by Barry Lancet
Narrowed suggests we’d blocked out a manageable range. In fact, the potential scope of the investigation threatened to cross so many borders, Renna had grown alarmed.
“Would I be in the right ballpark,” he had said, “if I assumed that whatever crawled out of the woodwork could be confined to Japan?”
“Can you rule out enemies of the mayor’s? Personal or professional?”
The homicide lieutenant’s concession was reluctant. “Not yet. So two ballparks. I can cover the Bay Area. Can you handle the overseas contenders?”
“I can handle Japan, with Brodie Security. Our Asian affiliates will take the rest.”
“Send the bill to the mayor. How wide a net?”
“It’s too early to rule any parties out, so I’ll start with the five other countries in the Pacific Rim program.”
Renna winced. “Start?”
“We’ll need a roving investigator or two to sniff around for a disgruntled sleeper elsewhere in the Pacific Rim. Say, for anyone who might have been offended by being left out of the mayor’s program.”
“Christ, forget ballparks. We’re talking a whole league. Maybe a couple of them.”
Now, seated behind my desk at Brodie Security, I said to Noda, “Where are you with the rest of Asia?”
“Affiliates in each country are moving.”
“You find a rover?”
He nodded. “Severson out of Singapore, and his group. He can handle five languages. Kao ga hiroi.”
The phrase literally translated as “His face is wide.” Noda was implying that Severson’s group had an abundance of connections.
“Good,” I said. “We’re going to need every last one of them.”
* * *
Mari knocked, entered, and set down green tea, which I accepted gratefully. The cup of coffee I’d guzzled to combat TNT’s early morning booze after I returned to Brodie Security had been an inadequate first step.
She glanced my way. “You all right, Brodie-san? You left so suddenly.”
And with backup went unsaid.
“Fine,” I said.
The chief detective ignored her. “TNT give you something good?”
“Good’s a matter of opinion.”
Mari’s eyes widened. “You know TNT?”
“Yeah, for a while now,” I said. “We had a chat. And more beer than my system likes to confront this early in the day.”
Noda scowled. “You and Mari can socialize later. What he give you?”
Mari blushed and excused herself, closing the door behind her. The gruff detective wasn’t known for his social skills.
“Ever hear of the Steam Walker?” I said.
“Whispers, yeah.”
“Is that all?”
“Got a pile of useless ghost stories too. How good was the guy in the hospital room?”
“As good as they come. I kept him at bay, but I was losing. It could have gone very badly.”
The chief detective dropped into thought. I could tell he was running through a catalog of culprits. A few moments later his expression told me he’d unearthed no contenders.
I said, “TNT gave me a story, too.”
Noda frowned. “Never a good sign. Let’s hear it.”
CHAPTER 27
IT began long before recorded history.
The Japanese archipelago had risen from the sea through a chain of volcanic eruptions. When humans came to the islands, as far back as twenty thousand years ago, active volcanoes existed in great numbers. There were frequent lava flows and massive ash clouds and scalding geysers. During cataclysmic times, casualties were high. Sometimes whole tribes perished.
I’d lived in Japan for the first seventeen years of my life. After that, I’d been in and out of the country more times than I could remember. I’d heard a lot about nearly everything. The people. The culture. The art. The history. I’d heard whispers about things swept under the proverbial tatami mat. The secrets. The shame. Events best forgotten. I’d heard rumors and ghost stories and tall tales. About things that might have been. Or could be. Or never were. Most likely.
But a tale about a living legend was a first.
Japan’s history is extensive and convoluted, with large gaps of missing knowledge. There are the emperors and empresses to consider—all one hundred and twenty-five of them, starting from the current one and tailing back to the head of the imperial line that is traditionally said to begin in the seventh century BC. Traditionally because the first fourteen rulers might or might not have existed. Most likely not.
More legend.
Among the legends percolating up through the folkloric ether is the mythos of the Steam Walkers, a tribe that lived near the volcanoes and walked the dangerous mountain byways. They built modest thatch-roofed huts on the edge of the active volcano clusters, just shy of the danger zone into which most people dared not venture. But near the hot zone the soil was rich, and the mineral-laden hot spring waters restorative.
Even so, the hinterlands kept sensible people at bay.
In these natural minefields there were blowholes that shot scalding steam into the air without warning. There were covered sinkholes where the earth dropped the unwary into dark, inescapable crevices. There was gas belching from craters and fissures. At least one type was odorless and colorless and asphyxiated any creature within its reach. Flocks of birds plummeted from the sky and herds of grazing animals staggered and fell, never to rise.
The Steam Walkers were watchful and clever, and over time learned to navigate the volcanic badlands. When ruthless warlords or cutthroat marauders galloped down on them, the Steam Walkers fled into the fiery foothills with their families. Confident in their might, the armies followed—and died horrible deaths. Their spears and arrows and swords could not protect them from being boiled alive by the angry breath of the mountain spirits. Or swallowed by hungry demons. Or strangled by invisible goblins. Invading armies quickly came to understand that certain villages were protected by the spirit-gods, and best left alone.
