Giri

by Marc Olden

  “See how many times the name Robbie Ambrose crops up.”

  “Spell it.”

  “R-O-B-B-I-E A-M-B-R-O-S-E. Hurry, up, damn it.”

  “My, aren’t we testy today. I’ll be glad when your girl friend comes back from Europe. Ah, here we go. Denver, April this year. Winner by knockout, Robbie Ambrose. Check my list of murders. Woman raped and murdered in Denver same night. New magazine, turn the page. Dallas Challenge Pro-Am. Winner by knockout, one Mr. Ambrose. Woman raped and killed in Dallas that same night. Something called the Battle of Seattle. Robbie Ambrose. Knockout third round. Woman raped and killed in Seattle approximately an hour prior to the tournament.”

  “Keep checking,” Decker said.

  Minutes later a subdued Ellen Spiceland whispered, “Holy shit. Manny, do you have any idea what this means?”

  “It means we’ve found the kaishaku. It means we know the identity of somebody who may have raped and murdered at least thirty women. It means Robbie Ambrose is the kaishaku.”

  25

  FROM THE WINDOW OF his apartment Dorian looked down on the Cathedral of St. John the Divine ten stories below. His fingernails scraped at the seal around the neck of a fifth of vodka.

  Despite today’s ball-busting session with LeClair, it had been a good day. He drank to that, bringing the vodka bottle to his mouth and taking a big swallow. He was under suspicion, but so what. There were no witnesses and it didn’t look like LeClair had any evidence. Best of all, tonight he was moving back in with Romaine.

  Dorian lifted the bottle in a toast to the cathedral. It’s been divine, John. See you around.

  He turned from the window to his television set and the Monday night football game. Today he’d laid five thousand on the Minnesota Vikings, who were ahead by twenty points and about to score again. If the Vikings hung on and won he would use the money to buy Romaine the sable coat she’d always wanted. Getting his hands on that pigeon list sure had changed his luck with Romaine.

  He remembered how depressed he’d been after killing Pangalos and Quarrels. He’d gotten drunk and stayed drunk and with nothing to lose he’d dropped by to see Romaine. She had been down, too, way down, thanks to that prick Decker.

  Dorian walked over to the television set, turned up the sound and placed the bottle of vodka on a folding chair. Then he walked into the bedroom, took folded shirts from the top of a dresser and dumped them into an open suitcase lying on the bed. One suitcase, that’s it. Two framed photographs—one of his graduating class at the Police Academy, the other of him and Romaine on their wedding day. A Bible given to him by his mother to keep him alive in Vietnam, which he never read. Other than the clothes on his back, he was taking nothing else with him. He had all the money he needed.

  He closed the suitcase, carried it into the living room and looked around for his shoes. He found them near the couch, shook a cockroach out of the left one and put them on. He leaned back on the couch and watched Minnesota kick a field goal to go up by thirty points. He shoved a clenched fist at the screen. Way to go, Vikings.

  Cigarettes. Where the fuck were his cigarettes? He found what was left of a pack in a jacket pocket and made a mental note to stop off and buy more before going to Romaine’s. At least there was still some grass left. He kept it hidden in the bathroom, taped behind the toilet. Grass made him horny. Might be too soon to put a move on Romaine, but he could try. You never know.

  Robbie. Why the hell did he have to start thinking about Robbie now? Dorian reached behind the toilet, found his stash and took his rolling papers from the medicine cabinet. He rolled a fat joint, a farewell to his apartment, this neighborhood, this life.

  Back to Robbie. At first LeClair hadn’t been interested. “I want Management Systems Consultants,” he said. “That’s why you’re here, in case you haven’t figured it out.”

  Decker still had not returned when Dorian said, “This is your lucky day, Mr. Prosecutor, because the man we’re talking about just happens to work for them.”

  LeClair took his time answering. “Sergeant, I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us. I don’t want Sergeant Decker to know what you’ve just told me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Decker’s not exactly one of my favorite people at the moment.”

