Т Паркер - Swift Vengeance

“What did he drive?” I asked.

“A gray SUV. Toyota or maybe Nissan.”

Taucher shot me another glance. Then looked at Ernest. “Which?”

“Hard to tell apart. But that’s good evidence? The old gray SUV?”

“Yes, good,” I said. “Did Ben have friends or visitors?”

“A woman. Never smiling.”

Joan held out her phone again, close up to Ernest’s face, as if he were visually impaired.

“Yes,” he said.

“Name?”

“I never met her,” said Ernest. “She would come over when he got home from work. And on the weekend. Sometimes I would hear music inside. Mostly it was quiet. When it was warm out and the windows were open I could smell cooking. Lamb. Vegetables being fried. Affectionate voices.”

“What kind of music?” I asked.

Ernest pursed his lips and frowned. “At first, American rock music. But lately, different. Egyptian? Persian? Strings, but not like a guitar. Not American or Mexican.”

“What about men friends?” I asked.

Taucher was snapping pictures with her phone again.

“Sometimes another man,” said Robles. “They seemed like friends or maybe brothers. He was shorter than Ben, who is tall. I don’t remember what he looked like, except his hair was dark.”

My first thought was brother Alan. “Age?”

“Sorry,” said Ernest. “I only saw him coming and going. Maybe twice or three times.”

“Did you see his car?” I asked.

“No. Parking is behind.”

Taucher and I opened the kitchen drawers, the refrigerator and dishwasher, the cupboards, the tall, narrow broom closet. All empty except for a bottle of sparkling water, a half-carton containing two eggs and four shells, and a crisper full of vegetables no longer crisp.

“So,” I said, “no garages with the units?”

“Only a carport. Assigned spaces.”

“Did you ever see Ben bringing cases in or out? Heavy cases?”

“Like beer or wine?”

“Like beer or wine.”

Ernest pursed his lips again and shook his head. “No. Once he brought longer boxes from his SUV into the apartment. Maybe... three or four feet long. The next day he drove away with the same boxes. He said they were new blinds for the bathroom and bedroom. But he returned them because he didn’t like them.”

“How many long boxes?” I asked.

“Maybe four.”

Taucher turned from the broom closet. “He’s probably got a storage unit somewhere,” she said.

“I don’t know about any storage unit,” said Ernest.

Taucher gave me a cold glance, then walked past us into the living room. Where we moved the beaten couch away from the wall, pulled the pads off, pushed and pulled them for contraband. Down in the main couch crack we scored a quarter and a penny and a few loose peanuts. We sprung the sleeper, lifted the thin mattress, put it back, and folded the couch shut.

“He danced at night alone,” said Ernest. Waited for our attention, which he got. “I did not spy. I believe in privacy for my tenants. But sometimes when I was walking around in my complex I would see him through the blinds. Just the shape of his body. He appeared to be dancing or writhing. He had rhythm and a sense of purpose, but no pattern that I could see. His arms would be out and he would leap up and squat down. He had his hands raised, with his fingers up and together, like for chopping. Like blades. He was graceful and slow and flexible. He would bend backward as if trying to touch the floor. Then straighten and jump up and land lightly. Legs out, then together, like a ballet dancer. Not a sound from where I stood. I saw him do this several times. It was hard not to watch. It was hypnotic.”

Taucher looked pleasantly stunned.

“Several times,” she said quietly. “Like he was practicing for something?”

“Practice, I don’t know,” said Ernest. “It looked like exercise. Or meditation. Maybe yoga.”

The bedroom was small and square, with only one window. There was a row of colored pushpins along the top, which had apparently held up a cover or curtain of some kind. I could see fabric dangling from one of them, likely from someone ripping it off. Joan produced a pair of surgical gloves from her purse, worked them on, and carefully removed three of the pins. Placed them in a small plastic bag, locked it.

