by Barry Lancet
Rie shook her head. “No, you’ve got it backward. It’s Komeki’s.”
My fingers stalled over the last button of my shirt. “What or who is that?”
“It’s a Japanese women’s fashion brand. Very exclusive, very expensive.”
“How come I’ve never heard of it?”
“They don’t advertise. They only have a handful of shops. There’s nothing in their boutiques I could buy for less than two months’ salary. Even the small stuff. This is their logo—KO with a little curlicue in the O.”
I looked closer. Turning the letters upside down had transformed what we’d presumed was an awkward sign of approval into a company emblem.
Son of a bitch.
An insignia could lead places. To an office, a shop, a person.
To the Steam Walker—and his client.
CHAPTER 47
I CAUGHT Cheré Copeland, the police artist from Suisun City, in her unmarked patrol car. We’d exchanged mobile numbers in case the unexpected came up.
California was seventeen hours behind Tokyo, so it was four in the afternoon there. And probably about fifty-five degrees, with a crisp winter sun lording over clear blue skies.
“Hi, Cheré. Brodie. I’m in Tokyo. They keeping you in the loop?”
“Sheriff Nash does. He talks to Renna.”
I switched her to speakerphone, and Rie listened attentively to our English conversation, for all the good it would do her.
“Perfect,” I said. “You remember you said something bothered you about the sketch? Did you ever figure out what it was?”
“And here I thought you were calling to finally ask me out. I didn’t figure you for the shy type.”
“Normally, I would have, believe me.”
“Aww,” she purred. “A lady needs to hear that on occasion. I also heard a catch in your voice. Do you have a current lady fair?”
I looked across the room. “You could say that.”
“So close, yet so far. Keep me in mind should your progress stall.”
“Top of the list,” I said.
“About your question. I never did pin down what bothered me. Then I got busy with other cases.”
“Could it have to do with the sex of the suspect?”
Copeland mulled over the idea. “You mean sexual orientation? An LGBT angle?”
“Maybe. Or even more direct, like a woman in disguise.”
“A female perp? You know, I think that’s what it was. How’d you come up with that?”
I told her about the logo.
“Really? Damn. That’s a letdown. That darn little scribble was the cutest thing to come my way in ages. How is my little Japanese cowboy, by the way?”
I cringed at the question. The guards watching the Nobukis had reported that Shu had withdrawn completely and wasn’t talking to anyone.
“Struggling with his father’s death. He never knew his mother.”
“That’s terrible,” Copeland said. “He’s such a sweetie. Say hello for me. A woman perp, huh?”
“Just an idea we’re playing with. Jog anything loose?”
“Little Shu’s selections did come from the softer side of the characteristic charts—the eyes, the cheeks, the mouth—so I must have had a flicker of a thought along those lines, but if I did I dismissed it, because it happens more often than you’d think.”
“Why?”
“Because hormones are fickle. They play tricks. They can soften features on men or harden them on women,” Copeland said. “And family genes contribute. A lot of women have very masculine features just under the surface. Look beyond the makeup and the long hair and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Didn’t you ever do a double take at a woman and think that if her hair was shorter she’d look exactly like her brother? Or uncle or father?”
“Sure.”
“And it can go the opposite way with men.”
“True, now that you mention it.”
“Have you asked little Shu about it yet?”
“He’s next up.”
“Give me an update if you uncover anything new and I’ll rethink things here.”
After we disconnected, I noticed Rie regarding me with narrowed eyes. I saw uneasiness there, not curiosity about what I’d learned. I asked if something was bothering her.
“The woman cop likes you.”
“She’s a detective and forensic artist.”
“That’s worse.”
So much for dancing around the issue. “How can you know that? You don’t understand English.”
“I understand tone and I understand women. It was in the current running through her voice.”
Current. Dating a policewoman could try the nerves.
“She did drop a hint or two.”
“Were you flirting with her?”
“No, I was letting her down easy.”
Rie nodded, still vexed. “Good thing.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because otherwise I’d have to shoot her.”
* * *
I sent a photograph of Shu’s doodle to his grandmother’s phone. When I called to ask my questions, I noticed a new coolness in her voice.
“Did you get the photo I sent?”
“Yes.” Cooler still. “What about it?”
“I need to talk to Shu.”
I heard a heavy intake of air. “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s bad enough we have guards around all the time. He thinks the whole thing is his fault because he didn’t stop it.”
My heart went out to Shu-kun. He’d never known his mother and now, at eight, his father was gone too. If I feared one thing for my daughter, it was life without family, which at this point consisted of me—and only me.
I had no fear of death myself. I’d die a thousand times to protect Jenny. But she needed me around, at times desperately. I did everything I could think of for her. But there were places I couldn’t reach. What remained of her mother were faint memories—feathery impressions muffled by the imprecise mechanism of a toddler’s brain. Whenever a mother picked up one of Jenny’s friends at school, her sense of loss surfaced. Or when she went to a classmate’s house to play. No matter how attentive I tried to be, I couldn’t compensate for maternal loss.
