“It’s a bit unconventional,” David explained. “In fact, my old instructor nearly seized a piston when he saw it. ‘You no can do this!’ he said. ‘Must use traditional todai mikura and shogi!’ The traditional method is a bit more cramped. I tried it for a while, but it led to back problems. This is better.”
“What do you do here?”
“I’ll show you.”
Kopkind waited until she had parked her bike in the comer and taken off her jacket. He knelt on the stool, picking up a long, curving piece of steel that lay on the table next to him. The piece of steel was sheathed in tightly wrapped newspaper. Unsheathing the blade, Kop-kind reached into the bucket, doused the clamped stone with water, and began to run the blade back and forth over the wetted stone.
“This is a synthetic stone, made of aluminum oxide. It’s okay for the coarse stuff, but when we get down to fine quality, only polishing stones from Japan will do.” With an almost reverent expression, Kopkind ran the blade along the stone, creating an oddly soothing sound. Swooosh. Swooosh. Sara was mesmerized. For a while, both were lost in the sounds of the blade sliding over the stone.
The polisher shook himself as if coming out of a daze, and grinned. “Sorry. It’s extremely therapeutic, once you get into it.”
“Doesn’t it kill your back?”
“Not too bad. And I have all sorts of ways to relax. One of which is to go to a party with a beautiful woman.”
Sara grinned in spite of herself. Kopkind blushed, surprised by his own effronteiy. “I’ll just go out front and get my things,” she said. “Have you got some place I can change?”
Leading her down a hall with doors to what she presumed were his private quarters, Kopkind showed her to a large combo bath/utility room with a mahogany hot tub mounted on a platform in the comer. There was a clothes washer and diyer, a large shower and a cabinet filled with fluffy towels. “Don’t worry—I have a sink in the shop. Take your time.”
Sara had brought The Little Black Dress by Dolce a Gabbana, and a pair of Black Satin low risers. Her cunning little beaded black purse barely contained her thirty-two Beretta and badge. Fashion demanded that she leave the .357 at home.
Kopkind was waiting in the foyer, lounging on the sofa in a pair of gray pleated Dockers, a loose-knit cotton sweater that reminded Sara of Shmendrick. The color. His eyes went saucer-wide as she emerged, and he whistled.
Sara smiled at him. “Don’t get any ideas. This is strictly police work.” She didn’t believe it herself. Kopkind was refreshingly simple after the self-styled Romeos of the Eleventh, and the usual grade of overfed, oversexed egomaniacs who hit on her.
Yoshi came through the beaded curtain, snarling and yawning. Kopkind reached down and scratched the cat’s neck. “Yoshi, guard the shop.”
They left through the front door, which Kopkind locked with two different keys. “My car’s in the Bleecker Street Garage, two blocks up. Wanna walk?”
“Sure.” His hand naturally found hers as they walked up the street, taking in the show.
At the garage, Kopkind slipped the kid a fin and they waited on the street. “It must cost a fortune to store your car here,” Sara said.
“Not so bad. I did a favor for the owner once, and he charges me a really low rate.”
“What sort of favor?”
“Well, you may not believe this, but one night as I was delivering a sword, two punks tried to stick him up. I just sort of crept up on them by accident. I had no idea what was happening until I was like ten feet away. Then it all hit me at once. They were holding this guy up! And in one second they were going to see me. I didn’t think, I didn't hesitate, I drew the sword and just happened to catch this guy’s gun. It was like some kind of twenty-dollar special ’cause it hit the ground and fell apart. It was almost comical, these two guys standing there looking at the broken gun, so I figured what the hell. I brandished the sword like a berserker and started screaming in Japanese. They took off.”
Sara regarded the sword polisher with new respect. “You speak Japanese?”
At that moment, his car arrived, an elderly steel gray Acura Legend in excellent condition. Kopkind held the door for her. The interior smelled of leather. It was only after Kopkind got behind the wheel and they took off that she became aware of his scent: a haunting, exotic musk. Sara approved. She couldn’t abide men who slathered themselves with cologne like suntan lotion.
