It was here Sara found the safe. It was a full-size Sheffield, tucked into the closet, and it was locked. Sara scanned the office first. A desk, with a computer. How she would have loved to boot it up and try to get in. But that would have left a record, one a clever cop could easily discover.
Photo of a man taped to the shelf—stylin’ dude with California hair, tennis whites, grinning like a box of Wheaties. Carefully, using her gloved hand, Sara removed it and turned it over. To the Samurai, from Surfer Dude. No signature.
There was a leather address book on the desk. Sara went methodically through it. Most of the entrants were old, and lived in California. One was circled three times: Ralph Munster. Ralph at work, Justine and Associates, old-line Wall Street investments. Sharpe’s banker pal. She found his card lying on the desk and took it. She put the photo back.
She leafed through the stack of papers on the desk. Mostly police work, plus some correspondence with pals, none of it of much interest. Copies of The New Yorker and Law Enforcement Monthly. Burning with impatience, she forced herself to go methodically through the contents of the desk. There was nothing that would connect the tall cop to the samurai killings other than his Asian tastes. She even checked the titles on his bookshelf, pulling out each volume to look for hidden compartments.
Finally, she turned her attention to the safe. It was six feet tall and made of reinforced, carbonized steel, dark green with the Sheffield logo painted in old-fashioned gold leaf script on the front. Planting her feet at shoulder width, Sara willed herself to relax and extended her right hand. Her palm immediately began to tingle, as if she’d slapped it hard against a flat surface. Her hand flew to the dial of its own volition, abruptly encased in shiny metal. Whatever was in the safe, it beckoned to the Witchblade and vice versa. She turned the tumblers like a kid playing table hockey.
Click, click, click, the thing unlocked. She pulled the heavy door toward her on silent, well-oiled hinges. Her eyes settled first on the guns. The black nylon stock of the AR-15, the bulldog body of the Heckler Et Koch MP5A3, the pistol-stocked Ithaca pump-action twelve gauge. Either Sharpe was a serious collector or he was planning an insurrection. Sara knew a lot of cops were gun nuts, but Sharpe hadn’t seemed the type. For some reason, she felt a vague disappointment.
Next to the guns, held vertically in place by a series of cotton sashes, were six long narrow bundles wrapped in cotton rags. Sara knew what she would find even before she unwrapped the first bundle. A spasm of apprehension had settled in her neck, but her hand was alive with a mind of its own. She had to restrain it from unwrapping the bundle too fast.
She set the bundle flat on the floor of the office and unwrapped it carefully. And there it was. A long sword, a daito, housed in a black-lacquered wood scabbard, with mountings through two rings. There were four bundles in the safe, counting the one on the floor. A string of obscenities bubbled from her lips. Not Sharpe.
It was all circumstantial, unless she could match one of Sharpe’s blades to one of the missing swords, or somehow match striations produced by one of his blades to the neck wounds of the victims. Carefully, she grabbed the sword by the handle and the scabbard and drew it part way out. Even in the pale evening light, the blade gleamed and shimmered like a thing alive. Unfortunately, she knew from David that the blade’s creator had signed his name on the tang, beneath the wrappings. The sword’s peg seemed to be buried beneath the ancient silk handle wrapping, and she didn’t want to risk damaging the several hundred-year-old handle to take a look. She doubted her ability to render the Japanese characters accurately. The best she could do would be to make detailed notes of the blades’ appearances, and see if they matched descriptions of the stolen swords. She kicked herself for not bringing a camera.
Then what? How could she introduce evidence and get a search warrant? Sharpe was completely above suspicion. He was a cop. She was committing a felony by tossing his apartment. Working swiftly, she unwrapped each blade and made a series of detailed descriptions in her notepad, including sketches of the handles and the points. None were Stone Flower. She drew with her right hand, which again behaved as if it had a mind of its own. Her drawings were uncannily neat and accurate.
