Linnear 01 - The Ninja (43 page)

Someone went running out into the surf, laughing. One could see heads bobbing in the water past the surf line. A woman in a one-piece swimsuit walked towards them, a bright beach towel slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. Nicholas thought of Justine, wondered where she’d gone.

‘Yeah, we’re old friends, the sand and I.’

The woman was close enough for them to see how beautiful she was. Her long hair had been streaked by the sun. She ran past them to meet her lover.

Croaker squinted up at the sun for a moment. ‘I threw Alison out of the house last night.’

Nicholas looked at him silently.

Croaker gave him a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Well, it wasn’t really like that. I think she wanted to go, too. Getting restless. Yeah. We both were.’ He stuffed his big hands in his trouser pockets. ‘It was bloodless. Relatively. She’ll get over it. These things’ - his shoulders lifted and fell - ‘you know, they pass and -‘

They both stopped at once as if on cue. The sea rolled up near them. Over the slight hump of sand lay a dark straggle of sea grape.

Croaker looked down at his shoes, half sunk in the sand. When he looked up, he said, ‘Nick, Vincent’s dead. They found him last night.’ He didn’t say where. ‘His neck had been broken.”

Nicholas took a deep breath and sat down in the sand. He wrapped his arms round his legs, stared out to sea.

‘Nick…’

He felt numb, as if his brain had been anaesthetized. He recalled Doc Deerforth talking about pain. This seemed more than enough. This was the day of Terry’s and Ei’s funeral.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus.’

Croaker crouched down next to him. ‘Nick,’ he said gently, ‘there was no other way to tell you. There was the phone but I couldn’t do that.’

Nicholas nodded. Through the numbness, he understood. Croaker had recognized the debt he owed him. He appreciated the fact that the Lieutenant had come all the way out here when he only had to have someone pick up a phone and dial. He remembered that the two had had dinner last night and wondered if this was, in part, Vincent’s legacy. If so, it was a fitting one.

‘Nick,’ Croaker said. He hesitated.

Nicholas’s gaze swung round. ‘What’s going on? You have to tell me.’ ‘I don’t know. What do you mean? I - look, Tomkin’s involved. Up to his armpits. He received a ninja warning about a week ago. It fits in. I’ve seen it. It’s authentic. He has a lot of business deals with a number of high-powered Japanese firms. No one’s very buddy-buddy in business, least of all them. He crossed them in some way. Anyhow, it’s a mortal offence he’s committed. There’s no doubt they’ve sent one over to kill him.’

‘It’s been tried before. Tomkin’s a grown-up bastard -now. He doesn’t need your help.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Without me, he’s a dead man.’

‘But it makes no sense, don’t you see? The two deaths out here, the three in the city. None have any link with Tomkin.’

‘They must have,’ Nicholas said, stubbornly. ‘Look, he’s even made an attempt to frighten Justine.’ He told Croaker about the furred thing thrown through the kitchen window.

Croaker looked at him for a moment. Beyond, he could hear the surf hissing as it sucked at the beachfront. The sounds of laughter were bright and brittle as if they were made to be broken.

‘What if,’ Croaker said slowly, ‘that message wasn’t meant for Justine.’

Nicholas stared at Croaker.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think it’s time we faced the facts. I think that warning was meant for you.’

Nicholas gave a short, sharp laugh. For me? Oh, don’t be idiotic. There’s no reason -‘

‘There must be,’ Croaker said earnestly. ‘Look at the pattern. The two deaths out here. Terry and Eileen. Now Vincent in the city. You’re the central point to all the deaths.’

‘I didn’t know the second man out here.’

‘No, but the murder happened close to you.’

‘Lew, they happened close to a lot of people.’

‘But only to one who’s had three friends murdered subsequently.”

It was logical of course, but, Nicholas knew, logic was often not the answer.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I can buy it. As I said, there’s no reason. ‘It’s a smoke-screen.’

‘A hell of a smoke-screen!’ Croaker snorted.

‘It wouldn’t matter to him, don’t you see? He must know that I’m involved through Justine. I’m the danger to him, not you, or Tomkin’s muscle. He knows that. No, he’s after Tom-kin, plain and simple. He’s just trying to muddy the water.”

Croaker held up a hand. ‘Okay, okay. It was just a theory. But I gotta tell you, I hope you’re right because I cared a hell of a lot more about Vincent Ito than I do about Raphael Tom-kin.’

