The Samurai Conspiracy: A Story of Revenge by the Author of "The Junkyard Dog."

By Harlan Wygant

This sequel to "The Junkyard Dog" takes place five years later. Brad Logan is now a homicide captain and must stop a gang of terrorists who have killed several prominent citizens. When Brad's wife is kidnapped by the gang, the hunt becomes more personal. When he becomes reckless in his investigation, he is suspended and must continue on his own. When he finally locates the terrorists he is involved in a life or death struggle with the man who thinks of himself as a Samurai.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 8, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469724355

Harlan Wygant

Harlan "Hal" Wygant spent two years in Japan as part of the Army Security Agency. He became very fascinated by the culture and has done extensive research to make his writing authentic.

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All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Harlan Wygant

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

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www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-27828-0

ISBN: 978-1-4697-2435-5 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

This is for my loving family and the members of Golden Empire Hot Jazz Society who encouraged me to continue writing and to Jim Williams who would not let me be discouraged by failure.

CHAPTER 1  

It’s always the same: The piercing sound of a telephone in the dead of night is like screeching tires. The terrifying sound snatches you from deep sleep, sends a charge of adrenalin surging through your senses and accelerates your heart rate to levels only achieved by running a marathon.

Captain Brad Logan had conditioned himself to react with a controlled response each time it occurred. With programmed reflexes, he snatched the phone before the third ring. His wife burrowed deeper into her pillow…Kathleen’s own conditioned response to such incidents.

This is Logan and this better be good. Is it? His growl was real. Sleep interruption was a personal affront.

The caller’s voice reflected his respect. Sorry about waking you, Captain, but we have another homicide. The situation is critical and needs your personal attention, Sir. Sam Hardy’s already on scene.

Brad recognized the drawling voice of Watch Commander, Tony DeRossett.

Spill it, Tony, what’s so important it can’t wait for morning?

Captain, a John Doe alerted us to another mutilation murder and the victim is Commander Owens! Hearing DeRossett’s words turned Brad’s blood to ice. His feet hit the floor in one motion.

Owens? Commander Owens murdered? Jesus Christ, how did it happen? Was he on duty? Give me the condensed version, Tony.

We got a 9-1-1 call about midnight. The caller was out walking his dog and just happened upon the bloody scene. Called us right away on his cell phone.

You called this a mutilation, Tony. Do we have another slasher incident?

Brad noticed a slight catch in the voice on the phone. Yeh, and this one’s worse than the others. The crime scene resembles the goriest disaster you can imagine. DeRossett’s voice quivered. Captain, the report is that Commander Owens was beheaded!

The words cut through the last of Brad’s sleep hangover, bringing his thoughts into focus with a flash of recognition. Three other mutilation cases occurred in recent weeks, and all the victims were beheaded. There was no question about it: Langston had a serial killer lurking somewhere…a killer with the audacity to murder a policeman. If word reached the public, a general panic was certain to follow.

Brad heaved himself out of bed, fumbling for the switch on the bedside lamp. Give me the address, Tony. He snapped as he snatched the pad and pencil from the table. He knew it might waken Kathleen, but he couldn’t help it. After scribbling the address on the pad, he turned the light off and terminated the phone call, admonishing DeRossett to keep the story under wraps.

Kathleen’s muffled voice emerged from somewhere within the mound of covers. What is it, Brad?

Another slashing, Kate. I’m going out to see for myself. Don’t get up, Hon; I’ll call you in the morning. Get back to sleep.

Brad saw no reason to bother her with details yet, so he reached over and gave her a peck on the forehead, patting the mound of her hip. He tucked the covers back around her shoulders, then walked to the closet for his clothes, certain she would be sound asleep by the time he stomped his feet into his well-worn snakeskin boots. He needed only to run his fingers through his buzz cut brown hair to complete his dressing routine. He was buckling the large silver buckle as he descended the stairs. That silver buckle was his trademark, a constant reminder that he still missed his dad. It was the only memento left of that time in his life.

