Retribution ( M Mystery)

by Kit Crumb

  Pulling a black plastic bag from beneath his filthy shirt the homeless man stood on one wheel of the dumpster. Bending sharply at the waist he was just able to reach in far enough to retrieve the trash Mark had just tossed in. Like the Grinch that stole Christmas he slung the bag over his shoulder and jogged out to the sidewalk. No one paid attention to the filthy homeless man toting the plastic bag. He shuffle-stepped to the side of an equally filthy, rusted Gremlin where he threw in the bag, climbed in after and drove off.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  M BACK PEDDLED AWAY from the flurry of punches, waiting for the pause that would occur before the next attack, then snapped off an extended snap-kick to her opponent’s solar plexus.

  Buck doubled up, eyes wide, mouth open. “Braaaaa.” He exhaled a lung full of air, stumbled back in an attempt to maintain his upright position, but failed.

  M waited but he didn’t catch his breath, when his hands went to his throat she approached leaning down. Suddenly his right leg shot into her stomach as his hands grabbed her lapels. Straightening his leg he executed a perfect Tomoe-nage, throwing M head over heals, over his head, and retaining his grip, ended on top, sitting on her stomach.

  “I believe the point is mine,” he said, with a smirk.

  She swung a leg up giving Buck a gentle nudge to the back of the head.

  “Like hell, you cheated.”

  He rolled off holding the back of his head and looking at her with crossed eyes.

  She jumped to her feet.

  “You’re just a sucker, besides I couldn’t let you win. I’ve got a reputation to protect,” Buck said

  He held out a hand for a pull up.

  “I wouldn’t take that hand for all the tea in China,” she said.

  He climbed to his feet and lumbered after her as she crossed the mat.

  “Aw c’mon, don’t be a sore loser. You know the only way I could beat you is with a trick.”

  “I’m not a sore loser!” she snapped, knowing that she had him fooled. She turned around and presented Buck with a big grin. “Gotcha.”

  He stepped up to wrap her in an embrace intending a kiss, but she held a hand between them and cleared her throat. He followed the direction of her eyes and met the stare of a young female green belt.

  The uniform clad student bowed. “Excuse me, Sensei. I lost my schedule. Is the weapons class in the Blossom Room?”

  M returned the bow with a nod of her head. “Yes, the Blossom Room.”

  Buck was surprised at her terse response.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But green belts aren’t supposed to lose schedules or anything else for that matter. And definitely not bother Sensei about it. Now let’s get cleaned up.”

  He smiled. “Yes, Sensei.”

  “Knock it off,” M said, bowing off the mat, and heading to the gym area and the stairs that led to her apartment. He returned to his locker to retrieve his street clothes.

  By the time he entered her apartment she was already in the bathroom, and he could hear the shower running. He knocked twice on the solid core door. “It’s open,” she said, over the sound of the water.

  He walked in closing the door behind him and sat on the toilet seat. He could just make out the pale of her breasts and buttocks and when she turned, the dark patch between her legs.

  “If you came in just to ogle me you can leave. If you want to talk about what Gina Davies saw this morning you can stay.”

  He didn’t know what the definition of a tease was, but he was sure it started with the letter M.

  “Do you know the assistant medical examiner very well?” Buck said.

  “Not at all.”

  “He said the character was old Japanese and he couldn’t read it,” Buck said.

  She turned off the shower and opened the translucent door just enough to stick an arm out.

  “Towel.”

  He grabbed the one hanging on the bathroom door and draped it over her extended arm. Arm and towel retracted and the door shut,

  “Thanks.”

  A moment later she emerged wrapped thigh to chin.

  “I think he should have been able to read it,” M said. “Your turn, I think I left you some hot water.”

  She began drying her long hair with a towel.

  “Why would he say he couldn’t read it if he could?” Buck said. He was down to his boxers when he stopped and looked over at M. “How about a little privacy?”

  “Give me a break, I’ll try not to laugh.”

  He ignored her jab, dropped his shorts and climbed into the shower.

  “Why do you think he should have been able to read it?” He shouted over the patter of the water.

  She dropped the towel on the floor, walked to the sink and picked up her blow dryer. “I think he’s about the right age to have been swept into an internment camp during the war. And if he’s that old you’d think he should have been able to read the character,” she shouted back, turning on the dryer.

  ***

  M’s apartment was like a flat; the kitchen, living room and dining room shared an open floor. The only walls closed off the bathroom and bedroom. She had a traditional Japanese dining table that she also used as a coffee table, a couch and beanbag chair. She’d just set tea and was bringing hot water to the table when Buck emerged from the bathroom on the other side of the apartment.

  “I thought you were going to spend the rest of the day in there,” she said.

  Buck walked across the open floor, pulled up a pillow and scooted his legs under the low table, and rubbed his stomach. “You don’t pull your punches much do you?” With his back bent unnaturally, he reached for his tea. “I suppose it’s to much to ask that you provide a chair for your guests?”

  She ignored his complaining and pushed a piece of paper across the table.

  “That’s what Gina described to me. Matches the character exactly.”

  He turned the paper first one way then spun it around.

  “Which way does it go?”

