The Man Who Fought Alone

  I needed him to keep me alive.

  Once more she nodded.

  I had to trust her. Shoving myself into motion, I headed for the dryer and my clothes. “Do all that,” I told her, “after you give me directions.”

  “What are you going to do?” she called after me. “Brew, I need to know.”

  She deserved an answer.

  “My job,” I snapped as I hauled open the laundry closet. “My fucking job! Hong is dead because I didn’t figure this out. The chops are gone because I didn’t figure it out.

  “It ends tonight.”

  She caught up with me, pulled the rest of my clothes out of the dryer while I shoved my legs into my pants. Without looking at me, she asked, “Have you figured it out?”

  “Yes.” I buttoned my shirt partway. I didn’t even think about tucking the tails in. “Or else I dreamed it. But I can’t explain it yet. I don’t understand all of it.”

  I meant that I didn’t have even one scrap of evidence to make it credible.

  I definitely needed Parker to keep me alive.

  Carrying my jacket, I hurried back to the foyer. My shoes were still damp, and I couldn’t untie the laces. Deborah tackled them for me while I shoved my arms into the shoulder holster, spun the cylinder of the .45. While she helped me into my shoes, I pulled the jacket on.

  I already had the door open when she started to give me directions.

  Right out of the parking garage, right again, count three blocks, turn left, keep going to the freeway. Head east. She named an exit. If I didn’t miss it, or turn in the wrong direction, I’d be on a road that led straight to Martial America.

  I’d almost reached the elevator before I heard her say, “Keep yourself safe, Brew. I want you back.”

  God, I hoped she could remember phone numbers.

  While the elevator sank interminably toward the parking level, I keyed my apartment phone number into one of the cell phone’s speed-dial locations. Then I searched the phone’s menus until I found the command to silence the keypad.

  Rainwater leaked into the car as soon as it reached bottom. The water was colder than ever, and without socks I lacked even the illusion of protection. But the sodden chill only tightened my nerves, sharpened my concentration.

  Through the deepening lake of the garage, I splashed my way to the Plymouth.

  The van started with a roar because I’d already shoved down on the gas too hard. Wheeling backward out of my parking space, I pointed the van at the exit ramp and plowed like a battering ram up into the storm.

  A battering ram way too small for the gate it aimed to shatter.

  Right through the cudgeling torrents. Right again almost immediately.

  From the bottom of my heart, I prayed that Deborah would do what I’d asked. That Parker and Ginny would come through for me.

  Count three blocks wasn’t easy. I gave it my best guess, then hauled the Plymouth left into the wrong lane of a street that appeared to be my only option.

  I couldn’t see buildings or street signs except at unpredictable intervals when lightning cracked open the night. Most of the time I could barely locate curbs.

  Keep going to the freeway.

  I wasn’t worried that Moy would finish in Martial America and leave before I got there. He needed backup, his lab boys, an ambulance—and all of them faced the same obstacles I did. And Nakahatchi lived right there. He and Komatori both had too much self-possession to do anything stupid. His arrest might go down as one of the most leisurely collars in history. Hell, if I were Edgar Moy I might just keep Nakahatchi confined to his apartment until the storm let up.

  The deluge had wiped out the world, smothered any sensation that I was actually going somewhere. The speedometer indicated more speed than sanity, but the impregnable rain contradicted it.

  I’d started to believe that the freeway didn’t exist, that the whole concept of freeways was mythological, when a ragged glare exposed massive concrete supports with a louring darkness above them. The after-flash on my retinas left the image of a sign that said east.

  In that direction another ramp opened onto a wider surface than the ones I’d driven so far.

  At intervals the windscreen fogged over. The Plymouth’s vents blew cold into my face, but when I added even a touch of heat the condensation thickened. I had to accept the chill.

  Pushing the speedometer higher—ludicrously, moronically higher—I resumed my prayers.

  As I saw it, my biggest problem was to keep the cell phone dry. I meant, my biggest problem apart from extracting all the information and evidence I needed. And staying alive—If the phone shorted out, I might as well just shoot myself in the head and go home.

  I tried to test it by calling a number at random, but I couldn’t hear anything. The sledgehammering rain covered everything. I felt like the inside of a gong.

