Warrior in the Shadows (4 page)

"Then of course I won't speak of it."

Charley slid from beneath the sheets and went to his battered camera bag. He took out the package of prints he'd kept for himself and selected one that showed the wall image in its entirety.

"This," he said when he slid back beneath the sheets. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

Mara handed Charley her coffee cup and took the photograph in both hands. She held the 4© 6 print and studied it long and carefully.

"I've never seen anything exactly like it, but the proportions of the features and the inner drawing within the main figure, those are characteristic of some schools of Aboriginal art."

"Do you have a book on that?"

"I have a good one. Over there, third shelf down, it's the end book, the tall one."

Charley fetched the book from the tall oak bookcase. Mara handed him the photograph and thumbed quickly through the book. She turned to one page and pointed at a photograph of an Aboriginal man with an intricately drawn series of squares on his chest. "See?" she said. "That's not the same, but it's similar."

Charley held the photograph beside the illustration in the book. "I see what you mean."

"I know someone who could tell you for certain," Mara said, gazing wide awake at Charley over her raised knees.

"Who?"

"Kativa, Kativa Patel. She's an art historian doing an internship down at the Walker. She's a friend of mine, we met at a party there. She specializes in primitive art."

"I'd like to talk to her."

"We can do that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"She works Sundays… I can call her in the morning, we can go to the museum after church."

"Church?"

"I'd like you to go with me. Then we can see her, after church."

"This should make for an interesting day."

"All your days are interesting."

"There's that."

"Hand me my coffee, please." Mara took the cup and cradled it, sipping lovingly at the warm brew. She held the cup on her knees.

"What do you want from me?" she said as though she were asking the time.

Charley looked up in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I never ask you. I take you as you are. But I'm curious. What keeps you in my bed?"

Charley licked his lips, looked away, set the photograph down carefully on the headboard behind him, laid the art book down on the covers.

"I know about the sex," Mara said. "That's fine. It's good for me, too. But it feels as though there's something else. Is there?"

"I don't know," Charley said. "I don't think about that."

"Sometime you should. I see a lot of things in your face. You're very frightening sometimes, Charley. I see things in you, my friends see things in you… I know about your violence and that tells me something about your past. Things come up in you and you put them away. Why is that?"

Charley felt something stirring deep inside him, something that wasn't his dinner or his middle of the night coffee.

"I don't like to dwell on the past," he said. "I try to live in the present, to pay attention. But I've got history. It's my history."

"Yes," Mara said.

She set her half-finished coffee down on the headboard, then slid down beneath the covers. She turned on her side, her back to Charley. Her hip swelled, then fell into the valley of her waist before it rose to join her torso like a great wall, like the wall of mountains around Annapurna in Nepal as Charley remembered it from all those years ago.

"Good night, Charley," she said in a faint voice. "I love you, but I don't want to talk anymore."

1.5

Bobby Lee Martaine sat in the Great Wall restaurant in splendid isolation in the back dining room. Andy Chen, the owner and a long-time friend, always put Bobby Lee and any of his cop buddies in the back dining room and closed it off to other customers if the restaurant wasn't busy. If it was, he went out of his way to make sure that Bobby got the best table. Andy was an immigrant from Mainland China who'd worked his way up from sleeping on the floor and eating rice to save every penny to the highly successful owner of three restaurants. But the Great Wall on France Avenue was the flagship restaurant, and Andy was there every day for lunch and for dinner, greeting all his old customers by name and making sure that everything was done to his hard-nosed standard.

Bobby Lee picked through the roast duck for a good piece and followed it with rice, then a sip of Tsing Tao beer. Occasionally he would reach out and tap with his free hand on the manila folder that held the crime scene photos, the autopsy report, and the case file he'd started. Every so often he would stare at the empty seat across from him and wish that he could call up his old partner, Bob Martinson. The "Bobbsey Twins" everyone had called them, the Bob and Bob show, but the two of them had racked up the best closure rate in the department and had a lot of laughs while they were doing it. Bob had retired only two months ago, but with money saved, no kids to provide for and still married to his childhood sweetheart, he was able to take off for Florida to live large in his own fashion down in St. Petes Beach. He and Margie lived on a big boat. When they got tired of being on the water, they lived in a small mobile home in a retirement village that was full of ex-cops from New York, Boston, Chicago, and other big city cold spots.

Bobby Lee had almost called him, but decided against it. For now he worked without a partner, even though he had the pick of the whole Special Investigations Unit to draw from. He'd thought of calling Charley, but looked at the time, and thought again. It was against department regs and flew in the face of common sense, but Bobby Lee only obeyed those things that made sense at the time, and what made sense was to get a different perspective on this case.

He'd bring Charley in on it. He could use that brain.