  She smiled. “You had it right the first time. You stood right next to me and looked at it, what gives?

  “It was on the refrigerator not a napkin. What does it mean?”

  She reached across the table and took it back.

  “Retribution. I looked it up to be sure, while you were using the last of my hot water.”

  He grimaced as he finished his tea, “God that stuff is bitter.”

  She moved the teacups to the side, produced a cloth from beneath the table and wiped it down.

  “That was traditional green tea made from a powder.”

  She put the cloth away and produced a contract, sliding it across the table.

  “Let’s make this official. I should at least get paid for my services. Bring me on as a consultant. One of my students discovered the crime scene, I can read the character and my PI license is already on file. What do you say?”

  Without a glance he folded the document, and put it in his coat pocket. “Sounds good to me, but the decisions not mine to make. I’ll show this to Ramos this afternoon, I’m pretty sure he’ll go for it.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “I’ve got to get to the morgue and I’ll be up to my ear lobes in paperwork the rest of the morning.” He stood, leaned over the table, and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “Thanks again for the early lesson. I couldn’t have made it tonight.”

  She got up and walked him to the door.

  “I’ll give you a call as soon as I get the word from Ramos,” Buck said.

  He left without attempting another kiss; she turned and rested her back against the door, staring at the floor, wondering if she should have invited him into the shower. They hadn’t made love in a month and she knew he was ready for another go, but she wasn’t. She hoped he’d wait.

  When she looked up, the clock on the wall suddenly came into focus. 11:30. “Oh shit!” Where had the time gone? Her manager had asked for part of the afternoon off. She berated hers
elf for taking so long with Buck, took the steps two at a time down to the workout area and walked into the weight room slightly out of breath.

  CHAPTER NINE

  EDWARD PLATTE WAS EXCITED. The new photographer was hot. He’d watched her climb up on the kitchen counter and decided right then that he had to have her. After all, he’d saved her job. He could just see her cornering him after work, demanding to know how she could thank him.

  He extracted his key and opened the door, pushing it ajar as he fished out his mail from the box. He felt elated when he pulled out the purple plastic covered magazine, but was too excited to be content with the centerfold. He shut the door with his foot and dropped the mail on the coffee table. His computer was asleep, so he ran his fingers over the keyboard until he heard it wake up, then headed down the hall to the bedroom.

  When he returned he sat in the captain’s chair facing the monitor and let his robe fall open. His fingers danced across the keys until he had the desired video on screen: “Sisters Team Up for Boyfriend.” As the scenario played out on the screen he dropped a hand and imagined Amy Kitting expressing her gratitude.

  He knew she liked him, but there was that incident at the crime scene. He’d saved her job, but did she thank him? She would have stumbled backward, probably fallen, destroyed evidence. He could just see Tessu leaping across the floor, firing her on the spot. He’d warned her, kept her from getting fired. He replayed the incident in his mind for the hundredth time.

  “Hey, hey, lookout!” he yelled at her. She turned around, but not to say “thank you for saving my job,” but to embarrass him, reward him with sarcasm.

  “I don’t see anything, what am I looking out for?”

  Things would have been different if she’d known of his powers of seduction, how well endowed he was and that he knew how to use it. Bitch, he’d show her, he’d make her love him, and she’d love it. She’d want to move in, he’d have to fight her off.

  Platte opened his eyes, rocked the chair forward. Spent. He put the computer to sleep. Rocking slowly, he searched his memory. Amy had said where she was going, if he could only remember. She was going to unwind, catch some sun and surf. The beach. It didn’t take him long to figure out the exact location. It had to be close, and secluded. Whaler’s Cove.

  He was waiting for her, waiting a long time. There was only one road into the beach. She couldn’t see him there in the shadow of the dunes, but he spotted her. Watched her pull onto the softer sand, out of sight of the parking lot. He waited until she was out of the car reaching in through a window for a small picnic basket. When she bent over to reach in, Platte let his gaze descend, follow the seam of her white tennis shorts. She must be wearing shorts underneath, or maybe just a thong. Sure that’s why she pulled out of site from the parking lot. She didn’t want any tan lines. He’d find out soon enough.

  The wind and the sand masked his approach.

  CHAPTER TEN

  M WATCHED MARK put some dumbbells back on their rack. “Hi Mark, you still need the afternoon off?”

  He turned around, “If you don’t mind, I told a friend I’d help her move, if I could.”

  She glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly twelve, why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Andy will be here at three, but I expect you to open tomorrow morning at six, bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

  “Great.” He turned and jogged to the door, stopped, turned back and executed a quick bow, not remembering the note about the homeless man in the alley. “Thanks, Sensei.”

  “Don’t forget to punch out,” she yelled after him, and then returned to the task of putting the rest of the free weights away.

  Finished with the dumbbells she looked around, pleased at how clean the equipment was. She picked up the sanitizer spray and a rag and headed for the big room with the older pulley machines; she’d be relieved when the new ones arrived. She began examining the cables for wear when the doorbell rang, indicating someone had just entered.

