Hotchkiss leaned forward, opened the bottom right drawer of his desk and began to rummage. Sara looked around. Pictures of his two kids, smiling, fresh-faced boy and girl. Pictures of the treacherous wife had been removed. Pictures of Hotchkiss and some pals on a golf course. Certificates of achievement and appreciation. A crystal ball. Be nice if it worked, she thought. We could have avoided this mess.
Hotchkiss handed her a legal envelope with Bachman’s old-fashioned script. “There’s the description he gave me last week.”
“I don’t understand. If he had the sword, and you had the description, why did you go visit him?”
“He said he had a buyer, but he didn't feel comfortable discussing it over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“He was a peculiar man. For example, do you know he had a bagel and cream cheese, a grapefruit, and a vanilla yogurt for breakfast every morning?”
“I don’t see what's so strange about that.”
“Every morning of his life, for thirty-five years, without exception?”
“It’s odd. I grant you. But I don’t see why he was afraid to mention the buyer’s name to you over the phone.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he thought his phones were bugged.”
Sara’s eyes opened imperceptibly. “Thank you, Mr. Hotchkiss.”
At the precinct, Sara phoned Bachman’s. No one answered. Leesha had probably arranged for the body to be shipped to Newton for burial. Sara left work at four o’clock, overnight kit bungeed to the back of the bike and crammed into her tank bag, and headed toward the Village. Yellow police tape still sealed the entrance to Bachman’s shop, but the place was no longer guarded. Sara had requisitioned the key from evidence. Pulling onto the curb, she tucked the bike in close to the building, removed her helmet and locked it to the frame. She locked her bike, went up the steps, and unlocked the front gate. A different key unlocked the hand-carved double doors.
The place smelled faintiy of antiseptic and dried blood. Sara switched on the lights in the shop and stood in the doorway for a minute. The place seemed to have been left untouched since the technicians left, the antiques all still in place. At some point, someone would have to take inventory, if only for dispersal of the estate. The phone was behind the counter, next to where the killer had planted Bachman’s head. It was a Radio Shack voice recorder. The lab had already analyzed the tape. Nothing helpful. Sara pushed the announce button.
“Greetings,” said a dry voice with a touch of Europe. “You have reached Thaddeus Bachman, specializing in Oriental antiquities. I regret no one is present to take your call right now, but if you leave a message, someone will get back to you. Our office hours are from nine a.m. to five-thirty p.m., Monday through Friday. Special hours by appointment. Thank you.”
She turned the phone over and, using a tiny screwdriver attached to her keychain, unscrewed the base. She examined the phone closely, but found nothing resembling a bug. Next, she traced the line back to the wall, went out into the hall to the elevator. Bound to be a transfer box in the basement. If a crook had access, he could put the bug there. The elevator opened at her touch. She stepped into the tiny booth, pushed the button for the basement, and waited for the nictitating door to close.
The elevator descended groaning, like an old janitor complaining about his arthritis. The basement was surprisingly well lit with fluorescent fixtures, and consisted of row after row of storage locker jammed with cardboard boxes, rolled rugs, coddled paintings, a lifetime of collecting. Sara found the exchange box. There was only one line into the house, with a phone on each floor. There was no bug.
Sara went to the second floor, which housed a library and what appeared to be a guestroom, where Leesha had spent the night. The soap in the guest bath was still damp. Sara went through the whole house but could find no evidence of a bug. She looked behind the pictures. She looked beneath the tables, chairs, and desks. Nada.
Finally, conceding defeat, she called it quits. Going methodically through the house, making sure she left everything as she found it, she let herself out the front door, locked it, closed the gate and locked that. She turned and gazed across the street, at the little sword polisher sign beneath The Feldstein Gallery. She looked up. A tailor advertised in the second floor windows. The third floor appeared to be residential, blinds open, except for one window, open perhaps one third, on a darkened room.
