by Marc Olden
LeClair said, “This little vacation, where are you taking yourself off to?”
“No place special.” Let word on the trip to Paris come out later. Decker wasn’t going to advertise. He braced himself for LeClair’s refusal. It never came.
“Bon voyage, my man. Touch base with you when you return.”
Decker was shocked. He was almost shocked enough to thank LeClair. Instead he lifted a hand in farewell and left the office.
Now Decker stepped from the arcades on rue de Rivoli and flagged down a taxi. He was going back to the hotel. Back to Michi. Giri. Can’t live without it. Sooner or later everybody’s got to stand up and be counted. He remembered her face, her disappointment when he had not committed himself to her.
He felt sick with guilt, but he’d see her and make it right. She would be pleased when he told her he would stand by her no matter what. Time for Decker to be true to the only woman he had ever loved.
In the cab he told the driver, “Hotel Richelieu,” and added, “hit it. I’m in a hurry.”
The driver stared at Decker uncomprehendingly, then turned back to the wheel.
Apparently he’d understood some of what Decker had said. The car took off, jumping a red light and rushing Manny back to Michi.
At the Hotel Richelieu, Robbie Ambrose stepped from an elevator with a folded newspaper under one arm and an attaché case in his other hand. The case contained two manila envelopes for Dieter, along with Robbie’s passport and a copy of the rules for the January suibin tournament. The suibin meant point fighting again, but there would probably be some contact and Robbie wanted to know just how far he could go without getting disqualified. Pull contact was a lot more popular in America and the Far East than anywhere else.
Still, winning the suibin trophy would mark Robbie as the best fighting man in the world and that’s what he wanted. To win.
Tonight he wore an expensive leather jacket belted at the waist and a cap and gloves made of gray suede. He wore dark glasses and there was cotton in his cheeks to alter the shape of his face. Not that anyone even noticed him. A maid clutching a pillow and blanket knocked on a hotel-room door, ignoring Robbie as he walked behind her. When the door opened and the maid stepped inside, Robbie sprinted to a fire exit, through the door and down two flights to the floor where Michelle Asama had booked a suite. Dieter’s information had better be good. If this was the wrong room it was going to be Dieter’s ass.
On Michelle Asama’s floor he dropped the newspaper, cracked the fire-exit door and watched two Vietnamese waiters walk past him toward the elevator. Robbie closed the door and leaned his back against it. He brought the heel of one gloved hand to his lips, peeled back the glove, letting the amphetamines drop into his mouth. He swallowed. And began to feel one with the god of war.
Turning, he cracked the door once more. His breathing had slowed down and his senses were exquisitely sharp. Strength filled his every muscle and power poured into his every nerve. After six years he was about to catch himself a ghost. A ghost who endangered his friend Sparrowhawk.
Music and the sound of a woman laughing filtered out of the room directly opposite the fire exit. Robbie closed his eyes, hearing the sensual laugh again and shivering as though he had just been kissed on the back of his neck. The drugs were taking effect.
Time to take care of business. Go for it.
He eased into the hall, looked both ways, saw no one. Soundlessly he approached Michelle Asama’s door. Give no warning. Wait for the opening and seize it.
At the door he brought the attaché case up to cover his face. Hachiman Dai-Bosatsu. Great Bodhisatva, god of war. Sword forged by the four elements—metal and water, wood and fire.
Robbie knocked on the door. Gently.
He was ready to lie, to say that he was delivering flowers or something. But Robbie was surprised. He didn’t have to lie at all.
He heard footsteps running toward the door. His instincts, sharpened by drugs and the power of Hachiman, said the door would open without question.
It did. It opened wide.
A tearful, smiling Michi said, “Manny—”
Robbie tossed the attaché case in her face and kicked her in the stomach, driving her back into the room. Inside, he slammed the door behind him and charged, giving Michi no chance to recover. Michi, doubled over and in pain and fighting for air, fought back bravely. When Robbie was almost on her she kicked low, aiming for his ankles with her clogs.