  The dojo was in the last four rooms at the back of the Malmstrom building. The gym occupied two large rooms filled with strength training machines and one smaller room containing a variety of cardiovascular equipment. She walked through the weight rooms to the front desk. But there was no one waiting to be checked in. The doorbell only rang when someone came in, and they had to go through a turnstile past the front desk. “Sensei?”

  Surprised, M whirled around to face a smiling student, one of her brown belts. “I just saw a man hop over the turnstile. You must have just missed him.”

  “Thank you,” M said.

  Bells and whistles went off in her head. This was just the reason she’d had the turnstile installed. When she stepped back into the room containing all the weight machines she noticed that the door leading to the smaller free weight room was closed. Walking over she pushed it open and around, pressing the door into its latch on the wall. She stepped back into the larger weight room in time to hear her apartment door close.

  “What the hell?”

  No one else was in sight. She walked up the stairs, stepping close to the wall to avoid squeaks, then stopped in front of the door to her apartment and listened. She could just make out the sound of someone walking around.

  In one quick move M twisted the doorknob, shouldered the door open and dove into the room. She came up into a fighting stance in the center of the living room, kitchen on her right. She was too late.

  He’d sensed her presence before she entered. When she placed her hand on the doorknob he turned. He took the time to gauge his kick, and watched passively as she rolled into the room.

  The sound of a footfall alerted her to the figure in the kitchen, but as she turned there was no chance for fight or flight, his kick was already launched. She was struck solidly on the side of the head, and staggered. Her vision blurred and she dropped into a crouch hoping to avoid another kick until it cleared. No such luck.

  But this time she got a glimpse of her attacker just before he struck her again on the opposite side of the head with another kick, and then again, and again. A punch, a ridge hand, M’s vision began to fail as she dropped to her knees. Her fear escalated when she saw the glint of a knife, then there was darkness.

  The man stood stock still, listening, feeling. Maybe no one heard. Kneeling down next to her inert form he reached over and grasped one side of the top of her karate uniform pulling until it came open to reveal her bra. Sliding the dull side of the knife against her skin and underneath the garment he pulled up, slicing through the material until it fell away revealing her breasts.

  “I ought to carve my fathers name into your chest,” he said.

  Instead, he ran the tip of the blade between her breasts, along her sternum, careful not to press to hard. When the thin red line widened into a tiny stream of blood, he followed its flow with his index finger. Standing, he walked to the refrigerator. He made the trip, dipping his finger in her blood and going back to the refrigerator, three times. Then he stood facing his work, transfixed. The image of the Japanese character he’d drawn passed through the optic nerve stirring old memories in his mind.

  He’d played his father’s story through his head so many times he believed that he had been the one standing before the new foundation for the hospital all those years ago. The wet cement quivered like Jell-o, still in its forms, smooth and seamless except where it bore the signs of frustration of a small child. The large Japanese character etched with a tiny index finger translated into English as Retribution. The camp director looked down at the small shivering child.

  “What does this mean?” He knew what it meant but wanted a confession. The child stood mute.

  “You will tell me what this means or your family will do without.” When the boy continued his silence the director removed a bandanna from his pocket and handed it to the terrified child. “Wipe it off.”

  The cement had started to set and the character wouldn’t rub out. The more the child rubbed without results the more infuriated the directo
r became. He couldn’t remember how the story ended and he hated himself for that.

  A searing pain ran down her chest driving away the darkness. M exhaled with the effort to open her eyes as she instinctively pushed her self up. But the groan gave her away.

  The story of the hospital foundation incident rattled around in his head like a loose marble. His agitated mind drifted to the memory of coming home from school, entering the house to his mother’s screams, but his revere was shattered by the sound of M’s groan. He turned, executing a kick, with such speed that blood seeped from his ears. M rose to a crouch but was suddenly slammed with so much force that she was driven to a full standing position, then seemed to lurch to her right until her feet danced in thin air. She hit the floor like a rag doll, flung aside by a restless child, and lay crumpled in a heap, unmoving.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HER SENSE WAS THAT SHE WAS FLOATING; consciousness blurred, then vanished. She could feel the rise and fall of every wave and suddenly M knew where she was. Her father’s three-masted schooner was rolling and yawing in the rough seas, and she was a little girl again watching the crew reef the storm jib. The skies were an unbelievable black and seemed to settle over the ship, then all was dark until a sliver of light, of consciousness, blurred then dissolved to nothing and she was on her father’s ship again. This time as a teenager, confined to her cabin for her own good as the schooner climbed to the top of twenty-foot waves then raced down the other side to the trough below, and into the dark. Suddenly the blackness of lost consciousness took over, but then she was back on ship arguing with her father. He claimed that she was no longer a tousle-haired, flat-chested teenager who the crew could embrace as a working mascot.

  A curtain of darkness draped across her mind as M’s breathing slowed even more. Her body responded to a lack of oxygen, her chest began to heave and her brain responded to the oxygenation by rewarding her with more memories, memories of pain and abandonment.

  “Daddy, don’t leave me. Waving. “Daddy, don’t leave me.” Crying. Fifteen-year-old Mary Margaret Malmstrom is alone. Why am I being put ashore, where is this place called Dungeness Bay?