by Barry Lancet
“Approaching a half million dollars, give or take, but a lot less six or seven years ago.”
Lee Ufan is an acquired taste, so most people wouldn’t know what the painting was worth. I did.
Noda grunted. “Retirement fund.”
“Maybe she likes art.”
Noda looked around the room. “Only piece of art I can see. Retirement.”
He was probably right. Who knew how much money her lover had left her? They would have talked about it. Maybe there was another insurance policy tucked away in a safe deposit box, but I doubted it. By definition, her position must still be tenuous. It would have been buttressed over time. But time had run out.
“How’s she going to live now?” I asked.
“Find another sponsor.”
Saito returned carrying a black lacquer tray with two traditional tea bowls and palm-size bamboo plates, silently setting the black tray on her black table. In the bowls was a frothy matcha tea. On the plates, wagashi—the traditional Japanese confection, often sculpted—were cradled on a folded piece of handmade Japanese paper.
“So how do you know my Yoji?”
My Yoji. Present tense. It was the second time she’d used the phrase and, as with the first mention, her face softened as the words passed her lips. But there was a heaviness behind them.
“Through his father originally.”
She inclined her head with a measured grace. “I’m so glad we have a chance to meet then.” She nodded toward the pair of tea bowls. “This is a tradition of ours started three years ago, in our seventh year together. We bring out these bowls for honored guests. He would be pleased I’m still entertaining with them.”
Her upper lip quivered.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s all right. I must get used to his not being around.”
She knelt on the plush white carpet, bowed, set a bamboo plate with a tea confection before each of us, placed the tea bowls alongside the plate, and bowed again, this time repeating the standard phrase for us to partake of her tea.
I took the sweet into my mouth and let it melt on the tip of my tongue. Lifting the bowl, I placed it in my palm, rotated it in two small turns so the back faced me, then took a sip. Noda did the same. I took a second sip, then a louder final taste, and set the bowl down, rotating it back to its original position and bowing as tradition required.
Saito returned my bow then Noda’s as he finished.
“A unique bowl,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”
The tea vessel in question was bathed in a burnt-yellow glaze, with four colored stripes of red, blue, white, and black running around the outside. Inside the same yellow ran down to a startling circle of red glaze in the bottom that had revealed itself as the thick green tea disappeared.
The red disk was unexpected, and maybe that was the point. But the piece was garish rather than subtle. The color scheme did not mesh with Japanese tastes or, for that matter, with any of the sensibilities in Saito’s apartment.
“They are hardly my style,” she said, responding to my quick glance around the room, “but it would have hurt Yoji’s feelings to mention it. I treasure them as another of his gifts.”
“Along with the painting?” Noda asked.
Her smile cooled. “Yes, my Yoji was kind enough to buy that for me on our second anniversary. I’ve always been a fan of the artist.”
Their second anniversary would have come around eight years ago, about the same time Yoji took a second mortgage on his house. Love on the installment plan. At a time when it had become clear the relationship was working.
“Lee Ufan does have his moments,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, flushing with pleasure. “My Yoji was very kind. He could relax here, you know. He and his friends.”
There was a woman’s possessive pride in her voice, even as she subtly shifted the conversation.
“Did they come here often?” I asked.
“We had a regular gathering. It was always so much fun.”
“Oh? Who was that? Maybe we know them.”
“Oh, I’m not very good with names.”
I felt Noda’s body stiffen at her first lie. There was no outward sign of movement or of a change of expression, but as we were sitting side by side on the couch, a vibration passed through the upholstery.
We exchanged pleasantries for a few more minutes, tossing out a couple more delicately phrased probes, but she ably avoided them with the smooth grace of the perfect hostess. We weren’t going to get any more today, and maybe not during a subsequent visit.
Back on the street, Noda asked, “Any value in those bowls?”
I shook my head. “Not unless they have a pedigree. They did have some age on them, though. Did we learn anything from the visit?”
“Two things. She adored him.”
“Okay. And?”
“You said the current wife was his second?”
“That’s right.”
“Yoji was grooming her for more than a plaything. Looks like he wanted to make her number three.”
CHAPTER 55
IT might be nothing.
Because one in five Japanese households have tea bowls.
And yet I couldn’t get the pieces out of my head.
I needed to follow up, even though the inside of my skull pounded from a late-night fatigue. I splashed water on my face, doused some ice with a fifteen-year-old Suntory whiskey, then collapsed on the couch and made the call.
Graham picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Brodie. Nothing new to report on this end. Appallingly, the Sengai painting has disappeared down a black hole.”
A second sip of the Suntory snaked down my system. “Probably have better luck if we posted it on a milk carton. For what it’s worth, I have feelers out on this end.”
“It could travel. It’s happened before. What can I help you with? I have a client popping around at the top of the hour, so I need to get away in the next few minutes.”
Someone was shopping Pu Yi’s treasure, using the lesser pieces of his stash as calling cards.
