Steel Breeze

by Douglas Wynne

  She closed the book in her lap (an introduction to samurai culture) and removed her reading glasses. As she folded and stowed them in the seatback pocket, she was reminded of the pair they had found sitting on the monument at Manzanar. Those glasses had been gazing east, the direction she was now flying in. The blood on the obelisk had been Geoff Lamprey’s.

  Shikata ga nai. It must be done.

  Pasco, for his part, wasn’t having any trouble catching some shuteye in the seat beside hers, but then he didn’t have a phone call to Desmond Carmichael on his conscience. The very real prospect that her call had spurred Carmichael to take quick action and kill Parsons before the net closed around him was one big reason for the butterflies in her stomach. Her concerns wouldn’t have been lost on Pasco if she broached the subject, but he’d seemed willing enough to leave the topic alone for now, burying his nose in one of Carmichael's doorstopper paperbacks until he dozed off.

  With her partner snoring on her shoulder in the darkened cabin, she turned on her tablet and made a list of questions:

  1. Was Carmichael verifiably in Massachusetts at the time of Lamprey's murder?

  2. Does Carmichael have a web search history that involves swords or Japanese culture preceding his wife's death?

  3. Did Carmichael ever order sword oil from an internet provider?

  4. Is there a Japanese American community in the Greater Boston Area with significant ties to Manzanar?

  5. Did Carmichael suspect his wife of infidelity?

  6. Any evidence of psychosis in Carmichael's past?

  She wanted to look the man in the eye and get a sense of him, and it perturbed her that the cop she had spoken to on the phone, Sanborn, told her that Desmond Carmichael had used almost the same words to explain why he'd visited Greg Harwood in prison just an hour before his father-in-law’s murder. That was another one for the list:

  7. Did Harwood say something to Carmichael that set him over the edge? Did they conspire to murder Carmichael's wife? Harwood just a patsy?

  None of it made sense without motive.

  The only thing the murder of Phil Parsons had convinced her of was that Harwood was probably innocent. The locals would not love her for that opinion. She would need to keep it close to the vest for a while, emphasizing her interest in the possibility that Carmichael had killed Parsons. If the Port Mavis police were wrong about the first murder, it would certainly make it easier for them to admit it if they thought they had the killer in custody now. She looked again at number 4. To introduce an unknown variable, a serial killer at large, would not win her any allies at this stage of the game.

  She closed the cover on the tablet and stuffed it back in the bag between her feet. She reclined the seat and closed her eyes, but sleep continued to evade her like a crafty killer.

  * * *

  At the car rental counter, she handed the keys to Pasco and said, “Do you mind?

  “You know I never mind driving. Noticed you favoring your foot, though. You trying to avoid putting it on a pedal?”

  “Sometimes you are a real Sherlock Holmes,” she said with a smile that was sixty percent false mirth and forty percent genuine admiration.

  “You should really see a podiatrist about that, you know.”

  “It was a foot doctor that messed me up in the first place, if you recall my tale of woe.”

  “No, you digging in your nails like some OCD archaeologist when you were a little girl what fucked you up.”

  She turned on her heel away from the rental counter, letting her hair swing around and veil her blushing face.

  “You know I'm right.”

  “Can we have this conversation in the car?“ she said, walking away from him and trying not to favor the foot, which made her ingrown toenail hurt even more. She didn't know if she was heading in the right direction to pick up the car, but rolling her suitcase away from Pasco was all that mattered right now, in any direction.

  He strode beside her and in a quieter tone said, “I'm not just nagging you for the fun of it. You think I want you hopping down some dark alley trying to draw your sidearm if you need to save my ass from a sword-swinging ninja? I don't want you limping for anything less than being shot in the leg.” He smiled, and this time she couldn't help reciprocating with a higher content of genuine humor.

  “I'll have you know I was never a little girl.”

  “Never ever? Hey, the car's this way.”

  “Never ever. Tomboy to the core.”

  “Boys don't care if they get dirt in their toenails. Don't even notice.”

  “Well my mother noticed. I wasn't going to stay out of the dirt, so I began trimming them too low. That's how it starts.”

  “And this doctor your mom brought you to botched the job, I know. But I bet foot work has probably improved in the past twenty some odd years. At least get a consultation.”

  “I will think about it. Now where's our car?”

  The digital thermometer on the dashboard read seventy-seven, but the humidity was stifling compared to California’s. They rolled up the windows and turned on the AC just to get the wooly feeling out of their heads. There wasn't much to see from I-95, but Drelick wanted to drive through the town of Port Mavis just to get a feel for the area. Within minutes of taking their exit, the cow pastures had given way to a cosmopolitan seaside tourist town with brick-faced shops selling a mix of nautical and New Age knick-knacks, skateboard kids idling in the concrete basin of a defunct fountain, and hip looking thirty-somethings toting laptops and book bags between the Starbucks, the news stand/cigar shop, and the library—an eye‐catching, newly renovated building across the street from a dilapidated Masonic hall. The police station was also downtown, but Drelick asked Pasco to swing by Carmichael's apartment before they made their entrance.