She knew points were all-important in determining a blade’s origin. She was extremely careful not to touch any part of the blade itself, and not to let the blade touch the ground. She pointed the tip of the blade toward the light and peered at it from the pommel, as David had taught her. She balanced the blades carefully on a book to lift them off the floor while she sketched. Finally, she returned all the blades to where they had been, in the proper order.
There was a safe within the safe, a recessed wall cabinet. She opened the door and found a Glock .45 inside with a barrel-mounted laser—typical macho toy—and a series of manila envelopes. She took out a manila envelope, opened the unsealed end, and shook out a series of eight by ten black and white glossies. A man clad in S8tM leather, studded dog collar, zippered mask, more belts and straps than a gladiator, chained spread-eagled to a bed. Sara felt a lurch, as if her plane had hit a vacuum, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. She looked at the rest. They were similar. Some were worse.
She told herself it could be crime evidence. She told herself some men had harmless fantasies. But she could not tell herself that the man chained and shackled in one of the photographs wasn’t Sharpe. And if that was him, someone else was taking the picture.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Xhursday promised to be one of those “hot town, summer in the city” days of which the Lovin’ Spoonful sang. Sara could feel it lying in bed at six-thirty in the morning. Her apartment was old, and the only air conditioning came from what she could cram in the window. Her own unit was currently in storage in the basement because it took up too much space when it wasn’t running. She’d have to haul it up and put it in. She’d have to do it before she left for work if she didn’t want to return to an oven.
Sighing, she got up, washed her face, put on some old jeans and a sweatshirt, her beat-up hiking shoes, grabbed a pair of canvas gloves and descended five flights to the basement, where she had a storage space among many others, protected by a Master padlock. The basement was dark and filthy. She got the lock open and wrestled the air conditioner close to the door, but no way would she be able to cart it up single-handed. It wasn’t the weight. She could handle the weight. It was just too awkward. She needed another set of hands. Where would she find one in this zoo? There was Matt, the janitor, but he was likely still sleeping it off, and he looked as if he’d keel over from a thrombo any day.
Frustrated, Sara ascended to ground level, forcing open the creaking service door at the back of the corridor and stalking out into the foyer in search of muscle. And there, parked by the curb in his ’79 Chevy, was Jorge. When she got to the car she saw that Jorge was sleeping, his seatback reclined, legs up on the dash, wearing Ray-bans and a raspberry beret. The windows were open. She reached in and shook his leg.
He came awake with a start. “Huh? Whassup?”
“Jorge. What are you doing here?”
He looked at her, took off the shades, rubbed his eyes with a fist, put the shades back on. He lay back for a minute until juice reached the sparkplugs. “Officer Pezzini. Jes’ doin’ what we discussed, lookin’ out for the folks.”
“You've been sleeping out here all night?”
He glanced at his fake Rolex. “Since about four-that’s when I called it quits. I figure the people know my ride, nobody’s gonna tiy anything with me out front.”
The only people who ever tried anything were Los Romeros, Sara thought. But she smiled. “You’re just the man I want to see. Help me carry my air conditioner up from the basement and I’ll buy you an Egg McMuffm.” “Sure, okay. Jes’ give me a minute to get my stuff together.”
“I’m in the basement.”
Sara returned to the basement, eyeing a box full of vinyl records that had belonged to her father. Might be wort
h something on eBay, she thought. Moments later, Jorge appeared at the end of the dusty corridor.
“Yo, mamacita! Where you at?”
“Down here.”
Together, they carried the air conditioner out of the storage locker. Jorge held it while Sara set the lock, insisted on carrying it solo to the freight elevator at the back of the building. She let him show off. It was too hot to argue. He mounted the thing in her bedroom window, accepted a cold Diet Pepsi.
“What’s that on your arm?” she asked.
Jorge looked down. “Which arm?”
“The right one.”
He stared at his biceps. “Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”
“What’s on your stomach?"
He peered at her, half-smiling through his bandito mustache. “You really want to see?”
“Sure. Don’t be bashful.”