“Won’t take long. It’s a shot at the moon, but you’re the China expert. I saw a curious pair of tea bowls in a woman’s home tonight. They wouldn’t fetch much from serious collectors, but the lady did have a pricey oil painting on her wall. It got me thinking.”
I described the earthy yellow bowls with their four bright stripes and the curious red blotch inside. They were in the form of a Japanese tea bowl, but they were off somehow.
“Were the stripes near the top? Each about a centimeter wide?”
“That’s the one.”
“Blimey,” Graham said. “First harpoon in the whale, mate. Those are the colors of the Manchurian flag. Yellow ground with the four stripes. You saw one of the Pu Yi tea bowls. One of the calling cards the treasure hunters were on about.”
“They were ugly.”
Graham laughed. “They were a knife to the heart. Remember what I said about the Japanese military taking pleasure in keeping the Last Emperor in his place? They made sure the bowls were brought out at state functions.”
My God. The bowls’ meaning hit me. When served with tea—as they would be at, say, a Manchurian dinner party—they proudly displayed the Manchurian flag. However, as the tea level dropped, the symbol of the Japanese flag—the red globe of the rising sun—emerged. No guest could fail to miss the significance: Japan was the power behind the throne.
Graham interrupted my thoughts. “Where exactly did you see the bowls?”
“The Sengai was at the wife’s house. The bowls at the girlfriend’s.”
“The connection being some philandering husband, I presume. Talk to him, Brodie. Quickly. He’s the one who can tell you if the treasure is a hoax or real.”
I closed my eyes. “He’s dead, Graham. Murdered a week ago.”
“You neglected to mention that the first time around.”
“I was being discreet.”
“Then by all means possible continue to be so. When someone in our profession ends up in the morgue it’s always about a tug-a-war over a whale. In more than two decades in the business, I’ve had occasion to say this only once before. Watch your back.”
“What happened to the other guy?”
“He didn’t make it.”
DAY 9
TWICE AS HARD
CHAPTER 56
HOW did Yoji wind up with two of the Last Emperor’s tea bowls? I fell asleep juggling this and other questions, picking up the next morning where I’d left off.
Yoji had gifted his mistress with the bowls without—apparently—mentioning their lineage. Having snagged the Sengai in China, he most likely scooped up the bowls at the same time or on a follow-up trip.
But what did it all mean?
I knew Yoji’s work took him to China. Had he stumbled onto Pu Yi’s lost hoard? Was he killed for it? Or did an inflamed lover of Mrs. Miura’s murder him to eliminate the competition, unaware that Yoji was in the middle of negotiating for relics of untold value? Or maybe the wife’s white knight had his eye on the loot as well as the lady. I’m thinking we should comfort a grieving widow. If her love interest were a member of her husband’s kendo club, that would go a long way toward explaining the attacks in the locker room.
Before I could explore these conjectures further, Takahashi from Kyoto called and sounded the alarm. Breathlessness edged my dealer friend’s voice. “Brodie, your Sengai has surfaced.”
“You’re joking?”
“Wish I were. Right under your nose. At Chinzanso. Three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Today?”
“Yes. In a private conference room. Attendance is being offered through prudent channels. I have a contact number that will get you in. Well, not you, for obvious reasons, but whomever you choose. Do what you can. This sort of thing gives our profession a bad name.”
Chinzanso is a luxury dining, banquet, and hotel facility in Mejiro, an exclusive pocket in northwest central Tokyo. Lavish surroundings would draw the big fish.
“Be happy to.”
“You will find yourself in the company of the . . . slimier sort from our ranks. Some of them have fangs.”
“Earlier you mentioned my growing profile. Are any of the people involved likely to recognize me?”
“No. Different circles. But be careful.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“Hardly ever, my friend.”
CHAPTER 57
FROM Shibuya I caught the Yamanote line north to Shinjuku, transferred to the Chuo train, and rode it four stops to Koenji, Akira Miura’s neighborhood. My shadow sat three seats away.
Since the ferry incident, I was rarely alone.
I chose to arrive unannounced, hoping my unexpected appearance might jar something loose from Miura that hadn’t occurred to him previously. At the very least, I wanted to avoid prepared answers. I kept the Brodie Security team in the dark as well. They should be prepared by definition.
My knock was answered with caution, the guard alert, his partner a pace back and to the right, a piece held alongside his leg. Neither showed any surprise.
“Saw your approach,” he said, making eye contact then scanning the area to the left and right behind me. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door only enough to allow me to pass. In a lower voice, he added, “I have what you requested yesterday.”
“Good. Later.”
He nodded then stepped aside. “They’re in the den.”
“Everything under control?”
“All but the wife. She spends most of her time in bed. Not uncommon unless it continues for much longer.”
“If you think professional help might be the way to go, talk to Officer Hoshino out of Shibuya. Under Kato. She may be able to set something up, or arrange a referral.”
I traversed the short entry hall and found Miura and his old army buddy Inoki engrossed in a game of shogi, Japanese chess.
They looked up when I entered and Miura asked, “Have you found something?”
“Yes.”
