Giri (29 page)

Decker turned the key, pushed the door open and stepped inside Michi’s apartment. After closing the door behind him he switched on the light and walked to the edge of the sunken living room. The smell of cigar smoke was still fresh in the air. The silver ashtray was missing from the coffee table. Whoever was hiding in the master bedroom had taken the ashtray with him. The bedroom door, which Decker had closed yesterday, was
almost
closed today. Cracked just enough to allow someone to peek out

Decker concentrated. Mail left on the coffee table yesterday was still there. A shoji screen was not where he remembered it and the two
ikebana
vases in the
tokonoma,
the alcove, were slightly closer together than they should be. Decker had surprised someone.

The detective tossed the mail onto the coffee table and took off his overcoat, folding it over his right arm. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and moved the folded overcoat to his front. Slowly, he crossed the sunken living room and moved toward the bedroom, which stood at the head of a narrow hallway leading to more rooms. Before he reached the bedroom the door swung open slowly and a man in a porkpie hat and knee-length leather coat eased out into the hall. Both hands were in his pockets.

Both hands came out slowly. One was empty, the other held a badge.

“Police. We’d like to see some identification.”

“We?”

“My partner. Behind you.”

Decker looked to his left and down the hall. A second man had stepped from a bathroom. He was young, not over thirty and powerfully built, with wide shoulders, a thick neck and drooping blond mustache. He wore jeans, boots and a heavy white woolen sweater. He approached Decker tapping the palm of one hand with a rubber-handled screwdriver. Decker smelled trouble.

He looked back at the eight-hundred-dollar leather coat “Cop, you said. Like to see that badge again.”

“I just showed you my badge, Mr. …”

“Decker’s the name.”

“Decker. We’re here officially.”

“Oh? Let’s see your potsy.”

Leather jacket turned an ear toward Decker as though he hadn’t heard correctly.

“Potsy,” he repeated, pulling his overcoat from the hand that held his .38. “Means shield. Badge. A cop would know that.”

Decker took his badge and ID from an inside jacket pocket and identified himself. With his gun hand he motioned the guy in the white sweater closer. “You guys are good. Two first-class locks on that door and you walked right through them. Probably didn’t come in through the front lobby, either. What did you use, freight elevator? Basement garage?”

Leather Jacket filled his cheeks with air and blew it out through his mouth. “Whoo boy. My horoscope said be careful in meeting new people today.”

Decker turned his head to the right and dodged the screwdriver hurled at his left temple—but not in time to avoid a painful blow to his cheekbone. In the same motion White Sweater dropped to the floor on his right side under Decker’s gun hand, kicked up with his left foot His boot heel smashed into the detective’s right wrist. The gun went flying. White Sweater had reason to be confident. He had martial arts training and he was good.

The kick numbed Decker’s right arm. Hot needles scraped at every nerve and fiber. But when he saw Leather Jacket a few feet away, bending down, reaching for Decker’s gun, his training said ignore the pain. Face sticky with his own blood, his right arm on fire, he leaped forward and kicked Leather Jacket in the ribs, once, twice, lifting him off the floor and sending him backward into the wall.

Decker turned to face the other guy just in time. He moved like a cat, his eyes never leaving Decker. Whoever had trained the son of a bitch had trained him well. He took one long step, then leaped sideways high in the air, feet drawn up close to his buttocks. In midair he lashed out with his right leg in a side-thrust kick, the leg stretched to its limit boot heel reaching toward Decker’s face.

Decker felt the rush of air as the leg passed within inches of his head, then whirled around to see the big man land out of range, on his feet, knees and ankles bent for excellent balance. And then he was facing Decker again, body sideways, inching forward, eyes locked with Decker’s eyes, each man looking for an opening to exploit.

White Sweater aimed a kick at Decker’s groin to bring the detective’s hands down in defense, then quickly spun around, back to Decker, and threw a high kick at his head. Decker retreated, kneading his right arm.

He flexed his fingers, squeezed his fist, felt the feeling and strength returning. Then he kicked twice, aiming low, going for a knee, an ankle. The big man backed up, but not far. Just out of Decker’s range. He wasn’t running. This guy was a thinking fighter.