The Steam Walkers’ secret art deepened and evolved and was passed down. Eventually, volcanic activity lessened. The killing gases lessened. The steam spouts lessened. The talk of those who could walk among the steaming lands faded, then turned to rumor, then dissolved into myth.
But in the middle of the twentieth century, after a defeated Japan was plunged into poverty and starvation at the end of World War II, the rumors returned. In the harsh new reality of postwar life, work in the outlying areas was scarce, and the provincial bosses wielded uncontested control. The generous rural leaders saw their communities flourish. The greedy ones leveraged their power and prospered themselves. They monopolized trade routes in and out of their region and undercut the wholesale price of the rice and nectarines and cabbages the farmers brought them.
The villagers were trapped. They had no choice. In increments, they grew poorer. When an unexpected storm hit, their losses mounted. The overlords lent them money against their homes and their land, then paid them even less for their crops and eventually assumed ownership of their property and houses and rented both back to the impoverished farmers. Next, the newly rich village heads cast their eyes on the young daughters of the neediest families. Fresh-faced girls fetched good money in the red-light districts of the big cities.
One day, a simple yet desperate request found its way to a Steam Walker’s door. For the few meager coins the villagers managed to gather, the community pleaded with the Steam Walker to trick the unscrupulous headman into “following him into the mountain” as his ancestors had once done with bandits and hostile samurai soldiers. There were, after all, still plumes of steam, still the occasional eruption, still dangerous gas emissions. The Steam Walker, a victim along with the rest of the villagers, agreed.
So one night the crooked village boss disappeared. Word spread and the Walkers found themselves once more traversing their old haunts, this time on a champion’s mission.
They became folk heroes.
U
ntil, over time, the corrupt taskmasters had been vanquished.
But by then, others had begun to come to the Steam Walkers for “disposal.” Aside from the neighborly commissions charged those early farmers and villagers deep in the countryside, their service never came cheap.
But it was effective.
CHAPTER 28
AFTER I finished, Noda said, “Lucky the yaki brute owes you. Still a goddamn ghost story, though.”
“I know.”
“TNT give you an address?”
“No.”
“A home base?”
“No.”
“Go-between?”
“No.”
“Any way to find him?”
I shook my head. “None. What I really want to know is, how the hell do you guard against a legend?”
SHIBUYA DISTRICT, TOKYO, 7:30 P.M.
I met Rie Hoshino at an upscale izakaya pub restaurant north of Brodie Security and a few steps down a side street across from the main Tokyu Department Store. My watchdogs set up camp outside, one on each end of the narrow lane leading to our eatery.
Rie arrived in a beige blouse and brown skirt that complemented her cocoa-brown eyes, which were bright and inquisitive. Her black hair was cropped fashionably short, her complexion clean and bracing.
Uoshin specialized in exactingly fresh fish. On the street, a large glass front welcomed us, as did several strategically stacked empty crates from the Tokyo fish market. Inside was all wood and white surfaces and cheerful pale-yellow light.
“I don’t come here that often,” Rie confided, “because it chews up my paycheck, but the fish is so good I can’t stay away for long.”
“This is on me,” I said, as we were led to a table under an interior awning across from a counter, behind which a parade of cooks sliced, diced, and tossed foods for salad, frying, or sashimi.
“I can’t allow that,” she said, her brown eyes steady on mine.
Tonight was our second date. The first, a hastily conceived dinner at an elegant Franco-Japanese restaurant, had gone extremely well. The date took place after the home invasion case we’d worked together had wound up about three months ago. The next day, I’d flown home to San Francisco, returning to Jenny and the demands of my antiques shop. We’d hit the pause button until I could find my way back to Tokyo.
Which was tonight.
Maybe the pieces would fall into place, or maybe they wouldn’t. Rie had rules. As did I. She did not date anyone in the department, or anyone involved in an ongoing case. Both were about survival as a public servant. Mine revolved around women whom Jenny might find admirable, because it was likely she would emulate anyone I chose.
“Sure you can,” I said. “It’ll even things out since you’re taking me for fugu next time. Besides, this may be your only chance. Who knows if I’ll survive the blowfish.”
“True enough.”
We shared a knowing smile. Death by fugu was rare these days. The stories—plentiful and vivid—were overinflated. In truth, nine out of ten poisoning cases involving blowfish arose when a weekend fisherman found the delicacy on the end of his line and filleted the unexpected bounty himself to circumvent the high costs of a meal in a certified restaurant. But there were reasons for the price tag and the Japanese culinary laws that mandated chefs receive a license before serving the rotund fish—the same reason the species was outlawed in the EU: cut it badly, people die.
We selected our food from a handwritten menu, ordered a light Japanese beer to wash away the dust of the day, then Rie said, “So tell me about the Nobuki case.”
I gave her an insider’s overview, after which she shook her head. “What a mess. Lucky you weren’t shot or knifed. Do you have any idea in which direction you need to go from here?”
“All of them.”
“Don’t you hate that?” she said.