He was quick. He stopped, then sidestepped in the same motion. Her kick scraped his ankle, removing a little skin. The pain was slight, no more. It never even slowed him down.
Gasping for breath and dizzy, Michi held her stomach and backed away from her attacker. A bright-eyed and intense Robbie stalked her. With his right hand he faked a backfist to her head and when her right hand came up in defense, her right rib cage was exposed. Robbie aimed a roundhouse kick there with his left leg. A weakened Michi acted instinctively. Her right hand dropped down to block the kick, but she had little strength and wearing clogs left her off balance. Her block was feeble and ineffective.
Robbie’s kick, strong, vicious, went through her block and his foot smashed into her rib cage, knocking Michi to the floor and knotting her face with pain. He was a split second away from kicking her in the face when he remembered. Her face had to be unmarked. Instead, Robbie kicked the fallen woman in the stomach twice, folding her in half. She made a tiny sound and her mouth was as wide as it could get, but the fight was gone from her. She clawed at the rug with the nails of one hand and tried to move. She was sweating, barely conscious and no more danger to him now.
He picked Michi up in his arms, smelled her perfume and felt her warmth against his chest and was happy. He carried her to the bedroom, laid her down on the bed as gently as possible, then returned to the living room. There was scattered food over half the room and dark spots on the rug that were melted ice and spilled champagne. Robbie had hoped to find a letter opener. Instead he found something better. A steak knife.
Back in the bedroom he lay the steak knife on an end table, then carefully opened Michi’s kimono and looked at her naked body. Beautiful. This one was special. She had gotten away from him six years ago, driven away into the night. She moaned, opened her eyes and with all of the strength she had left tried to lift her head from the pillow. Robbie had rarely been as sexually aroused as he was now.
Michi knew she was going to die. But she willed herself to fight, not to fall back and close her eyes. Not yet.
Robbie was in love with her. He loved them all, each of the women he had held in his arms and then killed. But this one was special, she had been a fighter, someone worthy of respect and of all the love he had. Robbie bent down to kiss her.
Michi fought to lift her shoulders from the bed. The pain filled her insides; it expanded, retracted, then expanded once more, all but blinding her in its intensity. She moved closer to her murderer, aware of what he wanted to do. When his lips touched hers Michi returned his kiss, first licking his lips with her tongue, tantalizing him, drawing him near. Robbie relaxed, knowing now that she loved him as much as he loved her. Her tongue gently probed the inside of his mouth, darting between his teeth and lips and he gladly gave himself, opening his mouth, seeking her tongue, her soul.
The pain so shocked Robbie, who was leaning over Michi’s body, that he kicked out with one leg and knocked the end table to the floor. Bitch. Fucking bitch.
Michi had bitten down hard, sending her teeth deep into the flesh of the bottom lip and tongue. With the nails of her right hand she raked the left side of his face, leaving blood-red streaks from cheekbone to jaw. She clung to his flesh with her waning energy. She tasted his blood in her mouth. And rejoiced.
Robbie punched her in the breast twice, snapping, whiplike blows and Michi fell back on the bed. There was blood on her mouth, jaw, teeth and her chest rapidly rose and fell with her tortured attempts to breathe. Her eyes were on fire with hatred for him. Of all the women he had killed, this
one was the first to show no fear.
Robbie quickly reached down, pulled a handful of tissues from a box on the floor and pressed them to his bleeding mouth. He looked down at his jacket. There was blood there, too, but it was leather and could be wiped off in seconds. Using his free hand he took more tissues from the box and used them to wipe his blood from Michi’s mouth. She tried to push him away, but was too weak.
He forced his fingers between her lips and as best he could wiped his blood from her teeth. When she tried to bite him Robbie simply pinched her nostrils shut, cutting off what little air she was able to take in. She opened her mouth wider to breathe and then he was able to wipe her teeth.
After placing the tissues used on Michi in his jacket pocket, Robbie, a wad of tissues still pressed against his mouth, took more tissues from the box and pressed them against the scratches on his face. They stung. If she had scarred his face she deserved to die.