  Since my life depended on my driving anyway, and I was already going at a berserk rate, I wedged off my shoes, picked them up, and set them upside down on the passenger seat to drain.

  In the real world, however—the sane world—my biggest problem was finding the right exit off the freeway.

  Somehow I did it. Pure luck. So far, the gods of storm and violence were on my side. Approximating caution, I gushed down off the freeway and headed for Martial America.

  Hong Fei-Tung was dead.

  Looks like somebody broke his neck in his sleep.

  How fucking likely was that?

  Rain lashed at me from all sides. Between splitting bursts of lightning, thunder boomed like denunciation.

  As I finally shouldered the Plymouth into Martial America’s parking lot, my headlights picked out way too many cars. CPD cruisers I expected, four or five of them, lights winking frenetically against the dark. An ambulance. A Crime Lab van. But where had all these other cars come from? I’d never seen the lot this full.

  My stomach squirmed. Bile crowded against the anger and sorrow in my throat. I’d taken too long to get here. The disaster had already expanded into new dimensions, grown to proportions I hadn’t anticipated. Someone had kicked over something a whole lot worse than an anthill.

  Sweet Jesus, just let one of these cars belong to Parker.

  Through the blurring downpour, I saw that Essential Shotokan had all its lights on—with the exception of the top floor. The same was true in Master Soon’s Tae Kwon Do Academy. The bulk of the building hid Traditional Wing Chun.

  But Malaysian Fighting Arts remained completely dark. Apparently Bob Gravel and his students had more sense.

  Swearing to myself, I searched the parking lot until I found a space near the intersection of the two buildings. After that I didn’t hesitate. I’d used about a decade’s worth of spare time just getting here. Now I had to go or give up.

  Retrieving my shoes, I tucked the cell phone into one of them and clamped them against my chest, heels up, soles out. That was the best I could do. With my free hand, I flung open the door and plunged barefoot into the torrents.

  At least the lot didn’t hold water. The rain rivered elsewhere as soon as it fell. On the other hand, the concrete felt cruel on my unprotected feet, bitter as ice. Already drenched, I jogged for the entrance to Essential Shotokan.

  Maybe I should’ve headed for Traditional Wing Chun. The lab boys were probably still there. I might get a look at Hong’s bedroom—and even his body before they carted it away. If they let me in. But Moy had had plenty of time to finish there.

  Heaving the ornamental door open, I lunged into Nakahatchi’s dojo.

  The sudden cessation of the rain nearly knocked me off balance. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d braced myself against it. The comparative warmth of the entryhall stung my skin to gooseflesh. I was soaked to the marrow of my bones.

  “Hold it!” a CPD uniform barked. He guarded the foot of the stairs with his partner, a woman who would’ve looked slim without the bulletproof vest and all that cop gear. “No farther!”

  I lurched to a halt, sluicing wate
r in all directions.

  “This is a crime scene,” the man announced. “You shouldn’t be here. I’d chase you out if it weren’t raining so damn hard. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Apparently Moy hadn’t warned his underlings to expect me.

  Now I didn’t hurry. I didn’t need to—I knew why the uniforms were here. When I’d scrubbed the rain out of my eyes, I bent down to place my shoes on the floor.

  That gave the uniforms a glimpse of the .45 under my arm.

  They both shouted, “Freeze!” Faster than her partner, the woman had her automatic out first. From my angle, it looked like a Glock.

  I didn’t freeze, but I lifted the .45 out of its holster with two fingers and tossed it to the carpet a few feet away. When I’d taken out the cell phone and set it down, I worked my numb feet back into my shoes.

  “My name is Axbrewder,” I told the uniforms. “I’m a security consultant for this building. Detective Moy called me here. He wants to talk to me.” I tried to smile, but I couldn’t do it. “If I promise to be a good boy, can I take off my jacket?”

  Slowly they lowered their weapons. “He’s upstairs,” the man muttered.

  I wanted to ask who was with him, but I’d find out soon enough.

