Demons

by Unknown Author

  Men would certainly kill for a sword, if not a thousand other reasons. Anything could become an obsession, even collecting. Especially collecting. Sara recalled one case in which one suburban hausfrau had stabbed another to death in a dispute over a Beanie Baby. Poopsie the Bear, in Jets liveiy. Her own father, Vincent Pezzini, collected jurisdiction patches that he mounted on red velvet and hung on the rec room wall.

  That both Hecht and Bratten were prominent members of the community with no criminal records meant nothing. But Sara couldn’t feature either one sneaking around in a ninja costume. Bratten, on the other hand, had demonstrable skills with the sword and was easily capable of beheading someone. Hecht she didn’t know-but she intended to find out. In any case, she was convinced that as outlandish as the crimes were, they had natural, if not reasonable, explanations. There were rich collectors all over the world who would pay seven figures for a sword, and only look at it themselves.

  She had to consider Sharpe’s suggestion that the sword thefts and ritual beheading were just covers for the murder of Scott Chalmers. Or Bachman. But Chalmers struck her as a far more likely candidate for murder, with all those bitter ex-wives and business rivals.

  As the water began to cool, she pulled the plug with her toe, reluctantly levered herself out, drying off in a hotel-sized white towel. Shmendrick stuck his nose in the bathroom, licked her leg and split. She put on panties, fleece-lined workout pants and a sweatshirt, and headed for the kitchenette where she uncorked the Mer-lot and popped the fettuccine in the microwave. The sounds of traffic from St. Marks Place washed against her walls like surf.

  She turned 011 the little TV without sound in the kitchen and flipped through her mail. Two magazines: American Rifleman and Real Simple. Utility bills, three credit card offers, and a plain white envelope with her name written in block letters by an unsteady hand. It looked like the lettering on the anthrax letters to Tom Daschle and Pat Leahy.

  Sara went cold. For an instant, she was seized with an irrational desire to pop the envelope in the microwave and nuke it. Then she remembered the Witchblade. It lay lightly on her wrist, something a girl would wear to a garden party. Dormant, inert, unconcerned. She trusted the Witchblade to protect her, and if it sensed no danger, she was in none. There was no scientific explanation. It had nothing to do with science. This was beyond science, in a world as complex and mysterious as the workings of a computer to an ant.

  The microwave dinged. Sara jumped. Shmendrick jumped, too, onto the counter. Sara let out a whoosh of air and collapsed back onto the plastic chair. “Okay, let’s everybody settle down.”

  Holding the envelope in her left hand, she opened it with a steak knife, then shook it out on top of her copy of Real Simple. A single small sheet of paper fell out, with a crude drawing of a lady cop, like something a bored kid would draw in math, with exaggerated boobs and a Gestapo hat and a badge, surrounded and attacked by three savage ... wolves? There was a totemic quality to the drawing, the wolves widely spaced, forming a triangle. Sara could easily imagine coming across the drawing on the wall of a cave in the Southwest.

  Sara had an enemy. Someone who knew where she lived. But what did it mean? Was the drawing a warning? And if so, what was it supposed to accomplish, other than putting Sara on her guard? She checked the postmark. Brooklyn Post Office 10029, within walking distance.

  The microwave beeped again, a dull but reliable servant. Sara fetched her fettucini, pried off the lid, and picked at it with a pair of chopsticks. Adrian Hecht spoke earnestly, silently from the tiny TV in front of an architect’s rendering of his project. The phone rang.

  Damn, she thought. She was certain she’d turned the ringer off. She automatically answered. “Pezzini.”

  “Sara? It is Raj.”

  She was suddenly glad she answered. “What did you find?”

  “Sharpe’s a former Navy SEAL.”

  “What?!”

  “Most assuredly. It was not easy for me to discover this, as his military records were sealed under executive order. One can only surmise he was involved in highly classified missions.”

  “How’d you find this out, Raj?”

