Authors: J. D. Robb
“Leave that to me,” Whitney told her. He studied the sketches. “You'd have to say brothers. The resemblance is too strong otherwise. Or your witness projected the resemblance.”
“Yancy was thorough. He's standing by the composites. Brothers isn't far out of reach, sir, considering the smoothness of the teamwork. Twins, as they appear to be, often have a close, almost preternatural bond.”
“We'll give them adjoining cages when you bring them in.”
Brothers they were, a unit of beliefs, desires, and training. Machines. Though they were human, though they ran on blood, humanity was lost in them.
The obsession of one was the obsession of the other.
They rose at the same hour every day, retired at the same hour in their identical rooms. They ate the same food, worshipped the same gods, in a sychronicity of discipline and objective.
They shared the same cold, harsh love for each other that each would have termed loyalty.
Now, as one worked, sweat streaming down his face while he executed punishing squats and lunges on his injured leg, the other sat at a command console, pale eyes tracking screens. The room where they worked had no windows and a single door. It contained an emergency underground exit, and the capability for self-destruct should their security be compromised.
It was outfitted with enough supplies to last two men a full year. Once, they had planned to use it as both shelter and command post when the primary vision of the organization they both had served had been met, and the city above was in their hands.
Now, it was shelter and command post for a more personal vision.
They had worked together for the larger cause for nearly a decade, and this more personal one for six years. They had seen the larger fractured, scattered. But the smaller, the personal, they would complete. Whatever the cost.
One stopped, sweat still dripping as he reached for a jug containing filtered water and electrolytes.
“How's the leg?” his brother asked.
“Eighty percent. A hundred by tomorrow. Bastard cop was fast.”
“Now he's dead. We'll terminate more, strike the other locations, but that can wait until we've hit the primary target.”
On one of the screens, Nixie's young face smiled out at the spartan room and the two men who wanted her life.
“They might have moved her out of the city.”
His brother shook his head. “Dallas would want her close. All the probabilities indicate she's still in the city. Cops coming and going out of Dallas's home location, but the probabilities are low that she'd take the target there. But she'll be close.”
“We bring Dallas in, ascertain the target's location.”
“She'll be ready for it, waiting for it. We can't rush it. Roarke's security and intelligence may be as good as ours. It may be better. His pockets are deeper, even with our contingency funds.”
“They have nothing that leads to us. That gives us time. It would be a coup, the kind that would boost morale and bring the primary mission back in place, if Roarke's home location was breached, if he was terminated in his own bed, and the cop taken. We'd have the message needed to regroup our members, and the information needed to complete our mission here.”
The man at the console turned. “We'll start on tactics.”
The martial arts studio in Queens was more of a palace, in Eve's opinion. Or a temple.
The entrance was decorated in a spare yet somehow lustrous style-- an Asian flavor with the Japanese sand gardens she'd never understood, gongs, the whiff of incense, a glossy red ceiling against cool, white walls and floor.
Tables were low, and the seats were red cushions decorated in gold thread that formed symbols.
Doorways were the papery screens she'd seen in Asian restaurants.
The woman who sat cross-legged on a cushion by a neat and tiny workstation nodded, placed the palms of her hands together, and bowed.
“How can I serve you?”
She wore a red robe with a black dragon flying across the bottom. Her head was shaved clean, the shape of her skull somehow as tidy and lustrous as the room.
“Roger Kirkendall.” Eve showed her badge.
She smiled, showing white, even teeth. “I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkendall isn't with us. May I inquire as to the nature of your business?”
“No. Where is he?”
“I believe Mr. Kirkendall is traveling.” Despite the clipped response, the woman's tone never altered. “Perhaps you'd like to speak with Mr. Lu, his partner. Should I inform Mr. Lu that you'd like to speak with him?”
“Do that.” She turned, rescanned the room. “Pretty kicked for a dojo. Must do a hell of a business. Not bad for former Army.”
“Mr. Lu will come out and escort you. May I serve you some refreshments? Green tea, spring water?”