There was a twin mattress and box springs along one wall, no sheets, covers, or pillows. Empty closet, and a flimsy plastic shelving unit inside it, empty, too.

“Didn’t leave much,” said Taucher.

The bathroom was small and messy, white counter smeared with toothpaste, sink half coated with dried soap, whiskers, and shaving cream.

“DNA central,” said Joan. She produced a larger plastic bag from her apparently bottomless purse. Used cotton squares to swab the sink and the tub drain. Pulled a wad of dark hair from the drain screen and wiggled it into a third plastic bag. “To be cool is to be equipped,” she said.

Ernest issued a puzzled smile.

Taucher shot phone pictures of the bath, while I went back to the kitchen and went through the mail on the counter. Buried down in the junk mail was a flyer from Free World Hapkido here in Santa Ana, addressed to Ben Anderson. Set it aside. On the bottom of the pile was something I’d seen before and that Taucher had apparently missed — the glossy invitation to the opening of “The Treasures of Araby” in Solana Beach. No postage, no addressee. Hand-delivered by Hector Padilla? Or had Ben Azmeh picked it up himself?

Joan, suddenly beside me. “A shadow-dancing beheader who calls himself Caliphornia, uses a knife, and has six thousand rounds of ammo stashed somewhere? I can’t wait to punch this guy’s ticket. Look what I found.”

She dangled a clear plastic evidence bag before me. I followed the left-and-right pendulum of a toothpaste-sized cylinder with the letters DMSO on it.

“Horse liniment for his Hapkido aches and pains,” said Taucher. “Easily transferred to paper he was writing on.”

As the circumstantial evidence against Ben Azmeh continued to mount, I looked out the dirty kitchen window, past the shaggy-topped palms, still working on my favorite chew stick. We needed a way to get Caliphornia into the open. If Ben was our man, what about his plea for a money-lender in his letter to Marah? Money. Something he needed.

Beyond Joan’s shoulder Ernest’s pleasant face rose like a moon. “I take my wife to Mass on Saturdays,” he said. “It’s time for me to go get ready.”

“Mass? Say a prayer for us,” said Taucher.

“You think Ben Anderson is this dangerous man?”

The silence of confession.

“Then I will pray for you,” he said.

Master Don Kim was a fifth-degree black belt who ran the Free World Hapkido dojo in Santa Ana. He had a warm smile and cool eyes and was about to start his Saturday adult class when Taucher and I walked in. The grown-ups warmed up, gis snapping. Kim was short, burly, and neatly groomed. About my age. He kept his smile and nodded when I asked if he knew Ben Anderson.

“Yes, he’s a very good student. Why?”

Taucher badged him. “Five minutes in back?” she asked.

Smile gone, Kim gave orders to his ranking student, a lean, bearded, middle-aged man with a black belt that had one gold bar on it. Then led us past his students, through a split white curtain with a red-and-blue Hapkido emblem on either wing of it, and to the men’s locker room.

Two rows of lockers and benches, three shower stalls, one wall draped with training gear hung from pegs: padded gloves and vests, fighting sticks and swords, extra helmets, dummy handguns, nunchuks, bats and clubs, throwing stars, throwing knives.

“Tell us about Ben Anderson,” said Taucher.

Master Kim was soft-spoken and chose his words carefully. He smiled often, but his eyes were humorless. He said Ben was an excellent student, a second-degree black belt. Ben had trained at other studios over several years, said Kim. He had been coming to Free World Hapkido for only approximately one year. Ben was good with the younger students. He occasionally taught them, working off his own costs. Ben did not engage socially with his peers at the dojo. Very polite. Master Kim said that Ben talked sometimes about surfing and rock climbing and photography and art. Kim didn’t know what Ben did for work, but twice Ben had asked if he could be late with his monthly payment but still attend. Kim had agreed both times because Ben was dependable. Ben did very well in competitions. He was tall and strong, which made him powerful yet vulnerable. He generally attended the weekday five o’clock open sessions for red belts and up.