by Marc Olden
“Stitches didn’t come from the fight,” said Decker. “French pathologists listed Michi as a suicide. They found traces of alcohol in her system. Not a lot, but some. Food scattered all over the living room as though she had lost her temper and had a fit of some kind. Evidence of recent sexual intercourse indicated she might have killed herself after a lovers’ quarrel. They had no explanation for her internal injuries. Someone said maybe she had hurt herself throwing all that food around.”
Ellen said, “And that was it? They didn’t push it any further than that?”
Decker shoved his hands in his overcoat pockets and leaned back in the seat. “This Shigeji Shina I mentioned. Smart guy. Some kind of brain. He has this friend, guy named Ishino, who’s a diamond dealer in Amsterdam. Both Shina and Ishino served with Michi’s father in the war.”
“You keep calling her Michi. The papers called her Michelle. Is Michi short for Michelle?”
Decker shrugged. “It’s not important. Anyway, this Ishino, he has a private plane. He and Shina talked the French into giving us Michi’s body and we flew her back to Tokyo on Ishino’s plane. In Tokyo Shina came up with his own pathologist. And this guy came up with a lot more information on Michi’s death than the French pathologist did. For one thing, Michi’s injuries weren’t caused by a fall. They were karate injuries. The Japanese were quick to see that. For another thing, I knew that Michi was in no frame of mind to make love to anybody. She was raped.”
Ellen whispered, “Robbie Ambrose. Shit, Manny, I’m so sorry.”
Decker said, “Whoever kicked her in the stomach and ribs hurt her very badly. Probably caught her off guard. He was strong, very strong. My guess is she opened the door thinking it was me and he just wiped her out. And there’s more.” He continued in a monotone. “Shina’s pathologist found bits of human skin between Michi’s teeth and under her fingernails. Also found blood samples under her nails that weren’t Michi’s blood type.” He looked at Ellen. “She fought him, fought him until she died.”
Ellen touched Decker’s thigh. “Manny, we’ve got him. If his blood type matches the blood found under Michi’s nails, if his skin matches the skin found in her mouth, then we have that son of a bitch.”
“LeClair will protect him.”
“No.”
“He will.”
Ellen shifted in her seat to face Decker. “Manny, we are talking about an animal, somebody who kills women because he enjoys it.”
“We’re talking about the real world, about law enforcement as it is. You don’t make cases without informants and LeClair’s only after one case right now and that’s MSC and Dent. Sending Robbie to prison won’t bring LeClair the glory he’s after. That’s why he dumped me from the task force. He doesn’t want me anywhere near Robbie. Robbie’s not going to prison until LeClair’s finished with him, if he goes at all.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Your friend Shina. We can get that report from his pathologist.”
Decker shook his head. “No. Shina won’t release it.”
Ellen couldn’t believe his ears. “He what?”
“Won’t release it. No one in this country knows about it, except you and me, and I don’t want you to say anything.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’ve got a chance to stop Robbie Ambrose and—”
“What do you think LeClair would do with that report?”
Ellen waited.
“He’d sit on it,” Decker said. “He’d claim his investigation of MSC and Dent came first.”
There were tears in Ellen’s eyes. “It’s not right. It’s just not right. I know it’s the real world, but it sucks. It goddamn sucks.”
Decker took her hand. “I want you to do a few things for me. You listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“Okay. We’ve got one stop to make before we get to my place. We’ve got to stop at Kanai’s office. I’ve got a form here, which I want you to give him. He’s expecting it. Tell him I’ll get the check to him as soon as possible.”
“Form?”
“It’s for a karate tournament to be held in Paris next month.”
She withdrew from him. “Are you out of your mind? You need time to rest, to get yourself together.”
“I know what I’m doing. Just give the form to Kanai. Shina said Kanai can process it overnight because he’s one of the organizers. It’s all right, Ellen, believe me.”
