Compromised (6 page)

“Is that all you’ve got?” Lido said. They were sparring for exercise, and neither wanted to hurt his opponent, but the comment sparked something in Coltrane. He unleashed a wild haymaker that caught Lido on the side of the neck, triggering a sharp pain in his throat.

“You okay?” Coltrane asked.

Lido nodded and coughed into his glove. His eyes snapped open as he began backpedaling around the ring.

“Stand still, Muhammad Ali,” Coltrane said. “I promise I’ll be merciful.”

“Fine. Let’s do this.” Lido stopped circling and met Coltrane in the center of the ring, his head buried behind his gloves, patiently waiting for an opening. When it came, the result wasn’t pretty. Rage over Stephanie’s pigheadedness rose within him and manifested itself in the form of a lightning-fast punch. He was hot and out of control. His fists shot forward in alternating succession like guns firing from the turret of an aircraft carrier, pummeling Coltrane’s chest and stomach, and driving him back against the ropes.

“Getting a little worked up?” Coltrane asked as he attempted to push Lido away.

Lido should’ve stopped, backed off, and shut down, but he didn’t. He was lost in the moment, his mind filled with white noise and his arteries surging with venom. He didn’t even notice that his partner was surrendering.

“I give,” Coltrane said. “I’ve had enough.” He pushed Lido away. “A little frustrated, buddy boy?”

It took Lido a moment to clear his mind, to come back to the here and now. “Huh?”

“I know you and the missus haven’t been coitus-cleared by the doc, but man, someone’s got some pent-up anxiety issues. I’ve never seen you like this. You all right?”

Lido was spent. He was out of breath and exhausted. He shook his head. “Sorry, man. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s okay. We’ve all been there. The missus okay? I mean, she’s getting better, isn’t she?”

Lido closed his eyes and nodded unconvincingly.

“Want to talk about it? A couple of cold beers maybe?”

He looked at Coltrane but didn’t answer. His cell phone, which was lying atop his towel, lit up. He could see the display: Ma.

Lido had been living in fear every moment since Stephanie had been shot, in the days before she had emerged from the coma, and now . . . he worried every time the phone rang. “I’ve got to get this,” he said and climbed out of the ring. He was still panting when he answered. “Hi, Ma. Is everything all right?” he asked cautiously.

There was panic in Ma’s voice. “No,” she said. “Stephanie’s gone.”

Gus flung open the door and charged into the apartment.
Max was standing in his playpen and began bouncing up and down excitedly when he saw his father. Gus hurried over to scoop him up, but he had his eyes trained on Ma the whole time.

Her face was puffy, and her eyes were red. She held a tissue to her nose while she spoke. “The note is on the kitchen table.”

Gus kissed Max’s cheek as he continued into the kitchen, where a handwritten note lay on the table.

I’m sorry. I have to do this.

I hope you’ll both forgive me.
Love, Stephanie

He gasped.

“I checked. Her go-bag is gone,” Ma said.

“But how?”

“Max was napping. I was in the shower.” She sniffled.

“I don’t understand,” he said, frustrated and incredulous. “How could she do something like this? How could she be so goddamn irresponsible?”

“She’s—”

Gus was hot. “Save it,” he said, cutting her off. “I get it. She’s a cop. She thinks like a cop, and no one gets off, especially a cop killer, but that’s no excuse for a stunt like this.”

Ma lowered her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m fuming. I’m absolutely fuming. So she’s out on the streets alone, and we don’t know if she’s dead or alive. Is that about the size of it? If she were here, I swear I’d kill her myself. I’d freakin’ kill her.”

“Try to calm down, Gus.”

“Yeah,
right
.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Oh! You bet your ass there is. She thinks she’s calling the shots, does she? Well, she’s sadly mistaken.”

Max sensed his father’s anger and started to whine.

“Give him to me,” Ma said and forced a smile. “Want some juice, little one?”

“This is a joke, a goddamn joke,” Gus grumbled. “Well, two can play at this game.”

Ma touched his arm. “Calm down, honey. I know you’re angry, but it won’t help anything to—”

“You’re goddamn right I’m angry.”