Nicholas looked at him. It was as close as they both could come to the outward recognition of their friendship. He smiled. “Thanks. That means a lot - to me. I know it would to Vincent, too.’

They stood up. Croaker had kept his suit jacket on despite the-heat of the day. Now he was sweating profusely and he shrugged out of it. His thin white shirt was stained with sweat. ‘ ‘You ready to go back?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘One thing, Lew.’ He hesitated.

‘Shoot.’

‘You may not want to tell me.’

“Then I won’t. Okay?’

Nicholas smiled. ‘Okay.’ They began to walk up the beach towards Croaker’s car. ‘What is it between you and Tom-kin?’

Croaker opened the door, slung his jacket onto the back seat. He got in behind the wheel. He had parked in the shade but the interior was still hot. Nicholas got in on the passenger’s side and Croaker started the engine.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I might not want to tell you. And a few days ago, I wouldn’t have.’ He made a broken U-turn, began to drive up Dune Road towards the bridge across the canal. ‘But everything’s different now and I guess I figure if I can’t trust you, there ain’t nobody to trust, and I can’t live my life like that.’

They rumbled across the bridge, heading past the houses and the small bobbing boats with their stowed outboard motors, towards the highway.

‘You know about the Didion thing.’

Nicholas was surprised. ‘You mean the murder of dial model? Sure, but only what was spread across the papers. I used to see her in practically every magazine I picked up.’

‘Yeah,’ Croaker said meditatively. ‘Beautiful lady. Just beautiful. Like they invented the word for her.’

‘It sounds like -‘

‘Nah. Not what you think.’ They swung onto the highway and Croaker picked up speed. The wind was still hot enough to keep them from cooling off. ‘But it struck me, you know, that this girl’s a person just like everyone else. All anyone thinks of is the image, you know? Her face, her body like that; the facade. No one would stop to think that she might be just as fucked up as all the rest of us, huh? That she belched after a good meal; dial she might fart once in a while. Human things.’

He switched lanes, avoiding a blue and white bus, its diesel exhaust asphyxiating. He jammed his horn as they came abreast, then they were shooting away westward.

‘Then she was dead and everybody was making a stink. She was a celebrity and responsible for a helluva lot of bread, not to mention the hold she had on a multiple million fantasies. But nobody, I guarantee you, said: There’s another life stupidly wasted. Well, buddy, dial’s what I thought about when I stood there in the middle of her bedroom and looked at her cool body. I thought: She’s a human being and I want to know who did this to her.’ He shrugged. ‘But, hell, I’d do the same for any two-bit whore who got knocked over. Done it mucho times. Doesn’t go down well with my captain. But, shit, I never cared a rat’s ass about that fucker. “A waste of the taxpayer’s money, Croaker,” he’d say to me. “Find something more valuable to do with your time.” Jesus!’ He hit the steering-wheel with his fist. ‘Can you beat that? Christ, that bastard’s always got one finger in his nose and the other up his ass!

‘Anyway, this case turns out to be the ballbuster of all time. I mean, there isn’t one goddamned break. All I get is mystery and for that I can go to the movies.

‘From what I .get from her bedroom, there was someone else there that night. A woman. A woman who had, it appeared, been intimate with Angela Didion and who might conceivably have seen the murder being committed. Only problem is, she’s disappeared as if she’d never existed.

‘So I’m left with nada and the papers are screaming for a solution, which puts the commissioner to screaming at Captain Finnigan, who - but why belabour the point, right? You get the picture.’

They turned off before the multiple exits leading to Manhattan and, in a slow curving glide, moved onto Queens Boulevard. The westbound traffic was only moderate and they made good time.

‘Two or three uniforms went through the building doing preliminary checks - seeing who saw what. But it being the Actium House, they were told to step softly and whisper at all times. The result they come back with is nobody knows nothing.

‘Okay. Fair enough. But a week later, with everyone screaming^for blood - my blood - I decide to take a peek myself. To give you the Reader’s Digest version so you won’t fall asleep from boredom on me, it turns out that the uniform assigned to canvass Angela Didion’s floor missed one tenant. Turns out she was away when he came round and had just come back. A little careful digging turns up the interesting fact that she left the morning after the murder - early - -for Palm Springs. She stayed for seven days and then returned. She was an older woman. In her late fifties but looking a good ten years older. An alcoholic. I interviewed her at ten in the morning and her breath stank of gin. Her hands shook and she couldn’t stop herself from going to the bottle while I was there.’

