by Harker Moore
“The sun’s practically up,” she said, “and we need a perfect take. There won’t be time for a full edit. I want this re-creation for today’s show. Isn’t that what you want too, for the show to be out in the front of the pack?”
“Yeah, yeah . . . So let’s do it and get to the studio.”
“Great. And this time keep your hand tight and flat over my mouth.”
“Don’t worry.”
“And the left arm should be in a choke hold—you’re supposed to be controlling me, not feeling me up.”
“I’ve got the picture, Zoe.”
She turned to the cameraman. “How’s it looking in the monitor, Gabe?”
“Lookin’ good, Zoe.”
“Then it’s back to the bushes, Allen.” She flashed him her sweetest smile.
This time his heart seemed to be in it, and she admitted when it was over that he’d done a stellar job. A little too stellar, judging by the way he’d enjoyed it. Then Gabe ran the take for her right there on the monitor, and they all agreed that it looked damn scary.
A few minutes to touch up her makeup while Gabe reset the lights, then she walked over to take her mark near the tree they’d selected for the shot. She composed her face into suitable lines.
“With the murder of his sixth victim five days ago,” she spoke for the camera, “this New Jack has stepped out of the shadow world of raves and dance clubs and into the world of everyday . . . and anyone.
“Robin Olsen was a young woman on the way up, an executive buyer with one of the country’s largest retail chains, when she was taken by the killer in this park. What you have just witnessed was our own re-creation of what we believe happened to Robin Olsen on Thursday morning.”
She paused for a breath, giving the camera a moment to register sincere concern and outrage.
“The deaths of the first five victims, young single women picked up at parties and clubs, were certainly tragic. But the police have tacitly let us believe that the rest of us were safe from this twenty-first-century Ripper. Robin must have certainly believed it as she went about the simple routine of her life. Her death last Thursday has spoken to the women of this city. We are none of us safe. Information is our first line of defense. And this reporter must ask: What else are the police not telling us?”
Hanae sat at the side of her bed. Assessing the light that filtered in through the window, its subtle presence like vapor against her skin. Assessing that inner light that formed itself in the space behind her eyes. That light too had the quality of mist today, both the inner and outer worlds in an agreement of grayness.
She stood and walked to the closet, to the place where her clothes hung. In Japan, one must wear black to a funeral. Here one had a choice. She took out three dresses and laid them on the bed, where even the morning’s weak light could excite their color. She ran her hand over the cloth of each, letting the fabric ripple, feeling the difference in vibration against her fingertips. It pleased her, this ability to discern color. Certainly it had always surprised everyone.
Still, it was not sight. Her fingers could sense color’s subtle frequencies; her eyes could not. Of black, white, and gray she had perhaps the merest inkling of what the sighted called color. For these were the vibrations of her inner place of light, that mental screen on which she charted her world.
She selected a dress as gray as the day and returned the others to the closet. The gray dress was perfect, since it was her wish to blend with the atmosphere, to be as unnoticeable as possible on this mission she had set for herself. She would not bring Taiko. She would rely on her white cane. And she would call another service for a driver. She did not care to make things any more uncomfortable for Mr. Romero. It would not be right to place him in worse favor with her husband.
Taiko whined beside her, pushing his muzzle into her hand. “I am sorry,” she said, “but I must do this on my own. No accomplices.” She allowed herself a smile at the use of one of Jimmy’s words, though its flavor was bitter.
She had no need to close her eyes to shut out the world—the world of her birth had in large measure closed itself to her. It was true that many things had changed, but so little seemed possible even now for a sightless woman in Japan. She still remembered keenly her grandmother’s stories of her sister Ayano. Ayano, who had become blind when she was but a child, and so must be apprenticed to an ogamisama in order to be made into a person.
There had been no other path to independence for a blind village girl but to become an ogamisama, one of the sightless mediums trained to call upon the spirits of the dead. As Grandmother told it, there was much common prejudice in those days against the disabled, especially the blind, who were thought to be a particular burden. And sightlessness must be no excuse for indolence.
Mama-san had not approved of Grandmother’s stories. Hanae was not Ayano, she said. There were special schools now. This was Kyoto, not some village. And Papa-san was a respected official.
She felt a smile forming, remembering the staunch protectiveness of her mother’s words. And in truth she had been happy enough in her sightless world. And indulged. Hanae Miyairi might have been as indolent a maiden as she wished. But she had never wished it. She had loved school, and when her formal education had ended, she had delighted in her finches, and her sculpture, and her journeys into foreign languages. Perhaps she had sometimes, when listening to the adventures of her cousins Sei and Nori, mourned her social isolation. But meeting Jimmy that fateful day in the park in Kyoto, then returning with him to live in New York, had ended much of that.
Yet it had not changed everything. She remained who and what she was. And despite Mama-san’s denials, something of Ayano’s spirit certainly possessed her. How else to explain her abilities? With no training or initiation, she had yet been the one to whom her family turned for the reading of dreams and the telling intuition—what her ancestress would call walking the lands of the dead. This was her gift. The gift she must offer to Jimmy, whether he would have it or not.