Kopkind took the Manhattan Bridge and worked his way toward the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, then out to Long Island, Nancy Wilson singing on the stereo.
Ninety minutes later, Kopkind took the Bridgehampton Exit and headed toward the beach.
Bratten’s place was a Bauhaus-inspired party palace lit from within like a Chinese lantern. It was a two-story white box with rectangular and round windows and aluminum decks, suggesting a cruise ship. Gray and crimson-jacketed valets moved in smooth precision to handle the influx of luxury automobiles. A valet held the door for Sara while another waited to slide into the driver’s seat. The moment they were out, the Acura rocketed ahead and dove into a cubbyhole between an Audi TT and a Rolls Royce.
Nelly boomed from numerous speakers as Kopkind and Sara mounted the broad white marble steps to the front door, where a smiling personal assistant checked for invitations. Inside, the broad foyer gave way to an immense sunken living room, open to the deck and the sea in the distance. The living room was filled with brightly dressed party people, snagging champagne off circulating trays. The room was decorated with African and Japanese art, brooding mahogany masks and feather-light brush paintings, paintings of players and NBA greats. Several of the latter were in attendance, including Bratten himself, a handsome six-foot-nine-inch sun at the center of a swirling constellation of guests. Upon spotting Kopkind, he flashed his brilliant choppers.
“David. David." He came forward, hands extended, until he made contact. Sara paused two steps above the living room floor and still found herself looking up at Bratten.
“And who is this beautiful woman? Where you been hiding her? You been holding out on me?”
“This is Sara Pezzini, James. She’s a New York City detective, so watch your step.”
Bratten assumed a face of mock horror. “You’re a cop?" “Don’t woriy. I’m off-duty.”
“Well, okay, then. Didn’t know they made cops like you. Surprised there’s any crime.”
“You collect swords, Mr. Bratten?”
“Call me James. Yes I do. And like every other sword collector worth a damn, I get mine polished at Kopkind’s.” “Would you show me your most valuable sword, James?”
Bratten’s eyebrows made twin peaks. He held out his arm. “I’m gonna borrow your date, David.”
Kopkind winked. “Okay, but don’t try that NBA hustle on her. She’s a cop. I see some friends of mine.” He headed down the steps and across the crowded floor.
Sara accompanied Bratten past a free-standing pit fireplace, up some redwood stairs, and down a hall to a room Bratten unlocked by punching some buttons. Inside, a large room was illuminated by offset lighting and spotlights shining on specific exhibits. A number of swords were on display inside hinged glass cases. Sara noted the videocam hidden in a ceiling fixture.
Bratten led the way to the central glass case and indicated a katana, a full-length war sword, resting in a hand-cut teak base. “That’s my Masumune. Paid two-point-five mil for that sucker, and it was a bargain.” “Masumune was a swordmaker?”
“One of the best. Lived in the thirteenth centuiy.” “Have you heard of a swordmaker named Muramasa?” “Of course. All serious collectors know about Muramasa. He was Masumune’s rival. They held a competition to see who could craft the sharpest blade. Masumune stuck his sword in a stream and allowed a single maple leaf to drift against it. Cut the leaf in two. But Mura-masa’s blade was so keen, the water itself split and it was dry when he drew it out.”
“Are Muramasa’s blades valuable?”
“Does Oscar Robertson know basketb
all? Thing about Muramasa’s blades, they got a reputation for evil, so many people died from them. Also, experts disagree on whether the first Muramasa-to my mind, the one and only—actually existed. So it’s damn hard to find an authentic first generation.”
“But that doesn’t stop people from collecting them?” “Hell, no. Some collectors even favor that sort of thing. Like my man Hecht. Hecht got me into this Japanese worship in the first place. Gimme a Masumune tanto to celebrate our first NBA championship.”
“That would be Adrian Hecht, the Apples’ owner?” “He’s here. I’ll introduce you.”
“I’ll introduce myself,” said a voice from behind. Bratten and Sara turned toward the door, where Adrian Hecht had silently entered. He was a distinguished man with close-cropped silver hair, six feet, black silk jacket over black silk T, pleated black pants and sandals.