“Take a deep breath—in and out, in and out.”

Gus dropped into a kitchen chair and buried his face in his hands.

Ma rubbed his back. “It’ll be okay, honey,” she said.

“All I want is a day without all this effing drama,” he growled. “Are things ever going to go back to normal around here?”

“I wish I had an answer for you, son, but the truth is that I just flat-out don’t know.”

The Pod Hotel near Times Square wasn’t exactly lavish, but it was clean and cheerful, and wouldn’t cost me a million dollars a night.

Manhattan was at one time both the biggest and smallest place in the world. I had left my apartment, purchased supplies, and relocated to the hotel all in the span of a few hours.

I was paying for all of my transactions in cash so that Gus wouldn’t be able to track me from my credit card purchases, as I knew he would. Most of our money, Gus’s and mine, was in joint accounts, but I still had a small stash under my own name at JPMorgan Chase, and I’d cleaned out most of it to cover my interim expenses.

The room was basic and utilitarian—white, white, and more white with black and red accents. It was the only room they had available, and joy of all joys, it had bunk beds instead of traditional side-by-side twins. I tested the lower berth, and it seemed comfy enough. Sleeping has never been a problem for me.

I’d made some purchases along the way: an inexpensive laptop, a few burner phones, and some cosmetic supplies. Staring at the unopened packages, I took a moment to collect my thoughts and consider how badly my actions would hurt Gus and Ma. A tear ran down my cheek as I thought about Max, giggling and smiling, while he did his best to amble around the child-proofed apartment, yattering away, “Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma,” without receiving a reply from his mother. There’d be hell to pay when this was all over. Serious wounds would need healing. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. Scratch that—I was completely sure that I was doing something wrong and inexcusable, but in my heart I felt that it had to be done. Neither Ma nor Gus was going to cut me an inch of slack nor was I going to lie down and die, so I said a quick prayer, crossed myself, and went to work.

The first snip took real courage. The rest was a breeze. Armed with sharp scissors, a handheld mirror, and a photo of Jennifer Lawrence, I began cutting my hair and watched as sable locks fell one after another until the small bathroom sink was completely full. I hadn’t had a lot of experience with hair dye, but all girls know their way around a bottle of peroxide, and with a YouTube tutorial to guide me . . . I set the supplies out on the sink ledge: bleach powder, creme developer, red-gold corrector, purple shampoo, blonde dye, plastic gloves, aluminum foil, crumbled bacon, gorgonzola cheese, and . . . well, it was just a lot of crap to put on one’s hair.

The process seemed to take forever. After it was finally done, I examined my new appearance in the mirror and scarcely recognized myself. I looked so different, so completely different. I wondered what Gus would say the next time he saw me. Probably that he didn’t know who I was anymore. Guilt rose in my gut—no one could blame him because he’d be right. Who was this person, this someone who placed the value of justice before family? Studying my eyes in the mirror, I wondered if the brain surgery had somehow changed me. Would the old Stephanie have gone so far out on a limb? Were the two of us one and the same? Or had I become a completely different person—a law enforcement zealot who just couldn’t let a case go? It really wasn’t important, because all that mattered to me at that moment was finding our shooter as quickly as possible and going back home to my family.

Everything I’d packed was black so as to make me appear as nondescript as possible. I changed my clothes and looked in the mirror again. I didn’t recognize myself.
Whatever it takes to get the job done.

Someone knocked on the door while I was cleaning up. I checked my watch. Harry was right on time.

Yana’s brother, Haruki, scrutinized me carefully before walking into the hotel room.
He set a duffel bag and a backpack on the floor and entered slowly. He was just a little taller than I was and moved like one hundred fifty pounds of purpose and precision. “What happened to your hair? You were a brunette.”

“That’s true. I was a brunette—up until two hours ago, anyway.”

“The short blonde hair, it’s quite striking. Many young girls in Japan dye their hair these days because they’re all born with the same dark hair. They dye their hair to stand out in the crowd, but you do it so that you can remain hidden.”

“You understand, then. I had to change my appearance. My husband will be looking for me out on the streets, and he’s pretty damn good at what he does.”

