Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Eight

After two days of getting nowhere chasing down leads Chris Peters provided, a morning workout seemed in order.

The Solstice Fitness Center, on Broadway between East 19th and 20th, had little in common with my gym of choice, Bing’s, where boxers and businessmen in sweats worked the bag and wore out machines. At Bing’s you got a high-school phys ed feel and equipment often in worse shape than you were; you could rent a stained towel with holes for a buck, and endure lockers so small that you soon learned to arrive already in your sweats, unless you didn’t mind going straight to the dry cleaners for a post-workout press of your incredibly wrinkled suit.

The Solstice, on the other hand, sported three levels with a top floor suspended over the main one where men and women pedalled stationery bikes and climbed ropes and ran in place like the starting gun of the New York Marathon would go off any second. Clients male and female in matching gray-and-white togs from the in-house boutique slow-jogged over to the juice bar or maybe for their massage. Disco on formidable speakers rivaled the sound level of the Tube’s techno tripe, and the locker room was operating-room clean, the lockers themselves roomy, with towels included.

The endless array of equipment gleamed like a 1930s Hollywood-movie nightclub, with all the weight machines, treadmills and Stairmasters you could ever hope for, though no bags to punch. Personal trainers supervised about a third of the clientele, and in various areas coaches worked with groups.

It cost thirty bucks for a one-time workout, which made me regret not going on expense account. I was the sole soul in sweats from home, and easily the oldest person there. I put in a good workout and the six-foot guy about thirty who’d checked me in came over as I sat on the edge of a leg-weight machine, toweling off.

“What do you think, Mr. Hammer?” His voice was as husky as he was, muscular but not muscle-bound, a blandly handsome bullet-headed guy in a black t-shirt, matching polyester sweat pants and gray sneakers. He had a name tag that said ROD and a whistle around his neck. “Is Solstice for you?”

“I like all this equipment,” I said. “Where I been going, the machines seem tied up half the time.”

“We have a special going.”

“Yeah?”

“Fifteen thousand a year. Regularly twenty-five.”

Bing’s was fifty bucks a month. Of course, I had to pay for towels.

I stood, wrapped the towel around my neck. “You wouldn’t happen to know who I am, would you?”

“You’re Mr. Hammer.”

That’s what I thought.

“My badge is in my locker,” I said, which was a good way to make him think I was a cop without lying. He didn’t have to know it was a private investigator’s buzzer. “Casey Shannon was a member here, right?”

His expression didn’t shift at all. “That was in the papers and on TV. He was killed, huh? Terrible.”

Rod here didn’t know how terrible. Pat Chambers was holding back the exact cause of death — “blow to the chest” was as far as the statement to the press went.

“Terrible,” I agreed. “You mind answering a few questions, Rod?”

“No.” He gestured toward where I’d checked in. “We can go in the office if you like...”

“This is fine right here. How long had Lt. Shannon been a member? Your rates are pricey on a civil servant’s pay.”

The trainer shrugged. “He had a trial membership, three months. It was almost up.”

No, completely up. Now.

“Rod, how did he get along here?”

“He was like you, Mr. Hammer. Really good shape for his age.”

Thanks a bunch, I thought.

I asked, “I mean, did he make any friends in particular?”

His smile was on the vacant side. “Oh yes. They didn’t come in together or anything, but he always seemed to be here when Mr. Colby... Mr. Vincent Colby?... was in for a workout.”

I was fishing and surprised to get so immediate a bite.

“I’m acquainted with Mr. Colby,” I said. “Does he have a regular workout time?”

“He does. Three times a week, late afternoon Monday, Wednesday and a little earlier on Friday. Or he did. You may not be aware that Mr. Colby had an accident a few weeks ago, and hasn’t been in since. But I’m sure, when he’s recovered, he’ll be back at it. He’s a natural athlete. Played rugby at Princeton.”

Harvard, actually.

“Tell me, Rod — would they ever work out together, Colby and Shannon?”

“Sometimes. They seemed friendly. Conversed. Not warm, but... people concentrate on their personal programs here. Of course, that brought them together in itself, since they had the same personal trainer.”

“Who would that be?”

“Mashy.”

“Pardon?”

“Mashy Sakai. Well, Masahiko Sakai — we just call him Mashy for short. Very proud to have him on staff.”

“Oh?”

The trainer nodded. “He’s achieved the final Dan level of Judan. That’s—”

“Tenth-degree black belt.”

“That’s right. But Mashy does more than just teach martial arts with us. Oh, he includes that in the training, but as part of an overall fitness program, if you’re interested. He’s here right now, if you’d like to talk to him. Just finishing up a class on the second floor.”