“No, we're good. How long have you worked here?”
“I've been employed in this capacity for three years.”
“So you know Kirkendall.”
“I have not had the pleasure of meeting him.”
One of the screens slid open. The man who came out wore a black gi, with the black belt around it scored in a way that told Eve he was a master.
He was no more than five-eight in his bare feet. Like the woman, his head was hairless. And like her, he put his palms together and bowed.
“You are welcome here. You inquire about Mr. Kirkendall. Do you require privacy?”
“Never hurts.”
“Please, then.” He gestured to the opening. “We will speak in my office. I am Lu,” he told them as he escorted them down a narrow white hallway.
“Dallas, Lieutenant. Peabody, Detective. NYPSD. What are these rooms?”
“We offer privacy rooms for meditation.” He bowed to a white robed man who carried a white pot of tea and two handleless cups on a tray.
Eve watched the man slip through one of the sliding screens and close it behind him.
She caught the sounds of hand-to-hand ahead. The slap of flesh, the thud of bodies, the hiss of breath. Saying nothing, she moved passed Lu and walked to another opening.
The studio spread out, in sections. In one she saw a class of six executing the sharp, silent movements of an elaborate and graceful kata. In another, several students of various ranks fought under the supervision of another black belt.
“We instruct in tai chi, karate, tai kwon do, aikido,” Lu began. “Other forms and methods as well. We offer instruction to novices and continuing instruction and practice to the experienced.”
“You offer anything but tea and meditation in those privacy room?”
“Yes. We offer spring water.” He neither smiled nor seemed insulted by the question. “If you would like to examine one of our meditation rooms, not currently in use, I would only request you remove your boots before entering.”
“We'll leave that for now.”
He led her through another doorway, into a small, efficient, and attractive office. More low tables and cushions. Painted screens on the walls, a single white orchid bowing out of a red pot.
His desk space was stringently ordered with its compact d and c unit and a miniature 'link.
“Would you care to sit?”
“Standing's fine. I need to speak with Kirkendall.”
“He's traveling.”
“Where?”
“I can't tell you. He is, to my knowledge, traveling extensively.”
“You don't know how to reach your partner?”
“I'm afraid I don't. Is there a problem that involves my business?”
“He lists this as his address on his official data.”
“He does not live at this address.” Lu's voice remained smooth and untroubled. “There is no residence here. I fear there is some mistake.”
“When's the last time you spoke with him?”
“Six years ago.”
“Six years? You haven't spoken with your partner in six years.”
“That is correct. Mr. Kirkendall approached me with a business opportunity that I found interesting. At that time I owned a small dojo in Okinawa. I was afforded this by some success in tournaments and instructional discs.”
“Lu. The Dragon. I recognized you.”
There was the faintest of smiles, the slightest of bows. “I am honored.”
“You kicked some serious ass. Three-time Olympic gold medalist, world record holder. They use some of your vids at the Academy.”
“You are interested in the art?”
“Yeah, especially when it's executed by a master. You were undefeated, Master Lu.”
“The gods favored me.”
“Your signature flying kick didn't hurt either.”
A gleam of humor brightened his eyes. “It occasionally hurt my opponent.”
“Bet. What business opportunity did Kirkendall bring to you?”
“Partnership, with considerable funds, this location, and the freedom to operate this school personally. His money, my expertise and reputation. I accepted.”
“You don't consider it odd that he hasn't come to check up on you in six years?”
“He wished to travel and not to be encumbered by business. He is, I believe, eccentric.”
“How does he get his cut?”
“The business reports and figures are sent to him electronically, as is his share of the profits, which goes to an account in Zurich. I am sent confirmation of the receipt of these. Has there been some difficulty with the funds and their transfer?”
“Not that I'm aware of. That's it?” Eve asked. “You don't speak with him at all, don't deal through an intermediary, a representative?”
“He was specific in his requirements for this arrangement. As it benefits me, and harms no one, I agreed to it.”