Charley had changed from their days in the Eighty Deuce. He'd been Charging Charley then, hard-core, and ready for the Special Forces Qualification Course. He'd done his best to try and talk Bobby Lee into it, but Bobby Lee had his mind on Max and a family, and so they'd gone their ways when it came time to re-up— Charley to Special Forces, Bobby Lee to Minneapolis and a job as a patrol officer. Bobby Lee had come a long way in ten years… from patrol officer to tactical officer on the ERU to detective sergeant.

So had Charley.

Even though he didn't talk much about it, Bobby Lee knew his old friend well enough, and a couple of sessions over long-neck beers had told him what he needed to know. Charley had done real well in his Q Course, and done well on the door-kicking team he was assigned to in Okinawa. But that door-kicking team had a close special relationship with the secretive Delta Force, and somebody there had dropped Charley's name when it got time for him to be short. Four years as a door kicker in Special Forces, and then Charley dropped off the map for a year, then reemerged with postcards sent to Bobby Lee and to his son Nicolas from all kinds of exotic locales: Venezuela, Honduras, El Salvador, Afghanistan, Russia, Chechnya, South Africa, Tajikistan, India, countries and cities all over the world with one thing in common— they were dirty, violent, and dangerous.

And then something happened. Bobby Lee didn't know what, but when he heard from Charley he knew something was up. That's when the forensic photographer position came up in discussion with the chief, and Bobby Lee sold them on his friend. A faxed résumé and portfolio of photographs had clinched the deal, and then Charley showed up, driving a beat-to-shit Toyota station wagon filled with some clothes, his cameras and negatives, his books, and an assortment of guns.

Bobby Lee knew about Charley's fondness for firearms, something that went back to their grunt days, but the weapons he had now all had certain things in common. Bobby Lee had expedited Charley's civilian carry permit, even though he knew Charley rarely exercised the privilege. The handguns were the choice of a seasoned professional who carried concealed for a reason, his few long guns were the choice of someone who might have to fight seriously at close quarters in an urban environment.

That and his reticence and habitual silence about what he'd done told Bobby Lee a lot.

But those snake eyes Charley got when he wanted to get in the middle of things told a lot as well.

Bobby Lee wanted to sound him out on this and hear what Charley made of it, but it was too late. Time to go, time to go home to Max and Nick, sleep and start it all over in the morning. He pushed his plate back and waved at the attentive waiter who brought him his check immediately. He paid his bill and left a healthy tip, then walked out to the parking lot with the file under his arm.

Time to go home.

As he pulled out of the lot, a motorcycle rider, crouched over his crotch rocket, zipped by him and took the turn onto Forty-fourth Street toward Lake Harriet. The rider glanced at him as he zipped by, then seemed to double take again, right before he made the turn.

Bobby Lee laughed out loud. The guy was speeding and probably saw the light panel in the back window of his unmarked squad as he was pulling out.

Everybody worried about the Pooooolice, as Bob Martinson used to say.

1.6

Alfie Woodard turned his jet-black Ninja motorcycle down Forty-fourth Street and slowed down after he saw the unmarked police car pull out of the restaurant parking lot. His side mirror showed him that the cop was going the other way on France Avenue, so he cranked back up the speed to the next stop sign, then zoomed again to the one after that, and then through the sole stoplight on Forty-fourth Street.

He liked riding his bike like this at night, speeding on his own, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

He took Forty-fourth all the way down to the Lake Harriet Parkway, turned right and cruised along the one-way street. Minneapolis reminded him of Cairns, in Queensland, Australia. Like Cairns, there were lots of people out at night, walking with no worries or cares, and in the day plenty of people biking, roller blading, enjoying themselves. The big difference was the weather; Alfie always felt cold here, no matter how many layers he wore. In September, when Minnesotans were running around in shorts and T-shirts, Alfie wore long underwear beneath his street clothes, a heavy shirt, and his leather jacket.

"Freeze me balls off," he said under his breath.

He followed the parkway around to Lake Calhoun Parkway, then up Hennepin for a short cruise to Calhoun Square. He parked his bike right in front of the square and went inside, leaving his helmet strapped to the seat of his bike. There was a coffee shop he favored right inside the Hennepin entrance, across from the bookstore.

"G'day, mate!" Alfie called to the young girl working the counter.

"Oh, hi, Alfie!" the girl said.

She was thin and dressed in Goth fashion: a snug-fitting black dress, black hair with black lipstick and multiple silver necklaces, bracelets, and rings.

"We're getting ready to close, do you want a coffee?" she said.

"Came all the way down here for one, mate. Do me one, will you?"

"Double shot mocha in a tall cup, right?"

"That's right, heavy on the whipping cream, me sweet tooth is acting up."