The black-trimmed white room upstairs that I slipped into was divided in half, one section with polished wood flooring, for exercises, the rest shielded by a green mat, for sparring. Each wall had a framed kanji print. Along the periphery of the matted area, a dozen students watched as a little slender round-faced man in his fifties, wearing the traditional loose-fitting uniform called a karategi, was squared off with a much larger, younger man similarly attired — of course, the larger, younger man was not wearing a black belt, which proved a factor.

The two faced each other poised for hand-to-hand combat. The small round-faced man made a quick sidestep, placing his right leg behind the bigger man’s left leg, taking him down with a wham.

Both men rose, bowed, then the shorter one said, “Now that move, the ōuchi gari, or great inner reap, is an effective, simple way to bring your opponent down... unless he or she anticipates you and employs an ashi barai, a foot sweep. So try a hooking motion, not a reaping one.”

They went through the routine again, with the sensei demonstrating that slight variation as the bigger man whomped down once more, poor bastard. Again they rose, bowed. The student returned to the periphery with the others.

Their teacher reminded them of the time and day of their next class, bowed, dismissed them, and they bowed in return, then trooped out, looking beaten and tired. Their sensei didn’t appear to have broken a sweat.

The martial arts teacher turned to me — I was over on the slick wood floor, watching — as if he’d known I was there all along. Perhaps he had. His smile was almost angelic as he approached and held his hand out.

“Mr. Hammer,” he said.

I took the hand, shook it, neither of us trying to impress the other, and he took it back.

“You’re Mr. Sakai.”

A head bow. “Call me Mashy. Everyone does, even my wife.”

I looked at him curiously. “Did, uh, Rod give you a call that I was heading up to see you?”

Tiny shrug. “No, I just recognize you. From the papers and TV.”

Well, he was over fifty.

“How can I be of service, Mr. Hammer?”

No need to talk badges with this guy.

“If you follow the papers,” I said, “you probably know your client, Casey Shannon, was killed recently.”

“Murdered. Yes.” His expression turned somber. “A shame. Good man. Fine man. But I felt he was at Solstice under... false pretenses.”

“Really? Why is that?”

His smile was a fleeting thing as he gestured toward the mat. “Shall we sit?”

We went over and sat like Indians, the Mick and the Jap. Half a lifetime ago we might have been in foxholes in the same war. Different foxholes.

Sakai picked right back up. “I believe he was here not seeking fitness, but to investigate another student of mine.”

“Vincent Colby.”

“Yes.” He raised a gentle palm. “I should not have qualified that. When he first came to Solstice, Lt. Shannon came to me privately and asked a few questions.”

“What, specifically?”

“Nothing specific. Generalities. What was my opinion of Vincent Colby as a person? I said I found him affable and hardworking, a good student. I explained that my context was not sufficient to discern more. I asked him what he was looking for. His answer was... remarkable.”

“Oh?”

“He said he was looking for a killer.”

I nodded, thinking about that. “Was there hostility between Colby and Shannon? Tension?”

“No. They were friendly. Not warm...” A faint smile. “...other than the sweat we work up here.”

Said the guy who didn’t seem to be able to work up a sweat.

“So I would say,” the sensei said, “Lt. Shannon was not certain of Mr. Colby. Was Vincent Colby a good man or a bad man? Or, like so many of us, something in between? The lieutenant sought the answer.”

“Is Colby a good student? Would you say he’s proficient?”

Several emphatic nods. “Yes. One of my best. Took right to it.”

I thought about that for a while and the sensei patiently waited for me.

Then I asked, “Is it difficult to kill someone with karate, Mr. Sakai?”

I thought the quick shift in subject might throw him; but this was not an easy man to throw in any sense of the word. His immediate response was only to say, “Call me Mashy, please, Mr. Hammer.”

“Yeah, and I’m Mike. But is it?”

“Possible to kill with martial arts techniques? Certainly. Not so simple as on television and in the motion pictures, but... yes.”

“Is there a karate move that could cave in a man’s chest?”

He actually blinked. Once. “What a specific question, Mike.”

“Is there?”

“I teach various aspects of martial arts here. If you are familiar with such things, you probably know I was sharing judo moves with my students when you came in. But I can assure you I have never taught that... particular move to any student, ever. Including Mr. Colby.”

“What particular move?”

He sat silently for perhaps ten seconds, which is longer than it sounds. Try it. Then finally he spoke, quietly. Gravely.

“It is known as migi-hiza age-ate ryo-ken ryo-soku hiki-oroshi.”

“That’s a mouthful in any language.”

He nodded, once. “A lot of words for a simple move, one that is useful in particular in close quarters. It is a concealed bunkai, a move hidden in plain sight — a self-defense technique that can save a life... and take one.”

“What the hell is it exactly?”

