Rules of honour 08, p.10
Rules of Honour - 08, page 10
part #8 of Joe Hunter Series
Despite all of that, people approached me, shaking my hand, patting me on the back. To them I was a hero. I didn’t expect or even want the acclaim, but it did no harm to smile politely and wave down the adulation. I was frustrated, wanted to get to my car and conceal my weapon before the cops arrived. Coughing and spluttering, I excused myself and made my way over to the Chrysler and popped the trunk. The fire was still burning brightly, and the structure growing unstable, despite the fire crew’s attempts to save it. I busied myself by pretending to look for something until the opportune moment arose. The roof tilted at one corner, then came crashing down: the resulting cloud of sparks and smoke that belched into the sky was fascinating enough to catch everyone’s attention and I quickly squirrelled my SIG out of the way beneath the spare wheel. I closed the trunk and walked to the far side of the street, to make sure my car was a good distance away from me for when the police arrived.
I had considered leaving prior to their arrival, but knew it would be no use. There was no sense in having then chase me across town, as a possible suspect in an arson case. It was best I waited and told a plausible enough story to appease them.
I expected a patrol car to respond and gather witness statements. I hadn’t banked on Detectives Jones and Tyler arriving on the scene. Even as they clambered from their car, I could tell Gar wasn’t happy to see me. He gave me dead eyes all the time they spoke with the fire chief, then he left his partner to march towards me.
‘Why doesn’t it surprise me to find you here, Hunter? Seems like we’ve a mini crime wave going on in our city and everywhere I look I see your face.’
His comment wasn’t particularly accurate, but it would have been pointless telling him so.
‘Who says there’s been a crime?’ I asked.
He jerked a thumb at the burning house. ‘What does that look like?’
‘An old man, having taken the wrong dosage of medicine, making a careless mistake with a cigarette?’
‘Bullshit.’ He prodded me in the chest. ‘I knew it last time, and I know it now. You’re involved in what’s going on here and you’re sure as hell going to tell me the truth.’
‘I don’t know anything. I just came by to call on a family friend, realised the house was on fire and dragged Mr Yoshida into the clear. We’ll have to wait until he recovers before we’ll learn how the fire started.’
‘Bullshit,’ he said again, a man of little imagination when it came to cursing. ‘You know what happened here.’
‘All I know is that I just saved a man’s life. I could do without being treated like the bad guy.’
‘You want me to treat you like a goddamn hero? Bullshit! For all we know you started that goddamn fire. You ask me, you’re our prime suspect.’
I was tempted to echo his catchphrase, but didn’t. ‘Why would I do that, only to carry Mr Yoshida outside? If I was trying to murder him, would I have given him an antidote and then risked my own life by jumping through a window with him on my shoulder?’
‘That’s my point! How’d you know to be here and come to his rescue? You were checking on a family friend? My ass. Seems way too convenient if you ask me. You’re up to your neck in this, and I’m going to find out the truth.’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’
He considered it, but then shook his head. ‘No, not yet. I’m in a good mind to, but not yet.’
‘Good. Then I’ve got nothing more to say to you.’
‘The hell you haven’t. You’re a material witness to a crime and you are going to speak.’
‘Sorry, Gar, but that’s all you’re getting from me. I’m going back to shower and put on some clean clothes. When you feel like being a bit more civil, in other words you ask me nicely, then maybe I’ll be prepared to pay you back in kind.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘The only bullshit here is your attitude,’ I told him – remaining calm. ‘Come and find me when you’re done throwing your weight around.’
He reared back, puffing out his chest, the way I recalled from our first meeting. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but nothing issued from him. Not until I turned to walk away. He called after me, trying to reassert his position in front of the few members of the public who’d borne witness to his accusations. ‘Yes. Thanks for your time, Mr Hunter. I’ll be in touch.’ He spoiled his chances of vindicating himself in their eyes by adding, ‘Real soon.’
Despite brushing Detective Jones off, I knew he wasn’t someone to underestimate, and I wasn’t deliberately trying to piss him off either. The sensible thing to do was to cooperate with him, tell him about the figure I’d seen running from the house and to work to bring the killer down together. But to do that would be to betray Yukiko and the others, so I chose the option of silence. It risked the detective dogging my every step, and putting paid to any hope I had of running my own enquiries into the killer’s identity, but it was preferable to throwing Yukiko and her friends to the wolves.
I drove away, having to wind my way through the fire trucks and hoses blocking the street. As I passed Gar Jones he was staring at me again, and the dead eyes were back. His partner only gave me a cursory glance, but when he recognised me I thought he nodded and his look was one of grudging respect. The fire chief standing beside them waved at me, without doubt appreciative of what I’d achieved. I waved back, but kept going.
I’d just cleared the last fire truck when I saw a taxicab speeding towards the scene. The cab pulled up, the rear door flew open and a young woman bolted out. She passed within feet of me and I got a look at her face a moment before she cupped her hands over her mouth to stifle a cry of horror. There was little in her features to indicate her racial heritage other than a slight tilt to her eyes that gave her an exotic look, but I made an educated guess that she was Takumi’s granddaughter, Melissa. I thought about stopping the car and going to her, to reassure her that her grandfather wasn’t stuck inside the burning house, but decided against it. I would allow the detectives to give her the news. I wasn’t after her thanks, I was only thankful that the girl had not been near when the house went up. I drove on, a smile curling at the corners of my mouth.
