by Paul Bishop
I didn’t want to go to the dojo. Pagan couldn’t make me go to the dojo. I ran my fingers through the tangle of my hair.
The robe I was wearing dropped open and I could see the livid scar on my thigh.
I looked up and took in the surroundings of my new home.
Despite the rude awakening, I’d slept better than at any time since the shooting. I sighed. Last night, climbing into the hanging bed, I’d felt like a child again. Maybe this was home. Maybe Pagan was nothing more than the pain in the butt older brother I’d never had.
I groaned and worked my way to my feet. Limping into the kitchen, I hit the button on the prepared coffee maker and headed to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later I walked out the door wearing sweats, and made my way to the dojo.
Tanaka was a surprise. I’d expected a traditional if grueling workout. What I got was a lot of one-on-one attention from Tanaka as he placed me in balanced positions and had me hold them. It all sounded so simple, but within minutes I was sweating up a storm.
I had expected Pagan to be there, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found. It was just Tanaka, who kept talking in a reassuring voice as he assessed everything I did, moving my limbs with his one calloused hand from position to position. His round face was placid, concentrating.
At one point, Tanaka moved my left foot slightly beneath me. He made me bend my left knee another few degrees. My right leg was extended, but also bent to maintain balance.
Tanaka stood behind me, his hand cupping my left hip bone. Suddenly, he pulled my left hip backward, twisting it behind me. There was a split second of intense pain. I lost my balance and fell clumsily to the padded mat covering the floor of the dojo.
The pain passed as quickly as it came, but the relief was amazing. It was as if my back had been set free. Pain I hadn’t known I was harboring had fled like the night. I gasped with relief, feeling sweat break out on my forehead in huge droplets.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“You favoring hip too much since shooting. Spine completely out of alignment,” Tanaka said. “Better now, but still work to do.”
“Yes. Better,” I agreed. “But how about warning me next time.
“Warning not work. You tense up. Surprise best.” Tanaka held out his hand. I grasped it and he pulled me up. I knew it couldn’t be true, but my left leg felt stronger, longer even.
“Muscles have atrophied,” Tanaka said, beginning to put me into another balance position. “Still too skinny. Need to build up strength and speed. Need to eat.”
After about thirty minutes, he let me take a water break.
“Let me have your cane,” he said after I’d gulped down a half bottle of water.
I handed it to him without question.
He examined it briefly. “Any sentimental value?” he asked.
“I hate the thing,” I said.
Tanaka tested its heft then trapped it at an angle between the floor and his hand and snapped it cleanly in half with his opposite foot.
“Hey!” I was genuinely surprised. “I said I hated it. I didn’t say it wasn’t expensive. And I need it.”
Tanaka grunted. “For now,” he said. Seemingly out of thin air, he produced another cane. It was black and looked very similar to the cane now splintered on the floor. He offered it to me.
Taking it, I could immediately feel the difference. It was lightweight, but balanced with a heavy silver knob in the shape of a crown on the top and a similarly weighted ferrule tip on the other end.
“More expensive,” Tanaka said, a silly smile splitting his face.
“Is there a sword inside?” I asked, jokingly. I gave the cane a tentative baton twirl.
“Twist crown,” Tanaka said.
I looked at him, then did what he asked. A wicked two-inch blade shot out of the ferrule tip. “Holy crap,” I said.
“Titanium cane. Very light. Never break,” Tanaka said. “When you learn to use it, it will help you balance. I will teach you to fight with it. It is a weapon, not a tool or a toy.”
I twisted the heavy silver crown back the other way and the blade slid back into hiding. I hefted the cane. It made a wicked nightstick.
“Not exactly department approved,” I said.
“Neither am I,” Pagan said, his voice coming from the front door of the dojo as he stepped inside. He looked grave despite his jibe.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We have to go,” he said. “Harvey Martin has just been killed in a hit and run outside his mortuary.”
Chapter 25
“The man who lies to the world, is the world’s slave from then on. There are no white lies, there is only the blackest of destruction, and a white lie is the blackest of all.”
- Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged
It had taken thirty minutes after Pagan interrupted my workout with Tanaka to just grab a shower, pull my wet hair back into a ponytail, drag on slacks and a blouse, a pair of comfortable flats, buckle on my gun, and grab my new cane. Pagan was too impatient to wait while I messed with make-up.
Since I didn’t carry a purse, keeping my driver’s license in the same flat wallet with my ID card, I realized I was going to have to stash a back-up bag of necessities in Pagan’s Escalade. It was either that or go through my days looking both underfed and pale.
Pagan was again dressed in contrast to the accepted detective uniform of suit and tie. Black jeans over Cuban-heeled black boots, a tucked in dark blue tee-shirt, another wide silver bangle on his right wrist, a white watch on his left, and a holstered Glock, flaunted his disregard for department conventions. With his straight black hair and sharp angled face, he looked more gypsy than cop. He caught me looking at him.
“This is just a costume, Randall.”
“What?”
“You were looking at the way I dress and wondering how I get away with not conforming to the department’s detective standards.”
Damn him. How did he do that?
