Compromised (12 page)

I could see Burns through the window as he took a seat at the hardwood bar, ordered a shot, and quickly threw it back, no doubt to settle his nerves. A second shot followed, and yes, even a third.

He’s good and rattled. That’s for sure.
Were I officially on the job, I could’ve sent in an undercover detective to chat him up and get a handle on what was eating at him, but the situation being what it was . . . I’d have to go it alone. I took a couple of minutes to get my story together before getting out of the car and joining him at the bar.

“Mr. Burns.”

He practically jumped off his barstool, then turned to me with an angry scowl on his face before recognition kicked in. “My God. Detective . . .” His expression resolved into one of puzzlement when he remembered my name. “Chalice?”

“That’s right.”

“But I thought you’d been shot.”

I was hoping that Burns wouldn’t ask how long an injured cop needed to lie low before returning to active duty because I didn’t want to make up some cock-and-bull story to explain why I was there.
Play it loose and cool,
I thought.“Yeah. It was lights out for a while, but I’m back. Okay if I sit down?”

“Yeah. Sure. I was really sorry to hear about what happened to you.”

“Thanks.”

“Damn scary thing—first my daughter and then you and your partner. That was right after you left our apartment, right?”

I nodded.

“Sofia and I just couldn’t believe it. It was about ten minutes after you and the other detective left. We heard sirens and . . . we came downstairs to have a look and when we heard what happened . . . it made us both physically ill. I can’t believe the shooter hasn’t been caught yet. The news used to cover the story all the time, but I haven’t heard anything about it in a while.”

“It’s yesterday’s news, I suppose. Serafina and us . . . I guess there’s always a new catastrophe du jour to fill the headlines, but we’ll get them. We’ll get them both and when we do . . .”

“That why you’re here?”

I couldn’t confirm so I shrugged and looked away. There was now a glass of beer in front of Burns to go along with the three empty shot glasses. “Someone’s thirsty. You okay?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “Okay? Yeah, I’m okay. Why do you ask?”

“You’re sucking up a lot of alcohol. Do you normally drink this much?”

“Um, no. I’m not an alcoholic or anything like that. I just feel like drinking is all. Been doing more of that ever since . . .”

“I understand. How are you and Sofia dealing?” I placed my hand on his. “I know it can’t be easy.”

He looked into his glass. “Terrible thing, losing a kid like that. I don’t think you can ever be the same afterward. Do you, Detective?”

“I don’t know, Jack. I really don’t know how families get through something as difficult as this. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

“Sofia still cries herself to sleep every night.”

I sighed. “I’m so sorry for you and Sofia.” I called the bartender and ordered a ginger ale.

“No alcohol. I guess you’re officially on duty?”

Redirect. Redirect.
“It’s not about that. I can’t have any alcohol for a while on account of the Swiss-cheese treatment the bullet did to my head. I’m not even supposed to have caffeine, and I’m a coffee fanatic.”

“Sorry. Does it still hurt?”

“Only when I think.”

He grinned at the joke. “I should’ve come to visit you in the hospital,” he said with regret. “You being Frank’s kid and all. I still can’t believe it. I’m sorry I never made it over there to see how you were doing.”

“That’s all right. I was asleep most of the time.”

“Yeah. I heard on the news that you were in a coma for days. Sofia and I said a prayer for you in church.”

“And see? It worked. Thank you.”

He took a sip of beer. “I think about your dad all the time. Frank Chalice was a good man and a dear friend.” He paused momentarily. “I’m not sure if you know this, but I was attacked when I was a kid—got messed up real bad. After I came home from the hospital, your dad would stop by almost every day to see how I was. Not like my other fair-weather friends . . .” He shook his head sadly. “What are you going to do? It’s all water under the bridge now, I suppose. I still can’t believe you’re his kid. Small world, right?”

Three shots of hooch and a conversation chaser had settled Burns considerably, making it difficult to ask why he’d been so worked up. I eyed his toolbox on the floor and shifted the conversation. “Just come from doing a job?”

“Yeah. Bathroom leak.”

“Get it squared away?”