*****

As he drove through the silent, deserted streets of Langston, Brad marveled how his anemic little hometown had evolved into a big city…with all the baggage of a big city: Increased traffic, noise, pollution, and of course, violent crime. Some part of him longed for the days of walking his beat through the six square blocks that once comprised ‘downtown’ Langston, California. When he began his career for the police department, twenty-some years ago, he could describe his hometown as a quaint little village; maybe a cut above ‘cow town’. That scene was gone.

Flashing lights on emergency vehicles directed him to the site of the latest murder scene. Brad screeched to a stop in front of the well-maintained Victorian house. Despite the early morning hour and the predawn chill in the air, a sizable crowd milled around on the sidewalk. Showing obvious curiosity, they nevertheless waited behind the yellow police tape, respecting the officers’ work area.

Evening, Captain Logan. A cop in dark blue uniform touched fingers to his hat brim, in a casual salute, as Brad ducked his 6’ 4" frame beneath the yellow streamer. He patted the cop on the shoulder and walked past him, avoiding the plastic cones left by the homicide boys, designating potential clues. Brad counted only six markers…a glaring sign that this would be another tough case.

Got anything Sam? Brad queried the stoop shouldered man in the rumpled plaid sport coat. The inspector crouched low as he inspected a spot on the concrete.

Senior Inspector Sam Hardy peered over small-framed glasses that perched on the end of his nose. His appearance always reminded Brad of some caricature in a grade B movie but behind the bumbling, unprofessional appearance, Brad considered Sam one of the best homicide inspectors in the state.

Morning, Cap. Got a gory mess here. The sick bastard propped Owen’s head on the top step over there, okay? Sam pointed to the top step. Then, the bastard was so sadistic, he put Owen’s hat on the head. You know…like he’s thumbing his nose at us. The rest of the cadaver’s still inside. I’d say we’re dealing with a very sick, perverted killer here. Sam Hardy’s head ratcheted from side to side as he made notes in the tattered notebook in his hand.

Brad and Sam partnered for many years, as homicide dicks, before Brad received his last promotion. During those years, Hardy impressed him as a thorough, dedicated cop with incredible instincts. Any idea about time, Sam?

Couple hours, tops. Blood’s still viable.

Any sign of a struggle?

That’s not clear. There are no defensive wounds on his hands or arms. Must’ve been reading or something…still wearing his street clothes, okay? Only lights burning were the lamp beside his chair and the porch light. Neighbors heard nothing and saw nothing. You know…typical scene…no breaks for the good guys.

Brad nodded. Just like all the others. Do your best, Sam. Lab boys working inside?

Yeah, go on in. Just watch your step. It’s pretty much a bloody mess.

As Brad picked his way, with great caution, up the stairs and past the now-draped portion of the deceased, he crinkled his nose. Even after all his years working homicide, he still hated the terrible smell of a murder scene. It permeated the air and clung to his skin, provoking a brief shudder as chills assaulted his body. He could never describe the smell but knew it all too well.

Inside the house, he saw a team of detectives and forensics experts intent on their work. Portable floodlights glared, giving the room a surrealistic yellow glow. Brad saw with satisfaction the chief Forensics scientist, Mark Goddard, down on his hands and knees, scraping bits of carpet fiber into a vial.

Morning, Mark. Sure hope the perp left some tracks for us this time. Any possibility of getting some breaks?

The slight, dark haired man looked up at the sound of a familiar voice.

Oh, hi, Brad. Jeez, I guess I’ll never get used to this, especially when the victim is someone I know. So far, there’s nothing obvious ’cause the perp took great care to leave no street signs for us. If he touched anything, he just left smudges. Must’ve worn rubber gloves and I’m guessing he used paper shoe covers, you know, like they wear in surgery…maybe even a paper gown to keep spatters off him. Then all he had to do was burn them as soon as he got to a safe place. This ahole’s super careful…much more than your ordinary killer. This hit was well planned. No way is it random…just too methodical to be an impulse crime. I’ll be surprised if we find anything helpful. I put the T.O.D. about eleven, but you know that’s only a guess.

