by Barry Lancet
In the next stage, often inflamed by cabin fever, a new and false reality settled in, and under the cover of night they ventured out to one of their old haunts—a friend’s, a lover’s, a familiar restaurant, a favorite drinking spot, even their own home—and the hunters pounced. End of story.
“Tried to talk him out of it,” the Brodie Security op was saying, “but he was a stubborn old guy. Kept babbling about his goldfish.”
I’d never met the man, but Doi’s old army buddies were inconsolable and, in the face of fresh confirmation that they were in the crosshairs, frightened to death.
“Don’t suppose you had a chance to talk to him.”
“Sat down with both men. Empty wells.”
In the next room, Miura and Inoki stared at a quiz show on the tube. I said hello and commiserated over their loss. Their heads bobbed in thanks, then swiveled back to the television.
Civil conversation had dropped off a ledge.
Eventually, Miura said, “Glad Inoki didn’t leave. I’ll pay the additional fees if there are any.”
I cast a look at the guard. He gave me a head shake. I said, “As long as you’re both under this roof, there’ll be no extra charge.”
His eyes moist, Inoki turned to his friend. “Thanks for taking me in. I have nowhere else to go. My son’s place is small and his wife was complaining. Just like the old Korean saying: ‘After three days, fish and houseguests begin to smell.’ ”
Still in his eighties, Inoki must have been the baby of the group. He was thin, wiry, and energetic. His arms and elbows flew about when he spoke. The eternal excitable boy.
Miura patted his friend’s shoulder. “Stay as long as you like. We’ve got plenty of room.”
“Thank you.”
“Any thoughts about who’s behind this?” I asked Inoki.
His face collapsed into a nest of wrinkled anguish. “What else could it be but our return visits to the village?”
They nodded in unison and an instant later they drifted away into the fatalistic backwater that Japanese escape to when avoidance seems the safest course.
I called them back. “Your lives are on the line. Give me something.”
They gave me bleak looks and no answers.
“So that’s it?” I said.
Inoki’s shoulders sunk. “Everyone from the old days is dead. All we came up with was Wu. He might know something. Because he’s Chinese. Or was.”
“Who’s Wu?” I asked.
Miura’s look was dismissive. “A traveling doctor from a nearby village in China. Not Anli-dong, but close. There were rumors he settled in Japan for a few years after the war, then returned home. Or maybe stayed. I also heard he’d passed away four or five years back. So forget it.”
I shook my head. “Wish I could. Unfortunately, people are after you. Unless you plan to hide for the rest of your life, someone like this Wu could be your only hope. Clearly, these guys aren’t going to stop.”
CHAPTER 26
BACK at Brodie Security, I fell into my seat and ran my fingers through my hair in frustration.
People were being murdered and we had nothing. Or nearly nothing.
I’d had no time to gather my thoughts since my B&E at the kendo club. Everything in the immediate aftermath—my beating, the forced overnights at the hospital, TNT, the threat of pending criminal charges, Doi’s murder—had swallowed up the hours. And I’d left my daughter in Mariko’s charge for the third day running.
So where was I? What had the drop-by at the Nakamura dojo yielded? They’d been on me from the moment I’d walked in. Veiled looks, a chaperoned seat, my reception in the locker room—all of these suggested I’d struck a nerve.
But what kind of nerve?
Mari arrived with a cup of steaming green tea.
“Thanks,” I said, looking up into a face spilling over with concern.
“Are you okay, Brodie-san?” she asked.
Behind her, Mari’s apprehension was echoed on the faces of a half dozen staff members crowding the doorway.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Besides, you know I’ve seen worse.”
My last comment raised faint smiles and vague nods. Everyone wandered back to their desks, mollified if not convinced, no doubt thinking of Japantown and Soga, the men we faced back then.
Noda and Hamada wandered in and shut the door behind them. They both looked me over but said nothing.
“Caught out,” I said.
Hamada chuckled. “Goes with the job.”
Noda said, “You weren’t headed to a moon-viewing party. Got the key?”
I dumped my haul on the desk—key, temple charms, photos. My attackers hadn’t considered that I might have walked off with some of Yoji’s keepsakes. Or they didn’t care.
Noda snapped up the key. Hamada grabbed the charms.
I looked at Noda pointedly. “How’s the edge-digging going?”
“Slowly.”
Brodie Security’s grand communicator. The chief detective was squinting at a serial number punched on the key head.
I turned to Hamada. “Anything on the Triad angle?”
He nodded happily. “Meeting tonight. Looks promising.”
“Good. We need something.”
Hamada raised the cluster of charms by their drawstrings and let them twirl lazily in the air. “He’s bought everything the suckers buy. Prayers for job promotion, longevity, family health, safe driving. Amulets to ward off evil spirits. Protection from injury. Superstitious guy. Didn’t save him, though.”
“Maybe he bought them because he was into something dangerous,” I said. “What if we talk to one of the monks?”
Hamada tossed the bundle back on the desk. “People purchase charms like lottery tickets. On the other hand, sometimes they unburden themselves to a temple monk they trust. Couldn’t hurt to make the rounds.”