You could bug someone without even entering the house by shining a laser on a window. The window acts as a speaker membrane-much like the eardrum-vibrating with whatever sound is produced inside. The bounced laser beam comes back, faithfully recording every sound. Apprehension mixed with excitement, Sara crossed the street. Instead of going down into the tiny alcove that serviced Kopkind, she went up the broad granite stair to the arched Roman entrance, into the elegant little foyer, the door to the Feldstein Gallery open, garrulous customers inside. Behind a glass, the building’s occupants were listed in white plastic letters. Kopkind. Feldstein. Art the Tailor. Grossman the Accountant. The third floor contained two private apartments: Bloomberg and Andersen. The building was managed by the Chalmers Group, Scott Chalmers’ management company.
Head swirling, Sara stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. She was certain that the apartment with the slightly open window was vacant. She didn’t believe in coincidence. Chalmers had been gaga for swords. Perhaps he had been Hotchkiss’ mystery buyer. But why the subterfuge?
She glanced at her watch. She was actually fifteen minutes late for her date with David. She’d warned him she was coming over early to shower and get ready. She descended to the basement shop and entered through the tingling door. Yoshi appeared, followed a moment later by a smiling David, slightly disheveled.
“Hi! Make yourself at home.” He glanced at her closely. “You look like you’re either on the verge of a great discovery, or you’ve lost your mind.”
“The former, I hope. I’ll tell you about it.”
“Good. Because I have a story for you, too. Take your time. I’ve got three hundred strokes to go.”
“David, can I stash my bike in your workroom?”
“Sure. I’ll go open the door.”
She went outside, brought the bike around, threaded through the gate and door and parked it in a comer of his workroom. She looked for the sword on which he was working, but couldn’t see it. Unclipping her leather ovemighter, she disappeared into the bathroom.
Sara showered, toweled off, and changed. They were going to a jazz club, not a party, so she'd brought a pair of jeans and matching jacket, and wore an emerald-colored silk T. Finally, the make-up, a minimalist operation, thank her lucky stars. A touch of blush, a flash of Cover Girl goglam! Gem, a smear of Neutrogena, hey, presto! She was transformed from gorgeous to spectacular. The Armani Ella was last to go on, in Certain Strategic Spots.
She turned off the fan and opened the door. “In here,” David called from the living room. She entered. Kopkind, who’d been standing at his entertainment console loading CDs, took one look, slapped his forehead, and leaped off his feet like Dagwood Bumstead confronted with a conundrum. He landed on his back in a perfect judo roll, slapping the carpet, but maintaining his cartoon characterization.
“Whoo! Whoo!” he barked, like the wolf in a Betty Boop cartoon.
Sara was pleased, couldn’t help blushing. “Okay, come on, get up. You’ve seen me all dolled up before.”
Kopkind got to his feet, a goofy grin on his face. He wore khakis and an olive green coarse weave cotton shirt, neatly tucked and held in place with a leather belt. “I thought we’d have a glass of wine before heading over. It’s only a couple blocks away, if you don’t mind walking.”
“I love to walk.”
David pushed a button, and Charlie Haden’s Quartet West began to cast its film noir spell through the speakers. He opened a lacquered cabinet and poured two glasses of pinot noir. Sara sat on a fold-up futon sofa. One wall was covered floor to ceiling with oak shelves, supported
by designer cinder blocks. The shelves were crammed with books, DVDs, CDs, and the entertainment system, a large-screen television with all the perks: VCR, DVD, and a sound system. One wall was exposed brick, decorated with several paintings and a Japanese wood cut of a priest traveling toward Mt. Fuji. The hardwood floor was mostly covered with a thick, Southwest Indian style rug. Aside from the futon sofa, there was a leather chair and a series of cushions, a low, free-style walnut coffee table, and in the corner, what appeared to be Shinto shrine.
Kopkind handed her a drink, toasted. “Cheers.”
They sipped.
“David, do you know your upstairs neighbors?”
“Who, Feldstein? Sure.”
“No, I mean those two private apartments on the third floor. Do you rent from the Chalmers Management Group?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, Chalmers was the samurai killer’s second victim.”
The polisher’s face twisted in consternation. “That Chalmers? I had no idea.”
