The Man Who Fought Alone

Suddenly I was awake all the way. “No,” I assured her quickly, without quite making sense. Then I pulled myself together. “I mean, no, we don’t have a bad connection. I’m fine.”

  As fine as I needed to be, anyway.

  “That’s good”—her tone conveyed a grin—“because you have a date with me tonight, and I have no intention of letting you tell me you’ve got a headache.”

  I grinned back. “Don’t worry. I could have the absolute apocalypse of all headaches, and I’d forget it existed the minute I laid eyes on you.”

  Deborah laughed. Even the cell phone’s deficiencies couldn’t disguise her warmth. “Ah, such gallantry. I do love the way you talk.” Then she turned serious. “Especially since I’m afraid I’m about to give you a headache myself.”

  “Don’t worry,” I repeated. “What’s one more?”

  “In that case—” She may’ve nodded to herself. “I’ve been busy this afternoon. Mr. Swilley didn’t keep us waiting for his appraisal. According to him, the chops are worth—”

  She named a number that made me hold my breath and stare, despite the fact that I’d been braced for seven figures.

  When I could inhale again, I murmured, “Christ on a crutch.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” she returned dryly. “You see the problem. If the chops aren’t adequately insured, Watchdog will walk away from Mr. Nakahatchi. We’ll have to. And if Mr. Lacone won’t accept a coverage exclusion, we may be forced to turn our backs on Martial America.

  “Sammy would prefer to do that, by the way. He thinks we’ve reached the point where Mr. Lacone’s business isn’t worth the risk.”

  “But you disagree,” I suggested.

  “At the moment,” she answered, “I don’t agree or disagree. I’m exploring options. I’ve consulted with our home offices at length. I’ve spoken to Mr. Lacone. I’ve talked to Sue Rasmussen and Mr. Sternway.” Presumably so that the IAMA could participate in a solution, if there was one. “Here’s what I have so far.

  “The good news is that nothing needs to be decided today. Mr. Nakahatchi is covered in the short term—the very short term. By Thursday we’ll want him to pay the premium for a temporary rider which will cover him until our New York expert appraises the chops next week. However, that premium shouldn’t be too burdensome. And Mr. Lacone and Mr. Sternway have agreed to share the cost with Mr. Nakahatchi. For obvious reasons, they both feel strongly that the chops should stay with Martial America.”

  I chewed my lip. A week wasn’t much time for Nakahatchi to arrange heavy financing—or to consider other options. But it allowed plenty of time for someone to make an attempt on the chops.

  Which put Watchdog in a precarious position. And Deborah herself, I assumed, since apparently no one else in the company was likely to fight for Nakahatchi or Martial America.

  “Unfortunately,” she continued with a sigh, “everything changes when our expert delivers his appraisal. Of course, there’s always a chance he’ll come in below Mr. Swilley.” Her tone told me she didn’t consider that likely. “But even that won’t do poor Mr. Nakahatchi much good. Mr. Lacone and Mr. Sternway may want to keep the chops here, but they don’t want it enough to make themselves financially uncomfortable. At the rates we’ll have to charge—”

  She paused briefly. When she spoke again, she sounded bitter. “Mr. Nakahatchi will be on his own.”

  “So what happens then?” Her bitterness held me.

  “Then,” Deborah pronounced acidly, “Sammy and Mr. Lacone will force him to accept coverage that excludes the chops. Unless he’s willing to do without insurance, he’ll have to keep them somewhere else. Or leave Martial America.

  “But really,” she admitted more quietly, “nothing will solve his problem. Whatever he does, wherever he goes, he’ll want insurance. He’d be insane not to. And I’ve already squeezed our numbers as hard as they can be squeezed.” She sighed again. “In the end, he’ll be forced to sell the chops. He won’t be able to afford to keep them.”

  The remnants of my brain considered the dilemma. I’d seen similar situations too often to dismiss her concerns. And someone always profited from them. Always.

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” I murmured into the phone.

  “Wonder what?” Deborah asked quickly. She may’ve been looking for a little hope.

  “Whether anyone we know could afford to buy Nakahatchi out.”

