Not liking poison much, I wanted to charge right in, guns ablazin’. If even part of what I’d heard recently was accurate, she had a lot to answer for. But I’d been told that she was a no-holds-barred competitor as well as a hard-ass lawyer, despite her cheerleader’s facade. And I already knew that she didn’t much like me. The forthright approach probably wouldn’t work.
I went on pretending I was calm.
“I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me, Ms. Rasmussen. We didn’t exactly hit it off at the tournament.”
“Call me Sue, Mr. Axbrewder.” Her tone didn’t waver. No doubt she had a lot of fun that way during cross-examinations, confusing her opponent’s witnesses with honey. “You’re right, we didn’t hit it off then. And we probably won’t now. But Sternway sensei values the job you’re doing for Mr. Lacone and Martial America, and he wants the IAMA to give you every cooperation. I’m sure we can be civil to each other, if we really try.”
Well, I wasn’t sure, but what the hell. I could go along with it, at least for a little while.
“That’s good to hear, Sue.” Deliberately I didn’t remind her to call me Brew. “There are several things I think you can help me with, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she promised.
I waited a beat or two, mostly for effect, then said, “Anson may’ve told you that I’m interested in Bernie Appelwait. The Luxury security guard who was killed at your tournament. The cops are investigating, of course, and the detective in charge seems to be doing a pretty thorough job.” Sweetness Axbrewder-style. “But I’ve been poking around anyway, asking the kinds of questions that might not occur to anyone else, just to see what turns up.”
Apparently that caught her by surprise. She sounded perplexed as she replied, “I thought you identified Mr. Appelwait’s killer last night. Sternway sensei told me that’s why he attacked you.”
“Well,” I drawled with a hint of malice, “that’s not quite accurate. I identified the man as a thief, not a killer. So far anything else is just supposition.”
Then I got to the point. “But in fact I’m reasonably sure he wasn’t Bernie’s killer. So, as I say, I’ve been asking questions.”
“I see.” She considered the idea. “What sorts of questions?”
She disappointed me by recovering her honey—and by not pushing to find out why I thought Hardshorn wasn’t the killer. But I didn’t really care. I had plenty of ammunition.
Without a pause I brought my guns to bear.
“Did you know Bernie at all? I mean, outside The Luxury and your tournaments?”
“Know him?” Now I heard a little strain in her voice. “Bernie Appelwait?”
“Did the IAMA ever do any private business with him? Did you? Or Anson Sternway Shorin-Ryu Bushido? A bit of part-time security work, for example? Or maybe he arranged some quiet financing, helped you solve a cash-flow problem?”
“Mr. Axbrewder,” she put in quickly, “are you suggesting that Sternway sensei is involved with loan sharks?”
I sensed a lawyer’s instincts at work.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” I told her firmly. “I’m just asking questions.”
“Then the answer is no.” She’d abandoned sweetness for asperity—the tone she probably used on opposing counsel. “In all the years I’ve known Sternway sensei, or been involved with the IAMA, we’ve never had any dealings of any kind with Mr. Appelwait outside his role as The Luxury’s Chief of Security.”
I refined my focus, continued maneuvering her into range. “Was he ever a student of yours? Can you think of any personal connection that might exist between him and anyone at the IAMA, or in Anson’s school? Any connection at all?”
“No. Categorically not.”
I made a pretense of pausing for thought. Then I inquired, “And you’d tell me the truth about this, Sue?”
Her reaction stung across the airwaves. “That’s either an insult or a very stupid question.” She bit off each word precisely. “What makes you think I might lie to you?”
“I’ll answer that,” I returned promptly, “if you’ll answer another for me first.” Before she could refuse, I asked, “What’s the real reason Anson hasn’t moved into Martial America?”
“What do you mean,” she countered, “‘the real reason’? What reason have you heard?”
I snorted. “Money and politics. Martial America costs too much. And Anson doesn’t want to get caught in the middle of potential conflicts between schools.”
