Demons

by Unknown Author

  “What, what?”

  “I don’t know. All of a sudden I felt you get all tense and it woke me up.”

  “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”

  David stretched languorously. “Mmm. What time is it?” Sara glanced at the bedside digital. “Five o’clock.” David sat up, swung his legs to the floor. “Time to feed the livestock.”

  Sara watched him head for the bathroom, admiring his muscular backside and, oh, yeah, his butt. He was in and out of the shower in five minutes, dressed in jeans and a white T, and started rattling things in the kitchen.

  Sara emerged from the bathroom a half-hour later. She’d pinned her hair up for the shower, and dressed in her sensible Gap khakis and a beige shirt. Fetching her notes from the previous night, she joined David in the kitchen, where he was whipping up scrambled eggs and cheese. He removed a bottle of grapefruit juice from the refrigerator.

  “My old polishing instructor, Mas, told me to always drink grapefruit juice with eggs. It breaks down the cholesterol.”

  “I didn’t know they had grapefruit in Japan.”

  David laughed. “Mas got that out of Parade magazine.” “David, I wonder if you could look at some drawings I made of some swords, and help me identify them.”

  “I can try.”

  She laid out her notes and drawings. David pondered them in silence. “I see a long sword with chiri, or grooves, on both sides. The groove tips extend past the yokote. This is a hisaki-agari, which makes it middle period. You’ve done a remarkable job. You even got the tempered line-a flame, or kaen. All I can tell you is that it appears to be a traditional long sword. I’d have to see the signature, or look at the blade in person. Where did you get this?”

  “I can’t say.”

  David went through the drawings. “I don’t recognize any of these swords. Did you do these drawings? These are good.”

  “Can you tell if any of them are Muramasas?”

  “No, I can’t. But I can say, there’s such diversity of styles, they represent the work of at least three different swordsmiths. Not much help, huh?”

  “Nope.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I like you, anyway. I have to go to work. Unlock your garage for me.” “When can I see you again? Is tonight too soon?” “Yes!” Sara laughed. “I’m busy tonight. However, Saturday I have to go to the mayor’s house for a cocktail party..

  “As in Grade Mansion? As in the Mayor of New York?”

  “Yes, and don’t get excited. It’s politics. Would you like to be my date?”

  “I think I can make it.”

  Sara had repacked everything in her overnight bag and the detachable tank bag. David helped her carry them to the workshop, where she reattached everything to the bike, put on her jacket and helmet, straddled the bike and walked it out the door. David tried to kiss her through the helmet, but her lips remained tantalizingly beyond reach.

  “Story of my life,” she said, thumbing the starter. The Yamaha thrummed to life. David held the gate for her as she let out the clutch and slid into the alley. A United

  Waste Management track completely occluded the alley, like a rhinoceros in a chute, snorting, stinking, bellowing to frighten lesser creatures. With a sigh, Sara turned and headed the wrong way down the one-way alley until she exited on Second Avenue, turned, and headed uptown.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Sara was at her desk by 6:30, surprising even the jaded denizens of the night shift who were agonizingly pecking out their final reports of the day before wandering off to fall into bed. The telltale tang of forbidden cigarette smoke hovered in the air. Her desk was monster free.

  The immediate problem was to either prove or eliminate Sharpe as a suspect. She awaited Siry’s arrival with a mixture of dread and anticipation. It was the type of dilemma eveiy supervisor hated: investigating one of their own. She needed to share her problem, but she didn’t envy Siry his responsibilities. The worst part was, she liked Sharpe. Her private knowledge notwithstanding, everything about him indicated he was an outstanding cop. His Navy discharge had been honorable, and, of course, there was a reasonable explanation why he hadn’t said he was in the SEALS-they were still considered covert ops.

  In the meantime, she prepared a detailed memo covering everything she’d discovered in Sharpe’s apartment,

  including the pictures. She did it in longhand, in a notepad, and put it in her locker. Shortly after eight, Siry arrived, looking as if he’d gone home the night before and fallen asleep fully clothed, then rose this morning without looking in the mirror. A heavy stubble covered his chin, and his normally dark and sunken eyes were even more so. He spotted Sara’s anxious expression at once and motioned her into his office with a nod.