  “I rely upon this young chap I busted last year for hacking. He is most adept at these things. He hacked into the Defense Department computers. Again, I am assuring you not to worry, as he leaves no trace. Moreover, I am telling you that Sharpe was stationed in Yokohama for ten months, June 1994 to March 1995. While there, he participated in joint anti-terrorist operations with JDM Special Forces. The exact nature of these operations was beyond my capabilities, I’m afraid.”

  “Outstanding, Raj. Thank you. I owe you dinner at the cheap East Indian restaurant of your choice.”

  “You are owing me nothing, but if you are to treat me to dinner, I get to choose.”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “But I do not wish to dine Indian. I wish to dine French.”

  “Raj, you got it. French, Indian, whatever.”

  Sara hardly tasted the rest of her dinner. She was too buzzed. She didn’t like the idea that a cop might be committing murder, but she couldn’t ignore the evidence, even if it was circumstantial. Like many another doctoral candidate, Sara had suffered through an interminable semester on statistics which, if nothing else, taught her not to believe in coincidence. Sara’s thesis, like her study of Latin, was on hold.

  If Sharpe were the samurai killer, what was his goal? Collecting rare swords for a profit? Absurd. A Manhattan cop had plenty of opportunities to make easy money without resorting to ritual slaughter. Suppose it was a ritual? Suppose the killings had nothing to do with greed, but with some arcane philosophy as yet unrevealed? Motive remained a riddle wrapped in a mysteiy, inside an enigma.

  Sharpe had sent off no warning bells. Quite the contrary. She found herself drawn to the tall, charismatic cop. It could be a devastating disguise. She hoped not.

  One thing was certain: Her curiosity about the new cop was far from satisfied.

  But it was not Sharpe’s image that remained in her head as she finally faded away. It was David Kopkind’s, accompanied by a low-voltage thrill of anticipation.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Wednesday rose bleak and wet. Sara left her bike, dressed in her gray London Fog and a wide-brimmed hat, and took the bus across the bridge to Manhattan, where she caught a subway to the Village. Police tape still sealed Bachman’s front door, but the techs had done their work. The hardwood floor had been scrubbed clean, leaving a broad stain, slightly lighter than the rest of the floor. Techs had gone through the entire shop, performing inventory as well as looking for clues.

  Sara bypassed the shop and pushed the button for the phone booth-sized elevator. She wanted a look at the private Bachman. She took the elevator to the fourth and top floor, and emerged in a cozy study/office, with a bathroom on the left and a bedroom on the right—obviously where the private Bachman spent most of his time. An English Renaissance desk looked out on Worth Street. The elegant oak desk had brass handles and a banker green blotter on top, a set of Waterford writing pens, and a journal.

  She checked the bedroom. The bed had been neatly made. Four amber pill bottles sat next to the bed alongside a decanter of red wine, a glass of water, and a copy of John Adams, the new biography. Bachman’s copious closet contained a selection of conservative, tailored, three-piece suits, dozens of long-sleeved white and pastel shirts, most with linked cuffs, and two dozen shining shoes arrayed in battle formation.

  Returning to the den, Sara sat down and began to read. In precise script, the antiquarian listed his diet. On the morning of May 29th, he’d consumed a half pint of two percent skim milk, an onion bagel, and a shmear of low-fat cream cheese. Sara was grateful for the banker’s diligence, but found little of interest. She skipped ahead.

  Monday, June 7. Bob Hotchkiss phoned, anxious to unload the Muramasa his father brought back from Iwo Jima. I am reluctant. These things have a reputation, after all. And it has
no papers.

  “Excuse me,” a querulous female voice rang out.

  Sara turned. A woman had stepped out of the elevator freighted with two rope-handled shopping bags jammed with food. She was in her mid-thirties, stocky, dowdy, her short brunette hair pasted to her forehead by the damp, her designer glasses misting. She took them off and stared at Sara with small gray eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Sara produced her badge. “Sara Pezzini, Eleventh Precinct. I’m investigating Mr. Bachman’s death. And you are?”

  The woman stepped forward, extending her hand. “Leesha Bachman. Thaddeus was my father. What’s going on? The police won’t tell me anything. The coroner said my father had his head cut off! Is that true?”