“And that doesn’t make sense to you? It sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”
“No,” I retorted, “it doesn’t make sense. Lacone has too much to gain by attracting Anson’s business. He’s eager to make a deal Anson can afford. And as for politics—”
She cut me off. “Stop right there, Mr. Axbrewder. You’re already wrong. Mr. Lacone is eager to make a deal Sternway sensei could afford—if he didn’t already have financial problems.
“In case you haven’t heard, he’s trying to divorce his wife. And she’s contesting it. In fact, she’s doing everything in her power to leave him destitute. She was extravagant before they separated. I swear to God, the man was a saint with her. But now she’s determined to gut his assets. As a school, we survive where we are on a month-by-month basis. Under the circumstances, Sternway sensei certainly can’t commit himself to the kind of long-term lease Mr. Lacone wants.
“I’m trying to be cooperative here,” she finished, “but I think you have a hell of a nerve suggesting that I might not tell you the truth.”
Gotcha, I thought. If Sternway heard what she just said, he’d probably demote her. Hell, he might even kick her out of his bed. The last thing a balls-to-the-wall fighter like him would want was to be exposed as a pussy-whipped weakling who couldn’t defend himself against his own wife.
Sue Rasmussen—I was sure of this—had told me too much about money because she didn’t want to talk about politics.
“That’s all very interesting,” I returned. “But you’ve only answered part of my question.” At last I cocked one of my guns, let some of my anger show. “What about the conflicts in Martial America?”
She met me with exasperation. “What about them? They’re traditional, Mr. Axbrewder—they go back longer than you can imagine. With the best will in the world, Sternway sensei can’t resolve them. What little effectiveness he has as a mediator depends on his stature outside those conflicts.”
Working to convey the impression that I took her response seriously, I paused again, relaxed into the silence. I wanted her to drop her guard. But I didn’t drag it out. A moment later I remarked, “That’s also very interesting. Unfortunately it’s bullshit.”
Then I opened fire.
“From what I’ve heard, both Sifu Hong and Nakahatchi sensei like Anson’s idea of cooperation among dojos. They’re in conflict with each other because you’ve been stirring up trouble.”
I heard the hiss as she snatched a breath. The next instant she flashed back at me, “Mr. Axbrewder, I’ve had enough of this. I’m trying to answer your questions, I’m trying to get along with you here. I certainly don’t deserve—”
I interrupted hard. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Sue. Didn’t you prepare the leases for Essential Shotokan and Traditional Wing Chun?”
“Yes, but—” she began.
That admission was enough. “So you were in a position to know that Hong expected precedence. But you didn’t mention his feelings until you’d already moved Nakahatchi into Martial America ahead of Hong. In fact, you created an insult that didn’t exist.”
“That’s absurd! How was I supposed to know—?”
I kept right on interrupting her. “You just lectured me about conflicts between martial arts schools. How could you not know? Do you expect me to believe that Anson didn’t tell you he’d offered Hong the chance to be first in Martial America?
“But you didn’t stop there. As I hear it, you made a point of making Nakahatchi aware th
at Hong was offended. But you didn’t explain Nakahatchi’s circumstances to Hong. How am I supposed to interpret that? It sure looks like you didn’t want Hong to understand that Nakahatchi wasn’t trying to upstage him.”
“Mister Axbrewder.” Sue’s vehemence caused a crackle of distortion in my phone’s earpiece. “You’re taking the entire situation out of context.” Her disdain filled the connection. “I don’t discuss one client’s business with another. That’s privileged information. I’m ethically bound not to tell either Sifu Hong or Nakahatchi sensei about each other’s decisions.
“I only mentioned Sifu Hong’s reaction when I realized he’d misinterpreted Nakahatchi sensei’s actions. I thought Nakahatchi sensei deserved a chance to correct Sifu Hong’s misapprehensions. It’s not my fault he didn’t take advantage of the opportunity.
“And that’s privileged information as well. I don’t know who has been talking to you, but they should not have done it.”
All right. So she was fast on her feet. Living up to her reputation. That didn’t bother me. I could exchange volleys with her like this all day.
