Tokyo Kill

by Barry Lancet

  “I’ve been to California. I did a three-week situational with the LAPD.”

  “So you speak English?”

  “No. I watched and listened and said thank you all day long. I saw how American cops handle crime scenes. Muggings. Couple of shootings. A convenience store robbery in progress.”

  “How’d you end up going? An overseas tour must be a departmental plum.”

  She hesitated.

  I said, “What?”

  “I’m one of three chosen ‘poster women’ for the force. I detest the idea but I had no choice.”

  “How hard are they trying to equalize things?”

  She shrugged. “More women are being hired, but progress is glacial. They’ll let the three of us climb a little higher, which I plan to do with or without their help.”

  “If you don’t like it, why not step off the pedestal?”

  “Because you take every chance you can get and drive yourself twice as hard and twice as long as the men. And of course you’ve got to outthink them.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I thought so. Then a few months ago my boss tried to marry me off.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “I’d uncovered a vital clue in a floundering case. When he called me to his office, I was expecting at least a verbal commendation. He praised my effort then he asked if I would allow him to act as my nakodo.”

  A nakodo is the matchmaker for an omiai, the same arranged marriage ritual Miura’s widow had railed against. It involves a series of meetings between two single people to see if they are compatible.

  I was incredulous. “You helped break a case under his command and he wanted to ease you out? Whose ego did you bruise?”

  She studied me with a new appreciation. “All of my male coworkers. None of us found anything initially, but one of the witnesses looked nervous so I hung around until his shift ended, then invited him out for a cup of coffee.”

  “Twice as hard?”

  She nodded. “I got him away from his bosses, where he could talk more freely. Then I applied a pinch of pressure and promised I would not implicate him.”

  “Clever.”

  “The detectives on the case were overjoyed and treated me to an expensive tempura dinner. In his arrogance my boss never imagined I’d dare say no to his request to play matchmaker. He’d already boasted to ‘my future father-in-law,’ a high-ranking bureaucrat over at the Police Agency, how good a catch I was and how I’d been properly ‘shaped’ under his command. My marriage was to be a career move for my boss. When I rejected the offer, they all lost face, so I was transferred to Inspector Kato’s section.”

  “Siberia within the MPD.”

  Kato’s talent was fabled among cops and private badges alike, though rarely acknowledged by his superiors. He was a soft-spoken, second-generation detective who had embarrassed his colleagues by solving too many cases. Ingenious police bureaucrats hammered down the protruding nail by promoting the assistant inspector sideways and giving him his own section staffed with officers tossed in the doghouse. Punishment inside the department became a temporary rotation into Kato’s crew. The would-be Zen monk had shrugged it off, and his reputation only grew.

  “Inspector Kato’s a genius. I’m learning so much from him.”

  Before I could reply, my cell chirped. I read the display tag. “Excuse me. I have to take this. You’re going to want to listen in.”

  I hit speaker mode. “Hi, Graham.”

  I’d rung him from Yoji’s front porch, but he hadn’t picked up.

  The dealer’s irritation kicked in immediately. “When I grant permission to ring me twenty-four/seven, ‘judicious’ is the unspoken qualifier.”

  “Remember that pint of beer you mentioned? Now’s the time.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “A second Sengai sighting less than an hour ago.”

  “Actual Chinese monks?”

  “The proverbial robed ones.”

  Graham was quiet for a long spell. “And I thought the rumors were rubbish.”

  “What have I found?”

  “You sitting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Strap in, then. You’ve heard of Yamashita’s gold and all the treasure the Japanese looted from Asia during the war years, right?”

  “Everyone has.”

  The legend involves billions in art, gems, and other precious artifacts stolen from China and a dozen more Asian countries. Supposedly, special Japanese military units plundered at will, some led by aristocrats and members of the imperial family. The rumor had it that billions were shipped back to Japan and more billions left for later retrieval in a string of hiding places. To secure the secrets, the conscripted Japanese engineers and others lower down the pecking order were eliminated when they least expected it—a bullet to the head, entombment in the caves with the treasure, or being tossed overboard when they shipped out.

