Death in Little Tokyo (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 1)

by Dale Furutani

  When I reached my car I sat in it for a few moments examining the package under the weak dome light. The package was made out of glossy, thick brown paper. It was about seven by ten inches, but slightly odd in proportion, which I thought was because it was made to centimeter specifications, instead of inches like most envelopes I was familiar with. The envelope was about an inch thick and didn’t feel very heavy.

  I flexed the package. It felt like there were several sheets inside. I was puzzled.

  I had a strange feeling in the back of my mind about the whole arrangement with Rita and Matsuda. Despite what I had told Mariko, it was simply too good to be true. Five hundred dollars seemed like too much money to pay for me to walk a few blocks and act like an errand boy. I was convinced that Rita Newly might be trying to get me involved with a drug pickup.

  Because of this, I had resolved to open the package when I received it, just to make sure that I wasn’t being used as a dupe for some illegal transaction. Now the size and weight of the package puzzled me. It could actually be the photographs and negatives that Rita had talked about.

  I pursed my lips and thought about the ethics of the situation. When I thought I might be picking up a package of drugs, there was no hesitation in my mind that I would open the package. Now that there seemed to be a possibility that Newly’s story might be true, I was hesitant.

  Bouncing the envelope in my hand, I stared at the package.

  5

  I wasn’t at the hotel for what happened next, but I later talked to Nachiko Izumi and I feel as though I know exactly what transpired. It started the next morning in the maid’s staging area. Like so many days that turn out to be traumatic, the start was normal and routine.

  As was the custom at the hotel, the maids were all lined up in a row with the flair of a military unit. There were nine or ten of them and they all stood at attention as the steely-eyed head of housecleaning for the hotel made her inspection. Next to each housekeeper’s cart was an Asian woman dressed in a white uniform. Piled high on the carts were fresh smelling linens, newly laundered towels, glossy plum colored boxes of matches with the Golden Cherry Blossom imprint, and plastic wrapped water glasses with stickers that proclaimed that the glasses were “Sanitized for your safety.”

  Most of the women were Japanese, as was the head of housekeeping. As the head walked down the line of maids, she looked rather like a Marshal of Napoleon reviewing an artillery battalion. She abruptly stopped in front of one of the carts and noticed with distaste that the cart had not been stocked with the geometric precision that the more experienced maids are capable of. “Straighten up those glasses in a neat row, and make sure the various types of towels are not mixed together on the cart,” she ordered in an imperious tone.

  A thick accent to her English rubbed off some of the sharp edges of her words, but it was plain she was not pleased, and the hapless maid scurried to do as she had been instructed.

  As the head of housekeeping finished walking down the line she turned and gave the maids she supervised one last look. Then she gave a curt nod and said, “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

  One of the maids went directly to the fifth floor. She started her routine by checking a clipboard with a computerized list of the rooms to be cleaned, and moved to the first room, pushing her cart down the green-carpeted corridor. The row of drinking glasses in the cart made a cheerful tinkling sound as they banged together, forming a descant to the squeaking baseline provided by a bad bearing in one of the cart’s wheels.

  The maid was Nachiko Izumi, and the sound of the wheel annoyed her. Ms. Izumi was twenty-nine years old and in the U.S. less than five months. She was on a student visa and taking college classes in English literature and political science at East Los Angeles College. She was probably working without a green card, but working illegally is a kind of local sport in Los Angeles and I didn’t ask her about this.

  She approached number 517, and she didn’t see the thin crescent of dark liquid peaking out from under the edge of the door. People had passed the room all morning without noticing the encroaching stain.

  She moved the cart to the door and knocked softly. After a few seconds, she knocked more forcefully, calling out, “Excuse me! Maid!” After another pause she called out, “Sumimasen” (excuse me). Many of the clientele of the Golden Cherry Blossom are visiting Japanese tourists and businessmen, so she called out in both English and Japanese before entering the room. Finally, after going through the entire ritual required of her, she inserted her passkey into the door and unlocked it.

  As the door opened, her attention was immediately drawn to the dark stain on the carpet and the object that lay just inside the open doorway. She stared at the object for several seconds, her brain not processing what her eyes were seeing.

  Lying in a circle of blood was a severed human forearm and what was left of a hand. Two fingers of the hand were missing, cleanly sliced off. The stub of the forearm, cut just below the elbow joint, was a pulpy mass of raw flesh, severed veins and splintered bone. It had been hacked off.

  Ms. Izumi stared at the arm and gradually comprehended the horror that greeted her in room 517. She started to scream. It was a long, wailing scream, and she told me it was a long time before she was able to stop.

  6

  That morning I parked my Nissan in the lot at Second and Main, paid my $3.50 for the day, and started walking the block and a half to the office. In a part of town where parking can cost $3.00 every twenty minutes, this lot was a real find. I had the still-unopened package tucked under my arm, and although the day was sunny and not yet too hot, I was a little grumpy.

  Mariko didn’t show up the night before, which disappointed me. I figured she was late at her acting class at the East West Players theater. The aspiring students tended to sit around and share dreams of glory after the class. For Asian actors, those dreams were especially tough to realize.

