Sara got off the elevator into a hexagonal reception room with marble floor inlaid with Tuscan tiles. A marble fountain bubbled in the middle of the room, water trickling from a nymph-held vase. A smart young man led her through a maze of corridors to Hecht’s comer office, overlooking the Met Life Building and points south. The broad, airy office held a cluster of sofas around a coffee table, a media wall with a fifty-two-inch screen, a freeform redwood desk, and a large display table atop which sat a model of Hecht Gardens, his business/retail/residential project three miles south on West Street.
Hecht was on the phone when she came in, tilted back in his Freedom Chair, snakeskin boots on the redwood slab. He waved at her, motioned toward the model. While he talked, she walked over to the table and looked at the development. In miniature, it had a Disney-esque quality-tiny automobiles unblemished by road salt or collision, streets spotless, soaring steel skyscrapers gleaming in the morning light. The plan incorporated a central courtyard with reflecting pool and gardens, and a performing arts center that resembled a nun’s wimple with windows.
In one corner of the office stood a woodcarving of the ferocious Japanese demon Fudo The Immovable, rope in one hand, sword in the other. Nearby was a glass display case that held a two-sword display, the long daito and the shorter wakizashi. It also contained a number of wrought-iron discs with slots in the center, which Sara deduced were the guard part of the sword.
Hecht hung up the phone, plunked his boots on the beige carpet, and rose. “Those are my tsubas, or sword guards. I believe the one on the left to be a genuine thirteenth century Muramasa, but I have been unable to obtain verification. The others date from the fourteenth and fifteenth, and include a confirmed Masumune.”
“They must be worth a lot.”
“They are priceless, Detective. I don’t mind telling you, these murders you’re investigating have made me nervous.”
“Do you have security?”
“You bet. But just knowing I’m in your jurisdiction makes me feel better.”
Sara did not acknowledge the remark. “What kind of security?”
“Well, no one can get up here without a visual scan. I identified you myself. I figure anyone manages to disguise themselves to look like you, well, how bad can it be?”
Sara gave a tight little smile and thought of twelve different ways she could kill Adrian Hecht before he could take another step. “What about you?”
“I have security. It was with me the other night, you just didn’t notice.”
“What did you want to tell me about Muramasa?”
“As I said, I’ve arranged for a private translation of a book called 77ie Way of the Sword, by Ryozo Nakamura.” He returned to his desk and began sifting through a stack of papers. “Until recently, no one knew what happened to Muramasa. I’m talking about the original Muramasa, the one who lived in the thirteenth century, not the fifteenth century bunch.”
“Of course.”
“Ah. Listen to this:
“In the 5th month of the 7th year ofJoji, the swordsman Udo, a hanshi of Ise province, approached Muramasa, the greatest swordsmith of the day, about forging a sword using iron from a meteorite. Udo was certain that the unearthly lump of brown iron was a harbinger of death, as it had fallen from the heavens on the very day that the previous Shogun, Yoshimitsu Ashikaga, had passed away, less than one year earlier, Udo swore the rock spoke to him, instructing him to fashion it into a weapon, to slay his enemies, and to aid him in achieving his ambitions.
“Udo was in love with a young woman of the Gozen family, but she had been betrothed to Udo’s rival, Oji, in an arranged marriage. Udo knew that he could not defeat Oji in a fair duel, as Oji had mastered the Kenseito style of swordfighting. Udo believed if he defeated Oji in combat, the Lady Gozen would be his.
“Udo went to Muramasa and said, ‘You are known as the greatest swordmaker in the land. I need you to forge me an exceptional weapon which will aid my victory. A blade that is guaranteed to cut down my enemies.'
“Muramasa said, ‘I can do what you ask, but the cost will be great, .
“ 1 will pay any price,’ Udo replied.
