It wasn’t even Juro Nara’s age that bothered her. The older ones were always the easiest to please. All they wanted was a little striptease and a couple of minutes of her lips’ service. The problem was that when she looked into his eyes, she saw evil things. She knew that he would be brutal. He would tie her up and force himself on her. He would make her obey in the tradition of old Japan. To him, women were objects to be abused and violated until they obeyed.
She was saved when the other old man walked into the room and admonished the naked Juro Nara. Fujiko quickly left the room.
Her supervisor had told her to rush and get it over with as fast as possible. She told Fujiko that men had no interest in women once they were spent.
As she approached the war heroes’ suites, the last two she had to clean, and saw the “do not disturb” signs, she was relieved. Maybe she had a reprieve for today, she thought. Her shift was about to end and she would be replaced by Mia. Good, she thought. He will be Mia’s problem now.
It was two more days before anyone found the dead men, but their plans were already set in motion and could not be stopped.
Chapter Nine
Hal Jones loved to fish the wide Jacksonville River just south of the Florida city of Jacksonville. His small, sixteen-foot runabout only had a thirty-five horsepower engine, but what did he care? At eighty-nine, he wasn’t going water skiing. He spent most of his time on the river, fishing, just cruising, and stopping by the local taverns, where he invariably found tourists whom he could delight with fish stories in exchange for drinks. He always told them that the Jacksonville River is the only major river in the United States that flowed north. Today, his goal was to catch some crab and make crab cakes for dinner.
His radio was tuned to the all-news station, just like always, when he heard the news flash. “And now, here’s an interesting one for you listeners. The Kansas City Globe is reporting that three reporters from the Kansas City-based newspaper have captured two Japanese soldiers. The reporters were searching for human-interest stories on the embattled island of Mindanao in the Philippines. Ralph Bettors, one of the newsmen, reported that the soldiers had been on the island since 1944. Bettors said the men snuck up on the trio of reporters and attempted an ambush on a hilltop. He said that they were fierce fighters and they specialized in hand-to-hand combat. Bettors, who said that he received several injuries, subdued the soldiers and forced them to take him to their hideout to check for any prisoners. The cave that the men lived in was empty. Well, except for an autographed copy of Mein Kampf and several boxes of gold. The book is a first edition, signed by Adolph Hitler. The soldiers told Bettors that they brought it from Shanghai.
Ain’t this a scream folks? Oh, one more thing, the soldiers told the reporters that a ghost told them to surrender; otherwise they would have continued to fight for the emperor. The soldiers are reported to be over eighty-five years old and have been sent back to Tokyo to determine if they are leftovers from WWII.”
Hal Jones was sure that he was having a heart attack. His heart was thumping so fast that his ribs started to hurt. “My book,” he croaked. Could this be my book? He wondered. After all these years, could the dream, put into motion by his father, be realized? Could he once again use his real name? Is this the right book?
He quickly started the boat and headed for his dock. He was too old to chase after the book, verify it, and steal it. He would need help, and he wondered who would help him. If it was the right book, it had half of a secret hidden inside, thought Jones. I have the other half of the secret.
Chapter Ten
A few days later, Banyon was seated at his desk in his luxurious library and office area, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded with volumes on history, art, and fiction. The wood-paneled room always made him feel comfortable, except for tonight. His call to India changed everything for him. While he appreciated the inheritance from Walter Pierce, he was not willing to have Pierce back in his life, especially as a ghost. He set upon the task of verifying the information that Previne had given him.
It also disturbed him that all three Patel sisters were unusually sexual attracted to him. It was like he was a sex toy to them. He didn’t mind the attention, but in the past, he had always seduced women, not the other way around.
His first call was to the home of Greg Gamble, the new agent-in-charge of the FBI’s Chicago office. Gamble was part of the investigation of the white supremacy group that showed up at the old house. Colt had worked closely with him during the operation. He asked Gamble if he could verify that a Wolfgang Becker had been on the same plane to India as the Patel group. The FBI was still searching for Walter Pierce and Colt was sure that Gamble would take the bait. Gamble said that someone would get back to Banyon.
He next called the Alexis Brothers Hospital in Schaumburg. Previne told him that Becker had been a patient there before he died. They confirmed that a Wolfgang Becker had been a patient, but had passed away two months ago. Banyon was in the middle of doing a MapQuest search for the address of the cemetery when an FBI agent called and confirmed that a Wolfgang Becker indeed had been on the flight to India. Banyon printed out the driving directions to the cemetery, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out a flashlight. He decided to visit the cemetery.
The small plot of graves was located only a few miles from his house, directly behind a Lutheran church. The night was pitch black and a soft breeze rustled the trees in the neighborhood. This did not spook Banyon. He walked among the gravestones and looked for the Wolfgang Becker marker. This did not spook Banyon, either. But when he found the tombstone, he suddenly became spooked. The tombstone read. “Wolfgang Becker–lifelong friend to Colton Banyon.”
