The Nicholas Linnear Novels (27 page)

Croaker snorted. “Idiotic! A human body by itself couldn’t cause such extensive damage in such a short amount of time. The man must’ve had fists like hammers.”

“No fists,” Vincent said.

Croaker stared at him. “I’m sure this is leading somewhere, Doctor.”

“Lieutenant,” Nicholas said. “Terry was a
sensei
, a master of kenjutsu, karate, aikido. No man alive could get close enough to him to kill him, unless…”

“Unless what? I want to hear this.” Croaker crossed his legs, leaning nonchalantly against the bank of doors.

“There is a kenjutsu technique, perfected and written about by Miyamoto Musashi, Japan’s greatest swordsman. It’s called the Body Strike, for obvious reasons. Using one’s shoulder—”

“This guy must have been built like a tank,” Croaker said.

“On the contrary,” Nicholas said, “his stature could have been quite a bit smaller than Vincent’s. We are not so much speaking of pure physical strength now, Lieutenant, but of an inner strength.”

“Look, Linnear, the only inner strength I’ve ever seen is from David Carradine in ‘Kung Fu’ and I didn’t believe a bit of it.”

Nicholas smiled. “Then we must begin to educate you, Lieutenant.”

Croaker stood up, said, “Then you agree with Ito here. You think these two were killed by a Japanese.”

“Well, I can think of a small number of Occidentals who are kenjutsu
sensei.
But none of them could kill this way. This is a spiritual killing that would be far beyond them.”

Croaker stared down at Terry’s smashed chest. “Ain’t nothing spiritual about this, my man. This is the work of a pile driver.”

“Was there any kind of a murder weapon found in Terry’s house?” Nicholas asked.

“Just a sword—”

“Terry’s
katana
,” Vincent interrupted, his gaze shooting the message, “lying by his side.”

“Yeah,” Croaker said. “But no blood on it; nothing like that. No other possible weapon that could’ve done
that.
But that don’t mean shit. The guy could’ve taken off with it.”

“He didn’t,” Nicholas said. “Lieutenant, killing has been a high art in Japan for almost two thousand years. In another time, it was a way of life for the Japanese. And today, though there is the modern Japan which stands in its place, still the old ways remain. Still there is
bushido
, the Way of the Warrior.”

“Yeah? What the hell is it, then?”

Nicholas laughed. “I don’t think I could explain it in a few minutes.”

“That’s okay, I’ve got bags of time.” He extracted a MintyPick from his breast pocket, rolled it between his teeth. “I ain’t eaten in much too long. What say you and I talk this out over a meal?”

Nicholas nodded and Croaker turned to Vincent. “Say, Doc, I’ll sign for the bags while I’m here.”

“Right.” Vincent went around the corner to the small alcove where a number of polythene bundles waited for collection by the police: homicide victims’ effects and clothes. Vincent brought two bundles back to Croaker, gave him a form to sign.

Croaker looked up, giving Vincent back his pen. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

Nicholas’ call had made Doc Deerforth uneasy, and while Nicholas had been brief, he’d given more than enough for Doc Deerforth to chew on,

He had appointments until twelve-thirty but, directly after his last patient said goodbye, he left the office and drove out to Dune Road. He had been in constant touch with Ray Florum, of course, but there had been no progress on the two murder cases and, reluctantly, he had had to let the county detectives in. Not that it would do any good, Doc Deerforth thought sourly as he drove across the steel drawbridge onto Dune Road, the county people were like the Keystone Kops, all gung-ho and no expertise.

He turned right and settled back. Gulls rose, wheeling over the water on his left, circling above the two stories of The Crosstree, Dune Road’s newest condominium. It was tan and dark brown with a maze of outside staircases on this, the landward side. Soon the condominiums gave grudging way to private houses.

The thought of the ninja haunted him all the way out to Justine’s house. Ever since he had become aware of the evidence, he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep. In dreams he would return to the steaming jungles, to the mortar fire by day, the sniper’s fire by night. But it was one specific night he dreaded most of all and even in his dreams he fought against remembering. Soon, he knew, he would have to resort to chloral hydrate to knock himself into a dreamless abyss.

