Demons

by Unknown Author

  The swordpolisher clasped his hands together next to his tilted head, a moony expression on his face. “Whoo! Whoo!” he sang like the wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon, spun around, leaped in the air, clicked his heels together three times before he landed and sped off. Sara laughed.

  She set her bike in a corner and unpacked her bags. She looked around for the sword on which he’d been working, but couldn’t see it.

  Toting her bags, Sara went through the workroom, down the hall, into the living room where she set her bags down, sat on the folded futon opposite the television, and flicked it on. It took her a second to figure the controls.

  She cued in WKAX, the all-news Fox affiliate. Not a blip about her set-to the other night at Hecht Gardens.

  She could thank Hecht for that. The man had an aversion to negative publicity.

  She turned off the television and turned on the radio. It was on a jazz station, Rahsaan Roland Kirk blowing three horns at once. Sara stretched supine on the futon, feeling safe and cozy for the first time all week. No one knew where she was. David made her feel secure, which was funny, because she generally felt superior to the men around her.

  It was she who made them fed secure. Or scared them to death. Between the end of Rahsaan and the beginning of Art Blakey, she heard the shower running. She dozed. The next thing she knew, David was tapping her on the shoulder. He’d covered her with a Navajo blanket.

  “It’s seven, Sara. You probably ought to start getting ready.”

  “Oh my gosh, the reception’s at eight!”

  “Plenty of time. We’ll take a cab.”

  Sara sat up and blinked. For a moment she thought she was still dreaming. The young man before her was a far cry from the sweaty smith she’d first met a week ago. This David Kopkind appeared to have stepped from the pages of GQ, in a cream-colored, French-cut Pierre Cardin over a coarse beige peasant shirt with the top button undone.

  “David, you look like a great big vanilla sundae. I could eat you.”

  He blushed charmingly. “We don’t have time. You can’t be late for the mayor. He won’t invite you back.” Sara got up. “Ha. As if. The only reason I got this invite is because he wants to hear firsthand what I’ve got on the Chalmers investigation. Which is bupkus.”

  “And maybe, just maybe, he’s been told how beautiful you are?”

  “I doubt that.” With a toss of her head, Sara headed toward the bathroom. “You'll have to wear a tie with that!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  “I know.”

  He’d even straightened out the bathroom, clearing out the used laundry, providing enough fluffed cotton to dry a buffalo. She emerged a half-hour later in a white St. John shift by Marie Gray and a pair of white Dolce and Gabbana heels with straps. David did a double-take and flopped over backwards on the floor in a perfect judo drop.

  “Get up!” Sara said, laughing, pulling on his hands. “You’ll ruin your suit!”

  David got up, took off his jacket, and used a lint roller to remove cat hair.

  They caught a taxi right in front. The Egyptian driver had decorated his cab with an ostentatious show of patriotism, red, white, and blue bunting draping the interior like a campaign car. A small photo of George Bush was affixed to the dash next to a Yankees button. He whisked them uptown toward Carl Schurz Park and Gracie Mansion. A uniformed cop checked Sara’s invitation at the gate before admitting them to the mansion grounds. The circular driveway in front of the mansion was bumper-to-bumper with limos. The house itself was gaily lit, highlighting its wedding cake regency style.

  Only when they stepped inside did Sara realize David had chosen a tie the exact color of her eyes. They joined the reception line. A dozen people ahead of them, Sara spotted Adrian Hecht and his date, the supermodel Katrina. A liveried waiter offered them champagne from a sterling silver tray while they waited in line. As they approached the mayor, an aide whispered their names and why they were there.

  “Detective Pezzini,” the Mayor said, shaking her hand solemnly. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. You’re a folk heroine in the police department.”

  “My escapades have been greatly exaggerated, Your Honor. This is my friend, David Kopkind.”

  David and the mayor shook, the mayor introduced his wife, a bubbly lady with pink cheeks and silver hair, and then they were through the line and mingling with several dozen other swells in the ballroom, its main features a parquet floor and oak paneled walls hung with paintings of past dignitaries. A string quartet in the comer played a Brahms concerto.

