“You think he’s strapped for cash?”
“Men like Hotchkiss are always strapped for cash. The only reason I know about this insignificant little man at all is because he married the former Miss Dolores Green-baum, of the Kensington Greenbaums. What’s this about?” “Murder investigation. Please don’t mention this to anyone and you get the scoop.”
“What’s the scoop?”
“The samurai killer.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“What are you looking for?”
Sara told the gossip columnist her theory that the samurai killer was collecting swords. “I need to know if either Hotchkiss or his wife has tried to peddle something through Bachman recently.” She did not mention she thought Hotchkiss was their anonymous informant.
Sara accessed info.com, a for-fee investigative service that had access to credit reports, military records, rap sheets, your fourth-grade report card. Robert Hotchkiss had been bom in 1950, the only son of Arthur and Anne Hotchkiss of North Salem. Arthur Hotchkiss had served with distinction in the Pacific during WW II. He’d been on Iwo Jima, that hellish two-mile patch of beach that cost the lives of twenty thousand Americans.
At four p.m., the phone rang.
“Pezzini, Homicide.”
“Sara, it’s Dave Kopkind.”
Sara unconsciously relaxed her neck and shoulder muscles, surprised at her own relief. She hadn’t realized she’d wanted him to call. “Hello, David. I want to thank you again for the other night. 1 had a lovely time.”
“Yeah, well, I thought, you know, maybe we could do it again, or something. Like maybe dinner and some music. There’s this little jazz club around the corner featuring the Ray Rideout Quartet-he’s an absolutely ripping sax player...”
“I’d love to.”
Pause. “Really?” Genuine shock.
“Yes, I’d love to. I can’t Friday. But Thursday or Saturday ..
“Thursday? You want to come by my place? If that’s a hassle, I could drive over to Brooklyn.”
“No, no, no! Manhattan is the center of the universe. One should always head for the center. I’ll come to your place. Around seven?”
“That would be great!”
“See you then.”
Sara hung up. A minute later, Baltazar looked at her in annoyance. “What are you humming about?”
David Kopkind was walking on air. He’d only been in a handful of relationships in his life, and none of his prior girlfriends approached Pezzini in the looks or brains department. Amazing, the way she’d knocked on his door. Every red-blooded American male entertains daydreams of a beautiful woman coming to his house, but no one expects it to happen. So what if she was a cop, and there’d been a murder? Through some mysterious process he didn’t understand, Kopkind had convinced her to go on another date with him.
Kopkind was from Syracuse, the third son of a career Air Force guy and stay-at-home mom. Both Kopkind’s older brothers were in the Air Force. He himself had enlisted in the Navy, served a three-year hitch, decided he wanted a civilian life. The Navy posted him to Japan, where he first became interested in swords, and the rudiments of polishing. After his honorable discharge, he remained in Japan an additional six months, apprenticing to a master polisher named Ohara. By the time Kopkind left for the states, he and Ohara had celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with green saki, and swore undying fealty to each other.
He went into the polishing studio, picked up the newspaper-wrapped long sword, knelt at his polishing table, the todai-mikura, and unsheathed the sword. It was a Hisakuni from the year 1199, the master’s signature and the date chiseled into the tang. Kopkind had been working on the shitajitogi, or foundation. The sword was in sad shape, having been neglected for hundreds of years. Rust had gained tiny foxholes in the surface from which a spider web of decay expanded. But the steel was good, and Kopkind was confident he would be able to remove the blemishes. After a full day of polishing, he’d succeeded in smoothing out the two upper surfaces, or shinogi-ji. Once they were finished, he would tackle the lower surfaces, or ji, saving the kissaki (point) and mune (back edge) for last. All other parts of the sword had to be trued first, before making any adjustments to the cutting edge.
Dribbling water on the stone, Kopkind ran the blade back and forth over the block of arato, coarse polishing stone from the Ohomura Quarry in Shinano Province, the traditional source of good quarry stone throughout Japan. Kopkind was convinced that, somewhere in the vastness of the United States, good polishing stone existed. Possibly in the West. He intended to conduct a search someday, with the idea of opening a quarry in the
United States. Good polishing stones commanded anywhere from a couple hundred to a thousand dollars. Kopkind obtained his through Ohara.
