The Man Who Fought Alone

  By then evening had become full dark outside. Night stained the windows black, and shadows leaked in past the shades, or under the front door, until they filled the apartment, crowding it with questions. Trying to keep Bernie’s loneliness at bay, I switched on more lights and went back to work.

  Fortunately the rest of my calls were easier. There were a few that I wanted to postpone because I had no legal standing—a law office, a bank, an insurance agency, The Luxury’s day-shift manager. For a wonder, I managed to catch most of the others at home. The majority worked for The Luxury, primarily on Bernie’s shift. Two were neighbors. The ones left over turned out to be either acquaintances of Bernie’s—the kind of acquaintances you share a beer with occasionally and don’t tell anything personal—or friends of Alyse’s.

  One way or another, they all told the same story. Bernie Appelwait was exactly what he looked like, an aging security guard grown isolated and short-tempered since the death of his dear wife. He could’ve retired a while back, rested on his pension, but he wanted to keep busy. Since he did good work, The Luxury let him stay.

  Alyse’s friends made tsk-ing sounds, emitted little gusts of sympathy and sadness, but they didn’t have anything new to add. And what you might loosely call Bernie’s drinking buddies contributed even less. Mostly they were just surprised to hear that it was possible for a hotel security guard to get killed on the job.

  After a couple of hours continuously on the phone, I’d learned nothing that helped me do anything except fume. The picture emerging under Alyse’s poignant gaze was pretty much the one I’d expected—and dreaded.

  Bernie hadn’t been killed because he was Bernie Appelwait. Or even because he was The Luxury’s Chief of Security. He’d been killed because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  To that extent, it was a senseless crime. And senseless crimes were always the hardest to solve. Always. They lacked the motivation that linked killer and victim in simpler murders. Like a drive-by shooting, they revealed a great deal about the killer, and very little about the victim.

  Typically killers like that escaped clean unless they left an eyewitness or some definitive circumstantial evidence behind.

  Nevertheless I was sure that Bernie’s death could be explained. My nerves insisted on it, and I believed them.

  He’d died because he could identify his killer. And, somehow, because of the chops.

  On that happy note, I probably should’ve relocked the apartment and driven away. Found myself something to eat on the off chance that raising my blood sugar would lift my mood. But the sheer effort which Bernie had put into his ship building seemed to require more of me. And from her pictures Alyse smiled glowingly, like a woman sure in her heart that I wouldn’t let her down.

  I checked the time. In a little more than an hour, I was supposed to meet Anson Sternway back at Martial America.

  Groaning at the offense to my bedraggled pride, I dialed Marshal Viviter’s cell phone number.

  I didn’t know what he did with his off hours—or rather I thought I knew way too much about what he did with them—so I feared that he wouldn’t answer. But he picked up after the second ring.

  “Viviter.”

  He didn’t sound like I’d interrupted him in the middle of anything really compulsory.

  “Marshal.” A complex relief blunted the edge that usually came into my voice when I talked to him. “It’s Brew.”

  “Brew,” he acknowledged. “You never quit, do you.”

  “You forget I don’t know anyone in Carner.” I tried to keep it light. “Who else am I going to talk to?”

  “So talk.” He hesitated fractionally, then asked, “Are you all right? You sound—”

  He didn’t specify how I sounded.

  Instead of answering his question, I said, “I’m in Bernie’s apartment.”

  “Really? That’s called ‘breaking and entering,’ Brew.”

  “Tell me about it some other time,” I retorted. “I don’t work for you, so it’s not your worry.”

  Abruptly I stopped. With the phone clamped hard to my head, I paused to kick myself for being snide to a man who hadn’t actually done anything except help me.

  Through my teeth, I muttered, “Sorry about that. The strain must be getting to me.”

  He didn’t respond. I took a deep breath and started again.

  “I know I asked you to research Bernie’s past. But I didn’t know how much you could accomplish without a client to represent, and I had some time, so I came here.