  Once inside, she pulled the blinds. Siry sat at his desk and began to rummage through the drawers, retrieving a bottle of Alka Seltzer and a tube of Turns. “What? I can just tell by that look on your face. What is it?”

  “Joe, is there any chance this office is bugged?”

  Siry looked around, as if trying to spot a mosquito. “Bugged? By whom?”

  “By Internal Affairs.”

  “That’s illegal. I’d have whoever did it up before the police commission. Is it that bad?”

  “Maybe we ought to take a walk.”

  Detectives and secretaries leaped at them like midway creature features. Chief, you gotta look at this. Chief, you gotta look at that. Siry waved them off with an unlit cigar. “Be right back! Keep your shirt on. Back in five. It’ll keep.”

  Sara slapped a black Red Sox hat on top of her pinned-up hair. They went out the back, through the motor pool. No Hayabusa. Exiting the cage, they walked down Church Street, toward Ground Zero.

  “Well?”

  “I searched Sharpe’s apartment yesterday. I found six swords concealed in a standing safe.”

  “What were you doing in Sharpe’s apartment?” He paused. “Wait a minute. You think a cop might be the perp?”

  “I’m ... not sure. He collects old swords. He’s a master swordsman. I saw him pulverize James Bratten last week in kendo.” There was more. But she couldn’t bring herself to share it. Not yet. What if she were wrong?

  “Hizzoner’s on my ass. Where do we stand with all this? Don’t tell me Sharpe’s your only suspect.”

  “Hecht and Bratten are both collectors. Bratten, I can’t see. He doesn’t strike me as the obsessive type. But Hecht is. You don’t get to be the biggest developer in Manhattan without a certain degree of ruthlessness.”

  “Sweet Mother of Christ. You’re telling me your only two suspects are Sharpe and Hecht?! I can’t tell the mayor that! He’s a friend of Hecht’s, too. And Sharpe-Christ, he’s a vet. Have you seen his discharge papers?’’ “Joe, trust me. I have other reasons I can’t go into.” “So what do I do? Tip Internal Affairs?”

  “Absolutely not. They’ll only make things worse.”

  “You mean beyond the fact you did a B&E on another cop’s house without a warrant, which means you ain’t got squat for evidence?” He sighed. “Whaddaya want from me?”

  “Your support, as usual.”

  He grunted. “Why do you always have to make these cases so damned complicated?”

  Back at her desk, Sara went online and used Google.com to research possession in Japanese mythology. Of all the cops in New York City, she was least likely to dismiss such a notion. Motive? The killer was driven by ambition and blood lust from beyond the grave to recover his lost Muramasas. New problem: What if the host was innocent? How did she separate Shigeyoshi, if it were he, from the host body? One link spoke of an oni yurai ceremony to drive out demons.

  A gust of Armani Pour Homme tickled her nose.

  “Go away, Baltazar," she said without turning.

  He hovered over her left shoulder. “Hey, fellas!” he shouted. “Pezzini’s researching possession! She’s got a hot one!”

  Sara immediately minimized her screen but the damage had been done. There was a howl of laughter
that echoed loudly in the room-then fell ominously silent.

  Selzer had appeared at the entrance to the detectives’ bullpen. He made his way silently toward Siry’s office, radiating chill. Faces turned away.

  Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, once again plunging the bullpen into silence.

  Sara waited until he was five minutes gone before approaching the boss. Shy was poring over a report. “What?” he said without looking up.

  “Joe, what did Selzer want?”

  “None o’ your freakin’ business. It had nothing to do with you, okay?”

  “Did it have anything to do with Sharpe?”

  Siry looked up, touch of panic in his brown eyes. “No,” he stage whispered. “Shut the door.”

  She shut the door, even though no one could hear what they were saying. “Selzer don’t know nothin’ about Sharpe, and let’s keep it that way. I just found out Sharpe’s moonlighting for Adrian Hecht. Did you know about this?”

  Fear licked at her spine. Had she messed up? “Yeah, but lots of cops moonlight.”