He turned off Queens Boulevard at Yellowstone Boulevard, went soudi. They were in Forest Hills.

‘But even more interesting was that she swore she saw a man visit Angela Didion - the same man - over the past six months. It might have been going on longer. Six months is when she became aware of him. Apparently there was a fight there one night and from then on she kept a sharp lookout through her door peephole. Nothing better to do with her time.’ He pulled up in front of a medium-sized one-storey building

with a white brick facade. It had dark green, rather ginger-bready trim. A swinging sign on the lawn at the front, black on white, read: PARKSIDE FUNERAL HOME. A large shade elm stood on the other side of the lawn. The wooden doors stood open. As they sat there, several people walked inside. Nicholas recognized one of the do jo’s instructors.

‘She gave me a detailed description of the man, Nick. There’s no doubt he’s Raphael Tomkin.’

‘So Tomkin was having an affair with Angela Didion. It’s not that surprising, two high-powered people living in the same apartment building. Could she place him there the night of the murder?’

Croaker looked towards the elm. It rustled slightly in a warm desultory breeze. ‘She’s afraid of flying,’ he said finally. ‘She took a chloral hydrate with a large slug of gin and passed out at 6 p.m. She didn’t get up until about five the next morning.’

‘When she left for Key West.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Croaker turned to him. ‘But I know what I know. I’ve checked and rechecked the movements of all her known intimates. It was Tomkin, all right.’

‘You’ve got no proof, Lew,’ Nicholas said. ‘You’ve got nothing.’

‘Less than nothing, buddy,’ Croaker said morosely. He got out of the car and Nicholas followed him up the flagstone path to the funeral home.

Another of the dojo’s instructors stopped Nicholas on the steps, said several words to him. Nicholas nodded.

‘Listen,’ Croaker said, pulling Nicholas close to him and lowering his voice, ‘the Didion case is officially closed. Finis. Kaput. I got the word the other day from jellybelly Finnigan. This came right from the top; no one would be stupid enough to grease his mick palm.’

‘Are you saying the police were bought off?”

‘What I’m telling you is that if I had any lingering doubts as to Tomkin’s complicity in this, they went bye-bye with that order to shut down. Very few people can command that kind of strict hush. He’s one of ‘em.’ His voke was a harsh whisper now, sibilant, ledial. ‘But now I got a lead. One of my contacts came through with a make on the other woman in Angela

Didion’s apartment the night of the murder. I’m waiting for her name and address. When they come dirough, I’m gonna nail that sonovabitch’s hide to the goddamned wall.’

The service was brief but expressive, half in English, half in Japanese. But it was, basically, an American ceremony, which they had both wanted. Nicholas had been asked to eulogize both Terry and Eileen and he did so. He spoke in Japanese. There was music. A couple, friends of Eileen’s. They were professionals and it showed. They played traditional Japanese music on f(oto and sha\uhachi. And there were the traditional flowers.

Croaker waited until they had walked away from the graveyard. Behind them, the workmen were beginning to fill in the graves. There seemed to be no sound as the brown earth filled the spaces.

‘Nick,’ he said, ‘what do the names Hideoshi, Yodogimi and Mitsunari mean to you?’

^^Nicholas stopped and turned away from the sun. He did not want to put on his sunglasses. ‘They’re famous names out of Japanese history. Why?’

Croaker seemed to ignore the question. ‘Could they be people who are alive today?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Sure. They’re family names. But those threeare linked together by history. The chances -‘

‘I see what you mean.’

Past’ them, along the black macadam road, a car door slammed and a motor coughed into life, the sound seeming to float on the hot air. Plane and maple trees rustled their leaves by the side of the padi they were on. The heat was mounting.

‘You’d better tell me what this is all about.’

Croaker reached inside his coat pocket. He handed over a thin folded slip of what looked like scratch paper. As Nicholas opened it, he said, ‘I found this when I was going through Terry’s effects the M.E. gave me. It was in his pocket. It might have been made the night he was killed.’

‘So?’

‘So there was a man - a Japanese - at the dojo the afternoon