  Sara mentally kicked herself. “Miss Bachman, I apologize for not contacting you sooner...”

  Leesha held up her hands. “Oh, please. Fm glad you’re talcing the case seriously.”

  “Yes. Where do you live?”

  “Newton, MA. I’m a schoolteacher. I had to hear my father had been killed on the evening news.”

  Sara hung her head in shame. “I’m so sorry. That should have been my first priority. I’m working the case alone...”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what you’ve found.”

  Sara briefly recounted developments and her theory. “When you arrived, I was looking at your father’s journal. He’d just recorded the arrival of a Muramasa. I believe that’s what the killer was after.”

  “But why did he have to kill my father? Why not just sneak in when there’s nobody here and take it?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t get in by himself. Maybe he had to have your father admit him. Maybe it was someone who knew your father, and had made an appointment.”

  “I’m not much help, I’m afraid. I don’t know about his business.”

  “Did he indicate anything peculiar to you recently? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “I’m sorry. There was nothing unusual.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  Now it was the schoolteacher’s turn to hang her head in shame. “About a year ago. I came down and he took me to a fancy society party at this place on Fifth Avenue. Very swank. One of his clients, I gather. He was trying to impress me. He was always trying to impress me, I don’t know why. I loved my father. We just weren’t very close, that’s all.”

  “Do you remember who hosted the party?”

  “It was Scott Chalmers, I believe.”

  This was new. Chalmers had not been in Bachman’s Rolodex, but here at last was a connection tying them together. Both murdered men knew each other, connected by their interest in Japanese swords. There had to be a pattern, if only Sara could see it.

  “Do you know' the nature of your father’s relationship with Chalmers?”

  “Dad sold him some paintings, silk screens, wood prints, I believe.”

  “No swords?”

  “None that I know of.”

  Sara recalled that Chalmers had bought his sword in an online auction. The boys at Lab had had Chalmers’ computer for three days now. They ought to be able to provide her with copies of his e-mails, including the heated exchanges with the collector whom Chalmers had outbid.

  “Did your father ever buy anything online?”

  Leesha Bachman shook her head. “He didn’t even own a computer. I tried to get him interested, but he was too set in his ways.”

  Sara gave the woman her card and asked her to phone, should she discover anything of interest. As Sara boarded the elevator, she looked back. Leesha Bachman was seated alone at her father’s desk going forlornly through the drawers.

  When Sara returned to her desk, there were three messages from Brandon Stem with the Mayor’s office, one from the computer lab, and someone had glued a rubber

  King Kong to her desk, with the word balloon, “HELP! DON’T LET HER GET ME!” Sara twisted it off and dumped it in the bottom drawer with the other monsters, then dialed Stem’s number.

  “Thanks for returning my call, Detective. I’ll get right to the point. Scott Chalmers was a close friend of the mayor. We’d like to be personally appraised of your investigation as you proceed.”

  Great, Sara thought. Just what I need-the mayor’s office turning this murder investigation into a political football. “No problem, Mr. Stem,” she replied.

  “Very good. And, ah, the mayor would like to meet you. He’s long been a supporter of the police departments, and affirmative action in particular...”

  Blah blah blah, Sara thought. “That’s good to hear.” “Would it be possible for you to attend a small gathering at Gracie Mansion on the fourteenth, to commemorate the unveiling of a painting honoring the mayor’s predecessor?”

  “Huh?” Excuse me. For a minute there I thought you were inviting me to meet the mayor.

  “His Honor would like you to attend a cocktail party the evening of the fourteenth, to unveil a painting of Mayor Guiliani. You may bring a date if you like, but please R.S.V.P. by Friday. Will you do that?”

  “I certainly will.”

  Sara hung up, all abuzz. Suddenly she was in demand on the party circuit. After years of her social life consisting of Ally McBeal episodes and Cooking Lite video seminars, she had been cast into a fandango of social activity, robbing shoulders with movers, shakers, and union breakers. It was exciting, and fun, and the thing that made it exciting and fun was she didn’t have to go alone. She had a date. Someone she actually looked forward to seeing.