  “Those two got a lot in common. They’re both Nip-ponophiles. They’re both nuts for those swords.” He paused. “So ... okay. Maybe there is a connection, like you figured.” He fell silent.

  “Okay,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Close the door when you leave. I gotta get some work done.”

  Sara returned to her desk and Google.com. There was more material on Hecht than she had time to read: a profile in Fortune, lengthy attacks on anti-capitalist websites lurid with conspiracy, and, of course, photos of Hecht and his women.

  Her cell phone thrummed in her leather bag. She took it out. “Pezzini.”

  “Sara, it’s Derek Sharpe.”

  Goosebumps marched up her neck. How could he know? He couldn’t know. It was synchronicity, another piece of the puzzle slipping reluctantly into place. Trouble was, she was too close to the board to see the patterns. “What’s up, Derek?”

  “I think I may have stumbled on the break you’ve been looking for. I’m not comfortable discussing it over the phone. Could you meet me?”

  “Where?”

  “Hecht Gardens, say around eight p.m. You can find me in the trailer, inside the gate.”

  “Why not now?”

  “I’m on duty now. I’m watching a bunch of Flying Tigers. They’re watching a discount electronics store. Something’s going down. Later.” He hung up.

  Flying Tigers was a Vietnamese gang, and Hecht was on the gang task force. With a supreme effort, Sara turned her attention back to her report.

  Hours dragged by like injured soldiers. Sara was no master spy. As careful as she'd been, she couldn’t be certain she hadn’t left behind a clue when she’d tossed Sharpe’s place. A real paranoid would have left telltales, such as eyelashes pasted over doorjambs, little pieces of thread tied between cupboard and wall.

  If he knew, if he were crazy, if he were a killer, maybe he was luring her downtown for other reasons.

  No. Not another cop. But she knew from bitter experience that cops went wrong. She actually preferred a supernatural explanation. If the killer was a ghost, maybe they could contact him via seance. Yeah. And do what? Interview him? She had to look into this oni yurai business. -

  At half-past four, a delivery person appeared at the landing with a bundle of flowers asking for Pezzini. A cop pointed at Sara.

  It was a dozen roses. Not even Baltazar’s wolf whistle could knock her off her high as she reached for the little white card.

  The winter sky breaks Dissolves into rose petals No match for your eyes

  It was unsigned. Sara shut her eyes, and smiled. Tonight was Sharpe. Tomorrow was the mayor’s reception.

  She couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

  She sought connections in the Chalmers/Hecht/Bach-man triangle. Was it significant that Hecht and Chalmers had been rivals? As far as she knew, there had never been any personal animosity between them. What was new was the fact that both men turned out to be serious

  Japanese sword collectors. Small world, indeed. If the eavesdropper above David’s apartment did report to Chalmers, he would have known when the antiquarian acquired the latest sword. The missing sword. Was it Sky-root? Was that what this was all about? The ghost of a disgraced samurai, forced to commit seppuku, struggling to recover all his swords? It made as much sense as anything else, and Sara had seen weirder.

  Or was it something more subtle? A dodge to conceal the real motive and target? Who would go to so much trouble?

  She ran the serial number of the listening device through the manufacturer, Hagira, in Milford, Connecti-cutt. Hagira was owned and operated by an ex-policeman who’d turned to private investigating. It was a small specialty shop, turning out electronic eavesdropping devices to order. They were able to tell Sara that the laser listener on Worth Street had been purchased by Panther Security. Panther Security worked for Chalmers Property Management.

  Sara phoned Panther. A secretary answered. Sara identified herself and asked to speak to Norm Hansen.

  “I’m sorry, Norm has gone home for the day. May I take a message?”

  “May I have his cell phone number, please?”

  “I don’t think I can do that,”

  “Ma’am, this is a homicide investigation, and I need that number now. May I have your name, please?”

  There was a pause. “Mr. Hansen’s cell phone number is 555-6895.”

  “Thank you.”

  It never failed. Ask someone for their name during an investigation, they crawl under the nearest rock. She dialed Hansen’s number. It rang and rang. No help there.

  At four, Rubinstein’s kid Amelia made the rounds selling Girl Scout cookies. Sara ordered two boxes of the caramel fudge. At five, she saved her reports, shut down her machine, and packed up.

