The Man Who Fought Alone

  “Good, good.” He’d tuned his enthusiasm to an all-approval station. “Sounds like you’ve made a real start.”

  Before I could express an opinion about that, he went on, “How does it look so far, Brew? We agreed on a week for a full report, but naturally I’m curious about your preliminary reactions. How much worrying should I do right now?”

  I could’ve told him, but I wanted to deflect him a bit, maybe disturb his balance some. “One question first, Mr. Lacone,” I countered. “This skeleton key—how many other copies are there?”

  “Two, I believe,” he replied without hesitation. “We keep one handy in case we need to send out someone for emergency repairs. And of course it’s available for the police, the fire department, the paramedics, that sort of thing. The other is in our office strongbox. Just as a precaution.”

  “And you’re sure you have your copies? They haven’t been misplaced or borrowed?” I meant stolen.

  “I’ll check.”

  The phone picked up a clicking sound like an intercom switch. Then I heard Lacone ask, “Cassie, do you have the keys for Martial America?”

  A woman’s voice somewhere in the background answered. It seemed to quaver a little. “I have one of them here, Mr. Lacone. The other is in the strongbox.”

  “Good, good.” I guess he liked saying that. Without prompting, he continued, “Has anyone used them recently?”

  “Not since we made the copy you gave to Mr. Sternway.”

  “Thank you, Cassie.” The clicking sound came again.

  “Cassandra Hightower,” Lacone explained to me. “My personal assistant. She hasn’t made a mistake since the Roosevelt administration.” He chuckled. “That’s Teddy Roosevelt.” Then he added, “She’ll give you any help you need if I’m not available.”

  I nodded at the windshield, trying not to get lost. “Glad to hear it.” Maybe I could stop worrying about skeleton keys.

  Lord knows I had plenty of other worries.

  “You asked for a preliminary opinion, Mr. Lacone,” I went on. “The way I see it, right now the chops would be safer if you just left them in the parking lot. That way no one would think they’re worth anything.”

  For a moment, he offered me a shocked silence. Then he murmured, “Oh, my.” Which was a big improvement on good, good. “That seems harsh.”

  “I don’t think so.” I didn’t want to drag the conversation out. Carner’s convulsive rush hour had begun to gather around me, and I needed to concentrate on my driving. “I’m sure you remember how the locks are keyed. Each dojo just has one. The same key fits the front door, the fire exits, the apartments, the conference room.” Plus whatever was on the third floor. “Anyone with a copy of Essential Shotokan’s key can get at the chops at any time, day or night.”

  I could feel him getting ready to object, but I forestalled him by saying, “I assume that Nakahatchi sensei has been sensible about copies. I’m told there are only four. But those aren’t complicated locks, Mr. Lacone. Anyone with a set of picks can open them. And you can buy picks almost anywhere.” Including mail order. “Along with instructions. In effect, anyone at all can get at the chops.

  “As matters stand, you’d better pray that Nakahatchi sensei and Mr. Komatori are light sleepers, because that’s all the protection you’ve got.”

  Sammy Posten could’ve told Lacone exactly the same thing. He didn’t need me. But I kept that to myself.

  Lacone breathed, “Oh, my,” again. This time I didn’t hear any imminent objections.

  “It’s a simple problem, really, Mr. Lacone,” I explained. “That building was designed for public use, not to secure valuable antiques. Any place like it would have the same problems.”

  After a long moment’s consideration, he asked, “What do you suggest?” For once he didn’t sound like he was smiling.

  “Two things to start with,” I replied promptly. “First, install a couple of heavy bolts on the inside of the conference room door. And I don’t mean deadbolts you can open with a key. I’m talking about old-fashioned sliding bolts set top-and-bottom so that they anchor the door to both the lintel and the floor.

  “Then hire an electronic security firm to put motion sensors in the hall outside the conference room. And set pressure plates under the carpet in front of the door. Have them all wired to an arming switch in Nakahatchi’s apartment—or Komatori’s.

