The Man Who Fought Alone

  Panting weakly, I lowered the broom. Maybe I’d imagined the spider webs. Smudges on the towels, however, indicated that I’d cleaned something.

  Patiently Ginny waited for me to go on. Her face wore the kind of expression you’d expect from a psychiatrist while a patient with multiple personalities argued with himselves.

  I needed to get to the point before I fell down.

  “But it’s more complicated than that,” I told the end of the broom. At least to me. “I spotted a team of thieves working the tournament. We rounded up the picks. The security guard who got killed”—I could go that far without tarnishing my pledge to the Appelwaits—“was trying to catch the drop.”

  Abruptly I shambled back to the kitchen. When I’d disposed of the towels and stashed the broom, I returned to the couch. Sitting down because I didn’t want to collapse headlong, I said thinly, “That just doesn’t make sense to me.” I told her why. Then I added, “Since it doesn’t make sense anyway, I can’t shake the idea that there was something else going on. Something I missed.

  “The only things worth killing for at that tournament—and I mean the only things—were those chops.”

  And whoever did it wouldn’t stop until he had them, no matter how many people he had to kill.

  Ginny waited until she was sure I was done. Then she suggested in a quiet voice, “Another one of your leaps.”

  “Maybe,” I admitted.

  She paused briefly before asking, “Does this have anything to do with getting beat up?”

  I sighed as my sense of defeat renewed its grip. “Turf Hardshorn was the drop.”

  She whistled through her teeth. “And now he’s dead. Cute.” I could almost hear her brain shuttle like a sewing machine on full throttle, stitching together pieces of the story that I hadn’t bothered to mention. After another pause, she announced flatly, “You’ll never know what he thought he was doing.”

  I almost countered, Not unless you trace that ID blocker. But I stopped myself in time. The idea had jumped into my head with the unmotivated inevitability of a post-hypnotic suggestion, and I didn’t trust it. Sometimes intuition betrayed me. On occasion I’d pushed it so hard that it just went crazy.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  I wasn’t ready to trust myself that far yet.

  She went on stitching. “So you have to make some assumptions. It’s hard to believe he could be stupid enough to call attention to himself at that club if he killed the security guard. That seems to confirm your theory about another man in the restroom.

  “You can also assume”—she hesitated momentarily—“this other man still wants the chops. If you don’t get your hands on him, he might kill someone else.”

  Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Brew.” Her jaw tightened as if she were worried about my reaction. “I don’t get it. I can see why you think Hardshorn wasn’t alone in the restroom. But the rest of it—I don’t see how you can assume the chops were involved.”

  When she said it that way, it sounded pretty implausible. I hadn’t mentioned my conviction that Bernie had recognized his killer. That the killer had a hell of lot more to lose than a bag full of petty theft.

  I also hadn’t mentioned the flik.

  Stubbornly I kept Bernie to myself.

  She gave me another minute, just in case I wanted to come clean. Deliberately she aimed her broken nose and her hawk’s gaze off to one side so that I wouldn’t have to face anything I preferred to avoid. In a vague way, I found myself wondering what had changed for her since I’d first contacted Marshal. Her attitude toward me had shifted in the past few days, and I didn’t know why. But we still weren’t on terms that would’ve allowed me to ask.

  Finally she flicked a glance at me, then looked away again.

  “You didn’t ask for my advice.” She’d resumed her neutral tone. Most of the tension had eased from her shoulders, but her claw still caught the light unsteadily. “But I say, take it a step at a time. Maybe there’s something you can do to defuse the problems in Martial America.”

  True, I hadn’t asked. But that didn’t stop me. “Like what?”

  “Have you considered getting the—what did you call him?—the sifu of that Chinese school to authenticate the chops?”

  I stared at her.

  “If he decides they’re fakes,” she explained, “he might relax. And even if he thinks they’re genuine, he might take being consulted as a sign of respect. It might give him ‘face.’ That could tone down his outrage.”

