Collateral Damage by Austin Camacho Page B

business and, as Oscar told it, socially as well. “I suppose you’ve been thinking about who would want him dead.”
    â€œI know it’s a cliché, but as far as I know Oscar didn’t have an enemy in the world.” She turned to face Hannibal, staring as if she could see deep into his eyes through his sunglasses. “Can you tell me how a person can do that? Push a knife into another person’s body?”
    Hannibal could, but chose not to. He leaned against the pillar holding the porch roof up, and felt paint crumble behind his shoulder. “He traveled a lot, didn’t he?”
    â€œFor business,” Joan replied. “The computer industry holds conventions all over the world. It’s an easy way to reward good workers.”
    â€œBut none in Europe,” Hannibal said. “None he could take advantage of to visit his parents.”
    â€œHe never accepted the trips to Germany,” Joan said. “And I never asked why.”
    A siren trailed off as a car with a flashing light on its roof rounded the corner. Two more followed and all parked in front of them. Hannibal knew what to expect and took Joan’s arm to pull her to the side on the porch. A dozen or more men flowed out of the three cars like flies from burst melons. Or perhaps bees, Hannibal thought, because they gathered and buzzed around one central figure for a moment, as if getting instructions from the queen in a hive. Then, as if on some silent signal, they surged forward, not looking left or right, straight up the steps and into the house. The one man left outside walked behind them with the slow pace that is the privilege of the man in charge. He stopped in front of Joan, opened a wallet to display his badge and pulled out a notebook.
    â€œStan Thompson, ma’am. I’m the detective in charge of this investigation. I’ll be back in a moment to ask you a few questions if that’s all right.” Joan nodded dully at his calm, almost smiling face. Thompson reminded Hannibal of a wall: tall wide and flat. His broad shoulders were part of that image. The pug nose and thin lips highlighted it. Even his straw-like hair seemed two-dimensional. He even wore a stone gray suit. When he turned to enter the house, Hannibal was almost surprised he didn’t fall over. But since he was being ignored, he figured he’d follow and learn whatever else he could.
    Which, as it turned out, wasn’t much. Thompson stood just inside the doorway for maybe a minute staring down at the corpse. Finally, he nodded his head and muttered, “I’ve seen this before.” Then he turned so suddenly he nearly stepped into Hannibal.
    â€œAnd you are?” Thompson asked.
    Hannibal gave his name as he stepped back onto the porch. Thompson switched on the porch light and turned back to Joan. Hannibal leaned against the low front wall of the porch, to Thompson’s left and Joan’s right. Thompson stood with pen and pad in hand, focused entirely on the woman before him.
    â€œFirst I want to thank you for calling us, ma’am. Can you tell me how you came to find the deceased here?”
    Whether it was his bluntness or his calmness, or the fact that he made no attempts to establish any kind of rapport with her, Joan was frozen. Her mouth moved a few times but no sound came out. For his part, Thompson stood patiently waiting for her to eventually answer. Hannibal noticed how harsh the lighting was on her face, casting hard black shadows that made her look much older than she was.
    â€œShe didn’t,” Hannibal said. “A man who is my client discovered him here less than an hour ago and told me and Ms. Kitteridge about it.”
    When Thompson turned to him, Hannibal produced his credentials and a card. Thompson stared hard at both, as if they answered his next few questions. When he had worked his way through them he moved on to the questions he still needed answers for.
    â€œYour