If Takumi was lucky, and if I’d managed to administer the glucagon in time, I was hopeful that he would pull through. I’d denied his killer another notch on his gun belt, and that pleased me. But I was angered that I’d had the bastard in my sights and had not taken him down. I wondered what the possibilities were that I could pick up his trail, catch up with him and drop the bastard in his tracks, and decided that they were nil. He’d be long gone by now, and with only the briefest of glances at his face I’d never be able to identify him even if he was standing among the crowds watching all the drama. As I came to that conclusion, the smile slipped away.
I’d told Detective Jones more than one white lie. I’d no intention of showering or changing my clothes. I’d a more urgent task. I wanted to be at Takumi’s side when he woke up. Going to the hospital in my present state might raise eyebrows, but it was also good cover: I’d look more like a patient than anything else and would be able to get closer to him than if I turned up groomed and fresh-faced. The cops would be heading there next and I wanted to be gone from the hospital before they arrived. I drove, mulling over what I’d speak to Takumi about. I just couldn’t decide what I would broach first: if he knew the identity of his enemy or the necessity to keep quiet about him when questioned by the detectives. I wondered if his sense of giri was as strong as Yukiko’s.
Chapter 17
He should have shot Takumi and had done with it. He knew now that his split-second decision to go for the grandiose and painstaking death he chose was stupid. He wasn’t even positive that the 300 ml of insulin would be enough to kill the old man; understanding that it was all determined by how high his blood sugar levels were to start with. He vaguely knew that insulin dependent diabetics balanced everything by food intake versus insulin. For all he knew the old man had been stuffing himself with candy before he arrived and needed the equivalent of the injection he’d given him just to take him back to normal. He should have punched the crap out of Takumi, using his knuckles on the Jap’s head the way he’d pounded the heavy punch bag in his gym this morning. That would have pleased him, given him a sense of satisfaction, and then a bullet in his skull would have ensured death, and the fire would have put a cap on it. He was mad at himself, for allowing his anger to overshadow his good judgement. Now he couldn’t be sure if Takumi was dead. The stranger who turned up at the most inopportune of moments could have dragged him to safety. And who the hell was he any way?
He had run where he should have stayed.
He was more than a match for most men in a fight, and he could have smashed the stranger and left him to the fire too. Yet the noise of him beating the stranger to death might have brought out other witnesses, and he couldn’t allow that.
He should have turned and shot the man as they’d peered at each other over the top of that fence. The retort of his pistol would not have raised an eyebrow in the neighbourhood, not when it was filled with senile old farts. That would have stopped any hope of rescue for Takumi. But at the time he had been more concerned about the man getting a good look at him and describing him to the police, and instinct caused him to flee. Until now he’d taken great care and had left behind no clues as to his identity. He had prepared for this, had worked hard to gain the skills necessary to fulfil his mission – martial arts practice, hours spent on the shooting range, placing himself in the most conflict-laden situations he could find – but now he’d threatened it by being careless. Next time, he would make sure that death was immediate, and he’d be gone before anyone knew that another of Charles Peterson’s murderers had been executed.
He wasn’t a coward. When he’d run, he’d only done so for as long as it took to be sure he wasn’t being followed. The stranger had obviously rushed back to the burning house. Deeming it more suspicious for a grown man to be running through the streets, he had slowed, meandered his way back to his vehicle at a casual pace. He was still near enough to the location to hear the responding sirens, but far enough away that no one would associate him with the fire a couple of blocks across town. Back at his car he had a spare jacket – the one he wore at work – and a baseball cap and sunglasses. He drove a block over before stopping and changing into them. Now he looked nothing like the man who had been seen running from the house fire and believed he’d attract no attention if he went back there.
He was confident that the members of the murder ring would not speak with the police; to do that was sentencing themselves to prison. All of them were old enough that they would never see a day of freedom again. But he had to wonder if the presence of the stranger was more than what it seemed. Had one or more of them sought assistance, perhaps hired a private operator to protect them? It was feasible and made his task all the more difficult, but not yet out of reach. The presence of a tough guy did not frighten him – he’d been around tough guys all his adult life, and hadn’t met anyone he couldn’t beat – and he was sure that he was the man’s equal. No, he was more than equal, because he wasn’t constrained by the same rules that a private security guard was. Another advantage was that the man had no idea who he was, or where or when he would strike next. It would be a simple enough matter to discover this man’s identity and to kill him.
There was no time like the present to get started.
