by Barry Lancet
Where Juniper sluiced into Nineteenth Avenue, the driver caught my eye in his rearview mirror, then changed lanes and downshifted until he was tooling alongside me.
I eyed him uneasily. The move was slick. I didn’t know if he was an enthusiast or something more. What I did know was that he had boxed me in. Up ahead there was a gap in the oncoming traffic. If things took a bad turn, I could fishtail across the double yellow for a quick U-turn.
Mustang shouted across the lane. “You got yourself a beauty there. What year is she?”
He was Caucasian, with a red beard, a ruddy face, and a brown beret. There had never been any indication to suggest Soga used non-villagers, or non-Japanese for that matter. But nothing we knew eliminated the possibility either. Mustang steered with both hands. If one of them slipped out of sight, I’d make my move.
“ ’Seventy-seven,” I said.
“Good year. This baby’s a ’seventy-three.”
“Better.”
He gave me a two-finger salute, then shifted gears and the Mustang hurtled around a corner in a show of expert handling.
False alarm. I reeled in my paranoia, feeling the tension in my shoulders lessen. George and Noda had taken earlier flights but, with detours, landed after me. We’d set things up with our affiliates so both of them would hit the ground running.
I drove north for two more blocks, then turned left onto Sloat. A few blocks past Pine Lake Park, I swung right on Sunset.
Almost there.
In seconds Jenny would be in my arms, and the worry of my days in Japan would be eased, at least temporarily. Yes, Soga remained a threat, but bringing my daughter home meant more than anything to me at the moment. I wanted to see those trusting brown eyes and her gap-toothed smile. As soon as we settled in, I’d work out a new plan for her safety. Our safety.
Renna had given me the address of the safe house, since the FBI was letting it go next month when the lease expired. I turned onto the street and a feather of fear dusted the back of my neck. About where I figured the house should be, three squad cars were parked at odd angles in the street, as if the drivers had abandoned them in haste. I approached and saw Miriam Renna standing on the front lawn, arms wrapped tightly around her chest.
No!
At the far end of the street, an ambulance rounded the corner and rolled to a silent stop, its sirens disengaged, the urgency passed.
No!
Images of a bloodbath at the safe house rose in my mind. Jenny, blue-lipped and lifeless, Christine and Joey’s stiff little bodies beside her. Miriam must have come to pick up her kids, who were shuffled out here by one of Renna’s team every other day.
I was overreacting. Everything would be fine. It had to be. We’d moved Jenny out of harm’s way. Stashed her at an undisclosed FBI hideaway. Security was top-flight. Three of Renna’s best people watched over her. Soga wouldn’t dare move against a whole police unit. Or would they?
I leapt from the Cutlass before it stopped rocking. While a policewoman questioned Miriam, a pair of patrol boys handled crowd control at the periphery.
“Miriam!” I yelled, dashing past a growing group of spectators and one of the attendant cops.
“Sir!” the patrolman yelled in my wake.
“Miriam!”
Renna’s wife was a brunette with green eyes and a weathered but creamy Montana complexion. As her disturbed eyes swiveled in my direction, two cops stepped instantly between us to shield her, hands hovering over their gun grips. Miriam leaned left, around her protectors, and our eyes met. Her mouth formed a big O of surprise. Shock and dismay distorted her features.
Behind me, a cop commanded me to halt. In front of me, the two others drew their weapons.
Miriam called, “It’s all right. I know him. He’s the father.”
He’s the father. . . . Nooooooooooo. . . .
I grabbed Miriam by the shoulders. “Not Jenny,” I said. “Tell me they didn’t get Jenny.”
She grew limp in my grasp. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The look in her usually confident eyes grew apologetic, despairing, defeated—and a dark hole opened in my chest.
CHAPTER 56
IT was all my fault. At knifepoint, Homeboy had warned me away. In the village, Soga had attacked without reservation. In Tokyo, the powerbroker had cautioned me about Soga’s vindictiveness. So what do I do? I charge ahead, asking only for the extra protection. From city cops. Against Soga.
My stomach wrapped itself in knots while elsewhere inside an untenable rage unfurled itself.
“Jim,” I heard Miriam say. “I’m so sorry.”
First Mieko, now Jenny. Only now did I fully comprehend the monster that was Soga. For the last seven days I’d been so intent on tracking down Mieko’s killers, I’d let Soga waltz in and kill the only other living member of my family. What have I done?
Miriam hovered near me. “One minute we were in the garage, the next she was gone.”
My head snapped up and I searched the solemn green orbs before me. “Gone? Did you say gone?”
“Yes. Someone grabbed her. I don’t know who.”
“She’s not dead?”
“No, kidnapped.”
“And Christine and Joey?”
“Drugged but alive.”
I stopped listening. My mind kicked into overdrive. Jenny was alive. Renna’s kids were safe. There was still a chance.
I drew myself up. My stomach unclenched. “But the ambulance . . . ?”
“For the maid,” Miriam said. “She didn’t make it.”
Lucy Cooper, the undercover cop, had taken the brunt of the attack.