  “I’ve been through his papers.” Compounding the misdemeanor. “And I’ve called a bunch of his friends and relatives. Here’s the short version. He was involved in absolutely nothing that might explain why he was killed. If he hadn’t walked into that restroom right when he did, he’d still be alive.”

  Pure fucking bad luck.

  “For a man who just met him three days ago,” Marshal observed, “you’re taking this pretty hard.”

  I wanted to pull the phone away from my ear and beat myself on the head with it. “You haven’t seen this apartment,” I countered. “It’s so damn lonely—” My throat closed.

  “And you aren’t?” he asked quietly. “Come on, Brew. You knew from the start that it probably didn’t have anything to do with him. If he hadn’t been pugnacious and independent enough to go into that restroom alone, he’d still be alive. You’re grasping at straws. If Bernie was involved in something that got him killed, you might not have to feel so sorry for him.

  “Or—”

  Again he didn’t specify.

  And again I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to risk hearing him say that he thought I was just feeling sorry for myself.

  Changing the subject hard, I asked, “Have you heard anything new from Moy? Has the ME figured out which hand left that bruise on Bernie’s wrist?”

  Marshal had no trouble keeping up with me. “You’re going to love this,” he said in a completely different tone. “He was so taken with the question that he called back to tell me the answer.” Cops never called private investigators back. That was a law. “The ME says the bruise was made with the assailant’s right hand. The bruise on the left cheek looks like it was made backhand, with the left fist. It’s about the right size and shape for that. He now speculates that the assailant grabbed the right wrist with his right hand and swung his left fist across the left cheek.”

  For some reason, Marshal didn’t remind me that the ME and Moy didn’t know about the flik because I hadn’t mentioned it.

  Staring at ships in bottles, I asked, “What about those fibers?” The ones pounded into Bernie’s throat. “Does the ME know yet if they came from Bernie’s blazer?”

  “That’s not his department.” Somehow Marshal managed to sound like he wasn’t making an effort to be patient. “The blazer and the fibers are at the lab now. But I’m sure Moy only went that far because he liked my question about the wrist bruise. He thinks this one’s too obvious. He won’t ask the lab to hurry on it.”

  That, too, was my fault. No doubt the detective assumed that the killer used his own weapon. Moy had no reason to think the fibers could’ve come from some other blazer.

  “He ought to take a closer look,” I growled in my own defense. “I didn’t see any spots on Bernie’s blazer that looked like fibers were torn off.”

  “Brew—” Marshal began.

  I heard the warning in his tone. “Don’t say it,” I snapped. “I’ll tell him. I’ll call him in the morning.”

  Then I sighed. Marshal probably deserved an explanation. Wearily I said, “I only kept my mouth shut because Wisman asked me to.”

  “Wisman?”

  “One of The Luxury’s security guards. They aren’t supposed to carry weapons. Hotel policy. He thought he’d get in trouble if anyone found out about Bernie’s flik. The dumb kid had a tonfa hidden under his jacket. I guess I wanted him to trust me. At the time, anyway. We were supposed to be working together.”

&nb
sp; Viviter considered this for a moment. Finally he pronounced, “I understand. No harm, no foul, as they say. Even if you’d betrayed Wisman’s little secret right away, the lab wouldn’t have started on those fibers until the ME was done. We wouldn’t be much closer to an answer than we are now.”

  Damn it, the sonofabitch had no business treating me so gently. But I knew perfectly well why I hated his attitude with such vehemence, and it had nothing to do with him. His only real fault was that he reminded me too much of the man I wished I were.

  Still grasping at straws, I changed directions again. “While you had him on the phone, did Moy happen to mention whether Bernie left a will?”

  Marshal chuckled at that. “He shouldn’t have, but he did. Just trying to get me off his back.

  “It seems Bernie left a respectable estate. Nothing excessive for a senior security guard who knew how to save, but respectable. He left it all to his sister Maureen. No other bequests.”

  I thought about Maureen Appelwait in her nursing home, and wondered if she’d forgotten—again—that her brother was dead. “Damn it,” I groaned. “I don’t like this.”

