The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “But here, in Martial America, those chops are the only motive I can imagine. I called Komatori because I had to know if they were safe.”

  Shivers started in my legs. My knees shook. I locked them to try to hold them steady, but it didn’t work.

  “Since they aren’t—” I finished lamely.

  “That’s not what I heard.” Moy sounded calmer. Maybe he thought my obfuscation meant that I was being cooperative.

  I frowned. “What did you hear?”

  Why had T’ang Wen accused Nakahatchi?

  “When we got the call,” Moy told me, “the only other person over there was Hong’s head student, T’ang Wen. According to him, he heard something during the night. He was worried about his master—he says you warned him his master was in danger—so he went to the other apartment, knocked a few times. When his master didn’t answer, he used a spare key to let himself in.”

  “Just a minute.” I needed details. “The apartments had different keys?”

  I didn’t want the detective to ask me why I’d warned T’ang.

  “According to T’ang,” Moy answered.

  “Does either one of them open the dojo?”

  “T’ang’s does. Hong was the only one with a separate key for his apartment.”

  I nodded. That complicated the killer’s situation.

  Lightning glared through the windows. God’s kettledrums pounded hard enough to rattle the glass.

  “Go on.”

  With one finger, Moy stroked both sides of his mustache thoughtfully. Considering the question of access? Wondering why I thought keys were important? Then he shrugged to himself.

  “T’ang found Hong dead in his bed. It didn’t take a forensics expert to know he had a broken neck. T’ang called us. He said he didn’t touch or move anything.”

  Tremors climbed into my belly. In another minute my voice would shake.

  “If the door was locked, how did the killer get in?”

  Moy let disgust twist his mouth. “Bedroom window.”

  A window. Oh, shit. That possibility had never occurred to me. Carner lived on AC. I’d assumed that no one here ever left a window open on purpose.

  “It was open,” Moy explained. “T’ang says Hong always slept with it open. He liked the night air.

  “We’ve already been up on the roof. Not that we can see shit in this storm. But one of the utility grates sure looks scratched. And we found fifty yards of rope tied to a grappling hook out in the Dumpster. Ordinary towing rope, the kind you can buy in about a hundred hardware stores.”

  “Spell it out for me.” I didn’t need the help, but I wanted to keep him talking. “What do you think happened?”

  Moy rolled his eyes. “Nakahatchi heard a noise and went to check on the chops. When he saw they were gone, he figured Hong took them. He went out the fire exit to the utility shaft, climbed up to the roof, hooked the grapple onto a grate and shimmied down to Hong’s window. When he’d killed Hong, he went back up the rope, took his rope and grapple out to the Dumpster, and let himself back into Essential Shotokan.”

  “Isn’t that kind of stupid?” I asked dishonestly. “Leaving the rope and grapple where you’re sure to find them?” I already knew why they’d been disposed of so obviously.

  Torrents blinded the windows. The parking lot might as well have existed in a different dimension. Full of cars like I’d never seen it before—

  “There’s no IQ test for killers,” the detective retorted. “Nakahatchi may be a moron. God knows he acts like one.”

  “Bullshit.” I couldn’t stifle the shivers in my chest. My voice shook like I was feverish. “I’ve spent too much time around him. I know better.”

  He hadn’t had any difficulty finding my weaknesses.

  “Maybe,” Moy countered, “he didn’t have time to ditch the rope anywhere else. Not in this storm. He couldn’t risk being gone when Hong’s body was discovered. Hell, maybe he was still in Hong’s apartment when T’ang Wen knocked. He had to hurry.”

  I conceded the point. What choice did I have? Instead of arguing, I threw more chaff.

  “That doesn’t explain why you considered Nakahatchi a suspect in the first place.” I sounded the way I felt, chilled to the bone. “Unless T’ang already knew the chops were gone when he talked to you—”

  I didn’t believe that for a second. Hong hadn’t stolen the chops. And T’ang Wen would never have left his master open to that kind of suspicion.