  They drifted toward a buffet set up under a large painting of “The Deal for Manhattan”: Dutch settlers handing over trinkets and beads to pipe-smoking Indians, at a time Manhattan was a cow pasture. Sara observed Katrina carefully inspect the shrimp before choosing one, eating it with the delicacy of a cat. Hecht was jawing with another square-shouldered mover and shaker.

  “Detective Pezzini,” he said, extending his hand to include her in the conversation. “Want to thank you for looking out for my property. Bany Gower, Sara Pezzini. Barry’s a developer. Sara’s a detective.”

  Gower, with an obvious rag, a chin the size of New Jersey, and a shark skin suit, shook her hand. Then he excused himself, leaving the foursome. Katrina dabbed at her lips with a monogrammed napkin.

  “Sara and David-is that right?”

  David nodded and shook the model's hand. She was taller than him by at least two inches.

  “Detective Pezzini,” she said with a faint East German accent. “You could be a model.”

  “I’ve had offers, but I’ll stick to police work. It’s less dangerous.”

  “You’re coming to our soiree Monday night,” Hecht said. “I wouldn’t miss it. A little bird told me you’re going to unveil something special.”

  Hecht stared at David for a hard instant, looked at her, gave a slight nod of the head. The two of them drifted off, leaving David looking up at Katrina’s famous features.

  Hecht and Sara stood beneath a portrait of Willem Van Der Koot, an early Dutch settler. “What did you hear?” Hecht asked, just loud enough for her.

  “You’ve got it. The Holy Grail. Muramasa’s last sword, Skyroot.”

  Hecht’s eyes and mouth were slits. “Who told you that?” “Hunh-unh. Is it true?”

  “I don’t know. It hasn’t been verified.”

  “Oh, come on, Adrian. This is what you’ve been waiting for. If it is true, you’re in danger. The samurai killer is after that sword. And he has a nasty habit of decaptitat-ing whoever’s got it.”

  “Trust me, the sword is safe.”

  “Unless they get to you.”

  Hecht turned his body so his back was to the crowd, opened his jacket just enough for Sara to see the butt of an automatic pistol riding in a custom leather holster. “I’m aware of that, and before you start squawking, I’ve got a permit to carry.”

  “How did you get that by security?”

  “Be cool. I’m an ex-Marine officer.”

  “I’m not worried about you shooting someone. I am worried about you defending yourself. If you think you’re a match for this nut, you’re mistaken. Why don’t you have bodyguards?”

  “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I have security here. But, as always, Detective, just seeing you around makes me feel safer.” He grinned, pleased with himself.

  Sara spotted the Japanese consul across the room, clutching a drink in a tumbler with fruit. “We’ll be there, Adrian. In the meantime, be careful. I mean it.”

  She excused herself and made a beeline for the consul, joining the group as Mr. Harushi explained economic policy to three Wall Street heavyhitters. Noticing her, Harushi excused himself. They had met at several functions where Sara was often chosen for parade duty. She was the type of face the department liked to feature in public relations campaigns.

  “Detective Pezzini. How can I be of service to you?” Hana Harushi was a short, middle-aged gentlem
an with huge rectangular glasses and a shock of gray black hair.

  “Good evening, Mr. Harushi. Would you be so kind as to translate for me a Japanese phrase?”

  “If I can.”

  Over Harushi’s shoulder, an intense, balding young man in oval designer glasses was heading her way like a torpedo, mouth set in a grim line. Brandon Stem. As soon as he saw her looking at him, he forced a wan smile.

  “Good evening, Mr. Harushi. Good evening, Detective Pezzini. When you have a minute, the mayor would appreciate your company in the den.”

  Sara raised her eyebrows. “Brandy and cigars?”

  “I’m sure those are available if you wish.”

  Stern hovered. Apparently, she had a moment now. “Mr. Harushi, will you excuse me?”

  “Certainly.”

  She accompanied the aide toward a hallway beneath a carved oak lintel. Looking back, she saw Harushi staring after them, playing with the plastic sword in his cocktail.

