Linnear 01 - The Ninja (33 page)

It should have been grotesque, would have been with any other victim - Croaker had seen too many like it. But this wasn’t anyone, it was Angela Didion. She must have been an extraordinary woman, Croaker thought as he stood staring down at the corpse, because her beauty transcended even this degradation; even death. Croaker knew dial he was looking at a magnificent piece of humanity and it saddened him that it should have been destroyed so recklessly. He felt that about most of the bodies he found, if they weren’t the punks who got blown away by their own cupidity; the city breathed easier without them.

He tore his gaze away from the bed and, going around it, knelt beside the black silk garment on the carpet. In this twilight of the room, it was almost invisible: black against the deep blue that was almost black itself.

Dipping one forefinger down, he lifted it up slightly. Bending, he touched his nose to it, breathed in, caught the faint whiff of a perfume. He got up, crossed to Angela Didion’s dressing table. He passed over the ivory brush and comb set, the oval tortoise-shell hand mirror, the odds and ends of mascara, eyeliner, blush, powder, creams, taking them all in as he did so. There were two perfume bottles on a silver tray against the wall. Joy and Bal a Versailles. He sniffed at both of them, one at a time, slowly. Then, to make certain, he returned to the silk negligee, confirming for himself that it exuded another perfume; that it bore the imprint of another woman.

It had taken time and a lot of hard work but, in the end, Matty the Mouth had come through. Now it was this woman’s name and address Croaker was anxiously waiting for. Angela Didion’s lover. Or, more accurately, one of them. She could not, of course, have been the murderer. Judging from the size of the negligee, she was far too small to have inflicted such terrible wounds on another human adult. There were no instruments used, the M.E. had said, other than the fists. That meant someone strong and with a massive build: some of the bruises were quite large.

No, this woman was no murderer but, Croaker was convinced, she had been a witness to the murder. She knows, he thought now. She knows. And she’s scared shitless of what she’s seen. No one had got to her. No one would but Croaker. He must see to that.

Come on, Matty, deliver the goods. He found his hand trembling against the table, stared down at it as if it belonged to someone else. He knew he wanted this conviction badly. More than he had wanted any other in his career. And the hell of it was, he knew who had killed Angela Didion. Knew it as surely as he knew his own name. But without this witness, there was nothing: nothing but conjecture and theory and circumstantial evidence that McCabe wouldn’t even touch, let alone ask for an arrest on it. Jesus, he hated counting this heavily on someone else but he had spent seven years cultivating Matty the Mouth and now it looked as if it would finally pay off. If he came through. When he comes through, Croaker corrected himself. Think positively.

Which all led him back to this ninja. The case was getting nowhere, spinning on its own momentum. That, Croaker knew from long, hard experience, was extremely dangerous. “It meant he had no handle and that meant he had no control. People tended to get severely hurt when that happened.

And then there was the problem of Nicholas Linnear. Vincent had been right, he felt instinctively. Linnear had been highly offended by what he’d said. It had been a stupid thing to say. He had known it as soon as he had said it. Now he realized that Linnear might be the key to the case. He knows more about the ninja than anyone in or out of Japan, Vincent had said towards the end of the evening. Trust him. He knows what he’s talking about. Now he’s working for that bastard Tomkin, Croaker thought. He had a strong urge to back off then, to let events happen without him. Perhaps Tomkin would fall. But that, he knew, he could never do. It was not the way he wanted it to happen. And then there was the consideration of the four other deaths. If the ninja was after Tomkin, why had he killed four people who did not know the man, let alone have any kind of association with him? No one seemed to know the answer and there was certainly no one on the force he could talk this over with. It came back to Linnear again. If anyone might have a clue, he would.

Croaker looked at his watch, thought about calling Linnear, then quickly changed his mind. The telephone wasn’t the right medium and, anyway, he was too high to be able to think things out with enough clarity to satisfy himself. He sighed, finished off the bottle of sake. He’d had enough.

Still he could not face the thought of going home. Yet he wanted a woman. Into his mind swam an image and abruptly he was as hard as a bar of iron. Her face seemed familiar but where had he seen her before? Perhaps nowhere. Perhaps on some billboard. The image had surfaced from deep inside of him. Perhaps she was long gone. Or, again, had never even existed.