  Dorian was no fool. LeClair had just done a 360-degree turn. Suddenly he was interested in Robbie Ambrose, very interested. And Dorian took advantage of it. He stood up. “You know where to find me. No sense me staying here, seeing as nobody’s filing any charges. When you’re ready we’ll talk some more. One thing: any deal we cut means total immunity and I want it in writing. Romaine’s part of that deal. If we do business you stay the fuck away from her. Or there won’t be any deal.”

  In his apartment Dorian took a toke on the joint, held the sweet smoke in his lungs for a long time, eyes closed. Panama Red. The best. He exhaled.

  The front-door buzzer sounded. Dorian shook his head to clear it.

  “Yeah?”

  The buzzer went off again.

  “All right, all right.” Whoever it was hadn’t bothered to ring from downstairs. That was the trouble with this damn building. No doorman and the tenants were forever leaving the front door open or buzzing in people without asking who they were.

  Buzzzzzz.

  “Coming, goddamn it.” He stood up. Woozy. He giggled. He planted his feet, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, then started toward the door. At the door he took a few deep breaths, then looked through the peephole. Holy shit.

  He opened the door.

  Michi walked past him.

  Grinning lasciviously, Dorian closed the door and flopped back against it. “Hey, Michelle. Well all right. When did you get back? Thought you was supposed to be gone ten days.” Christ was he horny.

  He started toward her, the joint pinched between a thumb and forefinger.

  Michi said, “Are you alone?”

  Dorian looked around. “I’d say so. Yeah, I would definitely say so.”

  Of course she wanted to party. Why else had she come. Dorian felt his hard-on. One for the road. Last time getting it on with Michelle. After tonight it would be just him and Romaine.

  He said, “Let’s go in the bedroom.”

  “Please turn out the lights.”

  “In the bedroom we can—”

  “The lights. Please turn them out.”

  He frowned. Sounded like she had some kind of attitude. Okay, if it made the bitch happy he’d turn out the lights.

  He saw Michi look toward the window facing the street. “Hey, momma, don’t worry ’bout the neighbors. Nothin’ out there but ‘Big John.’ Biggest goddamn John you ever saw.”

  He laughed at his own joke, switched off the light, then, as he turned to offer Michi a drink, he felt his jaw explode with pain.

  Michi had smashed him under the chin with her right elbow, snapping his head back and forcing him to bite down on his tongue hard enough to sever the tip. When Dorian’s hands came up to his mouth, Michi drove that same elbow deep into the pit of his stomach, knocking all the air out of him. And as his hands came down, the fingers of her left hand flicked out like a snake’s tongue, stabbing at his eyes, blinding him.

  He fought for air, tried to cry out and couldn’t.

  Michi attacked low, using her left foot to sweep Dorian at the ankles, taking both feet out from under him and dropping him heavily to the floor. He landed with a grunt, and before he could make another sound Michi shoved the sharp heel of her boot into his throat.

  Dorian lay gagging on the floor, hands on his throat, his large body rolling from side to side. Michi turned from him and walked to the window. She peeked through the curtains down at the street below. Ten stories. Hai. She parted the curtains, unlocked the window and opened it. Cold air hit her face, tearing her eyes.

  She walked back to Dorian, placed a gloved hand under each armpit and dragged him across the floor, past the flickering picture on the television set. Lifting his dead weight to the windo
w was not easy, but she managed. Now he was half in, half out of the window and directly over a square-shaped, old-fashioned marquee leading to the building’s entrance.

  Michi bowed her head to the memory of her family, then took off the dark brown cap that hid her hair and the hachimaki she wore around her forehead and temples. Wrapping her arms around Dorian’s thighs she pushed him out of the window, then leaned to the right where she could not be seen.

  She left the window open.

  Picking up her cap she walked across the room and looked out through the peephole to make sure the hallway was empty. Seconds later she was out of the apartment and walking down ten flights of stairs, fully expecting to find a crowd when she reached the ground floor. Instead the street was almost deserted. A bewildered Michi, scarf and dark glasses hiding her face, hesitated, then looked up. Dorian had landed on the marquee and no one had noticed.

