth has arrived, albeit a bit late," Niesewand said, standing. "Cynthia, Mister Jones, Doctor Lawrence Lippincott."

"A pleasure," Cindy said, taking the older man's hand.

"That goes double for me," Hannibal said, shaking the doctor's hand briskly. "Your free clinic isn't far from my place in Anacostia. Got to admire a man who gives back after he's made it."

"Glad you know a little about Lawrence," Niesewand said as they all sat. "He's the Mortimer family doctor. As they are both my clients he's the one who brought the problem to my attention."

Hannibal pointed to his cup and the phantom girl refilled it. "I'm not sure I understand. Just what is the problem with Mortimer's son?"

"His son isn't really the problem," Lippincott said in a precise Harvard accent. "Well, perhaps after all he is, but the problem I must face is the son he left behind. A son now grown to his teens in Harlan's home. A boy who's spent the last five years wrestling with chronic myelogenous leukemia. An old man's disease, for God's sake."

The pain on Cindy's face made Hannibal's heart ache. Silence settled over their table in the peaceful woods. Even nearby birds became still. And the melon in his mouth was still pulpy, but not nearly as sweet as it tasted a second ago. Swallowing was difficult, but he managed.

"Excuse me, Doctor, but I always thought leukemia was a children's disease."

"Not this type," Lippincott said. "What you hear about generally is lymphocytic leukemia. It attacks children, but if we find it early we can usually beat it with chemicals and radiation. Myelogenous," Lippincott gulped a mouthful of coffee, "well, it's rather a tougher opponent. We've taken radiation and chemotherapy just about to their limits with Kyle."

Lippincott lapsed into silence and Niesewand picked up the ball. "Lawrence here thinks a bone marrow transplant could be the answer, but you can't get it from just anybody. Blood and bone marrow have to be the same type. Parents and siblings have the best chance of a match."

"I see it," Hannibal said, mostly to spare Niesewand having to say more. "The known family's been tested I assume, with no luck. That's why the manhunt."

Niesewand raising his left hand. The server appeared with a box of cigars. Only Niesewand took one. "It is, as you say, a missing person's case," he said, lighting his cigar, "but if I understand your business correctly, this is indeed your type of thing."

Hannibal turned to Lippincott who was clinking a spoon around in his cup. "How much time does the boy have?"

"We're clutching at straws here."

"Okay, I get it," Hannibal said, easing his glasses off. "Last chances are by definition what we try when all else has failed and time is running out. That's okay. Desperation is my business. How much time?"

"Two, maybe three weeks if his progress doesn't change."

Hannibal sat back in his chair. Lilacs and forsythia growing beneath the deck seemed inappropriately sweet. "Gone eighteen years. Three weeks to find him and bring him back."

"Money is no barrier," Niesewand said. "You can drop any other jobs you're working on and give this your complete attention."

The low clouds were breaking up, but instead of true sunshine, the sky cast a ghostly glow around objects. Hannibal slid his Oakleys back into place. "I don't drop prior cases. They are commitments just as this would be. And my fees don't change. I get five hundred dollars a day plus expenses, and my expenses are never questioned. Anybody I subcontract gets another two-fifty a day."

"This means you'll take the case?" Niesewand asked.

"Maybe. But I won't take a penny until I know there's some chance of success. I'll have to see what kind of leads the family can give me, then we'll see."

Cindy squeezed his hand, implying she knew his answer before he did.