Kage (19 page)

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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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Kage

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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John Donohue

“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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Kage

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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Kage

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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John Donohue

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