In losing his father, Shu had lost more than a second parent—he’d lost his male role model, and all the future father-and-son moments. He was too young to think in those terms, but he felt the hole in his life instinctively. An immense, irreparable hole, compounded in his case by guilt.
My reply was muted. “If it will help, why don’t you ask him for me? That way he won’t have to hear my voice.”
Since when had I become an ogre?
“That would be better.”
I wondered if Shu knew, as yet, what had happened to Akihiro, his uncle. And if our failed effort had been linked, in his mind, to his father’s death. I could hardly bear the idea.
Mrs. Nobuki said, “What do you want me to ask him?” The coolness rose another notch.
“Could you remind him where he drew it, then ask why he drew it?”
I gave her the details and she set down her phone. Even though it contained the photo. Even though it was a mobile. I got the message.
In the distance, I heard her voice, then Shu’s. The exchange lasted several minutes, then footsteps approached and she lifted the phone.
“Brodie, sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you understand.”
“I do.”
“It isn’t you,” she added.
But it is, I thought.
Mrs. Nobuki cleared her throat. “Shu said he was copying what he saw for the police lady. He liked her.”
A worthy consolation prize for Cheré. “And she likes him. If you think it a good idea, you could tell him she says hello. I just got off the phone with her.”
“I’ll need to think about that.”
“Of course. What exactly was he copying?”
“A logo he saw under the man’s shirt. Well, actually, along the hem o
f another shirt sticking out from under his shirt. Sorting that out is what took me so long.”
“Thank you. It’s the Komeki logo.”
“I know. They always put them on the hem. You usually don’t see it. It gets tucked in.”
“Do you have any Komeki there?”
“No.”
“Is there any place Shu might have seen the insignia before?”
“Would you like me to ask him?”
“Please.”
Again, I waited. When she returned, Nobuki’s wife said, “He told me he’s never seen it anywhere else. He didn’t know what it was.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Nobuki.”
“I told Shu-kun what the police lady said. He smiled a very small smile. The first one I’ve seen in three days.”
The image of that very small smile tore at my heart.
“I wished there was something I could do.”
“Don’t we all. Do you think this will help your investigation?”
“I do,” I said.
But I had no idea how.
CHAPTER 48
FIREWORKS erupted at Brodie Security when I showed up, limping and bruised.
If something happens to you, Brodie Security loses all credibility . . . and your staff loses their livelihood.
“I’m all right,” I said, trying to assuage the wave of concern flooding the office. “This isn’t the first time I’ve taken a few.”
My words spread little comfort. I stuck my head in Noda’s office and we agreed to meet in the conference room in twenty minutes. Which was how much more time Mari needed to fill the request I’d made earlier in the day.
* * *
Mari hummed softly as she pulled together the report.
Brodie had called from his hotel first thing this morning. He wanted her to dig up everything she could on the fashion company.
“And I mean everything,” he had said. “The Steam Walker plans down to the last detail. No one laid eyes on him at Napa or City Hall or Kyoto. It was only by chance that I caught him in the hospital. Even then, I didn’t see his face. The Komeki logo on the hem slipped out by mistake. I’m sure of it. From a guy who doesn’t make mistakes. So, if it means something, we’ve got to find it.”
This was her first case, and she wouldn’t let Brodie down. She’d scanned every digital signpost of any worth and found a connection. It was tenuous and weird. But it was there.
It took her ninety minutes to compile the data and twenty-five more to assemble the report. After the first thirty minutes, she uncovered no major new revelations, just endless repeats of the Komeki story with the occasional fresh tidbit, all of which she gathered up with care.
The basics were simple. The company was a petite boutique chain run by designer-owner Kiyomi Komeki. According to her official biography, the characters for her first name meant “pure beauty,” which is what she pursued with a “single-minded passion.” Yuck.
What was not in her personal profile—but became apparent to Mari ten minutes into her research—was that Kiyomi avoided the limelight with more expertise than hikikomori, the Japanese introverts who hide behind closed doors and rarely come out.
There were no pictures of her on the company site, and she was absent from her own fashion shows. She didn’t exhibit overseas, despite numerous invitations, so there was no passport photograph to be pilfered from the authorities by enterprising newshounds or computer wizards. Mari had scoured every corner of the Net and discovered not a single image of the reclusive designer, and Mari knew how to look everywhere. Finding nothing was weird.
Komeki goods were confined to seven retail outlets. One each in Osaka, Kyoto, Karuizawa, Sendai, and Sapporo. Two in Tokyo—Ginza and Aoyama. Each boutique was located in an upscale neighborhood filled with rows of other opulent brand-name boutiques. Komeki garments were expertly designed, “made in Japan from concept to the last stitch,” and produced in quality cashmere, silk, linen, or whatever material Kiyomi chose to feature for the season.
Komeki, the brand, did not advertise. It did not solicit. It did not encourage media coverage of any kind.
Which brought the fashion line more coverage than most.
Mari could not determine if this was a calculated strategy or an offshoot of the owner’s determination to sidestep the spotlight.