* * *
Through courses of sashimi, a seafood-and-tofu salad, sautéed greens, and a lightly grilled whole fish that may or may not have had an English name, we wound up the discussion about the case, after which Rie guided the conversation in the direction of my work with Japanese antiques.
“You sure you want to hear about that?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? After dealing with police business all day, stepping out of the gutter is a refreshing change.”
I indulged her probing, which was only slightly subtler than an interrogation. She queried me about my art trips to Japan and how I unearthed rare pieces. I told her about the scattering of like-minded dealers I knew across Japan and Europe, and how we tracked down pieces for each other when necessary. She expressed curiosity about high-end clients, and I told her about Sarah Navin’s commission for a classic Oribe tea bowl. I didn’t tell her that my roster of top-tier collectors wouldn’t fill out the starting lineup for a beach volleyball game. Last, we talked about some of the other types of art I handled: scroll paintings, lacquer pieces, furniture, and a whole range of quality ceramics, which are a major art form in Japan.
At the end, she took a last sip of her beer and said, “Art’s an expensive hobby.”
“It doesn’t have to be if you have a good eye and you’re patient.”
“Do you collect?”
“No. I have a daughter and bills. But I have the privilege of living with the pieces until they sell. I take some of them home for a few weeks.”
“To study?”
“To learn their secrets.”
Rie eye’s drifted skyward as she repeated the phrase. “To learn their secrets. I like that.”
The drinks flowed. I paced myself but still managed to consume twice as much as my dinner companion, who sipped at her beer in a ladylike manner, then treated her next choice, plum wine and soda, with equal delicacy. I switched from beer to Kurose, a smooth brand of shochu, a Japanese spirit. I ordered it oyu-wari, which meant several parts hot water to one part alcohol. It was a mellow accompaniment to our fish-based meal, and warming on a cold December evening.
While I drank the shochu, Rie nursed her plum drink and asked after Jenny.
“She’s fine,” I said. “And studying judo now.”
“Really?”
“Yes, an indirect tribute to you, I believe.”
Jenny had spent time with Rie during our last visit to Tokyo, and they had meshed.
“I’m honored.” Her eyes sparkled and she did a little bunny hop in her seat.
“Did you just do a seated bunny hop?”
She pushed her lips out in a mock pout. “I suppose so.”
“I didn’t know that was physically possible. Your hands were in your lap.”
“I am a superbly trained athlete. Many women on the force are.”
Rie’s reference to her conditioning sent my mind wandering down a wayward avenue. Trained observer that she was, the off-duty policewoman divined the direction of my thoughts.
“I think we should consider dessert,” she said with an amused smile.
Her phrasing only served to heighten my “roaming,” which I managed to hide with more skill the second time around.
Rie signaled for a menu, we ordered a final culinary flourish, and as the waiter carried our request to the kitchen, Noda rang.
“Bad news,” the chief detective said by way of greeting, a phrase I’d come to dread coming from him.
“What happened?”
My dining companion’s smile fell victim to concern.
“I’m heading to Tokyo Station,” he said. “Need you there too.”
“Why?”
“Shinkansen to Kyoto.”
Japan’s high-speed bullet trains—shinkansen—were a phenomenon. The fastest version covered the three-hundred-mile stretch between Tokyo and Kyoto in about two hours and twenty minutes. With runs on the Tokyo –Kyoto line departing every five to ten minutes during the busiest times, the system was convenient, clean, swift, and eliminated all the messiness of catching a commuter flight (as in no security checks).
“Again, why?”
/>
“Akihiro’s gone missing.”
Damn. Ken’s youngest son.
“How could that happen? Our men were watching the whole family.”
“Tell you on the train. The nine twenty Nozomi.”
Currently, the Nozomi was the fastest bullet available. While slower trains on the high-speed system paused en route to allow the speedier runs to pass, the Nozomi waited for no man or mechanical beast.
Looking at my watch, I said, “It’s too tight. Let’s catch the next one.”
“It’s the last of the day. Say goodbye to the girl and grab a cab.”
“How did you—?”
“No time. Double the cab fare.”
“What?”
“Only way you’ll make it. Get a move on.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 29
THE fourth driver was my man.
The Japanese are law-abiding to a fault. Which meant finding a wheelman willing to tear across town on a kamikaze drive would be difficult.
I’d let three necktied cabbies roll by before I spied a likely candidate. The image fit, but would he? He was in his midtwenties, with slicked-back hair, no tie, and a cigarette dangling.
While I stood alongside his vehicle, he vetted my proposal with a broad, nicotine-stained grin and shards of pidgin English. “You same like me. You make challenges in life.”
“You could say that.”
“What if cop catch me?” Flakes of ash drizzled onto his lap.
“The money’s good and you’re a pro, so the risk is yours,” I said, switching to Japanese so there could be no misunderstanding. “But I’ll still double the fare. You in or out?”
He considered the proposal for another beat, then gave me the nod. I vaulted into the backseat, my bodyguards dove in behind me, and we tore across town. My chosen wheel jockey pushed every yellow light, an eye to approaching traffic on each side in case a driver jumped early. He wove in and around slower vehicles and took more than one corner with screeching tires.