  The mayor was all smiles as he greeted Sara in his private study. He was a jovial, pink, pear-shaped politician with a fringe of curly white hair. A moderate Republican, which, of course, meant his policies were indistinguishable from those of any urban Democrat. The library had a sixteen-foot ceiling, wall after wall of oak shelving laden with red-leather bound books, all softly glowing in the light of a green-shaded banker’s lamp on the mayor’s Federalist rosewood desk. A lire crackled in the marbleframed hearth, surmounted by a slab of Vermont granite the size of the Queen Mary, above which a portrait of Jimmy Walker twinkled with a hint of mischief.

  “Detective Pezzini! Thank you for coming. I’ve heard so much about you! I’m sorry it’s taken us this long to meet.” She shook the mayor’s hand. His palm was surprisingly moist for a politician. Maybe he needed to warm up. “We’ve been on the same podium several times, Your Honor.”

  “Is that right? Can I get you a drink?”

  “Just water.”

  The mayor went to a sideboard, opened a camouflaged refrigerator, and removed a bottle of designer water. He twisted off the cap, poured water into a tumbler, added ice with a pair of silver tongs, and a twist of lemon. He indicated a wing-backed red leather chair, brass studs gleaming sofdy in the firelight.

  The mayor sat opposite, resting his drink, Scotch and water, on a small round rosewood table. “Is that young man your boyfriend?”

  A hint of blush crept into Sara’s cheeks.

  The Mayor laughed. “I think that says it all. The Commissioner tells me you’re quite a detective.”

  Sara sipped water and offered a Mona Lisa smile. “It runs in the family, Your Honor. As you know, my father was a cop.”

  “Yes, indeed. Vincent Pezzini, one of the brave heroes who gave their lives protecting the citizens of this great metropolis.” The phrase tripped off his tongue. “Brandon told me about your involvement with the Russian Mafia a couple months ago. You’re a brave young woman. I’m putting you in for a mayoral commendation.”

  “That’s very kind of you, your honor, but a lot of the credit goes to my fellow officers, and my partner, Jake McCarthy.”

  “You’re too modest. I guess you know Scott Chalmers was a friend of mine.”

  She nodded. Here it comes, she thought.

  “As is Adrian Hecht. The problem is, some people look at these crimes, including your donnybrook the other night at Hecht Gardens, and think it’s part of a terrorist plot to discourage developers in lower Manhattan.”

  Sara tried not to do a double-take. “Sir, with all due respect, that’s ridiculous. The killer is clearly after ancient Japanese swords.”

  “Have you heard of a group called Black September?” “Yes sir, and I’m aware that members of the Japanese

  Red Guard participated in an airport massacre in Rome in 1984. But as far as I know, they haven’t been active since.”

  “I received a report from the State Department yesterday. They seem to think the Red Guard branch of Black September may be in the country.”

  What do you want me to do about it, she thought? I’m dancing as fast as I can. “I’d like to see that report, if I may.”

  “I’ll have it sent over. If there’s any chance you can wrap this up before Hecht’s wing-ding Monday night...” The mayor must have seen something in her eyes because he quickly back-pedaled. “I know ... I’m sorry. I know that’s unreasonable. But it would be helpful if you could announce that you’ve got a suspect, or even some new leads.”

  “Your Honor, all I can tell you is that I do have a promising lead, and I’m close to cracking the case. But the answer isn’t simple.”

  The mayor stared with pursed lips a moment, sipped his drink. He sighed. “I was afraid of that. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted.”

  “Of course. Will you be at the party Monday night?” He nodded.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “I really have no choice. I said I’d come, and Hecht is a major campaign contributor. Whoops. A gaffe is when a politician inadvertently tells the truth. How about you? Will you be there?”

  She nodded. The mayor stood. The interview was over. “Then I’ll feel safer.”

  They shook hands, and she showed herself out.

  Harushi was waiting for her in the ballroom. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “I’d like you to translate a Japanese phrase for me.”

  “If I can.”

  “Washi no katana, kaesel” Sara snarled.