Vincent exhaled in a rush, attempting to free his lungs of the mist. It was a useless gesture, his mind knew, yet his body would not be denied its chance.

His eyes began to burn and tear. He reached blindly for the door-handle. The cab started up as the light changed. He leaned on the handle, got it open on the second try. The city rushed in on him as he half tumbled out. His foot caught for a moment and then he was free, rolling along the street for a moment while horns blared. He could hear the harsh squeal of brakes and muted shouts. Then he was up and running clumsily, slipping on dogshit as if it were a banana peel. He balanced himself with his arms outspread and hit the kerb, sprinted up onto the sidewalk.

Behind him he could feel the looming presence of the Checker cab as the driver pulled hard over and jumped out. ‘Hey 1’ he called. ‘Come back! I want my fare!’ Vincent stumbled along the crowded street, bumping into people. Black faces turned, wide-eyed, to stare.

He’s a cool bastard, he thought as he was spun around by an enormous black man with an open shirt and tight maroon pants. ‘Hey, man! Be cool. Watch yo’self.’

He wove in and out of the crowd, wondering how long he had. He had no illusions about what he had inhaled. Even without the characteristic odour, he would have known it was a neural toxin.

He turned his head but could not see his pursuer. He took a chance, darted off the kerb, trying to hail a passing cab - it was no good expecting a cop to pop up here. But immediately he saw the man stalking him along the periphery of the crowd as, spying Vincent, he leapt forward.

Vincent whirled, darting back into the thick of the throng on the sidewalk. He began to run again but this, he knew, would only spread the toxin more quickly. Already his heart was pounding furiously and the tips of his fingers felt numb: a bad sign. Yet since the man was pursuing him still, perhaps there was a chance that he had not inhaled a sufficient amount of the poison.

Death was very close now, Vincent knew. It rode his shoulder like an expectant predator. He realized now just how much he wanted to live; how strong the drive still was inside him. This knowledge came as a revelation and it buoyed him for a time. He would need all his wits to overcome this demon, he knew. He was overmatched, but he put this thought out of his mind as he ran on and on into the spangled night.

He cut to his right, stumbling off the kerb, but again he was balked by the man. No good. A cab was definitely out.

He coughed as he ran now, trying to retch. He felt as if he could not get enough oxygen into his system. His arms felt weak and he had to force his legs to work. He heard a harsh shout from behind him and the sound of running feet. He pushed his way frantically through the crowd, his mind whirling, trying to alight on some … The mist! What a fool he’d been! It was being absorbed through the pores of his skin - the burning should have told him. Inhaling was only peripheral.

Have to find … He was aware of how terribly exposed he was here on this mean street where no help would be forthcoming. A restaurant was no good: too well lighted. He needed some dark place.

It was right in front of him. He put on a last burst of speed, feeling his heart pounding painfully as if it were being overworked.

He skidded to a stop in front of a movie theatre. In front was a billboard dominated by a cut-out of a blonde with large breasts. Beneath it, a blown-up newspaper review of the film. ‘An erection!’ proclaimed a banner. ‘Highest rated!’ Vincent shoved a man away from the ticket booth, threw a bill at the man inside the booth. He pushed through the turnstile, ignoring the shouts. ‘Hey, mister! Wait I Your change!’

Into the darkness, smelling of mildew, stale sweat and dried sperm. Hazy images moved on the screen and there was the sound of heavy breathing, magnified by the speakers, amplified throughout the theatre. There was a liquid sound and a moaning.

Vincent blinked several times, adjusting to the low light. He looked for the men’s room, found that it was two flights up, past the balcony. He didn’t think he could make it.

He moved cautiously along the rear aisle, past two people standing watching the screen. He came upon a bank of machines. Popcorn. Candy. Soda.

He dug in his trouser pocket, fumbled out two quarters. He rolled them into the slot, stabbed a button at random. He waited impatiently while the waxed-paper cup clattered down, followed by the soda and the syrup. He stuck his hand in, caught the shaved ice as it came down the vertical chute. He rubbed the ice over his face. He blinked and blinked, feeling the cold water running into his eyes, over his face. Perhaps he had got to it in time. The ice was like a soothing balm, diminishing the pain. There was a chance. The cab had been air-conditioned, the windows closed, but he had got out very quickly. He tried to judge the overall time, gave it up as hopeless.

