Girl in a Box

by Sujata Massey

  “Soldiers throughout Iraq don’t have armored vehicles, and our government is spending more than four hundred fifty dollars on a fashionable backpack! Thank God we don’t have anyone from the press corps embedded with us who could expose this—this Back-packgate!”

  I shook my head. “You would never hit me with this garbage if you really knew me. I’m a bargain shopper. I lived in vintage clothing and my mom’s hand-me-downs for my entire twenties. I would never lose control of the amount of money I’m spending. Something’s fishy about this. I just—I just didn’t spend this much. Ever.” I stabbed at the paper with a fingernail that badly needed a manicure. “The paper you’re looking at is an internal computer record at Mitsutan. It’s not like the receipts that I signed and took away with me. Those signed receipts are the real evidence that I can use to fight the charges.”

  “If it’s an internal computer record—how did you get it?” Michael’s expression had turned from anger to curiosity.

  “Miyo messed around with my computer at the K Team desk one night and printed it out. She was concerned because my credit card had been rejected when I tried to buy a coat on Friday night.”

  “A coat which she bought and you reimbursed her for.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Michael poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. He’d forgotten the milk. “These records might actually be significant. If I could just get another one, compare it with another cardholder’s receipts…”

  “We need mine first,” I said. “Will you go back to the Sanno today to pick them up?” I picked up the printout and looked it over again. “I’m not a mathematical genius, as you know, but it looks as if this record shows there was no subtraction of the employee discount, but actually an addition of fifteen percent to the regular retail price—plus the corresponding sales tax. I’d like to see if everything I bought was inflated in the same pattern—that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

  Michael was no longer looking scornful, I was pleased to notice; he was just attentive.

  I continued to explain my theory, which was slowly evolving. If Mitsutan’s internal records, with inflated amounts of profit, were the official data shared with the public, Mitsutan would seem more profitable. And why would the government suspect anything? Mitsutan was paying its taxes, and it was reporting numbers that would prove the prime minister’s economic reforms were working.

  “Tell me, who runs the accounting department at Mitsutan?” Michael asked when I was through.

  “A Mr. Sato does now, but Enobu Mitsuyama did until he was appointed general manager of the Ginza store.”

  “So it could be that Mr. Sato created the corruption—”

  “Or that Enobu Mitsuyama rigged the accounting and then switched out of the job so he would never be subject to blame if the scheme was exposed. The profits started surging about three years ago, when he became general manager,” I reminded my boss.

  “It would be in his interest to do it at that time,” Michael said slowly. “If anything were to be uncovered, he could argue that he couldn’t be held accountable—since it was Sato’s department. Of course, the senior Mitsuyama couldn’t be blamed either, because he’s just chairman of the board. It seems awfully risky, though—”

  I shrugged. “Lots of people are willing to take risks. I never spoke a word to Warren last night—per your request—but I found out about some rather extraordinary risk-taking of his own. Ravi told me about a pattern of cash deposits of small bills being funneled through Winston Brothers. No return address, but the Japanese workers there, and Warren Kravitz, seem to know exactly who it comes from.”

  Michael folded his arms across his chest and studied me. “Our second mystery, the one totally unconnected to what’s going on at Mitsutan.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But it’s definitely intriguing,” I said. I rummaged through my purse and picked out the halves of the wax seal, which I’d been keeping carefully in a handkerchief. I put them down on the coffee table in front of Michael. “This was the seal on the envelope of cash Melanie used for her shopping. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but when I showed it to Ravi, he confirmed that this wax seal is just like one he saw on big envelopes of money he’d seen coming into the bank.”

  “Really.” Michael was staring at the seal with a horrified expression.

  “I want to know whose seal this is. Maybe, if you brought some of those yakuza books from the apartment, we could take a look—”

  “I can tell you whose seal it is.” Michael swallowed hard. “It’s the symbol for Kanazawa-kai, one of the upcoming gangs. I know about them because of a case I worked on, a couple of years back, that dealt with drug trafficking through Asia.”

