Free Collateral Damage by Austin Camacho Page A

television remote control, her mouse, her joystick, her surge protector lined with lighted switches and a control panel for her peripherals, it looked as if she could control the planet from her seat.
    Oscar had stopped at the door. Mark Norton waved Hannibal in and toward the leather sofa along the far wall, below the windows. Hannibal lowered himself slowly onto it. Mark stood at the door, not as relaxed as he was trying to appear. Joan leaned forward, hooking titian locks out of her eye with a thumb as she spoke.
    â€œMister Jones, I’ll come to the point. Dean Edwards is a valued employee here. Talented and hard working. It appears he’s in some sort of trouble, and I want to know if you’re part of it. If you represent a problem that can be solved with money, we may be able to help make it go away.”
    Hannibal looked hard at the Chief Executive Officer of Kitteridge Computer Systems. Behind her husky voice, this woman was a world away from Dean Edwards. Layer behind layer, like a steel-skinned onion. The kind of woman who could run a multimillion-dollar company.
    â€œLet me make a few things clear,” Hannibal said. “First, I’m not here to cause trouble. I was asked to find Mister Edwards and I have. And I have no intention of trying to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. But I think he may have made a bad mistake and I could help him correct it. Now, what makes you think he’s in trouble?”
    While Hannibal spoke, Joan sat still as a wax figure, absorbing his words. Mark didn’t watch Hannibal. His eyes were drawn to his boss’ magnetism. He fidgeted a bit.
    When Hannibal finished, Joan sat for another ten seconds, then said, “I see.” She stood to lean toward him, unwilling to leave the enclosure of her control center. “I think it was pretty obvious to all of us who know him, that Dean was scared when he came in to work this morning. Scared of something. From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t seem to be you. But when I questioned him, he wouldn’t tell me anything. I worry about my people, Mister Jones.”
    â€œIsn’t that a little maternal?”
    â€œSome of these people need a little looking after,” she answered, not smiling at all. “They don’t live much in this world where you and I function, Mister Jones. That’s why they’re so good at dealing with the imaginary universe they’re in.”

-7-
    Hannibal was contemplating these people who needed Joan Kitteridge’s looking after on his way out. One of them intercepted Hannibal in the reception area and followed him out to the elevators. It was Oscar Peters, who trailed behind Hannibal like a fearful puppy, afraid to get too close for fear that Hannibal might decide to kick him.
    â€œI’m just heading for lunch,” Oscar said, stepping into the elevator car with Hannibal and moving to the farthest corner. “I live right by here and just usually go home to eat. Why don’t you join me? I think we should talk.”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œWell, Dean and I have become pretty good friends,” Oscar said, pushing his glasses up. “I might be able to help you help him.”
    â€œI imagine I’ll find out all I need to know when I pick him up after work tonight,” Hannibal said.
    The doors slid back and the two men stepped out into the building’s marble lobby. “Tonight?” Oscar asked. “I don’t think so, pizo. Dean left work for the day right after that meeting with you.”

    Oscar Peters lived in an antique house a couple of blocks off Route 7 back toward Alexandria. Its entrance was defended by a stone porch, but to stand on it one had to climb a set of rotting wooden steps. The house’s small wallpapered living room retained its original hardwood floors, left over from a time when someone boasted about owning the place.An archway led to a formal dining room where Hannibal sat