I took a seat on the adjoining couch and filled them in on the Last Emperor’s treasure and the art in Yoji’s possession. I left his mistress out of my narrative. As I spoke, I watched Miura for telltale signs but he gave no indication of prior knowledge.
“Does any of this ring a bell?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I wish it did. Yoji never mentioned it to me. Looting was common during the war. By Japanese soldiers and all of the Chinese factions—Communists, Nationalists, local warlords, and even highwaymen. But imperial matters fell to the barons and dukes from the old samurai families in the top military spots, and of course Japanese princes from the imperial family. They rubbed shoulders with Pu Yi and his crowd. Not us.”
“Inoki-san?”
His look was forlorn. “I was a sergeant. A glorified foot soldier.”
“So neither of you has any idea how Yoji could have stumbled on the treasure? If he stumbled on it.”
Miura slumped in his seat, puzzled. “Yoji never asked me about China, except once for a high school essay.”
So much for the surprise approach.
I said thanks and left. The Brodie Security op joined me outside on the curb. I looked back at the house. No one was watching.
He handed me an envelope. “What do you want them for?”
“To stir the pot,” I said.
CHAPTER 58
HOTEL Chinzanso Tokyo was the perfect setting for a Sengai to make an appearance.
Located in an enclave of the privileged, the Chinzanso complex sits on the edge of a highland plateau southeast of Mejiro Station, an area daimyo warlords and aristocrats once called home.
The district is also the site of Gakushuin University, where many members of the imperial family have been educated, including the current emperor of Japan, Akihito, and his father, Hirohito, known posthumously as Emperor Showa, who reigned during the havoc of World War II.
A later addition to the complex, the hotel started life as a Tokyo branch of the Four Seasons. Now run exclusively by Chinzanso, it is no less elegant. Afternoon tea is served daily in the lobby, and nearby display cases offer such ornate accoutrements as blended two-hundred-year-old Hennessy cognac in Baccarat crystal.
Whatever the nimble-fingered Jamie Kendricks might or might not know about Japanese art, the London dealer had been shrewd in selecting his Japanese partner. The lure of the hotel’s premium comforts would draw wealthy collectors who expected no less.
Yet another sign that the slimeball was no fool.
* * *
I met Inspector Kato in the lobby.
“So you own a suit,” he said.
“One here, one in San Francisco.”
In Japan suits were still the visual currency of nearly every meeting in the land. Since I was lying low, I had someone from the office bring my outfit to Mejiro Station. I ducked into the closest coffee shop, ordered a drink, changed in the restroom, then grabbed a taxi for the short ride to Chinzanso, managing only a single sip of the alluring Sumatra blend before rushing out the door. I’d said good-bye to my tail as soon as I spotted the inspector.
“The one back home spends most of the time in mothballs,” I added. “Do I look like a translator?”
That was the plan. Kato was a Zen monk with good cash flow who wanted quality art for his temple. A not-uncommon scenario in Japan. I was his lowly English-language conduit. For the ruse, the good inspector had shaved his head and donned his old monk’s robes.
Kato considered my question. “A little more thuggish than I would like. The tie makes up for it though. Slim, tasteful, and a hint old-fashioned.”
“Vintage is the word you want. You’re a closet fashionista.”
“Try observant cop.”
“Any sign of Kendricks?”
Kato shook his head. “Nothing from passport contro
l. If he’s in Japan, he came with false ID or through a back door.”
Two men with oiled hair and expensive suits walked by in the company of an obvious dealer type who had more oil in his hair than the other two combined. He hovered at their side.
Kato said, “I’m spread a bit thin. I brought three people with me. Everyone else is tied up with the ongoing home invasion investigation.”
“Hoshino?”
“She’s here. Out of uniform, like the others.”
“Good. Did you see the car at the back of the lot?”
Kato nodded. “Yakuza. Most likely connected to the dealer Kendricks is working with. Watching their investment. But they won’t get close. They’d spook the guests. We’ve got photos. Someone back at Shibuya HQ is working on a gang name.”
“Good.”
“You ready?”
“Let’s do it,” I said.
CHAPTER 59
THE bidding starts in five minutes, gentlemen.”
For the auction, a spacious conference room had been reserved. At the front stood a podium for the auctioneer. Eight rows of ten chairs had been set out, but standing room at the sides and back was abundant. Slender women in long black gowns circulated among the fifty or so invitees with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Some guests sat. Most stood. Drink in hand. Dealers were attached to many of them. There was one other temple monk in residence. Which made sense, considering the artist and his theme.
The Sengai rested on a display easel next to the podium. Most of the clients had already viewed it. Kato and I stood in a short line and filed by. No one recognized me, or gave either of us a second glance.
Not surprisingly, the work looked even better than it had in the emailed snapshot. The painting depicted a chubby Zen monk, maybe even Sengai himself, skipping through a graveyard, doing a jig, a bottle of saké in one hand, while three roughly sketched tombstones seemed to sway in the background. It was a joyful, smiling, silly frolic. Uninhibited and not afraid to look foolish. On the side was an inscription that read