His shrug was barely perceptible. “You pull your opponent’s head down and simultaneously bring up a knee to his chest. Swiftly. Powerfully.”

I frowned. “And that can kill?”

“With sufficient force applied, yes. The energy moves up from the feet to the knee, delivering a blow to the soft tissue under the rib cage while the opponent’s head is held in a stationary position.”

“Judas.”

“The ribs are driven back through the lungs and solar plexus, shocking the nervous system. Enough force can be generated to equal two cars colliding head on at thirty-five miles an hour. If I may be somewhat pedantic...”

“Pedantic away.”

“Just below the chest, the solar plexus is comprised of a dense bundle of nerve cells and supportive tissue. This is the abdominal cavity’s autonomic nerve center, a concentrated bundle of nerve cells and supporting tissue — ganglia, interconnected neurons — that through their linkage with other nervous system bundles, allow disruption of visceral functioning for other organs, including the heart muscle.”

“Causing death.”

“Causing death, again — with proper force. If proper is the right word. This is nothing I would ever teach a student, or even mention, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But perhaps you would like me to show you a move to counter it?”

“Uh... yeah. Oh yeah.”

As I came in through the office door, Velda was at her desk, on the phone, saying, “Here he is now, Pat.”

I hung up my coat and hat, blew her a kiss, went on into my inner chamber, and took the call at my desk.

“We have another homicide,” Pat’s voice said.

“Well, isn’t that what you’re captain of?”

“A specific kind of homicide.”

“...Shit. Not...”

“Another crushed chest cavity. A woman named Jasmine Jordan, a black call girl who worked out of an apartment house on East 78th. She had a whole damn floor to herself and her clients.”

“Hell. At least she didn’t work at Colby, Daltree & Levine.”

His laugh was short and harsh. “Doesn’t mean she didn’t know somebody there. The Jordan woman was thirty and on Vice’s radar, but this current operation was new to them. Other residents, none of whom were thrilled by Ms. Jordan’s presence in the building, saw respectable-looking gents in business suits arrive by limo or cab, and later get picked up the same way.”

“Do we know when she died? Who found her?”

“Anonymous tip. Female voice. Maybe a co-worker who found her and called it in, then got the hell out. Died last night between midnight and three a.m. is the initial read. Autopsy is today and we’ll know more.”

I grunted. “Somebody’s ambitious. That’s three kills in forty-eight hours... Vincent Colby could’ve been one of her well-heeled johns, you know.”

I could almost hear his eyes narrowing. “Mike — I thought you were working for his father.”

“I am. But young Colby’s the linkage between all of the other kills, and anyway he’s on my mind. I just got back from checking up on him at that high-class health club.”

I told Pat that Shannon appeared to have been getting next to Colby as part of investigating those two suspicious homicides — the rape victim secretary who’d been strangled and the boiler-room broker who got run over in a parking garage.

“Shannon suspected him,” Pat said.

“Would appear so. Those kills were a couple of stones in Casey’s shoe, keeping him from walking carefree into retirement.”

“He’s carefree now,” Pat said bitterly.

I shifted in my swivel chair. “Something you should know about Vincent Colby, buddy, if you don’t already. He’s a karate student. Apparently a fairly proficient one.”

And I could hear his chair squeak as he sat forward. “Isn’t that interesting. Could these crushed chests be the result of a karate move of some kind? I always figured that ‘killing blow’ stuff was just nonsense from the movies.”

“Colby’s trainer at the Solstice Fitness Center says it is possible. Not as easy as people think, but... yeah.”

“Does the trainer know what he’s talking about?”

“He’s a tenth-degree black belt.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll take his word for it.”

“And, Pat, he says it’s not anything he’s ever taught a student. He says there are ways to kill with karate that are hiding in plain sight.”

His laugh was rueful. “Sounds like you’re already getting ahead of me on this one, Mike.”

“I don’t have a desk littered with other homicides to keep track of. But you were man enough to call me and let me know the Jasmine Jordan development. I’ll keep you in the loop. Hell, you are the loop on this one.”

“I appreciate that, Michael. Don’t you go killing anybody who I’d rather see face the shame of a trial and a life behind bars.”

“Do my best, Patrick.”

“Oh, one other thing — Vincent Colby has an alibi for last night. Not much of one, but he has one.”

“Which is what?”

“Daddy dearest says his beloved only child was tucked in a wee little bed. That makes two shitty alibis young Colby came up with — his girl friend for the Kraft kill, and now his old man, for a dead hooker whose classy clientele may well have included Vince.”

“He prefers Vincent, Pat.”

“Fuck him,” Pat said, and hung up.

Vance Colby and I were once again seated opposite on respective two-seater sofas in the cavernous office that showed few signs of work ever being done, the fire again throwing orange and black reflections. Neither coffee nor brandy were offered this trip. I’d come unannounced, though my wealthy client hadn’t hesitated to tell the Ice Lady to send me in.

