“That that cop from the Two-Seven you’ve been dating?”
“A-huh. Saw your little honey bunch in the dock t’other day. Don’t he look like a vanilla parfait. Where you off to, dolled up like that?”
“The Hecht Center for the Performing Arts. Adrian’s throwing a party to celebrate the sublime beauty of his Hechtness.”
Goines laughed. “Really? What’s the occasion?” “Getting the Hecht Center ready in time, I guess. And he might be announcing a new acquisition to his collection. Big deal, huh?”
“What’s he collect?”
“Japanese swords.”
Goines closed her large black leather bag with a snap, tossed her processed curls. “Well why not. I knew a guy collected insects. Y’all have a swell time.”
“You too, Bern.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
T
I he Hecht Center for the Performing Arts was situated kitty-comer from the excavation where Sara had confronted Los Tecolotes. It was also separated by its own eight-foot hurricane fence topped with concertina wire. Contractors had been working around the clock to finish it off in time for the Big Event, and it looked like they’d pulled it off. Sara exited the taxi directly in front of the main entrance, a cascade of crescent-shaped steps in front of the arched entrance. Security in suits greeted each vehicle at the main entrance on Liberty Street. A number of cars were parked directly on the spanking new concrete that would eventually become Hecht Plaza.
A number of thin-blooded saplings were held in place by guy wires. The building itself suggested concrete sails, with great, soaring abutments and tiny cube windows punched into its side like player piano tape. At its base, valets in green jackets were busily parking large cars inches from each other, slotting them in like so many dominos, leaving barely enough room to squeeze out the doors. As Sara approached the main entrance, invitation ready, she glimpsed a flash of chrome between the cars. Someone had parked a motorcycle in an alcove too small for a car. She walked back to take a look.
A bronze and black 1100 Shadow rested in the penumbra, fitted with crenulated Roadhouse pipes and a fishtail tip. This was Sharpe’s other bike. He’d told her he had a Shadow for cruising. And suddenly it all came together.
Akira Kurosawa had directed a film called Kagemusha, which meant, literally, “shadow warrior.” Chalmers’ rival for the online sword had signed his e-mails “Kagemusha.” Sharpe was the shadow warrior. Sharpe had beheaded Chalmers and taken the sword, because he’d cut himself on a Muramasa, and in that instant, the warrior’s restless spirit had entered.
But which warrior? Which blade?
There wasn’t a lick of proof. It was all circumstantial.
Sara joined the knot of swells waiting to be admitted by a body builder in an Armani suit, carefully examining each invitation before dropping the red rope. Sara was just about to show her invite when three limos whipped up to the curb, nearly clipping a valet. From the front and rear limos, two well-dressed flunkies sprang into action. A tall young man with styled blond hair opened the rear door of the middle limo, and extended his hand to New York’s junior senator.
The gatekeeper’s eyes were on the senator.
“Excuse me,” Sara said, flashing her invitation. “Excuse me.”
“You’ll have to wait. The Senator’s here, and she doesn’t like to stand in line.”
Sara caught a glimpse of the frosted blond hair as the senator stalked past, surrounded on all sides by expensively-clad bully-boys lest one of the hoi polloi tiy to touch her garment.
There was a great deal of cooing and the pop of flashbulbs as the Senator entered the building. Only then did the gatekeeper turn his attention back to Sara. He looked like he was from the Caribbean somewhere, with a slight lilt to his voice.
“I am sorry about that, but we have strict orders to move the Senator to the front of the line. Always to the front of the line.”
“She is the smartest woman on Earth.”
“That's right.” He examined Sara’s invitation and let the red rope drop. “You enjoy yourself,” he said with a smile.
The lobby of the Adrian Hecht Center for the Performing Arts resembled a high-tech cathedral, with a peaked ceiling displaying bones, and immense steel girders with oval cut-outs. The floor was an intriguing mix of circles, squares, and triangles set in marble and granite-a patchwork of contrasting textures. Huge crimson rugs with the Hecht logo endlessly repeated provided a jolt of color. There were at least a hundred guests wandering the lobby, ooMng and ahing over Hecht’s art collection, which hung from walls, from ceiling beams, were mounted on plinths, or crouched in corners. There was a set of sixteenth century samurai armor mounted on a mannequin, enclosed in a Plexiglas display case. Another case displayed a dozen of the rare blades, naked steel reflecting a thousand little lights. Several waiters in black tie circulated with trays of champagne, and there was a buffet in the corner, presided over by a chef in a white toque.