He nodded.

“How was your flight?”

“I slept.”

“It’s twelve hours from Tokyo to New York. You must be very well rested.”

He didn’t address my statement. Instead he examined my head. “I can no longer see where the bullet struck you.”

“I’ve been practicing the fine art of the comb-over.” I lifted a tuft of hair, exposing the suture marks. “Thank God I have thick hair. I’d hate to have to walk around looking like the bride of Frankenstein.”

He seemed puzzled by the comment. Perhaps my gothic horror reference was ill-chosen.
I bet he’d catch a Godzilla joke no problem.
“I’d hate to have to walk around with everyone staring at my surgical scars,” I explained.

He said, “Oh,” but I wasn’t convinced that he understood what I was talking about. “Did they give you a metal plate?”

“No. They used resorbable polylactic. I was kind of disappointed. I figured I could’ve magnetized the metal plate and used my head to keep paperclips—you can never find one when you need it.”

“You’re Chalice, all right. Yana used to talk about your sense of humor.” His head dropped. “I hadn’t seen him in so long, and now . . .”

“There’s only one thing we can do about that, Harry.”

“It won’t bring him back,” he said.

“There’s no next-best thing—justice is all we have. I understand you’re a law enforcement officer in Japan?”

He eyed me warily. “Something like that—>Keishichō, Criminal Investigations Bureau. Yana and I, we both wanted to carry guns ever since we were kids. He came to New York to become a police officer because he objected to the Japanese system of justice.”

“And you?”

“I was always the rebellious one, the one who was always truant from school.” He shrugged. “I was lucky the police academy accepted me at all. I didn’t exactly finish at the top of my class.”

“Nonsense. I’ll bet there’s a thing or two you can teach me.”

“I doubt that, Chalice. Yana told me you were the lead detective. He told me how much you taught him.” He began circling me within the small room. “He also told me that you were a risk taker, and I wonder if you’re not going through all this just to ease a guilty conscience. You abandoned your family to hunt a killer . . . Putting your life at risk . . . Do you feel responsible for my brother’s death?”

His question stung but only for a moment. “Did Yana die because of me? No. I don’t believe that at all. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty about what happened, or that I don’t wish he were the one who had lived.” Yana was just a couple years my junior. He had a wife and two small children “We were only a few feet apart when the shots were fired. Had he been hit first, he may have been the one to survive, but he wasn’t.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “The wound burns, Harry. It burns like hell, and I only know one way to extinguish a fire that burns with that kind of intensity.”

“Are you talking about justice or vengeance?”

“Does it matter to you?”

“No, Chalice, it doesn’t, because in this case justice and vengeance are one and the same.”

My new roommate showered and changed into fresh clothes.
He’d skipped all the meal services on the long flight over from Tokyo and was ravenous. I was wondering what my partner in crime and I were going to eat—not that I couldn’t survive a few meals of sushi and udon noodles.

“I had a Shake Shack burger the last time I visited New York, and that taste has lingered in my mouth ever since.”

Really? Do you floss? Maybe there’s a chunk of chopped meat caught between your teeth.
“You’re a man after my own heart.”

We walked down to the Shake Shack location on Third and ordered lots of grub.

“You can’t get food like this in Tokyo,” he said as he chomped down on his burger. “I mean you can get a hamburger, but it’s not the same.” He made an I’m-in-ecstasy face. “I can’t remember the last time I had bacon.”

His English had a mechanical chop to it. It almost sounded like a slow Internet connection that could only buffer small parcels of data at a time. He broke his sentences into short segments, which I guess was not unusual for someone translating from Japanese to English as he went along. Somehow I didn’t find him overly difficult to understand.

I handed him an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“A thousand dollars.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“You understand why I can’t rent a car under my own name. My husband and others are out looking for me, and they’d be able to trace my credit card.”

He pushed the envelope back across the table. “This is a personal matter for me as well. Don’t insult me with your money.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Forget about it. I don’t expect you to understand Japanese culture.”

“All right. Look, I picked up a couple of burner phones for us. They’re untraceable.”