The Goth girl, Susan was her name, smiled and hurried to make Alfie his drink. Alfie turned and leaned back on the counter, both elbows propping him up as he looked over the shopping center. It was late, the shops were closed, and there was little foot traffic except that coming from the bar on the other side of the center.

"Here you are, Alfie," Susan said.

"Cheers, mate." Alfie handed her a five-dollar bill.

"It's on the house, Alfie."

He favored her with a big grin, then loosened his partial plate that hid his knocked-out right incisor, and stuck it out on his tongue at her, then clicked it back into place. She laughed out loud.

"Then fold it twice and tuck it in yer brassiere, Susan gal," he said.

"It'll buy me a beer at the Uptown," she said, doing just that.

"That's the place, then?" He pointed at the busy club across the street with a long line in front.

"I heard the Replacements might drop by and jam tonight," Susan said. "I'm going over. Want to go with?"

Alfie smiled, nodded his head vigorously, shaking his ponytail. "You're on, sheila."

* * *

Alfie cut to the front of the line and said to the bouncer, "Hey, mate! You wouldn't leave an Aussie out here in the bitter, would ya?"

The big man in the leather car coat grinned at Alfie's accent.

"We even got Foster's in there," the bouncer said. He waved Alfie and Susan through the door.

"Right, then! Thanks, mate! Ta!" Alfie ushered Susan through ahead of him.

"I can't believe you did that," Susan said.

"How's that?" Alfie said.

"He never lets anybody jump the line."

"Ah, he's all right. Let's crack a coldie, eh?"

Susan laughed and took his arm, rested her thin hand on his hard bicep. "What's that mean?"

"Get a cold one, dearie. You do drink beer, right?"

"I'll have a Foster's. What are you going to drink?"

"Susan, Foster's is piss. Really. Down under we all have a laugh with it… that's how you can tell the tourist from the locals when they open up calling for Foster's. I like this Sam Adams you've got here, hell even Budweiser is better than Foster's."

"Really?"

"Fair dinkum, mate."

She laughed out loud. "Then get me a beer and a bump, mate."

"Forward, aren't you?"

She bumped him with her hip. "That's American for a beer and a shot."

Alfie laughed and nodded his head in time with the bass player of the blues band jamming on the stage. "Whiskey, is it?"

"No, tequila for me."

"Oh, you're just my kind of woman." Alfie worked his way to the crowded bar. Several people looked twice at the small bone piercing his septum, and the several ear hoops in his left ear. Several other multiple-pierced Goths nodded to him. He didn't have the heavy metal piercing everywhere; just his nose and left ear. He wondered what they would think if they saw his scarification.

But then he didn't show his scars to everyone.

He ordered his drinks, handed the bartender a crisp bill from the roll he kept in his front pocket, and made his way back to where Susan stood, rocking her hips to the beat of the drums and the insistent bass line of the bass guitarist.

"Here then," he said, handing her a beer. He nodded at the band. "They're good, eh?"

"Some friends of mine are sitting over at that table. They're getting ready to leave to go to the CC Club. We can snag the table."

"Did you come to sit, darling? I came to drink and dance."

"Let's park our stuff."

Alfie led the way through the dancing crowd and the perimeter of standing people to the table she pointed out. A man and two women stood up as they got there, one of them brushing Susan's cheeks with the affectionate peck of friends who almost know each other.

"Thanks, Connie," Susan said.

Alfie nodded and smiled his big grin, then stuck his partial plate out at them. He loved the laughs that brought. He set his beer down and shrugged out of his heavy jacket and put it over the back of a chair, then turned to Susan and said, "How is it, then?" as he pulled her out onto the dance floor. They began to dance, Alfie throwing his big shoulders forward in a convulsive jerk, punctuated with a vigorous jerk of his hips again and again, his hands clenched in fists and his head thrown back, laughing out loud as he whirled around in circles. Susan laughed too as she watched the wild, uninhibited movements Alfie made, as though there were no one else on the dance floor. The other dancers made room for Alfie's wildly flailing arms and patent disregard for everyone around him. One big man, his head shaved close, with a goatee like that of a belligerent billy goat, danced with a tiny blonde with spiked blond hair who came up to his lower chest. He stopped and said to Alfie, "Make some room, man!"

Alfie ignored him.

"Make room!" the big man said.

Alfie nodded to the big man, took Susan's hand and spun her toward him once, then twirled her away. Alfie brushed against the big man, who pushed his shoulder, hard.

"Hey, mate, no worries, eh?" Alfie said, stepping back.

"I said make some room!"

"No worries, everybody just wants to have a good time, right?" Alfie said. He summoned up a fierce grin, his blood already hot and moving.

The big man looked at Alfie, the thickness of his shoulders and his relaxed stance and turned away, saying, "Aw right. Cool." He turned his back to Alfie and shrugged at his date.