As the taxi rolled onto the Triborough Bridge, Manhattan’s skyline loomed closer.
And Manny turned to Ellen with tears in his eyes. In a choked voice, he struggled to get the words out.
“We argued. I walked out. Shit, Ellen. If only I’d been there, if …”
He stopped, swallowed, struggled to regain control. Then, “She said you had to be true to something. She was. To her family and as much as she could be, she was true to me.”
He brushed tears from his eyes with gloved fingertips. “Too late for me to take it back. What I said, what I did. I want your word. Nothing about the report. Nothing. Please.”
She nodded. But she still did not really understand.
Decker said, “Michi said you have to be ready to die, then it’s all right. You’re safe then. I understand now what she meant. If I’d been in the room when he came …”
He sighed. “We’ll both be in Paris next month. The two of us.”
“Who? Who’s the two of us?”
“Robbie Ambrose and me.”
He reached inside his jacket and brought out what seemed to Ellen to be a folded handkerchief. He unfolded it and spread it across his knees.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A hachimaki. Japanese headband. Used to belong to Michi’s father. He passed it on to her. Shina gave it to me. You only wear it on special occasions.”
“What special occasions?”
“When you’re going to war.”
Ellen drew back in fear as Decker gave a small, cold smile. In his eyes, she saw death.
His head flopped back on the seat “Got to be true to something in this world.” Seconds later he was asleep.
31
CHARLES LECLAIR DROPPED A pile of newspapers on a card table, then sat down on a metal folding chair. He sighed and looked around the plain and mostly unfurnished apartment in a West Sixty-fourth Street Manhattan hotel, an apartment his office used as a safe house. He linked his fingers across a growing paunch, a gesture of smug satisfaction.
The two FBI agents who had accompanied him to this secret meeting were less joyous. They stood with their backs against the front door and wondered if the rumor about the smell outside in the hall was true. A Haitian couple in a nearby apartment had supposedly kept a dead son laid out in their living room for a month, while they attempted to bring him back to life with nightly voodoo ceremonies. The stench now permeated the entire floor.
But no smell could possibly spoil this day for LeClair, who placed the flat of one hand on the newspaper and said, “Today’s afternoons. Big follow-up in tomorrow morning’s papers. Still breaking big on all three television networks three days after the press conference.”
He pushed the pile of newspapers toward Robbie Ambrose, sitting across from him. “Go on. Take a look.”
Robbie never looked up from what he was doing. He continued to clip his nails and trim his cuticles, as though he were alone in the room.
LeClair said, “Yes. Well, let’s see what we have.” He took a paper from the pile. “Some more stuff about the task force charging Dent with accepting mob payoffs and rumors about Dent being asked to resign. I think I have a few quotes in this one somewhere. I know my picture’s in the carry-over, middle of the paper.”
He dropped that paper and picked up two more. “ ‘Dent Declares His Innocence.’ Chuckle-lacious, as my grandmother used to say. ‘Dent says he will not resign. Vows smear tactics will not work.’ ” LeClair tossed the papers onto the table. “Innocent. Shit. Dent would steal sand from the beach if he
thought nobody was looking. Caught him with his hand in the cookie jar this time. Old congressmen never die, they just steal away.”
One FBI agent snickered. The other grinned. Robbie, eye on his thumbnail, filed it a bit more before using the tip of the file to push back the cuticle. “If you’re finished, Mr. Prosecutor, I’d like to get out of here. Place stinks. Like to get in some running before reporting back to work.”
LeClair drummed on the newspaper with his fingertips. “Couple things I’d like to touch base with you on first. I mean that’s what a relationship is. Give and take on both sides.”
Robbie put away his nail clippers. “Come on. Save that shit for somebody else. You want to throw my ass in jail, be my guest. Truth is, you ain’t got that much of a case against me and you know it. No witnesses, no motive. Okay, so I talked to you guys some. I only did that to get you off my back, is all.”
