Collateral Damage Read Online Free Page B

Miss Collins. I need to distribute pictures if we’re going to find this guy. I need to be able to leave them in as many hands as possible in places he might go: airports, train stations, bus stations. If he told you the truth about his profession, maybe computer companies. Does he have a car?”
    â€œNo. No car. Is that important?”
    â€œWell it means we add taxi stands and rental car agencies to our distribution list,” Hannibal said. He glanced at Cindy who nodded slightly. No car meant mobility, a man who probably didn’t plan on staying in one place too long. A bad sign.
    Cindy stood, one hand to her chin. “Hannibal, can’t you get a still made from the video? I’m sure we’ve had that done at the office.”
    â€œI can,” he said, handing the tape back to Bea. She handled it like a precious artifact, gently guiding it back into her purse. “The image quality will be crap if I take it from VHS though. What I will do, is trot on down to Channel 8 and see if I can talk somebody down there into printing a still frame from the original broadcast quality Betacam tape. That might be clear enough. Then we run off fifty glossies and then the legwork begins. Now, would you be kind enough to escort Miss Collins back to the party?”
    Bea stood, her spine as straight as a reed, and at that moment looking just as fragile. “That’s it? Is that all you’re going to do?”
    Hannibal sighed, thinking how much this woman really didn’t want what he was sure to find if his hunt was successful. “No, Miss Collins it isn’t. I’m going to change my clothes. Then you and I are going to take a ride over to your apartment so I can look around, maybe learn a little more about this Dean Edwards.”

-3-
    Half an hour later, Hannibal followed Bea down his front steps to the Washington DC street. The sunshine was still bright, but the world looked different to him. Out here, in front of his three-story tenement, poverty blew in on him like the hot breath from a panting engine. Boys traveled in gangs and older people moved quickly, not looking left or right. Even the few trees on his block struggled to maintain their lives at the edge of the sidewalk. And he was no longer on vacation. He was at work, and his work was always grim.
    Hannibal looked different too. Now in his black suit and tie, wearing his signature Oakley sunglasses, he felt more businesslike. Black driving gloves did not impede his pushing the button on his remote control to unlock the white Volvo. He held the door for Bea to get into what was the only new car on the block. Once behind the wheel, he started the CD player, filling the car with the sound of Wynton Marsalis’ unique interpretations of movement and sound, melody and rhythm. With an easy smile he pulled away from the curb, headed for the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
    Relaxing back into the white leather, Hannibal asked, “Just what is a professional woman like you doing in this neighborhood, Miss Collins?”
    â€œMy mother and Mother Washington were very close, Mister Jones,” Bea said. She sat very straight and looked forward at the crumbling inner city beyond the windshield. “I still attend her church. Every Sunday. The Lord has brought me everything, Mister Jones with never a trial, until…”
    Hannibal nodded. “Until now. Well, maybe we can make this a short trial. And please, call me Hannibal okay?”
    Bea nodded and sat quietly for a while. Hannibal drove them across the Potomac River and onto the George Washington Parkway. Past Reagan National Airport the park on their left was overrun with joggers, picnickers, and the occasional fisherman trying to make the river give up its rockfish. Three small sailboats seemed to be playing tag against the background of the well-wooded Maryland shore.
    â€œAnd what about you, er, Hannibal?” Bea asked. “I understand you are a successful