  “Looks like the kinda town a writer would live in,” Pasco remarked. “Kinda yuppie, snobby….”

  From the passenger seat, Drelick’s eyes flicked over the buildings. “There sure are a lot of churches in New England.”

  “Leftovers.” Pasco said. “It's just because it's the oldest part of the country. Do you know if Carmichael belonged to a church? A priest or minister might have some insight into his character.”

  “I don't know. I'll ask the detectives. What do you make of his book so far?”

  “Well, you know I'm not very highbrow, and neither is he, I guess. Lot of weird names that make it hard to follow, but he’s good at monsters.”

  “Sword and sorcery?”

  “Yeah. I don't think I'll finish it. I like Westerns. Give me guns over swords any day.”

  “Does he specifically mention Japanese type swords? Or anything about Asian culture, you know, calling it by imaginary names, but describing samurai type stuff?”

  “Hard to say for sure, but I don't think so. It's more like The Lord of the Rings.”

  “You read The Lord of the Rings?”

  “Saw the movies. You make calls to his agent and editor yet?”

  “No. I'm starting with his old boss—the high school principal—after the police.” Drelick typed a search into her phone. “After we take a look at the apartment, how do you feel about sushi for lunch?”

  “Yuck.”

  “You could probably get fried rice or something. I figure if we have to eat anyway, we could use the time to start asking sushi chefs about their customers. If there's a real Japanese serial killer living around here, or even just someone obsessed with the culture, he's likely to be into the food as well.“

  “So you want to dive right into the racial profiling, huh?” Pasco said with a smirk.

  Heading out of town now, following the GPS in Drelick’s phone to the Ocean Road apartment, they passed seedy motels with burnt-out letters in the signs, swimming pools of cracked pale blue concrete cordoned off by chainlink fences mere feet from the road, collapsing and boarded up houses deteriorating into weed-choked lots, and a well-kept trailer park struggling to hold its chin up with small lawns and PVC pick
et fences.

  She had the feeling that the beachfront community had at one time been an attractive location for a bygone middle class but had been reduced to a summer amusement struggling to draw vacation dollars with tawdry arcades and scrubby campgrounds. Strip clubs had sprung up amid the five-and-dime souvenir shops and pizza counters. Signs advertising a summer festival with live music, fireworks, and sand sculptures shouted colorfully over the low hum of failure and vice that seemed to waft from every concrete alley and peeling doorframe.

  When they arrived at the Carmichael address, there was a car in the driveway: an aging Honda that for some reason she doubted belonged to a detective. She’d expected to find the place locked, had come out here only to get a sense of where this struggling single parent, this author with a cult following, was raising his kid. But the interior door was wide open, and through the storm door window she could see most of the vacant living room and a carpeted stairway. She raised her hand to rap on the glass, but Pasco touched her sleeve and shook his head. With his other hand, he clicked the handle quietly and said, “Let's just see who's here before we announce ourselves. Shouldn't be anybody but cops, right?”

  Pasco stepped inside and unsnapped the button of his holster. Drelick followed, whispering, “It's not a crime scene.” The open door and car in the driveway were a little too bold to suggest nefarious activity in the stark light of day, but then, smart criminals knew that.

  Pasco moved into the living room, treading softly on the carpet and peering around the corner into the kitchenette. He nodded toward the stairway. As Drelick climbed the first few steps, Pasco swept through the remainder of the scant first floor and then came up behind her.

  At the landing, she turned to look back at him, wanting to tell him that they should either go back outside and call in the plate number on the car, or just announce themselves. She hated it when he made snap decisions and conveyed them with body language. They should have talked about their approach while they were still outside.

  Hesitating on the landing where the angle of the ceiling cut the second floor from view and trying to communicate her reluctance to him using only her eyes, she heard a piercing whistle from above. It started out low and long, but then began to glide around and take on the shape of a lazy, lilting melody. Within seconds, she recognized the tune as “Take It To The Limit,” by the Eagles. She exhaled, tugged her suit jacket over her hip holster and climbed the remaining stairs with less caution.

  The narrow hallway at the top of the stairs ended at a man kneeling on the floor with his ass crack framed between faded dungarees and a paint spattered t-shirt. A bucket of joint compound took up most of the floor space to his right. To his left, a full-length mirror leaned in a bedroom doorway, angled to keep it from falling. She could see herself and Pasco in the mirror; black-clad lurking shapes, rising from the stairwell. But the kneeling man hadn't yet caught sight or sound of them.

  “Sir?” Drelick said. The guy startled, spun around to look at her, and dropped a dollop of putty onto the carpet as he did so.

  “Shit,” he said, scooping it up and tossing it in the bucket. He stood up, knees popping and crackling, and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Scared the piss outta me. Who're you?” He had bushy ginger hair and densely freckled arms, a medium build, and a backward baseball cap.

  “FBI.” Pasco said. “Who are you?”

  “I'm the landlord.”

  “Again, sir. Who are you?”

  “Bob Haggerty. I'd shake your hand, but I’d get mud on you. What can I do you for?”

  “We're here to see the scene where a weapon was found,” Drelick said, pointing at the patch. “Was that the hole in the wall where they found it?”

