Hanging the Devil, page 5
“—to run away.” Sally waited until Grace met her gaze and added, “What you did at the museum is exactly what a wise person does whenever confronted by violence. Ask yourself, why am I in this fight? Did you come here to hurt me?”
Grace’s brow furrowed. “No, you said—”
“—did I want to hurt you?” Sally paused. “If I was a burglar, a mugger, or worse?”
Grace nodded.
“Remember,” said Sally, “‘he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.’”
“Is that from The Art of War?”
Sally shook her head. “It’s a quote from a dead Roman named Tacitus.”
“Do you speak Latin?”
“Non si vitare possum.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “What does that mean?”
“Not if I can avoid it.” Sally took up her stance. “Now, what if you have to fight?”
Grace raised her arms again. “I let you attack first.”
“Unless you have an easy opening. Maybe you’re close enough to kick me in the shins, or jab your thumb into my eye, or if I’m a man, kick me in the—”
“—but that’s cheating.”
“That’s survival.” Sally’s tone was flat. “This isn’t a karate match, Grace. The only ribbon you’ll get is a tourniquet.”
Grace blinked. “I understand.”
Without warning, Sally stepped forward and swung her right arm at Grace’s head. Quickly enough to be a threat, gauging her speed to see how Grace would react.
She didn’t disappoint. Grace ducked under the swing, and instinct took over. Inside Sally’s reach, she took half a step forward and punched with her right fist, targeting Sally’s sternum. Sally slapped the hand away.
The girl’s teacher wasn’t bad.
Grace pivoted from her failed strike and, keeping her hands up to protect her face, swung her left leg around in a snap kick. Instead of twisting away from the kick or blocking, Sally turned into it and grabbed Grace’s leg with both hands.
Grace tried to pull away but it was too late. Sally lifted Grace off the floor, using the captured leg as leverage to toss Grace onto her back. There were mats on this part of the floor but they were thin, and the fall knocked the wind out of her.
Sally didn’t move to help the girl, since no one outside these walls would, either. Grace stared at the ceiling and caught her breath, ragged at first but normal by the fourth exhalation. As she climbed onto her elbow, Sally asked, “What did you learn?”
Grace didn’t reply. She wrapped her arms around her knees and remained on the floor. Sally could see how tired she was. After what she’d endured, Grace probably wanted to sleep until she could wake up and discover her night at the museum had been nothing but a bad dream.
All the more reason to push her now.
“Your kick was too high.” Sally paused for a moment. “If it caught my knee, or even my shin, it would have hurt more and been harder to deflect. They tell you in class to kick high, because it helps with flexibility and makes you look like a badass.”
A half smile found the corner of Grace’s mouth. “Did I look like a badass?”
“Right up until you ended up on your ass, yes.” Sally’s mouth twitched, a hint of a smile. “In a real fight, you get no points for style.”
“You’re stronger,” said Grace.
“Exactly,” said Sally. “And I’m barely taller than you. What if I were six feet tall and outweighed you by fifty or a hundred pounds?” Preempting any rebuttal, she added, “Always assume your opponent has training. Even fat, stupid men may know how to fight.”
Grace stood. “So how can I win?”
That was the right question.
Sally gestured at the walls. “If outmatched, grab a weapon.” Grace started to move to the nearest rack, but Sally held up a hand. “Sometimes that’s your nails, or your keys. Something within reach, like a stick or a rock. Understood?”
Grace nodded.
“Eyes, nose, fingers, face.” Sally touched each part in turn, ending on her cheek. “Spots that trigger an instinct to recoil, to pull back.”
“So that I can run.” Grace’s mouth turned down.
“Winning does not mean defeating, it means escaping.” Sally brushed a stray lock of hair away from Grace’s eyes. “That is today’s only lesson.” She waited until Grace gave a short nod. “If you get away, you’ve won.”
“If I get away, I’ve won.”
Sally waved at the wall. “Now find a way to hurt me.”
Grace surveyed the weapons. Double-edged jian swords hung next to single-edged dao, the Chinese sabre. Japanese katana and wakizashi caught the light and winked at her, the folded steel rippling as if alive.
She moved to the practice weapons and almost grabbed a wooden kendo sword until she got closer and realized its length. Taking a step back, she scanned the racks of weapons and body armor as they diminished in size, until she came to a row of wooden sticks about twenty inches long and two inches in diameter. Each looked like a policeman’s billy club.
A third of the way along the length of each stick, a wooden handle was set perpendicular to the main shaft. Grace grabbed two and turned to face Sally.
“Those are tonfa,” said Sally. “It’s a melee weapon. Interesting choice…do you know how to use them?”
“No,” said Grace. “I saw them once in a movie. I just thought I could hold them without losing my balance.”
“Not a bad reason.” Sally was going to ask why she didn’t choose one of the real swords but let it go. Even Sally’s childhood had turned things into a game. The blood and scars came later, when she was old enough to understand the real purpose behind her school. “Throw one to me; I’ll show you.”
Grace tossed a stick underhand. Sally caught it with her right hand and twirled it like a baton. She held the handle so the shorter piece of wood extended just beyond her closed fist. The longer section was braced along her forearm.