“Now you’re wondering how I knew what you were thinking.”
“Stop doing that,” I yelped.
“Can’t,” he said. “It’s second nature. Being an empath helps me do my job, but in normal circumstance most people find it disconcerting and irritating. Like you, though, I can’t turn it off.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “But what did you mean about a costume?”
“We all wear costumes. Sometimes we call them uniforms, or protective equipment, or fashion, but everything we wear is a costume. How we dress declares who we are within the world where we operate. We dress to send a subconscious message to those with whom we interact.”
I fought the urge to look down and take in my own sartorial choices. I didn’t want to know what kind of message my costume was sending.
Pagan’s face was a complete blank, but I knew that was because he was reading my mind again and didn’t want to specifically hit my nail on its head.
Instead of rising to the bait, I said. “You dress specifically to throw off people’s expectations of cops?”
“Exactly. To be successful, I have to take every advantage, no matter how small or inconsequential. I read people by how they dress, by how they carry themselves, by how they talk, how they move. But those people are also reading me, albeit on a much more subconscious level. If they read me as a stereotypical cop, it’s just another barrier I have to overcome to get to the truth.”
“So, it’s a manipulation?”
“Absolutely. I’ll wear whatever costume, whatever facial expression, whatever physical stance is needed in order to get to the truth.”
I thought about that for a second as Pagan weaved through traffic. “Then who is the real Ray Pagan?” I asked.
Pagan shrugged. “All of them and none of them,” he said quietly. Twisting the Escalade’s steering wheel sharply, he suddenly cut off a semi-truck and trailer and sped into an open lane.
I dramatically grabbed the plastic panic handle above the passenger door. “Can we c
ool the engines on this jet a bit? I need you to talk to me.”
“I am talking to you,” Pagan said, but his foot eased up on the accelerator and we dropped down to a respectable speed.
“About the case,” I said. “What do you know that I don’t?”
“I don’t know anything…”
“Then what is it you suspect? Clearly, you’ve gone down some kind of twisted path.”
“I spent most of last night going over the reports on the ten year–old LAPD missing person’s case for Connor Martin and the hit and run report on his father, Jack Martin.”
“How much sleep did you get last night,” I asked.
“Sleep is inconsequential.”
“How do you keep that attitude long term?”
“Do you want to know what I think about this case, or do you want to discuss my sleep patterns?”
“Both,” I said. “But let’s stick with the case,” I said, relenting now that Pagan was no longer driving at warp speed.
Pagan sighed. “Before I go way out on a limb, tell me your impressions of the case. What is the first thing to come to mind?”
I’d been doing some thinking myself and replied immediately. “All that stuff about pinching and fairies and making Chad turn and face the wall was simply Connor trying to protect Chad from what was really happening. Connor Martin most likely ran away ten years ago because he was being molested by the man who had adopted him, Jack Martin.”
“Agreed,” Pagan said.
It was silly, but his approval gave me a warm feeling. I was an experienced detective with one of the highest clearance rates in RHD, but somehow Pagan’s opinion of me was more important. It was a bit ridiculous, but there was a part of me that recognized it as truth – my truth, at least.
“Do you tie Connor going missing to the hit and run involving Jack Martin the next morning?” Pagan asked.
I thought for a moment. “If Jack Martin hadn’t been killed, and Connor was never found, then I would be looking at Jack Martin as a suspect in Conner’s disappearance.”
“Given those circumstances, I’d agree again,” Pagan said. “It has always disturbed me that only humans tolerate same-species predators.”
I kept my train of thought going. “However, Castano was right earlier. Ten years ago Juvenile Division would have handled the missing, and Traffic Division would have handled the hit and run, and clearly nobody bothered to put the two cases together.”
“A much different time in the Department’s history. Not only that, but ten years ago we didn’t handle missing kids under twelve as critical missings. We did nothing more than we did for any other missing kid – put their name in the system and handled them as if they were a runaway until they came home, got arrested for something else, or turned up dead. However, even today, the connection could have fallen through the cracks.”
I nodded. “With hindsight, I think it’s pretty clear, Conner was behind the wheel of the car that killed his adopted father and abuser.”
“Revenge?”
“Partly, but there’s a much more likely reason.”
Pagan produced a sad, but knowing smile. “Conner probably believed Jack Martin was getting ready to turn his sexual attentions to Chad, who Conner would protect at any cost.”
“It happens in families all the time,” I agreed. “As one victim ages out, the abuser turns to a younger family member.”
“Conner must have known having his brother turn and face the wall was no longer going to be enough to protect him from also being pinched by the fairies,” Pagan said.
“But how does a ten year-old, even if he’s a wild child, learn to hot wire and steal a car?” I asked, following the thought process. I could see where Pagan was leading me, but I wasn’t ready to go there just yet.
“No mystery. The report states the keys were in the vehicle when it was stolen,” Pagan said.
I finally gave Pagan what he was waiting for. “You don’t think Jack Martin was the only one of the Martin brothers who was an abuser, do you?”
“Statistics show the majority of sexual child abusers victimize their direct or extended family members.”
“And it can be perpetuated from generation to generation,” I said.