  “He didn’t,” Moy stated flatly. “He didn’t mention the chops at all. In fact, he doesn’t know they’re gone.” He stared at me hard. “Unless somebody called him after I came over here.” Like me, for instance. But Moy didn’t pursue the question. “I asked him if Hong had any enemies. He named Nakahatchi. But he was reluctant about it. He kept insisting that Nakahatchi behaved honorably toward his master as recently as yesterday.”

  “He must’ve given you some kind of reason,” I countered.

  Moy nodded. “He said the Japanese are hostile toward all things Chinese. Especially the martial arts. He claimed it’s traditional, almost hereditary.” The detective paused briefly, then added, “And he’s sure Nakahatchi was jealous of Hong.”

  I let my jaw drop. “Jealous—?”

  “Hong had more students. And Nakahatchi had to recognize Hong was a better martial artist. It’s obvious to everybody.”

  I got the impression that Moy wasn’t impressed.

  “Says T’ang,” I insisted.

  “Says T’ang,” he admitted.

  “Well,” I went on, “he’s right about the traditional hostility.” Tremors gave my tone a cutting edge. “But the part he didn’t tell you is that it works both ways. The Japanese and the Chinese and the Koreans all distrust each other. Soft styles and hard styles sneer at each other. Traditional styles think modern styles are junk. Modem styles think traditional ones are ossified. Martial America is a hotbed of ingrained suspicion. Everyone here wants precedence.

  “That Tae Kwon Do school next door is one of the worst.” More chaff. “They don’t think Nakahatchi deserves the chops. They give him too much ‘face.’

  “And speaking of ‘face,’” I continued, hurrying so that Moy wouldn’t notice my efforts to distract him, “who do you think inherits Traditional Wing Chun now? The head student, T’ang Wen. With his master out of the way, he stands to gain major ‘face’ if Hong was murdered by a Japanese sensei.”

  That was cruelly unfair to T’ang. He esteemed his master too highly to be selfish about it. But I ached to deflect Moy from Nakahatchi. That was crucial. I couldn’t tell Moy the truth. If I did, he’d have only two choices, a cop’s choices—believe me and get in my way, or doubt me and take me in as an accessory. Somehow I needed to make him question his assumptions about Nakahatchi without turning him in the right direction. Otherwise I’d never be able to extract the evidence I needed.

  Moy held up his hands, urging me to slow down. “Are you trying to tell me T’ang Wen had a reason to kill his master? He took the chops to throw suspicion on Nakahatchi, then killed Hong so he could take over the school?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t go that far. Not even to protect Nakahatchi—or myself. Shivering in gusts, I admitted, “I think T’ang is a decent guy. But maybe he’s figured out that he could be the big winner here. If Nakahatchi goes down, the only rival T’ang has left in Martial America is Master Soon.”

  For a moment, Moy looked out into the storm as if he hoped all that rain and violence would help him think. Frantically I rubbed my hands up and down my arms, chafing my skin in an effort to generate some warmth. If I couldn’t stop shivering, my brain might start to rattle in my skull. Then I wouldn’t be able to put one coherent idea in front of another.

  But I was too angry to let that happen. I’d pick a fight with the wall, batter my blood back into circulation, before I allowed myself to fall apart now.

  When Moy faced me again, he changed directions. “Speaking of keys, Axbrewder,” he as
ked in the bored tone I remembered, “how do you get around in the building?”

  Shit! He was still interested in me as an accessory.

  I met his gaze as innocently as I could. “I have a master.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Lacone.” Indirectly that was true.

  “And it opens all the doors here?”

  I didn’t look away. “It opens all the locks that haven’t been changed since these schools moved in. If T’ang’s key works on the front door to the dojo, mine unlocks his apartment. But Hong had a new lock installed. My key won’t open it.”

  Moy held my eyes for another moment. Then he smiled thinly. “Try to relax. At this rate you’ll shiver yourself sick.”

  Relax? He had no idea. Roughly I slapped at my chest, trying to sting in a little warmth. “Are we done here?” I did not want him to ask me anything else. “I should get over to Traditional Wing Chun.” The people who’d driven all those cars to Martial America had to be somewhere. “I know you’ve covered it, but if I don’t at least take a look I won’t be doing my job.”