He parked the car on the side of the house, took the elevated slatted-wood pathway over the dunes and scrub grass to the beach. He went up the stairs, knocked on the screen door. Behind him the water surged and, down the beach, he could hear the cries of children as they ran into the surf. A shaggy dog barked, leaping along the sand in pursuit of a wobbling Frisbee. The beach was a patchwork of oiled bodies, brightly colored blankets and striped sun umbrellas. A cool breeze blew in off the water and, for a moment at least, there came the drone of an airplane.

Justine came to the door, opened it. She smiled. “Hi. What brings you out here?”

“Nothing special,” Doc Deerforth lied. “I was out this way and thought I’d say hello. Haven’t seen you since the beginning of the summer.”

Justine laughed as she stepped back to let him in, “Thank God that allergy doesn’t last for long. I couldn’t endure it all summer.” She went into the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?” And when he nodded, she added, “Gin and tonic?”

“Fine.”

She went about fixing it.

“Seems quiet around here,” he said. “Had any visitors?”

“What?” she said over the sound of cracking ice. “I can’t hear you?”

He went into the kitchen. “Any visitors lately?”

She handed him his drink, began to make hers. “Only Nicholas.” She tasted it. “Umm. But that’s the way I like it. I’ve never been comfortable with a lot of people, not at home at least.” They went into the living room, sat on the sofa. “In business, it’s different. I don’t like to mix the two.”

Doc Deerforth nodded. “I know what you mean. I don’t like to either.”

She regarded him over the rim of her tall glass. She pressed the condensation against her lip, rolling the glass. “Tell me, Doc,” she said. “You didn’t come all the way out here to exchange pleasantries, did you?”

“I came to see how you are.”

“I’m not ill,” she pointed out.

Doc Deerforth smiled. “I didn’t say anything about that. This isn’t a business call.”

“I see.” Her eyes wouldn’t let him get away. “Did Nicholas call you?”

He laughed, relieved. “You know, you remind me of Kathy, my youngest. Nothing gets past her, either.” He shook his head. “Nicholas called this morning.”

“I wish he’d called me instead,” Justine said. “I wish he hadn’t gone into the city.”

“He had to, from what I gathered.” Doc Deerforth put his drink down. “Anyway, you could’ve gone in with him.”

She shook her head. “Too much work and, besides, they were his friends. I’d just be out of place. I’ve got no desire to tag along after him.” She took a sip. “We each have our own lives. Where they touch, well—that’s where we love. The involvement—we’re like two fiercely spinning wheels, each with its own orbit. We lean toward each other, we touch hesitantly, we calculate how far each of us can go without disturbing the orbits.”

“What happens if you go too far,” Doc Deerforth said, “and your—orbits, as you put it—are disturbed?”

Justine unfolded herself, went across the room to stare out at the hot beach and the cool curling surf. “In that event,” she said, her voice as thin as a ghost’s, “I’m afraid it would be disastrous.”

“The girls will take care of you, m’sieur.” The maître d’ moved a little to his right, lifting an arm toward the steep dark staircase. He touched his thin mustache with a forefinger, stroked it.

“You know, I thought you’d take me to that place on Park,” Nicholas said. “You know, downtown.” They were in the low Fifties on the East Side.

“You mean the Belmore Cafeteria?” Croaker said. “Jesus, I leave that to the undercover bastards. Christ, I wouldn’t go there for a proper meal.”

It was quiet on the second floor; only a table near the door was occupied. The far end of the room was on an elevated platform beside a row of windows.

The two waitresses were pretty. They wore dark Danskin tops and short skirts. They spoke in accents.

Croaker requested a window table and one waitress led them up the steps. She left them with menus after taking their drink order.

“How long did you know Tanaka?” Croaker asked. His eyes scanned the opened menu.

“About six years,” Nicholas said. “We met in kenjutsu class.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. I still go there. I’ll take you after lunch.”

“Part of my education, huh? Humm, I think I’ll take the bacon and eggs.” The girl came up, placed their drinks on the table; a Kir for Nicholas, a dark Myer’s rum on the rocks for Croaker. Croaker gave her his order, Nicholas ordered the same. When she had left, he continued. “This
dōjō.
Where’d Tanaka get the bread for it?”

“Worked mostly, I expect.” Nicholas took a long swallow of the Kir. “And I think he had a bit of money when he came over here. His mother had left him some before she died.”

“How much?”