“Yeah, I got lucky. The leak was from the cold-water pipe, but I was able to get to it by taking out the medicine cabinet and didn’t have to chop up the wall. Saved me a lot of wear and tear, but the place will still need fresh Sheetrock and new tile under the sink. It was leaking for a long time and you know how it gets—everything got yellowed and rotted. Stunk like hell. I should’ve been called much sooner.”

The bartender poured a glass of soda from one of those mini bottles that didn’t contain enough fluid to quench a hamster’s thirst. I held the paltry glass at eye level. “What’s
this
gonna do?” I complained.

“That’s the only size we’ve got, but you’re on the job, right?” the bartender asked.

“It’s that obvious, is it?”

“You might as well be in uniform.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, the ginger ale’s on the house.”

“In that case, thanks. Keep ’em coming.”

He winked at me and moseyed off down the bar.

“How’s the handyman business treating you, Jack?”

“Good. I’ve been getting a lot of calls since . . .” He sighed. “I guess the neighbors feel sorry for us since everything happened. I suppose they figure we could use the money. Friends in the community took up a collection to help pay for Serafina’s funeral. That was really nice of them.”

“So this was a neighbor’s house you did the plumbing job for?”
Shoot.
I realized it was a cop question as soon as it came out of my mouth. I sounded as if I was probing him, and I could see him shutting down before my eyes.

“Yes,” he said in a sober voice as he chugged down the rest of his beer. “Anything else I can help you with, Detective? I’ve got to be heading home. Sofia will be wondering what’s keeping me so long, and she’s afraid of being alone at night these days. You understand, don’t you?”

“No. That’s it. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Get home safe.”

“You too, Detective.” He threw some bills on the bar and picked up his toolbox. “You know, I was surprised you came around tonight. I mean, especially since Detective Lido stopped by to see me recently. The two of you don’t speak to each other?” he asked with some suspicion.

Shit! Reach down deep and think of something clever.
“It’s a big task force, Jack. I’m sorry if it feels like we’re smothering you. I’ll chat with the detective, and we’ll make sure we give you enough space.”

“That’s all right—I know you’ve got important work to do. I was just asking.” He smiled uncomfortably, then turned and left.

You’re rusty,
I told myself. I’d failed to learn why he’d been so upset, but I made a mental note to keep an eye on him, because something about the man just wasn’t sitting right.

Tiru’s shop had closed hours earlier, yet Tiru was still there, leaning against the counter with an artist’s pencil in his hand, dutifully creating a fresh design.
His intricate tattoo designs required several hours of precision, painstaking sketch work, and he had never been one to rush the process. A book of seventeenth and eighteenth-century art was open on the counter to lend inspiration. The image he studied was a
moku hanga
, a wood-block print, and the
ukiyo-e
subject matter was typical of the period and referred to as pictures of the floating world.

He was deep in concentration when the delicate clatter of the wind chime from the back room filtered through his ears. The sound was so subtle that he absorbed it without becoming alarmed. By the time he felt another presence in the room, it was too late for him to react save for the gasp of air that caught in his lungs.

He froze when he felt the cold razor-edged blade against his throat. He’d practiced the martial arts for years, but now at the age of sixty-eight, he lacked the confidence to strike. His unknown assailant stood behind him. He could feel the slightest trickle of blood run down his neck. He cursed himself for being caught off guard and for the years of inactivity that had most certainly taken their toll.

“Where do I find him?” his attacker demanded. “Where do I find the man with the jade dragon on his back?”

Tiru immediately understood that he was being asked about his friend Haruki and knew his attacker was most certainly Ryo Goda, the customer he’d introduced to Haruki. He felt the blade cut slightly deeper, his assailant’s response to the slow reply. “All I have is a phone number,” he offered, knowing better than to play dumb with someone who was likely a yakuza assassin. He added, “I have it written on my pad near the register.” His assailant was silent while another tense moment passed. All the while the sharp blade was held fast against his throat.