“If I punch…” Sally straightened her arm. “…the front of the stick extends my reach. If I raise my arm…” She squatted as if under attack. “My opponent’s strike hits the stick and not my arm.” She stood and swung her arm slowly, leading with the elbow. “On the offensive, I let my arm guide the stick, using my momentum so the wood takes the impact.”
Sally tossed the tonfa back to Grace. “Last thing, if you’re not sure of yourself, lock one in place along your weak arm, and only attack with your strong arm. Use it for defense, but never let it throw you off balance.”
“Aren’t you going to choose a weapon?” asked Grace.
Sally’s mouth twitched. She bowed but kept her eyes on Grace, who did the same before raising her sticks in a defensive stance.
Sally closed the gap, leading with her left leg as she brought her right arm in a smooth arc toward Grace’s neck. She slowed her swing only marginally, without telegraphing her strike. Grace saw it and moved one of her sticks above her head before Sally could connect. Sally pivoted for her next assault, but before she could attack, Grace did something unexpected.
Grace attacked first.
Instead of staying on defense, Grace stepped into the opening left by Sally’s turn and swung her right stick upward. Sally smiled as the tonfa swept toward her jaw. Grace might not be ready to grab a real sword from the wall, but she clearly understood this wasn’t a game.
Sally snapped her arm back to catch the stick against her palm with a smack that echoed across the room. Grace’s eyes went wide as Sally held fast and twisted the tonfa with a flip of her wrist. She lost her grip in the same instant Sally raised her right leg to ninety degrees, bent her knee, and kicked Grace in the stomach.
Grace flew backward, one stick poorer. She landed on her backside, her momentum rolling her in a backward somersault that ended on her knees, facing Sally from ten feet away. Grace still had one tonfa stick, held tightly in her left hand. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath.
Grace wobbled on her knees and watched Sally’s eyes.
Sally had kicked a spot that would give Grace a brief bellyache, well below her sternum. Fracturing a rib or puncturing a lung the first day wasn’t going to help the cause. Grace rose to one knee, her other leg bent in front of her, as if she was about to stand. Sally took a deliberate step forward to show that she wouldn’t stop coming.
She took another step. Then Grace surprised her again.
Without changing position, Grace hurled the tonfa in an overhand swing that would have impressed any pitcher in the World Series. It flew end over end directly at Sally’s head.
Sally turned sideways and used the stick she’d taken from Grace to deflect the airborne missile. It clattered to the floor and smacked against the wall. Before Sally could turn to face her young opponent, she heard the slap-slap-slapping of Grace’s feet as she ran away.
Grace had used the opening she’d created to scramble to her feet. Now she was running toward the far door without looking back. As she cleared the threshold, she yelled triumphantly over her shoulder.
“I win, I win, I win!”
Sally’s mouth surrendered to a full smile as she tossed her tonfa after the first, her eyes on the empty door through which Grace had vanished.
She won’t be easy to kill.
Grace wasn’t what Sally was expecting, and that might give her the edge when she needed it most.
11
“You aren’t at all what I was expecting.”
Cape glanced up from his breakfast with a quizzical expression. He wanted to ask Maria if that was a compliment or an insult, but his mouth was full. He’d ordered a lot of pancakes.
“I’ve only known one private detective.” Maria selected a strip of bacon from a shared plate in the middle of the table and bit it in half. “An ex-policeman who’d been on the force with my father.”
“And?”
“Gilipuertas.” Maria smiled. “A real asshole.”
“You just met me,” said Cape. “Give it time.”
“Fair enough,” said Maria. “What’s your story?”
Cape shrugged. “I was a reporter, back when there were newspapers.”
Maria nodded. “Same thing in Europe…it’s all opinions now…so?”
“So, a long time ago…”
“…in a galaxy far, far away?”
Cape laughed.
“We have Star Wars in Spain,” said Maria. “We even have bacon.”
“Then I’m definitely booking a trip.”
Maria gestured at their table, which had far more plates than people. “Do you always eat this much?”
“Only at breakfast.”
“What do you eat for lunch?”
“Usually another breakfast.”
They were sitting in a booth at a diner on Van Ness. Not Cape’s first choice but easy to reach from the museum. The Mini Cooper parked next to his car had been Maria’s, and after navigating the minefield of scatological obstacles across the park, they got in their respective vehicles and drove here. The food was solid, the decor loud, and the service serviceable. Most importantly, the place was noisy enough to talk without being overheard.
“So you worked for a newspaper…” Maria prompted, snatching another piece of bacon. “But you left.”
“Had a disagreement with my editor,” said Cape.
“Over a story?” asked Maria. “Or was it personal?”
“I found a connection between some local politicians and organized crime. Rigged bids for a renovation project downtown. The paper broke the story, everybody seemed pleased.”
“That’s good, no?”
Cape shrugged. “Some mid-level officials got indicted, the paper sold a few more copies, everybody got a pat on the back. My editor said the story was closed.”
Maria’s eyes smiled over the rim of her coffee cup. “You disagreed.”