Nicholas shrugged. “I have no idea. His family was wealthy but there are nine children.”

“Where are they?”

“As far as I know, they’re all in Japan. Terry was the only one who left.”

“And the father?”

“Killed during the war.”

“Um hum.” He shook his head. “Still, it takes an awful lot of cash or collateral to open up a business here.”

“What are you getting at?”

Croaker shrugged, took a pull of his drink. “You know about bread. You need, you get. Sometimes it ain’t so easy to pay it back. People get antsy; they don’t want to wait.”

Nicholas shook his head. “The only business partner Terry had in the
dōjō
was Chase Manhattan and he paid them off nine months ago. The
dōjō
was thriving.”

“Someone wanted in.”

“Uh uh. Lieutenant—”

Croaker lifted a hand, palm outward. “Just going over all the possibilities. You so sure he was straight? I mean, you weren’t with him twenty-four hours a day.”

“I didn’t have to be. I knew him. Believe me, there’s no illegal involvement. At least, not in the way you think.”

“Which leads us back to
bushido
, right?” He was interrupted by the food. He waited until the waitress had gone before he said, “You know, Linnear, for those two stiffs being your friends you certainly aren’t broken up about it.”

Nicholas sat perfectly still. A pulse beat strongly in the side of his neck; a cool wind seemed to blow through his brain. There were haunting echoes, as if he were hearing the words of his ancestors carried to him through the corridors of time. Beneath the table, his fingers were as stiff as knives, his thigh muscles like steel. He required no blade, no concealed weapon. There was only himself, as deadly a killing machine as ever was created in any country at any time.

Croaker was staring into his eyes. “It’s all right,” he said softly. He gestured with the tines of his fork, laced with running yolk. “Your food’s getting cold.” He went to work on his own and never knew just how close he had come to being killed.

There was anger and then there was anger. Just as there were insults and there were insults. Lew Croaker was just another dumb Westerner, Nicholas told himself as he ate. He had no idea what he was doing or what effect his words would have. He had said what he had in order to find out, to read their effect in Nicholas’ face. There should have been no reaction at all. Bujutsu had taught him that. But it had been a long time and he had been off his guard because he had been with a Westerner.

Which just goes to show you, Nicholas thought. Danger comes cloaked in many forms. Not that he thought of Lew Croaker as any kind of danger, far from it. But, he realized, ignorance brings its own kind of danger and Croaker had unwittingly put his head on the block.
Why
would have had no meaning if Nicholas had killed him then or merely disabled him.

Croaker glanced up at him from time to time as they ate, as Nicholas tried to define the complex concept of
bushido
to him. Obedience might be the basis but, to Western minds at least, that word had such a pejorative nature that it seemed like the wrong beginning. Because
bushido
was defined not only by sociology and religion but by history, too. To Americans, who thought in terms of two hundred years when it came to their own country, the concept of centuries seemed like deep water indeed.

Still, Croaker seemed to absorb it all quite seriously, his interest deepening as Nicholas progressed. At the end, over coffee, Croaker sat back, took out a MintyPick. His eyes wandered for a time, then he said, oddly, “I got an old lady, who drives me bats. She’s never around when I get home.”

“According to you,” Nicholas said, “you rarely get home.”

Croaker took a swig of the coffee, winced, poured in cream. He broke open a packet of granulated sugar, stirred it in. “I don’t know what it is but I just can’t seem to get used to it straight.” He took a swallow, nodded approvingly, looked up. “All right, I
did
say that, yeah. What I mean is, the odd times I
do
come home, it makes it all the worse, y’know?”

“You need a new job,” Nicholas said pointedly.

“Nah. I think I need a new lady, is all. See, Alison’s an endocrinologist. She’s been working on a project for three and a half years. It must be a bitch ’cause I don’t think they’re any closer now than they were when they started.” He rolled the toothpick around his mouth, from one side to the other. “Recombinant DNA.”

“Clones, huh?”

Croaker liked that; his face brightened. “Yeah.” He laughed. “She’s building an army of super-fuckin-humans. Gonna make you an’ me obsolete, Jack.” He laughed again. “Nah, nothing so dramatic. They’re trying to find a way to alter the DNA in a mother’s womb so people with hereditary diseases can have children.” He brooded over his coffee for a while. “Things haven’t been too good for a while. I think it’s time to get out.”