by John Donohue
Dee helped me uncrate the files. Micky sat in a chair, sipping the Coke. He was green.
“OK,” he began, taking a deep, exploratory breath, “here’s what we’ve got. Asa’s statement confirms that this guy is middle-aged and Asian.”
“D’you talk with him again?”
“Not yet. I’m on leave, remember?” He seemed like he wanted to say more about it, but went off on a different tangent. “We don’t know what would have happened the other night, but the MO seems the same. I gotta assume this guy is our killer.”
“OK,” I nodded.
“DNA samples from the other crimes match up.”
“You never got any fingerprints that you could check from Samurai House, did you?” I asked.
He sat back again with his eyes closed. “No.” It seemed like the word took a lot of effort.
What about . . .” I hesitated, “ . . . the gun.” I meant Art’s gun, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
Micky opened his eyes and looked at me. “We got partials. They’re still running’ em down. Right now, we got zip. And if we gotta go through Interpol, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Remembering Art made me think of his advice: when you hit a wall, you go in a different direction.
I sat down across from my brother. “What was it Art said trips most killers up, Mick? Pattern?”
He nodded. “Yeah. And predictability.”
“So what do we have here?” I said it gently, because he was wincing at the sound of my voice. “What’s the pattern?”
He made a concerted effort to pull himself together. The copies of the file were spread out on the coffee table like the scattered bones of a carcass. Micky started to gingerly push the papers around. Dee silently offered him a fresh Coke. Out of his vision, she put a hand to her lips and warned me into silence.
My brother moved slowly at first. He began pulling things out and making groupings, pausing to sip at his drink frequently. Gradually, the tempo built up. Papers got arranged, spun around, compared. His watery, bloodshot eyes moved from spot to spot. He sat back and covered his face with his hands, moving it around like the skin was made of rubber.
Micky gestured at the reports. “It’s always the same. He’s into this martial arts shit. You look at the list, and all the victims are connected by the arts. And killed by them.”
“The pattern holds with Asa,” I commented. “The other victims were somehow ambushed or lured into some sort of duel. And,” I said significantly, “as far as we can tell, the victims had no connection to the killer.”
“That we know,” my brother objected.
“And neither does Yamashita,” I finished pointedly.
My brother made a face. “Bullshit. You gotta start thinking clearly about this, buddy . . .”
“OK, OK,” Dee said to calm us. “At least we agree that the link is Japan.” We both looked at her. “I mean, it’s obvious. Most of the guys he killed or tried to kill were Japanese.”
“Reilly’s the exception,” I said.
“Reilly’s also unusual in that there was a theft associated with that homicide,” Micky added grudgingly. I could tell that he wasn’t letting go of the whole topic of Yamashita.
“Well, they’re all into the Japanese martial arts,” Dee continued. “And this guy is . . . I dunno, tracking them down. Looking for something.”
“And the trail leads here,” Micky said quietly. “The messages at the crime scenes tell us that. There’s gotta be a connection between the victims. And Ronin’s lookin’ for his next one here. So there’s something we don’t see. Something right under our noses.”
“Come on,” I said, knowing where he was headed, “not that angle again.”
“The shoe fits, wear it,” he said with rising conviction. “You may not want to hear it, but there’s something your pals the sensei are not tellin’ us.”
I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. I remembered last night’s debate: we hadn’t gotten very far. “OK, lay it out for me again, Mick.”
He shrugged. “Seems obvious. Ronin’s after somebody in New York. Someone linked to the victims in LA and Phoenix. So let’s think about it.” His voice was getting stronger and harder as the words began to match the quickening cadence of his thoughts.
“All the victims are martial artists,” Dee offered. She was looking at a National Geographic.
“Good chance whomever he’s hunting now will be one too.” My brother eyed me.
“OK,” I nodded. “What other links do we have?”
“Both Ikagi and Kubata were at the top of their game,” he answered. “They were so good they were involved with the emperor.”
