The Man Who Fought Alone Page 4

Not me. I already knew. “Marshal,” I warned him, “this is what I was afraid of. I don’t want to confuse things for Ginny here.”

  He dismissed my scruples. “Don’t worry about it. She’s a big girl. And I’m not that easy to confuse. I just like explanations. They’re cleaner than guesswork.”

  But he didn’t give me a chance to respond. Apparently he wasn’t interested in my version of Ginny’s mental state. Instead he stood up all at once, like he was immune to gravity and scar tissue.

  “This makes a difference, Brew,” he announced. “I remember Puerta del Sol well enough to be impressed. But I still need to think about it. I’ve already given Ginny a job. And, as you say, we’ve been friends for a long time. I don’t want trouble. Or conflicts of interest.

  “Tell you what,” he went on briskly. “I’ll call you. Before the end of the week. If I decide I’m not comfortable putting you to work myself, I’ll give you some names and a reference. That should help you get started.”

  I hated him. I didn’t want to feel grateful. But I had trouble controlling it. Trying to fend it off, I said the most graceless thing I could come up with.

  “You’re going to rely on what Ginny says about me?”

  He stared at me humorously. “What do you think I am, crazy? Of course I’m going to rely on what she says. So far you’ve avoided mentioning any other names I can use.”

  Damn. Damndamndamn. He was still right—which I disliked so much that I actually blushed. In particular, I hated having people be nice to me when I needed to stay angry.

  Muttering, “You didn’t ask,” which was only marginally true. I appropriated his pencil again and wrote down the names of a couple of honest cops back home. Then I added two or three of Ginny’s clients who wouldn’t have forgotten me. None of them knew where I was anyway.

  When I finished, he grinned as if I’d pleased him somehow. “All right. This almost looks like a real job application.”

  Charming me out of my underwear the whole time, he helped me locate the lobby. Then he shook my hand again and sent me off on a surge of clear-eyed bonhomie. Apparently he expected me to have as much confidence in his promises as he did.

  Eventually I found my way down to my car. It seemed to fit me better than it did before. I must’ve shrunk in the past half hour.

  The Subaru’s AC worked, but it didn’t help. By the time I got back to the apartment, I’d sweated right through my suit.

  3

  Two days later he called me.

  By then the apartment was so clean that you could eat off the floor under the fridge. I’d tightened the covers on my bed until your eyes bounced when you saw them. The windows had the clarity of Marshal Viviter’s gaze, and I’d beaten the rugs practically threadbare.

  Under other circumstances, I would’ve called that plenty of exercise. But not this time. In addition, I’d flagellated my body until I’d achieved an actual sit-up, and the first five push-ups were almost easy. If this part of Carner had offered any shade, I probably could’ve walked five miles. Just to keep in practice, I took two showers a day.

  Meanwhile Ginny and I didn’t talk to each other much. Because of her work schedule—or her social life—she came back to the apartment at irregular hours. When we were both there, and awake, we attempted a couple of aimless conversations, but they didn’t accomplish much. I asked how her job was going. She said fine. She asked about my search for work. I said I was waiting for an answer on one prospect. At some point, she remarked on the state of the apartment. She may’ve been trying to suggest that I should beat the pavement instead of the rugs, but I didn’t react, and she didn’t push. In every way that mattered, she’d already moved out.

  Mostly to stave off the sensation that I’d been abandoned, I spent a fair amount of my time fuming. But being mad at her just made me feel even more alone, and being mad at myself was so normal that I did it on auto-pilot anyway, so I concentrated on manufacturing disgust for Marshal Viviter.

  Anyone who looked that good, I told myself, and made that much money in that line of work had to be crooked. A moral pretzel. With plenty of salt so it tasted almost like food. He’d been toying with me the whole time I was in his office. No doubt he and Ginny had already milked my squirming for hours of innocent hilarity. If he called, it wouldn’t be to offer me anything I needed. He’d be looking for some way to keep me on his hook.

  I told myself.

