The Man Who Fought Alone

  I meant to stay, if she did.

  She nodded. Apparently she could accept whatever I had the strength to offer.

  She sat where she was for a minute or two, her eyes shrouded. Then she pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to bed,” she informed me quietly. “I need to get an early start tomorrow.”

  As did I. But I let her go without saying so.

  Someday, I promised myself, someday I was going to ask about her job with Marshal. I was going to let her see that I wanted to know. But not now. For the time being it was enough that we’d survived.

  Maybe tomorrow—

  I didn’t get the chance then, however. When she said early, she meant early. By the time I’d lugged my carcass out of bed, she was already gone. Which may’ve been just as well, under the circumstances. I had plenty of other things to think about.

  So I thought about them without making much progress while I showered, shaved, put on clean clothes, ate breakfast, started a load of laundry, tidied the apartment, and finally wedged myself back into the Subaru. By nine o’clock I was back at The Luxury, heading for the Security office. Despite Carner’s unrelieved heat, I wore my rather limp suit jacket to conceal the .45 under my arm.

  Slade was on duty, holding down Bernie’s desk until The Luxury named a successor. His manner didn’t inspire confidence, but eventually he managed to steer me through some final paperwork and hand me a check.

  It was the biggest check I’d seen with my name on it in years. Nevertheless I didn’t pause to congratulate myself. First things first. From The Luxury I went to a bank and exchanged the check for cash. Then I used my map to locate a cellular phone store.

  With a phone I could get to work.

  Sitting in the Subaru with the engine running and the AC on high, I called Professional Investigations and asked for Marshal.

  Beatrix Amity greeted me like I’d never been rude to her in my life. “Just a moment, Mr. Axbrewder. Mr. Viviter asked me to put you through. I’ll just make sure he’s available.”

  Which reminded me that I still didn’t know what the hell he got out of being so nice to me. My rather bitter theory that he was just doing Ginny a favor had started to look pretty tattered.

  He kept me waiting for five minutes or so. Then he came on the line. “Brew?” The connection made him sound less sincere than usual. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I thought I’d hear from you, but I was in the middle of something when you called.”

  I also didn’t know why he bothered to apologize. I was just riding his coattails—I didn’t actually work for him. He owed me nothing.

  “I’ve got time,” I told him brusquely. That was as close as I could come to courtesy on short notice—at least with him. “Did you get anything?”

  “Tut tut.” Despite my phone’s inadequacies, I heard a grin in his tone. “I’ve already talked to you about your manners.” Then he went on more seriously, “And if you don’t have any legal standing in this case, I certainly don’t. Why do you assume I can get anything?”

  “Because you like Bernie,” I retorted. “And because you know there’s something wrong about his death.”

  Deliberately I didn’t add, And because I asked you. That means something to you. For the same reason you got me a job.

  “Like why he’s dead,” Marshal observed.

  “But there’s more,” I continued. “Whoever did it took the weapon.” Briefly I told him about Bernie’s flik—and my decision not to inform Moy.

  He considered that for a long moment. “You’re saying,” he pronounced softly, “he didn’t accidentally end up dead. You’re saying he was murdered.”

  “I’m not sure about premeditation,” I added. “Unless Bernie had skeletons in his closet—” I let the idea hang. “But the goon who did it isn’t even trying to pretend self-defense. As far as I’m concerned, that spells ‘intention.’”

  And a desire to make the intention known.

  Marshal got the point. His manner turned businesslike.

  “You asked several questions about Bernie,” he said more briskly. “Past dealings with Watchdog or Lacone, and so on. I can’t begin to answer them unless I assign someone to dig into it—and I still wouldn’t have any standing.

  “But—” He paused for effect, then admitted, “Luckily Moy owes me a couple of favors. I have a copy of the ME’s report.”

  Sweat ran down my ribs despite the AC. “And—?”

  Now Moy knew I wasn’t going to leave Bernie’s death alone.

  “Death consistent with being hacked in the throat with a thin blunt object. Crushed larynx, asphyxiation. No surprise there.

