“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning,” Sara promised, and headed for the bedroom.
CHAPTER
SIX
Sara woke with sun streaming in through the windows. She glanced at the bedside clock. Eleven-thirty. Sunday. No day of rest for her, but she’d promised herself a ride before she took another look at the evidence. Her father had had an old cop Harley and at least once a year, until he died, he’d take her up the Hudson to Brandywine.
Sara stretched, showered, spooned down a yogurt and a banana. She phoned the Fifty-second Precinct in the Bronx and connected with a desk sergeant named Bryan, whom she’d met when she first moved in.
“Danny Boy, it’s Pezzini.”
“Why aren’t you at morning mass, darlin?”
“Ha-ha. Listen. Do me a favor. Find out who owns my building, will you?” She gave him the address.
“Sure and I’ll do that, darlin’. When you gonna buy the Sarge a cuppa?”
“Soon, Sarge, soon. And thanks.”
Always, the debate: what to wear. It wasn’t a matter of style, it was a matter of comfort versus safety. It was hot in the city. But leather was undeniably the best defense against road rash. In the end, she compromised, as she always did. Blue jeans, leather boots, jacket, and gloves. And of course the full-face Arai.
She rolled up the medical center garage ramp at 12:25 and headed south. It was Sunday, when even Manhattan’s ferocious traffic rested. She zipped across the moderately crowded streets and soon reached the Henry Hudson Parkway. It was a sunny day in the high sixties. Sara was perfectly comfortable leaning into the pocket behind the Yamaha’s miniscule cowl. When trucks passed her going the other way, she lay down on her tank bag, although no debris could penetrate the Arai. She was past Yonkers when she noticed the close-spaced twin gleam in her rearviews. Another bike.
Like dogs marking their territory, bikers were instantly aware of other bikes. She glanced down. She’d been cruising at eighty. She throttled back, waited for the other bike to catch up. She wanted to know what it was. The bike zipped around an amblin’ Camry and pulled next to her. It was the beige and silver Hayabusa from the station.
Sara downshifted, opened the throttle and jerked back on the bars. The ferociously fast RZ-1 obediently reared up on its rear wheel as she wheelied away at one hundred per. The Hayabusa lagged a moment due more to the rider’s surprise than any lack of ability. She dove into a cluster of slow-moving mini-vans, weaving from lane to lane, space to space, until she was convinced she’d buried the Hayabusa. Her pursuer emerged almost immediately behind her.
You want to play? Sara thought. Fine. Let’s play.
She downshifted and accelerated to one hundred and forty miles an hour. At this speed, she had to concentrate far ahead on the four-lane expressway, looking for any potential obstacle. Fortunately, her reflexes were up to the task. Although she knew the Hayabusa could easily match her top speed, its rider had to outweigh her by approximately a hundred pounds, which would slow him down somewhat.
Wind whistling through the helmet sounded like a million police sirens in pursuit. The sound had never bothered her. Her father had taught her police sirens were the truest signs of civilization. Road signs and exits whisked by in a heartbeat. Trevor Mansion. Hastings-on-Hudson. They zipped through traffic like fireflies among armadillos, not slowing down until Sara crested a rise just past Dobbs Ferry and saw traffic stopped a half mile ahead, due to an accident.
The first exit led to Trevorton and St. Benedict’s Retreat, A Cloistered Order of the Benedictine Brotherhood. Sara zipped off and took the left turn toward the river and the retreat. The Hayabusa was right behind her. The entrance to the retreat went through a wrought iron gate, open for Sunday, between brick pillars. The blacktop road wound between a hardwood forest until it came to the retreat, a three-story red brick Reformation structure with steeply-raked green copper roofs, a wide turn-around occupied by an old Cadillac and a heating/air-conditioning van, and a turn off into a walled alcove overlooking the Hudson.
Sara used the handicapped ramp to zip up onto the alcove. She kicked out her stand, and was taking off her helmet when the Hayabusa hove in beside her. The guy was big, all right. When he got off the bike, he towered over Sara. A moment later, he removed his full-face shield and it was the handsome black cop from the press conference. There was a slight Asian tilt to his eyes, as if there might be some Japanese in his family blood.