He found the back and forth action of the blade soothing, a form of meditation. He lost himself in the vibration of the blade in his hands, the hum in his ears. And what appeared before his mind’s eye but Detective Pezzini, wearing The Little Black Dress. He imagined her in his arms, the taste of her lips, the scent of her hair.
Ouch. Kopkind looked down. He’d sliced open his left index finger. Served him right for daydreaming on the job. At least, he thought, it wasn’t one of the cursed Muramasa blades, like the one that had cut him last month. Kopkind was bleeding heavily, crimson droplets splattering the wet stone, running over the edges. He got up holding his hand, went to the large utility sink against the wall and ran cold water over the wound. He opened the first-aid box attached to the wall and fumbled with a Band-Aid. Yoshi came into the room, yawning and snarling.
“Don’t just stand there. Do something!” Kopkind commanded, tearing open a Band-Aid with his teeth. At last he got the bandage around the cut and the bleeding stopped. His hands looked like leather that had been dragged over barbed wire, he’d cut himself so often. He’d gone two years without a cut, then the Masamura. Now it had been barely three weeks since the last cut.
Yoshi suddenly leaped onto the workbench, scrabbling for an instant at the ledge and knocking a mallet and a chisel to the floor, before gaining purchase and letting out a shriek. An instant later, the door chimes tinkled softly. Wiping his hands, Kopkind headed for the front.
Adrian Hecht stood in Kopkind’s front office, wearing aviator shades and a black cashmere sweater, clutching a long, narrow package wrapped in brown paper and taped shut. It took Kopkind a minute to register. It was a little like finding Bill Gates in your foyer. They’d been introduced at Bratten’s party, but what did the developer want with him?
“Mr. Hecht,” Kopkind said. “What can I do for you?” Hecht was examining the certificates and prints on the wall. “Bratten tells me you’re the best sword polisher in New York.”
“Well I don’t know about that...”
“Bratten is not one to use hyperbole. As you know, I’m a collector.”
“I’ve heard. I’d love to see your collection sometime.” “That can be arranged.” He held up the package. “I’d like you to polish this.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m booked through August 2005.”
“I’m an impatient man, Kopkind, and I have a great deal of money. Name your fee.”
Kopkind grimaced. He’d always thought of himself as a man of honor. Bushido was based on honor. But he was also a man with needs and aspirations. There was no shame in accepting a special commission for a windfall profit. “Mr. Hecht, I hardly know where to start. I make a good living...”
“I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars if you can tarn this sword around in five days.”
“Impossible.” But was it? The hundred grand danced behind his eyes like children circling a maypole. If he worked twelve hours a day—a grueling prospect—it was
possible. A hundred grand bought a lot of polishing stones. “What kind of sword is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Excuse me?”
Hecht stifled a sneeze by pressing up on his nose. “I’ve taken a
bit of a gamble and purchased a sword sight unseen from a dealer in Japan.”
“How...”
“I’ve been dealing with this gentleman for many years. He’s dying, and wants to leave something for his heirs. He is selling me something that has been in his family for generations, with his personal guarantee that it’s what I’m looking for.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I believe it to be a lost Muramasa.”
Yoshi brushed aside the beads and entered, snarling and yawning. Hecht took a step back. “I’m allergic to cats.”
“Sorry.” Kopkind scooped the cat up and dumped it back on the other side of the curtain. “You don’t know which one?”
“I was hoping you could identify and authenticate it for me. My agent tells me the signature was removed centuries ago.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I want to show it next week.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I don’t have time right now.”
Kopkind blushed, but didn’t bother to deny it. “Does this have anything to do with Bachman? He was a friend of mine.”
