Rules of Honour (7 page)

One bonus was that the roads were quiet this late in the evening and the cab was winding its way up Market Street and ready for the turn on to Twin Peaks Boulevard before he realised how close to home he was. Minutes later he was outside his house. He climbed out of the cab yawning, paid and thanked the driver and gave him a hearty tip. Then he trudged up the slight incline towards his front door. He checked the mailbox on the way up, but found it empty. He was pleased; even if there had been mail it would have had to wait. Killing was tiring work, he’d found.

His house was a narrow wooden structure with a peaked attic and a veranda at each of the three floors. Built just after the great earthquake it showed its age in the slight lean of its walls, the faded paint on the rails and in the way in which the front porch steps had drooped at their centres. His grandfather built the house and – though he’d never lived here – his father had inherited it. When his father died, it had been passed on to the son. The killer had never wed, had no children, but he didn’t feel out of place in a house large enough for an extended family. As a child he’d grown used to the seclusion, because after his father disappeared there had been only him and his mom, and for all the notice she took of him he could have been alone in the world. Until she brought home her male drinking buddies, that was, and suddenly he was the centrepiece of their evening entertainment. The cigarette burns on his body had scarred him less than those wounds on his mind.

When all this was over with, when he’d sufficiently punished the others, then maybe he still would have purpose. Dan Lansdale had begged him to stop killing; even when he’d slipped the knife between his ribs and twisted it, the old man had pleaded that he end his killing spree. But he would not. Once vengeance was his, he would take his fight to those sick-minded bastards his mother had introduced him to. He had trained all of his adult life for this, acquiring the skills that would ensure he’d never be a victim again; it would be a shame to waste them.

It was cool inside when he entered the house, and dark. He flicked on lights as he progressed through the house to the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry. In fact, the only thing he would do before retiring to bed was this one simple task. He found the upright refrigerator, and placed one finger against the sheet of paper stuck to it, holding it in place while he reached with his other hand for the pen swinging below it on a piece of string. He gave the pen a shake to get the ink flowing to the nib, leaned close and scored out the fourth name on his list. He wasn’t even halfway through the list yet, but even he had to admit that having only started this thing a fortnight ago, he was well ahead of schedule.

He looked at the next names on the list, blinking away the weariness in order to bring the writing into focus. Who next? All three targets lived here in San Francisco, two of them in the same apartment block. Perhaps he should leave them until last, otherwise the connection might be made between his victims and bring the cops down on him before he was finished with the third. That wouldn’t do. He had to send every last one of them to the grave.

The thought settled him and he made his way up to the room he’d commandeered as his bedroom at the uppermost level. He could have used any of the larger rooms on the intervening floors, but this was as far away as he could get from the basement cellar. Ever since dealing with Tennant, and hearing the truth from the punk, entering basements had made him slightly uneasy.

He took off his jacket and boots, but that was all he had the energy for and he slumped back on the narrow cot he’d dragged up there. His fatigue was the effect of an adrenalin dump, and was not physical as such. In the morning he’d be fresh and ready to go again. When he woke up he would put himself through the rigorous exercise regime he’d set himself, pump himself full of energy and the desire to take the next step in his plan. For motivation he peered up at a profusion of photographs pinned to the wall over his head. They swam in and out of focus. His eyes were slipping shut, but he forced himself to lean over and hit the switch on his alarm clock. He hoped for a deep and dreamless slumber. There was no chance of that, though; as soon as his eyes fluttered closed the flames built behind their lids and the blood and screams soon followed.

Chapter 10

‘So where do we go from here?’ I asked.

‘Only one place I can think of,’ Rink said.

On the way back, Rink telephoned his mom and had her driven home by her friends. As we sat in the living room, Yukiko had gone to the kitchen and busied herself with preparing a meal. We could hear the clatter of pots and pans, and it was apparent that Yukiko was taking out her frustrations on a large metal utensil.

‘Maybe I should talk to her,’ I offered. ‘I still think she’s finding it difficult looking you in the face.’

The corners of Rink’s mouth jumped, but it wasn’t a smile. He dipped his head, and the way his hooded lids obscured his eyes made it difficult to see how my comment affected him. But that was obvious.

For all that Rink had inherited his mother’s Japanese looks and colouring, he was still very much his dad’s image. It had to be difficult for Yukiko to look at her son without experiencing another pang of loss for her husband. Before he could refuse, I stood up and headed for the kitchen. As an out for his mother’s emotions, I closed the door behind me, shutting Rink away so he could have his own privacy.

I found Yukiko leaning over the sink, both palms pressed tightly to the work counter, her elbows locked. If she didn’t support herself so I guessed her knees would have given way and pitched her to the floor. Her shoulders were shuddering, though I couldn’t hear her weeping. For a second I almost turned away, but didn’t. I brought a chair from the table and guided Yukiko into it. At first she resisted, her back forced ramrod straight, but as I placed a comforting arm around her she relented, and sat down. I found some tissues and handed her a bunch. She used them to hide behind.

I waited.

All I offered was my silent companionship, but it must have helped.

Yukiko finally came out from behind the emotional crutch of the tissues to blink up at me. Tears trembled on her lashes, but her gaze was now steady. She was nearing eighty years old, was small and dainty, but for a second or two she looked as tough as steel. ‘Forgive me, Joe. You must think me a silly old woman.’

‘That’s not what I think. Not at all.’

Her hair was white, cut close to her head in an elfin cap. The soft amber hue of her skin was spared the mottle of age, and was relatively wrinkle free. She was immaculately dressed in an off-white silk sweater and slacks. She looked like a woman thirty years younger and the beauty that must have struck Andrew all those years ago was barely diluted. Even suffering the grief of losing her husband, she presented an image of steadfast calmness. Sadly, I knew that the image was born of the etiquette instilled in her all her life. It would have been easier for me if she had wailed and beaten at her breast in anguish.