  “Flecks of enamel paint in the wound. Again, no surprise.”

  The marks I’d seen on the walls of the stall must’ve been made while Bernie fought for his life. While he still had a grip on the flik. Its coils would’ve picked up a lot of paint.

  “Also,” Marshal went on, “fibers of dark blue cloth. From a navy blazer, apparently. Which by coincidence,” he remarked sourly, “is what Bernie was wearing at the time.”

  I practically held my breath. “Did the ME match those fibers to Bernie’s blazer?”

  I heard pages flip. “Doesn’t say so here.”

  “Damn it.” In frustration I rapped the steering wheel with the knuckles of one fist. “That’s sloppy.”

  “You’re in a charitable mood this morning.” Marshal wasn’t amused. “Have you forgotten who didn’t tell Moy about the flik?”

  I swore again—to myself this time. Moy didn’t know Bernie had been killed with his own weapon. The detective had no reason to think those fibers might’ve come from someone else’s blazer.

  Every guard at The Luxury, as well as everyone who worked the tournament for the IAMA, wore a navy blazer. Not to mention the inevitable dozen or so spectators. For three days those blazers had been as common as gear-bags.

  Groping, I asked, “What about bruises? Other marks on the body? Anything that suggests where the fibers came from?”

  I meant, Anything other than my own bad judgment?

  “Let me see,” Marshal murmured. More pages flipped. Then he reported, “Contusions on the knuckles of the right hand. More flecks of paint.” Bernie must’ve struck his hand while defending himself. “Bruises around the right wrist.” Made when his assailant grabbed him to take away the flik. “And a deep one on the left cheek.” A blow to stun him. “The ME says the bruises occurred immediately before death. None match the death wound. They weren’t made by the same weapon.

  “In other words, still no surprises. At least for us.” After a moment, Marshal added with less sarcasm, “If I were Moy, I’d want to know which hand the assailant used. The ME doesn’t say.”

  Oh, perfect. That was genuinely sloppy. It made a difference. Left hand to right wrist, right hand free to strike. A punch to the cheek, snatch the flik, and swing. Bernie could’ve been killed in one motion. Continued action—possible accident or miscalculation. But right hand to right wrist, left hand out of range. Especially in a restroom stall. In that case, Bernie must’ve been killed by a separate motion. His assailant had to switch hands in order to strike. Which implied a greater degree of intention.

  Before I could complain, however, Marshal said, “In fact, I think I’ll mention that to Moy. Professional curiosity, and so on. I was going to call him anyway”—a grin sparkled in his voice—“thank him for his generosity. Who knows? A question like that may make him look at the case harder.”

  Damn Marshal Viviter, anyway. He got harder to dislike every day. If I actually had to stop hating him, I’d probably go crackers. Crushed Saltines all the way.

  Ginny’d left me for a better man. Just as I’d always feared.

  Chagrin made me crabby—chagrin and ego. Instead of thanking him, I demanded abruptly, “Are you going to research Bernie?” I may’ve sounded just a touch ungracious.

  Another man—a lesser man—would’ve snapped back, but Marshal didn’t give me that satisfaction. “You s
till haven’t told me why,” he countered reasonably.

  Of course I hadn’t. I wasn’t exactly proud of relying on him like this. Nevertheless I owed him. He’d already given me more help than I had any right to. And I had nowhere else to turn.

  Swallowing my pride—or at least my defensiveness—I answered him as well as I could.

  “Bernie wasn’t killed by the drop. Over a few watches and wallets? I don’t think so. There was someone else in the restroom. Someone with a hell of a lot more to lose.” Or to gain. “Don’t ask me what. Or why he and the drop were together. All I’m sure of is that Bernie recognized him, and he didn’t want Bernie to identify him.”

  I sighed, thinking of the Security Chief’s fragile corpse, the sheer pointlessness of his death. “The only thing worth killing for at the tournament,” I explained, “were those antiques. But maybe there’s something in Bernie’s past. Something that connects him to someone at the tournament indirectly.”