  Damn. My jaw dropped involuntarily, and I couldn’t stop staring. How did she do that?

  Now I remembered why I’d always thought she was wonderful.

  She met my stare. “Well?”

  Somehow I swallowed my astonishment. “That,” I said hoarsely, “is a horrible idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t think of it. And it might work. I don’t see how Hong can turn it down. He’s too serious to pass it up. The only tricky part—” I swallowed again. “I’ll have to convince the Japanese sensei to go along with it.”

  But I didn’t actually think he’d object.

  “Virginia H. Fistoulari.” A helpless grin twisted my bruises. “If I’d come up with that one myself, I’d call it brilliant.”

  Ginny clicked her claw once or twice. Her eyes smoldered humorously. “You don’t have to. ‘Brilliant’ is my middle name.”

  “Really?” I knew for a fact that her middle name was Harriet. “I thought the H stood for ‘hacksaw.’”

  This time she grinned back. “That’s what you’re supposed to think.”

  “Well, damn. I wish you hadn’t told me. Now I’ll be up half the night, trying to figure out how many H’s ‘brilliant’ has.”

  “No, you won’t.” Abruptly she stood up, cocked her fist on her hip like an indignant schoolmarm. “If you don’t put yourself to bed immediately, I’ll club you unconscious. I said you look terrible in a good way, but you still look terrible.”

  I did what she told me. I had a lot of work ahead of me—if I could get back out of bed in the morning. And taking her orders still felt as natural as sunshine. Muttering complaints I didn’t mean, I climbed off the couch and lurched toward my bedroom.

  As soon as I got my clothes off and stretched out, I plunged into sleep like a fall off a tall building.

  19

  During the night, patterns took shape inside me. Strands of inference that had nothing to do with my conscious mind wove toward a conclusion, unseen. By the time my alarm went off, I knew beyond all reason or argument that the chops were the key to Bernie’s death.

  And that the man with Hardshorn in The Luxury restroom wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

  How I’d reached that conviction I couldn’t guess. I tried to understand it as I stumbled into the bathroom, but both the reasoning and the implications eluded me. A cold shower didn’t help. Neither did shaving. And the deep bruises across my ribs only confused the issue. All I knew for sure was that I’d better get to work before more people died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I hated intuition when it worked this way. It seemed to do more harm than good. I had no idea who to protect. Or who to protect against. The more I thought about it, the more it eroded my confidence.

  Fortunately that effect was counterbalanced by last night’s talk with Ginny. Somehow we’d begun to repair the damage we’d inflicted on each other. Maybe I was finally starting to accept her relationship with Marshal. Or to accept that she had a right to it, whether I liked it or not.

  Also my torso and arms didn’t hurt as badly as I’d expected. Hardshorn had hit me hard enough to flatten a utility shed, but the emotional impact of the blows didn’t linger, despite my bruises.

  The fact that Ginny and I could talk to each other now meant more to me than almost any number of battered ribs.

  She’d left the apartment before I got up, depriving me of a chance to see what her new attitude looked like in the lig
ht of day. I didn’t fret over it, however. I had plenty of other things to worry about.

  Since I didn’t own a second suit, I put on contrasting slacks and a clean shirt. While I cooked breakfast, I sorted through some of the clutter in my head, which in turn enabled me to make a decision or two. By the time I’d eaten, washed the dishes, extracted a few phone numbers from directory assistance, and holstered the .45 under my jacket, I was approximately ready to face the day.

  Outside the sun had already sunk its teeth into Carner’s concrete. The Plymouth smelled vaguely of sweat, baked vinyl, and yearning. It didn’t want to start, but on the third try it limped to life. When the AC had circulated enough stale heat to begin cooling, I headed for Martial America.

  Piously hoping that I wouldn’t get lost, I attempted a route that didn’t rely on Carner’s freeways. I wanted to make some calls along the way, and I figured I’d be safer on surface roads.