“Which means, the Martin brothers were very likely abused by their own father,” Pagan said.
“But there is no way Gerrard Martin is capable of running his uncle down. Even if he understood the abuses his uncle was possibly perpetrating.” My head was beginning to hurt.
“Probably, not possibly,” Pagan said. “But, no, not Gerrard,” Pagan paused, then continued. “Conner. Once a protector, always a protector.”
“What?”
“Think about it.”
I ran my hands through my hair. “Conner Martin? If he’s still alive, he’d be twenty now. Where has he been for ten years, and how do you connect him to both missing kids?”
“Fairies,” Pagan said, and pulled in to the crime scene before he explained further.
The scene at the Martin Mortuary and Funeral Home was a hive of police activity. Yellow crime scene tape had been secured around stacked orange pylons, which outlined the area of the hit and run in the parking lot. There was a slight breeze, which fluttered the loose ends of the tape giving everything the feel of a church fête.
Between the pylons sat the hearse used by the business. Harvey Martin’s body had been caught as he was getting out of the driver’s side. It had been mangled and pinned there by the impact of an ancient white Ford pick-up truck, which was still at the scene – its own driver’s door left open, the cab abandoned.
An ambulance, a fire truck, and a phalanx of paramedics and firemen all went about their various tasks. The detritus of their useless first aid work was scattered around the dark pools of blood on the parking lot tarmac.
“Any witnesses?” Pagan asked Dante Castano, who was already on the scene with Ken Dodd.
“Not to the actual incident,” Castano said. “There was another employee already at the mortuary who heard the crash and came out to see what happened.”
“See anyone leaving the scene?” I asked.
Dante snorted. “We’re never that lucky. No video in the area either.”
“We on the same page that this is a deliberate act?” Pagan asked.
“Absolutely,” Castano said. “We’ve got a full forensic crew on the way. If there’s any trace evidence in the pick-up, we’ll find it.”
“Who owns the pick-up?” I asked.
“It’s an all-purpose vehicle, which belongs to the mortuary. It’s usually kept in the back with the key in it.”
“Common knowledge among the mortuary staff?”
“Apparently. The key is supposed to be kept on a hook in the main office, but nobody seems to have followed that protocol in years.”
I nodded. “Premeditated. Suspect was clearly lying in wait and knew the victim’s routine.”
“Also made absolutely sure the victim didn’t survive,” Castano said. “From my prior experience working traffic, I’d say the impact was made at the fastest speed possible when mashing down the gas pedal from one end of the parking lot to the other. Victim had turned to reach back into the vehicle. Impact crushed him to a paste.”
Both Pagan and I turned and looked from one end of the parking lot where it exited to the street, to the other, which led around to the back of the mortuary. The lot ran the full length of the mortuary building, which seemed a little excessive for the type of business, but then some viewings and funerals could be very large.
“Anybody check on Sophie Martin?” I asked. I remembered what she had said about wishing somebody would run down her uncle, Harvey Martin.
“She’s at home with her brother Chad,” Castano said.
“They alibi each other?”
“For what it’s worth,” Castano said. We all knew the worth of a familial alibi was low, but it would hold for the moment.
Livia Nelson and her lap dog partner, Johnny Haw
kins, pulled up and parked. They walked over to join us.
Livia took one look at the body still trapped in the mass of steel waiting for the tow truck to pull the vehicles apart and release it, and then turned to look at me.
“You look a bigger wreck than he does,” she said, jerking her head toward the mass of crushed metal, bone, and flesh.
“I feel it,” I said with a smile. Her words were tied to yellow streamers, which I knew held no poisonous harm despite their biting sound. If they had been red, or I hadn’t been paying attention, I might have reacted differently. Being around Pagan was making me spend more time in the moment.
Livia smiled back and laughed. “You’ve got a good one there, Pagan,” she said. “No getting under her skin.”
Pagan looked pointedly at Livia. “Do we need to have a lesson about glass houses?”
Livia laughed again then cursed when she realized a news camera was capturing our frivolity at the crime scene on video.
“I’ll just make sure that doesn’t end up on the next newscast,” Johnny Hawkins said, moving away toward the independent cameraman.
“Better behave,” Pagan said. “The network and cable people will all be here soon.”
Livia grabbed a roll of yellow tape. “I’ll just go expand the crime scene. Keep the cameras at bay and give the brass somewhere to stand and make themselves feel important.”
Having a two-tiered crime scene was a good idea. The outer ring kept the public at bay. The inner ring was where police supervisors and brass could feel separated from the hoi polloi, yet not step all over clues on your crime scene.
A loud sound made us all turn toward the emergency rescue personnel. They were starting the Jaws of Life, which were misnamed in this case, to cut what was left of Harvey Martin out of the wreckage.
Over the racket, Pagan turned to me and asked, “What do you think?”
I thought back to the conversation we’d had in the Escalade on the way over. Pagan’s left field explanation for what was going on.
“I think somebody was mightily pissed off at Harvey Martin,” I said.
Dante Castano’s ears perked up like a horse scenting water. “You two got some kind of lead?”