He stuck out his hand. “Hey, how are ya? Derek Sharpe. I’m the gang guy they hired from Hawaii.”
Sara took his hand, looking up into warm brown eyes. “Pezzini, but you know that. You left Hawaii to take a job in New York? Why?”
“Man, I have always wanted to be in New York. This is the center of the world. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Macadamia nuts and Don Ho get old after a while. How many reasons do you want?"
“Were you following me?”
Sharpe held his string-backed gloved hands up and waggled his fingers. “No, ma’am. But when I saw you zipping in and out of traffic up ahead, I thought I’d better take a look.”
“As a copper? Or a biker?”
Sharpe grinned. “Both. Anyway, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad it’s you. How you coming with the samurai killings?”
Sara rolled her eyes. “I should have known. We’re looking for a killer who’s collecting rare swords.”
Sharpe went over to the brick abutment and leaned on it, gazing down at the slowly trolling blue Hudson, a scattering of small pleasure craft, a barge working against the current, nudged along by a tug. The New Jersey Palisades were dense with growth, gleaming in the afternoon sun. It was a perfect day.
“Really? What kind? I know a little bit about swords.” The hair on the back of Sara’s neck tingled. She didn’t believe in coincidence.
“How is it you know a little bit about swords, Derek Sharpe?”
“I was midshipman on the U.S.S. Ticonderoga-an aircraft carrier in the Pacific during the nineties. We made some ports of call in Japan, where I was privileged to study kendo and iaido with some of the masters.”
“Iaido?”
“The art of drawing the blade, striking the target, and returning the blade to the scabbard all in one smooth motion. Really, a perfectly useless skill.”
Not quite, Sara thought, seeing jerky video image of the swordsman rising like a cobra to lop off Bachman’s head. As she said, she didn’t believe in coincidence. But this guy was a cop. Just because Sharpe was into swords didn’t mean he was the samurai killer.
“And you have a Japanese bike,” she said.
“Two, actually. Got a Shadow 1100 for cruising. My favorite movie is The Seven Samurai. I like sushi. I like sumo. What is sumo, anyway, but sushi with larger pieces of meat?”
Sara laughed. Sharpe flashed a Steinway smile.
“Too bad you couldn’t have been with me last night. I had all the big-shot sword collectors in Manhattan, in one room.”
“Really? Where was that?”
She told him about Bratten’s party. Sharpe listened intently. He seemed even more interested when she mentioned Adrian Hecht.
“I’m investigating a series of vandalisms down at his new site, near Ground Zero.”
“He wants to give me the grand tour. What kind of vandalisms?”
“The kind that verge on sabotage. Cables nearly cut in two. Sand in gas tanks. Some kind of jive-ass Third World up-against-the-wall motherporker all-purpose protest. You know. Down with capitalism, Hecht is an exploiter of the masses and a despoiler of the environment, etcetera, etcetera.” Sharpe's voice had a performer’s singsong quality. Sara was mesmerized.
“The Anti-Global Village Gang?”
“Exactly.”
“Seems to me the public has less tolerance for this sort of thing in the wake of 9/11.”
Sharpe sighed and rested his weight on his elbows as he leaned over the Hudson. Sara noticed his incredible biceps. He wore a sleeveless s
afari vest over a muscle shirt. “These people are True Believers. They are immune to reason, or public sentiment. Yeah, they do have a lot in common with the Taliban. On the other hand, Hecht has powerful enemies who would like to see him fail. It’s possible one of them is using this bunch as a cover, to cause mischief.”
“You got evidence, or is this a hunch?”
Sharpe peered into the distance, as if he’d spied a hawk above Jersey. “You know Bob Koske?”
“Amalgamated Truck Drivers of America. Twice indicted, never convicted. RICO’s perennial runner-up of the year.”
“Last year the Teamsters gave fifty grand to PETE: People for the Ethical Treatment of the Environment. Makes you wonder. So I’m down there at odd moments, looking for saboteurs.”