  Which gave me a charming motivational lift, like one of those leadership seminars where they teach you to achieve comparative excellence by tearing other people down. But it didn’t do much for my morale. Soon I’d start to dissolve in my own acid.

  When the phone finally rang I was sitting practically on top of it. You’d have thought that I wanted to hatch the damn thing. Since I was in Stoic Mode anyway, impeccably resigned to the vagaries of my fate, I snatched up the receiver before the end of the first ring.

  “God, Brew,” Marshal chuckled, “what kept you? I’ve been waiting here for nanoseconds.”

  Obviously he knew it was me—as Ginny’s boss, he could be sure that she wasn’t here—so I didn’t bother to introduce myself. Swallowing my lungs, I croaked, “Sorry about that. I didn’t expect the head of Professional Investigations to make his own phone calls. I was just trying to be rude to your receptionist again.”

  “Well, at least you’re consistent,” he conceded. “That’s a virtue. I guess.”

  Before I could muster another of my elephantine ripostes, he went on, “Considering the mood you’re in, you probably won’t ask why I called, so I’ll just tell you.

  “I’ve got a job for you.” Then he corrected himself. “I mean a job possibility. But if you can keep that sunny disposition under control, I think your chances are good.”

  Luckily I was sitting down anyway. Otherwise I would’ve been forced to collapse somewhere. My heart had attempted a triple toe-loop in my chest, missed the landing, and gone into a skid. For a moment or two, I couldn’t remember how to breathe. Somehow I managed to say, “Tell me about it.” I may’ve been panting.

  “When you were here,” he began promptly, “I mentioned conflicts of interest.” Apparently one of his professional gifts was the ability to sound casual and serious at the same time. “I was talking in generalities then, but now I have a more specific complication on my hands.

  “Professional Investigations”—proven, prompt, discreet—“has been hired by a woman named Mai Sternway. She’s separated from her husband, and now she thinks he’s stalking her. She says he wants to intimidate her so that she’ll be afraid to go after the kind of divorce settlement she deserves.”

  Right away I wanted to know why he’d violated her confidence by telling me her name, but I didn’t get a chance to ask.

  “That’s not a problem, as far as it goes,” he explained. “Some research and a few hours of protection a day. We do that type of work all the time.

  “The problem is that now her husband, Anson, also wants to hire us.”

  When he said that, my stomach twisted around the memory of Estobal’s bullet. I thought I knew what was coming.

  “Ordinarily I wouldn’t even listen to him,” Marshal remarked like he expected me to believe him. “But what he wants doesn’t have anything to do with his wife. And he isn’t the kind of client I enjoy turning down. There are too many other things he might want to hire us for down the road. I hate to burn a bridge like that. So I let him go into detail.

  “It’s still a conflict of interest.” Marshal’s disembodied voice conveyed a shrug. “Or close enough that it’s too messy for me. But then I thought of you—”

  Damn him anyway, I was right.

  I cut him off. “You thought of me,” I retorted with massive sarcasm, “because I don’t care about conflicts of interest.”

  “No.” Without much effort, he matched my good humor. “I thought of you because you need a job. And if you get this one you won’t be working for me.”

  I bit down on my tongue and
waited for him to go on. Sudden relief made me light-headed. At the moment I didn’t care whether I trusted him or not. I could decide that later. Right then I wanted a job as much as I’d ever wanted a drink.

  “It’s only for three days,” he said, “but I think it could turn into something steady. If you’ll tone down your hostility long enough to pay attention.”

  “Go on,” I told him noncommittally. The receiver had started to make a dent in the side of my head, and I could feel the pressure building on my brain, but my arm refused to relax.

  He sighed, then got down to business.

  “Anson Sternway runs a karate organization called the International Association of Martial Artists. It’s what I think of as an umbrella organization. Individual karate schools and martial artists sign up as members, and in return the IAMA provides inexpensive insurance and promotion, publishes newsletters, runs seminars on subjects like ‘effective business practices’ and ‘advanced kama’—whatever that is. In addition, it sponsors tournaments.