Yeah, I know, that matches Sam’s guess. Can you describe any kind of pre-crime scenario yet?

Just a sketchy guess. It looks like Owens was reading in that chair over there. Mark gestured toward a corner. Maybe the doorbell rang…anyway something made him get up and walk to the front door. I’m sure he was stabbed as soon as he opened the door because the blade pierced the screen door. The first blow killed him…may have pierced his heart from the amount of blood. No sign of any kind of struggle. I think he was dead before he was decapitated. There’s a big smear of tissue on the floor over by the door. The coroner will verify that for you, but it sure looks that way.

Looks that way to me, Mark, thanks. I ‘ll get out of your way. Get us everything you can. We need to get this son of a bitch in a big hurry.

Brad poked around the room without expecting any surprises. He had been in the house only one other time…when Owens received his promotion to Commander five years ago. Owens held a little party here for the senior officers in the department. Less than a year later, Mrs. Owens died. Since then the captain lived alone in the large, two story Victorian.

As he walked up the stairs to the second floor, Brad recalled his twenty-year relationship with the deceased. Owens was a beat cop when Brad started as a rookie traffic officer. In those years, Brad looked up to every senior officer, gleaning something from each one. From Owens, he learned police work is far from the glamorous impression left by the TV. Shows like Dragnet and The Untouchables were Brad’s favorites as a kid, but he soon learned the difference between those fantasies and the real police world.

Mike Owens always impressed Brad as an honest, dedicated cop, who lacked the formal education required of today’s high tech police work. The man worked as a harness bull for twenty years, finally coming in off the street to take over the Traffic Division at the same time Brad moved into Homicide. It wasn’t until after the Yakuza episode, five years ago, that Owens became the senior officer in the department.

Brad cringed as memories of the chaos in the department surfaced. He had just broken up a ring of dirty local cops, including the head of Internal Affairs. When the I.A. man tried to blow up a local manufacturing plant, Brad shot and killed him…the only deadly shooting in Brad’s career. The lethal encounter still haunted him at times. During the same episode, they discovered the police chief was on the payroll of a Japanese crime syndicate. Later, Chief Preston died in a huge explosion, although his body couldn’t be found.

The long-festering incident resulted in the arrest of twenty active duty cops who were involved in a white supremacist group. That loss of personnel boosted Brad’s own career. The city promoted him twice during the next three years, making him third in command at Langston PD.

Today, long-term problems still haunted the department, as newly hired officers searched for a common bond with veterans. Trust was slow to develop, but morale improved each day and to Brad’s satisfaction the department was making strong strides forward. The working atmosphere was much more tolerable.

Brad poked around for another hour; finally concluding the crime scene was secured. Mark Goddard left with his little bag of samples. The scientific element of the investigation now moved to the laboratory in Mark’s competent hands.

Glad to be outside again, Brad called to Inspector Hardy. Sam, you about done here? Buy you breakfast if you’re ready.

Yeah, sure, Cap. This one’s really gross…worse than any I remember. Never saw so much blood from one victim. It’s too close to home, man. Jeez, I just talked to Commander Owens in his office yesterday morning. I really liked the guy. Hell of a good cop…a straight shooter. You know?

You got that right, Sam. He backed me in many tough times. Goddam it, Sam, we’ve got a cop killer who’s also a serial killer. This is top priority now, so drop everything else until we catch ’em. Understood?

Sam Hardy nodded, but said nothing as he got into Brad’s car. Conversation wasn’t necessary. A killer just murdered a member of the fraternity of cops; a compound felony. Now it was a personal offense against everyone in the department.

An hour later, both men felt halfway human after their breakfast and a pot of coffee. As they left the restaurant, the sun painted a vivid portrait of wild color along the eastern horizon. Long streaks of red and gold arched across the sky as if some giant hand splashed wild colors directly from paint can to canvas. But, despite the beauty of the scene, something ominous demanded restraint in one’s enjoyment of the serene beauty. More often than not, such early morning displays of color foretold the coming of a storm.

We may have some rain today, Sam. Sure hope the lab guys didn’t overlook anything at the scene. He surveyed the sky as he opened the car door.

