“I suppose that it was an accident that you poisoned Rosa?” I kept my eyes on the immigration officer, who was not interested at the moment in me, but in my carry-on bag. And of course I was speaking English, which he didn’t understand well.
“I didn’t ever go to see her on my own, let alone poison her! I know this may be the last time we ever speak, but you’ve got to hear me out. On Christmas Day, I was with my family. I didn’t kill her.”
“That alibi means nothing. Your family would say anything to help you out,” I said, thinking about the situation with Chika. It’s what I didn’t say that had saved her, but she would never know. She’d just continue thinking I was a dishonest, sour older-girl cousin.
“I know it doesn’t mean much, a family alibi. But I’m telling you, I think I know who did it. I didn’t say anything when I was arrested because I didn’t think anyone would actually try to charge me for it, but here, alone in solitary, I have nothing to do but think—”
“Cell phones must be turned off!” the immigration officer said to me. “They interfere with the inspector’s instruments.”
I sighed. “Eric, I’m going to have to call you when I get to the U.S.”
“No, Rei, it might be too late. They’re talking about transferring me to a different prison and—damn—”
I heard static, and Eric’s voice was gone.
“Too bad,” I said, snapping off the phone. Eric was the one who knew Charles Sharp best. He might be able to confirm my suspicions about Sharp’s acceptance of graft from Morita—and worse. Well, soon enough I’d be in the U.S. and I’d be able to put the pieces back together when I placed a telephone call on a real phone to Hugh. He’d be able to reach the consul to track down Eric in whatever prison he was staying.
Ten minutes later, the immigration police had my passport in their hands. They’d drawn a line through my old visa and added a stamp that said B-1. Mr. Harada had already explained to me that this meant I’d been deported and would be immediately recognized by airport officials should I ever try to come back using the same passport.
I moved on quickly with the immigration officer, making a left to go to the departure gate. It turned out we’d spent longer at the examination table than I’d realized, and the plane was almost ready for boarding.
“Hands, please.” The officer used a key to unlock my handcuffs. I rotated my wrists, which were feeling quite bruised.
The officer insisted that I be boarded first—before first class even. I saw the well-dressed businessmen noticing this affront—that I, a young woman in vintage Ultrasuede, had trumped them. But I had no desire to gloat. I just wanted to get to San Francisco and figure out what was going on with Mr. Ishida’s staircase tansu—and then think about what I was going to do for the rest of my life.
The JAL flight was not crowded. I had the whole center row to myself—I was sure in part because others on the flight had seen my handcuffs and didn’t particularly want to share space with me.
When the flight attendants came around offering beverages, I had a glass of white wine. And then another. As the plane floated over the Pacific, I wondered where Japanese airspace ended and other nations began. I wanted to drink for as long as I could over Japanese airspace, then stop as I left the place that I’d so passionately, and irrationally, loved for the past four years. No, six. I’d grown up here, but now I was going to the place where my passport said I belonged.
I’d resisted calling my parents to tell them about what had happened. Now I had to face up to the fact that in a little over twelve hours, I’d have to tell them, face-to-face. And then I’d have to figure out whether I would stay with them or strike out on my own. I had a strong temptation to look for an apartment. Then I could say to my parents that while I had come home, I wasn’t really the prodigal daughter needing shelter.
The flight attendant came back to retrieve my empty glass.
“May I get you anything else?” she asked with a gentle—but, it almost seemed, knowing—look.
I shook my head. It would be stupid to get drunk on the flight. It would exacerbate the dehydration effect of air travel and leave me a wreck on the ground in San Francisco. I shut my eyes, and wished myself into a dream of being home at bed in Yanaka, freezing cold but happy.
34
I’d never arrived at the San Francisco Airport without being met by at least one of my parents, so I felt quite odd and lonely as I walked from the gate. But it was my own doing. I could have called them, but I didn’t.
The flight came in just after 9 A.M. I let everyone else get off the plane before me, trying to prolong the inevitable. Then I picked up my carry-on bag and started walking, briskly, off the plane and into the arrival lounge.