“What about Bloomberg and Andersen? Those are the two names on the mailboxes for the third floor. Do you know them?”
“No, I’ve never met either one. I’ve been here for two years, too. It’s funny.”
“Do you think it’s possible there’s no one in those apartments? At least one of them?”
“Where are we going with this?”
“I want to take a look at that one apartment with the open window facing Bachman’s shop. I’m wondering how the killer knew Bachman had what he wanted. One answer is, he may have bugged the shop, and one way you can bug a place without actually going inside is to bounce a laser beam off the windows.”
Kopkind frowned, impressed. “Jeez. I don’t know. I suppose we could go up there and knock on the door.” Sara smiled and set her glass down. “Let’s.”
They went out the front door, up the stairs to street level, up the stairs to Feldstein’s entry, and into the building. Access to the second and third floors was both by stair and elevator. The elevator opened on the third floor vestibule, single window looking out on Worth Street, apartments to either side. Neither apartment looked lived-in. There were no homey touches, no welcoming mat or door sign. The apartment with the open window facing Bachman’s belonged to Bloomberg. Sara knocked.
Nada.
Kopkind knocked on Andersen’s door. No answer there. “Well. Curiouser and curiouser.”
“Do me a favor. Keep an eye out while 1 fiddle with this lock.”
“Hey, officer, I don’t mean to tell you your business, but isn’t that illegal?”
She turned her peepers on him. “Let’s just call it extralegal, okay?”
Kopkind shrugged, grinned. “Not like I’m a perfect citizen.”
Bloomberg’s apartment was sealed with a Masterlock deadbolt, very difficult to pick. Shielding the Witchblade from Kopkind with her body, Sara confronted the lock; an instant later, the tumblers gave. She turned the knob and the door swung inward.
Silently, she stepped into the apartment, holding up a hand to keep Kopkind back. She listened. She smelled. She tasted the air. The apartment was empty. Not only was it empty, it was unfurnished, save for the living room facing Bachman’s. Set three feet inside the window mounted on a black tripod was a tube-like device that resembled a telescope, with a parabolic boom mounted directly below, also facing out.
“What’s that?” Kopkind whispered, having caught the caution bug.
“It’s a laser listening device.” She looked at it closely without touching. It was plugged into a wall outlet. There was some kind of black transfer box with a cord going to the phone jack. Sara bet that when she checked the lease, Bloomberg would turn out to be a front for Chalmers himself. As Kopkind said, curioser and curioser. One victim of the samurai killer had been spying on another. Over a sword, she bet.
She took David’s hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
They returned to David’s living room, where he poured them each another glass of wine. “What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. But I intend to fmd out. You said you had something to tell me.”
“Do I ever! I don’t know how much stock you place in ghost stories, but you know that book Hecht showed you? Kuyamigusa? Well, I have an English translation.” Without taking her eyes off him, Sara sipped her wine. “You do. Hecht told me he was paying someone beacoup bucks to translate. How did you come by a copy?”
“I bought it at a yard sale in California several years ago.” He got up, stood on the stool and reached for his copy. A cloud of dust rose when he set it on the coffee table.
“Holy smokes. What does that thing weigh?”
“About forty pounds. Anyhow, you told me you believed these killings are about Muramasa’s swords.” “Yeah. The killer’s after a sword or swords.”
“Well I’ve read the whole thing, believe it or not, and that struck a chord. So I began reading, and, sure enough, I uncovered this character who collected Muramasas. Let me just read it to you:
“This incident concerns the lord of Funai, Bungo province, Takenaka Unemenosho Shigeyoshi, as well as his son, Genzaburo. At the time of the incident (1632), Shigeyoshi had taken up the important position of Nagasaki magistrate. While in office, there were some other irregularities, and the shogunate in Edo initiated legal proceedings. Shigeyoshi was convicted of his crimes, and, as a consequence of his punishment, his property was confiscated. As it happened, there were some Muramasa blades among his possessions. In fact, the number was said of have totaled twenty-four blades.
