tell us anything?” Art looked at me.
I shrugged.
“We’ve taken a look at the guy’s life,” Art continued. “His business dealings…”
“It’s why Strakowski needs us. Sakura’s office was in Manhattan. So we’re poking around.”
I could tell from the tone of Micky’s voice that they had something. “And?” I prompted.
“There’s something hinky there,” Micky added, and looked at Art for confirmation.
“Oh, yeah.”
“How so?” I asked. I was used to this. These men thought in very linear patterns. They were methodical and went from point A to point B to point C. They built a conversation in the same way they developed a case file: a piece at a time.
“Most murders,” Art explained as we walked off the range and away from Dirty Harry’s blast zone, “get fueled by love or money.”
“Feelings or finances,” my brother chimed in. He had an unconscious appreciation of alliteration.
“Sakura’s personal life seemed pretty stable. We checked the usual angles: lovers, office affairs, marital strain. Nothing there.” Art sounded wistful.
Micky popped the trunk of the car. They placed the pistols in small locked cases for the ride home. I knew Micky had a .32 automatic strapped to his ankle. On a spring day in suburbia, going armed seemed a bit paranoid. Then again, Edward Sakura got his brains blown out amid the well-manicured splendor of a Brooklyn backyard. Cops see things differently from most of us. For good reason.
We settled in for the ride and Micky continued. “So, we’re still double-checking on things, but the feelings angle seems out of the picture.”
I sat in the back seat and Art twisted around to talk. “At one time in his life, Sakura was up to his eyeballs with all sorts of money deals. He was a show-biz specialist.”
“An agent?” I asked.
Art thought for a minute. “Not really. He was more like a fixer, a guy who put different people together.”
“For a price,” my brother added.
“So how’s that relevant? How’s it fit in?”
“We’re not sure just yet,” Art admitted. “These days, he was semi-retired, spent most of his time doing calligraphy. Consulting with art dealers. But we wonder about things…”
“Like…” I prompted.
“Sakura had Asian connections,” Micky began.
“Mick,” I said, “he was a second generation Japanese American. His Asian connection was his grandparents.”
Micky shot a wicked look at me over his shoulder, then swerved forward to steer the car. “Connor, I’m not a complete asshole, ya know? I mean that, over time, Sakura had put deals together at a lot of different levels. Some were big. Some were not so big. And a lot of times, you got people from overseas wanting to break into the business who are maybe not so legit.”
“Movie industry is a money launderer’s dream,” Art added. “From what we can tell, Sakura had all sorts of people wanting in. Some he played with. Some he didn’t. What we’ve gotta ask is whether there was something in the past, a deal that went sour. Maybe money was lost. Or feelings hurt.”
“Feelings hurt?” I asked incredulously.
“Feelings,” my brother repeated. “And you know what these types of people feel most deeply about? Money.”
“You think there was something in his past? That Sakura was involved in something and he ticked somebody off?”
“Based on the condition of his head, I’d say someone was pretty pissed at him,” Micky concluded.
“Not the action of a happy camper,” Art said in support.
“Yeah. OK. But what do you think Sakura was involved in?” I persisted.
Art held up a finger in admonishment. “Our powers, while mighty, are not without limit.”
“I’m shocked,” I said.
Micky drove in silence, taking the turns to his house with easy familiarity. His wife Dee had taken the kids off for a day at one of our sisters’ houses. The Burkes are a numerous clan, rapidly growing more so. I had a bewildering number of nieces and nephews. Some were dark. Some light. There were fat little Burkes and leaner, more agile models. But they all had the subtle underlying familial resemblance that marked them as Americans of Irish extraction. And they would all play together, which gave their parents an opportunity to relax. Which is what I hoped Dee was doing. Life with my brother was not an adventure in calm.
As we pulled up in front of the house, Art murmured to Micky, “Blue sedan. This side of the street. Motor running. Recognize the car? Looks like he’s got himself parked so he can watch things.”
“I got it,” Micky answered.
The two men stepped out of the car and I followed. We went to the trunk, where Micky opened the lid, then put his foot up on the bumper, pretending to tie his sneaker. He took the small automatic out of his ankle holster. Art took a Glock out of the case and loaded it. Then they drifted slowly to the curb side of the car, using it to block them from the man in the blue sedan. I noticed that Micky edged forward a little, as if shielding his partner.
“Connor, you head up to the house,” Micky directed. They both held their pistols down along their legs, not making a show of it. I started to move and heard the sedan’s door open. I felt the muscles across the top of my shoulders tense up. Then I heard my brother.
“Oh, fer Christ’s sake,” he said disgustedly. A slim girl with long blonde hair bounded out of a neighboring house, and gave the driver of the car a hug. “That girl’s got ’em coming and going. I can’t keep track.”
“Show them your guns,” I said. “I bet it’ll cut down on the dating traffic.” Art and Micky looked slightly sheepish. Micky opened up the trunk again and took out the pistol cases.
A kid on a skateboard growled by. He had on hugely baggy pants and a black knit hat that made him look like a moron. But he spotted the guns easily enough. Micky saw him gawk and gestured to the house with his head.
“Let’s go inside.”
Any house with kids in it is littered with things big and small. Inside Micky’s, it looked like the footage you see of neighborhoods where tornadoes have touched down. It was dim in the entryway, and we skirted cautiously around the toys. Micky made a false step and we heard a loud crunching sound. He cursed under his breath.
The kitchen had some cups in the sink. A few Cheerios dried sadly on the table. Micky wiped it off with a ratty sponge and we sat down. My brother rummaged around in the refrigerator and found some cans of beer. I opened a series of cabinets, looking for snacks. I found Baggies, Pop-Tarts, Band-Aids, and other essential ammunition in the war for successful parenting. I finally located an open bag of pretzels on top of the refrigerator. Simple fare, but manly.