  “Are you sure?” I’d hoped that the seal would mean something, but this was almost too scary to comprehend. No wonder Ravi’s attempt to alert his boss to money laundering was being stonewalled.

  “Yes,” Michael said shortly. He rummaged through a box and came up with one of the yakuza books. He flipped through it and showed me an illustration.

  “I’m amazed that they would leave such a blatant sign of their identity on an envelope. I mean, they are breaking the law—”

  “Rei, I’ve seen yakuza walking around with lapel pins. They’re part of the established infrastructure of Japan.”

  I sucked in my breath. “So Warren is friends with gangsters, which means that gangster money is coming into a major American bank, which means that our economy is already tainted.”

  “Please don’t make me feel any sicker than I do already.” Michael put his head in his hands. “I don’t know what bearing this has on the Mitsutan investigation. Obviously, the Kanazawa-kai aren’t involved in Mitsutan, because if Warren’s cooperating with this gang, he wouldn’t dare do something to hurt their interests.”

  I thought for a minute, then said, “But he might want to do something to help them.”

  “I don’t follow.” Michael looked up at me.

  “The Nozumi-gumi, a much older yakuza organization, has been historically linked with Mitsutan.”

  “Yes. It was in the background history of Mitsutan I gave you to read on the plane from California to Washington.”

  “What I remember is the part about the Nozumi-gumi being involved in the rebuilding of Mitsutan after the war. The gang was able to procure luxury goods like stockings and chocolate from the black market, which they in turn sold to the store, and the store in turn sold the goods to customers. Later on, after there were no more shortages of luxury goods, the Nozumi-gumi expanded into different arenas—construction projects, pachinko, and so on.”

  “That’s right. But those construction scams, some of which involved Mitsutan and other big companies, were exposed, fines paid, and so on.”

  “But what if the Nozumi-gumi were still entrenched within the store? What if, somehow, they’re involved in the profits?”

  Michael shook his head. “But we’ve just figured out that Mitsutan’s profits aren’t real. I don’t follow your logic.”

  “Well, according to basic knowledge—I mean, stories I’ve read in the papers here—Nozumi-gumi and Kanazawa-kai are competitors.”

  “I’ve read those stories, too. Kanazawa-kai isn’t as powerful as Nozumi-gumi, but wants to be. There are lots of turf battles, minor-league gangsters getting shot, and so on. It goes back at least five or six years—”

  “What if the Kanazawa-kai figured out a way to run a totally discreet war, using Americans as pawns instead of their own people?” I paused, because my thoughts were so far ahead of my words. “If the Kanazawa-kai could, using their friend Warren Kravitz, expose Nozumi-gumi’s secret operations within Mitsutan—it would smash that operation. And their hands would be clean.”

  Michael stared at me for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky. “Rei, have I ever mentioned how glad I am to have hired you?”

  “A few times.” I flushed. “Thank you. It’s kind of a stretch, my hypothesis
—”

  “I want to believe it,” Michael said slowly. “But we don’t know all the pieces. What’s the evidence that the Nozumi-gumi are still operating within Mitsutan? What are they doing there? What can we prove?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “And as you said, I can’t go back. But if you let me work from here, I’ll do my best to figure it out.”

  Michael smiled. “I’m going to the Sanno right now, for those receipts. And yes, you do have clearance to keep working. As long as you stay in the hotel.”

  “Don’t worry.” I went to pick up my laptop, which was lying on one of the boxes he’d brought. “I may have the situation figured out by the time you return.”

  “Great. Just don’t forget about getting your hair cut and colored.”

  I threw a stiletto pump at him, but it missed.

  38

  Once you’ve gone Japanese, it’s hard to go back.

  This saying was often repeated by western men to explain their obsession with Japanese women, but I was finding it apt with regard to my hair. The Japanese straightening technique I’d undergone a few weeks earlier wasn’t quickly reversible. At the hotel salon, the hairstylist told me that only the passage of time—specifically, five or six months—would convert my ramrod-straight hair back to its looser natural state. If I shortened the pageboy to chin length, I was going to look like a Japanese kindergartner.