  Tugging my arms out of the sleeves, I removed my jacket, wrapped it around itself, and twisted it in my fists to wring it out. When it stopped dripping, I draped it on the floor beside the .45. Maybe it would dry enough to keep the phone functional.

  “I want everything back,” I informed the cops. “I’ll need them. I’m on cleanup. When you guys leave, my job starts.”

  The woman nodded. “They’ll be right here.”

  Her partner shifted aside to let me at the stairs.

  Trying not to hold my breath, I went up to the second floor.

  The door to the meeting room stood open. Through it I saw Edgar Moy, Komatori, Nakahatchi, and an Oriental woman dressed in a flowing kimono. I’d never met her, but she must’ve been Nakahatchi’s wife, Mitsuku. Moy didn’t have any backup with him. Apparently he realized that he didn’t need any.

  Their silence felt like the fatal quiet after a crash of thunder.

  The detective occupied the center of the floor. For the first time, his trench coat didn’t look out of place. Dark streaks showed that it’d lost some of its waterproofing over the years. His hands held a damp fedora with enough brim to keep most of the rain out of his eyes.

  Komatori stood to his left, wearing his full karate-ka regalia, a crisp white canvas gi cinched with his black belt. Obliquely I wondered if Moy caught the symbolism. It meant that Hideo was willing to go to the wall for his master. Literally. If Nakahatchi told him to fight, he’d feed Moy and every other cop in reach to the guppies. He had that look in his eyes. If Nakahatchi allowed it, he’d take his master’s place under arrest.

  But Sihan Nakahatchi hadn’t allowed it, that was obvious. He had on a dark blue business suit that would’ve looked dapper if he hadn’t worn it with such sorrow. He didn’t so much as glance at me when I entered the room. As far as I could tell, he never looked at Moy. Maybe he hadn’t even shared a gaze with his wife. He’d withdrawn into himself to face a crisis worse than dying.

  Mitsuku comported herself with as much dignity as he did, but she didn’t suffer his bereavement or dishonor with the same stoicism. Her lower lip quivered at intervals. Strands of grey hair straggled at her neck. Time had crossed her face with so many vertical lines that it looked pleated. By slow poignant degrees, tears seeped from her eyes into the wrinkles. Small spots displayed her distress on the front of her kimono.

  “Axbrewder,” Moy said by way of greeting. “It’s about time.”

  I thought I heard an uncharacteristic strain in his voice.

  Hideo gave me a brief bow. “Brew-san, I must thank you.” His gaze searched me for something. Help, probably. Or hope.

  “But I don’t have to,” Moy put in before Hideo could explain. “It seems you called them before I got here, warned them I was coming. Later I’m going to tell you exactly what ‘interfering with an officer of the law in the performance of his duty’ means.” In this case it meant that I’d given them a chance to ditch any incriminating evidence. “But right now—” He wasn’t just feeling the strain, he was outright uncomfortable. “The four of us have been standing right here ever since I arrived.”

  His tension enabled me to relax a notch. Faking detachment, I drawled, “What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?”

  Moy glared at me. “You mean, apart from grand theft and murder? I’ll tell you what the problem is”—he bared his teeth under his thin mustache—“because I expect you to fix it.”

  “If I can,” I offered.

  He didn’t stop. “After that I expect you to explain this whole goddamn mess to me.”

  I couldn’t think of a sensible response, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “The problem,” he went on more quietly, “is that Sihan Nakahatchi here has been accused of killing Hong Fei-Tung next door, and he won’t talk to me. He won’t even tell me his damn name. He doesn’t say a thing when I read him his rights. I can’t find out if he wants a lawyer.”

  Moy was a cop. He wanted Nakahatchi to at least deny the accusation.

  I thought I knew why Nakahatchi wouldn’t talk. I’d learned a few things about Oriental manners and honor. But it wasn’t my place to answer for him. Turning to Hideo, I asked, “Why haven’t you—?”

  Komatori shrugged. “What would be the point?”

  “The point of what?” Moy demanded.

  Nakahatchi studied oblivion. His wife’s eyes clung to me like desperation.

  I faced Hideo’s shrouded distress squarely. “You have to say it. The Sergeant may understand, or he may not. But he can’t understand if you don’t say it.”