  Across from Michi the great doors of the cathedral swung open, sending light and sounds of medieval Christmas carols into the street. Throngs of people began to file out into the night. Michi hurried away from them.

  Eight hours later Michi was awakened by an Air France stewardess. The flight was ahead of schedule. Because of strong tailwinds the plane would be landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport a half hour early. Michi, hungry and still tired, stretched and looked around the almost empty plane.

  She found her boots, put them on, yawned. Through the early morning fog below she could see patches of green fields and scattered houses. The pilot came on the intercom to say that Paris was in the grip of a winter freeze. Michi smiled. Perfect.

  The plane dropped lower, popping her ears. She worked her jaw until she could hear again. Her ears cleared in time to hear the screech as the wheels touched down, skidding slightly on the runway, and then the plane was on the ground. Michi’s heart beat faster. The most dangerous part of her plan lay ahead.

  The plane came to a halt and she was out of her seat instantly, in the aisle reaching for the overhead luggage rack and her shoulder bag. A stewardess politely but firmly requested that Michi sit down until the engines were off and the plane had come to a complete stop. Michi smiled “I am very sorry. Yes, you are right.” She had been too anxious. She must not be that careless again.

  There was no delay at customs; she had nothing to declare and was waved through without an examination of her shoulder bag, her only luggage. There had been only a cursory examination of her false passport, the one listing her as an American. After making one telephone call she found a cab.

  And on the way into Paris she reminded herself that she had only two more men to kill and then she would be free to be happy with Manny for the rest of her life.

  She woke up when the taxi entered Place de la Concorde. The sight of the magnificent square excited her. Just before reaching the rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré the driver slowed down. Michi took a ski mask from her lap and pulled it over her face

  “Froid,” she said. Cold.

  She wasn’t the first woman the driver had seen wearing a ski mask in this weather.

  The driver turned onto rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, the street of the most elegant shops in Paris. Michi’s destination was the Yves St. Laurent boutique.

  But before her driver could get there, a second cab coming from the opposite direction reached the boutique first. Michi’s driver hugged the curb of the narrow street and waited, his motor idling.

  From the second cab a woman in a white fur coat boots and a floppy black hat her face covered by dark glasses and a black scarf, stepped out and entered the St. Laurent boutique. Michi paid her driver, and as she walked toward the boutique she saw the Renault. It slowed down behind the second cab and a man in a dark green anorak and square-shaped tinted eyeglasses stepped out stopped long enough to touch the hearing aid in his left ear, then crossed the street. He entered an empty cafe where chairs were piled on tables and an Algerian mopped the floor.

  Pulling a copy of Paris-Match from his pocket the man in the anorak took a chair from one table, sat down and ordered cappuccino. He began to read.

  Fifteen minutes later a woman wearing Michi’s cloth coat cap and ski mask left the boutique and entered a taxi that had just dropped off another customer. Michi, hidden from view, watched the cab pull away. Her heart was in her throat. But no one followed, not the man in the anorak, not the Renault. She bowed her head in gratitude to the gods. She had been successful.

  Michi turned from the door and walked back into the shop, where she purchased skirts and a new pair of sunglasses. When she stepped onto the street she was once more wearing her white fur, floppy hat, dark glasses. The scarf was around her neck, not her face. No need to hide now.

  She walked along the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, stopping to buy perfume and a sweater. An hour later she hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the Hotel Richelieu just off the Étoile at the head of the Champs Élysées. Here, in a suite with a balcony overlooking a courtyard, Michi soaked herself in a bath, then checked the room for signs of entry. She found none. After making several business calls, she left a wake-up call for three in the afternoon, then lay down to sleep.

  At 4:15 that afternoon she was in front of the hotel being ushered into a taxi by the hotel doorman. When her cab pulled away from the hotel, the Renault, with a man in the anorak at the wheel, fell into line, taking care to keep two cars between himself and the cab.