  Marshal didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he reached a decision. “All right,” he announced firmly. “I’ll look into it. But there’s only so much I can do without legal standing.

  “In the meantime, what have you got for me?”

  I couldn’t help noticing that he agreed to what I wanted before he asked for anything back. No quid pro quo.

  Ashamed of myself, I made an effort to tone down my sarcasm. “Not much. But I’ve picked up a couple of things that seem to be common knowledge in karate circles.

  “One is that Sternway is hard up for money. He’s obsessive about it. The IAMA people I talked to blame his wife. They think she’s taking him to the cleaners.”

  “That sounds like her, frankly,” Marshal remarked.

  I didn’t stop there. “Also he may be having an affair with a lawyer named Sue Rasmussen. I’m told she’s one of his students.” I hesitated, then added, “I don’t think she likes me.”

  Marshal replied with a humorless chuckle. “Really?” Then he said more seriously, “Now there’s a nice ethical question for you.

  “Mai Sternway has hired us for protection because she thinks her husband is stalking her. She wants us to prove it’s him, which will improve her bargaining position. But does that mean we’re obliged to give her other kinds of information she could use against him?”

  I was in no mood for his scruples. I was still kicking myself because I hadn’t told Moy about the flik. And Marshal had a gift for making me feel inadequate. With more than my usual charm, I countered, “Surely you aren’t asking me?”

  He groaned. “No, Brew. It was rhetorical. I’m just thinking aloud.”

  Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to say, “I may be able to help you more later. I’ve got another job. Lacone wants me to baby-sit those chops for a while, earn him a break on his insurance rates. I start this afternoon.

  “Since I’ll be working for him instead of the IAMA or Anson Sternway, I’ll have fewer constraints.” Fewer scruples of my own. “And he acts like he’s ready to elope with Sternway. He may let something interesting slip.”

  “Well, good for you.” Despite my rudeness, Marshal sounded sincere. “You must’ve made my referral look pretty good. Even if Alex has already married Anson, he’s still a businessman. He wouldn’t hire you simply because I recommended you.”

  I could taste Saltines. They were in my future somewhere, waiting for my resistance to crumble.

  But he wasn’t done. “For some odd reason, Brew,” he commented, “you inspire confidence. God knows how. If you were any more irritable, you’d be arrested as a public nuisance. But after just three days of relative drudgery, you get offered a job that could be real work. And you convince me to spend money and manpower on a case that doesn’t belong to either of us.

  “Just one word of advice.” Like flipping a switch, he reassumed his professional detachment. “Don’t treat Alex the way you do me. He doesn’t really need you—and he’s accustomed to a bit more sucking up.”

  Viviter hung up without asking for my phone number. No doubt Beatrix had it on her caller ID.

  The Subaru had started to overheat. The squirrels caged under the hood needed more rpms to stand the strain of the AC.

  I knew exactly how they felt. I had so much sweat on my face that I couldn’t keep my sunglasses up. And I detested Saltines. Instead of pausing to brush the crumbs out of my head, I pulled out of my parking space while I dialed Deborah’s private number at Watchdog.

  Marshal had that effect on me, made me feel like I needed to prove something.

  In the wrong frame of mind, my brain full of inappropriate clutter, I pretended that I knew how to navigate in Carner while my call went through to Deborah.

  When the phone jammed against my ear said, “This is Deborah Messenger,” I nearly drove off the road. She sounded just as brisk and professional as Marshal Viviter, but her voice was still the same one I’d heard laughing and crooning and gasping less than thirty-six hours ago.

  I had to haul the Subaru away from a collision before I could answer, “Deborah. It’s Brew.”

  “Brew! Are you all right? You sound—” She may’ve heard the near miss in my tone.

  I struggled to relax. “Don’t ask. It’s too embarrassing to explain. I’m fine.” As fine as sweat, adrenaline, and crushed crackers allowed. Since I didn’t want to discuss my driving, I lunged at the first topic I could think of. “I guess you knew Lacone was going to offer me a job.”