Alfie turned back and took Susan's hand again and said, "Let's give the bloke some room, he's a tetchy sort."

They moved through the crowd to be closer to the stage, where the sweating bass player sprinkled the crowd every time he leaped up with his guitar. The floor vibrated with the heavy rhythm of dancing feet and the music.

They finished out the set, and while the band set down their instruments and left the small stage Alfie and Susan went back to their table to finish their beers and order a couple of glasses of water to rehydrate and wipe the sweat that ran down their faces.

"Can't remember the least bit of the time I last went dancing," Alfie said. "I think I had this much fun, but there's no telling."

"That guy was such a jerk," Susan said, nodding over at a table close by, where the big goateed man held court with several of his friends.

"No need for a bloody blue when we're having fun, is there?" Alfie said. "He'll give heaps with his mouth, but why should we let him bother us?"

The bartender went to the stage and started a tape on the sound system. An old tune from the sixties started up, and Alfie began to dance by himself beside their table while he mouthed the words till it got to the chorus he liked:

"I am the god of hellfire! And I bring you… fire! I bid you to burn!" he shouted out, to Susan's amusement.

"C'mon, let's dance," he said, tugging her back out onto the dance floor and going into his version of the twist.

"You're crazy!" Susan shouted as she joined him. "Completely out of your mind!"

"Oh, hell," he said. "You should see me when I get warmed up."

* * *

"Last call for alcohol!" the bartender shouted out. The band was breaking down and the lights came up, the too early sign of closing time. Alfie blinked rapidly as his pupils dilated to accommodate the sudden brightness.

"One for the road, Susan?" he asked.

"Not me, stick a fork in me, I'm done."

"Right then, let's hit the frog and toad?"

"What?"

"Let's hit the road."

Susan gathered up her purse and Alfie slung his jacket back on and they headed for the door. The big bruiser who'd given them a hard time earlier in the night followed them out the door. Alfie clocked him from the very moment and knew what was coming as they crossed the street to where he had his motorcycle parked and chained in front of Calhoun Square.

"Hey, Crocodile Dundee!" the bruiser called.

Alfie grinned, then let the smile drop away as he turned to see the bruiser, his girlfriend, and one other man dressed in snug leather. "Hey, mate, what can I do you for?"

"That your bike?"

"That's my trike, that's right, mate."

"You should learn the customs around here,
mate.
Like having some manners."

"No worries, mate. I'm not looking for a blue."

"A blue?"

"Any trouble," Alfie said. He noticed how the bruiser's buddy stood off at a ninety-degree angle to Alfie's right, ready to dive for him.

"Here, look," Alfie said. He reached for his pocket. "If it's any consolation I'll buy you a round, how about it?"

"I don't want your money," the big man said. He laughed. "Fucking Crocodile Dundee. I want…"

The time had come and Alfie was riding the crest just ahead of it, with perfect timing… he flicked his fingers out in a fan that struck the big man in his eyes, followed it with a quick cross square on the man's nose, then turned toward his friend, who started to close the gap, and jammed a low kick into the follower's knee, then grabbed his long hair and drove his face down into Alfie's leather-clad knee, pulping the nose, and then spun his head quickly round, just short of breaking his neck, and dumped him on his back. Back to the big man who stumbled back, his hands to his eyes, two quick stomping kicks to the outside of his right knee that brought him down, gave him the boot several times to the face and head, then onto the motorcycle with Susan clinging behind and starting it up and pulling a wheelie out and away, leaving the woman standing there screaming after him, "We're going to get you! We're going to get you!"

"Ah, bullshit," Alfie yelled back.

Susan laughed in drunken near hysteria. "That was great! You are absolutely insane!"

"Tell me where we're going, mate, 'cause I'm new in town."

"You're going to my place, Crocodile Dundee."

* * *

She was so drunk the sex was mechanical and perfunctory, which was fine with Alfie. It was all cover anyway. Her apartment just off France Avenue would be a good place to lay up for a while and spare him the exposure of a hotel room. He slipped a key off her key ring and quietly went out the door with a mumbled promise to the slumbering Susan that he'd be back.

He had a little reconnaissance to do before his next job, and Susan's place was a perfect staging point.

Time spent in reconnaissance is never time wasted. That was an ancient adage in the world of special operations, and Alfie Woodard had spent many years in that world. After a stint with the Australian Airborne, Alfie had passed the hellish selection course for the Special Air Services. He was one of the very few Aboriginals to work with the elite unit. He'd been a natural, something that the white troopers found interesting and more than slightly amusing. His performance in training and on the real world special operations deployments throughout Southeast Asia and while on secondment with the United States and other Australian allies had made believers, albeit grudging believers, out of his fellow troopers.