He walked into the living room, shifted the tissues from his cheek to the sodden lump in front of his mouth and picked up the champagne bottle from the floor. He held it up to the light. A third of the bottle left Robbie returned to the bedroom, where he leaned over Michi and poured the rest of the champagne into her mouth. That should wash out the rest of his blood.
He laid the bottle down on the floor, and then he stood up and unbuckled his pants. He hadn’t planned to fuck her. But she had bitten him, scratched him. Nothing on earth could prevent him from taking her now.
It was quick. He could hardly hold himself back. It was over in seconds and during that time he had kept the tissues pressed against his pained mouth. Once, he had almost dropped them. The pleasure he had found in her had been so keen the tissues had almost slipped from his hand.
Finished, he rose, zipped up his pants and then, because he could only use one hand, awkwardly put the kimono back on the semiconscious Michi. Oh, he did love this one.
Michi opened her eyes. “Manny … Manny.”
Robbie shook his head. Not Manny. He took Michi’s right hand, wrapped it around the steak knife, then placed the cutting edge against the left side of her throat Hachiman. Robbie cut the artery. Michi stiffened. Blood spurted onto her kimono and the white bedspread beneath her. Robbie dropped her hand. Now her prints were on the knife.
The rest was easy. Robbie placed the blade against the right side of her throat and cut deeply. Michi whimpered, tried to rise. Robbie placed a gloved fist on her chest and kept her in place on her back. For a minute or so he watched the blood flow from both sides of her neck. Then he dropped the knife beside the bed and changed tissues before walking to Michi’s closet. Here he removed a belt from her closet, returned to the bed and looped the belt around her ankles.
When Robbie had smoothed out her kimono he looked down at the dying woman, relieved. Nothing to be afraid of anymore.
He walked from the bedroom, careful to avoid stepping on plates and glasses. It never occurred to him to question why they were on the floor. Such thoughts were a deviation from his purpose, a lessening of his concentration. At the front door he cracked it, saw an empty hallway, then stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
He heard the elevator. Danger. Robbie ran toward the fire exit, pulled open the door and leaped into the dark stairwell. He closed the door behind him, but not all the way. Peeking through the crack he saw, well, what do you know. Decker.
The detective walked by Robbie, stopped in front of Michelle Asama’s door and knocked. Robbie grinned. His mouth hurt, but he had to grin because everything had worked out so well and again he had come out on top against Decker. Turning, Robbie tiptoed gracefully down the stairs, tissues pressed against his mouth and feeling damn good.
30
AT KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT Ellen Spiceland showed her badge and ID to a uniformed security guard, who signaled with a nod of his head that she could pass him and continue on to the customs clearance area. She hated airports.
The only reason she was out here this afternoon, when she should be Christmas shopping, was to warn Manny.
On the passenger side of the customs area Ellen showed her badge and ID again, this time to a uniformed black woman.
There were three lines of passengers waiting to be examined by customs inspectors. Ellen walked toward them. Shit, her feet hurt.
She thought about how much Manny had suffered since his girl friend’s death ten days ago. Ellen stood on tiptoe, bobbed and weaved and saw him in the crowd. She waved. He didn’t notice her. She called his name and after the third time he looked up. The sight of him made Ellen cover her mouth in horror. Manny looked dreadful.
She went to the head of his line and waited. He had lost weight and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He seemed to be in a stupor. His luggage, a single suitcase, was examined and his customs declaration slip stamped. When he closed the suitcase she rushed to him. He put an arm around her shoulders.
Ellen leaned back to wipe tears from her eyes with a gloved forefinger. “Boy, do you look awful. Oh, Manny.” She hugged him again, then, taking his arm, she guided him out of the almost empty terminal and out onto the sidewalk. She buttoned his overcoat, adjusted his hat, then tenderly touched his unshaven cheek. “Didn’t they feed you in Japan?”
He tried to smile, then abandoned the effort. “They fed me. Took real good care of me.”
“Doesn’t look it.”
A red-capped dispatcher signaled a cab to stop in front of them. Ellen took Decker’s elbow, guided him into the cab and watched the driver put the suitcase into the trunk. As the cab pulled away from the terminal she took his hand and squeezed it.