  “Well, this concerns the portion of the valuables handed back to Pu Yi. They needed him to appear regal on all fronts.”

  The Last Emperor again. “You’re talking about a lost treasure?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you know of this how?”

  “During a buying trip to Hong Kong about five years ago, someone was shopping Pu Yi’s collection, using the lesser pieces as calling cards. The Sengais and some tea bowls. It sounded like a con to me. Might still be. But if it’s true, your find makes me think our London piece is another, even without the Chinese monks.”

  “The timing supports the idea. What kind of treasure are we talking about?”

  “Select pieces chosen from a portion of what the Qing rulers and their lot had amassed during its last three hundred years before their collapse began in 1911. Thousands of trunks of the stuff floated around the country during the war years. The Nationalist party escaped with well over three thousand crates to Taiwan, which was said to be, well, if not a fraction of the total, a smallish amount.”

  “What about the content?”

  “A pinch of the imperial Qing collection was funneled back to the Last Emperor’s coffers. The Chinese side of the equation consists of imperial jades, porcelains, and scroll paintings from the Forbidden City. Plus the items Pu Yi managed to escape with to Manchuria. On the Japanese side, gifts from Emperor Hirohito and other Japanese admirers. Jewelry for the empress, golden goblets, gems, trinkets, classic samurai swords of the highest caliber, scroll paintings from the palace collection, and more.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yes, an impressive list.”

  “Anybody give you a price tag?”

  “The jungle telegraph put it at forty to eighty million dollars.”

  I felt my heart rate accelerate. In the art business, every once in a while you get a whiff of a pot of gold. It’s always just out of reach and arrives on the tail of the most outrageous rumors. Which is where it usually dies.

  But this time the tall tales were backed by two Sengais—and perhaps Yoji’s death. But why were the Zen monk’s works tangled up in this?

  Graham read my thoughts. “For the record, the Sengai pieces were supposedly gifts from a top Japanese diplomat who was an art lover and thought the theme would please Pu Yi.”

  “Makes a hell of a lot of sense,” I said.

  “I should warn you that there’s an unsavory side. Tameshigiri is involved. Did I pronounce it correctly?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling something clutch at my throat as I watched the color drain from Hoshino’s face.

  Graham sighed. “The practice involves testing a Japanese saber on human targets, does it not? Sometimes live human targets?”

  The term also encompassed testing on inanimate objects, like rolled tatami mats, but that was not where my London friend was heading. I confirmed his query with a one-syllable response that barely escaped my lips. This was creepy stuff.

  “I feared as much,” Graham said. “Emperor Hirohito sent some classic imperial swords to his ‘cousin’
Pu Yi as a token of their shared lineage. Under the pretense of a tribute, the Japanese army insisted on showcasing the superiority of this weaponry to the Last Emperor, who of course was all but captive in his elegant mansion.”

  Hoshino sunk deeper into her seat and I said, “How could anyone know all that?”

  “The people shopping the package claimed documentation of the so-called handing-over ceremony accompanies the treasure. Diagrams, notations, photographs. There are decapitations.”

  A shudder shook my frame. I could find no words but Graham’s voice filled the void admirably:

  “Here’s the hitch on which everything hinges, Brodie. Did the Sengai you saw in Tokyo come from China or Japan?”

  Are you insane? You think Yoji’s stupid ink painting from China will help? Get out. Get out of my house and don’t ever come back here again!

  “China.”

  “Then you’ve sighted the whale, my boy. An actual bloody whale.”

  CHAPTER 13

  BRODIE SECURITY, SHIBUYA, 8:20 A.M.

  I COULDN’T shake the image of Yoji’s distraught wife rocking her son in her lap. Even though she’d thrown me out. Maybe because she’d thrown me out.