  She felt like singing, “Sara’s got a boyfriend! Sara’s got a boyfriend!” And she hadn’t even kissed him yet. Not really. Pecks on the cheek didn’t count.

  She phoned the computer center and learned that they had already sent over transcriptions of all Chalmers’ emails for the past year. According to Mrs. Chalmers, he’d only purchased the sword five months ago. When Sara checked her mailbox, she found a three-inch-thick manila envelope with the e-mails. She returned to her desk and began to read. At least two dozen Nigerians had contacted Chalmers with schemes to smuggle twenty-three million dollars out of the country, if only Chalmers would give them his bank account numbers.

  The sword first appeared in October of the previous year, as a bulletin to a user list from swordauction.com, specializing in Oriental swords. Chinese swords had their own history and tradition, but swordauction did the bulk of their business in rare Japanese swords. Sara understood that serious collectors seldom bought sight unseen. The sword had to be examined by experts to determine its authenticity. Unless the sword was so well known it came with a pedigree. Swords offered on eBay and other online auction houses were mostly junk. There were exceptions. .

  The swordauction bulletin said: For bid—authentic Muramasa WAKIZASHi, “ISHl NO HANA, STONE FLOWER,” 1506, COMMISSIONED BY ISE SHINKUR0, AUTHENTICATED BY THE HON’AMI

  Family. To view the sword in detail, go to XXXXXXXX. Minimum bid: $85,000. Sara went online and looked up the sword. It was beautiful, approximately two feet long, photographed in such a way that the light played on its flowing, wave-like accent line. There were lints to numerous close-ups, details of the handle, the menuki, or hilt ornaments-in this case, a pair of gold tigers, as fine as anything she’d seen in a jewelry store or museum.

  She instructed the computer to print out pictures of the swords. Minutes later, the printer, which Homicide shared with all the other departments, spewed out five sheets of indistinguishable gray sludge.

  Think, Pezzini, think, she berated herself. Who had a high-quality computer and printer? Nelda immediately came to mind, but then the pictures would be plastered all over the New York Post. Brooklyn Yamaha was the answer. Like most serious bikers, she maintained close relations with her bike shop. Brooklyn Yamaha had state-of-the-art equipment. She phoned the shop and asked for the service manager, Clancy Imada.

  “Clancy, I need a favor.”

  “For you, anything.”

  “I’m going to send you a file, and I want you to p
rint it out for me, using whatever high-quality photographic program you have, okay? Just set it aside-don’t show it to anyone. Can you do this?”

  “Yeah, sure. I can do that. You gonna tell me what it’s about?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Fine. Be that way.”

  Next she phoned Nelda at the Post.

  “Garrulitis,” the gravel-voiced columnist answered. “Nelda, it’s Pezzini. I need more dirt.”

  “What kinda dirt?”

  “Scott Chalmers. I interviewed wife number three. What can you tell me about wives one and two?”

  Nelda lowered her voice to a conspiratorial rumble. “I try and light a cigarette in here, they unload with the firehose. This about the samurai murders?”

  “Could be.”

  “Can you meet me?”

  Sara agreed to meet her at four p.m. at the Java Jungle in the Pergament Building. She returned to the e-mails. The first threat appeared on December 7:

  I know who you are. I know where you live. Stop bidding on the sword. Stone Flower is mine. Kagemusha.

  How nice, she thought. He even signed his name. “Shadow Warrior.” The e-mail was from a Hotmail account—anybody could start a Hotmail account in any name, and send it from anywhere. No help there.

  The second threat appeared in mid-January, after Chalmers had purchased the sword.

  I know who you are. I know where you live. I warned you. Kagemusha.

  Sara accessed the database of daily complaints for that month, searching for something from Chalmers. Surely a good citizen like Chalmers, a friend of the mayor, would do the right thing and notify the police. Nada. If Chalmers read the threats, there was no evidence that he took them seriously. Perhaps he’d notified building security, or his internet provider.

  Sara studied the e-mails for another hour, but there were no further revelations. At three-thirty, she packed up, grabbed her umbrella, and headed uptown toward the Pergament Building.