  “Just a couple more things.” His eyes told me that he still wondered about my involvement. “T’ang said—”

  A loud whoosh as the front door burst open interrupted him. We both wheeled in that direction.

  Driven by a rush of rain, a short figure wrapped in a raincoat splashed into the dojo. At first I couldn’t see who he was. An umbrella concealed his head. Right away, however, he dropped the umbrella so that he could pull the door shut.

  I’d never have thought that I’d be grateful to see Sammy Posten. Maybe he’d distract Moy for me.

  “Hold it right there,” the uniform guarding the stairs ordered. “You can’t come in here. This is a crime scene—”

  Posten ignored the warning. The instant he spotted Moy and me, he stomped toward us. But he wasn’t interested in the detective. As soon as he got close enough, he hit me in the chest with both hands. Like he thought he could knock me backward.

  “Goddamn it, Axbrewder!” he shouted up at me, “this is unforgivable!” His face reminded me of a perforated ulcer. “You call yourself a ‘security consultant’? Where were you? Probably out fucking some whore, you incompetent sonofabitch!”

  Moy put a hand on Posten’s shoulder to intervene. “Take it easy. We’re investigating every possibility. We’ll find—”

  The little man flung him off.

  “Let me tell you something!” he practically screamed at me. “We won’t pay for this! Not a penny. It’s your fault, your fault, and I am personally going to take it out of your hide.” His raincoat shed water like froth. “You’re going to make restitution if you have to sell your soul for the money!”

  “Sarge?” the uniform asked from the doorway. “You want help?”

  Moy smiled again, without enthusiasm. “No, thanks. I think Axbrewder and I can handle it.” Now he sounded bored. Normal. “If nothing else works, we’ll sit on him.”

  The uniform chuckled harshly and returned to his post.

  “Sergeant Moy.” If I hadn’t been so angry, I might’ve laughed in Posten’s face. “This is Mr. Sammy Posten. He’s a security advisor—a senior security advisor—for Watchdog Insurance. They hold coverage on the chops.

  “Mr. Posten, this is Sergeant Edgar Moy, Homicide.”

  “I know, I know.” Posten gave us his best imitation of a dismissive snarl. “Hong is dead. I don’t care about that.

  “Axbrewder, if you don’t—”

  Since he’d already hit me, I gave him a jolt of my own. It turned his face the color of apoplexy. “Tell you what, Mr. Posten.” I let shivers carry my rage. “I’ll make a deal with you. You go home. Let the Sergeant do his job. You can’t accomplish anything right now anyway. And I’ll take my chances with my soul.” I grinned like the blade of an ax. “I’ve been in that position before.”

  Posten started to sputter a retort, but Moy stepped in front of him. Posten wasn’t tall enough to fume at me past him. He was reduced to sputtering like a sodden chicken.

  “Mr. Axbrewder is right, Mr. Posten,” the detective said flatly. “You should go home. But there’s one question you can answer for me first. How did you know there’d been a crime?”

  “My associate called me,” Posten huffed. “Deborah Messenger. She said she heard it from Axbrewder.” He tried to aim his indignation at me past Moy’s shoulder. “Ask him how he knew.”

  “He knew because I told him.” Now Moy had a grip on Posten’s elbow. It didn’t look hard, but his fingers dug in enough to turn Posten toward the front door. “I assume he called Ms. Messenger because of Watchdog’s involvement.”

  Sure. That’s why I told her. Because of her—

  —involvement—

  “Just a minute,” I demanded. Lightning echoed the glare of intuition in my head. Thunder spread its impact over the city.

  Moy paused.

  “Deborah called you,” I said to Posten. “Who did you call?”

  Who had he involved?

  He was too sure of his righteousness to squirm. “People who need to know,” he snapped. “Our offices. Mr. Lacone. Sue Rasmussen.” He did his best to sneer. “Unlike you, I do my job.”

  Oh, joy. Now I knew why there were so many cars in the parking lot. I wasn’t the only one who understood obfuscation.

  I’d lost whatever advantage I might get from surprise.

