Giri (37 page)

Sure, he was jealous of Dorian. No getting around it. But Michi had said she never loved Dorian, and whatever else she was Michi was not a liar. Besides, she had killed Dorian. Decker grinned in spite of himself. Throwing somebody oat fee window was one hell of a way to show you loved him. Decker loved Michi, plain and simple. And he would despise anybody who threatened that love. No wonder he had blown his cool. No wonder he had hit her. Jesus, he wished he hadn’t.

He had two choices. Turn her in. Or leave her alone. His mind considered a third choice. Join her. Could he do that? Did he love her enough to become an accessory to murder? He didn’t know. But first, he had to go back to the hotel and apologize. Talk some more. Work it out.

He was sure of one thing: he wouldn’t turn Michi in. He’d take his chances on being an accessory after the fact. Whoever caught him would have to prove he knew about her plans in advance, and proving anything these days was tough. Look how hard it was to prove that Robbie Ambrose was a murderer.

Before coming to Paris Decker had said to LeClair, “Robbie Ambrose. That’s the name Dorian was about to give you before he died.”

“You sure?”

“That’s why I ran out of here the day Dorian mentioned it. My partner and I are working on making a case against him. As you know, the three of us were in Vietnam at the same time. Dorian, Robbie and me. Over there the word was that Robbie was a
double veteran,
one of those guys who raped Vietnamese women, then killed them right afterward. Sick bastards, obviously. My partner’s doing most of the work on this thing. We’ve got something started, but it’s not enough to go into court with.”

“I see. Well, well. And you’re sure about the name?”

“I’m sure.”

LeClair said, “This little vacation, where are you taking yourself off to?”

“No place special.” Let word on the trip to Paris come out later. Decker wasn’t going to advertise. He braced himself for LeClair’s refusal. It never came.

“Bon voyage, my man. Touch base with you when you return.”

Decker was shocked. He was almost shocked enough to thank LeClair. Instead he lifted a hand in farewell and left the office.

Now Decker stepped from the arcades on rue de Rivoli and flagged down a taxi. He was going back to the hotel. Back to Michi.
Giri.
Can’t live without it. Sooner or later everybody’s got to stand up and be counted. He remembered her face, her disappointment when he had not committed himself to her.

He felt sick with guilt, but he’d see her and make it right. She would be pleased when he told her he would stand by her no matter what. Time for Decker to be true to the only woman he had ever loved.

In the cab he told the driver, “Hotel Richelieu,” and added, “hit it. I’m in a hurry.”

The driver stared at Decker uncomprehendingly, then turned back to the wheel.

Apparently he’d understood some of what Decker had said. The car took off, jumping a red light and rushing Manny back to Michi.

At the Hotel Richelieu, Robbie Ambrose stepped from an elevator with a folded newspaper under one arm and an attaché case in his other hand. The case contained two manila envelopes for Dieter, along with Robbie’s passport and a copy of the rules for the January
suibin
tournament. The
suibin
meant point fighting again, but there would probably be some contact and Robbie wanted to know just how far he could go without getting disqualified. Pull contact was a lot more popular in America and the Far East than anywhere else.

Still, winning the
suibin
trophy would mark Robbie as the best fighting man in the world and that’s what he wanted. To win.

Tonight he wore an expensive leather jacket belted at the waist and a cap and gloves made of gray suede. He wore dark glasses and there was cotton in his cheeks to alter the shape of his face. Not that anyone even noticed him. A maid clutching a pillow and blanket knocked on a hotel-room door, ignoring Robbie as he walked behind her. When the door opened and the maid stepped inside, Robbie sprinted to a fire exit, through the door and down two flights to the floor where Michelle Asama had booked a suite. Dieter’s information had better be good. If this was the wrong room it was going to be Dieter’s ass.

On Michelle Asama’s floor he dropped the newspaper, cracked the fire-exit door and watched two Vietnamese waiters walk past him toward the elevator. Robbie closed the door and leaned his back against it. He brought the heel of one gloved hand to his lips, peeled back the glove, letting the amphetamines drop into his mouth. He swallowed. And began to feel one with the god of war.