But he had overlooked his partner. Behind him, Leather Jacket struggled to get to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ribs and hugging himself with both arms. He was halfway off the floor, back against the wall before he said, “Fuck it,” and slid down the wall back onto the floor, and into his partner, clipping him from behind at the ankles.

Off balance and arms flailing, White Sweater looked down at his partner, his back to the detective. This was Decker’s chance. With his right foot he pushed hard behind the big man’s knee, driving him to the floor. Now he had his man where he wanted him.

Moving quickly, Decker applied the choke. With his right arm around White Sweater’s throat, right hand deep and thumb inside, left hand under the big man’s left armpit and over the left shoulder, Decker threw himself backward to the floor, pulling White Sweater with him. Then the detective wrapped his legs around the big man’s hips and thighs and, holding him in place, began choking him, pushing the edge of the left hand into his neck, pulling the right hand into the other side of the neck, across the throat, to cut off the brain’s supply of oxygen.

Decker held his grip just long enough; didn’t want to turn the guy into a vegetable. His victim fought, wriggled, clawed at Decker’s arms. And then weakened. When Decker felt the man’s muscles relax, Decker released his grip, pushed the now unconscious man to one side, and retrieved his gun. Then he bent down and patted Leather Jacket. No gun. But he was carrying a very interesting ID.

Leather Jacket’s name was Jay Pearlman. Decker eyed him. “Both of you work for Management Systems Consultants?”

Pearlman, eyes closed, kept both hands on his right side. “Yeah.”

“Where is he?” Decker asked.

“Where is who?” Pearlman said. “Shit, I think you broke something.”

“The brains of this outfit. Muscles over there isn’t the type to give orders. And you’re not carrying cigars.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

“Want me to kick a hole in your other side? Don’t play dumb. You weren’t supposed to get caught at this, remember? I’m talking about the man who smokes those expensive Cuban cigars I smell. You don’t and something tells me the man lying there with the twenty-eight-inch neck doesn’t either. Now who smokes Cuban cigars and is the best wiretapper in Manhattan?”

Decker turned around to face the bedroom. “
Oye,
Felix, get your garlic-eating ass out here.”

The bedroom door opened again and a small, smiling Cuban, cigar clenched between white teeth, stepped into the hall. He was well dressed, three-piece gray suit, tie, a Burberry topcoat over one arm. An attaché case was in the other hand. “Decker, my friend.
Como está?
”

“Felix.”

They knew each other, the wiretapper and the detective, had even worked together. Felix Betancourt, fiftyish and patrician, nicknamed Elegante for his manners and bearing, was an electronics genius. He’d had a hand in the Bay of Pigs, Watergate and several other top political scandals. He had worked for the CIA, FBI, State Department, both major political parties and the biggest multinational corporations. He had also worked for Washington and New York newspapers, labor unions, New York police and organized crime. MSC had him on a six-figure annual retainer. At a time when information was the most valued of all currencies, Felix Betancourt was king.

For all his elegant ways, Felix was thoroughly amoral, always for sale to the highest bidder. But it didn’t stop Decker from liking him.

“Like your tie, Felix.”

The Cuban looked at it. “Two hundred dollars. Handmade. Special silk. They feed the worms oak leaves, nothing else. Gets you that nice brown color.” He looked at the unconscious man in the white sweater. “I told him you were good, but he say bullshit. He say he can take you with his eyes closed.”

“His eyes are closed now.”

Felix grinned. “You’re right about that, my friend. Toby here say he trains with Robbie Ambrose, who is a champion. He tell me he was going to turn your asshole inside out.”

“What’s in the attaché case, Felix?”

The Cuban took the cigar from his small mouth and shrugged.

Decker said, “Empty it on the living room coffee table and when you’re finished you and your friends here can take out all the bugs, taps and transmitters you planted. You better not miss one, because tomorrow I’m having one of your competitors come in here and sweep the place from top to bottom. And if he finds so much as a single strand of wire—”

Felix smiled. “Decker, my friend, I know when to cut my losses. We are professionals, you and I. I take out all the stuff, you see.”

The man on the floor moaned, stirred.

The Cuban said, “I do not mean to pry, my friend, but you had the key to this place. Does that mean the lady is a friend of yours? If I had known that I would not have taken the job.”