He turned his head to look at the doorway. Someone came in, someone went out. They were shadows to him. Was his pursuer here already? There was no way of knowing and here, in the rear, he was a perfect target.

He turned into the theatre proper, went quickly down the aisle. His vision had seemed to clear and he could see men sitting as still as statues, staring at the screen filled with writhing bodies.

He slipped into a row midway down, moving to his right all the way over until he was wedged against one wall. In the darkest part of the theatre he sat down. The floor was sticky; the place smelled of accelerated age. His head swivelled around. People were coming and going. Flickering light played over their faces. He turned back.

His hands had begun to shake but this might be because of the increased adrenalin. His mouth was dry and his breathing raspy. Otherwise, he felt better than he had before. Obviously the dose had been less than lethal. He tried to “lax, breathing deeply, but his side hurt intermittently, perhaps from the frantic running. Meanwhile, his mind was going over the alternatives. There didn’t seem to be many. Having come in here, he was now quite effectively trapped. The ninja, too, was here somewhere. If he made a move to leave, he would be dead before he got half way to the door.

He would have to fight. It was the only alternative. He was not a sensei or a haragei adept as Nicholas was - or Terry had been. He turned his mind away from Terry: that way led to despair; if Terry had been defeated …

But Terry had been surprised and then there had been Ei to think of. Vincent was forewarned. He needed time and he was getting it; he was feeling better every moment. Think I he screamed at himself. You’ve got to get out of this somehow.

There were people in back of him, to his left. Shadows moving in the aisle, up and down, bobbing; rustling as people sat down or got up. Someone slid into his row, one seat away from him, and he stiffened, his eyes sliding that way so that he could see … a youngish businessman, clean-cut, Brooks Brothers suit, thin leather attache case on his knees. A model businessman.

Vincent removed his attention, went back to thinking. Something touched his arm and he jumped, turned his head. It was the businessman, clean-shaven, reddened cheeks, lived just over the river along the Jersey Palisades perhaps with the wife and two kids, the dog and the two cars. The man was tapping him gently on the arm. He leaned forward, his eyes searching Vincent’s. He whispered something but Vincent could not hear him over the amplified moaning. He leaned over, across the vacant ..cat between them. ‘Want to move over here next to me?’ the man said hopefully.

Vincent stared at him dumbfounded for a full minute until he shook his head violently from side to side, withdrew.

He wiped at his forehead and his fingers came away wet. But he knew what he had to do now and all he could do was wait.

There was a movement along the aisle; a shadow had stopped at the end of his row. Vincent turned his head slightly but all he saw was a black blotch. The businessman who had propositioned him was moving slightly in his seat, his hands invisible under the shield of his attache case; it was too warm to carry a raincoat.

Someone was coming into Vincent’s row now and he held his breath, his heart pumping furiously. Was it the ninja? The figure moved slowly, approaching Vincent. He looked up. The man was just on the other side of the engrossed businessman. He saw a glint of reflected light from the screen dance off the man’s eyes. It was the ninja. He bent, said something to the businessman, who moved his legs, not taking his eyes off the screen.

He was coming. Vincent prepared himself for what he had to do. It would take speed and strength and - Now the man was at the seat next to Vincent’s. He did not sit down.

Now was the time. Now!

Vincent moved. Nothing happened. His eyes bulged in disbelief. He was paralysed.

He struggled to lift his hands but his arms were immobile, as if they had been encased in lead while his attention had been elsewhere. He tried to stand up but there was no feeling in his legs. No feet, no ankles, nothing. Then he knew with a swift unalterable certainty that the spray had never been meant to kill him but merely to render him motionless.

The shadow loomed over him, blotting out all light. He heard animal cries, lustful sobs; he felt the movement over him with exaggerated slowness, watching calmly and detachedly as the ninja leaned over him and gently put one forearm against his left clavicle. He felt the pressure and his eyes blinked. Perhaps the tip of one finger twitched where it lay on the wooden arm of the seat. There was no fear in him, no sorrow, only an image of Japan, of a rocky seashore outside Uraga with its ramshackle houses, the pure white sails of the fishing boats as they set sail against the red and yellow sunrise. He saw the lone pine standing on the bluff, limned by the light, a dark sentinel standing watch over its homeland