Me too, Boss. We’re gonna need some breaks on this one, and if it rains before they get finished at the scene, we may lose something important. Sam looked at the glowing sky. You may be right about the rain.

*****

Sure enough, the rains came shortly after noon. By then, Brad felt he’d put in a full day of work. The whole town reeled after the morning news broke. Another killing was bad enough…a cop killing raised the level of emotion even higher.

Throughout the morning, his phone never stopped ringing. Citizens were concerned about the new crime wave. By two o’clock, he decided he couldn’t stomach any more of the high tension. Pat, he told the switchboard operator, it’s been a long day. I’m checking out. Take my messages.

Brad called Kathleen from his car and told her he was on his way, but first he would stop off in Little Ginza, the Japanese settlement east of town. Since the Yakuza incident five years ago, Brad devoted much time and energy to cultivating a better relationship with the community. His efforts were rewarded, as he now had the ear of many of the town’s most influential citizens.

He repaid them with stepped up patrols in the area and established a small Precinct office right in their town center. He even hired two Japanese-American patrol officers for duty on the streets. A certain amount of mistrust from some of the citizens still prevailed, but he thought it was much improved because of his own efforts.

He stopped in front of the Maranuchi Office Building. Minutes later, with boots replaced with soft slippers, he entered the office of Toshio Kinoshita, the unofficial mayor of the settlement. After exchanging bows, the two men sat at the ornate, carved teakwood desk. As if by magic, a pot of tea appeared in front of them and soon, a cordial conversation flowed across the desktop.

Mayor Kinoshita offered his condolences. It is with great sorrow that we learned of the death of Commander Owens. Does he leave a widow?

No, Mrs. Owens died several years ago, but there are two married children who live out of the state. The murder was a shock to all of us. He was a fine officer for many years and will be difficult to replace.

Captain, I have ordered our association to send something appropriate to the services. We will be represented there if you tell me we will be welcome.

Of course, Kinoshita-san. We welcome your attendance. Thank you for caring. Would you feel uncomfortable if I talked to you about the murder?

After several years of frustration, Brad recently made a big discovery: He must be patient with the people in this community. He had more success when he treated them with sensitivity. Their culture was many centuries older than Americas, and the people adhered to many deep-seated beliefs. Most were extremely polite and clung to old traditions. Many were immigrants who still did not speak or understand English. The younger generations showed outward signs of resentment toward Occidentals, and many of them were outright belligerent. Neighborhood gangs were common…another bi-product of rapid growth.

Brad’s host cut right to the chase. You wonder if the killer might be from this community? Is that not correct?

As usual, Kinoshita-san, you see right through my sloppy effort to be tactful. Yes, the thought has occurred to me. I know you still have some elements of the Yakuza here in town and I know some of your younger people do not like the police. Can I assume some resentment still exists from the events surrounding Chief Preston’s death five years ago?

What you say is true, Captain. Unhealthy attitudes still exist in my community. However, I assure you I have heard no rumors of anyone bragging of killing any of your people. Believe me, I would know. Should anything turn up, I will contact you.

Brad got to his feet and extended his hand, still feeling uncomfortable with the bowing thing. Thank you for your courtesy, Kinoshita-san, and for your hospitality. I always enjoy talking with you."

The Japanese man was tall for his race, but still stood at least 6 inches shorter than Brad. In this neighborhood, Brad knew his imposing stature posed some perceived threat to the shorter Orientals. He made a conscious effort not to menace them, even slouching when he stood near them.

As he stomped his feet back into his boots, he looked out the front doorway of the building and saw a figure lurking near the entrance. Dark shadows covered the man’s face. He wore a dark brown kimono with a black sash and, as soon as he realized Brad saw him, the man left his post and disappeared.

Brad struggled into his boots, and then took off after the figure. When he reached the sidewalk, he looked in the direction the man took. A figure in similar dress lurked halfway down the block. Brad hurried to catch up.