Chapter Eleven
Today Colton Banyon was in a good mood. Since he’d discovered Wolfgang Becker’s tombstone, he’d slowly come to the false conclusion that it was all a joke. Some of his lesser friends must have planted the information about Becker and Previne was part of the plot. She wanted Colt to run to India so that she and her sisters could practice their own brand of fun. Maybe Gamble was in on it, too. Besides, he had not heard anything from Wolfgang Becker and that was good news.
He was sitting at his breakfast nook eating an omelet. The recipe called for exotic vegetables, three different peppers, shallots, two kinds of meats, and eggs. Banyon prided himself on his cooking ability. He sought out and tried any dish that included his favorite ingredients: wine, garlic, shrimp, and anchovies. Trying out new foods was a hobby that he took very seriously.
Elizabeth sat across from him at the kitchen table, she was the cleaning woman whom Colt had hired six years ago as a temporary solution to cleaning and washing clothes. She was telling him about a friend of hers from Poland, her home country, who would make a great companion for Colt, as he never seemed to go out. Just then, the doorbell rang. Saved by the bell, thought Banyon.
Elizabeth, always the snoop, jumped up and went to the door to answer it. Colt had just finished his meal when she came back with a troubled look.
“Who is it, Elizabeth?” Colt asked, continuing to scan the newspaper.
“Colt, it is the FBI. They want to talk to you in private,” she replied. “I put them in your office.”
“Is Greg Gamble one of them?”
She shook her head. “There are three of them, and they don’t look happy.”
Colt entered his office and noted that all three had on identical suits. All three were tall and physically fit. Two wore sunglasses and one did not. Colt knew that when they were going to arrest someone, they traveled in threes. The one without sunglasses stepped forward and extended his hand. In it was a badge. This was not a social call.
“My name is Agent Chris Monson. I’m with the FBI.” He spoke as if he had said this line before.
“Colton Banyon. What can I do for you?”
“Something has come up that we need to discuss with you in private, if you don’t mind,” he replied.
“Let me close these sli
ding doors and we can talk.” Colt made a show of closing the doors and knew that Elizabeth would be dusting in the hall outside immediately after they were shut.
“Mr. Banyon,” the agent started. “Can you tell us where you were on the evening of August 22 of this year?”
“Well, let me see, that would have been four days ago, right?”
“Yes, that is correct.” It was a robotic reply.
“What time of the evening are you interested in?”
“All of it,” Monson said.
“Okay. What time does evening start in your world? I want to completely satisfy your request.” FBI agents were known to be exact and humorless. These three were no exception to the rule.
“Why don’t you list your itinerary starting at five o’clock in the afternoon until nine o’clock at night?”
Before Colt could speak, the other two agents whipped out notebooks and pens and were ready to take notes.
“Well, I don’t know where I was at five o’clock in the afternoon, exactly,” Colt said, watching the three men’s reactions. One shifted on his feet, one raised an eyebrow, and the third clenched his jaw. This is serious, thought Colt.
“Can you explain that?” Agent Monson asked.
“Truthfully, I teed off at four-thirty. I was at my club, with three friends, including my lawyer. Should I call him now to verify?”
“That won’t be necessary, since you were in this country.”
“What is this about, Agent Monson?”
“I’m not sure that we can tell you until you have answered all our questions,” agent Monson said.
“Do you work for Greg Gamble of the Chicago office?”
“We are actually attached to Homeland Security on a temporary basis.” Monson was clearly the leader.
“And what do you investigate for them?”
“We process requests from foreign countries about security and other issues,” Monson answered. “Have you visited anyone outside the country in the last month?”
“Just on the phone,” replied the now-confused Banyon.
“Do you know an Akio Suzuki?”
“I never heard of him.”
“Well, can you explain why he wrote your name on a piece of paper just before he was murdered?”
***
Colt decided to take a seat after that bombshell. “Who is Akio Suzuki?”
“Mr. Banyon, you may recall that a week ago, two Japanese soldiers were discovered in the mountains of Mindanao. They’d been there for over sixty years. Mr. Akio Suzuki was one of them. It appears that he and the other man, a Juro Nara, were killed in a robbery attempt. The investigation by the Tokyo police turned up your name on some papers they found on his desk. We have been asked to find out why he had your name.”
“What happened to the book that they brought out of the jungle?” Banyon blurted out. He was in shock. All of a sudden, he had been thrust into another mystery. He suspected that Pierce or Becker or whatever he called himself, had given his name to the old men, but he could not explain that to the agents. He needed a more plausible reason for his name to be connected with Akio Suzuki.
“No book was found. How did you know that there was a book?” the suddenly suspicious agent asked sharply.
“I can read, Agent Monson. Of course I knew about the book. It was in all the papers. For your information, I am a collector of World War II memorabilia. Just look around the room. Maybe he was going to sell it and ran across my name as a collector. Other than that, I have no idea why he had my name.”
“You seem nervous, Mr. Banyon.”
“You would be nervous, too, if someone, all of a sudden, connected your name to the murders of two men that you had never even set eyes on. Is there anything else you need help with?”