  “It doesn’t have to be fair,” Marshal said in my ear. “If you wanted fair, you should’ve gone into accounting.”

  I took the phone away from my head and stared at it for a while. In a funny way, I thought I had gone into accounting. Wasn’t that what private investigators did? Account for things?

  Who would account for Bernie, if I didn’t? Alyse didn’t seem to have any other volunteers handy. But I was too tired to explain myself to Marshal.

  When I lifted the phone to my ear again, I heard him saying, “Brew? Brew?”

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “I had to think for a minute.”

  “You worry me,” he retorted a bit stiffly, “you know that? Nobody recovers from a gut wound in only a month, and yet here you are, wearing yourself out over a man you hardly knew. I admit his death doesn’t make sense. But most crimes don’t. And this one isn’t your problem. It’s Moy’s. He can handle it better than you can. He has the resources to track it down. You don’t.

  “Take my advice, Brew. Go home. Get some rest. Concentrate on keeping Alex Lacone happy.”

  Actually I disagreed with him. Most crimes did make sense. Maybe they all did. They might look random or gratuitous from the outside, but on the inside they all had their own logic. People did what they did for reasons. Crazy reasons, sometimes, stupid or malicious reasons, careless reasons, misguided—but reasons. The man who’d killed Bernie and taken the flik had reasons. They just didn’t involve Bernie personally.

  Before I hung up, I said, “I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Marshal. I know I don’t sound like it. I suppose that’s because I don’t understand you.” Or because I thought I did—and I hated it. “But you’ve already done more than I had a right to ask for, and I want to say thanks.”

  He replied with a snorting noise. “In other words, no, you won’t take my advice. OK. You’re a big boy now. You can probably make your own decisions. What are you going to do?”

  I shrugged at the nearest sailing ship. “I have a date with Sternway. He wants to show me where he gets his credibility in the martial arts.

  “One way or another,” I added aimlessly, “all Lacone’s plans for Martial America seem to depend on Sternway’s credibility.”

  “Brew—” Marshal stopped himself, then started again. “Have you still got that cannon you showed me the other day?”

  “Sure.” I carried it like a weight on my heart. I’d killed my brother with it. Without it I felt incomplete. “Why?”

  “Just a precaution.” He sounded a bit too casual for my taste. “I’ve heard rumors about Sternway’s nights out.”

  Apprehension crawled like a line of ants across my belly. “Such as?”

  “Such as rumors, that’s all,” Marshal replied tartly. “I couldn’t guess whether they’re true or not.” His tone lightened for a moment. “Tomorrow you’ll be able to tell me.” Then he seemed to bear down. “Just don’t let him talk you into anything that strikes you as odd.”

  Odd? I muttered to myself. Anson Sternway? No shit.

  Aloud I said, “I’m safe then. The way I feel tonight, he couldn’t talk me into buying him a drink.”

  With evident relief, Marshal replied, “Good”

  After that he reminded me to call him when I’d talked to Moy. Finally we managed to hang up.

  Staring vacantly at the ceiling, I thought, Rumors? Oh, joy.

  So far I hadn’t liked anything that working for Lacone had gotten me into.

  17

  I might’ve just sat there for an hour or two, drinking the occasional glass of water and hating Bernie’s death, but it was obvious that I couldn’t. While I’d been on the phone, Alyse’s smile had taken on an expectant tinge. Didn’t I have places to go? she appeared to ask kindly. Questions to ask? Ideas to pursue? Or maybe behind her angelic beam she just looked worried.

  And I was running out of time.

  I felt too tired to eat anything. Just climbing to my feet and leaving Bernie’s apartment without cleaning it some more seemed to exhaust my reserves of willpower and tough-mindedness. By the time I reached the Plymouth, I ached to sprawl on the floor behind the seats and take a nap.