My first stop was bulk cargo, where Mr. Ishida’s crates would be unloaded. I had to wave my paperwork a few times to get them to release the crate to me, but it happened after a half hour of waiting. By this time, of course, my personal luggage had long been unloaded, and I added it to the large cart that held the crates and headed for customs.
A flight had come in from China, so there were plenty of people ahead of me in the Items to Declare line. As I waited, I popped out my cell phone. I wanted to call Mr. Ishida back in Tokyo to find out what exactly the crates held. The documents the courier had given me listed the contents as two chests; this could mean the same thing as one staircase chest, once it was assembled.
The line rang and rang at Mr. Ishida’s place, and I remembered too late that I was calling at two in the morning his time. The telephone number I had for him rang downstairs in the shop section. He couldn’t possibly hear it if he was in bed.
Resolutely, I dialed the next number: my parents. I thought at least one of them might be home, but they weren’t. I left a message on the answering machine that I was in town again; the less said at this point, I figured, the better. And by the time I saw them in the late afternoon or evening, I might have a lead on where I’d be living.
When it was finally my turn to have my luggage inspected, I hoped that the INS inspectors would insist on opening the crates. For the last twelve hours, I’d been dying to know whether the staircase tansu was inside them. But nobody seemed interested in looking into the crates, or into my luggage. It must have been my U.S. passport, I thought darkly. Compounding the no-scrutiny problem was the fact that Petra Simms, the customs agent who showed up with all the right paperwork, was an attractive blonde woman who was clearly on familiar, good terms with the customs guys.
Petra, who in addition to being about six feet tall wore a neat diamond stud nose ring and a green tweed minidress, whisked me through customs and out to the curb, where she told me she would pull around with her van. One of the airport workers—as a favor to Petra—helped me load the crates into the back of the van. Then Petra blew him a kiss, and we were off.
“Have you been here before?” Petra asked as she drove me from the airport. It was the same route I’d taken with Hugh just two weeks earlier. The weather had been gorgeous, and I’d been lighthearted. Today was dark and rainy—typical winter weather, but I’d forgotten what it was like to be caught up in a morning so foggy that it felt like the night hadn’t quite ended. “Actually, I’m a native. And today’s more than a simple courier job for me. It’s my move back home.”
“Ooh. How nice. Your parents must be ecstatic.”
“Actually, I’m hoping to live independently. And I won’t have much money till I get my fledgling antiques business really going. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who’s looking for a roommate or who has a small apartment to sublet, would you?”
Petra made a sorry-looking face. “I wish I did. The problem is it’s hard to find the cheaper rentals right now. The Internet bust has created more available space, but the prices are still high. The few good deals left are found through Craig’s List or the schools, which sometimes have alumni and faculty with spare rooms in their houses. If you were planning to go to school here—San Francisco State, or the University
of California at San Francisco, someplace like that—you could take advantage.”
“I can’t bear to go to school again.” I shut my eyes for a minute, thinking about my expensive bachelor’s and master’s degrees, which had really gotten me nowhere. “However, my father works for UCSF.”
“Oh, that’s great! Maybe you can qualify for housing aid as a university family member.”
Once we got into the heart of the city, I directed Petra to Washington Street, asking her to avoid some of the bumpier hills. The van, with its load of heavy precious cargo, was a stick shift, and even if Petra wasn’t nervous about it, I was. Unfortunately, Washington was one of the steepest street in Pacific Heights, so bad that no parallel parking was allowed. The parking spots were all perpendicular, and the cars parked with their noses facing the road, ready to gun their way out against the relentless force of gravity. Still, I didn’t feel safe. To me, the cars appeared like a long row of dominos, ready to tumble at the slightest tap. I thought wistfully about Japan, where 80 percent of the land was mountainous. The Japanese answer was not to build on these mountains—it was to live beneath them.
“Don’t forget to put your hazard lights on!” I said after Petra had double-parked in front of the house.