  I was thinking of Hong Fei-Tung and his platoon of cash-wise relatives. But she had different ideas.

  “If you mean Carliss Swilley”—her bitterness returned—“the answer is no. As it happens, Watchdog writes his insurance, too. His resources are limited. If they weren’t, he’d be better known—trust him for that—and our home offices wouldn’t feel the need to insist on a New York expert.”

  I still hadn’t shaken off the effects of Nakahatchi’s instruction. For a moment or two I lapsed into a kind of daze, wondering about Deborah’s role in all this. She sounded like she sincerely wanted to help him keep the chops. But why was she so eager to spend an evening with me? What did she gain—

  —by distracting me?

  I couldn’t think it through.

  I must’ve been silent longer than I realized. Abruptly I heard her say, “Brew? Damn this phone. Did we lose the connection? Are you there?”

  “I’m still here.” Looking around, I discovered that I was close to the apartment. “I’m just trying to think. But I must’ve strained something in the attempt.”

  She accepted my version of humor gracefully. “Nothing critical, I hope.” Her tone lifted a couple of notches. “I am counting on tonight.”

  “Nope,” I assured her, “nothing critical. Nothing that seeing you won’t fix.”

  With a renewed smile in her voice, she reminded me of the time and place. Unnecessarily. While I parked in front of the apartment, she said goodbye and hung up.

  For a minute or two afterward, I left the engine running and leaned back in my seat. My eagerness to see Deborah again despite my uncertainty about her conflicted with a smoldering indignation on Nakahatchi’s behalf. As far as I could tell, he was an honest man troubled by the ethical ambiguity of owning a Chinese national treasure. He didn’t deserve to have a decision imposed on him by his insurance rates.

  I couldn’t solve his problem. But I didn’t like it either.

  Ah, shit. Groaning complaints against the moral order of the universe—as personified by Watchdog Insurance and Alex Lacone—I finally turned off the Plymouth, left it parked, and went into the apartment. After all, I still needed a shower. Positively required one. And the idea of a nap hadn’t lost its seductiveness.

  Ginny wasn’t there. As expected. I had the place to myself. Which suited me just fine.

  Unfortunately when I glanced at the answering machine I saw its message indicator flashing red.

  Damnation. I didn’t want to play the message back. It probably wasn’t for me anyway—and I positively did not want to hear a message for Ginny, something that was none of my business.

  Sure of my ground, I made a firm decision to ignore the machine’s stubborn indicator until I’d had my shower. A firm decision, by God. So firm that I stuck by it just long enough to cross the room and jam my thumb down on the playback button.

  There was only one message. It was from Ginny.

  It said, “Brew, call me when you get this. We need to talk.”

  She’d used her lives-at-stake voice. Don’t ask questions, don’t hesitate, just do it. If she’d told me to throw myself out the window in that tone, I’d have done it.

  There was only one problem. I didn’t know how to reach her.

  Dropping my bulk into the armchair, I jerked the phone onto my lap and dialed Marshal’s cell phone number.

  As soon as the ringing stopped, I said, “Marshal, it’s Brew. I got a message from Ginny. She wants to talk to me.” By then I could hear myself hyperventilating. “But I don’t know how to get in touch with her.”

  “Brew
.” He sounded distant, untouchable, like a man who couldn’t be compelled by anything I said or did. If he noticed my breathless urgency, he didn’t comment on it. “What’s going on?”

  “She didn’t say.” My voice twitched and spattered.

  “Well,” he drawled back, “your timing is good, anyway. I was just about to call her myself. You can give her a message for me.”

  Grinding my teeth so that I wouldn’t lose control, I waited for him to go on.

  “You have a pencil?” he asked. Maddeningly.

  Somehow I said, “Go ahead.” The effort nearly strangled me.

  “Tell her my sources have finally tracked down the phone number she’s been curious about. She’ll know the one I mean.” So did I, but I didn’t interrupt. “I haven’t heard yet who it belongs to, but we do have the number.” Carefully he read it to me. And repeated it. Even though I was about to scream. Then he inquired, “Got that?”

  “Yes,” I choked out.