  So I decided to act like a grown-up for a change. If nothing else, I needed to shore up my nerves for one of Sternway’s “nights out.” Ignoring the steady nag of my watch, I pulled out of Bernie’s neighborhood and went cruising for another fast-food joint. I didn’t start to pick my way across Carner toward Martial America until I’d visited the drive-through of a generic chicken place and taken plenty of napkins to absorb the grease.

  Luckily the drive was comparatively easy. Blazing streetlamps, incandescent car dealerships, and halogen-scorched malls notwithstanding, this part of Carner was almost deserted now. Unless they attended some sporting event, the city’s regular denizens must’ve retreated to their homes. No doubt they all yearned for some space where they could actually turn off the lights. As a result, the streets were almost empty, and I hauled into Martial America’s parking lot only ten minutes late.

  By then I had enough heartburn to power a nuclear submarine, and the effects of Bernie’s loneliness had sunk into the marrow of my bones. I was in no danger of letting Sternway talk me into anything.

  Lights showed in the upper windows of Essential Shotokan, but the dojo below, like the rest of that building, was dark. Malaysian Fighting Arts’ training spaces were apparently still in use, although I didn’t hear any yells.

  The IAMA director waited for me beside his Camaro, standing with his arms crossed in a pose that would’ve looked rigid on anyone else. He’d changed his white shirt and slacks for a light grey sweatshirt and warmup pants. On his feet he wore boat moccasins with no socks. Shadows cast from the nearest light pole concealed his expression.

  I parked the Plymouth in line with Sternway’s car and got out. Just for a second, the night air felt inexplicably cold. Then stored heat from the concrete pushed the sensation away. Familiar sweat gathered at my temples as I walked toward him.

  He nodded a greeting. “Glad you could make it.” His tone might’ve meant anything.

  I peered at him, but even close up I couldn’t read his face. He looked as unapproachable as a stone idol. “Am I overdressed?” I asked. “You didn’t tell me you were going to change.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he replied distantly. “No one cares.” He gestured me toward the Camaro. “Shall we go?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll follow you. That way I can drive myself home afterward.” I didn’t want to be stuck with him if he decided to do something odd.

  “Suit yourself.” With an indifferent shrug, he reached for the door of his car.

  Suit myself. Fine. “Just one thing,” I put in. “A question I forgot to ask earlier.”

  He dropped his hand. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been wondering. What’s the real re
ason you haven’t moved into Martial America? Wouldn’t you be in a better position to keep the peace if you were there when trouble started?”

  He tilted his head, and a flash from the light pole gleamed in his eyes. “Possibly.” The subject didn’t interest him. “Or I might be caught in the middle. I could lose my leverage with both sides.”

  “But it might be worth the risk,” I insisted. “Lacone sounds like he’s willing to cut quite a deal for you.”

  Sternway made a small sound like a sigh. “He’s in the business of making money, Brew. Generosity would reduce his income.”

  Then he appeared to rally his attention. “In fact,” he went on more strongly, “Mr. Lacone has offered me very favorable terms. But there are strings attached. If I stake the future of my school on the success of Martial America, I’ll be damaged if his dream fails. In order to protect myself, I’ll have to continue working on his behalf whether he pays me for my efforts or not. You could say that I’ll be trapped into serving as his consultant and promoter for free.

  “I’m better off independent of Martial America.”

  As he spoke, I felt the kind of satisfaction you get when you find a jigsaw piece that fits. One section of the puzzle he presented came into focus.

  Earlier he’d made a sympathetic speech about how the IAMA existed to promote a sense of mutual cooperation, understanding, and support among all the martial arts. And how Martial America had the potential to foster a sense of community which can only benefit the martial arts. At the time, I hadn’t known what to make of his professed idealism. Now I did.

  It was bullshit. Huckster talk. What he really cared about was getting his hands on Lacone’s money.

  Without warning I began looking forward to whatever he planned to show me tonight. I wanted to know now he earned respect in the martial arts world. His credibility obviously didn’t derive from innate moral authority.

  “Fair enough.” I grinned at him with my teeth. “That answers my question.