With the thought came pain, physical and surprising . . . and familiar. So slowly had it come, this darkest and quietest of serpents, softly coiling, perceptible only in its shadow. That dimming of her inner light, and the headache gathering, merciless now, behind her eyes. She had once ignored its warning, but no more.
She sat back down on the bed, massaging the skin at her temples. Fear had uncoiled itself from her mind to touch her heart. But there was also a certain relief. For despite all her justifications, she had not truly understood the reason for her recklessness.
She understood it now, appreciating at last that there existed some special danger in this new investigation. A threat that was close. However much she might wish to, she could not doubt it. For this reason, if no other, she must remain stubbornly willing to risk the peace of her home. To risk Jimmy’s love.
She sighed. She could not tell her husband of this threat, at least not until she had more fully discerned its nature, for the danger and the ugliness of his work were the very things from which he wished above all to protect her. How had they come to this, that their paths had so diverged? Certainly the seeds of this dark flower had existed from the moment of their meeting. Neither had seen. Both of them blind in this.
To live properly was to live in change. To live as husband and wife was to accept the other as he or she existed moment to moment. Present. Open. Without expectation. She must accept that her actions would cause her husband pain. She could not deny who she was. Or who she might become.
“Some kind of sports glasses,” the man was saying, “with colored lenses . . . yellow, I think. And a knitted cap, pulled down. . . . And a dark jogging suit. Did I say that?”
“Yes, Mr. Grantley, you did,” Sakura said to the man who sat in front of his desk. A walk-in, he seemed convincing. Not like other would-be witnesses who had not made it through screening. Mr. Marshall Grantley had been deemed worthy of the audience he had insisted on with Lieutenant Sakura. The word for the man was tweedy, with his British n
ewsboy cap and Norfolk jacket. There was no pipe protruding from beneath the bushy gray mustache, but Sakura persisted in seeing one. Just as he could not help imagining leather patches at the elbows of the retired insurance man’s sleeves.
“I should have tried to stop him, I realize that now.” The man sounded genuinely miserable. “But it happened more quickly than it sounds. And at the time—”
“What did he say to you exactly?” Sakura cut through the self-recrimination. They had already been over it once, how walking his dog in the early hours of Thursday morning, Grantley had come upon the couple.
“I asked him what was wrong with her.” Grantley hadn’t answered his question. “She looked terrible, poor woman. And to think I might have saved her.” He looked directly at Sakura. “Do you think I might have saved her, Lieutenant? He didn’t seem to have a gun, or any kind of weapon. Gordon didn’t even growl.”
Sakura didn’t lie. “It’s possible you could have helped her. But it’s equally possible that you might have become a victim yourself.”
“Yes, this man is a monster. And poor Gordon is not much protection. He’s a schnauzer, you know, and nearly ten years old. Older than I, in dog years.” He tried a smile.
“You were going to tell me what the man said to you.”
“Oh, yes.” Grantley’s hand moved to fidget with his tie, a neat bow that was not a clip-on. “He explained to me in a rather slow, well-spoken voice that his wife was hypoglycemic. He said that this had happened to her more than once, because she refused to follow her doctor’s instructions on proper eating.”
“And he was believable?”
Grantley sighed deeply. “He was very friendly. Didn’t appear nervous at all. I think that’s what convinced me that nothing really was wrong. And then the woman . . .” He stopped.
“What about the woman?” Sakura was intent on what appeared might be new information.
“She came around a little,” Grantley said. “Her head moved, lolled around a bit on her shoulders. I remember I was glad that she appeared to be better.”
“And the man? What did he do?”
“He shifted her on his shoulder.” Grantley was literal. “It had to be uncomfortable, supporting her like that. She was a fairly large woman.”
“But how did he react . . . when she started to move?”
“He spoke to her. ‘It’s okay, Evelyn,’ he said. ‘You’ve done it again. But I’ve got you, and the car’s not parked far.’” Grantley shook his head. “He sounded so kind, but chiding her a bit, as one does with a wife.”
“But you believe now that this woman was the latest victim?”
“I’m sure she’s the woman I saw on the news. I got a very good look at her.”
“And the man?”
“As I explained, he was wearing the glasses and cap. And it was still quite dark under the trees.”
“But you got a good look at the woman.”
Grantley smiled at this attempt to catch him out. “I was concentrating very hard on her face, Lieutenant, trying to determine how ill she was. I wasn’t so concerned with the man. Of course, I know now that I should have been. But truly—stupidly, as it turns out—I never got a real sense of danger. I told you, it happened so quickly.”
Sakura tried again. “I understand that his hair and eyes were covered, but you must have gotten some impression of body type.”
“Above-average height. And thin, I think. Those jogging suits are bulky, but it was my impression he was thin. I remember being somewhat surprised that he was not struggling even more with her weight. As I said, she was not a small woman.”
“I’d like to show you some photographs and have you ID her again. It’s a bit different than seeing a picture on television.”
Grantley nodded. “And the van,” he said. “It wasn’t a new one, but I might be able to tell the make if I could look at some pictures.”