A grinning LeClair shrugged. “What can I say. You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right. Nothing but circumstantial evidence and not too much of that.” He leaned forward. “Just enough of it to hold you for questioning in a dozen cities. That’s a lot of harassment, Robbie, my boy. Could last, oh, a few years.”
Robbie returned the grin. “Man, you don’t scare me. None of you clowns scare me. You think I didn’t learn nothing working for MSC and Major Sparrowhawk all these years? Information. That’s what matters. You want certain information from me more than you want to nail me for maybe, maybe killing a bunch of women. Hey, look, how come I’m not up on charges or anything? I mean cut the shit. Go play your games with somebody else.”
LeClair leaned back in his chair. Shrewd. The lady killer may not be an intellectual, but he’s definitely shrewd. He had something LeClair wanted and the prosecutor had to pay, that’s all there was to it. In law enforcement you were only as successful as your informants.
Three days ago a Manhattan press conference announcing that formal charges were being brought against Senator Terry Dent had drawn the largest crowd of reporters since ABSCAM. Justice Department officials had flown in from Washington to pat LeClair on the back and hang around long enough to get their share of the publicity before flying back. LeClair, however, had been the Justice Department spokesman. He had been interviewed by the New York Times, Time magazine and three television networks. Thanks to Robbie Ambrose, LeClair had found the path to the top of the mountain.
And thanks, too, to Decker and his partner for putting together what little case there was on Mr. Robbie. LeClair had taken the case away from them, done it behind Decker’s back, but rank did have its privileges. For the moment Robbie’s alleged killings were on hold. First, Mr. Robbie had some work to do for the task force.
Was the security guard guilty? LeClair thought, probably. Mr. Robbie was not quite right in the head, for one thing. And for another there was no problem placing him in a city where a woman had been killed by someone who knew how to use his hands real well. It took a cop like Decker, LeClair had to admit, someone familiar with karate, to get this far in the case.
And speaking of Decker, LeClair had expected to receive more in the way of protests from him after being dropped from the task force and having the case snatched from under his nose. But so far there hadn’t been a peep out of Mr. Manfred. Still grieving over the death of his lady in Paris. Some kind of a mess, thought LeClair.
LeClair would wait a while, give Decker time to get over his girl friend’s death, then find a way to punish him. Make him look bad for having been dropped from the task force. It was always a good idea to leave your mark on the people you left behind; punishing a man made him, not you, appear to be the guilty party. A cop accused was a cop convicted.
LeClair watched Robbie touch the fresh scars on the side of his face, then move his fingertips to a lip wound. When the two men had first met just days ago the lip wound had contained several stitches. The stitches were gone now.
LeClair said, “I think we’d better talk about your future. You still believe nobody at MSC knows you’re working with us?”
“Not unless you told them. You grabbed me in the middle of the night at my apartment, dragged me over here and gave me some shit about having killed women I don’t even know.”
“Don’t have to know them to kill them.”
“Then you threaten me with prison or a nut house unless I cooperate with you.”
“And you did cooperate, Robbie.”
“Just to get you off my back, is all. Doesn’t mean I’m guilty.”
“Means you’re still on the street, out here practicing your karate chops or whatever they’re called. But it’s the future I’m concerned with. Your future is with us, as a full-time informant under our protection.”
Robbie leaped up, knocking the card table and newspapers to the floor. One of the FBI agents hurriedly began to unbutton his overcoat to get at his gun. “That’s it,” yelled a wild-eyed Robbie. “I’m getting the fuck outta here and if your friends over there try to stop me, they’re gonna get hurt. You think I’m scared of guns?”
He pointed to the agent with his hand inside his overcoat. “I’ll pull his head through the door before he can fucking blink. Want to see me do it?”
A calm LeClair said, “I believe you, Robbie.” The prosecutor turned in his chair. “Lighten up,” he said to the agents. “No problem. Robbie and I understand each other.” He looked back at the security guard. “Robbie, just this one favor. Listen to this tape, that’s all I ask. Do this for me, please.”