  With each passing hour my rage only grew. I was furious at myself for dropping the ball, and livid at the unknown assailants who had destroyed Yoji and his family.

  So I opened the meeting at Brodie Security by doubling the manpower on the case, even though we couldn’t justify charging Miura for more than a fraction of the extra expense. Fireworks erupted and my proposal was gunned down by the staff with a vengeance.

  It didn’t matter that I owned half the company. The firm was their livelihood. Collectively, they had a vested interest in two things: keeping me alive, because Brodie Security distinguished itself from the crowd with an American president—an indication of overseas expertise—and keeping the company running. A sign of the first had surfaced when the employees corralled Yoji after he showed up on our doorstep in a vaguely threatening manner.

  The second flared up with my wanting to increase the footprint of the Miura case. The move would strain Brodie Security’s financial underpinnings, which remained tenuous at the best of times.

  I countered with a detailed rendition of the Kabukicho murder scene, listing the condition of the body in excruciating detail, my face flushed, my words heated.

  Noda stepped in with a counterpunch. “You work the case.”

  I’d already lobbed the idea of handing off the Miura file to him, and he’d just lobbed it right back.

  Hamada chimed in. “We don’t need five or six more people. One extra body would even out the workload.”

  Hamada smiled as he offered up his comment. Unlike Noda, an abrasive lone wolf, Hamada was a social creature. Ex-cop though he was, he lived to cook and eat, hence a pudgy body expanding by noticeable increments. And the pudgy nose. Most of us had been over to his house for a rooftop barbecue and met his wife and twin teenage sons, who, like their father, had ready smiles.

  “But a live body,” someone at the back called out.

  Group laughter broke the tension, and I acquiesced, trapped by my own obsession.

  I said, “I know it’s been less than a day, but do we have anything? Hamada, any news on the Triads?”

  “Feelers out but nothing in yet.”

  Noda gave me a curious look.

  “How about from the police?” I asked.

  “Have a sit-down at three this afternoon,” another op called out.

  “Okay, get what you can but no need to push it since Inspector Kato’s going to keep me in the loop.”

  He nodded. I faced my wild card. “Noda, where are you?”

  “Poking around the edges.”

  Edges. Why should the eternally cryptic detective change his habits for this case?

  I turned back to Hamada and asked for his interpretation of the Triad’s final gesture.

  “Chopping off the arm? ‘Stay away.’ ‘Don’t do it again.’ ‘Keep your mouth shut.’ ‘We’re watching.’ Take your pick.”

  “Maybe all four,” Noda said.

  “Might be,” Hamada conceded.

  “So, a pile of speculation but no facts,” I said. “All right. I’m done. Anyone else?”

  The room was quiet.

  “That’s it, then,” I said. “If I’m missing something, tell me. Be frank. We all know I’m new at this.”

  Hamada shook his head. “This case is pretty straightforward. You’ve tagged all the bases.”

  “Almost all the bases,” Noda mumbled, sliding me another look.

  * * *

  The staff dispersed but Noda hung back.

  I wanted the senior detective to explain his last comment, but I addressed another need first. “Got a question for you. Should I have covered the son?”

  My guilt over Yoji’s death swelled by the minute.

  Noda shrugged. “Man called his father nuts.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So he had no clue they might come for him.”

  “The guy’s got a seven-year-old with Down syndrome and I’m guessing medical bills that go to the moon.”

  “At fifty-five?”

  “Second marriage. Is there any way we can fast-track this?”

  Noda gave me the look again.

  “What?” I said.

  “You won’t like it.”

  “I will if it’ll help.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Spit it out.”

  He shrugged. “People I know who work with Triads won’t talk to me about it. They’re afraid. But you know someone who will.”

  My impatience ballooned. When Brodie Security’s chief detective grew verbose—and for him, three full sentences was a filibuster—there was usually a zinger attached. But this time I saw none. Noda was mistaken.

