Rules of Honour (16 page)

He was correct. Recalling our conversation at Andrew’s funeral, I’d suspected that Faulks and Parnell knew more than they were letting on. Since then, I’d believed they’d held their tongues for the same reason Yukiko had, so none of them ended up in prison, but now I wasn’t so sure. I pulled the strip of Tylenol from my pocket. ‘Couple more of these and I’ll be good to go.’

‘You’re sure? I can call on them if you’re hurting.’

‘I’m OK, Rink. I just need to stave off the headache I’m getting from looking at your shirt.’

‘What’s wrong with my shirt? I can’t mope around for ever; I need to get motivated. I’ve dressed for purpose, is all.’

‘Purpose?’ I stepped off my stool, stretched, feeling the recent collision in all of my bones. I reached for my coffee and downed it, as if it would help lubricate my aching frame. ‘What purpose could a shirt like that have . . . apart from inducing nausea?’

Rink smiled, his hooded gaze giving my soot-smeared jacket the once over. ‘That’s why I stick so close to you, Joe,’ he said. ‘The invaluable fashion advice you give me.’

‘Fair point,’ I conceded.

Standing, Rink picked imaginary lint off my shoulder. Then he shook his head in mock derision and led the way out of the coffee shop. It was good that he was able to joke again; in the last few days I’d missed my friend’s mockery. I followed, walking stiff-legged and working a kink out of my neck. Physically I wasn’t up to scratch, but mentally I was definitely ready. Before, I’d thought of the killer from a third-party perspective, my role being to help protect others. Now that the killer had targeted me, things had just grown personal.

Chapter 20

On the way across town I checked my SIG for damage. My rental had been a scene of total carnage, a mangled heap, but the spare wheel had offered protection to my gun. I found it to be untouched and in full working order. I didn’t expect to utilise it while speaking with Parnell and Faulks, but I shoved it away in its usual place down the back of my trousers. You never could tell.

The car Rink had commandeered was his dad’s. It had been parked in the carport alongside the house. There were some of his personal belongings on the dash, mundane items, but it made me wonder how difficult Rink had found it driving the car, if it felt like his dad’s ghost was peering over his shoulder the whole time. Maybe he’d had to steel himself before climbing inside, but then perhaps not. He’d dressed – as he’d pointed out – for the purpose of moving beyond the grieving stage, and maybe driving his dad’s car was an exercise in catharsis too. They were tiny steps in the right direction, but I doubted Rink would feel better until his father’s murderer was in the ground.

Rink had learned Parnell’s and Faulks’ addresses from his mom, and told me that both old guys lived in the same apartment block. Apparently they had been friends before and had stayed in touch after the events in the cellar at Rohwer. Both men had previously lived in family homes in different districts of the city, but after their respective wives had passed away Parnell had moved to the smaller apartment block. Out of a need for companionship, he had talked Faulks into joining him and his friend had taken an apartment at the first opportunity. They’d both been there for three years now.

It didn’t surprise me to find that their wives had been Japanese, and also internees of the relocation camp in Arkansas. It seemed a majority of the Japanese-American families forced out of their homes and transported across country had been from San Francisco. Unlike Andrew, Jed, Dan and Takumi, neither of these men had a background in the military. They had spent their lives in mundane, blue-collar jobs, with little need to practise their fighting skills. I wondered if there was a reason they’d been left to last: was it because they were the least dangerous foes, seen as the easiest targets, and the killer had gone for the most able first? Then again, why target Bruce Tennant at the outset? As far as I’d learned Tennant was a low level criminal with no appreciable skills other than an ability to become an aggressive drunk at the drop of a hat. Then again, I had to consider Yukiko’s version of the story: Tennant had been the most vicious of all when dealing punishment to Charles Peterson. Perhaps that was why his murder had been particularly brutal in turn. It was Tennant’s death – and how closely it resembled Peterson’s – that made me think the killer must have known what occurred down in that cellar. Yukiko had kept the secret all these years, her burden of obligation weighing heavy on her while she protected everyone else, but I wondered if any of the others had been less secretive. Loose lips sink ships, they say. Maybe one of the conspirators had given up the secret in a moment of weakness. They were all growing old, perhaps feeling their mortality, and needed to unburden themselves of their sins before meeting their maker. How else could the killer have learned about Peterson’s fate, and therefore chosen to avenge him?