An angry look came into the developer’s cold blue
eyes, and for an instant, Kopkind was afraid Hecht was going to take a poke at him. He took a half step back to be ready, just in case. The look passed. “Don’t be absurd. I’ve never dealt with Bachman. I knew him, of course. We’d show up at the same gallery shows. I had no business with him, and I had nothing to do with his death.” Hecht dared Kopkind to argue with him.
Kopkind didn’t take the dare. Men like Hecht, men who were accustomed to ruling empires and making split-second decisions affecting the lives of thousands, were seldom dissemblers. Kopkind considered himself an excellent judge of character. As far as he was concerned, Hecht was telling the truth.
“All right, Mr. Hecht. I believe you. Tell you what. Leave the sword and I’ll get to work on it right away. I’m not sure I can deliver in five days, but I could do it in a week.”
Hecht frowned. “I don’t want to have to postpone my party. 1 was hoping to show the sword there.”
Kopkind shrugged. “I tend to allow myself more time than I actually need.”
“You’ll do it?”
“I’ll tiy my best, but I won’t guarantee I can turn it around in five days. If I stay at the bench too long, I get tired. My concentration falters.”
Hecht held up a hand. “I understand. I just don’t want to show a blade that looks like a bad case of varicose veins. However, this deal is contingent on absolute discretion. No one must know you have this sword, understand?” Kopkind nodded.
“No, you don’t understand. I mean absolutely no one. Not your lover, not your mother. No one.”
Kopkind took a step backward and bowed his head. “Wakarimasu,” he said.
Hecht took the sword polisher’s card and left. Yoshi came back into the room, curling between Kopkind’s legs. He knelt and picked the cat up. What could possibly be so urgent about polishing an old sword?
“My, my. Adrian Hecht. Whoda thunk it?”
Carrying the cat and the sword, he went through his showroom into the backroom where he’d been polishing, unconsciously whistling the “Colonel Bogey March.” He was excited about the prospect of the mystery sword. A collector as important as Hecht would want an important sword. If Kopkind could identify it, and verify the identification, it would send his stock, already high, through the roof.
One wall was covered floor to ceiling in oak bookcases he’d built himself. The shelves were filled with books, many of which he’d obtained in Japan. Standing on a stool, Kopkind reached for the top shelf, which badly needed dusting, and, using both hands, retrieved an ancient, leather-bound tome titled Kuyamigusa, published in Japan in 1890, and translated by a Christian missionary in China, who had obtained it in trade.
As an antiquarian, Kopkind was aware of the book’s value. Strictly as a collector’s item, it was priceless. The fact that he owned probably the only existing copy of an English translation didn’t phase him. Recognizing the os-higata, he’d snatched it up at a bargain basement price. It had proven to be an invaluable tool for appraisals. The book contained detailed histories of most of the great swordmakers, beginning in the twelfth century. The book was 768 pages long and weighed forty-one pounds.
A cloud of dust rose like residue from an underground nuclear test when Kopkind set the book on the workbench. He imagined the lonely missionary, one Rufus T.K. Laughlin, by name, spending endless hours in the shade of a gingko tree laboring at his translation. Ironic, that a man of peace would devote his life to translating a book of war. Laughlin had apparently been trained at Oxford or Cambridge, because he had included an extensive bibliography and index. The project must have consumed the bulk of his adult life. How utterly quixotic, Kopkind thought. Living in China, translating Japanese, the Reverend Laughlin made himself a double-outcast.
Kopkind searched the index for Muramasa. The entries covered half a page, and included not only the earlier, shadowy, legendary Muramasa, but his descendants who were active through the sixteenth century. Yoshi leaped on the workbench, purring like a generator.
Burying his face in the cat’s fur, Kopkind said, “Yoshi, guard the book. I need tea.”
After he had prepared a cup of tea for himself, Kopkind pulled up a stool and began to read. As a sword expert, he was aware of the Muramasas’ reputation, and the Tokugawa Ke’s efforts to destroy them. He’d only read portions of the book previously, because it was a chore to decipher Reverend Laughlin’s cramped, angular penmanship. Kopkind read slowly, running his finger under the text.
Eventually, he came to the tale of Shigeyoshi the Magistrate.