Sara looked Sharpe up and down, Physically, he was the exact opposite of most New York gang members, who were small and feral. “Rotsa ruck. You said you know a little about swords. Have you heard of Muramasa?” Sharpe’s face darkened. “Of course. The so-called evil
blades. In Japanese mythology, restless demons haunt the earth. Muramasa’s blades were legendary for being associated with them. These demons were cursed to wander forever until they had performed some task, by inhabiting the bodies of the living.”
“Some form of possession?”
“Exactly.”
A year ago, Sara would have dismissed Sharpe’s comments as nutwork. Not now. She had seen too much.
Sharpe clapped his hands and whirled, abruptly giddy “But we are in America, Detective! You’re an educated woman. Surely you don’t believe in such superstitious nonsense!”
“No, of course not.”
They both laughed.
“Virtually every surviving Muramasa is accounted for. I think there are in the neighborhood of three dozen, including long and short swords, all from the later period, not the original Muramasa, the one who made the bloodthirsty blades. From time to time, rumors surface of a long-lost masterpiece, but there hasn’t been an important discovery since ’95, when the last Masamune was discovered."
A busload of tourists had disgorged behind them, and they found themselves surrounded by seasoned citizens with cameras, some of whom clucked at the bikes.
“One more thing,” Sharpe said. “Ever think that the thefts may just be a dodge to cover up the murder? I’m thinking of Chalmers. Big shot like that has enemies. If the killer gets you wasting your time looking for some kind of samurai ghost, so much the better.”
“Hmmm.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Change of subject. Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“See what you can find out about the Brooklyn Romeros, and their leader, Jorge Candido.”
Sharpe pulled out a small spiral pad and made some notes. “I’m on it.”
“Come on,” Sara said. “Let’s get out of here before someone turns us into the monks for parking violations.” They rode into Reedsburg, found seats at a sidewalk cafe beneath a Bacardi awning at a round steel table, and ordered cafe lattes. Antique hounds from Long Island rummaged down the busy little Main Street, SUVs parked diagonally in orderly ranks.
“So, Sara, word is you're a freak magnet.”
“I attracted you, didn’t I?”
Sharpe displayed his teeth, like a flashing “SMILE!” sign. Sara liked having him around. He sent off no predatory vibes. He made her feel safe. “Touche,” he said.
“How far does your fascination with the Japanese go, Sharpsie? Do you work out?”
“I have a few black belts.”
“I’ll bet you have. Maybe you’ll take a look at the tape. I’d like to hear your opinion.”
“What tape?”
Sara told him about the Bachman video.
“Sure,” Sharpe said, glancing at his watch. A Seiko. “I’d be glad to. I have to head back. My partner’s expecting me to make the salad.”
“Who’s your partner?”
“Just a guy I know works on Wall Street. He’s still shaky in the morning.”
Sara was impressed, with both Sharpe and the Powers
That Be. It was one thing to see a gay cop on some television drama. It was another to have an openly gay cop functioning in a real New York precinct. Of course they did cover the Village. And Sharpe was hardly a screaming queen. He would fool many women.
They split the tab and agreed not to race each other back into the city. They rode together into central Manhattan, where Sara finally peeled down Broadway, with a wave and a wiggle of the Yamaha’s pert rear.
As Sara headed across Prospect, a 1979 Pontiac detached itself from the curb down the block and cruised slowly her way. The car was painted a metallic emerald green, with orange and yellow flames sweeping back from the front wheels.
When it drew close, Sara saw Jorge at the wheel, do-rag around his head, grinning like Pepe LaPew. “Wait up, chiquita!” he waved through the open moon roof.
Sara paused. The car pulled up at the curb. It had gold spoked wheels. The interior was lushly appointed in rolled and pleated green and yellow naugahyde.
“What’s this? Official ride of the Green Bay Packers?”
Jorge grinned vacantly, trying to hide his ignorance. “This my sweet ride, guapa. Listen, siddown here with me for a sec. I been thinking ’bout what we talked about, you know, and I got my boys doin’ good now.”
Sara looked for a door handle. The door clicked open of its own accord, and she slid on to the faintly aromatic seats. Of course he spritzed his car. “How are they doing good?”
“You know, I got to thinkin’ about the Guardian Angels an’ I figure, what the hell, we can do that. So that’s what I got my boys doin’. Just this block, but if things work out, who knows, maybe we’ll spread out and do some more.”