  Moy hadn’t told the uniform he’d sent upstairs to keep Hideo Komatori there, and I thought I knew exactly what Komatori would do. Unless Nakahatchi stopped him—

  In the entryway Moy released Posten. Mildly he instructed the uniform to make sure that Mr. Posten reached his car safely. Then he walked back in my direction.

  He had to let me go. Before Komatori did something I’d regret. Unfortunately the look in his eyes told me he wasn’t ready to do that. He didn’t trust me yet.

  “Posten raises an interesting point, Axbrewder,” he commented with all the excitement he might’ve shown for a case of athlete’s foot. “Where were you when I called?”

  Did I have an alibi?

  The deluge outside sounded like the end of the world. Tremors ran through me from head to foot. I bit down on them in an effort to control my voice.

  “I was with a friend. A woman. I’ll tell you her name if I have to. But she isn’t part of this.” I was sure now. “I think her privacy deserves some respect.”

  Moy studied me for a moment, obviously trying to decide how much leeway he could afford to give me. When he spoke, he didn’t ask for Deborah’s name. Instead he said, “Tell me something else first. Where did you get that phone number you left on my voice mail?”

  Damn him, he had to let me go. I didn’t have much time.

  Practically dancing from foot to foot, I replied, “I can’t answer that. Client confidentiality.”

  Literally, of course, Mai Sternway was none of my business. Nevertheless Marshal had given me more help than I had any right to expect. I owed him a little discretion.

  “Axbrewder—” The sheer disinterest in Moy’s tone warned me that I was losing ground.

  I blundered ahead. “But you can ask Marshal Viviter. Professional Investigations. It’s his client. What he tells you is up to him.”

  Moy took a look at his fingernails. They bored him, too. “I’ll do that. But he isn’t here.” He meant, Viviter isn’t the one in trouble. You are. “And all of a sudden you don’t want to give me a straight answer.” He frowned up at me. “I’ll offer you one more chance.

  “T’ang Wen says you warned him Hong was in danger. What the hell was that about?”

  Christ! The one question I absolutely did not want to answer. If I did, Moy wouldn’t have any choice. He’d have to get in my way.

  “It was a hunch, Sergeant.” I wanted to shout, Let me go! I’ll explain everything when I’ve got some evidence. “That’s all. A bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “I swear to God”—I forced all the conviction it
would hold into my voice—“if I’d known what might happen, I would’ve spent the whole fucking night with him myself.”

  Moy peered at me like he would a particularly distasteful lab specimen. “As hunches go,” he asked slowly, “how does this one compare with your theory that Hardshorn didn’t kill Appelwait?”

  I nearly cracked. The violence of the storm centered here, in me. Thunder broke against the windows like blows. I started yelling because I feared that if I didn’t I might hit him.

  “You don’t get it, do you? I know Hardshorn didn’t kill Bernie! I knew it last night. If I’d been even five percent that sure about Hong, we wouldn’t be standing here. I’d have shot the bastard who did this before I let him get away.”

  Or he would’ve killed me, too.

  He still might. If Moy ever released me.

  The uniform reappeared in the entryway. He had his hand on his weapon. “Sarge?”

  Moy made a placating gesture. For the uniform or for me, I couldn’t tell which.

  “All right, Axbrewder. Take it easy. You’ll work yourself into a seizure. I believe you.

  “I get hunches myself.” I thought I saw calculation in his smile. Or malice. “I’ll cut you loose. You can go.”

  Maybe he wanted me to leave so that I’d crucify myself.

  I could scarcely breathe. Instead of thanking him, I headed for the entryway. When I’d retrieved the phone, the .45, and my jacket, I went back into the small dojo. That was my quickest route to the fire exit.

  As I passed him, Moy cleared his throat.

  “In case you’re still interested. That phone number. It’s Hardshorn’s home number. He may not have had any friends, but he sure made a lot of calls.”

  That stopped me momentarily. Like Marshal and Deborah and quite a few other people—Ginny included—Moy was treating me better than I deserved. Better than I’d treated him.

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” I said with a hoarse shiver. “I’ll remember you in my will.”

  Part of me itched to take him along. To keep me alive. And repay his trust. But if I did I’d never get the proof I needed.