  First things first. Before anything else, I called Marshal’s cell phone. When he answered, I said, “Thanks for the warning,” even though I hadn’t profited from it much.

  “Brew?” he asked.

  “I now know the truth,” I announced. The street I’d picked seemed to lead in the right direction. “I can tell you whatever you want to know about ‘Sternway’s nights out.’”

  Marshal wasn’t amused. “Does this mean,” he demanded crisply, “you’ve decided to dispense with politeness entirely? It’s customary to identify yourself when you call. In case you hadn’t noticed, cell phones make it tough to recognize voices.”

  “Oh, don’t be so touchy.” His reaction surprised me, but I didn’t take it seriously. “I call Lacone ‘sir’ whenever I talk to him. How much politeness do you think I can stand?”

  Apparently my attitude made him madder. “For someone who doesn’t work for me, you presume a lot, Axbrewder.”

  Instead of snapping back, I admitted, “I know. It’s because I don’t have anywhere else to turn.” Also because I couldn’t figure him out. “Bernie’s death got a whole lot messier last night, and I need to take it out on someone.”

  “Is that why you told Ginny to search Mai Sternway’s house?” he retorted. “You’re trying to ‘take it out on someone’?”

  Oh, shit. She’d already talked to him. That shocked me momentarily, although it shouldn’t have. I was accustomed to thinking of her as the boss, answerable only to her client.

  “It’s just a hunch,” I sighed. “I can’t explain it. I simply had the feeling that she might learn something useful.”

  “Mai Sternway is a client,” he informed me stiffly. “She pays good money for loyalty, discretion, and—”

  I cut him off. “And stupidity? Get off it, Marshal. I didn’t tell Ginny to do anything disloyal. Or indiscreet. I just reminded her that any good investigator tries to know as much as possible about the client. If nothing else,” I pointed out with more sarcasm than the situation required, “it might help prevent this particular client from setting you up.

  “Why don’t you stop complaining and tell me what’s really bothering you?”

  “I don’t know you that well,” he fired back. But then he paused. For a few seconds my phone didn’t pick up anything except occasional static. When he spoke again, he’d put most of his vexation aside.

  “OK, I’ll say this much. I told Ginny to go ahead, search the house. Not because I think it’s a good idea. I don’t. But I think I might be getting complacent. You’ve only been working here since Friday, and already you know more about Anson Sternway than I do. That pisses me off.”

  And, I added for him, searching Mai’s house hadn’t occurred to him. He’d gotten into the habit of taking his clients at their word. Carner was too rich, making money came too easily. How many years had passed since he’d been reminded that trusting his clients might be fatal?

  Ginny and I, on the other hand—

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I answered the question he hadn’t asked.

  “He goes to a fight club, where he and a bunch of other blood lovers pound each other into the canvas. Last night one of them was a goon they called Turf Hardshorn. He attacked me. Probably would’ve killed me, but Sternway did him first.

  “He’s the drop Bernie followed into that men’s room.”

  Marshal whistled surprise through his teeth—which told me that Ginny had kept her mouth shut about my business.

  “Presumably,” I explained, “he attacked me because he recognized me from the tournament.” Then I went on, “Moy showed up eventually. He stayed to go through the club, find out what he could about Hardshorn, but he didn’t encourage me to join him. I’ll call him later. Maybe he’ll tell me if he learned anything.

  “He might,” I insisted as if Marshal had objected. “For some reason, he keeps giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

  Marshal muttered something I couldn’t hear. Then he aimed his voice into the phone again.

  “So the goon who did Bernie is out of the picture. How does that make his death ‘messier’?”

  “Because,” I answered, “it still doesn’t make sense, and I’ve lost my only lead.” I’d already described my theory that Hardshorn wasn’t Bernie’s killer.

  Marshal paused to consider the problem. After a moment, he asked, “Who else could it have been? Who else had enough at stake to kill for it?”