“Here is my card,” said Agent Monson. “If someone contacts you about the book, please give us a call.”
After the agents left, Banyon sat at his desk and tried to use logic to explain how Akio Suzuki had gotten his name. Could he have read up on people who’d had dealings with ghosts, Akio Suzuki had claimed that a ghost had told them to surrender? Probably not, he thought. Banyon also knew that his name had been in the news for a short time when the Aryan tablet was discovered. But the tablet was quickly whisked away to India and buried in a vault, thanks to a national security act. The media dropped the tablet from the news as the conclusions from the expert archeologist left serious doubt as to the true identity of the Aryans. But that had happened over a year ago. Who would remember? Banyon was actually a collector, but never bid on anything larger than a knife. The only conclusion that made sense was that someone had given his name to Akio Suzuki. Before he could explore that angle, his computer announced an incoming e-mail.
The alert was from eBay. Someone had just put an original edition of Mein Kampf up for auction. Banyon quickly picked up the phone but instead of calling Agent Munson, he called Agent Gamble at the Chicago office of the FBI. If anybody knows what is going on, Gamble would, He thought
***
Special Agent-in-charge Greg Gamble told Banyon to come into the Chicago office as soon as possible. It was about an hour’s drive. As he cruised along in the Jag, Banyon tried to recap what he knew. Actually, he realized that he knew nothing. It has to be Pierce, he thought. In a fit of frustration, he yelled out.
“Why would you give my name to Akio Suzuki, Pierce?
Instantly, a sound filled the car. “My friends call me Wolf; Pierce is no more.”
Banyon fought the wheel to remain on the road. His heart was beating too fast; his mind was racing. He was having trouble focusing on the road. He pulled over on the shoulder and waited for another assault on his ears. But it never came. After about five minutes, things seemed to return to normal. Banyon found himself returning to his calm and logical self.
“I want you to stay away from me,” he said to the interior of his car. “Go away. Never come back. I’m done with you.” But there was no reply.
“Am I going crazy?” Banyon added after a few minutes.
“Hardly,” a reedy voice replied inside the vehicle.
Now Banyon was confused. The voice seemed to speak only at odd times. He suddenly remembered what Previne had told him: Pierce would only answer when asked a question.
“Why talk to me, Pierce?” He asked as a test.
“I now go by my real name. You can call me Wolf. I have known you for your entire life. You would seek the truth. That is why I have chosen you. We have much work to do.”
Banyon started to remember many of the details of the Walter Pierce autobiography. Pierce in fact had been around Banyon, at least according to the report, throughout his childhood and longer. Pierce also knew that he was a truth-seeker. Banyon often took the high road in relationships and business, preferring to pass on questionable deals. Some laughed at Banyon for having scruples. But to him, the truth was still important. The most disturbing part of the conversation was that Pierce said that there was much work to do. Banyon decided to ask another question.
“Do you want me to find the Mein Kampf book? Is that the work that you want me to do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“There’s much good and much evil in the book. It needs to be handled responsibly.”
“Why don’t you just tell me how to find the book?”
“You know that I can’t influence the future. I can only tell you things that are already in existence.”
“Today a copy of Mein Kampf was put up for auction on eBay. Is that the right book?”
“Yes.”
“Well, who has it now?”
“The book is in Japan. It is in the hands of criminals. You must bring it to America; all the answers are here.”
“If I find the book, who should I give it to?”
“The rightful owner, of course,” Wolf said.
“Who’s that?”
“The book will tell you—and no one else.”
Chapter Twelve
Banyon was given an ID badge and was quickly escorted to a small conference room on the second floor. An agent stood guard outside the room while Banyon waited for Agent Gamble. Gamble and Banyon were not friends, but because of the Aryan case, the FBI trusted Banyon as much as it trusted anyone.
Gamble blew in the door like he was being chased. Agent Monson, whom Banyon was not surprised to see again, followed him closely. Gamble was a big man who moved with an agility that belied his size. He had a slight Southern drawl and a much better personality then any of his agents.
“Well, Colt, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” he asked with a small smile.
“Actually, Agent Monson seems to know more about this than I do,” replied a defensive Banyon. “He also told me that he was working for Homeland Security.”
“Yes, you’re right, he did. We didn’t want you to take advantage of our friendship. It was just a little deception. Everything else was true. Agent Kriss will be the lead agent on this case. You probably remember him from the last case that you were involved in.”
Banyon nodded. “So you did know about the book?”
“We received an alert from the Tokyo police. They wanted to know what you knew about the book and the murders. This is a high-profile case. Those men were considered Japanese treasures and somebody killed them. The Japanese believe that the book will be sold. It would have great value to collectors, especially supremacists.”
“I get it. They could be American supremacists.” Colt now wondered if the FBI had a file on him that identified him as a pawn in their games.
Colton Banyon Mysteries 1-3: Colton Banyon Mysteries (Colton Banyon Mystery Book 20) Page 40