Authors: John Donohue
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Kage
“Dr. Burke, yes,” he purred. “Lori Westmann mentioned
you might be by.”
He leaned back in a high-backed desk chair. The leather
groaned in luxurious understatement. Roberts regarded me
pleasantly, silently, his bright blue eyes amused either at me or
at life in general.
“Good,” I said. “I’m finishing up some consulting work for
Ms. Westmann and she indicated that you are the custodian of
Eliot Westmann’s archives.”
“Ahh, Eliot,” Roberts sighed. “What a gift the man had! I
say it not only as someone who became his good friend over
the years, Dr. Burke, but as an individual with some consider-
able experience with the range of literary talent out there in the
world.” He looked at me knowingly.
“Do you have any insight on the authenticity of some of his
work?” I said. It couldn’t hurt to ask, and at this point anything
would be better than what I had.
He looked at me with a sly expression. “Dr. Burke. Really!
One doesn’t question talent. One celebrates it.” He licked his
lips as if savoring the remembered taste of a delicacy. “It was
my privilege to represent Eliot Westmann and transform his
amazing talent and vision into a considerable writing career.”
It was your privilege to get fifteen percent of whatever deals you
could cut
. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t interested in telling
me anything.
“OK,” I said slowly, drawing the sound out as I thought.
“Perhaps you could arrange for me to get into the archives so I
can do some cross-checking on things for my report?”
“Dr. Burke,” he beamed, “nothing would give me more per-
sonal pleasure…” He paused significantly. “Unfortunately, I’m
under rather emphatic instructions that the Westmann literary
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archives are not to be opened for anyone at this time.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “Ms. Westmann was supposed to
make arrangements. There must be some mistake.”
“Oh, no mistake,” he said, his voice suggesting sympathy,
certainty, and a total lack of real engagement. “I met in person
with Ms. Westmann just this morning and she was very defi-
nite as only she can be.” He smiled brightly.
“She’s here in New York?” I asked, confused.
“Oh, indeed.” He smoothly passed me an envelope. “She
instructed that you be provided with this final… gratuity and
that you be informed that your services are no longer needed.”
He stood up, carefully buttoned his jacket and made sure that
the line of his expensive suit fell with appropriate elegance
around his figure.
“She’s here in New York?” I repeated. My mouth often con-
tinues to function when the brain stops.
“Oh, yes. We’re lunching today with our publisher to cele-
brate the re-issue of Eliot’s seminal works.” He pushed a button
on his phone console and ushered me toward the door. “Really,
a pleasure meeting with you, Dr. Burke. My charming assistant
will see you out…” He gave a jovial wave and, as I left, disap-
peared back behind his office door, which snicked closed with
a definite, firm, yet elegant sound.
“So she cut ya loose,” my brother Micky said. “What did
you expect?”
“I dunno,” I shrugged. “I figured she’d at least insist that I
finish the report.”
He and Art were sitting across from me in a restaurant
booth, eyeing me like I was an exhibit at the freak show.
Art is burlier and seems more easy going than my brother,
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but differences in size and coloring and temperament are irrel-
evant: they’ve been partners a long time and share a certain
unique perspective.
“So what’s the problem?” Art began. “My poor wayward
child. Always so down.” He took an appreciative sip from a pint
of beer. Since they had transformed themselves from homicide
cops to security consultants, Art and Mick’s hours were a bit
more normal. They had gotten a plum contract working as
trainers with the NYPD’s new counter-terrorism unit. The pay
was excellent, there was no overtime, and they were determined
to enjoy the experience.
“Let’s see what’s good about this.” Art held up a thick
hand and began ticking things off on his fingers. “You got an
extended, all-expenses paid trip to Tucson, golden resort capital
of the sunny Southwest…”
“You also got paid,” Micky added.
Art frowned at the intrusion. “You were asked to put the
fine yet obscure skills you have honed through years of higher
education to use,” he continued.
“And the fact that anyone would pay you to do that is a
minor miracle,” Micky cackled.
Art held up a third finger. “Although there appeared to
be certain… uh, let’s say bumpy spots, there was none of the
carnage typically associated with your unescorted forays into
investigations…”
“And you got paid,” Micky reminded me.
I nodded and took a first, appreciative sip from my glass. It
was a black and tan, a smooth, creamy mix of ale and stout. I
think of it as the chocolate milk of beer—so good and so good
for you. I looked from one man to the other. Art smiled and
nodded at me encouragingly.
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“But something about this doesn’t make sense, though,” I
fumed.
Micky snorted. He and Art had spent years in homicide,
where logic was typically not a major factor in the commission
of crime. But he held his tongue and let me continue.
“I mean, think about this. Lori Westmann hires me to
investigate whether her father was murdered…”
“Ah, the Asian Assassins Theory,” Art said appreciatively.
“The Yellow Peril,” my brother added.
“Ninja with knives,” Art countered.
“Guys, please,” I started, but I knew it as too late. Micky and
Art are vintage movie buffs. For two people so well grounded
in reality, they possess a tremendous knack for relating almost
anything to old cinema.
“Reminds me of Warner Oland,” Art said. “
The Jade
Mask…
”
“
The Shanghai Cobra,
” my brother suggested. “That Char-
lie Chan. A model for us all.” He shook his head appreciatively.