“I pulled on that thread a little harder and found it was tied to some very bad people.” Cape flexed the fingers on his right hand. “Prostitution network specializing in underage girls, doing business out of massage parlors and nightclubs. The girls weren’t from around here so nobody made any noise.”
“Trafficked?”
“Mostly from Asia, some from Guatemala and Mexico, but their clients were all local—”
“—and tied to the other end of that thread?”
“Ran all the way to city hall.” Cape flexed his jaw, memory’s aftertaste fresh on his tongue. “Naive jackass that I was, took it to my editor, who said drop the story.”
“He was one of their customers?”
“I think he was just on the payroll,” said Cape. “Whether he succumbed to political pressure or his monthly checks came from somewhere else, I couldn’t care less. So I quit, figured I’d take the story to a rival paper, but they wouldn’t touch it either.” Cape cracked the knuckles of his right hand. “Until a local girl went missing.”
Maria put down her cup. “She had a family?”
“Exactly,” said Cape. “Her aunt came forward, and a local TV station picked it up, showed the girl’s photo on the seven o’clock news. Once crime has a face, it’s a lot harder to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“Did you go back to the paper?”
“I slammed that door on my way out.” Cape gave a half smile. “But I found the girl.”
“¡Reivindicado!” Maria’s eyes flashed. “You were vindicated.”
“I was arrested.”
“What?”
“I traced the girl to a brothel, but I wasn’t the only one looking. I entered as a potential client, then arrived in the girl’s room at precisely the same time as someone else.” Cape smiled at the thought of Sally climbing through a window. “Someone I thought was just an urban legend.”
“Who?”
“Today, she’s my business partner,” said Cape. “Back then, she didn’t know me. I was just another guy in a brothel.”
“She was suspicious?”
“She threw me out a window.”
Maria sat up straighter. “I think I like this woman.”
“Don’t get on her bad side.” Cape laughed at himself. “As I hung from the edge of the roof, two stories up, the police raided the place. I climbed back through the window and found myself staring down the barrel of a very big gun held by a very large policeman.”
“Who arrested you.”
Cape nodded. “The policeman you were talking to at the museum?”
“Inspector Jones.”
“Beau, yes,” said Cape. “He’s the one who arrested me.”
“You keep interesting company.” Maria rubbed her hands together. “Why didn’t you get your old job back?”
Maria’s tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“You mean, after being thrown out a window and getting arrested,” said Cape. “Why do this for a living?”
“Because you were bored to death!” Maria’s eyes were alight with amusement. “¿Es cierto, que no?”
“Maybe.” Cape shrugged. “What’s your excuse?”
“My father was Policia Nacional,” said Maria. “Mother was an artist. I decided to combine the two.” She sipped her coffee and added, “Mamá was furious.”
“With you?”
“With my father,” said Maria. “I said that it was her fault for buying me the Spanish-language editions of Nancy Drew when I was ten.” Maria set her coffee down. “I didn’t mention that Papá took me shooting at the police range while she was at work.”
“What led you to Interpol?”
“Cape, I think you are good at this dance.” Maria’s eyes flashed again, and Cape wondered if it was a trick of the light or if she lived in a constant state of mischief.
“I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Oh, but you are. I asked some questions—”
“—and I answered.”
“You gave me just enough to trust you,” said Maria. “Then you spun us around and started asking me questions—”
“—because I’m curious.”
“About why I’m here.”
“Well, I already know why I’m here.”
“See, we are doing the tango,” said Maria. “Give and take.”
“So what would you like me to give,” asked Cape. “Or take?”
“You believe your inspector friend…Beau…will help us?”
“He’ll talk to us, eventually,” said Cape. “He plays by the rules, so I can’t say whether or not he’ll help, but he will share, especially if you share with him.”
“Give and take.” Maria held her arms as if dancing. “It’s how people who don’t know each other come to trust each other.”
“Beau’s a better dancer than I am.” Cape signaled the waiter for the check.
“I doubt it,” said Maria. “Are we going somewhere?”
“I am,” said Cape. “Want to come, or would you rather wait around until your supervisor stops being a bureaucrat and lets you do your job?”
Maria grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Is this you giving?”
“This is me trying to stay ahead of the police,” said Cape. “Once they check the museum’s security tapes, they’ll know most of what I know, maybe more. So I need something to barter.”
“Where are we going?”
Cape took the check from the waiter and laid some bills on the table. After replacing his wallet, he pulled out his phone and opened the photo app before handing it to Maria. “Zoom into the tail section.”
“The helicopter.” Maria spread her thumb and index finger across the screen to enlarge the image. A series of letters and numbers were painted in white, distorted by the crimp in the tail. “Is that a Z or an N?”
“Not sure,” said Cape. “But we can narrow it down, and find out who the pilot was…”
“Was, not is…” Maria returned the phone. “At the museum, you mentioned the pilot.”
They emerged from the diner into the watery light of San Francisco, the city where the fog holds the sun hostage. Cars sped along Van Ness in both directions. An articulated bus lumbered past as they reached their cars.
“The pilot,” said Maria. “You think he’s dead.”
“I think he’s Russian,” said Cape. “And dead.”
“So are we going to talk to a live Russian,” asked Maria. “Or a ghost?”