Turning, he cracked the door once more. His breathing had slowed down and his senses were exquisitely sharp. Strength filled his every muscle and power poured into his every nerve. After six years he was about to catch himself a ghost. A ghost who endangered his friend Sparrowhawk.

Music and the sound of a woman laughing filtered out of the room directly opposite the fire exit. Robbie closed his eyes, hearing the sensual laugh again and shivering as though he had just been kissed on the back of his neck. The drugs were taking effect.

Time to take care of business. Go for it.

He eased into the hall, looked both ways, saw no one. Soundlessly he approached Michelle Asama’s door.
Give no warning. Wait for the opening and seize it.

At the door he brought the attaché case up to cover his face.
Hachiman Dai-Bosatsu.
Great Bodhisatva, god of war. Sword forged by the four elements—metal and water, wood and fire.

Robbie knocked on the door. Gently.

He was ready to lie, to say that he was delivering flowers or something. But Robbie was surprised. He didn’t have to lie at all.

He heard footsteps running toward the door. His instincts, sharpened by drugs and the power of
Hachiman,
said the door would open without question.

It did. It opened wide.

A tearful, smiling Michi said, “Manny—”

Robbie tossed the attaché case in her face and kicked her in the stomach, driving her back into the room. Inside, he slammed the door behind him and charged, giving Michi no chance to recover. Michi, doubled over and in pain and fighting for air, fought back bravely. When Robbie was almost on her she kicked low, aiming for his ankles with her clogs.

He was quick. He stopped, then sidestepped in the same motion. Her kick scraped his ankle, removing a little skin. The pain was slight, no more. It never even slowed him down.

Gasping for breath and dizzy, Michi held her stomach and backed away from her attacker. A bright-eyed and intense Robbie stalked her. With his right hand he faked a backfist to her head and when her right hand came up in defense, her right rib cage was exposed. Robbie aimed a roundhouse kick there with his left leg. A weakened Michi acted instinctively. Her right hand dropped down to block the kick, but she had little strength and wearing clogs left her off balance. Her block was feeble and ineffective.

Robbie’s kick, strong, vicious, went through her block and his foot smashed into her rib cage, knocking Michi to the floor and knotting her face with pain. He was a split second away from kicking her in the face when he remembered. Her face had to be unmarked. Instead, Robbie kicked the fallen woman in the stomach twice, folding her in half. She made a tiny sound and her mouth was as wide as it could get, but the fight was gone from her. She clawed at the rug with the nails of one hand and tried to move. She was sweating, barely conscious and no more danger to him now.

He picked Michi up in his arms, smelled her perfume and felt her warmth against his chest and was happy. He carried her to the bedroom, laid her down on the bed as gently as possible, then returned to the living room. There was scattered food over half the room and dark spots on the rug that were melted ice and spilled champagne. Robbie had hoped to find a letter opener. Instead he found something better. A steak knife.

Back in the bedroom he lay the steak knife on an end table, then carefully opened Michi’s kimono and looked at her naked body. Beautiful. This one was special. She had gotten away from him six years ago, driven away into the night. She moaned, opened her eyes and with all of the strength she had left tried to lift her head from the pillow. Robbie had rarely been as sexually aroused as he was now.

Michi knew she was going to die. But she willed herself to fight, not to fall back and close her eyes. Not yet.

Robbie was in love with her. He loved them all, each of the women he had held in his arms and then killed. But this one was special, she had been a fighter, someone worthy of respect and of all the love he had. Robbie bent down to kiss her.

Michi fought to lift her shoulders from the bed. The pain filled her insides; it expanded, retracted, then expanded once more, all but blinding her in its intensity. She moved closer to her murderer, aware of what he wanted to do. When his lips touched hers Michi returned his kiss, first licking his lips with her tongue, tantalizing him, drawing him near. Robbie relaxed, knowing now that she loved him as much as he loved her. Her tongue gently probed the inside of his mouth, darting between his teeth and lips and he gladly gave himself, opening his mouth, seeking her tongue, her soul.

The pain so shocked Robbie, who was leaning over Michi’s body, that he kicked out with one leg and knocked the end table to the floor. Bitch. Fucking bitch.