  “It’ll be an inconvenience,” I admitted. “They’ll have to remember to shoot the bolts and arm the sensors when they lock up for the night. But that’s trivial compared to the cost of insuring those chops. And I’m sure Watchdog will approve.

  “I’ll have more for you when I’ve studied the building”—I meant the schools—“and done some research. But bolts and some electronic security will cover you for now.”

  Unless a thief tried to get in through one of the apartment windows—which seemed implausible to me. In Carner’s heat, no one left windows open. And both apartments were occupied.

  The developer’s silence gave me the impression that he wasn’t happy. “What kind of research?” he asked reluctantly.

  “I want to talk to someone who handles security for a museum. He’ll know more than I do about protecting valuables in a public building.”

  He may’ve been worried about what my suggestions would cost.

  Apparently I was right. “I believe,” he pronounced after another pause, “my present insurance covers me until the chops are appraised.” In other words, this was Watchdog’s problem, not his—at least for now. “I’m sure I can get those bolts installed in a day or two. But motion sensors and pressure plates sound expensive. I don’t want to spend that kind of money if I don’t have to.”

  For instance, if the chops turned out to be counterfeit—

  “That’s your call, Mr. Lacone,” I put in unsympathetically. “You’re paying me to give you advice, not to stand guard on the display personally. I’ll protect them as well as I can. But I can’t be there twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I understand, Brew, I understand.” His bonhomie sounded a trifle forced. “Of course I want your advice.” A beat later, he asked, “How much would those sensors and plates run me?”

  I shrugged at the windshield. “You’ll have to get an estimate from an electronic security professional. I don’t have the expertise to install them, so I don’t buy them myself.”

  I refrained from adding that it was silly to wait a couple of days before putting in bolts. I’d made my suggestions. If he chose not to take them seriously, that was his business.

  And I also didn’t mention that I’d already urged Deborah Messenger to arrange a preliminary appraisal. She could deal with him when she was ready. The bad news didn’t have to come from me.

  “Well, I’ll give it some thought,” Lacone announced as if that constituted reaching a decision. By degrees he recovered his smiling tone. “In the meantime, Cassie will fill out a work order. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Before he could finish dismissing me, I put in, “Just one or two more questions, Mr. Lacone.”

  “Of course,” he sighed. He seemed to be losing his enthusiasm for me. “Go ahead.”

  I offered the traffic and the street signs a hard grin. “I had a small problem at Traditional Wing Chun this afternoon. Nothing serious—just a misunderstanding. But it took me by surprise.

  “Sifu Hong seemed to think that you hired me to protect the chops from him.”

  “He did?” Lacone asked. “I’m astonished. Brew.” He sounded astonished. “Where would he get such an idea? It’s preposterous. I have nothing but the greatest respect for him. Men like him—and Nakahatchi sensei—and Anson Sternway—they give me faith in my dreams for Martial America.”

  Sincerity wasn’t his strong point, that was plain. But he came close enough to satisfy me, at least for the time being. He had good reason to keep his schools happy, if he could.

  “I’ll tell him you said so. That should relieve his mind.”

 
Then, deliberately abrupt—hoping to catch him off-guard—I asked, “How well did you know Bernie Appelwait?”

  “Bernie—?” For a moment he seemed unable to place the name. Then he said, “Oh, that security guard. The one who got killed.

  “I didn’t know him at all. Just his name. He worked at the tournament. Didn’t he hire you to help guard the chops? I think I may have shaken his hand once.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Instead of answering, I countered, “What about your assistant? Maybe she remembers him.”

  “I can’t imagine why she would,” he said dubiously. But he clicked his intercom anyway. “Cassie, does the name ‘Bernie Appelwait’ mean anything to you?”

  “Of course, Mr. Lacone. He was the Chief of Security at The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center.” Maybe she really hadn’t made a mistake in decades. “At one time you considered hiring him to provide security for Martial America. But you didn’t want to pay as much as he earned at The Luxury. Eventually you concluded that the buildings didn’t require full-time security.”

  “Ah, yes,” he conceded. “Now I remember. Thank you, Cassie.” Another distinct click silenced the intercom.