  Mariko told me once that she was resigned to the obvious: as an Asian, she would be forever cast in “Asian” roles. She said, “It’s frustrating to realize that I’ll never get to play Desdemona or Lady MacBeth unless I’m cast as a novelty. And let’s face it, Ken, the number of Asian roles are few and far between. The number of good Asian roles are even fewer.”

  One reason a place like the East West Players thrived was that it allowed an outlet for the fermenting creativity of Asian actors, writers, and directors. Almost all the plays done by East West were written by Asians for Asians. Because of this, however, they have a limited audience and limited commercial value. Mariko’s ambition to make a living at acting would never be realized at a small company like East West. In the commercial world, the world of mainstream television and movies, the number of paying jobs for Asians could typically be counted on the fingers of one hand during any given month.

  “The odds of any actress making it are pretty slim,” she once said to me, “so it’s not like only Asians have a hard time.” She was tough in her own way, and very determined. I think that toughness motivated her to fight her problem with alcohol and join AA. In AA you make a commitment to change your life. Stopping the drinking was only a part of that life change. I liked her courage. I was trying to decide what to do with the rest of my life, and in Mariko I could see a model for someone who was bootstrapping her life, changing it, and following her dream. I admired her. Maybe my problem was I had no dreams beyond finding another job.

  As I approached the office I saw a white Mercedes sports car coming down Second Street. The top of the car was down, and behind the wheel, with her hair blowing in the wind, was Rita Newly. She looked like a scene out of a trite car commercial.

  I was about to wave to her when I saw the expression on her face change to alarm. She was looking at two men who were standing in front of the office building. Both were Asians. One was a thin, slight man dressed in an expensive looking double-breasted suit. The other man was bulky to the point of being ape-like, with thick shoulders and a boxy head, shaved bald. His suit looked
like it was tailored by Kmart. They straightened up when they saw Rita’s sports car, and waved at her. The big man was missing half of his baby finger on the hand he waved with, and it looked peculiar when contrasted to the almost delicate, fully formed hand of the small man waving next to him.

  Heedless of the oncoming traffic, Rita quickly spun the big wheel on the Mercedes and flipped a U-turn. Brakes squealed, horns sounded, and the drivers of other cars started cursing in a jarring mixture of English, Spanish, and Japanese, but Rita made her turn without a scratch.

  The two men ran toward a blue Ford sedan parked in front of the building. They jumped in the car and also made a U-turn from their parking spot to pursue Rita, who was already half a block down Second Street. Cars, which had just started moving forward again after Rita’s maneuver had stopped them, once again jammed on brakes and blared their horns.

  I stood on the sidewalk watching the disappearing cars, washed by alternating waves of concern and puzzlement.

  When I finally got to the office I tossed the package on the desk. I couldn’t come up with a good reason for opening it. It obviously contained papers of some kind, but I figured whatever was in the package was Rita’s business and not mine, even though I still didn’t believe the story about photographs.

  About an hour later the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Tanaka?”

  “Yes.” I recognized Rita’s voice. It sounded like she was on a car phone.

  “Did you get the package?”

  “Yes I did, but . . .” I was about to ask her what was going on with the two men and the cool maneuvers with the cars, but she quickly rushed forward.

  “Look, I can’t come in this morning to pick up the package. I want you to make sure that you put that package in a safe place. I might not be able to come in today at all.”

  “Sure, but I don’t understand. Why do you want me to put some . . .” I was cut off by Rita’s voice. This time her voice had an edge to it. She was very nervous.

  “Please do as I say. In view of the fee I’m paying you, I think I should be able to ask for some special consideration when I make a request.”

  “Well, of course, Ms. Newly, but . . .”

  “Thank you very much Mr. Tanaka. I’ll be contacting you later when I can come by and pick up the package.”

  “But . . .”

  “I can’t talk anymore. Good-bye.”

  I sat listening to a dial tone. I picked up the package and looked around the office. I could bury it in a file cabinet or stick it in one of the desk drawers, but both were almost empty because they were essentially props. Maybe I should be clever and tape it to the back of one of the pictures hanging on the wall. Finally I decided the best thing I could do would be to get the package out of the office and leave it someplace nearby, where I could get to it easily.

  I checked my watch. The boutique would open in a few minutes. I stuck the package under my arm and strolled out, locking the door behind me.

  When I got to the boutique I could see Mariko and Mrs. Kawashiri inside arranging the stock hanging from chrome poles. I rapped on the door, pressed my nose flat against the glass, and put on a forlorn look. Mariko looked over to the door and jerked her thumb to indicate that I should take off. I shook my head and rapped once more on the glass.

  Feigning exasperation, Mariko went to the door and opened it. “What now?” she said. “You’re getting to be a pest.”

  “I came to beg a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  I took the package out from under my arm. “Can you keep this here in the shop for me?”

  “Sure,” Mariko said. “But why?”

  “Just call it a special request. I want to keep it nearby, but I don’t want to keep it in the office.”