Five years ago, in a similar situation, Brad confronted a Japanese man in an alley nearby. Minutes later, several other Japanese men entered the fray. He still remembered the pain of several broken ribs and various lacerations. This time, he took a more cautious approach as he neared the man.

Excuse me, sir. May I talk to you?

The figure turned to face him.

Nan desu ka?

Brad couldn’t tell if this was the same person watching him. The wrinkled face showed no expression as the man met his gaze. The kimono was the right color, but it was quite common in this town. The man smiled through gold-capped teeth and bowed slightly. From the vacant stare on the weathered face, Brad assumed communication was impossible.

He smiled and bowed in response. Gomen nasai. One of the few phrases Brad learned was this common apology.

With another bow, the man turned his back and commenced his journey on wooden sandals. Brad returned to his car and headed for home, still wondering what just occurred. Was he still seeing phantoms in the night?

As he pulled into his garage, Brad got a familiar psychic impulse. It usually meant his wife had some earth shaking news to share. It happened often and was seldom a false alarm. After more than twenty years of marriage, the two of them had a strong psychic bond.

Sure enough, she stood waiting at the kitchen door for him. Once she kissed him, she waited, with tapping foot, as he locked his pistol in the gun safe. He knew she was anxious, but took his time going through his every-evening ritual. He locked away his 9MM then, with great ceremony, removed the snakeskin boots.

Kathleen wasn’t fooled and denounced his exaggerated slowness. Brad Logan, you smart-assed cop, you do that on purpose when you know I’m dying to tell you something. You old fart, stop yanking my chain.

He grinned at her pout, then ducked the roundhouse swing she aimed at his stomach. He anticipated her swing and took her into his arms so she couldn’t move.

She pushed him away. Well, do you want to hear or not?

Oh, hell, I guess so. You’re gonna tell me anyway. Spit it out.

I had a phone call today from someone we haven’t heard from in years. Wanna guess who?

Kathleen loved playing little quiz games. He hated them, but learned to indulge her because it prevented arguments.Let’s see…how many guesses can I have?

You clown. It’s someone you respect very much and used to talk to a lot.

Your brother Dan?

No, dammit. You’re impossible. We just talked to Dan last week. This was your old friend Kelly Garrett. You know…the FBI guy.

Brad was surprised. Kelly Garrett called here? Why the hell didn’t he call the office?

It’s obvious, he prefers talking to me. How should I know why? All I can tell you is, he left a number. It sounded important. You can do what you want about it. When do you want dinner?

Let me shower first. That all right with you?

Of course. I’ll be down here making spaghetti sauce. With that, Kathleen gave him a cute little curtsy and made her way to the kitchen.

Brad started upstairs. The call from Kelly Garrett was a real puzzler. The two of them worked together five years ago in cleaning up the Yakuza clan on the west coast. Garrett always maintained that Brad saved his life in the shootout climaxing the case. Brad downplayed his role, always insisting it was part of their jobs as lawmen.

The two men kept in touch for a few years after the event, but hadn’t talked in quite some time. He assumed Kelly Garrett was a man of leisure by now. It wasn’t likely he was still working cases in the Seattle FBI office. The bullet wound to his shoulder five years ago limited use of his left arm.

What the hell could he want? Brad thought aloud as he dialed the number.

He let the phone ring for what seemed a long time. No one answered. Now his curiosity became acute. While it smoldered, he pealed off his clothes and stepped into the shower.

He was still curious about it when he made his way back downstairs an hour later. It had to be a serious reason for Garrett to call and not leave a message with Kate. It wasn’t his style.

CHAPTER 2  

The early morning drive into work, after a spring shower, always provided Brad with a sense of regeneration. In this high desert area of California, each Spring day flaunted Nature’s brilliant pageantry. The wind swept sapphire sky sparkled with refreshing clarity. The gentle showers had erased all remnants of the usual airborne muck. To the west, spotlighted by the soft morning sun, sprinkles of snow still tipped the majestic purple and scarlet peaks. Splashes of color decorated the foothills, gaudy evidence of this year’s bumper crop of wild flowers. Brad devoured the scene, relishing the temporary relief it provided from the rigors of a gruesome investigation.