The policewoman who had been questioning Miriam stepped between us. She wore a black name tag with SPILSBURY etched in white. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step away.”
“What about the extra backup?” I asked.
“Sir—”
“It’s okay, officer,” Miriam said. “He’s the father. He’s just flown in from Tokyo.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am, but we need to talk to you while this thing’s still fresh, then we’ll get to him. We could finish inside, if you’d rather.”
Miriam hugged herself again. “No, outside, where I can see. In case Jenny comes back.”
“Fine, but we do need to finish up quickly, ma’am. Sir, if you could move back.”
“Answer my question,” I said. “Where were the others?”
Spilsbury squinted at me with eyes as hard as any cop’s I’d ever run across. “Sir, if I answer your question, will you step back and let me do my job?”
“Yes.”
“Called away on a burglary-in-progress six blocks over.”
Anger buzzed in my ears. “A diversion. Couldn’t anyone figure that out?”
“Yes, sir,” Spilsbury said in a tight, endlessly patient voice. “We’re clear on that now. If you would—”
“Where’s Renna? Why isn’t he here?”
“En route as we speak.”
“Good. But I want in. It’s my daughter.”
“Sir, that may well be, but you’re not a witness. You can’t help us with this unless you have any information pertinent to the kidnapping. Do you?”
“No, but—”
“Then I need you to join the onlookers and let us get on with interviewing the one witness we have.”
I closed my eyes, thinking there ought to be something more I could do, but Spilsbury was right. For the present, I was a liability. Not that I believed the SFPD could accomplish much, either. We were dealing with Soga. They had swept in and plucked Jenny from an FBI safe house, of all things. My daughter was long gone—drugged and tucked away in a van, truck, or private jet and on her way to a destination of their choice. The steam went out of me. I stepped back to within two yards of the swelling crowd, now topping forty.
Spilsbury turned to Miriam, an unmistakable urgency in her tone. “Okay. Mrs. Renna, we need that description now, please.”
Miriam wiped away tears. “I told you. I
didn’t see them. They just grabbed me.”
“They? There was more than one?”
“I think so. It felt like more.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“No.”
A new fear brewed in the pit of my stomach. How long would Jenny be safe? How long would they hold her unharmed? In most juvenile kidnappings, the victim was killed. Left alive, a child became an unbeatable witness. Any jury would convict hands down, if a minor pointed the finger.
Spilsbury asked, “Did you see anything at all?”
“No. They pushed me into the open trunk and shut it.”
“You were in the garage?”
“That’s right. I pulled in and shut the door as instructed. This is taking a lot of time. Can’t you call someone? I gave you her picture.”
“A BOLO’s out, but we need more detail. Did they say anything to you?”
“No. They shoved me down and slammed the trunk lid. Jenny said, ‘Mrs. Renna?’ once. That’s all I heard.”
I realized Miriam’s life had been spared only because the trunk had provided a convenient place for her confinement. Without it, there might have been two bodies. Renna and I had agreed the kids should come out to keep Jenny company, escorted by trained detectives who knew how to take the proper precautions. Now I saw we’d been mad to put his family at risk.
Spilsbury paused to digest the last statement. She too recognized how close Renna’s wife had come, but a cop’s deadpan cloaked her reaction. “Did you hear them talking to each other? Whispering? An accent?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Muffled commands or scuffling? Sounds of a struggle?”
“No.”
The kidnappers were quick, confident, professional.
“How about the hand that pushed you, Mrs. Renna? Did you see that? Can you recall skin color? A ring?”
“No.”
“Footsteps? Heavy, light, hurried?”
“No. I felt someone behind me. But before I could turn around, I was locked in the car.”
“How did they shove you in?”
“What do you mean?”
“They couldn’t get you into the trunk of your car without a struggle. It’s not that big.”
“The trunk was open. I leaned over to pull out a box. A hand pushed my head down to the bottom of the trunk and held it there. I could smell the rubber from the spare tire. It’s new.”
“So you were bent over?”
“Yes. I tried to fight the hand, but it was too strong. Then someone lifted my legs.”
“Was your head pinned the whole time?”
“Yes.”
Soga had sent a team.
“So there were at least two of them.”
“I guess so. Yes. There must have been.”
Spilsbury was sharp. She’d just mined gold from thin air. I felt more comfortable stepping aside and letting her work.
“Now, the hand on your head, how did it feel?”
“Feel?”
“Yes. Was it a large hand?”
“Largeish, yes. But more than large, it was strong. Powerful.”
“Bigger than your hand, would you say?”
“Much. But mine is so small—”
“Bigger than mine?”
“Yes.”
“A man’s hand?”
“I don’t know.”
“But if you had to guess?”
“Then I would say a man’s.”
“Did you feel anything? A ring? A watchband? A bracelet?”
“No.”
“What about the hands that lifted your legs? Were they big?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Could they have been?”
“I don’t think so. The fingers felt slimmer. The ones pinning my head were large and fat. Well, not fat—beefy, strong.”
The policewoman scribbled in her notepad. “Did you smell anything? Perfume? Cologne? A body odor?”