“Muramasa set to work with the strange meteoric iron. He fasted and ritually purified himself with water. He prayed to Gozu and Mezu, the horse- and ox-headed demons of hell and damnation to empower the Kami of the sword he was forging. He collected eight turtles and eight cranes, symbols of long life, cut their throats and mixed the blood into the water in his quenching trough. He finished folding and forging the blade and quenched it in the tainted water. Satisfied with his work, he named the blade Kyutensai and made a final prayer in the name ofMeifumado (Buddhist hell) that the blade would never rest until it had tasted the blood of its enemies. With a chisel, he signed and dated the blade, marking it finished and sealing in the evil Kami.
“Muramasa had asked Udo to return in thirty days. Instead, Udo spied on the master swordmaker, and just as Muramasa declared the sword finished, Udo appeared, seized the sword, and beheaded the swordmaker, lest word of his sword reach Oji before Udo. Udo then turned his jury on the four apprentices and cut them down one by one as they tried to flee.
“Thus armed, Udo confronted Oji as he rode with his young bride near the family estate. Udo stepped into their path and challenged Oji to a duel, convinced that once the Lady Gozen witnessed the depth of his love, and his great skill, she would join her heart to his. The two combatants drew their blades, assumed offensive stances. They stared for several minutes, attempting to perceive each other’s possible weaknesses. Udo attacked with Shin Choku-giri, which Oji sought to parry with his sword. Udo’s blade cut Oji’s sword in two, and did not stop until it had cloven Oji himself in two.
“Lady Gozen, beside herself with grief and fury, drew her dagger and threw herself at Udo, who slew her as well. Bewildered by this turn of events, Udo’s soul became sick with the need to kill. He went on to slay over a hundred innocent men, women, and children before he was finally killed.
“The sword Udo commissioned and Muramasa made is called Kyutensei, or ‘Rooted In The Sky.’ ”
Hecht put the piece of paper on his desk and beamed like a child who had just completed a successful recitation. “Could this be the item you’re looking for?”
Sara’s mouth was a slash. “You mean, could this be the item the killer is looking for. But if you just had this translated, how would the killer even know about this sword?” “I don’t claim to be the only source of knowledge on the subject. Such a famous sword would be mentioned countless times in Japanese monographs, about which we would have no knowledge. Therefore, the killer has special knowledge.”
“Therefore, the killer might be Japanese, or at least understand Japanese.”
Hecht beamed wider. “Exactly.”
“That’s very helpful, Mr. Hecht. Who, among your circle of collectors, speaks Japanese?”
“Bratten speaks a little, but not enough to read. Besides, I've known that boy since he was in college. There’s not a mean bone in his body. And with his money, he could buy the sword legitimately.”
“Really? Even millionaires have limits.”
“True. Maybe he couldn’t buy the sword. But he’s not your killer-that’s just ridiculous. I understand why he’s a suspect. Then again, you have to consider other possibilities.”
“Excuse me?”
“The spirit of Udo, searching for his lost sword. Japan is rife with legends of restless warrior spirits. They say the spirit of a man could pass into his sword, and vice-versa, if he subscribed to Bushido.”
“A reincarnated fourteenth century ronin who’s looking for his lost sword? Thanks a lot, Mr. Hecht. I prefer to think the killer is a normal human being. But why’s he even looking in New York? Why not Japan?”
“There are a lot of swords in Manhattan. Returning servicemen after WW II ran off with everything they could find. That’s how most of them ended up over here in the first place. And, of course, Emperor Meiji decreed you
could no longer wear them, which put most of the traditional swordmakers out of business. They’re only now just beginning to come back.”
“Okay, I see your point. And I appreciate you’re sharing this with me.”
Hecht came over and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window with her. “I appreciate your not laughing in ray face. I hope you’re not just trying to be polite.”
“No. One thing I’ve learned is not to discount anything. Not that I buy your reincarnation theory...”
“I thought you might be receptive. I know a little bit about you, Detective Pezzini. You attract bright lights and strange energies.”
They stood side by side looking south. “I understand you’ve been having some vandalism at the site.”
“Nothing we can’t handle. We’re working closely with the Nineteenth.”
“How’s it going?”
“We’re on schedule for our grand opening next week. I hope you’ll be my guest.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hecht.”
“I wish you’d call me Adrian.”