“They were pretty well known. In the public eye,” I commented. “You could see how they’d be chosen.”
“True,” he admitted ruefully. “But look at it from a slightly different angle. Let’s assume we got a Japanese national, traveling alone, looking for somebody. He’s stopping off at various cities. With the first two victims, we don’t see much time wasted in terms of the homicides. Ronin kills Ikagi in LA and within a few days he shows up in Phoenix and snuffs Kubata. Then he breaks into the Samurai House, grabs some junky sword, and whacks Reilly. But he hangs around. Why?”
I thought it through. “Because Reilly was not who he was after.”
“Maybe Reilly was part of the message,” Dee said quietly. “Or maybe he just got in the way. I mean, why steal the sword?”
“It pissed off the local sensei pretty well,” Micky said. “Maybe that was the whole point.” He sat back again and sipped at his Coke, his eyes far away. “Think about it like a hunter. You know, like in India when they hunt tigers. They’re not sure where the tiger is, so they send those guys out into the bush to make a racket . . . “ he looked at me for help.
“Beaters,” I said.
“Right. They do something to flush the tiger outta the grass.”
“Are you telling me that the whole thing with Reilly was done just to get a reaction out of somebody? Come on,” I said.
“Yeah, I do,” he said with grim conviction. “The theft wouldn’t have made any kind of splash—some junky old wooden sword. But you link it with a killing and the papers are all over it,” The expression on Micky’s face was dead certain.
“I don’t think Reilly’s murder was an accident,” he continued. “It was designed for effect. Just like with the first two. These killings weren’t accidents. And the next time, the attempt in the subway, that was no fluke either . . .” he looked up at me, “except his message got crossed and he ended up with the wrong sensei.”
“There are alternative explanations,” I offered. “There have to be.”
“Bullshit,” Micky growled.
“I can’t believe Yamashita has anything to do with this,” I protested.
“Bull. Shit.” I could see my brother starting to fume. Only his hangover was delaying the explosion.
Dee snorted in amusement at the two of us. “Look, how long will you two go around and around like this?” We shrugged.
“Connor, I know you don’t like to hear it, but think it through,” Dee said. I opened my mouth to speak, but she smiled and went right on. “No, no, no. It’s my turn. Let’s go with your idea that your teacher isn’t involved.”
I nodded in eager agreement.
“OK,” she said, “but we agree that the murderer is looking for someone, right? At the first murder scene in LA, were there signs of a search? Same in Phoenix?”
Micky looked through the reports. “Yeah,” he grumbled.
“OK,” Dee nodded. “The killer’s looking for someone. He doesn’t know where he is. The first two victims weren’t random. They somehow gave Ronin clues. They lead him to New York. But he doesn’t know where, exactly. And so maybe he comes here to find out. And tries to do it through this guy . . .”
“Reilly,” I answered.
“Sure,” she said. “He was a pretty big martial arts name?” I nodded. “You’d expec
t him to know things? Know people?” I nodded again. “So there you are: this guy that the killer is looking for is like the other victims. A martial artist. He’s really good but really hard to find. The killer wanted Reilly to tell him.”
I started to get an uncomfortable feeling, a vague tingling. Dee seemed unaware of the effect of her words on me. She flashed the National Geographic at me. “There’s an article here about the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. There’s some link between the two Japanese men who were killed and the Japanese emperor, right?” I nodded.
Dee was still looking at the magazine. “Did you see this picture?”
It was a shot of the Imperial Guards training in kendo. They’re pretty distinctive because they train in uniforms that are snow white. I said so.
“So,” she concluded. “Work this angle. I mean, come on,” she looked at me, eyes and mouth wide open in mock stupidity, “who do you know among the Japanese martial artists in New York who’s good. And hard to find.” She waved the picture at me. “And dresses like these guys?”
I stayed quiet because I didn’t want to have to supply the name.