  “Good.” As if to himself, he mused, “Maybe our client will recognize it.”

  The receiver seemed to throb in my hand. I wanted to howl at him, She won’t! I was sure of that, although I couldn’t have told him how or why. Mai Sternway had no clue what was going on. But I kept my conviction to myself.

  Instead I snapped, “Fine. I’ll tell her. But I still don’t have—”

  He overrode me. “You would if you gave me half a chance. I was about to tell you.” I heard teasing in his tone. “She’s using a company cell phone.” Then he took pity on me. “Here’s the number.”

  The instant he’d recited all seven digits, I meant to slam down the handset and dial again.

  I meant to. But I didn’t.

  We need to talk.

  Despite Ginny’s exigency, the pressure of her demand, something in Marshal’s attitude held me like the spark at the end of an intuitive fuse, hissing and spitting down the length of its gunpowder string toward a explosion. I could almost see in advance what the detonation would do, almost measure its significance—

  Ginny needed me.

  I didn’t even work for him. Nevertheless he treated me like I had the right to call on him any hour of the day or night.

  And Ginny wanted to close the gulf between us. She’d demonstrated that last night. Even though a week ago she could hardly wait to disentangle herself from me.

  “Marshal,” I heard myself say, “can I ask you a question?”

  I hadn’t so much as known that I was going to speak until the words came out of my mouth.

  “Ask away.” He sounded too casual for the circumstances, too relaxed, as if he didn’t know Ginny needed me. Or I needed her. Or we’d ever been partners.

  “Why are you helping me? I mean, I’m grateful.” That was the truth, but I didn’t dwell on it. “If you weren’t willing to give me a hand, I don’t know how I’d cope. But I don’t understand it.”

  He was still in a teasing mood. “Take a guess. I’m sure you have a theory or two.”

  Remembering Beatrix Amity, I almost snarled, Maybe it’s because you like helping us handicapped folks. Maybe that’s how you atone for your sins. Axbrewder at his most sympathetic. But the burning fuse in my head warned me to think. I’d already missed too many hints.

  Slowly, carefully, I said, “Of course I do. I’m good at guesses. But these days most of them aren’t worth shit. I’m floundering here, Marshal. I’ll do better if you just tell me.”

  Abruptly the atmosphere of our connection shifted. Through the phone’s impersonality, I had the impression that he’d leaned forward in some way, tuned his attention more sharply. With exaggerated precision, he replied, “OK, Brew. I’ll tell you.

  “You and Ginny have a gift for getting involved in real cases. I don’t know how you do it, but everything you touch turns into something serious, something that matters. I envy that.

  “Professional Investigations brings in a lot of money, but most of what we do is pretty boring. It doesn’t make any particular difference, even to the poor souls who hire us.

  “I want some excitement. I want real work.”

  Then his tone seemed to retreat, as if he’d already exposed too much of himself. More distantly he added, “Of course I’m helping you. And Ginny. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

  Which probably explained his irritation with me this morning. Inadvertently I’d made him feel insubstantial and uninformed.

  “So I was wrong,” I offered tentatively. “My theory”—my only real explanation—“was that you help me because you feel guilty. For fucking Ginny when she and I used to be partners.”

  Then I gaped at the wall in chagrin. I said that? How had he gotten so much honesty out of me? If I’d given the words any actual consideration, I would’ve bitten my tongue in half. Or said something unforgivably nasty.

  In response, Marshal burst out laughing.

  “Brew, Brew, Brew,” he chortled. “Can you spell ‘chemistry,’ you overgrown moron? If Ginny and I were going to jump into bed, we would’ve done it years ago, and your whole life would’ve been different. I like her. I respect the pantyhose off her. But—” He laughed again. “Have you been acting like an insolent twit all this time because you thought—?” Finally he was done. “There’s no chemistry.” He might’ve been wiping the mirth from his eyes. “I swear to God.”

  After a moment I muttered, “I told you that my guesses haven’t been worth shit.” What else could I say? “Later I’ll explain how stupid I feel.” Apparently telling myself the truth wasn’t enough. I had to tell other people, too. “Right now I need to talk to Ginny.”