“You couldn’t pull that ninja crap on me if I wasn’t so tired,” Bratten said.
Hecht came up to them, holding himself a little too carefully, aware he was a little drunk. “Adrian Hecht.” Sara took his slightly clammy hand. “Sara Pezzini.” “Watch out, Hecht. She da fuzz.”
“You’re a cop?”
“Homicide.”
“Ahh. Terrible, what happened to Bachman. That your case?”
Sara nodded. “You knew Bachman?"
“Of course. All serious collectors knew Bachman. He was a gentleman, and extremely knowledgeable about Oriental art in general, and Japanese swords in particular.” “Do you own any Muramasas, Mr. Hecht?”
A funny look crossed the tycoon’s face. Almost fear. So quick, if you blinked, you missed it. Then the old instincts took over, and he was the smiling confident captain of industiy. “Nope. But I can dream, can’t I?”
“So you don’t believe in the Muramasa curse.”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t know if James told you, but I’m a bit of a buff.”
“He said you were the one who got him into collecting.” “Well, James was interested in all things Japanese before I met him. He already had his black belt in karate, and had been over there with the NBA All-Stars.”
“What do you know of the Muramasa curse?”
“This guy just published a book in Japan, not available over here. It’s called Way Of The Blade, and it’s a history of the great swordmakers. It’s 756 pages long. I had it translated. Well, parts of it. The author has dug up all sorts of information that nobody ever knew about Mura-masa, including how he died.”
“Oh, honey,” Bratten said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let him commence!”
“It’s a long story.”
“Maybe you can tell me later.”
“I could do that.” Hecht dipped two fingers inside his silk jacket and handed her an ivory-colored business card. “Call me. I am always happy to accommodate Manhattan’s finest.”
Bratten headed for the door. “You’d better get hip, Jack, before you step in it. I’m gonna head back, make sure my homies ain’t pocketing the silverware. Close the door when you’re done in here. And don’t take anything-I know exactly what I got.”
Bratten left. Hecht turned the full force of his considerable charm on Sara. “Love that bad boy. He’s like a son to me. So what’s happening with the Bachman case? Are you handling Chalmers, too?”
She nodded. “We have some leads. In both cases, a valuable Japanese sword was taken. Both Muramasas.” Hecht maintained his cool, but Sara could sense his unease through the Witchblade. “Let’s head back to the party, Mr. Hecht. Or we’ll end up on Page Six together.” Hecht grinned, held the door for her. “Please call me Adrian.”
“Okay. Out here, you’re Adrian. In the city, Mr. Hecht.” Most of the crowd had moved out onto the broad patio. A half-dozen sleek young men and women splashed
in the free-form pool while liveried bartenders dispensed drinks from rolling bars. Sara spotted Kopkind talking to an older guy with a pasteover, in a Ralph Lauren that was too young for him. She walked up to them and took David’s hand.
“Oh, there you are. Sara, Bob Hotchkiss. Bob, Sara Pezzini.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the businessman said, extending his hand.
“Likewise,” Sara said. She shook his hand, recalling Hotchkiss’ name as one she’d found in Bachman’s Rolodex. A sword collector? What were the chances of three of the city’s top sword collectors all gathering at the same spot, a day after two of their number had their heads lopped off? Coincidence turned to dust beneath the weight of circumstance.
“Mr. Hotchkiss, I’m investigating the Bachman homicide. You knew him, didn’t you?”
Hotchkiss turned white. “I don’t collect Oriental art.” “You are the Robert Hotchkiss whose name I found in Bachman’s Rolodex, aren’t you?”
David looked ill at ease. She was embarrassing him. Too bad. This was a break, and she intended to pursue it.
“Yes, well I, uh, my wife, my soon-to-be ex-wife, you might as well know, was quite a collector. She has a black belt in spending. She may have bought and sold some things through Bachman.”
“You are aware that he was killed two nights ago.”
“I heard. A terrible tragedy.”