“Don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Something I came out here to tell you, because I didn’t want you getting hit in the face with it at the precinct.”
He looked at her. And waited. Ellen fought back the tears. “LeClair’s dropped you from the task force.”
Decker grunted. He didn’t seem surprised.
Ellen said, “It gets worse. All the information we had on this kaishaku thing? LeClair ordered us to turn it over to him. List of tournaments, dates of murders, background on Robbie Ambrose. LeClair’s got it now.”
She steeled herself for Decker’s reaction. There was none. She waited a few seconds longer.
“Heard about it in Tokyo,” Decker said. “Guy named Shigeji Shina told me. He’s in Japanese military intelligence.”
“Friend of yours?” Ellen was impressed.
“Friend of Michi’s. Served with her father in World War Two. In Tokyo he kind of took me over. I stayed with him. He took me to the Shinto temple for the burial ceremony, explained the ritual to me, introduced me to people.”
“And he knew about LeClair, about what he had done to you?”
“Mr. Shina knows a lot of things. He’s a very smart man.”
There was something odd about Manny. On one hand he looked like hell with the lid off. On the other hand he seemed completely in control. It was very strange.
Ellen said, “You should take some time off. Rest. Eat. Get yourself together. You’ve got vacation time coming.”
“I’ll be taking some time off next month. I understand Michi’s death made the papers here.”
“Yes. The press called her Michelle Asama.” She hesitated before saying, “They claimed she might have committed suicide because she was grieving over Dorian Raymond.”
Decker looked out the window to his left. “Doesn’t matter what they say. Maybe it’s better this way. What they don’t know can’t hurt her. Did you check on Robbie Ambrose like I asked?”
“Did more than that. I just happened to mention to a couple of the guys that I needed help, that you needed a favor. I wanted to know about Robbie Ambrose. Whether or not he was out of the country last week, whether or not he had scratches on his face. The guys know LeClair’s a bastard and that he was probably fucking you over when he dropped you from the task force. They came through for us. And it wasn’t easy. They all put themselves on th
e line with this one because of what LeClair said.”
Decker looked at her.
Ellen said, “LeClair’s left word that you and me and everybody else are to stay away from Robbie Ambrose. From now on Mr. Ambrose belongs to Mr. Charles LeClair, to do with as he pleases.”
“Means LeClair’s working him or plans to. He’s going to hold the murders over Robbie’s head to get him to turn informant on MSC and Dent and that crowd.”
“It’s shitty, if you ask me. Letting a guy who’s killed thirty women walk around loose because he can help your career.”
“It’s been done before. You know that I can’t count the times I’ve looked away as a D.A. or a prosecutor has made deals with killers for information.”
Ellen shook her head. “Still, Robbie Ambrose is one man I’d like to see in his grave.”
Decker scratched the stubble on his chin. “You said the guys helped out.”
“Did they ever. And on their own time, knowing that LeClair would kill them if he ever found out. First we checked with Interpol and U.S. Customs. Robbie Ambrose went to Paris last week, supposedly as an MSC courier. He made a delivery to a private security agency there run by a man named Dieter Rainer, ex-Swiss army officer. Day after the delivery Mr. Ambrose returned to New York. Very next day he flew down to New Orleans for a karate match. Won, as usual. So far there’s been no record of a woman raped and murdered down there then, but we’re still checking.”
As the cab slowed down in front of a toll booth Ellen looked at Decker. For the first time since she had picked him up at the airport she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face. His jaw tightened and he began to take deep breaths. When he spoke his voice was harsh. “He didn’t have to kill anybody in New Orleans. He was covered for this fight before he arrived. Any marks on him?”
She smiled. “That was my department. When he flew back from New Orleans I was waiting for him at Kennedy. From a safe distance, of course. The man’s got marks, all right. Scratches on his left cheek and something wrong with his mouth, stitches in the lip or something. The stitches could have come from the fight, but the scratches didn’t. Those guys wear gloves.”