Michi had bitten down hard, sending her teeth deep into the flesh of the bottom lip and tongue. With the nails of her right hand she raked the left side of his face, leaving blood-red streaks from cheekbone to jaw. She clung to his flesh with her waning energy. She tasted his blood in her mouth. And rejoiced.

Robbie punched her in the breast twice, snapping, whiplike blows and Michi fell back on the bed. There was blood on her mouth, jaw, teeth and her chest rapidly rose and fell with her tortured attempts to breathe. Her eyes were on fire with hatred for him. Of all the women he had killed, this one was the first to show no fear.

Robbie quickly reached down, pulled a handful of tissues from a box on the floor and pressed them to his bleeding mouth. He looked down at his jacket. There was blood there, too, but it was leather and could be wiped off in seconds. Using his free hand he took more tissues from the box and used them to wipe his blood from Michi’s mouth. She tried to push him away, but was too weak.

He forced his fingers between her lips and as best he could wiped his blood from her teeth. When she tried to bite him Robbie simply pinched her nostrils shut, cutting off what little air she was able to take in. She opened her mouth wider to breathe and then he was able to wipe her teeth.

After placing the tissues used on Michi in his jacket pocket, Robbie, a wad of tissues still pressed against his mouth, took more tissues from the box and pressed them against the scratches on his face. They stung. If she had scarred his face she deserved to die.

He walked into the living room, shifted the tissues from his cheek to the sodden lump in front of his mouth and picked up the champagne bottle from the floor. He held it up to the light. A third of the bottle left Robbie returned to the bedroom, where he leaned over Michi and poured the rest of the champagne into her mouth. That should wash out the rest of his blood.

He laid the bottle down on the floor, and then he stood up and unbuckled his pants. He hadn’t planned to fuck her. But she had bitten him, scratched him. Nothing on earth could prevent him from taking her now.

It was quick. He could hardly hold himself back. It was over in seconds and during that time he had kept the tissues pressed against his pained mouth. Once, he had almost dropped them. The pleasure he had found in her had been so keen the tissues had almost slipped from his hand.

Finished, he rose, zipped up his pants and then, because he could only use one hand, awkwardly put the kimono back on the semiconscious Michi. Oh, he did love this one.

Michi opened her eyes. “Manny … Manny.”

Robbie shook his head. Not Manny. He took Michi’s right hand, wrapped it around the steak knife, then placed the cutting edge against the left side of her throat
Hachiman.
Robbie cut the artery. Michi stiffened. Blood spurted onto her kimono and the white bedspread beneath her. Robbie dropped her hand. Now her prints were on the knife.

The rest was easy. Robbie placed the blade against the right side of her throat and cut deeply. Michi whimpered, tried to rise. Robbie placed a gloved fist on her chest and kept her in place on her back. For a minute or so he watched the blood flow from both sides of her neck. Then he dropped the knife beside the bed and changed tissues before walking to Michi’s closet. Here he removed a belt from her closet, returned to the bed and looped the belt around her ankles.

When Robbie had smoothed out her kimono he looked down at the dying woman, relieved. Nothing to be afraid of anymore.

He walked from the bedroom, careful to avoid stepping on plates and glasses. It never occurred to him to question why they were on the floor. Such thoughts were a deviation from his purpose, a lessening of his concentration. At the front door he cracked it, saw an empty hallway, then stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

He heard the elevator. Danger. Robbie ran toward the fire exit, pulled open the door and leaped into the dark stairwell. He closed the door behind him, but not all the way. Peeking through the crack he saw, well, what do you know. Decker.

The detective walked by Robbie, stopped in front of Michelle Asama’s door and knocked. Robbie grinned. His mouth hurt, but he had to grin because everything had worked out so well and again he had come out on top against Decker. Turning, Robbie tiptoed gracefully down the stairs, tissues pressed against his mouth and feeling damn good.

A
T KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Ellen Spiceland showed her badge and ID to a uniformed security guard, who signaled with a nod of his head that she could pass him and continue on to the customs clearance area. She hated airports.

The only reason she was out here this afternoon, when she should be Christmas shopping, was to warn Manny.