Kopkind tugged at her hand. “Sara, this is a party.”
She ignored him. “Someone phoned in an anonymous tip that he’d been killed. You know anything about that?”
Hotchkiss turned red. If he could turn blue, he could rent himself out at patriotic events. “No, I do not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see someone I have to talk to.”
He stalked off.
Kopkind glared at her. “Sara, I brought you here as my guest. You can’t go around questioning these people as if this were a crime scene. For one thing, there are a halfdozen people here who could ruin your career with the snap of their fingers.”
“Thanks for the advice, David. But I know what I’m doing. Didn’t you invite me out here under the pretext of meeting the city’s top collectors?"
Kopkind nodded ruefully. “Yeah, I did. I got no cause to complain.”
Sara graced him with a smile. “That’s what I want to hear! Come on, let’s get some food before it’s all gone."
Kopkind followed her inside to the buffet table. “It’s never all gone.”
Sara suddenly realized she was famished. She loaded a plate with bacon-wrapped scallops, Swedish meatballs, chilled shrimp, and carrot and celery sticks. She and David found an unoccupied table by the pool and dined in the warm night air while the sound system loudly pumped Jurassic 5. She was grateful for the respite. Not only Hotchkiss, but James Bratten and Adrian Hecht were among Bachman’s customers. Who among them knew Bachman well enough to know when he acquired the sword? Sara made a mental note to dig into Bachman.
Later, they went for a walk, hand in hand, along the trail that skirted the upper level of the dunes. The wind sighed in the reeds, bringing with it the scent of sea. There were occasional pine bridges over rivulets, and they could see lights from the Jersey shore in the distance. It was ten-thirty by the time David asked for his car to be brought around.
They were on the expressway before Sara finally asked, “How do you know Hotchkiss?”
“I polished one of his swords a couple years ago. A Muramasa. I think it was stolen.”
She shot him a glance. “David. Did it ever occur to you that that might be one of the missing swords?”
Kopkind paused for a second, his lips slightly parted. “Uh-oh,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you could identify it?”
“Of course I can. Each sword is unique. I made drawings.”
“Drawings?”
“It’s called oshigata. I draw all the swords I polish. It helps me to visualize and understand them, before I start polishing. I put the drawings up on my website, sword-polish.com. That was my one and only Muramasa. I was scared to death I was going to screw it up. They’re virtually priceless. Fortunately, it’s a very togishi-friendly blade. It wanted to be as sharp as possible.”
“You talk as if the blade has a mind of its own."
“It does. It cut me.”
Sara was about to say something else, but her arm tingled, ever so slightly.
She wrapped her hand around the Witchblade.
It was just past midnight when Kopkind unlocked the front door to his shop and invited Sara in.
“David, I’ve had a wonderful time. I’m going to get my bike and go.”
“Guess I won’t offer you a nightcap.”
“Some other time. Really.”
They entered his foyer. The little bell rang, and Yoshi advanced through the curtain, yawning and snarling.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. What is it with that cat?”
David stooped and scooped the basketball-sized mound of fur, causing Sara to involuntarily cringe as she envisioned the fur deposit on his shirt. “He’s got some kind of sinus deviation that makes him do that. The vet says he’s fine, and it would cost too much to correct.”
Sara ducked into the washroom and quickly changed back into jeans, leather boots and jacket, neatly packing her party dress and accoutrements in the leather backpack. Her badge and gun went in the tank bag. As Kopkind held the alley door open for her, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Call me.”
She used the ride home to sort out her feelings. He was cute. And he was smart. And he had nothing to do with police work, an enormous plus. But she’d just met him, and she was in the middle of an investigation.
She sensed none of the brooding fury in Kopkind that she found in most cops. Even the best, like Joe Siry, nursed a secret kernel of rage that could explode at any time. Police work was not therapy. Even though it provided therapy, most cops refused to take advantage of the benefit. They just wouldn’t admit they had a problem. Wouldn’t be manly.
It was past one by the time she got home. Shmendrick scolded her as she let herself in her door.
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