  “Apparently karate tournaments are big business. People from around the country—or around the world, for all I know—get together and pound on each other to win trophies. According to Sternway, these tournaments are already a cash cow, and their popularity is growing every year.”

  I did my best not to sound impatient. “And—?”

  “And,” Marshal told me, “this weekend, starting tomorrow, the IAMA is holding its ‘world championships’ right here in Carner. At one of the convention hotels.” Of which Carner had a few dozen. He paused for effect, then added, “They need extra security.”

  I wanted to ask, For what? I couldn’t imagine a room full of Bruce Lee wannabees needing any security. But I kept my mouth shut. Even if the job was just an insurance boondoggle, I needed it.

  I needed work.

  “Under normal circumstances,” Marshal was saying, “they don’t have this problem. Their contract with the hotel relies on hotel security. There’s always trouble with petty theft and crowd control. It seems these tournaments are like zoos where they lock in the spectators and let the animals run free. And I gather a few of those martial arts suffer from testosterone poisoning. Sometimes they try to settle their differences outside the ring. But hotel security is usually adequate to the situation. The hotel’s insurance covers the losses.

  “But this tournament isn’t normal. This time one of the member schools wants to display some kind of ‘antique martial arts artifacts,’ for the edification of the assembled.” Marshal paused to swallow his lack of conviction. “According to Sternway, these ‘artifacts’ are valuable, and the insurance company has balked at the added risk. The hotel has been asked to hire extra security—which is an expense they didn’t take into account when they negotiated the contract. Naturally the hotel wants the IAMA to pick up the tab. On their side, the IAMA wants to insist on the terms of the contract. Eventually they agreed to split the cost of hiring Professional Investigations.”

  “But you have a conflict-of-interest problem,” I put in so that Marshal wouldn’t try to explain it to me.

  He completed the thought for me. “But you don’t. That makes you ideal for the job.

  “I suggested that Sternway hire you instead. I told him you cost less than we do.” I could hear Marshal grinning. “He’s agreeable. But he wants the hotel to make the final decision. On the grounds that they’re legally responsible anyway.

  “I’ve set up an interview for you with their Chief of Security this afternoon. If you get the job, you’ll be working for them. You’ll answer to them, and they’ll pay you.”

  Someone had to say it, so I did. “I don’t have a license.”

  He dismissed that. “Don’t worry, these people won’t ask.” I pictured him rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I’ve already vouched for you.” Then he seemed to shift gears. “Of course,” he admitted, “you’ll be out on a limb. If it breaks, I won’t be there to catch you. The rules around here give private investigators a lot of slack, but not that much.”

  For some reason, he didn’t mention that if I screwed up he’d look pretty bad for recommending me.

  I had a question about that, but he didn’t give me a chance to ask it. Still sounding casual, he said, “There’s just one detail I haven’t mentioned. I want you to keep me informed. Tell me how it goes, what happens, give me your impressions, that sort of thing.”

  Well, shit. And there I was, all set to believe that he was actually offering me help. My anger came back in a rush.

  “Just a second,” I snarled. “How do you spell ‘conflict of interest’? Are we talking about the same thing? I’m supposed to work for them and report to you?”

  If I gripped it any harder, the receiver was going to crumple.

  “No, you idiot,” he retorted. I’d finally succeeded at pissing him off. “Damn it, Brew, what would it cost you to jump to a harmless conclusion every once in a while? I’m not asking you to violate professional ethics. Or confidentiality.”

  With both hands, he shoved exasperation through the phone at me.

  “You’ll be working for the IAMA and the hotel. You won’t be working for Anson Sternway. And his wife is my client. I’m supposed to protect her. If he goes ballistic and does something crazy, I don’t want to be taken by surprise. All I’m asking you to do is warn me if you pick up any hints of trouble.

  “You want the truth? I don’t trust either of the Sternways. They both have perfectly reasonable explanations for wanting to hire me. And I haven’t heard any disturbing rumors about them. If either of them is nuts, I don’t know about it. But coincidences like being approached by both of them make me nervous.”