The Sierra spectacle always overwhelmed him with nostalgia as he remembered hiking in those foothills with his father. He could almost see the old man, leading the way down the old hunting trail, walking with that easy, athletic stride. His dad’s eyes were so sharp; he never missed even a slight movement in the underbrush. Brad felt that familiar lump grow in his throat.

Dad, I hope you’re doing okay today.

Then Brad’s thoughts conjured up the vision of his father writhing on the ground, bleeding from the hideous bullet wound in his head. An involuntary chill coursed through Brad’s body, even thirty years after the trauma of the event. The pangs of guilt were less severe now, after many sessions with Doctor Marilyn Fisher. The Police Department psychiatrist made him understand the shooting was an accident, caused by a careless twelve-year-old boy who loved and respected his father.

Brad shook his head to clear the images, forcing his thoughts to the details of this most recent murder. He knew Mark Goddard would report something before the day was over. Considering whom the victim was, he knew Mark would prioritize this case. He had known Mark Goddard since grammar school. If anyone could find something worthwhile at a crime scene, Brad believed Mark would have the best chance.

‘What did Mark say about paper clothes? Oh yeah…he said it looked liked the killer wore paper shoes and maybe even a paper gown to keep the blood off his clothes. Said he found several smudges with that familiar pattern. Probably burned it soon as he was safely away. Sounds like we’re dealing with a professional…like a hit-man. Careful planning; covers his tracks; leaves nothing to lead us to him. This all gives a completely different slant on the bastard. He’s gotta be familiar with our procedures. Maybe a cop?’

Brad pulled into his parking stall in the underground garage and rode the elevator to the third floor. His office was in a corner of the building, between the Chief’s office and the office used by Commander Owens until yesterday.

As he walked past Chief Crawford’s office, he heard the booming voice rumbling through the open doorway. Captain Logan, come in, will you?

Morning, Chief. Brad turned into the doorway. Anything new come in overnight?

Not a thing. I called Forensics first thing. Goddard tells me he’ll have some test results this morning. Doesn’t sound very optimistic. Keep on his ass, will you? It’s been too long already. We’re talking top priority for this one. Right?

Brad nodded at his boss. Crawford had worn the Chief ’s stars for just five years. The City Council hired him after Chief Preston died. Crawford’s first mandate was restoring the Langston PD to a competent working force and restoring departmental morale after the loss of twenty officers during the White Knight episode. The department fired them for forming a white supremacist group. At the same time, two high-ranking officers were killed, a devastating blow to the department’s command structure. Morale sank to destructive levels and job stress threatened to deplete the department even further. Since then, senior officers devoted much of their time rebuilding the respectability of the department

Brad’s memories of those times were still painful. Reluctantly, he admitted Crawford did a decent job of bringing the Langston PD back from the grave. He also knew he didn’t much like his boss. The man gave Brad the impression he cared more about his own self-image than in the department itself. That was too political for Brad’s taste.

Brad, when I headed Homicide in Fullerton, a God damn gang-banger killed one of our captains. We never found the killer and it bothers me to this day. I won’t let that happen again. Know what I’m saying?

I understand, Chief. Believe me, no one in this department wants Owens’ killer to get away with it. I’ve already put the case on the top of the list. I’m putting the entire department on a Situational alert. All leaves canceled. Sam Hardy will be the lead inspector. I…

Crawford raised his arm and pointed at Brad. No, Captain. Not Sam Hardy. You’ll be lead on this investigation. I want the best we have, and that’s you. I expect results within hours or days. You clear on that?

Brad bristled at the unyielding tone of the Chief ’s voice. In years gone by, he would have told this man where to stick it; now he just shrugged. He knew they both reeked of testosterone and an unyielding rivalry smoldered between them. Brad hungered for the chief ’s office and made no bones about it. Every step in his career path aimed for that position. From Brad’s point of view, Crawford stood in his way.

Roger that, Chief. You’ll have a report by day’s end.