My brother rubbed his temples with his fingers and watched me. He poked at the paper on the table in front of him. Schedel’s notes were there. “First, the Mirror Man in LA,” he murmured.
“Huh?” Dee asked.
“The first victim, Ikagi. His pen name for calligraphy was ‘Mirror Polisher,” I said wearily.
“Then the Jewel Guy in Phoenix,” Micky added, with a bit more energy.
“His nickname was the Jewel of the Budokan,” I told Dee without prompting.
“So who’s next,” Micky asked. “Mirror, Jewel, . . . “ He let the question hang in the air.
And, after a time, the answer struck me. Hard. “Sword,” I said.
He looked up at me with a hard light growing in his bleary eyes. “That mean something, Connor?”
“It’s the imperial connection,” I admitted slowly, with growing dismay. I was still fighting it hard. “The imperial regalia were three items given to the first emperor by the gods: a mirror, a jewel, and a sword.”
“There’s the pattern,” Micky breathed. “Both victims outside New York were connected to the Japanese emperor. So . . . first the mirror, then the jewel, then the sword.”
“Reilly’s got no connection like that,” I pointed out.
“Forget Reilly,” Micky said. “He’s window dressing.”
Dee made a face. She pointed at me. “No. Think about him. Why’s he important? What’s he guarding? What gets stolen? What gets all the local Japanese all hot and bothered?”
“The sword,” I sighed. But I brightened a bit. “Asa’s a pretty well-known kendo master.” I looked at Dee. “It’s the way of the sword. Maybe Ronin was after him.”
“Let it go, buddy boy.” Micky shook his head slowly from side to side. “We know that Ronin was not expecting Asa to show up down in the subway. He was looking for someone else.”
“Who was he expecting? Who fits?” Dee asked simply.
“The intended victim should have some connection with the pattern,” I said. I was on my feet and walking restlessly around. Dee and Micky remained quiet and simply watched me as I added up the pieces of the puzzle. I tried not to, but there was no avoiding it.
“Yamashita,” I breathed finally, as I slumped into a chair. “He signs his calligraphy kenjin. Sword Man.”
I felt like I had been struck. But part of me still struggled against the realization. I looked from Micky to Dee and back again. “There’s got to be some other explanation,” I began.
Micky began to intone the word “bullshit,” but Dee shushed him.
“He wouldn’t keep something like this from me . . . He knew I was working with the police . . .” I started out gamely but quickly ran out of things to say.
“Maybe, Connor.” My brother sounded sad, as if he were giving someone bad news. Which, in a way, he was. “But maybe not.”
Micky looked down and shuffled some papers around in a rare moment of delicacy. A photocopy of a handwritten note in Japanese caught my eye. An English translation was penciled in between the lines.
“What’s that?” I said quickly.
“The note that Ronin left for Yamashita at Samurai House. It says, ‘Please meet me’ and gives directions.” My brother handed it to me.
I took a deep breath and asked, “Where’d the translation come from, Mick?” I didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Yamashita. Why?” Micky asked very gently. His manner had the soft quietness of a hunter.
“The translation is . . . wrong,” I sputtered. “It says, ‘I look forward to meeting you again.’ And it’s signed with a name. Tomita.”
Micky silently mouthed the name and wrote it down. I stood there with the paper clutched in my hand and felt the heat rise in my face. “I can’t believe it,” I finally said. “He knew . . . all along . . .”
My brother and his wife sat and said nothing. After that, I didn’t either. We all knew where this was heading.
Yamashita’s dojo was quiet, its entrance as flat and unwelcoming as a hostile face. Micky was right next to me. He still wasn’t firing on all cylinders, but you could almost feel the anticipation boiling up in him. I pushed the buzzer but got no answer. There had been no activities planned at the school since the attack on Art. But as a senior student I have a key, so I let us in. It’s not unusual. Yamashita encourages us to train relentlessly. Class doesn’t need to be in session.