Sara regarded Jorge dubiously. Gangbanger to neighborhood saint overnight? She didn’t think so. On the other hand, she must never underestimate her own sex appeal. She’d learned that the hard way.
Jorge pulled away from the curb and cruised down Prospect Place, the elaborate stereo softly playing Heavy Hittaz, a Houston-based rap group.
“If you’re serious about this, we’re going to have to have a meeting between you guys and the residents so you can introduce yourselves. And we need rules. Like, no boom-box playing in the common areas.”
“I already put out the word on that.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, really. You don’t believe me? You heard any loud rap music last couple of days?”
Sara avoided the common areas, but decided to take Jorge at his word. It wouldn’t hurt to get the whole gang together and photograph them. Brooklyn Gangs would thank her for it. On the other hand, she might alienate Los Romeros. The medical center had some unused meeting rooms. She was certain she could get permission, especially if she got Jorge to extend his jurisdiction to the center, which had been plagued by petty thefts, vandalism, and assaults.
“Okay, that’s good. Thank you. But listen. If you’re doing this so you can get in my pants, fuggedaboudit. You’re not my type.”
“’Eyyy, pretty mama, I din’t say nothin’ about that. 1 already got an old lady.”
“If you’re talking about Lupe, that girl can’t be older than seventeen. How old are you, Jorge?”
“What year is this car?”
Sara looked around. “I don’t know.”
“It’s a ’79.”
“That makes you an adult, and her a minor. I’m not going to bust you for statutory, but I do hope you’re not just messing with her. She might get the idea you actually love her.”
“I do love her,” he grinned. “I love all my women.” Proud to be a playa.
“Take me home, Jorge. I need a bath.”
“You smell just fine to me, pretty mama.”
“Take me home.”
As Jorge pulled up to the main entrance, Lupe peered through Venetian blinds in her first floor apartment, knowing she could not put her plan into play soon enough.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER
SEVEN
F^.aj was waiting for her when she arrived at work the next morning. “We have analysis from Raven Software,” he sang as agreeably as a robin. “Come and see!”
Sara squared her gear away and followed Raj into the audio/visual room, where the monitor had been pre-cued. Raj played the sequence from the antique store in slow-motion while he read from the report. “Assailant anywhere from five-nine to six-four, weight between one-fifty and two hundred and fifty, and can be in age from early twenties to early fifties.”
“Oh, that’s terrific. That’s wonderful.”
“All is not lost,” Raj continued. “They have narrowed the possibility that it is a man to one in ten million. And he is right-handed.”
“Oh, great. Thank you, Raj.”
“I’m sorry it was not more helpful.”
“You did your best. I appreciate your help.”
Returning to her desk, Sara found a six-inch Freddie Krueger super-glued to her telephone, with the crudely lettered word balloon. “Don’t let Detective Pezzini get me! I give up!” Fortunately, she returned before the glue had set and was able to twist it off. She held the doll up and confronted five detectives burying their noses in their work.
“This is very childish!” she declared, tossing Freddie in the bottom drawer with the Godzilla, a flying monkey, and a Medieval Spawn. She worked her way through the daily flurry of interdepartmental memos and Requests For Assistance, and dug out Adrian Hecht’s business card. She was very interested in what the builder had to say about the mysterious Muramasa, and his crosstown rival Chalmers. Hecht took her call, invited her to his offices in the Griepp Building, on Forty-sixth Street and Park Avenue—a stone’s throw from Grand Central Station.
There was a message from Bryan in Brooklyn. Esther Management owned Waubeska Place. The principal shareholder and Esther Chair was one Murray Rothstein, who lived in Upper Salem. She made a note in her pad.
At the Griepp Building, a bushy-browed security guard loomed. She showed him her badge and asked him for Hecht’s office. He pointed her to an elevator.
The Griepp Building was an Art Deco masterpiece built in the twenties by the railroad tycoon, Marvin Griepp. Hecht had bought the property in ’91, saving it from almost certain implosion, renovated it, and rented it out, except for the twenty-third floor, which he reserved for himself.
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