“My son was at home all evening, Mike,” he said, perhaps a bit too casually, arms folded as he leaned back on the plush over-stuffed sofa.”

“Is it possible he slipped out while you were asleep?”

His shrug was brief. “I’ll tell you what I told the police. I have trouble sleeping some nights, and last night was one of them. I was up till dawn watching television and reading, and would have known if he left. I wound up sleeping till noon, coming in late. Good thing I’m the boss.”

“Good thing.”

He gestured with an open hand. “If you’d like the name of the films I watched on American Movie Classics, I can provide them. And the book was Bonfire of the Vanities.”

Somehow that made his alibi for his son seem only that much more negligible.

“No,” I said, “I’ll take your word for it.”

That was a lie, but he was my client, and I’d banked his check.

“Several servants can back me up,” he said, “if need be.”

That was marginally better than the names of movies TV Guide could give him and a book he probably read months ago. But a guy with that kind of bread could spare however much it took to make a loyal servant even more loyal. That could mean good money in a murder case.

“Anyway, Mike — Vincent’s medication at night puts him into a deep sleep. Almost a sedative.”

I leaned forward. The flames were making abstract, flickering designs on his face, where his lingering thin-mustached smile seemed sickly to me.

I said, “Mr. Colby... Vance... if you no longer wish to engage me in this matter, I will understand. I will even return your retainer, minus a few expenses.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because there have been three murders since I undertook this job,” I said, “including this call girl who died while you say your son was sleeping last night. And I’m old-fashioned — murders on my watch piss me off. Plus, they’re bad for business.”

“Your point eludes me, Mike.”

“The point is that if you’re lying to me about Vincent being home last night, all night... or if I discover that your son is responsible for these killings, any of these killings... I intend to turn him over to Captain Pat Chambers.”

He was nodding. “Of the Homicide Division. Yes, I spoke with him earlier. Well, I would expect you to.”

“Captain Chambers was a close friend of Lt. Shannon’s. Pat will make sure that — if your son is guilty — Vincent will spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“That doesn’t worry me.”

“Really.”

“Yes, my son is innocent.” His brow tensed. “And I very much want you on the case, Mike, clearing my boy.”

I sighed. Patted my knees. Stood.

“So be it,” I said.

He stood, too, and offered his hand and I shook it. A firm shake, but moist. The old man’s smile looked like a sculptor slipped with his chisel and hadn’t quite pulled it off.

I went out, winked at the Ice Lady, whose pursed-lipped, crinkled-chin reaction was at least technically a smile, and started to head out. Earlier, I’d again noticed that Vincent’s office appeared empty.

But now the heir to the Colby throne was in, behind his desk, while a figure that I was pretty sure was William Owens, managing director of the firm, stood with his back to me, getting the Riot Act read to him. Vincent’s angry voice, though muffled, was booming behind the glass, what he was saying unclear, but his rage unmistakable.

The little blonde Red Riding Hood in big-framed glasses was goggling from behind her receptionist desk, looking alarmed. I raised a hand to calm her and headed toward that office, but I hadn’t made much progress before Owens, flushed and tearful, came bounding out.

Owens saw me and our eyes locked. Still moving, he said in a breathy rush, “I don’t know what he was going on about! He just went off!”

Vincent came charging up behind Owens, and turned him around like a naughty child and shook him like such children once were shaken, in what I’m told were less enlightened times.

“Screw up like that again,” Vincent was snarling, “and your ass is gone from here. Understand? Gone!”

Vincent, still holding onto this supposed friend by a shoulder, drew his other hand back in a fist, poised to punch. I got between them and the fist froze long enough for me to grab the wrist brandishing it.

“Go,” I said to Owens, who scurried, muttering, “Thank you,” heading out into the boiler room in a blur of striped shirt and orange suspenders.

Vincent’s face was damn near scarlet, his eyes big and bulging, his nostrils flaring, like a rearing horse. The musky smell of his cologne — Obsession? — came off him like steam.

“You let go of me, Hammer! Let go of me or—”

I let go of him.

Then I slapped him.

The Ice Lady must have called her boss, because Colby was there in seconds, moving faster than a man his age really should.

“What are you doing, Mike?” my client demanded.

Vincent was standing there, dazed, weaving, rubbing his cheek, blinking like somebody who got soap in his eyes.

“What you should have,” I said, “when he was a lot younger.”

I glanced back like Lot’s wife and saw the father walking his shaken son into the nearby glassed-in office. As I made my way through the boiler room, all eyes were on me, even the ones in headsets engaged in the latest cold calls.

I saw a lot of smiles.