  She accepted the shift smoothly. “I wasn’t sure. Sometimes men like Alex won’t take advice from a woman.” She laughed deep in her throat. “On the other hand, he doesn’t like Sammy much—and Sammy doesn’t like you. That may have influenced him a bit.”

  Apparently she’d urged Lacone to hire me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, so I stayed away from it.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “I start this afternoon. Right now I’m lost somewhere in Carner. Don’t take it personally if I sound distracted. I don’t know this place yet.”

  She chuckled into my ear. “You didn’t get lost Saturday night.”

  For a moment I actively blushed. “It’s amazing what comes back to you when you’re inspired,” I muttered awkwardly.

  “‘Inspired.’” I heard her glowing through the connection. “I like that.”

  I gripped the steering wheel hard enough to leave impressions of my fingerprints. “Maybe you’ll still like it the next time. When can I see you again?”

  I had to ask. My hormones didn’t leave me much choice.

  What could she possibly gain from me?

  “Let me check my schedule.” The clicking of a keyboard carried to my phone. She must’ve used a computer to keep track of her duties. “Damn. Not tonight. I’ll be at a seminar all evening.” More clicking. “How about dinner tomorrow?”

  “Just tell me where and when.”

  She did. Not having a hand free, I didn’t write any of it down. I didn’t need to—I was in no danger of forgetting.

  “Good,” I said when she’d given me directions. “That’s a long wait, but I can probably keep my legs crossed until then.”

  She chuckled again. “See that you do.”

  If this kept up, I’d drive into the side of a building. Somehow I forced myself to change the subject.

  “In the meantime”—I cleared my throat—“how do you plan to get Nakahatchi’s chops appraised? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  After yesterday, I was sure that Posten would insist on speeding up the process.

  Deborah took my abruptness in stride. “No, I don’t mind. You’re on our side.

  “We’re in touch with an appraiser from New York. Rather well-known. He’s agreed to fly out next week—for a substantial fee, of course.”

  I veered for a freeway ramp with my usual liquid grace. “You mean there’s no one local?” In sports-rich Carner?

  “Well, there is,” she admitted. “A man named Carliss Swilley. He sells Oriental antiques. And he offers an appraisal service. He’s a
n odious little pedant, but he has good credentials.

  “However”—she sighed mock-seriously—“Watchdog’s home offices are in New York. Naturally they don’t think an authority from mere Carner has enough credibility to suit them.”

  Naturally. Even in Puerta del Sol, New Yorkers were famous for their cosmopolitan outlook on the rest of the country. But around here people probably resented it more.

  “I get the picture. But I think it’s a bad idea to wait that long. Bad for you, bad for Lacone.” Not to mention bad for Nakahatchi. “You need some kind of appraisal on paper right away. Even if the home offices insist on redoing it next week.”

  Deborah was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, I could barely hear her through the freeway noise.

  “You think something might happen to the chops.”

  She didn’t point out the obvious fact that I hadn’t even seen Martial America yet. Or that she and Posten together probably had ten times my experience with this kind of security. For some reason she seemed to trust me.

  “I do,” I answered. “But I can’t explain it. I mean, there’s nothing to explain. It’s just a hunch. All I’m sure of is that Bernie wasn’t killed by a petty thief. So why is he dead?

  “As far as I know, he wasn’t protecting anything valuable enough to kill for except those chops.”

  “I don’t see the connection.” I heard a frown in her voice.

  “I don’t either,” I conceded.

  She thought a bit longer, then said, “All right. I’m sure Sammy will back me on this. He’s had the twitches ever since Saturday. I’ll get back to you when I have something concrete.”

  “Thanks,” I said sincerely. She hadn’t lost her power to make me twang. “You can reach me on my cell phone.” I recited the number. When she said she had it, I shifted back to Bernie.

  “But of course it might not have anything to do with the chops. Bernie may’ve been killed for something he knew, or was involved in. Can you tell me if he ever had any dealings with Lacone, or Martial America, or Nakahatchi? Watchdog? Anson Sternway? The IAMA? Outside his job, I mean.”