The gently curved glass front wall arced thirty feet to the ceiling. Sara scanned the crowd for David, but couldn’t see him. She made a beeline for the buffet table. Might as well eat something while she had the chance. She was on her third bacon-wrapped shrimp when she sensed a presence at her shoulder. The smart young thing with lank white hair, pierced chin, and silk jacket over black silk T looked familiar.
“Hi,” he said, flashing high-priced choppers. “I’m Rondo.”
She shook his hand. “Sara Pezzini.”
“You don’t know who I am, do you,” he said with an air of jovial expectancy. He had a strange, toothy, East Coast accent that sounded made-up.
“Sure I do. You’re Rondo. You just said so.”
“Maybe you’ve heard of my band, Flying Stankfish.” Sara paused. If he were tiying to be witty, he was incredibly diy. He wasn’t trying to be witty. He was some self-involved rock star who expected her to know who he was. “Sorry. Your fifteen minutes haven’t come up yet.” “Excuse me?”
But she was already cruising toward the front entrance, where James Bratten had entered with a tall, thin model on his arm. His gaze fell on Sara and he headed her way, towing the model like a skiff. “Offisa! Arrest this woman! She incitin' indecent thoughts!”
“Hello, James.”
“Sara, Celque. Celque, Sara.” Sara recognized the Somalian model. She was six-feet-two, and weighed one hundred and twenty pounds, with Nefertiti cheekbones and cinnamon skin.
A string quartet in some distant comer dove into Vivaldi with a small splash.
“Have you seen our host?” Sara asked. “You probably have a better view from up there.”
Bratten looked around with the slightly self-conscious profde of the well-known celebrity. He was gratified by the subdued murmuring of his name. “Nope. Tha’s all right, though. Adrian’s always late. You still seein’ that sword polisher?”
“Yup. I'm supposed to meet him here.”
“Tha’s good. David’s a fine lad. Hey! There’s my man Calvin!”
Bratten veered off like a fighter jet going into combat, moving to intercept his teammate Calvin Broadbent. Celque gave an indulgent smile. “He’s like that. Always rushing off, eveiy second, a new interest. He sees life like a child.”
“I envy him.”
“Me, too. Sometimes I think I am too sophisticated to enjoy life.”
Sara scanned the crowd for Hecht or David. There were at least two hundred people now swirling across the cubist floor, jumbles of voices rising like startled pigeons. “How so?”
“I have had nothing to drink, nothing to smoke, nothing to snort, and nothing to shoot now for two weeks. Can you believe it?”
Sara reapparaised the ectomorphic model. There had been rumors of drug use, but who cared what a bunch of overpaid models did in their spare time? Celque looked serious, with a sober gleam in her eye. “I’m sorry, I have nothing to compare it to. You seem perfectly normal to me.”
The woman’s face split in a supernatural sm
ile. “Thank you,” she said warmly, extending her hand.
A steady clinking penetrated the throng, and conversation gradually slipped away. All heads turned toward a cantilevered balcony extending over the lobby like the prow of a ship. There stood Hecht, striking the metal rail repeatedly with a silver spoon. Sara wondered if it had been in his mouth when he was born. Behind him, at a slightly lesser elevation, stood a flush-faced David, grinning like an idiot, light striking his glasses in such a way that the lenses appeared to be a field of white. He was clutching a long narrow objected wrapped in newspaper.
“Greetings!” Hecht boomed from the bottom of his diaphragm. “Greetings and salutations from Hecht! Thank you for honoring us with your presence on this, our inaugural night, the Official Grand Opening of the Hecht Center for the Performing Arts!”
The crowd applauded enthusiastically for such a well-heeled bunch. Sara noted the imperial “we.” She tried to catch David’s eye. And there it was. He took the glasses off, winked, blew her a kiss. As she responded, Celque nodded approvingly. Bratten returned and took the model’s hand.