  “Don’t think so, Noda.”

  The detective’s voice was flat when he spewed out a nickname I’d tried to forget. “Tokyo no Tekken.”

  My blood turned to ice. Damn if he wasn’t right. My connections with the underworld and other unsavory types were stronger in LA and San Francisco than they were in Japan. Not out of choice but because in California I’d been forced to live in less-desirable neighborhoods for seven years. But events on these shores had yielded a few affiliations, including the one Noda mentioned.

  The only problem was that Tokyo no Tekken was a stone-cold killer.

  CHAPTER 14

  TOKYO no Tekken—TNT for short—translated roughly as “Iron Fist of Tokyo.” When people first heard either one, they thought the tag was the overblown nickname of a celebrity boxer or a K-1 fighter. Someone with a colorful or cheesy career, and harmless outside the ring.

  But they would be wrong on all counts.

  It was the moniker bestowed on a yakuza enforcer who had earned his own file cabinet down at police headquarters. Yakuza meaning Japanese mafia, of course. Eleven months ago I’d run head-on into both of his fists and almost didn’t live to see the next sunrise. Miraculously I survived, and in a surreal turn of events, TNT ended up in my debt. Between us was an uneasy understanding.

  I found his card, a plain white rectangle with eleven digits printed in the center. No name, no address, no affiliation, no logo. Just the numbers. I punched in the string of figures and waited.

  The phone rang three times, then three more. On the seventh ring the gruff voice I knew well answered. Involuntarily, my body tensed.

  “Yeah?”

  “You know who this is?” I said in Japanese.

  I spoke long enough to give him a recognizable sound bite so we wouldn’t need to exchange names. You never knew who was listening.

  A beat later he said, “Yeah.”

  “Long time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Need to meet.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon.”

  He cupped a hand over the receiver and a muffled conversation ensued on the other end. He came back on. “Tomor
row after dark, around eleven. I’ll send a car.”

  “Tonight’s no go?”

  “I’m in Kyushu. Flying back in the morning.”

  I rolled my eyes. He probably wanted to sleep in after his return. Yakuza are creatures of the night. They don’t rise until three or four in the afternoon most days.

  I said, “Then a bar across town in Ueno?”

  “No, I’m moving around. Only way I can do it on short notice is you come to me. I’ll send a car. House or office?”

  “Not necessary. I—”

  “House or office?”

  He wanted to control the meet from the outset and I wished to avoid just that. But considering the request came from my side, I had little choice.

  “House,” I said. “I’m off Meiji Street near—”

  His laugh was a raw bark. “I see you ain’t learned nothing. House it is,” he said, and disconnected.

  Good thing the yaki enforcer was on my side.

  Apparently, he knew where I lived.

  CHAPTER 15

  I’D timed my arrival perfectly.

  Yet the moment I strolled into the dojo something felt wrong.

  The kendoka, as kendo practitioners were called in Japanese, were in full battle gear and prepared for combat. A dozen pairs of fencers faced off, bamboo swords ready at their side, one eye on Nakamura-sensei, the other on their opponent. More than a few heads turned in my direction.

  An hour earlier, I’d taken up a post across the street from the Nakamura Kendo Club in a coffee shop. I watched a steady stream of students enter, starting around seven thirty for a special eight-o’clock session, a semiannual contest among the dojo’s best fighters.

  Passing through the front door at eight twenty, I’d found the entry hall deserted. I slipped into the men’s locker room. A straggler was still dressing in the far corner. Around his waist he’d secured a belt of five protective flaps that hung down to cover his lower body to mid-thigh. The belt went over the hakama, the pleated trousers of the kendo uniform. Over the happi-coat-shaped keigo-ki shirt, he affixed a lacquered chest protector. Last would come a helmet fitted with two padded wings that floated above the shoulders and a throat guard that hung down from the chin.