CHAPTER
TEN
Q
W-Jara headed home at six p.m., unfazed by gridlock as she zipped down the dividing line between lanes, ignoring honks, curses, and the single finger salute. She stopped at a Delitalia on Murchison Street and picked up some pre-fab fettucini alfredo and a bottle of California Merlot, which she bungeed to the rear seat.
She arrived at the medical center without incident, locked her bike to the pole, waved to the newly visible security guard, and walked up out of the parking ramp, across Prospect Place, and into the rear entrance of her building. She made it all the way to her door without incident. She set down her backpack and box of food on the floor while she unlocked her door.
“It’s a miracle!” Ben Weiskopf declared from behind her.
Inwardly, she cringed. All she wanted was to make it inside her apartment without incident, turn off the phones, soak in a hot bath, eat her dinner and watch NYPD Blue in peace. Bracing herself, she pasted on a happy face and turned. “What is, Ben?”
“The hoodlums! Whatever you did, it worked! An overnight transformation. The whole building is talking. Of course, I told them what happened, that our own fourth floor cop had a little talk with them, and you know what they said? You know what Mrs. Milman said? She said you couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it, because you’re a tiny little woman, and who would listen to you? So I told her, ‘Mrs. Milman, you don’t know Sara very well, do you?’ Anyhow, I made a bundt cake. I don’t know if you like bundt cake ..
“Ben, that’s awfully sweet of you. I wish I had time to chat, but you’re going to have to give me a rain check. I’m still on the job.”
Weiskopfs ears pricked up. “Some big case? Are you after the samurai killer?”
The power of the press. Her elderly Brooklyn neighbor knew about the samurai killer. “Something like that,” she smiled. “I wish I could discuss it with you, but it’s a matter of internal security.”
“I understand, I understand. Well, at least let me give you some of this bundt cake.” He retreated into his apartment leaving the door open. Sara got her own door open and shuttled her goods inside, returning in time to accept Weiskopfs small replaceable plastic container. “I want that container back when you’re done.�
�
“Of course.” Smiling, she nodded to the old man, said good night, and entered her apartment.
At last she was alone, except for Shmendrick, who did not make demands. She began filling the old claw-legged tub while she put her things away and undressed. No phone messages. Thank God for small blessings. In the bathroom, she poured bath oil into the tub, stripped off her clothes, piled her hair up, clipped it in place, and lowered herself slowly, carefully, into the hot water. The tub v/as so full, any excited motion would cause water to slosh on the floor.
She relaxed, with only her head protruding from the bubbles, feeling the tension dissipate from her muscles.
She wondered how her partner, Jake McCarthy, was doing, relaxing on a Jamaican beach somewhere with the stewardess du jour. He’d sent her a post card of smiley-face black children thrusting flowers at the camera. Jeez, he wrote. You can buy any freakin' thing you want on the beach at Negril! I mean anything. Good thing I’m not working. Love, Jake.
She slipped deeper into the water, until only her head and the tips of her knees protruded. At her last physical, the doctor told her she was in perfect health. Since acquiring the Witchblade, she hadn’t had a sick day. Last December the entire precinct came down with the flu, except for Sara. Detectives joked she’d made a deal with the devil, but it was not a laughing matter to her.
Most of the time she didn’t know it was there. It only manifested during crisis, or sometimes gave a little surge for reasons Sara didn’t understand. Like talking to Hecht. It had given a little surge then, just enough to remind her she was wired. Like a one degree warming of her nervous system. Like a ripple down her spine. Just enough to say, I'm here. I sense something. Something’s not quite right.
Hecht and Bratten were both collectors. Both men of action, although Hecht had to be in his fifties. Did Hecht or Bratten want the sword enough to kill for it? Sara considered motive the least important aspect of police work. Motive was important to juries and defense lawyers, not to cops. Motive was the most slippery of aspects. Sara had encountered mothers who drowned their children because they heard voices from God, a man who bludgeoned his neighbor to death over a parking space dispute, murderers who took umbrage at the way people dressed, looked, or behaved.
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