  Komatori considered for a moment. Anger seethed behind his self-containment. Then he relented with a sigh.

  Turning to Moy, he said, “Sergeant, my master is Sihan Nakahatchi sensei. Therefore the accusation is absurd. To answer such a mortal insult is to tolerate it”—his voice rose—“and we won’t tolerate it. We won’t ‘account for our movements.’ We won’t give you ‘alibis.’ He is Sihan Nakahatchi sensei. That’s sufficient.”

  Nakahatchi himself wouldn’t even say that much.

  “No,” Moy began, “it’s not.” But I interrupted him.

  “Sergeant.” Deliberately I let my outrage uncoil like the thong of a whip. “You don’t need to talk to them anyway.” He wasn’t my enemy. Under the surface, we were on the same side. But I had to get his attention. “You need to talk to me.

  “I’m security here.” The fact that I’d done a lousy job was beside the point. “Grand theft and murder are my department, not theirs. If you want to understand honor the way they do, ask them nicely.” Without realizing it I’d clenched my hands into fists like a death grip. “But if you want to understand what happened here”—I forced my fingers open—“ask me.”

  Unfortunately I couldn’t offer him evidence.

  “If I were you,” I added before he had a chance to reply, “I wouldn’t even arrest Nakahatchi sensei. You don’t need to. He’ll be here whenever you want him.”

  Some of the streaks on Mitsuku’s face looked like gratitude. As far as I could tell, her husband hadn’t heard me.

  For a long moment, Moy stared at me like he was trying to guess how much of my mind I’d actually lost. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “You know I can’t do that.” A heartbeat later he announced, “But you are most definitely going to talk to me.”

  “Sure.” I let a bit of my anger go. “But let’s take it downstairs.”

  I meant, Let’s spare Nakahatchi and his wife the indignity of listening to us. Moy accepted the suggestion for a different reason, however. He didn’t want Essential Shotokan’s people to hear anything that might help them invent an alibi.

  Hideo let me see the raw, bleak questions in his eyes. I wanted to reassure him, but
I couldn’t. Not without facts. The truth was that I didn’t really have anything to tell Moy. I just wanted to get him alone. Maybe then he’d share what he had so far.

  Despite the detective’s impatience, I took the time to bow to Nakahatchi. He surprised me by bowing back.

  Shaken by his response, I blurted out, “Sensei, I’ll deal with this.” Somehow. “I know I’m not ready to be your student. But I can do my job. This insult won’t stand.”

  Nakahatchi said nothing. He’d already returned to his contemplation of distances and depths I couldn’t see. But Mitsuku offered me a wan troubled smile and bowed deeply.

  I replied awkwardly, then bowed to Komatori and turned away.

  Together Moy and I trudged down the stairs. My shirt stuck to my arms and torso. The damp fabric rubbed at my armpits. My pants felt like a cold second skin. Soon I’d start shivering again.

  Moy nodded to the uniforms, sent the woman upstairs to keep an eye on Nakahatchi, then led me into the smaller dojo, the one with all the training equipment. I left the .45, the phone, and my jacket where they were.

  He confronted me in the middle of the floor. “Not exactly impartial about this, are you, Axbrewder?” He’d lost his usual disinterest. “You need to be careful here. You’re looking more and more like an accessory.”

  “I can see that.” I didn’t waste time denying the obvious. “But for the record, I didn’t call Komatori to warn him you were coming. That was an afterthought. When you told me Hong was dead, I wanted to know if the chops were safe.”

  My wet shoes clamped a chill around my feet. The leather stuck to my skin.

  “Alex Lacone didn’t hire me to bodyguard anyone,” I explained. “Men like Hong are better qualified to take care of themselves than I am. My job is the chops. When you called, my first reaction was the same as yours. Why would anyone risk tackling a trained killer like Hong? Whoever did it must’ve had a powerful motive.

  “I don’t know anything about Hong’s personal life. Maybe he’s got enemies. From what I’ve heard, he imports his relatives into this country as fast as he can. Maybe one of them offended some Hong Kong triad, or a Chinese Tong.” This was all chaff, but I threw it in Moy’s eyes with both hands. “I wouldn’t know.