  “How the hell should I know?” His question cut too close to intuitive convictions I couldn’t understand and didn’t trust. “No one has any real connection to those chops except Hong and Nakahatchi, and they never left the hall.”

  Neither had Sue Rasmussen and Ned Gage. Or Komatori and T’ang. Or Bernie’s guards. Only Master Soon was absent at the right time.

  That left me with way too many other possibilities, and no viable way to winnow the list.

  “I see the problem,” Marshal admitted. “What do you hope to get from Moy?”

  “Anything at all about Hardshorn. Who he is, where he worked, where he lived, who his friends were.”

  I meant, Anything that might suggest a link to the chops, or to someone at the tournament. Or to Bernie.

  Marshal seemed to accept that. “How can I help?”

  “Keep after Moy about those fibers they found in Bernie’s neck,” I told him. “If they didn’t come from his blazer—”

  “There must have been someone else in the restroom,” he finished for me. “Someone wearing a similar blazer.”

  Right. Someone wearing a blazer. And a contusion. If Bernie hit him hard enough to leave fibers in the flik, he’d have a bruise on him somewhere.

  “Consider it done,” Marshal promised. “Moy has already told me too much to stop talking now.”

  “Thanks.” I was sincere, but I couldn’t leave it there. Feeling grateful to him still made me uncomfortable. Only half joking, I added, “You know I hate you, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t imagine why he was willing to do so much for me.

  He laughed humorlessly. “You don’t exactly hide it. I just don’t know why you bother.”

  The line clicked dead. I put the phone down to concentrate on my route for a minute or two. I was already floundering in too many directions at once. I did not need to get lost on my way to Martial America.

  Originally I’d assumed that Marshal was nice to me for Ginny’s sake. Because he was fucking her. But that quaint notion no longer seemed adequate. It didn’t explain why he’d thrown Ginny and me together over the Sternways.

  And it didn’t account for the distinct modulation of Ginny’s manner toward me.

  Just to be on the safe side, I checked my map. It indicated that I was right on track.

  In my condition, the mere idea felt like a cruel joke.

  Sighing to myself, I picked up the phone and dialed the number on Edgar Moy’s card.

  He didn’t sound surprised to hear from me. And he told me without prodding that the driver’s license in Hardshorn’s wallet identified him as “James M. Hardshorn,
” address withheld pending investigation. The wallet also contained nearly fifteen hundred bucks in cash, but no credit cards or other information—in particular, no conveniently incriminating phone numbers, addresses, or contacts.

  If Moy had learned anything useful last night, he kept it to himself. Instead he told me in a bored tone which might’ve masked humor or irritation that no one had admitted knowing Hardshorn outside the fight club. Several patrons reported watching him fight several times. A couple of fighters said that they’d taken him on. None of them had ever seen him lose.

  They’d said the same of Anson Sternway. Apparently Sternway and Hardshorn had never tackled each other. According to one of the bouncers, the two were establishing their reputations so that when they finally fought the winner would make as much money as possible.

  Ah, hell. I thanked the detective and hung up. I still didn’t know whether he took my theory about Bernie’s killer seriously, but I figured I’d better leave that subject to Marshal. He’d known Moy a lot longer than I had.

  So far I hadn’t accomplished a thing for Bernie—or Alyse. So what? Take it a step at a time. No one ever cracked a case by standing still.

  Despite—or maybe because of—my floundering sensation, I called Deborah Messenger next.

  I was on a roll of sorts. Like Marshal and Sergeant Moy, she answered her phone right away.

  “Deborah,” I said, “it’s Brew,” just to prove that I could benefit from Marshal’s advice. “Are we still on for tonight?”

  She laughed with pleasure. “Let me put it this way. If you’re calling to cancel, I’ll buy a voodoo doll and stick pins in it until you change your mind.”

  I grinned into the phone. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  How else could I hope to find out what she was up to?

  “In that case,” she said like nibbling on my ear, “this must be a business call. I’ll try to act like a professional.” Her tone gave the remark a provocative frisson.