  So I whispered in the stylist’s ear what I wanted her to do. I was almost embarrassed to say it aloud. But she understood. Lots of women in Japan did it, and she had the products to pull the whole thing off. Once the decision was made, it felt exquisite to lie with my head back at the edge of a stone bowl, then get an invigorating head massage that was part and parcel of any Japanese grooming. And as my head was pummeled, it took me away, for a few minutes, from all that I needed to do.

  I had to get in touch with Ravi. Before Michael had left, he’d told me he was willing to meet Ravi later that day; but the call I’d made to set up the meeting with Ravi had gone unanswered, and I was too worried about my friend’s security to leave a voice mail message. I was using public telephones with a telephone card now, instead of my cell phone, because Michael was worried about the gangs’ tracking my whereabouts through the cell phone towers. I kept my cell phone in my pocket, though, on vibrate mode, just in case Ravi called in.

  Time to take off the towel, rinse the head, and see the hair. I kept my eyes averted from the mirror intentionally, until everything was cut and dried. It seemed like a reprise of my time at Dora’s beauty salon, when I’d turned so dramatically Japanese.

  I looked at myself finally, and it was all right—not the awful, harsh greenish-blond that was the usual result when black hair was colored, but something more subtle and honey-colored. I looked almost like a young version of my mother, Catherine Shimura, circa 1970. Going Caucasian was extreme, but it was the most dramatic way I could think of to divorce myself from my identity of the past few weeks.

  I put the hefty salon charges on the room account, and went upstairs, trying to find clothes that didn’t look like Rei Shimura, K Team girl. From a box, I pulled out some of the athletic gear I’d brought to Tokyo—a long-sleeved nylon shirt, my old Levis, and the Asics sneakers. Then my cell phone buzzed. I hesitated, then went to pick it up. It could have been Ravi, but it was Miyo.

  “Hello, Miyo-san.” I croaked my greeting, trying to sound as if I had laryngitis.

  ”Anego, you let me down!” Her voice was angry.

  “I’m sorry, but I have—laryngitis.”

  “You have enough voice to speak with; I understand you perfectly. How could you be gone today?”

  “I’m really, really sorry that my mother wouldn’t let me go to work because of my illness—”

  “Forget that excuse. I don’t believe it, anyway.” Her voice broke. “It’s about Ravi-san.”

  “Ravi Shah? Did he come to the store to see me again?” If he was out shopping, maybe that was why he’d missed my call. Although it had been a cell number, hadn’t it?

  “No, he…” She paused to make a great, gusty sob. “He was supposed to have brunch with Archie at Wolfgang Puck, but he wasn’t there. Archie went to his building, to try to see if he’d overslept, and…”

  My body was suddenly cold, despite the room’s warm, even heat. “He was gone?”

  “Ravi-san fell out of his living room window.” Miyo’s voice broke. “Archie-san says that our good friend has died.”

  Ravi had been a Jain—someone who believed so deeply in the sanctity of every life, no matter how small, that he wouldn’t touch a vegetable that had been uprooted from the earth. Ravi had seemed worried, but not suicidal. He had been concerned that bank rules were being broken. This, I was certain, was why he’d been killed.

  Of course, I didn’t say a word about it to Miyo. We talked a few more minutes about how awful the situation was, and then she returned to her customers.

  As I hung up, I realized that I was sliding into a state beyond shock and close to rage. This death was as much my fault as anyone’s. Sure, I’d warned Ravi to be careful; but I had never understood just how dangerous his situation was. I shouldn’t have let him go home after the party at the American Club. I should have protected him.

  I turned on the television, and at noon when the news came on, his death led the report. An unnamed foreign banker had jumped from Roppongi Hills, a suicide. It had caused a lot of messy cleanup for a city sanitation crew. His employer, Winston Brothers Asia Headquarters, was not available for comment.