Japanese paparazzi had tried unsuccessfully to catch a snapshot of the designer-owner, but she gave no interviews. Neither did her staff. You either knew of the apparel line or you didn’t.
Was this shrewd marketing or something else?
The reason for Kiyomi Komeki’s withdrawal from public life was thought to originate with the place of her birth, the village of Kanbara, which has the distinction of being Japan’s Pompeii. More than four hundred people had been buried alive in the devastating eruption of Mount Asama in 1793, when molten lava gushed from the volcano. The red-hot outpouring created a gigantic avalanche of magma, steaming mud, and debris. One arm of the torrent entombed Kanbara, a few miles to the north. The scalding flow smothered all in its path and is said to have outpaced fleeing rabbits and galloping horses. It deluged marshes and rivers, morphed into a massive mudflow, and continued to surge through the countryside for some one hundred twenty-five miles.
There was speculation about a “Kanbara type” personality, of which Kiyomi Komeki was a prime example. Those residing in the shadow of Mount Asama were brought up with the tragic stories of their ancestors. Humbled by their village history and still living “under the eyes” of the volcano, they approached life with trepidation, every action with caution, and strangers with suspicion. A doctor in a neighboring village who treated many of the Kanbara natives noted that “severe shyness was endemic among the residents.”
Reporters latched on to the doctor’s comment to explain the fashion designer’s retiring nature, but Mari thought it more likely that the novelty of Kiyomi Komeki’s birthplace gave news scribes a colorful sideshow to serve as a frame for what was otherwise a skeleton of a story.
Still, her eyes glittered with anticipation. Obscure though it was, the volcano angle tied in with the Steam Walker myth. And Mount Asama was active. On the other hand, you could hardly toss a rock anywhere in Japan without hitting a volcano.
Remove the Kanbara episode and the fashion writers had nothing.
Which left Brodie Security with even less.
* * *
I didn’t follow the fashion world, but what Mari had gathered was intriguing, if shallow.
Komeki catered to the rich and the famous. Thousands of people strolled through the designer’s luxurious boutiques to marvel at the latest offerings, but only a select few bought. Or could afford to buy. As the Japanese love nothing better than scarcity, a Komeki garment or accessory more than made the grade as a status symbol.
“Does any of this help?” Mari asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You found a second connection. We’ve got the Steam Walker wearing a Komeki, and now we’ve got volcanic activity, so to speak, on both sides.”
Mari frowned. “But what does it mean?”
“Don’t know. Noda?”
The man of few words shook his head.
Mari said, “Do you think Kiyomi Komeki is the Steam Walker?”
“I can’t see it.”
“It would explain why she’s so secretive.”
Noda said, “Can’t rule it out yet.”
I remained skeptical. “Mari, see if you can track Komeki’s movements on the days when the attacks went down. Napa, San Francisco, Kyoto, and Tokyo. Include the bamboo forest time as well.”
Our IT pro frowned. “I can try, but she’s really really private.”
All very convenient if she were working in the shadows.
I said, “What if we go the other way with this? If the Steam Walker knows Komeki, he might wear one of her items as a memento.”
Mari nodded enthusiastically. “As a keepsake of the woman he loves? Very romantic.”
“Not unheard of,” I said.
“Or maybe he’s superstitious. Like a ballplayer wearing his lucky high school jersey under his pro uniform.”
I shot a look at Noda and he shrugged.
“Any of the apparel unisex?” I asked.
“Not intentionally.”
“Could it be? With imagination?”
Mari hit some keys. A catalog of Komeki sweaters and blouses scrolled up the screen and she studied each one. She pointed out four tops she thought could swing both ways. “What do you think?”
I frowned. “All the killers I’ve ever met were hard men. But there’s a couple that could work.”
Mari slumped in her seat. “So we’re back to a man.”
“Who knows?” I said. “But don’t look so glum. You laid new tracks. Let’s see if they go anywhere.”
CHAPTER 49
TOM Stockton, the guard on Naomi, called to report that her husband had finally prevailed. Naomi was leaving Washington, though not heading back to Japan.
I thought about this twist in the itinerary. “That could actually work in our favor. Where do they want to go?”
“A hideaway in Singapore.”
“Ah, the Palm Springs of Asia.”
Singapore was a well-integrated country that worked. In an area about a third of the size of Maui, nearly six million ethnic Chinese, Malays, Indians, and a scattering of American, European, and other expats lived side by side. They were Buddhist, Catholic, Muslim, Taoists, and Hindu, among others, and they got along. The people were pleasant. They smiled often. The crime rate was lower than Japan’s.
For visitors, the Asian city-state was all about eating, shopping, and lounging around in the heat. Only wet heat instead of dry. Land was at a premium in Singapore, so there was far less golf than in the California desert resort, which had more golf courses than Vermeer had paintings. Singapore offered other entertainment, including dining on the quay, night markets for the adventurous, and high-end casinos—all just a short, air-conditioned taxi ride away.
“You with them now?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Put the husband on, would you?”