Jorge peeled off his muscle shirt. He had the hard, lean body of a greyhound, ribs you could climb like a ladder, six-pack like rolled naugahyde. A heavy crucifix was tattooed on his abdomen, its base in his groin.
“The Lord's cross. I got a skull on my right arm.” He turned.
Sara made a little spinning motion with her finger. “Forget the skull. Are you a Christian?”
“I’m Catholic. Most us Boricua are Catholic. Aintchoo? 1 mean, you bein’ Italian and all.”
“Yeah, I am, although it’s been a long time since I’ve been to confession.”
“Me too, chiquita!”
“You’re a gangbanger.”
Jorge started to protest, but Sara held her hand up and
continued. “I’m a cop. I appreciate this turnaround you’ve pulled off, but I’m not sure what’s behind it. I don’t believe in miracles. Now anything you’ve done in the past, I don’t want to know, unless it becomes a police issue. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m suspicious. I’ve been a cop a while, and in my experience, hardened street criminals very seldom change direction. You know what I mean?” Jorge listened with an open face that reminded Sara of a dog. “I ain’t no hardened street criminal.”
“You look like one. The way you wear those pants, drooping down to your butt, that’s prison-style. You can understand where loud music and hanging out on the stoop would scare some of the residents."
“Oh sure, that’s what I’m tellin’ you, chiquita, I’m down with what you’re sayin’. I know there ain’t no future in hangin’ out, dealin’ a little dope from time to time-not to say I done it! I mean, I know people who do, but I don’t consider them hardcore street criminals.”
“See, then we got a problem. I catch anybody selling, doing, or holding dope on these premises, and I personally will make sure they go away for a long time.”
Jorge stared at her for a minute with large liquid eyes. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I mean, what the hell? I’m twenty-six. I got to think of my future.”
“That’s right. Thought what you’re going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m a pretty good carpenter, but man, trying to get into the union ...”
“I hear you. Maybe I can help. In the meantime, I want you to do something for me.”
“What’s that, pretty lady?”
“Think about what you want to do for a living that’s legal. I have to kick you out now while I get ready for work.” She was glad she didn’t say Think about what you want to be when you grow up.
“Happy to oblige. Say. How’s about you and me checkin’ out this salsa band over at La Hacienda Saturday night?”
She smiled, placed a hand on his gleaming bicep. “I'm sorry. I’m seeing someone.”
Brave smile. “Tha’s okay. You get bored with him sooner or later.” She watched him swagger down the hall toward the elevator.
Lupe watched in disbelief and fury from her bedroom window as the witch roused her man from his car. Twenty-five minutes later, her fury metastasized into murderous intent. She’d been holding off, out of fear of acting too soon. Too soon after the last debacle. Not this time.
This time the witch would die, and her faithless lover, too.
Sara arrived at her desk by nine. There was a message from Brandon Stern: His Honor is very keen to hear of the
IATEST DEVELOPMENTS IN THE CHALMERS INVESTIGATION. PLEASE CONTACT SOONEST. DON’T FORGET TO R.S.V.P.
Sighing, Sara RSVP’d before turning on her word processor and preparing a report for the mayor. As if she didn’t have anything better to do. She said that she had interviewed Chalmers' wife and at least one of his exwives, and ruled them out as potentials, but that Chalmers had been receiving harassing e-mails regarding the sword. She was checking these out.
There was nothing in the report about Sharpe.
It was time to beard the lion in his den. Specifically, it was time to call on Robert Hotchkiss. It was Sara’s experience that persons of social standing would often cooperate rather than embarrass themselves in front of their colleagues.
Hotchkiss worked for the Dynasty Group, with offices in Hecht’s Twelve South Plaza. Sara left her bike at the station and caught a ride uptown with a Cheetah Express driver. He dropped her off right in front. Sara carried a leather Haverhill briefcase as camouflage. In taupe Armani slacks, olive ribbed cotton short-sleeved pullover, and khaki jacket, she was indistinguishable from hordes of other bright young things on the make. The Dynasty Group was on the twelfth floor. The receptionist stared at Sara’s badge as if it were the Hope diamond.