There’s one more thing, Captain. You’d better realize you’re second in command now. You’ll take on some of Owen’s responsibilities until we can replace him. If you have any recommendations for people we can promote, give me a memo. I’ll be counting on you, Logan. We can’t let this murder set this department back…I’ve worked too hard to bring it back. Clear?

Brad stared back at his boss and nodded his head. This was not the time or place to air his concerns. Roger, Chief. Is there anything else?

No, just find this asshole cop killer. I want his scalp A-S-A-P; long before City Hall gets on my ass. Chief Crawford waved an arm, dismissing Brad without another word.

Keeping his cool under the chief ’s tirade was a good test of his willpower. Since his promotion, Brad worked very hard, keeping his emotions under control…refining his diplomatic skills. He found himself choking on his stubborn pride many times. It wasn’t always easy to hold his tongue when he disagreed with Crawford. At times, he even toyed with the idea of chucking the whole new image and letting his emotions settle the issue between them.

He stopped by the canteen machine for a cup of coffee, then entered his office and began sorting through the stack of mail on his desk. Nothing in the pile caught his eye so he shoved everything aside and buzzed for Sam Hardy on the intercom. Come in as soon as you can, Sam. We need to touch bases.

Minutes later, Sam brought his notebook into Brad’s office and closed the door. Sam’s actions told Brad his old partner had something in his craw. Sam never closed the door when they were in a conference, unless he wanted to discuss something in private.

Sam, Chief Crawford just let me know he wants this case solved before noon. It’s not too much to ask…now is it? Just drop everything else, and put all our resources to work on it. He didn’t insist on canceling lunch breaks, but that’s next. You clear on that?

Yeah, yeah, sure, Brad, no sweat. If I can’t come up with a suspect, we’ll just frame someone, okay? It won’t be hard putting all other homicides on the back burner, boss. It looks to me like all recent unsolved homicides were the work of the same pervert. Every victim was hacked up…uh…mutilated. The son of a bitch leaves no trail and has a sick sense of humor. Seems to me there’s not much question the murders were all done by the same person, okay? Sam looked up from his notes. Anything else?

Brad still sensed Sam Hardy’s discomfort. Something’s bugging you, man. Out with it. You know it won’t go any further than this room.

Sam shrugged. You know me, Cap. Usually I don’t let things bother me much, but Crawford’s trying so hard to improve morale he’s turning this place into a goddam kindergarten. Some of these new rooks have no concept of the chain of command and don’t show the proper respect for us older and wiser officers.

Brad choked back a sudden urge for laughter.Don’t tell me someone drank all the coffee again? God, I hate it when that happens.

You’re damn straight about that. Who’s in charge of the coffee detail anyway? Hardy’s face broke into a rakish grin, no longer able to carry off the farce. But all kidding aside, Cap, something’s got my hackles up about this case. I don’t know what it is…can’t even hazard a guess…just feel it in my bones. I can tell you one thing: I’m sure whatever is going on, it’s deadly serious; it’s far from over and we may all be in the line of fire. There’s going to be more bodies, no question, okay?

Brad stared at his chief inspector. Sam, it’s not like you to be chilled by some phantom footsteps. What’s going on? Anything you care to share?

Hardy shook his head and plopped down in the leather armchair across the desk from Brad, flopping one leg over the arm. Brad knew something was festering under Sam’s skin, something far from normal for this veteran cop. As far as Brad was concerned, the man was fearless.

Sam lowered his voice and leaned forward. This has to be strictly between the two of us, Captain, okay? Brad assured him the conversation was private.

Do you remember when we were knee-deep in the Yakuza horse shit a few years ago? After that Banzai creep sliced up that little girl and Mooch Kaiser…well, the truth is, I had the same feeling then. You know. I can smell blood and death. It’s all around me and I’m not so sure that some of it may be mine. Isn’t that crazy? After all the corpses I’ve rolled over and crazies with knives I’ve faced…dammit, it makes no sense.

Brad motioned Sam to keep talking. Come on, Sam. Something’s in your craw. What is it?