  Tears streamed down my face as I made myself as small as possible, curling into a ball in a corner of the suite behind the sofa. I had known Ravi about forty-eight hours, but he’d made such a strong impression on me that I knew I’d never forget him—and never erase my own feeling of guilt for not doing more when I had the chance.

  I must have been in the corner for a long time, because the light had changed, behind the room’s translucent blind, when Michael finally came in. I heard the sound of the door clicking open, then his voice.

  “I’ve got the receipts, and you were absolutely right, Rei! You paid less than what the internal store paperwork recorded—oh, wow!” He paused, as if taking in the situation. “You’re a blond. It’s not what I would have expected.”

  I couldn’t answer, just dug my face deeper into my knees.

  Michael crouched down close enough that I could feel his body heat. “Okay, I didn’t mean to cause any offense. And I’m sorry I had to ask you to make the change. You can get your natural color back the minute you touch ground in the United States, if you hate the color so much—”

  I breathed deeply, desperately trying to take control. “Michael, something—happened.”

  “It’s not about your hair?”

  “Ravi Shah was killed.” I said it slowly, because I still didn’t want it to be true.

  “You mean—he’s the investment banker who suicided? I saw something on the little TV screen on the subway—how did you find out the identity?” Michael was peppering me with questions so quickly I could hardly answer them.

  “Miyo has my cell phone number. She called a—a while ago. He supposedly jumped out—his window. But I don’t believe he did it voluntarily. He never would have, I know him—” I’d used the wrong tense, and that made me cry. I didn’t know Ravi anymore; I’d known him. And now he was gone.

  “Oh, Rei. I’m so sorry.” And then I was in Michael’s arms, and he was holding me. His chest felt like a rock, I thought—the lifesaving security that I wished Ravi could have found before he fell. I cried on and on. And still, Michael stayed in place, no matter that I was soaking his oxford shirt.

  “I shouldn’t have let him tell me anything in public. Especially not at the American Club, with Warren Kravitz walking right by. He couldn’t have heard the words, but he must have put two and two together—”

  “But Warren Kravitz doesn’t know about your real job,” Michael said. “And what you
told me about the e-mail and then the computer crash makes it clear that Ravi had already been a marked man.”

  “The yakuza make people jump out of windows. It’s a favorite modus operandi. It was how they killed my favorite filmmaker.”

  “Don’t,” Michael said firmly. “Don’t watch that same movie again. Believe me, it’s a problem I have myself.”

  “Why didn’t we bring him over to meet with us, first thing this morning? We could have protected him. Instead we were drinking coffee and arguing about clothing receipts.”

  “When there’s an unjust, unexpected death, there are always what-ifs. Of course we’re fallible. But we didn’t kill him. Please remember that.”

  I ran my fingers through my new blond hair, wishing I could tear it out. “But we’re going to stand by and let this thing pass as a suicide because Warren Kravitz is not under our jurisdiction. You told me that our mission isn’t to catch bad Americans committing crimes abroad; it’s only to catch bad foreigners—”

  “Ravi Shah’s an American citizen. I didn’t know it, but I found out after a few phone calls I made from the New Sanno. This means that his death, if from unnatural causes, is an issue of concern for our country—”

  “But according to all the lectures you’ve given me, we can’t interfere in the lives of American citizens.”

  “It’s true.” Michael’s voice was subdued. “Under the system with which we operate, the OCI cannot investigate crimes against American citizens, even if they’re abroad. That is a matter for the FBI.”

  “I’m sorry to sound skeptical, but the system sucks. I can’t imagine when the next FBI team is going to rush over to investigate the suicide of a foreign-born male banker. It’s not like a case of a murdered blond hostess or English teacher—”

  Michael grabbed my biceps so tightly I flinched. But the move worked; I finally raised my face to look at him.

  “We’ll work the system, together, Rei. Haven’t I said this to you before?”