Noda said, “What do you hear from Inspector Kato?”
“Got to get on that,” I said.
Noda scowled. “Sooner would help.”
“Give the kid a break. He got bashed up pretty bad.”
Noda snorted. “Cover-up’s not working.”
Shit. That was for Jenny’s eyes only. I’d been so distracted I’d forgotten to remove it. I snagged some Kleenex and began rubbing. No wonder the staff had looked so anxious.
Without missing a beat Noda added, “If you’re done playing dress-up, we need to get a handle on this thing quick. Only two of those old soldiers left.”
DAY 5
PURSUED
CHAPTER 27
ITCHING to hear what the police knew, I’d rung Hoshino late yesterday from Brodie Security. With my afternoon promised to Jenny, we agreed to meet first thing in the morning at Chatei Hatou, an elegant European-style coffeehouse tucked away down a side street in Shibuya.
“This is one of my hideaways,” Hoshino confided once we commandeered a wooden table in the back under the watchful eye of towering European cabinetry. “Only a couple of blocks from the stationhouse but far enough away so none of my coworkers will wander in. The master is the king of pour-over.”
As Hoshino explained it, the owner had risen above barista to “master brewer.” His attention to detail extended to the quality of the water, the roasting of the beans, their aging when called for, and the shape and texture of the drip cone.
“Naturally, he does a separate pour for each cup,” Hoshino said in a whisper, wonder edging into her voice. “It’s a five-minute routine. Sometimes more.”
I chose the house pour-over cappuccino, Hoshino a Venetian coffee, then I asked about the progress on the Kabukicho murder.
“Why don’t you start?” the MPD’s caffeine connoisseur suggested. She wore street clothes again today. A beige blouse and white slacks. And, like the last time I saw her out of uniform, there was an appealing buoyancy. Her eyes sparkled.
“Sure. We’re working a number of angles, but leads are scarce. Miura Senior’s been no help at all. Even after the Doi murder, he had
nothing to offer. But Noda is looking into several things, including one of my ‘acquisitions’ from the B and E. Hamada met his Triad connection last night and should be checking in shortly. You?”
Hoshino took a moment to digest my report. “So, no results as yet?”
“We’re working on a new approach to the dojo, and I’ve got another feeler out but, no, nothing concrete.”
The other feeler was TNT. I decided to wait before mentioning the exchange to Hoshino. Inside access to Tokyo no Tekken wasn’t the kind of connection you trotted out to impress a woman you had an interest in. Especially one with a badge.
Hoshino’s next comment proved my instincts prophetic. “You may have noticed that I did not ask about your ‘acquisitions.’ ”
“I did.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Done.”
“Thank you. On our end, Yoji Miura’s dental charts matched, and Mrs. Miura came down and ID’ed her husband’s body. They cleaned him up some but we’re not morticians. She became hysterical again. Kept asking who was going to take care of her family. We sent her home with a trauma specialist.”
I nodded. “Breaks my heart. Anything unexpected?”
“Detectives found a potential witness who saw two Chinese near the scene.”
I sat up a little straighter. “How near?”
“Coming out the back end of the alley about the right time at a ‘fast walk.’ He’d been to a couple of bars that night, so his memory’s fuzzy. What he remembers are bad haircuts and cheap clothes like you see in China. He looked at mug shots, but the results were inconclusive.”
“Too bad. Did he think they were Triads?”
Hoshino pushed out her lips. “He doesn’t know what Chinese gangs look like. A lot of people don’t.”
I swallowed my disappointment. “Is that it?”
“No. The killers used a meat cleaver to hack off the arm. The impressions the labs took suggest a blade about eight inches long, four inches high, and weighing approximately two pounds. The kind of chopping implement found in a butcher’s shop or a Chinese restaurant. They’re running comparisons from Japanese, Chinese, and German cutlery manufacturers, and cross checking the chop marks against the home invasions.”
I tiptoed in with my next question. “Was . . . Yoji alive when . . . ?”
Despite her determination to present a professional front, Hoshino blanched. “The ME thinks Yoji was not only alive but conscious when they took the arm. Because of the way they cut it off.”
I hung my head, seeing red.
“The ME described the instrument as ‘unusually blunt,’ ” she added, with a shiver.
Meaning prolonged hacking and unimaginable pain.
* * *
It was several moments before either of us spoke.
Hoshino broke the silence first. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of Inspector Kato?”
Not the question I expected. I wondered if the brutality of the attack had shaken her. Or if the lack of progress had undermined her confidence in her boss.
“They don’t come much better. It’d be nice if that’s what you thought.”
“I do.”
“Why are you asking, then?”
She looked down and blushed, a modest gesture I took to immediately. “I know the office scuttlebutt, but I have my own impressions and I wanted confirmation from an outside source.”
“Stay with Kato as long as you can,” I said. “They’ll be moving you out eventually.”
She nodded to herself, then surprised me with her next comment. “If we are going to be working together, maybe you should call me Rie. I like the American custom of using first names.”
“I can do that.”
“But in front of others, it’s still Hoshino.”
“Of course.”