Cap, maybe I’ve been tracking down murderers so long I’m beginning to see ghosts in every corner. This slasher is someone we know. Don’t ask me why I think that’s true…I don’t have a clue. Do you remember when we found the little Jap…excuse me, Japanese girl…-what was her name?

Sumiko Tanaka?

Yeah, her. I remember, the slasher sliced her up something awful. Then we found old Judd Worley all cut up, okay? Like the killer was turned on by spilling his victim’s blood all over the place. Don’t these recent victims look the same to you…you know heads chopped off and all?

Hell, Sam, the Yakuza mess was five years ago. If you remember, the killer was a hired hack and Preston dusted him in that alley to keep him quiet. Anyway, we know he can’t be our killer.

Yeah, yeah. Sam’s hand waved about as if to erase the scene. It ain’t the same guy, but you gotta admit, the M.O.’s sure similar. You know? Slash and run.

These new ones are a lot more brutal, Sam. Three people…all relieved of their head. Near’s I can see, about the only similarity is the victims were mutilated and the recent ones were a hell of a lot worse than those five years ago. By the way, have you made up a Chart yet?

Brad wanted Sam thinking with more rationale and with less emotion. He knew the best way was to get him back to the basics. What tied the victims together? Was there a strong link between all of them? Uncovering that information meant many hours of pavement pounding. Grunt work. That was Sam’s forte’. He needed to find their social connections…business ties…anything linking them. Did the victims share something in common?

Sam nodded. I’ve got a couple dicks working the chart now. All the victims were well known in the community. Hell, there may be more links than we have room to list. You know?

Let’s just not overlook the basics, Sam. I trust your intuition, but prefer to stick with good, hard-nosed police work. Hear anything from Mark?

Hardy tucked his notebook into a pocket. You still aren’t gonna talk about the coffee situation are you?

Brad laughed. Goddam you, Hardy. I’m trying to get serious here.

It’s obvious, you don’t think much of my theory about a Jap killer.

Give me something solid and I’ll listen. Meantime, don’t use that racial slur again, I hate it. You know I’ve been busting my hump on community relations with the Japanese community for a long time. Your biased attitude makes my job tougher.

Sam grunted. Yeah, I know, but old habits die hard. You got anything else?

Not for now. Just put this case on the front burner and don’t get sidetracked. Let me see that Chart when it’s done.

Sam just nodded and left the room as Brad stared after him. In all the years he’d worked with the man, he never knew what to expect. Sam Hardy was one unique piece of work…full of peculiarities and contradictions. Best detective to have on a case, but hard as hell to get along with as a human. Mostly a hard assed-cop, but also a bit of an eccentric.

Brad took a long swallow of his coffee and almost choked. It was ice cold. Goddam it, Sam, it’s all your fault. You’ve got to make hotter coffee.

He was about to get up and fetch a hot cup when his phone rang. It was his wife. Honey, I hate to bother you. Did you call Kelly Garrett back?

Morning, Kate. As a matter of fact, I haven’t tried calling him yet. It’s been a hectic morning. I’ll try again right now. You got the number handy?

He talked with his wife for a few minutes before hanging up. Her cheerful voice provided a refreshing break. Even after twenty years of marriage, she kept him on his toes. He dialed the number for the Seattle FBI office. When he asked for agent Kelly Garrett, there was a pause, and then a man’s voice came on the line.

Who’s calling please?

What the hell. Are you screening calls now? Brad sensed something out of place.

You asked for Agent Garrett? Are you a friend or is this business?

Brad’s short temper started moving up into his throat. He thrust his chin forward as if the voice on the line could see him.

This is Captain Logan of the Langston Police Department. You might say it’s both. Now you wanna tell me what the hell’s happening?

There was a pause on the line. Then the voice became friendlier.

Sorry, Captain. I’m Agent Tomkins. Guess you’ve been out of touch with Agent Garrett for a while. He retired six months ago. Surprised he didn’t let you know.

It’s been a little while since we talked, but he left word last night with my wife. Wanted to talk to me. Brad sensed a renewed interest by the man.

He called your house yesterday, Captain? What time?

"Hey, I don’t know exactly. In the afternoon sometime.