Pacific Burn

by Barry Lancet

  “I’ve seen the pictures,” Sean said. “It’s a soup bowl with squiggles. Dropping big coin on a bloody crock pot is pure stone mad.”

  I shrugged. “The market sets the price, not me.”

  “So you say. I’m a busy man, Brodie. I got big projects all over the Bay Area need attending. When you reschedule on me you cost me money. So if we stick around, I expect a concession on your end.”

  “Like I told Sarah, it was something I couldn’t sidestep.”

  There was an eight-year-old boy who sat out all night in the cold, keeping a deathwatch, I could have told him. And a police summons. But if I mentioned either item, Sean would feel cornered, and resent me even more.

  He frowned. “Twenty grand ought to do it for baked mud, don’t you think, with some wee change left over?”

  “I quoted Sarah a range, which is the closest I can get without a piece in hand. Call the auction houses if you need confirmation.”

  “You’re pretty damn sure of yourself.”

  “I’m sure of the art.”

  The ceramic ware added another dimension to the tea ceremony. Pieces made three or four centuries ago looked as fresh today as they did at conception.

  “You seriously telling me you can call a bowl smaller than a piss pot ‘art’?”

  “The best Oribe abstracts can hold their own with Klee, Kandinsky, Rothko, take your pick.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You playing hardball with me?”

  “If money’s a problem, let’s drop the lineage requirement.”

  “When you say lineage, you mean previous owners, right? Like if a house was owned by a movie star?”

  “Yes, a star in the tea world.”

  Suspicion touched his features. “Don’t they usually get the best pieces?”

  “Only if they have a good eye. And many of them didn’t. If we focus on quality over lineage, the price will come down. Sarah would be just as happy. Truth be told, a quality piece wins out every time. With or without a star lineage. As long as we can show provenance.”

  The light in Sean’s look changed. “You’re a talker, Brodie. Good Irish blarney. Let’s see if you can deliver. I’m not throwing money away on this unless it meets Sarah’s wishes and my needs. I’ve got bigger worries than a bowl of slung mud.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said, thinking of Shu.

  This time tomorrow, Ken Nobuki would be arriving from Japan to take care of his grandchild and mourn his son.

  Meanwhile, the Napa boys were hunting for a killer.

  ONE WEEK LATER

  FIRST SHOT

  CHAPTER 10

  SAN FRANCISCO CITY HALL, 5:15 P.M.

  AMID a rolling wave of camera flashes, Ken Nobuki, the mayor, and I posed and shook hands.

  Events today had unfolded with perfection—a one-on-one with Mayor Gary Hurwitz, a final run-through of the details for the Kyoto–San Francisco exhibition exchange, and a photo op for the press corps of both countries under the ornate rotunda of City Hall.

  Hurwitz envisioned a series of art exhibitions with Japan, Malaysia, Taiwan, Korea, and Australia. Our no-nonsense leader had even roped in China, who had initially balked because of Taiwan’s involvement until he told them to grow up. And, surprisingly, they did. With similar forthrightness, the mayor had convinced me to act as his emissary to Japan, a nod, he said, to my help with the city’s Japantown problem. In turn, I’d brought in Ken to handle the Japanese side.

  Initially, I’d been leery of mixing politics and art, but this afternoon the mayor’s crew had created magic, and it appeared we would all benefit greatly. My years of struggling to raise myself up in the art world might be over.

  Then the first shot blew it all apart.

  * * *

  Exiting City Hall, Ken and I had started down the granite steps toward a limousine waiting to whisk him away to his hotel.

  He never made it.

  We had no reason to suspect trouble, but after what had happened to Ken’s son in Napa the week before, I was on edge. So when the glint off the shooter’s scope revealed his position I didn’t hesitate.

  I shoved my artist friend sideways.

  Jostled without warning, Ken got tangled up in his own feet, which delayed the full lateral shift I’d intended. A bullet found him—and etched a line along his scalp, shearing off the top of the left ear in the process. A fine spray of blood misted the air.

  Ken hit the ground hard, and so did I.

  A second bullet kicked up stone dust three yards behind where the two of us had stood a second earlier, the speeding metal ricocheting off the granite walkway, then off the City Hall façade we had left behind only a moment ago.

  My friend lay bleeding on an unforgiving city street, and I hugged the pavement alongside him, wondering if a bullet would find me next.

  Ken’s eyes flickered and closed.

  The limo afforded some cover and was only a few yards away. Scrambling forward on my stomach, I dragged my stricken companion by the scruff of his shirt toward the safety of the gleaming black vehicle. From behind its front fender, the young driver watched me inch in his direction. His eyes radiated fear.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered, as if the gunman some three hundred yards away might overhear him.

  “Sniper on the roof of the Asian Art.”

  “Why’s he firing at us?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Once sheltered behind the limo, I peered back at City Hall. The sheriff’s deputies who manned the security checkpoint inside were scrambling. They ran for cover, shielding themselves behind the massive stone walls of the domed municipal monolith as they drew their pieces and took flash-peeks through the glass doors, scanning the area for the triggerman.