  “Invaluable woman,” he muttered. “I don’t know how she does it.” He didn’t sound pleased. “But she’s right, of course. We talked about hiring full-time security—this was months ago. But security firms cost an arm and a leg. Someone suggested a hotel security guard might be less expensive. I may have mentioned Mr. Appelwait myself, poor man. But when I learned what The Luxury pays an employee with his seniority—” The phone connection conveyed a shrug. “Eventually we discarded the idea.”

  “Who is ‘we,’ Mr. Lacone?”

  “Let me think. Sammy Posten, naturally. Anson.” He paused briefly. “Oh, and Mike Piangi. He’s the Vice President for Commercial Loans over at Carner National Bank and Trust.”

  In fact, they were exactly the people with whom he might’ve been expected to discuss security for Martial America. As my employer he was certainly forthcoming, I had to give him that.

  I’d baffled him, however, and he wanted an explanation. “What’s this all about, Brew?”

  “I have no idea, Mr. Lacone,” I admitted honestly enough. “All I know is that Bernie was killed while he was responsible for the chops. That’s a pretty remote connection, obviously. But if I want to earn what you’re paying me, I have to look into every conceivable hint of trouble, no matter how implausible it seems.”

  Which was why I needed to know where Hong’s knee-jerk distrust came from.

  “Fair enough.” He had his smile tuned to a stronger signal now. Maybe he thought that every potential threat I identified and blocked reduced the eventual cost of long-term security. “You’re doing a fine job, Brew. Keep up the good work.”

  That made it easy to get off the phone. When we’d said goodbye, I hung up.

  By then I was nearly lost again. The accumulating traffic demanded my attention, which made me feel that I’d wandered off my route. And on top of that, I was not in a good mood.

  The chops had been in Bernie’s care when he was killed. Lacone had mentioned Bernie’s name to his business associates. As connections went, those weren’t just remote, they were bloody intangible. Which left me pretty much right where I’d started—clueless. If I didn’t find something useful at Bernie’s apartment, I’d have a hell of a time tracing his killer.

  Unless the killer cut his way through more innocent bystanders to reach the chops—A man who didn’t mind hacking down a frail old security guard wouldn’t stop until he got what he really wanted.

  Involuntarily I shuddered, and my guts squirmed. For a moment or two, sweat blurred my vision, despite the Plymouth’s AC. If this kept up, I’d find myself in the kind of black funk that positively begged for booze.

  Luckily I hadn’t missed any turns. By now rush hour had clogged itself down to a thin trickle, but that made spotting street signs easy. Stoplights and hostile drivers clotted my route, but eventually I reached Bernie’s neighborhood.

  His apartment turned out to be upstairs in a brick fourplex on a block full of identical buildings with narrow strips of lawn like dog runs between them and exactly one unconvincing sycamore in each front yard. Some of the flower beds against the walls showed more care than others, but they all seemed to hold the identical gardenias and peonies. On the inside, Bernie’s building sported carpeting like Astroturf, designed to hide dirt and stains, and planters occupied by forlorn plastic palm fronds. It was well lit, however, like the rest of Carner, with uncompromising fluorescent bulbs partially humanized by frosted shades.

  A staircase took me up to a landing with a numbered steel door on each side. I knocked on Bernie’s—just in case the cops, a relative, or some fiduciary friend happened to be there—but there was no answer. When I hadn’t heard anything for a minute or so, I jimmied the door and let myself in.

  Someone had left a light on in the living room. With my back to the door, I glanced around. The living room ran half the length of the building, but that didn’t make it large. And it was crowded with furnishings—a couple of spavined bookcases, an old pre-remote TV, a cracked Naugahyde recliner, a couch with defeated springs, a sturdy little workbench littered with tools and glue, and four assorted end tables, all set around an ersatz Oriental rug. The whole space including the rug looked neglected, abandoned to depression and dust—with the exception of the framed photographs on the walls, and the wine bottles and jugs of various sizes carefully positioned on their sides in delicate stands on every available surface.