Tiru’s gambit worked. As he anticipated, the blade was removed from his throat, and he was shoved in the direction of the cash register. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, and in that instant he garnered the courage to strike. He dropped down low and spun, his leg sweeping his assailant’s legs out from beneath him. The assassin fell backward. Tiru was on him before he could spring back to his feet. He had one hand on the man’s throat, steadying it, while in the other the artist’s pencil was clutched firmly in his grasp. His eyes widened when he confirmed that his attacker was, in fact, Ryo Goda, the customer whose arm he had recently tattooed with a snake and who had been in his shop when his old friend Haruki had come to visit.

Tiru possessed detailed knowledge of the human body, thus his blow was deadly accurate. He jabbed the pencil into the soft tissue of Ryo’s neck just to the side of the trachea, puncturing the carotid artery. Blood surged forcefully from the wound. With fire burning in his eyes, Tiru watched the life drain from Ryo’s’ body. He kept his hand in place around the man’s throat, shackling him to the floor long after his life had fled. Tiru finally felt the pounding in his chest begin to subside and rolled off his enemy into a pool of blood, panting, and trying to grasp what had just occurred.

Moments passed as thoughts raced through his mind, and he worked to formulate a survival plan. He wondered if his enemy had come on his own, foolishly hoping to be a hero, or had he come on orders from another.
His training had taught him to embrace the worst possible conclusion whether it was warranted or not. He had likely murdered a yakuza assassin and had imperiled himself and everyone he knew. Before collecting everything that was of value to him, he made a mental list of all the people he needed to warn, and left his shop for good.

Sofia stirred and opened her eyes just enough so that she could read the time on the alarm clock: 1:30 a.m.
She’d been sleeping poorly since her daughter’s death and was prone to being awakened by even the slightest disturbance. She wasn’t quite sure what had aroused her, but an ensuing thud cleared the cobwebs from her head. She jumped up and looked around. In that instant she realized that she was alone in bed. “Jack?” she called out. “Jack?” She threw on her robe and tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, where she could see her husband leaning over the kitchen sink, washing his hands. “You okay, papi?”

He looked up, trying to hide his emotions, but his expression divulged his distress. He quickly averted his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s nothing. You should go back to sleep.”

“What’s going on, Jack?” She drew closer and saw that blood was swirling in the sink. “
Dios mio
.” She rushed to his side, her eyes widening. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

He had a white kitchen towel pressed against his forearm. It was stained crimson. “It’s nothing,” he insisted.

“Let me see.”

He slowly removed the towel, revealing a deep gash on his forearm near the wrist.

“Oh my God—that’s a deep cut. You have to go to the hospital, Jack.”

“No. No hospital. It’s not so bad. I’ll bandage it up, and it’ll be fine.”

She examined the wound, and he gasped when she probed the area. “You need a tetanus shot and stitches. How’d this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she asked incredulously.

“I-I mean that I don’t know what’s happening to this neighborhood. I think maybe we have to move.”

She read terror in his eyes and fought to stay strong. “Here, sit down and keep pressure on the wound. I’ll get something to bandage it with.” She hurried away, more shaken by her husband’s fear and confusion than by the injury he’d sustained.
First, Serafina and now this . . . What’s happening to us?
she wondered.
Will this ever end?
She returned to the kitchen with tears in her eyes, dried the wound, and began wrapping gauze around his wrist. “I want to know what happened,” she said firmly. “Did someone do this to you?”

He nodded. “Some kids. They wanted my toolbox, but I pulled the hammer from my belt and they took off.”

“But they cut you first? With a knife?”

He nodded again.

“We have to call the police.”

“No! No police.”

Sofia applied tape over the gauze. “It’s still bleeding, Jack. You have to go to the hospital.”

He averted his eyes but didn’t respond.

“Jack, I’m talking to you. Did you hear me?” Another moment passed in silence. “Why aren’t you answering me?” She stood up and dried her eyes. “Gloria. Gloria has a suture kit in her house.”

“The nurse? You can’t bother her at this hour. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning.”

“Either I wake her up or we go to the hospital. That’s your choice,” she said with defiance. “I’m not going to let you bleed to death.”

“All right. I’ll go to the hospital, but I don’t want anyone to know. You hear me. No one.”