“I had planned to treat you all to a performance of 42nd Street, but the auditorium isn’t finished. In fact, only this room is finished, so we’re having the party in here. In a little while, Mama Digdown’s Brass Band will walk among you, along with some of the more energetic members of the Peach Haddison Dance Company.
“As some of you know, today’s my birthday...” “Happy birthday, you old weasel!” cried a drunk. “Thank you, Cyril. And don’t let go of that young man you’re leaning on.”
Laughter. Other comments. Hecht made a gesture for silence. “I didn’t tell you, because I didn't want you to bring me gifts, I have everything I need tonight. Many of you know I have a passion of samurai swords and have, in fact, made my own modest contribution to the art and hobby. Some of my pieces are on display in the lobby tonight.
“I’m proud to announce a new addition to my collection, and something that should create a bit of a stir in the world of collectors.” He turned and David handed him the package, then stepped crisply off the balcony and disappeared from view. Hecht held the long, narrow package before him for a moment, as expectations built.
Here it comes, Sara thought. Skyroot.
“As aficionados know, a debate has raged about the two swordmakers named Muramasa. No one doubts the existence of the latter, and his sons and cousins. But of the former, there has been much doubt. Until now. With the aid and assistance of many people, including the Hon’amis, I have acquired and authenticated the first Muramasa’s last and greatest sword...”
The newspaper came off. It was already loose. The slender, curving, lacquered black sheath emerged. Gripping the sheath in one hand and the handle in the other, Hecht slowly drew the blade, extending the shimmering sliver toward the ceiling. Someone started clapping, Bratten joined enthusiastically, then everyone. A triumphant moment for Hecht. As he expertly slid the blade back into its sheath, tracing an ellipse in the air, jugglers, dancers, and acrobats appeared, and a nine-piece brass band, lean young men in hip-hop clothes, chugged out of an alcove pumping “When The Saints Go Marching In” on trombone, trumpet, tuba, and snare drum. Chiseled young men and glamorous young women wearing discreet Navy HCPA jackets released confetti and glitter from the upper decks. Something for everyone, including the unions, who would clean up in the morning. Heck, Sara thought. They’re cleaning up right now. She spotted the local Teamsters’ president yukking it up with the Junior Senator.
Warm breath gusted Sara’s cheek. David put an arm around her and pulled her close. “Sorry I’m late,” he whispered.
“You’re just in time,” she whispered back. “Was that your rush job? That sword for Hecht?”
“Yes. Sorry I couldn’t tell you, but I was sworn to secrecy.”
Sara closed her hand around her tiny suede Luis Vuit-ton purse, feeling the hard outline of the .25 auto. David had had Skyroot in his house while they’d made love. Why hadn’t the Witchblade said something?
White hot pain flooded her right arm from the tips of her fingers to her shoulders. Dipped in acid. Her forehead scrunched, and she bit her lip.
“What’s wrong?” David asked, immediately sensing her distress.
A force rippled through the crowd on her right. The pain went away, replaced by a relief that made her gasp with gratitude. She staggered. The gauntlet appeared. David gripped her arm, startled.
“What is that?”
Sara looked up. No good. She was too short! But she knew what had happened. Sharpe had passed her, heading for the stairs. Suddenly, the Witchblade was doing its job, sensing danger, putting two and two together. Sharpe and the sword. Or, more accurately, whichever of the samurai ghosts was most fierce and the sword.
She took off, threading through the throng. The crowd thinned behind the buffet, toward the broad, curving stair leading to the balcony. Sharpe was halfway up the stairs, just as Hecht appeared on the landing halfway down.
“Sharpe!” Sara yelled. He did not respond. Hecht paused at the landing, holding the sword in both hands.
Sara saw Hecht form the words. “Sharpe. What is it?”
Sharpe never slowed. His left hand shot out, clipping Hecht on the chin. His right hand grabbed the blade, and he kept on going. A few others saw what happened and gasped.
David appeared at her elbow. “What the hell was that?”
She turned and grabbed him by the arms. “David, listen. Find the chief of security and tell him to meet me here.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just do it!” She raced up the steps, cursing herself for not alerting security as soon as she’d arrived. But it was all circumstantial! Until Sharpe hit Hecht, there had been no proof he’d so much as jaywalked. Hecht was sitting on the marble landing, legs splayed, feeling his jaw.