The apartment block where the two old men lived wasn’t as high-rise as the name suggested. Hayes Tower was only six storeys tall. In the unpretentious residential area of Potrero Hill, it was an unremarkable building, surrounded by others equally commonplace. It did look clean and utilitarian, and I guessed that’s all the elderly men required these days. Rink parked his dad’s car in a side street that dead-ended at the warehouse-style doors of a Christian book depository. If the car was going to be safe, I couldn’t think of a more apt place to leave it than under the watchful eye of the Almighty.

Rink had rung ahead. He’d asked that both men meet us at one apartment, and found that his request was redundant. Since hearing of Jed Newmark’s murder both men had spent little time apart, the less able-bodied Faulks seeking solace – and a spare bed – in Parnell’s apartment. It made sense for both guys to watch each other’s backs, and made them a more difficult target for the killer. Then again, if he was ballsy enough, the killer could take them both out at the same time.

Parnell lived on the uppermost floor of the tower. I’ve never been a fan of elevators: not from any sense of claustrophobia but because I saw them as deathtraps for the unwary for anyone in my business. Back when I was hunting terrorists, quite a number of men had died as the doors of an elevator slid open to find me waiting for them with gun or knife in hand. For that reason I took to the stairs, and Rink joined me without comment. He came from the same school of thought.

We went up the stairs, pushing through fire doors at each level, all the way to the top. The building was designed to make the most of the balmy weather, with the access corridors, open to the elements, running along the back of the building. At the front the rooms came with small patio-type balconies, and on arrival I’d noted that some residents had capitalised on the sunshine and planted them to gardens.

On the way up we didn’t relax our guard. The chances of the killer making an attempt on Parnell and Faulks so soon after the events at Takumi’s house were slim, though you never could tell. But we made it to the top floor without incident and followed the corridor along the sunless side of the tower. Parnell’s apartment was the second from last at the northern end of the building. Rink leaned on the doorbell, but then didn’t wait before rapping loudly on the door. A soft scuff of shoes on tiles answered.

‘Who is it?’

The voice was Parnell’s, and it held a gruff edge. Perhaps he thought by acting tough he would frighten off the killer. There was little chance of that, but at least the old guy had enough sense to take precautions.

‘It’s Rink and Hunter. Open up.’

There was a rattle of chains, then the click of a deadbolt. The door swung inward and Parnell peered out at us, his gaze as watery as the first time I met him. After he nodded us in he leaned past us, searching back along the corridor. ‘Your mom didn’t come with you, Jared?’

‘My mom’s safe where she is,’ Rink assured him. Before coming to collect me from the coffee shop he’d dropped Yukiko at one of her friend’s, and she was currently surrounded by enough family members to deter the killer from trying for her there. Rink caught Parnell by the elbow and tugged him inside. ‘Lock the door again, Lawrence.’

‘You don’t think the bastard’s out there do you?’

‘He’s somewhere,’ Rink said. ‘Could be closer than any of us thinks.’

The entry vestibule was short and opened directly into the living room. The space was tastefully decorated, but there was also an edge of neglect about it, with grit and fluff on the carpets, and dust motes dancing in a slash of light coming through the front window. On the right I could see a pair of stockinged feet sticking out at the base of a settee, a coffee table with a cup on top directly in front. As I moved into the room, Rodney Faulks began to struggle out of the settee, his face fearful. He was holding an empty plate, dotted with crumbs, and he almost dropped it in his haste. I waved him back down again. Recognising me, and Rink following, he relaxed a little. He slumped back down, settling the plate on the coffee table. Evidently he needed to be doing something to occupy his mind. He reached for his cup and brought it to his lips. He watched us over its rim, waiting while we positioned ourselves in the room. There was one other easy chair, in which Parnell sat, but we didn’t feel like squeezing up alongside Faulks on the settee so stood in the middle of the room, looking down at the old men. Faulks placed his cup down, and I thought he’d barely wet his lips. I recognised the movement as a nervous reaction: Faulks was probably unaware he’d even picked the cup up.