“Only at parties. May I borrow your Muramasa tsuba?” “For what purpose? Do you know what it’s worth?” “Sir, I can’t tell you just now, but it would aid greatly in my investigation. And, of course, I accept full responsibility.”
Hecht laughed. “You couldn’t pay for that tsuba with your entire stock portfolio, if you have one. What the hell. Anything to help our brave girls in blue, right?” He opened the hinged top of the display case, reached in with his handkerchief and picked up the finely wrought iron disc. “Don’t touch it with your hands. The oil can permanently harm the design.”
Sara accepted the disc in the handkerchief, wrapped it carefully, and deposited it in her jacket pocket. “Thank you. May I have a copy of your translation?”
Hecht handed her an envelope. “There’s an invitation in there, too. Puleeze, R.S.V.P. My social secretaiy gets all
bent out of shape if you don’t. I may have some more news for you in a few days.”
“What sort of news?”
“Can’t say. My translators work slowly.” He winked.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
A/hen Lupe first floated her plan past Bobby Chacon, he stared at her like she was a two-headed goat.
“Whoa. What is this? What for you signing me up? Kill a cop? You crazy, girl. Not even for you. Why not get Jorge do the job? He your man, not me.”
“Bobby, didn’t you hear what I said? She’s a witch, aragon! She got Jorge so hexed up, he don’ know his ass from a hole in the ground. He don’ listen to me.” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, even though they were seated in Bobby’s tricked-out Celica across from Fort Greene Park, with no one around but pigeons.
“You kill her, you take her power. Think, Bobby! A witch who is also a cop! Think of the power you would have in her shield alone! Man, all you have to do is shine that shield at someone and bam!” Lupe snapped her fingers. “They disappear in a puff of smoke.”
Bobby hunched down in his bucket seat, eyes gleaming with avarice. He was from Santo Domingo, and he believed in witches. He’d seen the lady cop, and she possessed an unearthly beauty that put crazy thoughts in his head, kept him up at night. But she was just a woman, and if he had a blessing from Estrella, it might even the odds a little. Nor did he see a need to involve todos los Tecolotes. He was the leader. He was equal to any two Romeros, including Jorge.
He even knew the medical center parking garage, where she kept her bike. Before 9/11 and the tightened security, he’d regularly cruised the underground garage, looking to rip off car stereos, drugs, anything he could fmd. Just thinking about catching the lady witch/cop in the underground parking garage made him sweaty. And his reward, should he successfully remove her from this earth? Not only power, but this sweet young thing who had thus far resisted his advances. And it wasn’t just because she was the girlfriend of Jorge, his mortal enemy.
“Hold out your hand,” Lupe commanded. Only fifteen, but already bossy and domineering. Bobby held out his hand. Lupe dropped in a hard little plastic figure. Bobby stared. A little troll doll. Pieces of colored thread, human hair wrapped around.
“What is this?”
“Madame Estrella tol’ me give this to you. It give you the power you need to take her down.”
Armed with such power, Bobby felt invincible. He would do the lady cop, then party with Jorge’s girl. Life was good. It was six o’clock, and the lady cop ought to be on her way home now. Lupe had been spying on her for a week. Sometimes she came home at the end of the day, sometimes not. When she came, she always stashed her bike in the medical center parking lot.
Bobby started his car and pulled out into traffic. His sub-bass made manhole covers jump, one more thudding burden on the cacophony that was the city. Ten minutes later, they pulled up at the med center’s main entrance on Park Place. Lupe was driving. Bobby wore a clean white orderly’s tunic and looked like any other med center employee as he got out of the car. The med center required all employees to wear picture identification, but security was spotty.
He casually followed a Datex-Ohmeda delivery vehicle into a docking area, appearing at the rear just as the driver was opening the rear door. “Lemme give you a hand, bro,” he said.
He entered the medical center carrying a large cardboard box. The security guard down the hall assumed he was with the delivery truck. The delivery truck assumed he was with the clinic. Bobby just kept on walking with that box, past a nurse who smiled at him, down the utility corridor until he came to the stairwell leading to the underground parking garage.