He pulled into Takumi’s street two blocks south of the fire, then drove along to the next intersection, and parked in a vacant spot. SFFD fire trucks blocked the road and most of his view of the activity on the street outside the burning house. But he was in time to see the ambulance pull away, its lights flashing and siren wailing as it bore its patient off to hospital. He chewed his lip. The fact that the ambulance was in a hurry probably meant that Takumi was still hanging on to life and they intended getting him to hospital as quickly as possible. He sorted through the figures moving about in a clot on the opposite sidewalk, discarding the fire crews, and those who looked like neighbourhood residents. He saw a man who looked a little the worse for wear, his face and clothing darkened with soot and dirt. He’d only had a second or so to look over the fence at the stranger before fleeing, but there was no denying it was the same man. He had to consider that the stranger had managed to get Takumi out of the fire, and was now waiting around to make his report to the police.
The man peeled away from the crowd, and approached a silver Chrysler parked near to the front of Takumi’s house. He popped the trunk, delved in it, and then in one swift movement dipped his hand into the small of his back and shoved whatever he’d taken out into the trunk. There was no doubting what the man was concealing: a gun. He didn’t want to be found with it when the cops arrived. Speaking of whom, he saw a nondescript sedan car approach from the far end of the block. When it parked, two guys he made as detectives stepped out. One cop was tall and raw-boned, with strawberry-blond curls, the other slighter, darker, more austere. They approached the fire chief, but after a moment the big one peeled away and approached the stranger. He had seen enough posturing in his lifetime that he could read their body language. The two men had history, and none of it good. Judging by their short discourse there was a pissing competition occurring between them, and the stranger won hands down. He watched the big cop muttering behind his back as the stranger walked away and got in his Chrysler. The guy pulled away from the kerb and began wending a route between the fire trucks.
His decision to follow was a no-brainer. But he wasn’t about to drive through a bunch of cops and firefighters who might spot him and note him for later. He backed up and spun the wheel, taking him on to the intersection where he raced to the next block over. He paralleled Takumi’s street, racing the car along it to make the next intersection. Something must have slowed the stranger down because his Chrysler was only now crossing the next intersection up. At the next block they’d both be back on Geary Boulevard and he was confident he could tuck in behind the stranger there and follow him to wherever he was going. He pushed across the intersection as soon as the silver car was out of sight, giving the sedan throttle and beating the other to the main road. He was fortunate in that there were no other cars ahead of him, because the traffic lights were on stop, but he nosed far enough into the junction so that he could see the Chrysler turn and come down the hill towards him.
As it happened the stranger was halted by a red light. That made things awkward. They were now stopped at right angles to each other, and a simple glance from the man could be his undoing. He wasn’t that concerned: the man had no hope of recognising him now, disguised as he was. But there was a more pressing problem. His light had turned green. If he stayed put he’d probably attract attention, some impatient driver behind him would begin honking a horn to get him moving. He had no option but to turn left. Due to his positioning on the road though, it appeared that the stranger was heading down Geary past Peace Plaza, so once he was a block down he pulled in and parked at the side of the road. Within thirty seconds the Chrysler drew up at the next lights down, and he found himself peering at the stranger from no more than fifteen feet away. Luckily the man did not glance over at him – he was talking animatedly, probably on a hands free telephone that he couldn’t see from this angle. Pedestrians crossing the road were oblivious of the man, wrapped up in their own worlds, and did not notice that he looked like an old-time chimney sweep, his face soot-blackened.
The lights changed and the Chrysler swept forward. Another car came in behind it, then a truck emblazoned with Kanji symbols, but after that a gap presented itself and he pulled out sharply to continue the pursuit. While the lights had stopped the Chrysler, he’d memorised the number plate. He had his ways and means and would find out who the car was registered to later. But only out of interest, so he could learn his name, because he fully intended killing the man beforehand.
He followed, trying to decide his best strategy. Should he wait until the man returned to his employer so he got a full idea of who was trying to protect himself from him? He could kill the stranger – beat the living crap out of him – in front of his employer just to prove a point. Or just do the man at first opportunity and have done with it? He decided on the second: why complicate matters? He was going to kill every last one of the murderers, and having this man in his way was only slowing him down.
He pulled out his pistol and placed it in his lap, and, as he drove, reached for the glove compartment and pulled out the sound suppressor he’d employed on previous occasions. The silencer was a little corrupted, but out here on the noisy streets it wouldn’t make that large a difference. At the next stop he fixed the suppressor in place and laid the gun across his lap. Then he followed once more.
He was surprised when the Chrysler took a right and headed for the north end of town. He had expected that the stranger was heading back to either Faulks’s or Parnell’s place, but now it looked like he had another destination in mind. He glanced at the clock on his dash. Time was counting down; he had to be somewhere in a little over an hour and a half. No time like the present then.
He moved across lanes, paralleling the Chrysler, but two vehicles back. Then he began to speed up. He lifted the gun, readying himself. He was coming adjacent to the stranger’s car, could see him in profile. He lifted the gun a little higher, waited for them to approach the next intersection where the lights were turning red. Excellent, he thought. But it was a fleeting emotion, because sitting on the corner was a SFPD squad car. He quickly dropped the gun in his lap, and faced ahead. He’d be forced to pull up alongside the Chrysler. He continued to stare forward, sure that he was being scrutinised by both the stranger and the cop on the corner. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, digging his fingertips into the leather, cursing under his breath.