“Are you all right?” Sara snapped.
Hecht goggled. She’d forgotten the Witchblade, encasing her right arm to just above the elbow. “Don’t look at me! Are you all right?”
“Yeah, what the hell—“
Sara kicked off her shoes and sprinted up the stairs two at a time, feeling in her purse for the Baretta. Without breaking stride she hung her badge around her neck and tossed the bag over her shoulder. Twenty feet ahead of her, crimson arced across her path, hit the gray marble. A security guard, pale blue shirt drenched crimson, stag-g'ered backward from between naked iron girders, designer rusted to henna. He collapsed, half turned toward her, one hand extended. He’d been nearly cleaved in two with a horrendous slash from shoulder to waist.
Confusion mixed with calliope music drifting from below. Sara could sense men running, weapons being drawn, but so far she was alone. She stepped to her right, back into the shadows where the girders created a separate gallery. Sharpe stood with his back to her at the end of the corridor, facing the wall, the blood sword in his right hand. He’d discarded the sheath.
Sara went into a shooter’s crouch, both hands cupped around the tiny Baretta. At this distance, she doubted she could hit him, much less bring him down. And she didn’t want to get any closer.
“Sharpe! Police! Drop the sword and get down on the floor!”
She heard someone running up behind her, the quick slap of leather on stone.
“David, stay back!” she hurled over her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he said from right behind her.
“David, go downstairs. You’re not helping.” Her eyes never left Sharpe, who still stood with his back to her. He turned, chin buttoned to his chest, regarding them through loony, hooded eyes.
“Sharpe!” Sara snapped, hunkering lower into her stance. “Drop the sword and lie down now! I will shoot you!”
“He’s not Sharpe,” David hissed. “Look at him.” Abruptly, he fired off staccato Japanese, the only word of which Sara recognized was “Shigeyoshi.”
At the mention of that word, Sharpe snapped into chu-dan no kamae, holding the blade in fron
t of him with both hands, the point directed at David’s throat. Sara heard the zing of metal on metal. David stepped forward, holding one of the long swords from Hecht’s exhibit in two hands, like a batter warming up.
"David! Stop it! Get the hell out of here!”
“I know what I’m doing,” he said through his teeth. Holding the pistol in her left hand, she reached with her gauntleted right, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and pulled him forcefully backward. He twisted loose, leaving the jacket behind.
An elevator gonged. Hushed voices, the quiet mutter of dispersal. Two men in the pale blue of the security force dashed around the corner, gripping riot batons, and ran smack into a propeller. Sharpe took one step, shifted his shoulders, and sliced through the first one’s neck like a cheese log, continuing the motion downward at an angle as the second guard ran into the suddenly inert body of his companion.
David stopped when the men had appeared, giving Sara an opportunity to catch up with him. Her gauntled hand shot out, striking him just above the elbow. The sword fell to the floor. David looked at her with surprise, mingled with pain.
“Don’t make me handcuff you. Go downstairs now.” She shoved him forcefully, and he grudgingly retreated a few feet, hurt expression on his face. The last thing she needed was a distraction. Sharpe/Shigeyoshi had just killed three men.
He advanced, blade like a dousing rod, speaking Japanese. Sharpe wore a black silk T-shirt beneath a silver jacket, loose-fitting black cotton trousers. His sneaker-clad feet edged forward without leaving the floor. He looked demented, mouth a slash. Sara was ready to shoot. She braced herself, cupped the pistol, aiming at his thigh, knowing she shouldn’t play around, especially not with a .25, knowing she should let him have five right in the torso, and then the Witchblade tossed the gun away.
It flipped the gun off at an angle like a Frisbee. Sara stared at her hand like it was an alien thing. It was an alien thing. Betrayal. Sharpe was upon her. The blade whistled, a silver blur. The Witchblade twitched, subtle as a hummingbird’s wings, and caught Skyroot in its center, closing around the blade. Sara was too astonished to move, right arm extended, feet in a combat stance. Sharpe froze, too, a ghostly expression on his face, as if he were emerging from a long sleep. His muscles remained fully engaged, thrusting forward with all his strength. Sara slid backwards in her stockinged feet, but she did not yield, nor did the Witchblade, its grip complete and unbreakable.
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