  Bottles and jugs with wooden sailing ships inside them. I counted eighteen.

  The photographs were all of the same woman, middle-aged, tending to fat, with nondescript hair, a wide forehead, small brown eyes too far apart—and a smile so utterly and entirely seraphic that it wrung my heart. It beamed like a blessing out of every frame, warming everything she saw.

  I knew intuitively who she was, without a scrap of actual identification. Bernie’s wife. Dead for a number of years now, if the condition of the rug were any indication.

  Every day he’d worked his twelve-hour shift at The Luxury. And every night he’d taken refuge here under her loving gaze, meticulously building ships in bottles because she was gone and he was alone.

  I found more in the kitchen, some jaunty, others trudging against forgotten winds. And more in the bedroom. Even in the bathroom. Ships in bottles and pictures of his wife were the only decorations he’d cared to have around him.

  I had a lump in my throat I couldn’t swallow as I started searching his apartment.

  If the cops had been here ahead of me, they were neat as hell about it. I didn’t find any disturbed dust to indicate that something had been moved, any of the usual scrap of police investigations in the wastebaskets. Which meant that whoever had the job of putting Bernie’s “affairs” in order and disposing of his “effects” hadn’t been here yet. Maybe he’d died intestate, so uncared-for that the residue of his life would just sit here until his landlord evicted it.

  In the end, I didn’t have to do much searching. I found everything that interested me, including his address book, neatly organized in a filing cabinet in one of the bedroom closets. Everything except a will. But that didn’t mean much. The cops might’ve taken it to deliver to some lawyer or agency.

  Assuming the cops had been here, they must’ve copied what they wanted out of his address book. That made my job easier, but I still didn’t like it. It suggested that Edgar Moy wasn’t taking this investigation very seriously.

  A quick scan of Bernie’s financial records didn’t supply any surprises. I was no CPA, but the numbers looked about right for a man who’d worked steadily and spent very little—no unexplained infusions of cash, no unidentified expenditures. Rent aside, his biggest monthly expense was a payment to a nursing home.

  The address book made my eyes ache when I looked at it. It was relatively empty compared to others I’d seen, and ever
y blank space seemed to describe a life of emotional poverty. It gave me the phone number for the nursing home, however, along with a collection of other numbers, some self-explanatory, others just labeled with the names of people I didn’t know.

  My stomach complained to remind me that I hadn’t eaten for a while, but I figured its objections were mostly an excuse to stop what I was doing, so I ignored it. Feeling like an intruder, I helped myself to a tall glass from one of the kitchen cabinets and filled it with water. Then I sat down on the couch—the recliner was so obviously his that I didn’t want to violate it—and started to make phone calls.

  Talking to the nursing home turned out to be the worst of the lot. Bernie’s sister, Maureen Appelwait, lived there, alone in the world except for her link with her brother, supported by him while she drifted in and out of Alzheimer’s, and no one had told her that he was dead. I caught her between lucidity and confusion, apparently trying to go in both directions at once, and my news didn’t help. She cried some, forgot what I’d told her a few times, demanded details I loathed giving her. But in the gaps she revealed a little bit about his life.

  He was her only brother. They had a sister, Florence, who’d passed away five years ago—or was it three? Eight? One night while she slept her heart had simply stopped. His wife, Alyse—Maureen spelled and pronounced it for me, “ah-LEASE”—died fifteen years ago, killed by a misdiagnosed kidney cancer. He was devastated, just devastated. The three women had been such friends, Florence and Maureen never married, Alyse couldn’t have children, they and poor Bernie had given each other the only family they had, and what was the name of that nice doctor who told her she was doing fine, just fine? Was it yesterday? Or maybe when she moved into the nursing home?

  I listened to her for half an hour. Not once did she ask what would happen to her without Bernie to pay the bills. If she had, I couldn’t have answered.

  After I hung up, I gulped down the glass of water. Then I got off the couch, located Bernie’s vacuum cleaner—a wheezy upright nearly as old as I was—and cleaned the hell out of the rug. I didn’t stop until I could push a damp finger down into the nap and not pick up anything.