The Fifth Profession

“You're still confusing me,” Rachel said.

“It wouldn't have anything to do with money,” Akira said. “Graham was wealthy. He invested shrewdly. So it has to be a client that turned against him, or a client's enemy who discovered that Graham arranged an attack against him.”

Savage thought about it. “Good. It'll work. In his prime, when Graham belonged to the British commandos, a challenge excited him. But after he retired, once he put on weight and got soft from too much champagne and caviar, he'd have realized that he'd lost his ability to tolerate pain. He trained me, but his own skills were memories from his youth. He once admitted to me that these days, one-on-one, he wouldn't have a chance against a practiced opponent. If he knew he was being stalked, if he was certain his death would be painful, he might have chosen a peaceful suicide.”

“Especially if we were stalking him,” Akira said.

“Except that when Graham sent us to Mykonos, he had to assume we'd eventually come here demanding answers, and he knew us well enough to assume that no matter how angry we were, we'd never kill him. Besides, the coroner isn't aware of us. I don't think he's supposed to be aware of us, either.”

“I agree,” Akira said. “Still, the coroner will have to believe that someone was stalking Graham, or else the scenario isn't valid. Somewhere-probably behind those bookshelves, in Graham's hidden files-the police will find evidence that Graham feared for his life.”

“And knew he would suffer.”

“And chose the dignity of a self-inflicted death.” Akira raised his eyebrows. “Very Japanese.”

“Would the two of you please explain?” Rachel asked.

“Graham didn't kill himself,” Akira said.

“But the way you've been talking…”

“We're pretending to be the coroner,” Savage said. “The verdict is suicide. But the coroner doesn't know that Graham would never have chosen a heavy-metal radio station. And the coroner doesn't know that Graham would never have mixed Dom Perignon with Asti Spumante. Graham was murdered. He was forced-I assume by several men-to drink the champagne he had in stock. But two bottles weren't enough. So they sent a man to buy another. He came back with his choice, not Graham's. When Graham passed out, they put him in the car, turned it on, shut the living room door, waited till he was dead, then left.”

“But not before they played the radio to pass the time,” Akira said. “Again their choice of stations. They probably figured the music would be a realistic touch, so they didn't switch it off before they activated the alarm on the outside entrance and left.”

“Almost perfect,” Savage said. “The bastards. I'll…”

“Make them pay?” Akira's sad eyes blazed. “That goes without saying.”

5

Savage raised Graham's arms while Akira lifted his legs. Rachel opened the living room door, turning from the cloud of exhaust spewing in while the two men carried the corpse to the garage.

They positioned the body behind the Cadillac's steering wheel. The poisonous fumes were still so dense that Savage held his breath while making sure that Graham slumped on the seat exactly as before. After all, as soon as Graham's blood had stopped circulating, gravity would have made the blood settle toward various pockets in his abdomen, hips, and legs, causing purplish-red discolorations in those areas. If the corpse had discolorations in higher areas, a coroner would know that the corpse had been moved.

The corpse had been moved, but Graham's body had not lain in the living room long enough for the blood to be redistributed and thus discolor the back. The coroner would not become suspicious.

Savage twisted the ignition key, hearing the Cadillac's engine rumble. He slammed the driver's door and ran with Akira into the living room.

The room was filled with haze. Savage coughed, hearing Rachel shut the door.

“The windows,” Akira said.

They hurried toward opposite ends of the room, pressed buttons that shut off intruder-detection alarms, raised panes, and gulped fresh air.

A cold wind billowed drapes, attacking the fumes. Gray wisps swirled toward the ceiling, dispersed, and flowed out the tops of the open windows.

In the wind's subtle hiss, Savage listened to the muffled drone of the Cadillac's engine. He turned toward the living room door, the garage beyond it. “I'm sorry, friend.”

“But was he a friend?” Akira asked. “A friend wouldn't have deceived us. Why did he do it?”

Anger conflicted with grief and made Savage hoarse. “Let's find out.” He crossed the room and tugged at the bookshelves.

The wall swung outward, revealing further shelves. Metal containers. Graham's documents.

Savage and Akira sorted urgently through them.

Rachel stood in the background. “You said you didn't think the coroner was supposed to know about you. What did you mean?”

“Too coincidental. Graham's murder. Our coming here to question him. They're related.” Savage scanned pages.

“You can't prove that.”

“Yes,” Akira said, “we can.” He sorted through another box of files. “Graham keeps these documents for one reason only-to explain his income to the IRS. If it weren't for taxes, his passion for secrecy would never have allowed him to keep business records. Of course, he took the precaution of using pseudonyms for his operatives and his clients, so an enemy wouldn't learn anything vital if he found these files. The code for the pseudonyms is in a safe-deposit box. The arrangement with the bank is that both Graham and his lawyer have to be present to open it, so we know the code is secure. But Savage and I don't need the code to tell us which pseudonyms Graham used for us. We chose our pseudonyms ourselves. In fact, the names by which you know us are our pseudonyms.”

They searched through other boxes.

“What are you looking for?” Rachel asked.

“Graham kept two sets of documents, cross-referenced, one for his operatives and the jobs they did, the other for the clients who commissioned the jobs. Did you find them?”

Akira checked the final box. “No.”

“I didn't either.”

“Find what?” Rachel asked.

“Our files,” Savage said. “They're gone.”

“We don't know the pseudonym Graham gave Kamichi, or the ones he gave your sister and your husband,” Akira said. “But since our files aren't here, I assume the others are gone as well. That's the proof I referred to. Whoever killed Graham must have taken the files. The coroner isn't supposed to be aware of us, not even of our pseudonyms. Graham was killed to keep him from telling us why we saw each other die.”

“And here's the suicide note Akira predicted we'd find. Typed, of course. Because Graham didn't compose it.”

“Left by his killers. All right,” Rachel said. “I'm convinced. But how could they be sure the police would look behind these bookshelves?”

“The shelves weren't closed completely.”

“We'd better get out,” Akira said. “The neighbor on the other side of Graham's garage might wonder about the faint rumble he hears through the wall and call the police.”

They replaced the files and arranged the metal containers in their original positions.