  “Top of the museum,” I shouted.

  One of them nodded and spoke into a radio.

  I stripped off my shirt.

  A third round took out the front tire on the driver’s side, and the car rocked. The shooter hoped to flush us out, but I had no plans to budge. However, before I could stop him, the chauffeur raised his head.

  “Get down,” I said. “Now! And change position!”

  The driver ducked and shifted about six inches before a fourth bullet clipped the fender, pierced his shoulder, and spun him around. This time the round drew pulverized bone with the spray of blood.

  I knotted my shirt around Ken’s head, then turned my attention to the driver. Behind closed eyes, my friend groaned.

  We’d had no time to run. And nowhere to run to. City Hall opened onto Polk Street and a spacious central plaza with a promenade and groomed gardens but no protection. No barriers. No obstructions. No place to seek refuge. The Asian Art Museum lay directly across the plaza, giving our attacker an unobstructed shot.

  Had the hired vehicle not been parked curbside, we’d be bleeding out on the pavement.

  I was sure of that and three other things:

  We were trapped.

  This was the second assault on Ken Nobuki’s family in as many weeks.

  And the father of three—two, after the attack in Napa—might not make it.

  CHAPTER 11

  HANG in there,” I said.

  The driver gritted his teeth. He’d regained focus once I’d wound my undershirt around his shoulder to stem the blood flow. I was now topless in San Francisco on a breezy December afternoon, fearing for my friend’s life and aware that four rounds from a sniper’s rifle had shattered months of planning. Had that been the shooter’s intention? Or was he operating under a different agenda?

  For a brief moment in time, all had been right with my world. As the point man for the first joint exhibitions in the mayor’s Pacific Rim Friendship Program, I was on the cusp of a breakthrough. Ken and I had lined up a pair of eye-opening shows. An assemblage of brilliant Oribe ceramics spanning the ages culled from Kyoto museums was set to open here, while a sister exhibition focusing on cutting-edge San Francisco painting over the last three decades would travel to the Japanese cult
ural hub.

  The international art swap would benefit both cities, both mayors, and both liaisons. It would burnish Ken’s international reputation and stood ready to catapult my career to the next level. A win-win on all sides.

  But those dreams had just imploded.

  I glanced at my motionless friend. He’d slipped down a black hole. I wasn’t sure if the wound or the spill had sent him under. What I did know was that—for the moment—he was still among the living.

  We were tucked behind the front tire of the limo. For the sniper to connect a third time, he would have to thread a round through both the engine block and the wheel assembly.

  Ken’s breathing was shallow, his chest movement minimal.

  “Stay with me, Nobuki-san,” I said.

  A nerve flickered on his right cheek, but his eyes did not open. Maybe he’d heard me; maybe he hadn’t.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes had passed since the first shot. We’d been saved by a glimmer of sunlight bouncing off the scope of the rifle, but since then the SFPD had left us stranded in the chilly afternoon sun.

  Where was the all-clear? Had the sheriff’s deputy in City Hall really heard me through the protective glass when I shouted out the shooter’s location? Was the gunman still drawing down on us?

  I called Renna on speed dial.

  He picked up swiftly and immediately moved to disconnect. “Brodie, can’t talk now. I’m rolling on a call.”

  “City Hall?”

  “Yeah, how’d you—? Shit. Tell me you’re not there.”

  “Wish I could.”

  I practically heard Renna’s mind clicking into gear. “The visiting VIP who’s down? Ken Nobuki?”

  “You’re two for two.”

  “Damn. What do you need?”

  “Tell me you guys know the triggerman’s on the roof of the Asian Art Museum.”

  “We know and we’re on it.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “There’s some sort of booby trap. A bomb or a very good facsimile of one.”

  “Clever.”

  “Good until the last shot. You’ll have to stay put until we can confirm he’s gone.”

  “I can do that, but Ken’s fading.”

  “Give me an update and I’ll pass it on to the medics. They’re right around the corner, out of the line of fire.”

  I fed him the conditions of both men, and on the other end I heard Renna scribbling.

  “You hit?” he asked as I wound up.

  “No.”

  “Okay. Then get to work on the question of the hour.”

  “Which is?”

  “Who might want to put a serious dent in the Nobuki family line?”

  CHAPTER 12

  ONCE the all-clear was raised, a pair of ambulances rolled up within seconds. I was now pacing the hall outside the hospital emergency room in dusty jeans and a teal-green scrubs top a harried intern had tossed in my direction.

  Renna came barreling through the hospital an hour later, his six-foot-four frame scattering people like a charging bull at Pamplona.

  He stared at my scrubs. “You changing careers or making a fashion statement?”

  “Career. Be safer.”

  “Wise move.”

  “Anything on the rooftop?” I asked.

  He shook his head, imaginary marbles tumbling from cheek to cheek in silent frustration. “Sniper did an Elvis long before the first man got there.”

  Left the building.

  “Find anything useful?”

  He lobbed a cynical grimace my way. “Forensics is poking around, but a sharpshooter smart enough to rig a fake bomb won’t be dumb enough to leave evidence. How are the patients?”