“The van?”
“Oh, yes. Didn’t I mention it? The man insisted, rather strongly, that he could get his wife to their car without my help. And Gordon would decide at just that moment that it was time to do his business. But after I’d done the scoop, I went off after them, just to make sure that he’d gotten her in all right. I made it to the street as a van was pulling away. So it wasn’t a car like he said.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“There weren’t any other vehicles leaving the area, and I think I got a glimpse of him in the driver’s seat. There wasn’t much of anyone else around. It was still very early. The sun wasn’t all the way up.”
“License plate?” Sakura didn’t breathe.
“Definitely New York,” Grantley said. “I didn’t get any numbers.”
Hanae paused for a moment in the wide arch of the threshold, gathering together an impression of the room that opened out in front of her. The motion of the air, the quality of sound, told her it was spacious, longer than it was wide. Most vivid was the rich smell of flowers, in which she could detect the separate note of chrysanthemums. Their earthy scent, dense and astringent, had the power to bridge both culture and religion, transporting her to other rooms where family and friends had assembled to honor and mourn the dead.
Despite this being a weekday, and early afternoon, there was a large, mixed crowd in the viewing room. She listened to the muted buzz of voices. Old. Young. Male. Female. Sad. Curious. She could sense eyes watching as she moved forward, these strangers wondering who was this blind Asian woman—speculating on what possible connection she might have to the deceased. Her connection was unfortunate but direct. Robin Olsen, a native of the city, had been the latest of the victims in her husband’s serial case. She had heard on the news yesterday that these services would be held, and had spent most of the afternoon determining the location.
She moved slowly forward now, up a side aisle, her cane making quiet little thuds against the carpet. She was hoping to avoid any encounter, hoping that her presence here would in no way be challenged. There was a certain anonymity to be gained in the very size of the gathering. And sometimes the very oddity of a situation, or even a perception of weakness, engendered its own protection.
This was fortunately such a time.
She let the smell of the blossoms draw her till the scent of them became nearly overwhelming and she knew she was standing near the bier. She felt her way forward, and knelt. No difference for Buddhist or Christian. Her head bowed, hands clasped with palms together, she whispered a sincere prayer.
Then the moment she had come for. She reached out her hand. Touched wood. The coffin was closed, shut tight on the deepest silence. She waited for something, be it no more than the empty sucking darkness. But the dead did not speak today.
Early evening. Cocktail time.The bar small and intimate. From somewhere in the back, a quality sound system was doing justice to a song by Nina Simone.
Faith Baldwin had removed the jacket of her crisp business suit. The silk blouse she’d revealed was deeply veed and clinging. “I’m glad you finally agreed to this,” she said. “You know you look awful.”
“Thanks.” Sakura leaned away from her in the booth. “I needed to hear that.”
“I think you did.” She sat back too, stirring her martini. “I take it that the investigation is not going well.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Seven new confessions since the meat locker.”
“Those are always fun.”
“It’s what you expect.”
She shifted forward again, her smooth voice keying nostalgic. “Remember that crazy who came in on the Van Dyck rape. He said that the moon was telling him to impregnate women. He was so damn convincing, I think I believed him for five minutes.”
He watched her waiting for his reaction.
“That was almost a smile,” she said to him. “Those were good times, Jimmy. You know you miss me. Admit it.”
He ignored the comment, though in truth he was enjoying this, more than he’d enjoyed anything in a while. But there was a price for
pleasure, and he didn’t want to pay.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
“That I must have been nuts back at Quantico to believe I’d ever want a serial case. You kill yourself with legwork and wait for a lucky break. Because if the killer’s smart and he’s organized, he’s leaving you with nothing.”
“At least this one’s getting fancy. He could make a mistake.” She continued to study his face. “So, how’s it going with McCauley?”
“The way you think.”
She smiled. “You know that’s mostly bluster. And besides, you’ve got more leeway than the last time.”
“Do I?”
“Come on, James, it hasn’t been a month since they put you on this thing. And besides,” she added, smiling, “you’re the hero of the Death Angel case.”
She had reached across the table, but didn’t take his hand. Just left hers there. Soft and perfectly manicured.
He picked up his drink. “Nobody’s a hero when women are dying.”
She straightened, the hand retreating, pushing back the chestnut strands that had fallen into her eyes. “I heard you might be looking at some deejay.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“You can’t keep secrets from the DA’s office. How’s he look?”
“Way too soon to say.” He shrugged. “He turned up in a diary of one of the victims.”
“You’re downplaying, Jimmy. What’s your instinct telling you?”
“That it’s time to go home.” He swallowed his scotch. Stood up.
“One more drink?” Her fingers had curled on his wrist. Her eyes, looking up, had softened at the edges. As close as Faith ever got to pleading.
He hated how much he liked seeing it. It hardly balanced the credit that he said no.
CHAPTER
16
Sakura left the dojo, walking around the corner to his car. He had decided that the few hours he devoted to these early morning sessions was time well spent, an expenditure of energy which enhanced rather than detracted from his efficiency at work.