Miriam brightened. “There was a perfume. When I was lifted into the car.”
“Cologne or perfume, ma’am?”
“Perfume. I don’t know what brand, but it was definitely perfume.”
Bingo. A man and a woman.
“Did Jenny say anything else after she called out?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Three people. Two people to manhandle Miriam into the trunk while a third muzzled Jenny.
Spilsbury nodded at her partner and he stepped over to the radio car to broadcast the new information.
Spilsbury snapped her notepad closed. “That’s a great help, Mrs. Renna. We’ll put out an APB with the little girl’s description, alone or in the company of an adult couple. Possibly three adults, with at least one female. It’s a start.”
At least one female. It made perfect sense. Two men accompanying a small girl might draw curious looks, but a couple with a child in tow wouldn’t rate even a cursory glance.
“Thank you,” Miriam said. “When will I hear from you?”
“We’ll contact you as soon as we have any news. After you rest, I’d like you to come to the station so we can go over this again. You might remember something else.”
“Certainly.”
Someone moved into the field of my peripheral vision and approached at a casual pace from the back of the crowd. In two steps, he slid in behind me and pressed a ring of steel into the small of my back. The gun would be in a jacket pocket, his body angled toward the crowd to shield his action.
“Stay cool, my friend,” the stranger said. His voice sounded vaguely familiar. The bristles of a beard brushed my shoulder. Mustang.
Without turning, I said, “Where is she?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Then why am I talking to you?”
“Damn good question. They don’t usually hire me to talk.” The gun dug into my back. “You understand me?”
“Fully.”
“This time it’s a message, boyo. They know some of your Tokyo lads have done a skip-to and they don’t like it. You hearing me?” He worked the edge of the barrel into my spine until it pinched a nerve.
I arched my back. “Yes.”
George and Noda had boarded separate flights to Hong Kong and Singapore, respectively. They had arrived at their Asian stopovers under their own names, then changed planes and passports and slipped into Los Angeles and New York under the cover of false identities to set our coastal affiliates in discreet motion. All local communications were being handled in person. No emails, no computers, no telephones. Nothing digital Soga’s hacker could intercept. Our affiliates would, in turn, scrutinize the personnel of Gilbert Tweed Associates, looking to match any Japanese or Japanese Americans to a profile built from our trip to Soga-jujo. We were grasping at straws—and we considered ourselves lucky to have them. Toru had put us on our guard. Chances were good, he assured us, that Gilbert Tweed’s computer whiz had set up a tracking program to alert him to any sudden movement on our part. Looked like Toru was right.
“Whatever you’re planning, you are to cease and desist. Take a good gander at the maid. That will be your daughter, you try anything foolish.”
As if on cue, two paramedics rolled a stretcher out the front door with a body strapped down under a beige canvas sheet. Murmurs rose around us. Miriam put her hand to her mouth.
“The woman cop’s a message,” Mustang said.
At the sight of Lucy Cooper’s body, my simmering anger flared. It was a drastic move, killing a female police officer. And a game crusher. We’d hit them hard in Japan, now they’d struck back. And if they were keeping score, more bodies would follow.
“What do they want?” I asked.
“For now, you sit on your ass. They’ll be in touch.”
“Not sure I can do that.”
“You don’t, your daughter dies. Your choice, boyo.”
He backed away through the crowd. I waited a beat, then glanced over my shoulder. Standing at t
he back to the crowd, Mustang gave me his two-finger salute and sauntered away.
They’ll be in touch.
CHAPTER 57
HEFTING a mug of steaming stationhouse coffee, I sat with Renna in his office. It was late. Ten at night in San Francisco, one in the morning in New York. I’d filled him in on everything since we last talked. Now we were waiting for a call. A vital call. The office door was closed. Neither of us spoke.
The phone rang. Renna snatched up the receiver and said “Yeah,” listened, and shoved the handset at me. “Gotta be for you. There’s a gremlin on the other end I can’t understand.”
“That you, Noda?” I said in English for Renna’s benefit.
He grunted.
I nodded to Renna and switched to Japanese. “Any progress?”
“Maybe. Need one more day.”
“Well, make it quick.”
“Why?”
“They took Jenny.”
Saying it out loud brought home the kidnapping with a new intensity. Until this moment a small part of me still held out the hope that Jenny might walk through my front door later tonight or tomorrow, but that wasn’t going to happen. Jenny wasn’t coming home today or tomorrow or any other day unless we were extremely careful, extremely lucky, or both. The realization tied me up in ways I’d never felt. My chest seemed to implode and breathing became painful.
Noda said, “When?”
The answer caught in my throat.
“Brodie? When?”
Noda’s gruff practicality jarred loose an answer. “This . . . afternoon. Timed for my arrival.”
A snarling sound erupted from the other end of the line. “They been in touch?”
“A personal warning. They know you and George skipped town but don’t know where you went. That set them off.”
“Just need another day.”
“Fine, but stay out of sight. Make sure George does the same. They see either of you, Jenny could pay for it.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Noda?”
“Yeah?”
“In the forest, you told me they didn’t take hostages.”