the blade, eyes opened wide, lips slightly parted. He could hear her breathing beside him.
“Let me see a little more of it.” She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “It’s beautiful. Has it a name?”
“Yes,” he said, thinking of Cheong and Itami. “ Iss-hōgai. It means ‘for life.’”
“Did you name it?”
“No, my father did.”
“I like the name; it fits, somehow.”
“There’s magic in a Japanese-forged blade,” he said, replacing the dai-katana in its scabbard. “This particular sword is almost two hundred years old yet its manufacture is so superb that it does not show even a year’s wear.” He replaced the weapon. “The finest blade the world has ever known or ever will know.”
The phone rang and he went to it.
“Nick. It’s Vincent.”
“Hey, How are you?”
“Fine. Actually, I’m on my way out to your neck of the woods—or shore, as it were.”
“The Island?”
“Better than that. West Bay Bridge.”
“Hey, that’s great. I haven’t seen you since—”
“March, if you want to know. Listen, I’m going to be staying at Doc Deerforth’s in town.”
“No you’re not. You’re staying out here by the beach. There’s plenty of room; you can’t swim in town.”
“Sorry, but this isn’t a vacation, and until I find out what’s going on I’d better plan to stay with the doc.”
“How’s Nate?”
“As usual or thereabouts. There’s too much work there for all of us.”
Nicholas glanced at Justine, who was leafing through her sketchbook, one hand run through her thick hair. While he watched, she leaned across the sofa, reached out a pencil from her bag, began to continue the unfinished sketch she had been contemplating.
“Someone there with you?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Well, I’ll be out late this afternoon.” He laughed, his voice sounding for the first time thin and strained. “It must really be something. Graumann’s given me the car and Tommy. All I have to do is sit in the backseat and take a nap.” He sighed. “Poor me. A few years ago, before the fiscal crunch, I’d be coming out in a Lincoln. Now I have to be content with a diarrhea-tan Plymouth.”
Nicholas laughed. “Give me a ring when you’re settled in and you’ll come over for a drink.”
“Right. ’Bye.”
He cradled the receiver, sat down next to Justine. His eyes traced the new lines she had made but his mind was far away.
“I think I see now why you asked for me to come out,” Vincent said.
“You know what this stuff is?” Doc Deerforth said.
Vincent rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The harsh fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. He reached up, pulled the gooseneck incandescent lamp closer to the sheets of paper he had been reading. “I don’t quite know what to think, to be honest.”
“The man we just saw downstairs did not die of drowning.”
“Of that there is no doubt.” Vincent nodded his agreement. “Whatever he died of, it wasn’t asphyxiation.”
“As you can see,” Doc Deerforth said, indicating the contents of the folder in Vincent’s hands, “he had no previous record of heart failure or any cardiac problem at all; none in his family. He was a perfectly healthy thirty-six-year-old male Caucasian, slightly out of shape but—”
“He died of a massive M.I.” Vincent completed the sentence. “Heart attack.”
“Induced, I’m convinced,” Doc Deerforth said, bending forward and stabbing at the printed sheet, “by that substance.”
“Have you fed it through the computer?”
Doc Deerforth shook his head. “Remember that as far as anyone here is concerned, this is an ‘accidental death by drowning,’ at least as of now. Anyway, you must be aware that it would do no good at all.”
“What about the delay in your report to the C.M.E.?” Vincent snapped shut the folder, handed it over to Doc Deerforth.
“Why, didn’t I tell you? I’m having a bit of trouble with the man’s family.” Doc Deerforth placed
“Let me see a little more of it.” She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “It’s beautiful. Has it a name?”
“Yes,” he said, thinking of Cheong and Itami. “ Iss-hōgai. It means ‘for life.’”
“Did you name it?”
“No, my father did.”
“I like the name; it fits, somehow.”
“There’s magic in a Japanese-forged blade,” he said, replacing the dai-katana in its scabbard. “This particular sword is almost two hundred years old yet its manufacture is so superb that it does not show even a year’s wear.” He replaced the weapon. “The finest blade the world has ever known or ever will know.”
The phone rang and he went to it.
“Nick. It’s Vincent.”
“Hey, How are you?”
“Fine. Actually, I’m on my way out to your neck of the woods—or shore, as it were.”
“The Island?”
“Better than that. West Bay Bridge.”
“Hey, that’s great. I haven’t seen you since—”
“March, if you want to know. Listen, I’m going to be staying at Doc Deerforth’s in town.”
“No you’re not. You’re staying out here by the beach. There’s plenty of room; you can’t swim in town.”
“Sorry, but this isn’t a vacation, and until I find out what’s going on I’d better plan to stay with the doc.”
“How’s Nate?”
“As usual or thereabouts. There’s too much work there for all of us.”
Nicholas glanced at Justine, who was leafing through her sketchbook, one hand run through her thick hair. While he watched, she leaned across the sofa, reached out a pencil from her bag, began to continue the unfinished sketch she had been contemplating.
“Someone there with you?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Well, I’ll be out late this afternoon.” He laughed, his voice sounding for the first time thin and strained. “It must really be something. Graumann’s given me the car and Tommy. All I have to do is sit in the backseat and take a nap.” He sighed. “Poor me. A few years ago, before the fiscal crunch, I’d be coming out in a Lincoln. Now I have to be content with a diarrhea-tan Plymouth.”
Nicholas laughed. “Give me a ring when you’re settled in and you’ll come over for a drink.”
“Right. ’Bye.”
He cradled the receiver, sat down next to Justine. His eyes traced the new lines she had made but his mind was far away.
“I think I see now why you asked for me to come out,” Vincent said.
“You know what this stuff is?” Doc Deerforth said.
Vincent rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The harsh fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. He reached up, pulled the gooseneck incandescent lamp closer to the sheets of paper he had been reading. “I don’t quite know what to think, to be honest.”
“The man we just saw downstairs did not die of drowning.”
“Of that there is no doubt.” Vincent nodded his agreement. “Whatever he died of, it wasn’t asphyxiation.”
“As you can see,” Doc Deerforth said, indicating the contents of the folder in Vincent’s hands, “he had no previous record of heart failure or any cardiac problem at all; none in his family. He was a perfectly healthy thirty-six-year-old male Caucasian, slightly out of shape but—”
“He died of a massive M.I.” Vincent completed the sentence. “Heart attack.”
“Induced, I’m convinced,” Doc Deerforth said, bending forward and stabbing at the printed sheet, “by that substance.”
“Have you fed it through the computer?”
Doc Deerforth shook his head. “Remember that as far as anyone here is concerned, this is an ‘accidental death by drowning,’ at least as of now. Anyway, you must be aware that it would do no good at all.”
“What about the delay in your report to the C.M.E.?” Vincent snapped shut the folder, handed it over to Doc Deerforth.
“Why, didn’t I tell you? I’m having a bit of trouble with the man’s family.” Doc Deerforth placed