“Don’t worry so much! I’ve been here before for a few other deliveries—this street is loaded with the kind of people who spend lots of money overseas.” She grinned at me. “I’ll stay here anyway. But after we’re done, could I drop you off somewhere? You can’t walk these hills with that load of luggage.”
“Oh, I’ll manage.” Actually, I should have been able to trundle the luggage the few blocks to my parents’ house, but I’d have to go down to Octavia, which was so steep that I’d surely lose control. “I’ve got to stay here for a bit. I’m duty-bound to see the furniture once it’s out of the crate, to make sure it isn’t damaged.”
“You’re breaking my heart with your goodness,” Petra said.
It was a few steps uphill to Ikehata’s house. It was an early-twentieth-century Greek Revival house—white stucco, with eight classical columns and an elaborate, half-circular portico. A six-foot-high wrought-iron fence and gate guarded the property.
As I opened the gate and began a brisk walk to the portico, I saw a curtain in a window on the first floor move. The door opened before I reached it. I stood facing a slender, golden-skinned man, somewhere between my age and his late thirties; it’s hard to tell age with Asians who have taut skin, as this man did. He was also in great shape; his lean body was clad in a fashionable, form-fitting blue viscose sweater and slim gray flannel slacks. Nice outfit—nice-looking man. Hardly the stereotype of a wealthy, aged collector.
“Are you Mr. Ikehata? I’m the courier,” I said in English.
“I was expecting you,” he said in a soft Japanese accent.
“Yes. The crates are quite large. I’m afraid the customs agent and I may need some assistance.”
I’d anticipated that Mr. Ikehata would call for a manservant, but he didn’t.
“I can do it myself. I keep a cart in the greenhouse for such purposes.” Mr. Ikehata motioned for me to come inside.
I couldn’t believe my luck. As Mr. Ikehata disappeared down a long, long corridor, I gazed around at the dramatic foyer. The floor was Carrera marble, and the walls a gorgeous pale gray; the color extended all the way up to the circular ceiling, which was ornamented with amazing old plaster moldings that continued the classical Greek theme I’d seen outside. The furniture was a mélange of American and English antiques and Asian pieces. I walked a few steps to look through an arch into the living room, where a pair of camelback sofas flanked a baroque-looking fireplace. Along the wall there was a Yonezawa tansu—Meiji Period, I thought, walking closer to examine the metalwork and handles. The chest was adorned with an ancient Chinese terra-cotta horse, various gorgeous carved ivory netsuke, and some silver-framed photographs.
My eyes were drawn to a group of wedding pictures. The biggest was of a good-looking all-American couple standing in front of Grace Cathedral; from the minimalist, Vera Wang–ish gown I knew it had to have been taken within the last ten or fifteen years. The bride and groom were exquisite, but their photograph was less interesting to me than one of another bridal couple in front of the same cathedral. The man’s expression was tight, and oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The next photo was of a little girl wearing a Flashdance-style off-the-shoulder T-shirt, part of the same sad fashion warp that had surrounded me when I was young. From the turned-up nose and cool blue eyes, I realized that the little girl had grown up to be the bride in the Vera Wang gown. And I’d known her in junior high and high school. It was Janine Sharp, the girl who’d been at St. Ursula’s with me. So this was Charles Sharp’s house, after all—though he shared it with a good-looking Japanese man, whose connection to him I couldn’t quite understand.
Suddenly I heard Mr. Ikehata’s steps, and the sound of something rolling, so I hurried back to the foyer. Of course, given the direction that he was coming from, he’d be able to tell that I’d moved from where he’d left me. And his face was far less open and welcoming than before. Suddenly, things began to fall into place like dominos. Charles Sharp. His desire to make a quick deal with Morita Incorporated. This handsome Japanese man living in his house.
“I, ah, was just looking out the window for my colleague, who has the crates in the van,” I said quickly. “What a beautiful house you have.”
“Thank you, but it’s not my house,” Mr. Ikehata said.
“Oh, is it your—friend’s?” I was using the gentlest language possible, so as not to offend a man who hadn’t grown up loud and proud in California.