  In his place, I probably would’ve flayed my skin off. But he was too fucking professional for that. He’d already recovered his equanimity. Which gave me one more reason to hate his guts.

  “I’m doing you a favor here,” he finished patiently. “But I’m also covering my ass.”

  Somehow he’d outmaneuvered me again. I didn’t want to admit it, but the bastard had a good point. I was starting to wonder if he was ever in the wrong.

  “All right,” I muttered, trying to slow my heart down. “Maybe I was out of line. You’re doing me a favor.” Then I objected, “But I don’t understand why.”

  “You said you wanted a job.” He sounded puzzled by my attitude.

  I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “That’s not an answer.” Hyperventilating discreetly, I took a more dangerous tack. “Ginny must’ve said something to convince you I’m worth the risk.”

  That made him chuckle again. “It wasn’t her. I talked to one of your buddies in Puerta del Sol. Detective-Lieutenant Acton.”

  He was making fun of me. I didn’t have any cop “buddies” in Puerta del Sol. They all hated me. I’d killed one of them once—and the fact that he was my brother only made it worse. Acton was just honest.

  Still, it seemed to imply that Marshal hadn’t talked to Ginny.

  “By coincidence,” he went on, enjoying himself, “I knew Acton years ago. When I asked him for a reference, he fell on the floor laughing. Then he gave me his version of your adventures with el Señor. That convinced me you aren’t really as stupid as you try to look.”

  I felt a surge of irrational gratitude, an almost transcendental relief that whether or not I got this job didn’t depend on Ginny. But I tried to ignore it. Marshal still hadn’t answered my real question.

  “You say you want me to warn you if I think this Sternway might be dangerous to your client. That’s pretty slim. What do you really get out of helping me like this?”

  “Think of me as your agent,” he suggested. He was having too much fun to take me seriously. “They get ten or fifteen percent. I want you to be polite to me at least that much of the time.”

  Damn, he was slick. For a man who talked as glibly as he did about professional ethics and conflicts of interest, he sure knew how to avoid questions.

  But I didn’t have the energ
y to keep pushing. I needed most of my resources just to manage the way I felt about a chance to work, so I conceded the field. Politely.

  “I’ll try. You aren’t an easy man to be courteous to. But I want the job. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Then I added, “Just tell me one more thing.” Mostly because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. “Why do you think this might turn into something more?”

  “Pure speculation at this point.” Marshal talked faster now—a man who wanted to get off the phone. “While Sternway was trying to talk me into his security job, he implied it might lead to more work, maybe with the IAMA, maybe with a developer named Alex Lacone. It seems Sternway works with Lacone as a consultant of some kind.

  “Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we? First things first. Are you in?”

  Oh, I was in, all right. I hadn’t left myself a lot of choice. So he told me names, addresses, and times. Also how much I’d get paid. Then he wished me luck and hung up.

  After listening to the dial tone for a while, I put the receiver down carefully and spent a few minutes just letting my squeezed head throb. The job paid less than Ginny made in Puerta del Sol, but it was still more than I’d expected. Carner was beginning to sound like the Promised Land, flowing with milk and money.

  I didn’t trust it. Promised Lands have a way of turning into war zones when you aren’t looking.

  But I needed the work.

  Torn between gratitude and distrust, confusion and hope, I checked my watch. Fortunately my interview was still three hours away. I could use the time. Once my skull moderated its complaining, I heaved myself into motion.

  I wasn’t hungry, but I ate something anyway. Practicing self-discipline. Then I left the apartment and coaxed ignition from the Subaru’s timid engine. While the belts squealed to wind up the air-conditioning, I unfolded my map to figure out where the hell I was going.

  4

  The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center wasn’t what you could call centrally located. In fact, it was more convenient to the airport than to the rest of Carner—which made some sense, considering that The Luxury’s more expensive competitors already occupied most of the prime real estate near the stadiums. At least it was easy to find.