  “Driver’s wound is clean, and minor. He’s talking to your people now. Ken’s still out, with a neurosurgeon set to put in an appearance shortly.”

  “Neurosurgeon? That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Disaster is what it is.”

  “But why the Nobukis?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I found myself saying for the second time today.

  The Pacific Rim Friendship Program had been shaping up to be favorable to all involved—cities, artists, the mayor, and me. Being low man on the totem pole, I had the most to gain.

  Turned out I also had the most to lose.

  * * *

  Mayor Hurwitz arrived ten minutes later with a pulsing retinue of city officials and press hounds. I recognized a few television reporters, as well as the new deputy mayor and Hurwitz’s one-woman brain trust, Gail Wong, strategist and attack shark par excellence.

  Hurwitz came straight at me, his face crumpled in apology. “Brodie, I don’t know what to say. Shot leaving City Hall? I’m stunned. I’ve asked the police chief to put you on as a consultant.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. I’d be working this one anyway.”

  “I know you would. But now you’re official.”

  He also informed me that the SFPD and all other city resources were at my disposal. If Lieutenant Renna couldn’t set it up, I was to call Gail. Further, the city would cover all medical expenses for both victims. And so, did I know who had done this and why?

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  “Of course you will,” he said, nodding to himself. “You won’t disappoint me.”

  I nodded, my lips compressing of their own accord. I had a lot of skin in the game already. I didn’t need political pressure applied with a personal touch.

  Behind us, a door swung open and a pair of nurses turned to stare at a doctor in surgical scrubs. He made a beeline for us with his hand outstretched. His fingers were long and slim and well turned. The man himself was tall and slim and well groomed.

  “Dr. Lance Samuels, Mr. Mayor,” he said. “How can I help?”

  “How’s our patient, Doctor?”

  “Receiving the best care possible, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Glad to hear it. What can you tell us?”

  “The patient is hanging on. The bullet gouged a trough along the left side of the cranium. I can see brain tissue in the wound. We’re dealing with a very serious brain injury. I’m taking him to surgery right now. I’ve got to go scrub, but I wanted to pass on the basics.”

  The mayor said, “He’ll live?”

  The doctor searched the ceiling before meeting Hurwitz’s intense gaze. “The immediate problem is the scope of the brain injury. Normally, I would explain the risks and complications, but there isn’t time for that now. I will do what I have to do depending on what we find.”

  “You’ll keep my office informed?”

  “I’ll call personally.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Watching the physician retreat, the mayor’s face tightened. “This does not happen in my city without a response.” His stern countenance swung our way, taking in Renna’s bulk and my pained expression. “I’m counting on you two.”

  Hurwitz’s exit was as sudden as his arrival. Support staff wedged an opening through the crowd of reporters, who trailed after our fearless city leader with an onslaught of questions.

  “Well, look at that,” Renna said. “A useful pol. Drew off the newshounds.”

  My phone rang, the touch screen indicating an undisclosed number from Japan. I hit the connect icon and said hello.

  “I just heard,” Rie Hoshino said in Japanese. Outside of thank you, she spoke not a word of English. “Are you all right?”

  Officer Rie Hoshino and I had met when a client for Brodie Security—the detective firm founded by my father in the Japanese capital, and now run partially by me since his death—saw his old World War II buddies dropping of blatantly unnatural causes in a series of home invasions three months ago in Tokyo. She was one of three reasons I had tickets back to Tokyo in a couple of days’ time.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “How could you already know?”

  “I carry a badge for the Tokyo police, remember?” She cleared her throat. “Besides, my phone is ringing off the hook.”
/>   “So much for secrets.”

  “That secret is still safe,” she said, referring to our nascent relationship. “Everyone knows we both worked the home invasion case. They think I have an inside track with you.”

  And she did—more than anyone could or should know. For personal and professional reasons, we both preferred that our budding liaison remain discreet.

  “Is Ken Nobuki okay?” Rie asked.

  “Hard to tell yet.”

  “Who did this?”

  “Hard to tell yet.”

  She drank in the broader implications. “You’re in the middle of a big international incident that’s only going to get bigger—at least as far as Japan and the United States are concerned. I’ll understand if you need to put our next date on hold.”

  “Not going to happen,” I said.

  From a huddle across the room with one of his detectives, Renna darted a look in my direction.

  “I’ll find the time. Even if it kills me.”

  Hesitation arrived from the far side of the Pacific. “There are some things you mustn’t joke about, Brodie.”

  Renna’s look grew insistent.

  “I’ve got to go, but you’ll hear from me soon.”

  “I would like that. Remember, you have an out if you want it. But if you find the time, I have a surprise.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Fugu,” she said. “My treat.”

  Blowfish, a Japanese delicacy, and poisonous if prepared incorrectly.

  “You do know there are two ways I could take that, right?”

  She laughed. “Of course. You’ll have to show up to find out my intentions.”

  “Count on it. Really have to go, sorry.”

  We disconnected and I approached Renna, who said, “Sheriff Nash out of Napa just rang my office. He’s recirculating the police sketch along with an updated APB.”