  It was a relief to confront the bike, which forced her to concentrate. She bungeed her leather bag to the back seat, jammed more gear in the tank bag, zipped her jacket, and put on the half-face helmet. Half-face was better, because you were right out there in the open, with no intervening sheet of plexiglass. You could smell the city. Sometimes a good thing, sometimes not.

  Fighting traffic with all the resources at her disposal, she clawed her way to The Chinese Connection, a quaint little restaurant on the Lower East Side, near the Manhattan Bridge. For two hours, she relaxed and chatted with the owners about martial arts movies while she picked at an assortment of dishes, unaware that she was being observed through the misty window from across the street, where a tricked-out Celica was snug to the curb.

  Tonight, the bruja was going down.

  Lupe slunk low in the Celica’s bucket seat, although she was invisible to the outside world through the tinted windows. She had the window open an inch to vent smoke from cigarettes. She was not alone. Two Tecolotes crouched in the car with her. Three more jammed in Tito’s cat-puke yellow Cavalier behind them. The past few days had been an exercise in patience, never Lupe’s strong suit. She had surprised herself with her dedication. Getting rid of the bruja had come to dominate her life, even as she was repeatedly haunted with dreams of flashing swords and gouting blood. She would never be able to move ahead, never reclaim her man until the witch was dead.

  Nor was it as easy as pulling a trigger. If it had been that easy, Bobby would have done it. Lupe had a gun, Bobby’s nine, tucked beneath her seat. Estrella had told her that ordinary bullets would be useless against the witch, who had magical protection, and Lupe believed her. But on this night of the full moon, if the witch could be isolated among iron, she could be taken down by a determined pack.

  Lupe had the full moon, the iron, and the pack. Anywhere on Manhattan you were surrounded by iron. You couldn’t get away from it. And she had the pack, at last. Five of the toughest Tecolotes with hard-ons for the lady cop. Lupe probably could have got them all just by showing them the witch’s picture, and promising they could play with her before they killed her, but having a little insuranc
e was always a plus. Jorge, damn him, had taught her that. So Lupe had told them how the witch had killed Bobby. Los Tecolotes were hungry for revenge.

  “How we gon’ get the bitch?” Benito rumbled from the back seat, cradling a MAC-10 in his lap like a puppy.

  “Jes’ wait. After she leave the restaurant, we’ll run her off the road, grab her, take her to the warehouse. Then you boys gon’ have some fun.”

  Chango, who’d been Bobby’s second-in-command and sat in the shotgun seat, put his hand on Lupe’s thigh. “Like to have some fun wi’choo, chiquita.”

  Lupe casually shoved her cigarette into the back of Chango’s hand as if it were an ashtray.

  “Hey!” he howled, snatching his hand back and sticking it in his mouth.

  Lupe didn’t even look at him. “Hesh up, Chango. Don’ make me put a curse on you."

  Chango’s eyes went wide, and he bit down on his anger. Lupe smiled inwardly. Maybe she could get Estrella to teach her a few things. In the back seat, the crack pipe sounded like a bowl of Rice Crispies. That’s right, hijos, Lupe thought. Crack it up. Get in a real sharp mood for the lady cop. It was the only way she had of ensuring they’d hang around for the task at hand. Los Tecolotes did not have long attention spans. In the rearview mirror, she saw the telltale glow of a turbo lighter. She phoned Tito on her cell phone. She could hear his cell phone beeping through the cracked window.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t smoke it all up. You got to make it last.”

  “Don’t worry, Lupe. We’re makin’ it last.”

  “I ain’t gonna take time go cop for you, you run out."

  “Don’t worry!”

  Lupe hung up. At 8:25, the witch rolled her motorcycle out the front door. Lupe could not deny a certain admiration for the witch—so young, so beautiful, a policewoman, and she rode a motorcycle. A veritable litany of forbidden role models.

  That, in itself, should have set the alarms off in Lupe’s head long before the witch fixed her sites on Lupe’s man. No woman could have all those things without paying a terrible price.

  Lupe dialed Tito.

  “I see her,” he answered.