“Well—” I made a pretense of backing down. “Maybe you’re right.” Then I tried a more oblique attack. “But I have to say, I’m still confused by your role in all this. If you thought Nakahatchi deserved a chance to straighten things out, why didn’t you think Hong deserved accurate information?”
“Because,” she retorted with heavy impatience, “he’s a Wing Chun stylist. I don’t expect you to understand what that means, but believe me, it’s relevant. He’s too touchy to be reasonable.”
I had her, and she didn’t even know it. Grinning fiercely at my windshield, I let her bury herself.
“Soft stylists are like that generally,” she pronounced. “They’re flashy and dramatic because they don’t want anyone to know that their techniques don’t really work. Instead they cultivate secretiveness, trying to convince themselves that the rest of us aren’t smart enough to recognize their real power. And they’re touchy. You should hear the complaints at tournaments. The judges aren’t fair, the refs won’t give them points they deserve, everyone is prejudiced against them. Since they can’t demonstrate any effectiveness, they’ve made the whole thing about ego.
“I didn’t explain Nakahatchi sensei’s position to Hong,” she concluded with mis-aimed sarcasm, “because I had no reason to think he’d listen.”
“I see.” I let my grin show in my voice. “It’s starting to make sense now. There’s just one more thing I don’t get.” Then I asked cheerfully, “Why did you tell Hong that I was hired to protect the chops from him? I mean, considering that he’s so ‘touchy’ and all.”
“Mr. Axbrewder”—my earpiece positively spat at me—“I’ve had enough of this.” Righteous Sue Rasmussen in full cry. “From the beginning you approached our tournament with contempt, and all you’ve done since then is sneer.
“You forget that I know what you’re like. When I heard Mr. Lacone made the mistake of hiring you, I knew you weren’t qualified to deal with the situation in Martial America. You’re too ignorant and ‘superior’ to appreciate the danger. So—” She took a deep breath. “I gave you some help. I made Sifu Hong aware that his school was being watched. You weren’t likely to grasp what the ownership of those chops means, or how far almost anyone at Traditional Wing Chun would go to retrieve them. On your behalf, I made them nervous. I made them cautious. Otherwise they might have stolen those chops out from under your nose.”
I wanted to applaud, but she didn’t give me the chance.
“This conversation is over,” she informed me. Then she slammed down the phone.
Well, gosh, I thought. Apparently she’d figured out why I suspected her of lying.
I’d finally won a round. For a minute or two I couldn’t stop grinning.
Sternway’s squeeze spent almost as much time and ingenuity undermining Martial America as he did promoting it. Bless his woman-ridden little heart, he had a saboteur in his midst.
Or—
With the suddenness of a cerebral hemorrhage, a window seemed to open in my head. Through it, I saw nameless intuitions tremble on the verge of clarity. Hong and Hardshorn and Bernie shimmered on the horizon like mirages, obscured or invented by heat, and accompanied by other figures with their faces hidden.
Maybe it wasn’t her lover sweet Sue had sabotaged. Maybe it was me.
Before I could grasp all the implications, however, before I could catch even a glimpse of the danger I’d created for Hong, the window closed. I found myself in a muck sweat, despite the van’s valiant AC. Even through my sunglasses, Carner’s hard light had a mocking tinge.
Goddamn it, where was Ginny when I needed her?
Some part of me knew what Sue’s performance meant, I was sure of that. But I’d lost the window. It wouldn’t open again until it was good and ready. Or I was.
Maybe it was me.
Damn and damn. The sensation that people might get hurt because I couldn’t understand my own instincts was almost more than I could stomach.
Unfortunately experience had taught me that I wouldn’t get anywhere if I sat and stewed about it. Muttering curses, I forced myself out of my own head long enough to look around the parking lot for some indication that Deborah had arrived.
I didn’t see any new cars. But it was getting close to 11:00, so I decided not to wait. Reluctantly I turned off the Plymouth and stepped out onto the griddle of the concrete.
Deliberately I tried not to hurry. I needed to relax somehow. Nevertheless anxieties I couldn’t identify goaded me too hard. In spite of my best efforts, I burst into Traditional Wing Chun like a man with furies in his wake.