  “All right,” Mariko said. “The big-time detective fan is getting mysterious.”

  “I missed you last night.”

  Mariko’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Ken. We got caught up in acting class, and then afterward we were building sets for the new production. It was past one o’clock before I even knew it. I was dead tired, so I just went back to my place.”

  “Well, okay. But how about dinner tonight? My treat.”

  “Sure. This will be the first time you’ve taken me out to dinner in weeks, so you know darn well I’m not going to pass up a free meal. Besides, now that you’ve got me acting like Federal Express,” she hefted the package in one hand, “I expect to be paid something for it.”

  “Federal Express delivers packages,” I corrected her. “I just want you to hold this.”

  “Ken-san,” Mrs. Kawashiri came up to us with a ready smile. She had a warm heart for all strays and stragglers. To her, I suppose I fell under both categories. “It’s so nice to see you. Come here,” she said, holding up a white paper package. “Take one of these cinnamon buns for breakfast. I just got them from the bakery. They’re freshly baked. They’re good.”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Kawashiri. You’re always giving me pastries and I feel guilty. In fact, you just gave me some yesterday. Besides, I shouldn’t be here bothering Mariko.”

  “No. No. It’s okay,” Mrs. Kawashiri insisted. “Now, come here.” She waved the sack in front of me. “You take this. You’ve been looking kind of thin lately. Now, come on. Take this.”

  Like a little boy, I marched up to the older woman and accepted the sack of pastries. “Thank you. This is real nice of you,” I said.

  “Anytime,” Mrs. Kawashiri insisted.

  “Lately it’s been every time, Mrs. Kawashiri. The pastries are wonderful, but you can’t keep giving me something every time I show up here.”

  She gave a snort that clearly indicated my protest was too silly to even discuss and turned around and went back to the racks of clothes.

  “I’ve got to help Mrs. Kawashiri,” Mariko said. “Is there anything else you want me to do besides hold this package.”

  “No,” I said. I held up the bag of cinnamon buns. “Thank her again for me, would you?”

  “Sure,” Mariko said. “I may be a little jealous. She seems to like you more than I do. She’s always feeding you, anyway.”

  “Pick you up at closing time,” I called out over my shoulder.

  Mariko smiled. “Sure. See you then.”

  7

  When I returned to the office I saw a uniformed Los Angeles Police Department officer and a man in a suit standing in front of the door. The man in the suit looked like a football player, with sandy hair and a stern face marred by a nose broken in some distant altercation or scuffle. He looked like a cop, too, just not one who advertised it with a uniform. Both men watched me carefully as I approached the office.

  “Can I help you with something?” I asked.

  “Are you Mr. Tanaka?” the man in the suit asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Mr. Ken Tanaka?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Kendo Detective Agency?”

  “Well, that’s sort of a joke. It’s not really a detective agency.”

  “A joke?”

  “Sort of. It’s part of an L.A. Mystery Club weekend puzzle.”

  “Puzzle? Mystery Club?”

  “It’s sort of a long story.”

  “My name’s Detective Hansen, LAPD.” He flashed an I.D. at me. “This is Patrolman Wilson. Maybe we can sit down for a few minutes and you can tell us this story.”

  “Sure. Why don’t you come in?” I unlocked the door and motioned the two men in. Hansen went in but the patrolman waited until I preceded him before entering himself. I suppose it was to make sure I didn’t run away. I went over to the desk and sat down. I motioned to the seat in front of the desk for Hansen.

  “No, thanks,” Hansen said.

  Wilson, the one in uniform, stood by the door, blocking the exit. Hansen wandered around the office looking at the pictures on the wall and the furnishings in the office.

  Despite my interest in mysteries, I’ve had m
inimal contact with police officers. I was fascinated to see that they acted very much like the police you see in movies and TV shows. I don’t know if this was because art imitates life or life imitates art.

  “You said you had a story to tell us,” Hansen prompted.

  I was puzzled, but not alarmed. I shrugged. “I belong to a club called the L.A. Mystery Club. Once a month we set up a fictitious mystery where club members act out parts in the mystery or try to solve the crime based on clues provided. It’s sort of a cross between a game and a play.”

  “And this office?”

  “The office is part of a mystery that I’m setting up for the next puzzle. I’ve only had it for a week.”

  “Are you a licensed detective, Mr. Tanaka?”

  “No, I’m not. As I’ve been explaining to you, this whole setup is part of a club I’m with.”

  “Are you aware that to be a licensed detective in the state of California, a person is required to have two thousand hours of experience as a detective with a police force or a law firm?” Hansen finished circling the office, and sat down at the edge of the desk. I decided he was an officious ass.

  “No, I didn’t. Look, if I’m in any trouble because of the sign on the window . . .”

  “Do you know a Mr. Matsuda, Mr. Tanaka?” Hansen didn’t let me finish. I almost smiled at the familiar ploy. Except for the very real uniformed officer blocking the doorway, it could be part of an L.A. Mystery Club puzzle.

  “I actually know several Matsudas. It’s a common Japanese name.”