A space cadet, thought LeClair. The man needs to be stroked and stroked and stroked. He won’t give his candy to anyone but daddy and daddy is me. LeClair snapped his fingers. “Dominic?”
The agent who had been holding an attaché case walked over to the card table, set it upright and laid the case on top. Thumbing open the locks, he removed a small tape recorder, laid that on the table, then backed away.
LeClair said, “Have a seat, Robbie. This won’t take long. One of the things you gave us was the location of three public telephone booths Sparrowhawk uses to talk to Molise’s people. We’ve got taps on all three, same as we did with LoCicero. Remember that time last month when you were down in the Caymans and Decker took the call?”
Robbie frowned. “Yeah, but I didn’t tell you nothing bad about the major and I ain’t about to, either.”
A smiling LeClair touched a finger to his lips, signaling for quiet. Then he pressed a button on the tape recorder, turned up the volume and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. The smile remained in place.
Clicks signaling the dialing of a phone. Three rings. Hang up. Dime returns. Dime dropped into pay phone. Clicks. Dialing. Phone picked up on first ring.
Gran Sasso said, “Yeah?”
“Sparrowhawk here. Received your message. What’s the problem?”
“We’ve been talking, Alphonse and myself. And we have decided something.”
“Which is?”
“Which is we very carefully looked over the charges against the senator. Took all the newspaper stories apart, listened to all the rumors, got some information from some of our people and we came to the conclusion that somebody we all know gave up the senator. Somebody at this high-class organization you’re supposed to be running for us.”
“Preposterous. That’s the same as accusing me and I don’t like it.”
“We thought about you, but we couldn’t come up with a good motive. One reason we’re talking like this instead of meeting face to face is that we’re not too sure you don’t have people watching you. Or somebody in your office reporting your moves to the feds.”
Sparrowhawk was indignant. “Would you mind explaining yourself?”
“The Englishman wants explanations. Okay, Mr. Englishman. Somebody knew about Dent getting cash recently to buy that stock, the deal the Arizona senator’s pushing. Somebody knew he’s got points in the auditorium out on the island. Somebody knew that we put money in the senator’s campaign through Delaware holding companies,
through real estate companies. All of these things that somebody knew have to do with how we move our money around. There’s a big financial columnist on a certain New York paper, who we’re paying to boost a certain stock for us. His name’s being linked with the senator’s.”
“I don’t see—”
“That’s the point. You don’t. And you should. We got two things here. The senator, who’s important to us, he’s in trouble. And too much is known about what we do with our money. How we change it over, who we give it to. See, Mr. Sparrowhawk, you’re too close to this problem to give it the kind of attention it deserves. Me, I’m an old Italian who likes to sit and think about problems. Work them out in my head. So I’m saying that it looks to me like somebody very close to you gave up the senator. That’s what I’m saying.”
Sparrowhawk’s voice was shrill. “Are you saying that my secretary—”
“You stupid man.” Gran Sasso’s tone was lethal. “You insult me. You talk to me like I’m some schoolboy who can be given a shiny rock and told it is a ruby and who will believe it. Do not ever treat me with such disrespect again, do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“I am talking about your young friend, this Robbie fellow. He was the courier for certain things we did with our money. You chose him. He carried the stock money to the senator down in Washington and he carried the money to the newspaperman. He knew about the money going from the Caymans to the Delaware holding companies. Your young friend I’m talking about.”
Sparrowhawk pleaded. “That boy’s like a son to me. Don’t ask me to harm him. I can’t. I just can’t.”
“We got a problem here and it won’t go away by itself. What I want from you is that you should help us make the problem go away.”
“How?”
“Your young friend trusts you. You are the way to help us approach him.”
Silence.
Then Sparrowhawk said, “Not approach. Kill. You want me to help you kill him.”