Then he saw the look on my face and stopped. “Look,” he
said in a more serious tone of voice, “I made some calls. Fio-
rella checks out. He was a good, solid cop. If he didn’t smell
anything out of the ordinary, the death was probably what it
seemed.”
“Death by vodka,” Art concluded. “No need for assassins.
The guy essentially killed himself.”
“Then why waste money on an investigation?” I asked.
“Why me?”
They looked at each other, a silent flash of communication
where shared knowledge was acknowledged and some sort of
decision was made. Art reached into the bowl of peanuts on
the table and methodically broke open the shell, shook out
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the nuts, and ate them. He had big, thick hands and the tops
were covered with pale freckles. Micky drank his beer and
watched me.
Art had a few more nuts, the dark wooden table before him
growing littered with the paper-thin husks from the peanuts,
and then began. “Well, let’s see. In the first place, what this
Westmann woman has you do is not a reconstruction of the
alleged crime. Instead she sends you off on a trip through this
dead guy’s writing: mystery and martial arts mumbo-jumbo,
right?”
“Far as I can tell, he was making it up,” I explained. “He
did a lot of research, then concocted a story and cut and pasted
a variety of facts culled from the sources to make it sound
plausible.”
“So you can see why she’d choose you,” Micky commented.
“You’ve got the background…” but the tone in his voice sug-
gested something more.
Art supplied it. “But you’re not exactly mainstream, are
you, Connor?” I started to protest, but he held up a calming
hand. “I’m not saying this is a bad thing. But look at it from
her perspective. You’re academically qualified but not part of
the academic establishment.”
I had to admit that this was true. I had been run out of
academia on a rail for some of my extra-curricular activities.
And most of my energies these days were focused on running
the
dojo
with Yamashita.
“So from Lori Westmann’s perspective,” Micky added, “you
were perfect. I mean, most specialists thought the guy was a
fraud, right?”
“Sure. I did, too.”
Micky waved that fact away. “She was looking at it from a
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different angle. Your credentials would stand up to scrutiny.
Most importantly, you seemed available for hire…”
“And when people like her hire you,” Art told me signifi-
cantly, “what they’re really thinking is that they’ve bought you.”
“You mean that she expected me to cook my findings to
support her murder theory?”
“Uh, gee, ya think?” Micky said sarcastically.
“Put it all together, Connor,” Art said. “This lady thinks her
father was murdered. Does she pester the cops? No. She asks
some Asian specialist to write a report that would substantiate
her wacky Asian assassin theory.”
“She never asked me to do that,” I started.
“Not in so many words,” Art agreed. “But again. People like
this have expectations. They pay. You play.”
“What happened when your research started to poke holes
in things?” Micky asked.
“She was pretty steamed,” I said.
“And she got rid of you pretty quickly, too,” Art reminded
me.“So what was the point?” I pressed.
Micky signaled the waitress for another round. Art mutely
held up the empty peanut basket for her to see that he needed
a refill there as well.
“I wondered that, too,” my brother said. “But the visit with
the agent pretty much clears everything up.”
“How so?”
Art reached out and touched my arm. “It wasn’t about her
father, Connor. It was about his books…” They both looked
at me expectantly, waiting for the light to go on over my head.
I saw it then. I was a minor player in Lori Westmann’s gam-
bit to revitalize interest in her father’s writing. If she could create
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some controversy, the chances were greater that she could sell
the idea of reissuing his works. For Lori Westmann, her father
was a literary property, not a person. My research was supposed
to contribute toward the PR machine.
“So when it didn’t work out with my research, she decided
to cut her losses?” I commented. “Pursue other avenues?”
“In today’s fast-moving world, the successful manager is
nothing if not flexible,” Art intoned.
“And I guess it worked out for her, based on what the agent
said to you,” Micky said.
I shrugged in acceptance. “Man. People are such a
disappointment.”
“Tremendously predictable and yet always a surprise,”
Micky told me in a tone that hinted at vast experience.
We sat and drank for a while, talking about nothing in par-
ticular. Art cracked his way through the basket of peanuts and
was finally reduced to poking through the broken shells for any
fugitive nuts that might have been overlooked.
“OK,” I finally said, “but there’s still something that bugs
me…”
“I knew this was coming,” my brother said.
I ignored him. “From what I could see from Eliot West-
mann’s most recent journals, he was fascinated with Native
American mysticism. The lure of the desert and all that stuff.
He was working with that guy Xochi.”
“The guy who called the banditos off you?” Art commented.
“Yeah. The journal is filled with descriptions of ancient
settlements and obscure desert trails that crisscross the bor-
der down there. I wonder whether he hadn’t stumbled onto
something…”
“We see lots of stuff from the Homeland Security guys,”
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Micky said. “There’s a lot of activity going on down there.
Knowledge of multiple smuggling routes that are not heavily
used would be valuable to any number of people. Maybe that
guy Xochi was up to something. Maybe he just bailed you out
of a bad situation because he knew you were working for Lori
Westmann and didn’t want the attention your demise would
attract.”
“Sometimes things are not what they appear,” Art explained.
“But sometimes they are. You may have just wandered into
something. An accident. Like a tourist inadvertently walking
into the wrong part of town.”
“Stuff happens,” Micky shrugged. “It had an exotic locale…”
“
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
,” Art interjected.
“… and so it sticks in your mind. But just be happy you got
out in one piece, and now you’re back here where you belong.”
I knew what they were trying to tell me, but something
nagged at me about the whole situation. It was like the feeling