  The consul blinked. “ ‘Give me back my sword.’ ”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Q

  W_yara gazed down into David’s sated eyes as he lay on his back on the futon in the living room.

  “Wow,” he said. “Wow wow wow.”

  “Was it good for ya, baby?” Sara asked, batting her eyes.

  “Tell me again what the Japanese consul said?”

  “ ‘Give me back my sword.’ ” She said it again in a campfire scary voice. “Give me back my sword! Vince sent me to summer camp when I was eleven. The counselors used to tell us scary stories at night, around the campfire, and the one story I always remember—that everybody always remembers-is about the corpse searching for his heart/slash/hand/slash/kidneys. And he creeps right up behind you and crowls in your ear, ‘Give me back my kidneys!’ The Polish variation is, ‘Give me back my kischkes!”’

  “What’s a kischke?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” She slid off and snuggled under one arm.

  “Don’t get too comfortable because I have to go work.” Sara looked up. The digital clock on the VCR said 11:15. “It’s Saturday night. What kind of work?” “Polishing, that’s all I do.”

  “Tonight? Saturday night?”

  “I promised the client it would be ready on Monday. I have to put in twelve hours a day.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Nope. I promised the client I wouldn’t show it to anybody.”

  She ran her nails lightly across his smooth, hairless chest. She didn’t like hair on a man. On top of the head, that was okay. Maybe a well-trimmed mustache. But none of this hairy ape stuff. “Come on, David. You can show me.” He hoisted himself to one elbow and cradled her head in one hand. “Baby. I promised. And when I make a promise, that’s it. If I made a promise to you, I wouldn’t break it. The client asked for absolute discretion. This is absolute.”

  She gazed into his aqua eyes for a minute, heart swelling. At last. One true man. “I understand. You mind if I just curl up here and sleep?”

  She was rewarded with a lupine grin. “I was hoping you would.”

  She heard him pad lightly down the hall, the key in the lock, the swing of the workroom door. He kept it locked? The door shut, the lock latched faintly shut. A few minutes later, she heard the steady swoosh of steel on stone through the vents. She plunged into sleep.

  Sara awoke a few hours later. She’d kicked off most of the bedcovers, and lay tangled in the sheets. She ex
tricated herself. It was 3:30 in the morning, and the swoosh through the vents was as steady as ever. Had he been at it for four hours?

  She rose, grabbed a terry cloth robe, went into the bathroom, and took a quick shower. She doubted she’d get back to sleep. She dressed swiftly in blue jeans, cotton shirt, cotton sweatshirt. Yoshi came into the room, yawning and snarling.

  “C’mere, cat,” she said, scooping him up, falling into a sofa and cuddling. Yoshi clawed his way loose. Sara put on her high-top Reeboks and began to pack up. She would have liked to have spent the day in bed with David lingering over the Times, maybe going down the street for breakfast, flipping through the news shows. But clearly, he had other priorities.

  Problem. Her bike was in the workroom. She’d have to disturb him to get it. Oh well, she thought, hoisting her leather overnighter and the tank bag, both of which she’d lugged into the living room. She went down the carpeted corridor past his library, his Spartan bedroom, to the workroom door, constructed of heavy-gauge steel, closed and sealed with a Dunwich deadbolt. The steady swoosh of steel on stone issued faintly from within.

  Sara listened for a moment, loath to interfere with his concentration. But if she wanted to leave, there was no getting around it. She had to have her bike. She knocked lightly on the door. There was no response. The swooshing never stopped. She knocked harder. There was a break in the swooshing for an instant. Absolute silence, save for the constant susurrus from the street.

  “David?” she said tentatively.

  The swooshing began again, a little more intently. She rapped hard on the door. No response. The swooshing continued. This was ridiculous. She had to have her bike. What was the matter with him? Maybe he was wearing a set of headphones and couldn’t hear.

  Sara hauled back her foot and kicked the door robustly several times. The swooshing stopped. An instant of silence, followed by a scraping sound and then the thick click of the lock unlatching. The door opened twelve inches to reveal David, flushed, without his glasses, sweating profusely, with a silly grin on his face.