I knew Japanese businessmen who’d worked in the same office for decades, gone out drinking together more times than they could count, and still called each other by their surnames. So entrenched is the practice that when Japanese coworkers are asked a colleague’s first name, they are often unable to recall it.
“And yours?”
“Jim.”
Her eyes glistened. “That’s a nice name. It’s solid but has a soft beginning.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“But Brodie suits you better. It sounds stronger. Streamlined and bold.”
“I answer to both.”
“Would you mind one more question?”
“Shoot.”
“Has there been anyone else since your wife died?”
I paused. “I was expecting small-caliber but you’re firing mortars.”
She laughed. It was natural, infectious, and womanly rather than girlish. “You’re a grown man. You can handle it. Has there?”
I shrugged. “Casual dating. A couple that might have turned serious.”
“Japanese?”
I admired her tenacity. The lady wasn’t going for subtle. She was wondering if I was one of those men who fixates on Asian women.
“One American lawyer from Boston, one Japanese woman I met at Brodie Security.”
“What happened?”
“The lawyer was too focused on herself and wanted me to send my daughter away for schooling.”
While she took a moment to absorb this new information, our coffee arrived.
I drank my cappuccino, Rie sipped her Venetian. Her manner was ladylike, confident, and anything but cloyingly cute. There is something substantial here, I thought.
Eventually Rie said, “I’m sorry. Asking questions is part of my job. I guess it’s become a habit. So you don’t, um, prefer Japanese women?”
I smiled at her persistence, also part of her job. “I’m an equal opportunity dater. I like women who, if things work out, might be a good role model for my daughter, if I ever go that route again. And since we’re being so up front about these things, what kind of men do you date?”
“Well, first of all, I do not date anyone inside the department.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Unless you’re partial to career suicide.”
“Precisely.”
“How about men you’re on a first-name basis with?”
“Sometimes.”
The antique clock on the wall struck the half hour. It was later than I thought.
“This has been fun, but I’ve got to run.”
“I need to get to the office, too.”
“Before I go, can I ask if you passed on my message about the London dealer to Kato?”
“The one who might have stolen the Sengai? Yes. The inspector gave Jamie Kendricks’s name to the passport authorities.”
“Great. I’m out of time, but let’s do this again. Maybe over dinner next time. I’d ask you along today if you weren’t working.”
“It’s my day off.”
“But you just said—” I slapped myself in the forehead in a mock reprimand. “Look what country I’m in. Of course you’re working on your day off. But I was thinking more of—”
“A date?”
“Yes.”
“We’re in the middle of a big case. My biggest.”
“So learn to juggle.”
She shook her head. “Work comes first. Besides, I prefer one distraction at a time.”
“So I’m a distraction?”
“A potential distraction.”
That sounded promising.
CHAPTER 28
WOULD she or wouldn’t she?
Rie had left me dangling, saying she had urgent business back at the stationhouse but it should only take a few minutes. If nothing else required her attention, she’d meet us at the ticket window.
However, tide and impatient daughters wait for no one. As soon as my taxi pulled up to Mariko’s, Jenny rocketed out the front door, struggling under the weight of a large daypack.
“Guess what,” she said as she dove into the taxi and crawled over my
lap to the far window. “Obaa-san took me to the Ueno Zoo. I saw pandas from China and bitsy-witsy hippos from Africa!”
“You mean the pygmy hippos?”
“Yeah, those.”
“That’s great.”
Mariko, the “grandmother” in question, shuffled up to the door in a pale-green workaday kimono, one of many in her wardrobe.
I said, “Thanks for watching Jenny again. Any trouble?”
“Of course not,” she said in her accented English. “And no needing thank me. I watch her like I watch you when you even smaller.”
“Don’t remind me.”
She smiled. “I make you picnic lunches for the boat.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go, Daddy,” Jenny called, her head craning out the window.
Mariko glanced at her charge fondly. “She waiting on you long time. Play with your only daughter and make a great day for her.”
I said I would, waved, and we were off. I’d planned to take the train to economize, but I gave in to Jenny’s unvoiced eagerness to ride by cab. As we drove through the streets of Tokyo, she bobbed up and down at her window, offering a running commentary on the sights as they whizzed by, then popped her head in to ask about the soccer papers, forcing me to admit I hadn’t performed my paternal duty on that front.
“Daddy, do it soon, okay? School starts any day now.”
“I know, I know. Tonight.”
I hadn’t the heart to tell her she might not be going.
“And after soccer comes pooling. The doctor papers are for both.”
“Swimming,” I said.
Along with her best friend, Jenny had started lessons at the local public pool from the age of four, and the pair rose to the top of their class, winning a string of trophies over the next two years. I encouraged any new outside interest and thought soccer a great idea, except for my attendant duties. A new sport meant one less parental worry—among a seemingly bottomless basketful.
* * *
Rie watched our taxi roll to a stop and greeted us with a smile and some snacks. Trust a demon driver raised in Tokyo to beat us across town.
I’d planned a cruise down the Sumida River, Tokyo’s main waterway. As our ferry inched away from the dock and headed lazily toward Tokyo Bay, we had a clear view of the Asahi Brewery Headquarters and the Tokyo Skytree.