“What the hell is it exactly?”
His shrug was barely perceptible. “You pull your opponent’s head down and simultaneously bring up a knee to his chest. Swiftly. Powerfully.”
I frowned. “And that can kill?”
“With sufficient force applied, yes. The energy moves up from the feet to the knee, delivering a blow to the soft tissue under the rib cage while the opponent’s head is held in a stationary position.”
“Judas.”
“The ribs are driven back through the lungs and solar plexus, shocking the nervous system. Enough force can be generated to equal two cars colliding head on at thirty-five miles an hour. If I may be somewhat pedantic...”
“Pedantic away.”
“Just below the chest, the solar plexus is comprised of a dense bundle of nerve cells and supportive tissue. This is the abdominal cavity’s autonomic nerve center, a concentrated bundle of nerve cells and supporting tissue — ganglia, interconnected neurons — that through their linkage with other nervous system bundles, allow disruption of visceral functioning for other organs, including the heart muscle.”
“Causing death.”
“Causing death, again — with proper force. If proper is the right word. This is nothing I would ever teach a student, or even mention, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But perhaps you would like me to show you a move to counter it?”
“Uh... yeah. Oh yeah.”
As I came in through the office door, Velda was at her desk, on the phone, saying, “Here he is now, Pat.”
I hung up my coat and hat, blew her a kiss, went on into my inner chamber, and took the call at my desk.
“We have another homicide,” Pat’s voice said.
“Well, isn’t that what you’re captain of?”
“A specific kind of homicide.”
“...Shit. Not...”
“Another crushed chest cavity. A woman named Jasmine Jordan, a black call girl who worked out of an apartment house on East 78th. She had a whole damn floor to herself and her clients.”
“Hell. At least she didn’t work at Colby, Daltree & Levine.”
His laugh was short and harsh. “Doesn’t mean she didn’t know somebody there. The Jordan woman was thirty and on Vice’s radar, but this current operation was new to them. Other residents, none of whom were thrilled by Ms. Jordan’s presence in the building, saw respectable-looking gents in business suits arrive by limo or cab, and later get picked up the same way.”
“Do we know when she died? Who found her?”
“Anonymous tip. Female voice. Maybe a co-worker who found her and called it in, then got the hell out. Died last night between midnight and three a.m. is the initial read. Autopsy is today and we’ll know more.”
I grunted. “Somebody’s ambitious. That’s three kills in forty-eight hours... Vincent Colby could’ve been one of her well-heeled johns, you know.”
I could almost hear his eyes narrowing. “Mike — I thought you were working for his father.”
“I am. But young Colby’s the linkage between all of the other kills, and anyway he’s on my mind. I just got back from checking up on him at that high-class health club.”
I told Pat that Shannon appeared to have been getting next to Colby as part of investigating those two suspicious homicides — the rape victim secretary who’d been strangled and the boiler-room broker who got run over in a parking garage.
“Shannon suspected him,” Pat said.
“Would appear so. Those kills were a couple of stones in Casey’s shoe, keeping him from walking carefree into retirement.”
“He’s carefree now,” Pat said bitterly.
I shifted in my swivel chair. “Something you should know about Vincent Colby, buddy, if you don’t already. He’s a karate student. Apparently a fairly proficient one.”
And I could hear his chair squeak as he sat forward. “Isn’t that interesting. Could these crushed chests be the result of a karate move of some kind? I always figured that ‘killing blow’ stuff was just nonsense from the movies.”
“Colby’s trainer at the Solstice Fitness Center says it is possible. Not as easy as people think, but... yeah.”
“Does the trainer know what he’s talking about?”
“He’s a tenth-degree black belt.”
“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll take his word for it.”
“And, Pat, he says it’s not anything he’s ever taught a student. He says there are ways to kill with karate that are hiding in plain sight.”
His laugh was rueful. “Sounds like you’re already getting ahead of me on this one, Mike.”
“I don’t have a desk littered with other homicides to keep track of. But you were man enough to call me and let me know the Jasmine Jordan development. I’ll keep you in the loop. Hell, you are the loop on this one.”
“I appreciate that, Michael. Don’t you go killing anybody who I’d rather see face the shame of a trial and a life behind bars.”
“Do my best, Patrick.”
“Oh, one other thing — Vincent Colby has an alibi for last night. Not much of one, but he has one.”
“Which is what?”
“Daddy dearest says his beloved only child was tucked in a wee little bed. That makes two shitty alibis young Colby came up with — his girl friend for the Kraft kill, and now his old man, for a dead hooker whose classy clientele may well have included Vince.”
“He prefers Vincent, Pat.”
“Fuck him,” Pat said, and hung up.
Vance Colby and I were once again seated opposite on respective two-seater sofas in the cavernous office that showed few signs of work ever being done, the fire again throwing orange and black reflections. Neither coffee nor brandy were offered this trip. I’d come unannounced, though my wealthy client hadn’t hesitated to tell the Ice Lady to send me in.
“My son was at home all evening, Mike,” he said, perhaps a bit too casually, arms folded as he leaned back on the plush over-stuffed sofa.”
“Is it possible he slipped out while you were asleep?”
His shrug was brief. “I’ll tell you what I told the police. I have trouble sleeping some nights, and last night was one of them. I was up till dawn watching television and reading, and would have known if he left. I wound up sleeping till noon, coming in late. Good thing I’m the boss.”
“Good thing.”
He gestured with an open hand. “If you’d like the name of the films I watched on American Movie Classics, I can provide them. And the book was Bonfire of the Vanities.”
Somehow that made his alibi for his son seem only that much more negligible.
“No,” I said, “I’ll take your word for it.”
That was a lie, but he was my client, and I’d banked his check.
“Several servants can back me up,” he said, “if need be.”
That was marginally better than the names of movies TV Guide could give him and a book he probably read months ago. But a guy with that kind of bread could spare however much it took to make a loyal servant even more loyal. That could mean good money in a murder case.
“Anyway, Mike — Vincent’s medication at night puts him into a deep sleep. Almost a sedative.”
I leaned forward. The flames were making abstract, flickering designs on his face, where his lingering thin-mustached smile seemed sickly to me.
I said, “Mr. Colby... Vance... if you no longer wish to engage me in this matter, I will understand. I will even return your retainer, minus a few expenses.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because there have been three murders since I undertook this job,” I said, “including this call girl who died while you say your son was sleeping last night. And I’m old-fashioned — murders on my watch piss me off. Plus, they’re bad for business.”