Bobby knew from past forays that the lady cop locked her bike to a concrete post on Level 2, within sight of the elevators. He went down one level, let himself out on Two, and stripped off the orderly’s uniform, leaving the dark of his skin and his black muscle shirt. Bobby was a hard-body, five-eleven. He pumped four days a week. An experienced street fighter, he feared no man, and hated cops, who’d been giving him grief all his life. He crept along the dim far wall until he came to the utility closet he’d scoped out earlier. Locked, but nothing he couldn’t fix with a tire iron. An obliging Lincoln driver had left the doors unlocked, permitting Bobby entrance to the trunk. He popped the door on the utility closet, carefully laying the tire iron behind a pillar in the dark, in case he needed a weapon.
Like most gangbangers, Bobby wasn’t good on stakeout. He muttered, he paced, he smoked two Basic cigarettes. He wasn't much of a planner, either. His plan was to wait until she got off the bike, grab her from behind, drag her into the utility closet and do ’er. Then he heard it.
The unmistakable whine of a high-compression, four-cylinder engine coming down the ramp. Bobby quickly fixed his do-rag back on his head and grinned fiercely to himself. This was going to be fun. He hid behind a pillar about twenty feet from the well-lit patch of yellow-striped concrete where she stashed her bike. There was already a BMW there, shackled to the wall like some mechanical beast.
With a roar, the lady cop hove into view on her white and blue bike, zoomed up to the striped patch and stopped the bike. She shut it off, set the kickstand, and got off, swinging one long leg over the bike as if it were an Olympic event. Bobby was practically salivating. He decided to wait until she took off the helmet. It would make her more vulnerable.
An instant later, she had the helmet off and swung her long brown hair around. She was some fine booty. She took off her backpack and set it on the ground. Bobby waited until she bent over to run the Kiyptonite bike lock through her front wheel. He made his move.
He had his arm around the lady cop’s neck and was pulling her backward before she had time to squawk. Bobby knew from experience you really had to mash your forearm against the windpipe to keep her under control, and from getting off a shout. The lady cop struggled ferociously as he dragged her inexorably back toward the utility closet, using her boot-clad legs to kick back at him with her heels, but Bobby kept his hip turned in
to her so as not to give her a target. She got her legs around one pillar and Bobby had to brace one foot against the pillar to pry her loose. She reversed direction and lunged for him, getting her feet on the front bumper of a Mercedes, kicking off, and suddenly she was airborne.
The abrupt reversal of position freed her from Bobby’s grip as she somersaulted over one shoulder and landed on her feet with one arm spread out for stability, hair spilling in her face. No problem, Bobby thought. One hundred and five pounds of woman.
She sprang forward, catching him by surprise and planting the top of her head in his groin, driving him backward until he smashed into the grill of a Lexus. That hurt. Damn, woman! She was not cooperating. She was making noise. Next thing you know, some pain-in-the-ass Good Samaritan was going to shuffle up. He had to end this quickly.
Bobby slithered toward the pillar where he’d stashed the tire iron. She nearly got him with a kick. How could she get off a bike and kick that high without tearing her hamstrings, Bobby wondered. His hands closed around the tire iron and he came up swinging, trying to shatter her forearm.
The shock of hitting something harder than bone zapped back from the tire iron and resonated up his arm, making his teeth ring. Bobby looked in astonishment to see what he’d struck with the tire iron. The lady cop stood in a combat crouch four feet away, green eyes seething, one hand encased in some kind of metal gauntlet. Where had that come from? She wasn’t wearing it when she got off the bike.
The gauntlet formed a fist and catapulted forward, striking Bobby full in the face and flattening his nose. He could hear the crunch resonating in his skull. Blood exploded in all directions. No lady cop was worth this. She was more witch than cop, any fool could see that.
Bobby put his head down and ran for daylight, trying to barrel past the lady cop. He got one foot on the Lexus’ bumper and leaped onto the hood, over the greenhouse, and off the trunk, directly into the path of a Ford F-150 coming up from Level 3. The orderly at the wheel drove too fast. Collision of truck with Chacon left no doubt. It sounded like a train wreck.
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