Checking on Parnell, I saw he was much steadier than his friend. In fact, he looked positively defensive. Not surprisingly: he was aware that we knew what had happened to Charles Peterson, and their part in his slaying. He was possibly ordering an argument in his mind to convince us that what they did was correct. If Charles Peterson were guilty as charged, then he’d find no disapproval from me. There was only one guy out the bunch I’d have taken umbrage with and he was already dead . . . paid back in kind so to speak.

‘Before we go any further,’ I said, ‘let’s not get hung up on the past. We don’t care who did what to whom; all we’re interested in is stopping the latest murders. We’ve been on the back foot for too long and that’s going to change.’

A look of consternation crossed Faulks’s features and he grabbed at his cup again. Colour flooded his features, and swept up and over his bald pate, causing the faint scars to stand out like ridges on his scalp. I wasn’t sure if it was through shame that we’d learned his secret, or because the disclosure would bring him further danger. Once I’d credited the old man with more strength, but now I could tell he was almost folding under the stress. Parnell, in contrast, simply looked resigned, and bowed his head over his folded hands.

‘We were worried that you’d think the worst of us,’ he sighed.

‘How could we do that without thinking bad of my parents?’ Rink asked. He didn’t have to add that such a notion was unspeakable to him.

‘Who is it? Who is the killer?’

‘We don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. We haven’t got a clue.’ Parnell waved a hand, taking in the room, but his gesture was more all-encompassing than that. ‘Could be anyone.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘He has to have a vested interest in this. These killings aren’t down to chance; they’re pinpointed, directed at the men who executed Charles Peterson. The killer is personally avenging his death, or working on behalf of someone intent on doing so. You guys investigated Peterson before you hunted him down to his trailer, you must have looked into his background, his family, those kinds of things. Is there anyone there that could be responsible?’

‘You’re asking us to remember details from over forty years ago.’

‘It’s a small ask in return for your lives,’ I said.

‘Give us some names,’ Rink put in. ‘I have a friend I can put on to them, who’ll check them out and – if they’re there – find the leads we need to identify the killer.’

Faulks placed his cup down, and it rattled emptily. This time his anxiety had forced him to drain his cup in one long gulp. ‘Only one person I can think of.’ He looked over at Parnell, as though seeking permission to go on. They must have been talking about the very subject before we arrived, and had yet to come to a decision what to tell us. Perhaps they’d decided to feel us out first, see how we planned to use the information before they specified anyone. Parnell only frowned. Faulks said, ‘It has to be Peterson’s son. Nicolas.’

Both Rink and I had wondered about the boy. When Peterson had been snatched from his trailer he’d been shacked up with his third wife, Michaela. Yukiko had mentioned that there was a boy-child living with them, and that they’d timed the grab for when the mother and toddler were out of the way. The theory Yukiko held was that they probably did his wife and child a huge favour getting rid of the abusive man, but who knew? A child as young as Nicolas was at the time could have a different viewpoint concerning his absent father.

‘The boy would be full-grown now, probably in his early forties. That would fit with the description of the man I saw at Takumi’s house, and also later on the road.’ I shook my head. ‘How would he know what happened to his father? More pertinently, how could he have learned who was responsible for killing him?’

‘Who else could it be?’ Parnell said.

I hadn’t a clue. But Rink was a better detective than I was. ‘I’ll get Harvey on to it. I’ll have him check out the son, see where he is, what he’s up to these days. It’ll be simple enough to dismiss him as a suspect once we have all the facts.’

‘What about us?’ Faulks asked. ‘What are we supposed to do in the meantime: just sit here and wait for the bastard to show up?’