“Because of that crime, his sentence was banishment to a distant island. However, the sentence was increased in severity, and together with his son their seppuku was to be presided over by the Grand Superintendent Mizuno Kawachi no Kami Morinobu. Just the fact that Shigeyoshi possessed a large number of Muramasa blades indicated that he believed their price would increase after the collapse of the Tokugawa shogunate. The fact that the shogunate strongly despised these swords was the reason that Shigeyoshi was ordered to commit seppuku.
“In the days leading up to his death, Shigeyoshi handed out his swords one by one to his loyal retainers until there was only one left, the sword Skyroot, which had been commissioned by the demon swordsman Udo. Finally, he gave Skyroot to his most loyal retainer. However, after Shigeyoshi’s death, the retainer is said to have traded the sword to a Dutch sea captain for a pair of match-locked pistols. Thus, it is said Shigeyoshi’s spirit is doomed to walk the land forever, searching for his lost Muramasa.
“Your killer may be the reincarnated spirit of Shigeyoshi,” he concluded.
“Let me see that.” Sara got off the sofa and knelt next to Kopkind, who sat cross-legged on a cushion in front of the coffee table. The old book had been entirely handwritten in elegant penmanship that reminded Sara of the style booklets she studied as a grade school student. It must have taken forever-a true labor of love. Her fingers traced the ancient script, the sword polisher breathing over her shoulder.
It was her dream. She’d dreamed she was Shigeyoshi. Had she heard the story before, or had the spirit sought her out? Because of the Witchblade? But in her dream, Shigeyoshi did not succumb to the shogun’s order. He had struck back, slaying his appointed executioner.
She was aware of David’s fragrance, masculine with a touch of lime, followed by the touch of his hand on her arm. She turned toward him. “Umm... so, where are we going for dinner?”
“City Club, around the comer. Sort of a Spanish/French sorta place. Plus the music. This guy Ray Rideout is straight out of Bird, by way of Phil Woods.”
“Who?”
“He’s a terrific sax player. You’ll like him.”
It was seven by the time they descended the Mayan steps to the subterranean City Club. Many restaurants had occupied the space at 223 Houston Street. The basement reminded Sara of old Italian restaurants, with its exposed brick Roman arches dividing the rooms, white linen tablecloths, and paintings of the Pyrenees. They mu
st have had that lovers’ glow, because the waiters treated them like royalty, hovering, solicitous, eager to please.
It was a magical evening. David blushed charmingly when the waiter handed him the wine list, was grateful when Sara held out her hand. “Let me see. All children of Italian/Americans know something of the grape.” After determining they were going to order fish and poultry, Sara ordered a California Chardonnay.
“You can order the French stuff. I’m not exactly poor.”
She balanced her chin on her bridged fingers and batted her lashes. “I refuse to patronize the French, for a laundry list of grievances about which I shall not bore you at this time.”
“Perhaps later?” he asked hopefully.
“Perhaps.’’
The band, sax, drams, piano, and bass, filed in and began to play “Fool On The Hill.” They ate slowly, lingered through the long set, returned to David’s just before midnight, and made love on the futon while Yoshi snarled and yawned around the base of the bed.
Sara lay in David’s sleeping arms, wide awake. She was pleasantly exhausted, but her mind would not shut down. Was this the man who would make an “honest woman” of her? Would Vince have liked him? Possibly, but it’d be best to take it slow. She’d had her heart broken once too often in her life; the scars were still tender.
Did she believe in reincarnation? Since acquiring the Witchblade, there were few things in which she didn’t believe. And in her experience, it was more than likely Shigeyoshi could live again to claim his precious sword.
Skyroot. The root of all evil. It was, after all, priceless, the desire of powerful men. Would the killings stop when the killer finally possessed the sword? Would the sword ever surface? What criteria would a ghost samurai use for choosing a host? Certainly, Shigeyoshi would want someone physically capable. Sharpe was capable. He also had the knowledge. And the swords.
The swords! She’d completely forgotten the detailed drawings she’d made of the swords she discovered in Staten Island.
David stirred, one hand falling to her hip. “What?”
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