‘Then you must think me selfish.’

I shook my head, before pulling over another seat and positioning it in front of her. I sat, leaning on my elbows, clasping my hands.

‘I know you have personal reasons for staying silent, Yukiko. And I respect your wishes.’

‘But?’ Yukiko smiled sadly. ‘I hear the “but” behind your words. You are not unlike Jared in that respect.’

‘You know who murdered Andrew.’

‘I do not.’ There was no reproof in her words, it was a simple admission – I believed – of her failure to find answers to her own questions.

‘But you have your suspicions about
why
he died.’

Yukiko didn’t answer.

I shifted, leaning that bit closer. I reached for her hands and held them in mine. She bunched her fists around the tissue and briefly I wondered if I’d overstepped the mark. But then I felt her hands relax and noted the slump in her shoulders.

‘If I tell the police then I will bring harm to others.’

‘I’m not asking that you tell the police. Tell me.’

‘I know what you would do, and what Jared would do. I do not want this to continue, Joe. I’m sorry, I can’t tell either of you.’

Giri
, I understood, was a matter of honour, and it was OK for one of a Western mentality to scoff, but it was
everything
to Yukiko. It had been difficult enough for her to admit that she held some knowledge about her husband’s death, but now there had to be a war raging inside her.

‘This man, the one who murdered Andrew, is without honour,’ I said. ‘You have no obligation towards him. Whichever way you look at it.’

Suddenly Yukiko pulled out of my hands. Her back was tight to the seat. I thought she was about to slap my face.

‘I do not protect
that pig
!’

I understood what we had missed then. Whatever obligation Yukiko felt she owed it was to her husband. Not only that, but to Jed Newmark and perhaps others. I sat, watching her, waiting for her to gather herself. Either she would strike me for the dishonour of my words, or she would fold.

Thankfully it was the latter.

She stood up and, leaning against the counter for support, she made her way to a drawer from which she drew out a rolled newspaper. She returned to her seat and sat down before offering me the paper. I unfurled it.

‘Page fifteen,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Before turning to the page she’d indicated I took a glance at the cover, saw that the newspaper was almost a fortnight old. I looked up from it to find Yukiko staring at me. I nodded and she mirrored the gesture. She had suspected something was coming for the best part of two weeks, but had kept the secret to herself. Maybe I was wrong: she would have shared this with Andrew at least. I thumbed through the sheets to the correct page. Yukiko pointed at a column at the bottom. The story was accompanied by two photographs: one of a fire crew sifting through the wreckage of a house consumed by fire, and, inset into it, the face of an elderly man.

I read the accompanying story, sensing that Bruce Tennant would prove to be an old friend of Andrew and Jed Newmark. Fire crews had been summoned to a decrepit flophouse in the Tenderloin district, reacting to reports of smoke billowing from its cellar. Before they could arrive on the scene the ensuing fire had claimed most of the building, and it was only afterwards, while they were searching through the wreckage, that the body of Tennant had been discovered in the cellar. He was burned so badly that it had taken a post mortem examination to confirm his manner of death. It wasn’t the flames but three bullets fired into him at point blank range: two in the heart and one in the head. A police spokesperson gave an official comment, but reading between the lines it was suggested that Tennant – who had recently been released from prison – was known to have made several criminal enemies and that it was possible his past had caught up to him. Maybe they had a point, but I was beginning to think the repercussions came from a past much further back than the police intimated.

I took one last look at the face of Tennant, before lifting my gaze to Yukiko. She had sat without comment, waiting for me to finish. Her mouth opened slightly, but that was all. She looked down at her hands, her chin tilted away from me.

‘I’m taking a guess here,’ I said. ‘Bruce Tennant was a friend of Andrew and Jed?’

Yukiko shook her head. ‘No, he wasn’t a friend. He was just someone they knew once. Someone whose life connected to theirs – to ours – but he was never a friend.’

I frowned. ‘How were they connected?’

‘It is this that I have most trouble admitting to. If I say, then it will become apparent what they did. Then the others will be harmed.’

‘Not if we figure out what’s going on and stop the man responsible.’

‘You’re not listening to me, Joe. Just like Jared, you assume that all problems can be solved by force.’

Her comment stung, but she had a point.

‘The ones I wish to protect face more than the threat of murder. They face imprisonment, ruination, and shame. Not only them, but also their loved ones will suffer. It is to all these families that I owe my silence. Do you understand?’

‘You said that I assume, but now you do, Yukiko. The people you protect are only at risk if the story is made public. Me and Rink aren’t in the habit of talking to the police. What you have to remember is that the same people are in danger from this killer.’ I held up a hand to stop the admonishment I saw building in her. ‘You said that even their families would suffer: they’ll suffer even more if their loved ones are murdered the way the other three were.’

Yukiko nodded, and her eyelids drooped. A single tear ran down her cheek and hung off the side of her jaw. ‘Four,’ she said.

When I didn’t respond, she looked up at me. ‘While at my friend’s house I made a decision and I telephoned those I knew were in danger. Sadly, I was too late to alert one of them. Daniel Lansdale was stabbed to death yesterday evening.’

I tasted bile in my throat. I had to swallow it down, when all I wanted was to snap at Yukiko. If she’d told us what was going on, then maybe we would have been able to save Lansdale. Maybe we would have been able to save Andrew and Jed too.

She must have read the reproof in my face because Yukiko slapped her thigh. The noise caught me unawares, causing me to flinch.