“Felix, you’d bug Christ’s tomb if there was money in it. Go in the living room and open your case. And put that ashtray back where you found it.”

Twenty minutes later Decker sat alone in Michi’s apartment and tried to figure it all out.
Molise’s people are going all out to nail the guy who killed Paul Molise. At the moment that’s all they’re doing. Wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t put MSC on it as well.

To protect Michi he had let Felix and his friends walk. No sense calling any more attention to her than was necessary. Felix had taken some of Michi’s letters, personal papers, a passport and company files. Nothing a jury would convict him for, assuming he ever came to trial. Lawyers for Felix and MSC could delay the trial for two years or more and by that time the offense of snatching a handful of papers wouldn’t exactly alarm a jury.

It had to be Sparrowhawk. He ran MSC. But he was supposed to be finding out who burned Paulie, nothing else. Did he and the Molise family think Michi had anything to do with that? Decker shuddered, threw his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. Could he keep Michi alive if Sparrowhawk and the mob wanted her dead?”

During the past six years Decker had hidden from the women in his life. And in time he began to be fooled by his own designs, as distanced from his feelings as the women he kept at arm’s length. After all, eventually deception becomes self-deception. He had accepted it, every bit of it, and it hadn’t mattered a rat’s ass one way or another. Until Michi.

With her return, he had begun to live. He had become vulnerable. He had committed himself. With her, he had everything to hope for. And everything to lose.

He sat in the apartment until the early December darkness fell, his mind chasing shadows and fighting fear.

At 5:32 that evening Sparrowhawk and Robbie strode briskly across the crowded sidewalk to the limousine that would drop Robbie off in midtown and take Sparrowhawk home to Connecticut. Robbie was the first to notice the man standing beside the chauffeur.

Then Sparrowhawk looked up. God in heaven. Decker. A rather rude shock indeed.

Decker said, “Back off Michelle Asama. Don’t bug her apartment, don’t bird-dog her, don’t open her mail, don’t come near her.”

Sparrowhawk’s eyes became slits. “May I ask if this is official?”

“Ask.”

“Is this official? I mean, she’s not under arrest or in protective custody or—”

“It’s not official.”

“I didn’t think so. By the way, heard you injured two of my men today. Aren’t you getting a bit carried away with your prowess?”

“One of your men attempted to put out my eye with a screwdriver.”

“Pity. And you didn’t arrest them.” Sparrowhawk looked at Robbie. “Imagine that. Someone tries to turn him into a Cyclops and he doesn’t arrest them.” He looked at Decker. “Now, let me get this straight. Any involvement with Miss Asama is strictly unofficial, not part of your professional duties.”

Decker shifted uneasily. He was beginning to regret having come down here.

Sparrowhawk sensed his uncertainty. “Since this is unofficial, detective sergeant—”

“Personal.” The minute he’d said it, Decker knew it was a mistake.

Sparrowhawk raised both eyebrows. “Personal, is it? Ah, that puts an even different light on the subject matter. Personal, Robbie. Did you catch that?”

“Sure did, major.”

“Tell me, detective sergeant, does this mean I don’t have to take you seriously? After all, what do you and I have between us that could be called
personal?
Now, Robbie, he handles my personal confrontations, don’t you, lad?”

“Anytime, major. Anytime. Me and Detective Sergeant Decker we met personal a couple of times.”

Sparrowhawk rubbed his jaw and frowned in mock thought. “Ah yes, I seem to recall those two occasions. Yes, it’s all coming back to me now.”

Decker looked at Robbie. The one man who had shaken his confidence, who had driven him out of tournament fighting. Suddenly the wounds from those two defeats were bleeding again, the pain returning. And Decker now knew that the fear had never really gone away.

He forced himself to speak. “You heard me. Leave her alone.”

Sparrowhawk said, “May I please be allowed to enter my car?”

Decker stepped aside and the chauffeur opened the back door. Sparrowhawk entered first. Robbie, close behind, put a foot in the car, stopped and, turning toward Decker, shook his head sadly, knowing that he didn’t have to threaten Decker or challenge him.

Because Robbie was better. It was that simple.

He touched the golden stud in his ear and stepped into the limousine.