Anger clouds perception. I wasn’t focusing on the dim, empty space of the training floor as I entered. I never even sensed the presence behind the door until the snout of a pistol was shoved in my face. The guy holding it took a good look at us and relaxed. I wish I could say the same.
My brother had gone very still. Micky’s eyes were narrowed down into slits and he looked at the man with the gun like he was imprinting him on his memory for later. Because I could tell that there would be a later.
The man was a street thug, a gang member of some sort. He had the look written all over him. A young, Asian face, with flat brown eyes. His hair was cut short on the side and spiked on top, with blond highlights. His gun was nicely chromed, completing the with-it, happening look.
He had relaxed slightly, but he never took his eyes off us. And the gun didn’t waiver.
“Visitor!” he called upstairs.
Two men appeared at the landing above the training space.
“Please, Mori-san,” I heard Yamashita say, then his voice dropped to a whisper and I lost it.
Another voice called out an order. The gun came down. We went up.
I had generated a real head of steam on my way down to the dojo.. But the experience of having a gun shoved in my face knocked me off balance mentally. At any other time, I knew if I mentioned this to my teacher, he would nod and reply that emotion does this sort of thing. But I wasn’t in the mood for any of his mystical advice. I wanted answers to something much more pressing.
Even someone not as skilled as my teacher would have sensed the tension roiling off the Burke brothers. But part of me was surprised at Micky’s emotional control. At least one of us was calm.
Yamashita could see it all in my face: the anger, the hurt. I had labored long with him to perfect the stolid projection of heiho, but I felt all that skill slipping away, melted down by emotion. He saw that reality in my face, but Yamashita said nothing. His face was flat and closed in on itself
“My apologies, Mr. Burke,” the Japanese man called Mori said, “my assistant meant no disrespect.”
He was an older man, probably in his early sixties, but he had the thick, solid look of someone who was still formidable. He was impeccably dressed: dark blue suit, white shirt, and gleaming black shoes. His crimson tie was a slash of deep red. It reminded me of the color of blood.
Micky pulled out his shield. “I don’t know who you are, but you just made a big mistake.” Then he bent down and pulled a small revolver ou
t of an ankle holster. He gestured at Mori. “You call down and have him drop the piece. Then we’ll talk.”
Mori grimaced. “Please officer, I think there has been a misunderstanding.”
My brother was watching everyone carefully, turned partially so the gun was shielded from sight from the man downstairs. “Oh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding, all right . . .” Micky continued.
“Burke, please!” Yamashita hissed.
I ignored him for a second. Then I said, “That guy is a street thug,” pointing downstairs. “He doesn’t belong here.”
“Indeed,” my teacher said, in a tone that told me to take it no further. Mori had presented Micky with credentials that managed to pacify him. But barely. Yamashita watched my brother put his gun away. He saw me prepare to speak, and continued, “Please come in, Professor. Since you are both here . . .” He gestured back into the sitting area and glided in without a backward glance.
Old habits die hard. I obeyed and followed him in, pulled into the wake of sheer power that radiated from him. It has a subduing effect. But I fought it. Micky’s presence helped. Once in the sitting room, Yamashita began the process of formally introducing me to his guest. Micky drifted to a wall and leaned against it, keeping an eye on everyone. And the stairwell.
I gave a half-bow to the man with the tie like blood, but I had no time for introductions. “Excuse me,” I said to Mori, “I have business with Yamashita Sensei.” Then I faced my teacher and could feel my lips tightening, curving down with emotion as I prepared to speak. He stood there, unblinking.
“Who is Tomita?” I demanded.
“The matter does not concern you,” Yamashita said, his eyes narrowed.
I heard Micky snort. “The D.A. will have a different idea.”
“Doesn’t concern me!” I blurted out. I took a step toward him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mori’s body shift as if he were preparing to move. I got the sense of a matching shift from my brother. “Art was almost killed. My brother was down there too.” I felt my stomach muscles clench with tension.