“Mr. Sharp is my employer. He is the one who ordered the tansu,” Mr. Ikehata said crisply.
“Ah,” I said. Maybe I’d guessed wrong about the relationship. Who cared, anyway? “Well, it’s awfully heavy. I’ll show you the right way to carry it inside.”
Mr. Ikehata and I trundled the cart out to Petra’s van. When she saw us, she stretched her mile-long legs out of the front and came back to help us. “They’re heavy,” she warned Ikehata. “Rei and I had a bit of a struggle to get them in.”
“Your name is Rei? Are you Japanese?” Mr. Ikehata said between deep breaths as he pulled the crate forward; I was crouched in the back of the van, pushing it outward.
“Ah, yes I am.”
“And I’m Petra! You probably don’t remember, but I was the customs agent who brought some marble statuary here last year—I think it was from Rome—”
“Ah, of course,” Mr. Ikehata said, giving her a quick bow. “Miss Petra. You look different this time—did you alter your nose?”
“Yes, I did! I had a piercing. Thanks for noticing!”
“Let’s try to lower the box,” Mr. Ikehata said in his gentle voice. “Miss Petra, you can help us by steadying the cart?”
“Okay, we’ll bring the first one in,” I said. Mr. Ikehata rolled the cart back into the house, and I followed to help him slide it gently off the cart into the center of the foyer.
The second crate was a little bit heavier, making me think it was the base of the staircase tansu—for in my mind, there was no doubt anymore that Charles Sharp had gotten Mr. Murano to import the staircase tansu for him. The trick was going to be actually getting Mr. Ikehata to open the box to see it.
“Petra, you can go ahead if you like. I, unfortunately, have to make sure the contents are in sound condition,” I said.
“Oh, I’m certain it’s fine. We’ve never had a problem with wooden pieces in the past,” Mr. Ikehata said. “Please, go ahead with your friend.”
“It’s my duty to see it,” I said with a rueful expression.
“None of the couriers in the past felt that way—”
“Well, Mr. Ishida specifically asked me to do this—”
“Very well.” Mr. Ikehata exchanged smiles with Petra, as if they both knew that I was an overzealous amateur. “Let me get an instrum
ent to open it.”
He used a pry bar and the curved edge of a hammer to open one side of the crate. As he lifted off the rough plywood, I craned my head to see inside. Lots of shavings of wood—Mr. Ishida’s preferred insulation against breakage. Mr. Ikehata and I pulled off the wood shavings, and I apologized for the mess it was making on the floor.
“Ah, it’s no problem. It would have to come out at some time.”
I sighed aloud when I saw the side of the chest. It was just as I remembered it—the gorgeous cryptomeria with expert joining at top and bottom.
“Steady,” Petra said, and held the crate as Mr. Ikehata and I carefully pulled the chest free. It was the four-foot-high base of the tansu.
“People used to use them as staircases to the second floor of small Japanese houses,” I said. “The drawers in each step were useful for storage. And can you believe that some of these chests have false bottoms, under which even more things could be stored?”
“Cool. I could use that, in my tiny co-op. Not that you need the space here,” Petra said, batting her eyes at Mr. Ikehata.
She was on the make, I realized suddenly. Well, who wouldn’t be? A single man, this cute, in such a big house?
Mr. Ikehata was smiling politely, clearly unaware of the machinations of tall, sexy American women with nose rings.
“Let me show you where it might be.” I crouched down and pulled out a bottom drawer. “That is, if you’d like to know about it, Mr. Ikehata?”
This was what I’d wanted to do ever since I’d realized Charles Sharp had chosen a false-bottomed tansu. Using the flat side of the ruler I always kept in my backpack, I pried up the false bottom just as I had in Mr. Ikehata’s shop. The only difference was, when I’d done it there the room was dim. Here, I was under an alabaster chandelier. When I looked down at the true bottom of the tansu, I saw holes: old, tiny insect holes. My first thought was that at least the infestation was inactive—and that the wood containing it was completely hidden.
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