To my surprise, I found Hong and T’ang Wen ready in the hall.
They both wore formal kung fu silks. As usual, I couldn’t read Hong’s face, but his posture hardly hinted at violence. If he saw threats in meeting Nakahatchi, he may’ve been reluctant to prejudge them. At his side, T’ang appeared subdued, almost chastened. I suspected that he’d told his master about Nakahatchi’s lease, and had been shaken when Hong took the information seriously.
Pulling off my sunglasses, I bowed to both of them. They responded without making a production out of it—measured courtesy, a tentative acknowledgment that waited for events to justify something more definitive.
“I’m a bit early, Sifu.” By using his title without his name, I hoped to suggest that he continued to rise in my estimation. My own form of measured acknowledgment. “I don’t think Ms. Messenger and Mr. Swilley have arrived yet. Would you prefer to wait for them here, or shall we go on over to Essential Shotokan? I’m sure we’ll be welcome either way.”
Hong inclined his head. “We will go.” He may’ve wanted to gauge Nakahatchi’s reaction without Deborah and Swilley there to complicate matters.
“Good.” With another bow, I swung the door open so that Hong and T’ang could precede me.
But as we reached the sidewalk, I saw Deborah and a man I didn’t know emerge from a BMW so immaculate that it might’ve descended from the hand of God right there in the parking lot. She wore a pale blue business suit that seemed to turn her auburn hair the color of firelight and flames. When she spotted us, she waved cheerfully, then escorted her companion toward Nakahatchi’s dojo.
Without transition my heart started thudding double-time. As surreptitiously as I could, I wiped my palms on my slacks, but it didn’t help. Somehow I controlled my impulse to stare while she crossed the concrete. If I got caught up in the lissome sway of her gait, I’d forget that I still didn’t know how to trust her.
We converged under the awning at Essential Shotokan’s symbolic door. Deborah gave me a smile that nearly dropped me to my knees, greeted Hong and T’ang with a subtle combination of familiarity and reserve, then introduced all three of us to her companion.
Carliss Swilley’s appearance struck me as odd. From a distance, he’d looked both shorter and fatter than he actually was. In fact, he was a
man of medium height and average weight, dressed in a rich, slightly shimmering blue suit that God could’ve handed down along with the BMW. Dark, horn-rimmed glasses gave his face a studious air. Wellbehaved scraps of hair around his balding head suggested elegance. And yet somehow his aura, his presence, insisted that in reality he was short and pudgy, that the man who shook my hand was a facade for someone smaller and less fastidious.
Above his expert’s smile, he had plain features a bit too broad for his height, and a substantial birthmark smack in the middle of his forehead. It increased the effect of his glasses, as if nature had marked him with authority. Or maybe it was the insignia of what lay behind his facade.
“A pleasure, Mr. Axbrewder,” he informed me in a desiccated tone like the sound of dust settling. “I understand I have you to thank for this commission. Do you know Chinese antiques?”
“Not even a little bit. But I have a vague grasp on insurance.” I flicked an involuntary grin at Deborah. “Enough to be sure we need a professional appraisal.”
“I’m grateful nonetheless.” He sounded as grateful as a tombstone. “A chance to study ivory and workmanship which may have come from early in the Qing dynasty, and which may indeed have been produced by Leung Len Kwai himself”—he rustled his hands—“well, suffice it to say that missing such an opportunity would be an occasion for regret.”
I doubted that. He gave me the impression that he didn’t take his “regret” out of the closet very often and hadn’t quite finished brushing off the cobwebs.
“I hope you won’t be disappointed,” I put in bluntly. “The chops may not be authentic.”
“I’ll enjoy seeing them in any case,” he assured me without enthusiasm. “Forged antiques often demonstrate as much skill and industry as their originals, and may be nearly as old. Indeed, any copies of Leung Len Kwai’s work could well derive, as his originals do, from the eighteenth century. Historically—”
The Man Who Fought Alone Page 37