  “Yeah. Cop put his boot through it. You'd think maybe he coulda cut a clean square for me, but no.”

  “Do the police know that you're patching that?” Pasco asked.

  “Yeah. I called and asked. They said no problem. If Desmond gets put away, I'll have to rent this out again by the end of the month.”

  “You mind if we take a look around?” Drelick asked.

  “Why not? Cops have already poked through all his shit anyway.”

  Drelick approached the wall. She could see the outline of the hole modified into a rectangle by Bob Haggerty, taped and partly patched already. The room at the end of the hall where the mirror was balanced in the doorframe had to be the boy's bedroom—cluttered with toys, and children’s books. The bedclothes were tangled in a hasty heap, half on the floor.

  “It's a shame about Lucas,” Haggerty said. “No matter how all this plays out, that poor kid’s guaranteed fucked for life.”

  “Do you think Desmond Carmichael is guilty?” Drelick asked, searching Haggerty's ruddy face for a reaction.

  “I don't know the man. He paid on time and seemed nice enough. You look around here, you get the impression he cared for his son.”

  “Would it surprise you if he was convicted of murder?”

  “Yeah. But life's full of surprises.”

  “Did he ever go away on any trips that you were aware of?” she asked.

  “Might have been gone for a week to visit his parents' around Christmas. I think he said Virginia.”

  “Did he ever mention California?” Pasco asked.

  “Ah, I can't say I remember for sure. Maybe a sci-fi conference or something.”

  “Do you recall when that might have been, the conference?” Drelick flipped a pad open.

  “I'm not sure about it. He might have said he was invited but couldn't afford to go.”

  Drelick stepped around the mirror and into Lucas’s room. It was messy but also the nicest in the apartment. The rest of the little house had off-white walls, unadorned with photos or artwork, but Lucas's room was painted tangerine and dressed up with a variety of lively framed images that looked like they belonged in the room of a younger child, one not yet awakened to the comic book heroes on the bed sheets. Drelick thought the zoo animals and toddler decor had probably come from the child’s previous bedroom in the house they had shared with his mother, transplanted here even as he outgrew them, intended to provide a sense of continuity, the security of familiarity.

  “Did you paint this bedroom?” Drelick asked.

  “No, Desmond did that himself. I do a fresh coat before a new tenant if it needs it, but if you want a fancy color, you have to buy it and apply it.“

  Drelick wondered if even the color had come from a can left over from the family home or if Desmond had tried to match it. “So this mirror,” she said, stepping around it again, “It was on the wall you're repairing?”

  “Yup.”

  “So it covered Desmond's own patch job after he put the sword in the wall.”

  “That's right.”

  Drelick walked through Desmond Carmichael's bedroom, but found it was as sparse as a monk's cell, and the police had obviously ransacked what little furniture and clothing he did own. She gave the usual hiding places that a non-agent might not think to check a cursory look, but found no secret cubbyholes or seams.

  Pasco looked bored. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Haggerty,” she said placing a business card on the lid of his joint compound bucket while he worked. “Give us a call if you remember anything more about that conference in California.”

  Walking to the car, Pasco gave her the look; the question he never needed to ask aloud: whatcha got?

  “Why hide a murder weapon behind a mirror unless you identify with it?”

  * * *

  The best sushi in Port Mavis wasn't bad, but it wasn't L.A. either. Talking to the chef and the maître d’ turned up nothing. Still, Drelick was glad she’d eaten before visiting the station because the briefing she received from Inspector Fournier over his lunch would have robbed her of any appetite. She knew her parents' generation had sometimes called cops “pigs,“ but to watch Charles Fournier take down a bag of McDonald's was to see the slur vividly illustrated.

  At first Fournier seemed interested
in the possibility that Carmichael might be guilty of an even higher body count, but when they found no clear points of entry into the bicoastal serial killer theory, he backed away from it. “Tell you the truth,” he said, and paused to thumb a stray pickle chip back into the corner of his mouth, “I don't need to prove he flew out to Cali and whacked a complete stranger to pin these family murders on him.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I'm saying you're probably just gonna muddy the waters. If you can show he had a plane ticket, then I'm all ears, but without it...too many questions. Like where'd he get a sword out there? Sure didn't take one on a plane without setting off alarms. And I don't need a jury getting hung up on red herrings when I have him hiding the weapon on the same day as a kill that he had a clear motive for.“

  “Detective, you should understand that my investigation could uncover evidence that absolves him. It’s even possible that my west coast killer came here.”

  “Twice?”

  She shrugged. “I spoke to Carmichael on the phone yesterday a little over an hour before Phil Parsons was murdered.”

  Fournier froze with his mouth open, the remaining quarter of his double quarter-pounder with cheese halfway to its final destination. A slice of tomato slipped out of the bun onto his desk blotter trailing a couple of gelatin coated seeds down his hairy wrist and gold watch band on the way. He let out a shallow, incredulous laugh as he wiped his wrist with a paper napkin. “You didn't open with that?”

  “My case led me to Sandy Carmichael, and I wanted to check a detail about the sword with the guy who owned it. The two murders have some traditional elements in common.”

  “Traditional elements.”