“I'm going to need the paperwork, the information on all e-transfers and communications.”
“I must ask the reason before I agree or refuse.”
“His name has come up during an investigation of several homicides.”
“But he is traveling.”
“Maybe, or maybe he's a lot closer to home. Peabody, show Lu the composites.”
Peabody took them out of her file bag, offered them. “Mr. Lu, do you recognize either of these men?”
“They appear to be twins. And no, they are not familiar to me.” The first sign of distress eked through his considerable calm. “Who are they? What have they done?”
“They're wanted for questioning on seven murders, including two children.”
Lu drew in a breath. “The tragedy, the family, a few days ago. I heard of it. Children. I have a child, Lieutenant. My wife, who greeted you, we have a child. He's four.” His eyes weren't calm now, nor did they show distress. They were simply cold. “The media reports that this family was in their home, in their beds, sleeping. They were unarmed, they were defenseless. And the throats of these defenseless children were slashed. Is this truth?”
“Yes, it's truth.”
“There is no punishment that will balance this scale. Not even death.”
“Justice doesn't always balance the scale, Master Lu, but it's the best we have.”
“Yes.” He stood very still for a moment. “You believe the man I call partner may be in some way involved with these deaths?”
“It's a possibility.”
“I will give you whatever you require. Do whatever can be done. A moment.” He moved to his desk, gave his unit several commands in what Eve took to be Japanese.
“When would Kirkendall expect to hear from you again, to receive a report or a payment?”
“Not until December, and the last quarter of this year.”
“Do you ever contact him otherwise? With a question, a problem?”
“It's not usual, but there has been the occasion.”
“Maybe we can work with that. I'd like to send someone from our E-Division in to do a scan on your unit, on any unit you might have used to send communication to Kirkendall.”
“Only this one, and you may send an officer. Or you may take it with you. I apologize that this will take a few moments. I have ordered all communications and transmissions since the beginning of the partnership.”
“No problem.” He was upset, Eve thought. Holding it in, but struggling with the emotion of realizing he may have done business, years of business, with a murderer. His cooperation could very well lead them to close the case.
“Master Lu.” She spoke with respect and his eyes lifted toward her. “It takes more than skill--even the level of yours--it takes more than training and discipline to go undefeated, to accomplish what you have without once falling to an opponent. How did you do it?”
“Training, yes, skill developed through that training and through discipline--both physical and mental. Spiritual, if you will. And with that, instinct. Anticipation of the opponent and a belief that you can, indeed must, prevail.”
Now he smiled, quickly, charmingly. “And I like to win.”
“Yeah.” Eve grinned back at him. “Me, too.”
THE SHUTTLE TRIP TO PHILADELPHIA PLAYED hell with Roarke's schedule. He'd just have to put in some long hours, perhaps make a few out-of-town trips, to make up for it. It couldn't be helped.
He couldn't--wouldn't--discuss Nixie's situation, her custody, her life, via 'link or holo. In any case, he wanted a face-to-face with Leesa Corday, a personal meeting that would give him a sense of her rather than just straight background data.
His name had cleared the way, gotten him an immediate appointment with her. He imagined she thought he was considering putting her and her firm on retainer. That could be arranged.
It would be simple enough for him to throw some of his business her way as support for Nixie. Money had its uses, after all.
The firm had a strong reputation--he'd checked on that, as well. And while the nature of his business was unknown, he was given what he recognized as the VIP treatment as he was met in the black and silver lobby by Corday's assistant, whisked across the marble floor, and into a private elevator.
The assistant--young, male, in a conservative gray suit--offered him coffee, tea, beverages of any nature. Roarke imagined he'd been primed to arrange to have a trio of LCs deliver it--and anything else-- should it be requested.
It was the sort of brown-nosing that irritated him.
Corday's office level was done in strong reds and frothy creams. Lots of translucent automatic doors and a single massive workstation manned by five more assistants.
He was shown through a set of doors into what he recognized as one of the power centers. Corday hadn't yet climbed to the corner office, but she was next in line.