“Point me to Mr. Hotchkiss, please, and don’t say anything. I will be discreet.”
The receptionist pointed. Hotchkiss was on the phone when Sara appeared in his office doorway, to his astonishment. First he was pleased, then flummoxed, finally distressed when he recognized her.
“Phil, I’ll have to call you back.” He hung up. “Come in and shut the door, please. What can I do for you?” “Mr. Hotchkiss, I’m aware that you’re involved in divorce proceedings, and I understand your need for discretion. But this is a homicide investigation. I believe you phoned in the tip about Bachman’s death. I believe you went there that morning to discuss with him the sale of a sword your father brought back from Iwo Jima.”
Hotchkiss stared at her for a minute, then leaned his elbows on his desk and buried his face in his hands. “You have no idea the strain I’ve been under.”
“Tell me what happened,” Sara said softly.
“You’re right. Bachman was handling a sword for me. My father brought it back from the war. He was a Marine sergeant. I never told Janet about it. Janet. That’s my soon-to-be bitch of an ex-wife. I’m leveraged to my eyeballs. She finds out, or her attorney, they’ll go after it. I got two kids in college. I got a nut you wouldn’t believe.” “I feel for you, Mr. Hotchkiss. I’ll try and keep your name out of it, but it would be helpful if you told me what happened when you discovered the body. Everything you can remember. There’s a murderer running around.”
“I know. All right. Hang on.” He picked up his phone and instructed the secretary they were not to be disturbed. “My father found the sword in a cave on Mt. Surabachi. Technically, they weren’t supposed to bring this stuff back but everyone was doing it. He used to bring it out and show it at parties. He stopped showing it in the early seventies; he knew it was worth something. He died in 1989. I had the sword in the basement, never thought about it until recently. I took it in to Bachman to be appraised.”
“It’s my understanding that sword appraisers are few and far between.”
“That’s right. Bachman couldn’t issue a certificate, but he knew enough to recognize what it was. He said he could find a buyer.”
“What was it?”
’’The swordsmith was Muramasa. Apparently, there are two distinct lines of Muramasas. This was the later one, who was active in the fifteenth century. I’d been keeping the sword in a safety deposit box here at Dynasty since my father’s death. I took it in to Bachman two weeks ago. Last week, I’d made an appointment to discuss the
terms of the sale. Bachman was nervous, because technically, the sword is considered a cultural treasure of Japan, and they have successfully sued to get them back. There’s a huge black market for the things.”
“Did he have a buyer in mind?”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t tell me over the phone. I got there around ten o’clock and the place seemed closed. Nobody answered the bell, but the gate was unlocked when I tried it. So I went in. I didn’t notice the blood until I fell on my ass. I nearly fainted. It’s the most shocking thing I’ve ever witnessed. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
If that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, Sara thought, you are one lucky bastard. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Hotchkiss walked her through his grisly discovery. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “And there on the counter was the head, planted on the receipts spindle.” “Do you know Scott Chalmers?”
“I’ve met him a couple times. I wouldn’t say we were close friends.”
“How do you know James Bratten?”
“Dynasty maintains a skybox at Apple Stadium. Bratten came to us for a loan. I’m his loan officer, and I’ve always been a huge Apples fan. And the Jets. And the Yankees.”
“What about the Giants and the Mets?”
Hotchkiss shrugged. “Screw ’em. I can’t be all things to all people.”
Sara smiled in spite of herself. “You did place the nine-one-one.”
Hotchkiss nodded. “Pay phone in the Cafe Belladonna.
I don’t suppose... if you find my sword, there's any chance you could return it to me?”
“After the disposition of the case, you can petition to have it returned from the police evidence lab. However, that’s open to the public, so your wife might find out.”
“ ‘Might.’ There’s no might about it.”
“Who’s her lawyer?”
“Elron Dubuis.”
“You have my sympathies. I would appreciate copies of any documentation you have concerning the sword. I’d also like pictures, drawings, descriptions, anything like that.”
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