  “I understand.” His grin reached me along the phone line. “When you’re done working for Lacone, we’ll talk about whether you want a job with Professional Investigations.”

  Then he hung up. Which spared me having to gape some more.

  Until I tried to dial Ginny’s number, I didn’t notice how badly I was trembling.

  No, not now. Not now. I absolutely could not afford to be this stupid, too fumble-brained to dial a fucking phone. There was too much at stake. Not with Ginny. Within me.

  I put down the receiver, wrapped mental arms around my guts to contain my visceral frenzy, and tried again.

  After an interminable stretch of dead air while the cellular connection went through and my bowels tied themselves in knots, the number rang.

  Ginny answered so promptly that she must’ve been waiting with the phone in her hand. “Fistoulari.”

  “Ginny, it’s Brew.” Now that I had her, I could barely speak. “What’s happened?”

  She chuckled grimly. “Calm down, Brew.” She knew me too well. “I wanted to talk to you before I pick up Mai. She’s with her lawyers. She’s supposed to call me when she’s ready to come home, but I haven’t heard from her yet.”

  In other words, I’d reached her in time.

  Almost involuntarily I sagged back in the chair. “Don’t mind me,” I panted unsteadily. “I’m just having a small coronary. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I know how you feel.” She wasn’t amused. “But you might want to put it off for a few minutes. This can’t wait.”

  “Right.” I already knew that she hadn’t used her lives-at-stake tone just to scare me. “Go ahead.”

  She hesitated, then said, “When you suggested searching her house, I thought you were crazy.” Like Marshal, she spoke distinctly, but for different reasons. “I wanted to ignore you, but you’re right too often for my peace of mind. Way too often. And the crazier you sound, the more likely you are to be right.”

  Recently I hadn’t been right about anything—and I was getting crazier by the second. About Mai Sternway, however, I had no doubts at all.

  “So—” Ginny’s voice trailed off. When she went on, she sounded angry in the cold businesslike way that meant she was at her most dangerous. “You’ll never guess what I found.”

  “Tell me,” I murmured softly.

  “It’s like a duffel bag.” Her t
one had teeth in it. “The kind athletes carry gear in. With a shoulder strap. Black plastic, not cloth—do they make these things out of vinyl?”

  Sweet Christ. I sat up as if she’d yanked me by the hair.

  “It closes with a flap instead of a zipper.”

  There she stopped.

  The inside of my head began to clang like a cathedral bell. At the same time I seemed to become translucent, the way flesh does in the glare of a thermonuclear blast. Piercing light shone through me. If I’d looked fast enough I would’ve seen everything.

  “What’s in it?” I asked, suddenly calm. A flood of illumination washed away my tremors.

  “Well, for one thing,” she replied harshly, “there are a dozen or so watches, wallets, bracelets, money clips. No more than that. Not a very successful haul.”

  “And—?”

  “And nothing,” she snapped. “A flik, for God’s sake. With dried blood on it. Bits of skin. Maybe a few fibers of some kind. Hair or something, I don’t know.” Then her voice softened. She sounded sad, rueful over a crime that she couldn’t have prevented. “It smells like a murder weapon, Brew.”

  That was it, right there in front of me. The connection. The link that bound everything together. If I could just grasp how that one link attached to all the others.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I told her. “It smells like the murder weapon. The one that killed Bernie Appelwait. At The Luxury.”

  Ginny recoiled. I sensed it through the phone. “You didn’t tell me he was killed with a flik.”

  Clanging and fuses, impossible translucence. A concussion like explosive decompression. I’d taken too many blows, landed none. My head should’ve been full of chaos, a blitzkrieg of possibilities I couldn’t process, but it wasn’t. Instead I hung on the edge of unattained clarity, so tantalizingly close that I would’ve wept to reach it.

  “I didn’t know it was important,” I answered thinly. “I couldn’t have guessed—”

  She’d found the weapon that killed Bernie? In Mai Sternway’s house?

  “Shit!” Ginny snarled hoarsely. “What’s it doing here?”

  I knew the answer. Or I didn’t, but I almost did. My brain felt like a crash zone, the place where frames of reference collided to extinguish each other.