  26

  THE FBI AGENT WALKED to the door of the bedroom, pushed it open with his foot and looked inside. He shook his head in mild disgust at the mess, then turned away and walked back to the front window to stand beside Decker. Together the two looked down at Dorian Raymond’s corpse, now lying on top of the apartment house marquee ten stories below. Several men standing around the corpse stepped aside to allow stretcher bearers to move away the body. Decker watched flashbulbs go off as last photographs were taken of the dead man.

  Decker turned to the FBI agent, who was also a member of LeClair’s task force. “What do you have?”

  The agent pursed his lips and shook his head. “Zilch. No sign of forced entry. No indication of a struggle. Window wasn’t broken. The fingerprints we’re getting say he was the only one near that window. Neighbors didn’t hear a thing, but then again nobody ever does. Tenants in two apartments were out at the Christmas pageant across the street. Other tenants on the floor went to bed at 8:30 and slept like a baby all night.”

  Decker said, “LeClair doesn’t like it.”

  “LeClair doesn’t like anything.”

  “Says it’s one hell of a coincidence, Dorian going out the window like that.”

  The FBI agent turned around to watch someone dust the television set for prints. “We found empty liquor bottles and an opened fifth of vodka. Found a joint on the floor, some grass in the john, Quaaludes in the bedroom and a vial of cocaine in a suitcase on the bed. Maybe he got stoned and thought he was Superman.”

  “Doesn’t the suitcase tell you something else? His wife says he was packing to move back in with her. Why kill himself now?”

  “So he changed his mind. I hear tell he has got himself a foxy old lady.” Decker looked at him to decide whether the agent was getting personal, then decided he wasn’t and let the remark pass.

  Upon hearing of Dorian’s death, LeClair had ordered Decker and two more task force members to hustle over to the apartment and nose around. But a local West Side precinct was handling the investigation, so Decker and the task force guys were mere observers.

  No one was ready with a quick opinion on Dorian’s apparent suicide. It could be death by his own hand or it could be death with a little help from his friends. The final verdict would have to wait until the investigation was completed. Decker wondered if Molise’s people hadn’t been the ones. Or had Dorian really just gotten high and accidentally fallen out?

  Decker walked aimlessly around the apartment. It was crowded. Cops, forensics, representatives from the coroner’s office, the mayor’s office, the police commissi
oner’s office. The reporters were restricted to the hallway and downstairs in the lobby.

  Suddenly the apartment door was opened and Decker saw them. Hand-held cameras, harsh lights carried by jeaned assistants, all decked out with clipboards, microphones and tape recorders. Decker felt the usual surge of disgust. Onlookers at the orgy. Ready to shape the truth to whatever half-assed theory would sell papers.

  What the hell was he doing here? He was here because LeClair was furious that there was no way to work out a deal with Dorian Raymond. And where did this leave Romaine? Decker had to try and see her today. He owed her that much. He wondered if it were true that Dorian had been planning to move back in with her.

  He strolled into the empty bedroom. The fingerprint boys, official police photographers and investigating detectives were through for the moment. Decker had the room to himself. As he glanced around the room, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something sad about the way Dorian had lived. “The Almost Man,” he had called himself. It had been that way at the end, too. He had almost gotten back with his wife, almost made a deal with LeClair to stay out of prison, almost lived to see his birthday a week away.

  Decker, hands in his overcoat pocket, sat down on the bed. Either suicide or death by the Molise family. No matter what the reason it was never smart for the mob to kill a cop. It always brought down heat. Cops and professional criminals usually got along well with each other, both understanding the importance of sticking to the rules.

  Decker was about to stand up when an object on the floor under an end table caught his eye. Someone had probably unknowingly knocked it down. Decker reached for it. And his heart almost stopped. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone, then looked at the object in his hand. It was a tiny reindeer, a beautiful example of origami wildlife.

  He put it in his pocket, then stood up. He felt sick, warm, sweaty. He needed air. He hurried from the bedroom, crossed the living room, then opened the door and plunged into the crowd of reporters, shoving them aside until he reached the stairs. Yanking open the fire-exit door, he dashed through and stopped at the head of the stairs, both hands squeezing the iron railing.