Pacific Burn

by Barry Lancet

  “We don’t need it. I’m doing fine and so are you.”

  “We’re not doing fine. Our lifestyle is below par. Our house is cramped. We’re not making it and your father could have helped.”

  There it was. The venom behind the legal veneer. He wanted bigger and better, and both of them faster.

  Naomi’s legs collapsed under her.

  Noda and I tightened our holds.

  “Ge-ge-get me out of here,” she said.

  CHAPTER 74

  AFTER our encounter with the Steam Walker on Mount Asama, Noda and I had developed three plans of attack, with probability ratings of slim, slimmer, and slimmest.

  With a prey as crafty as the Walker, we knew we couldn’t sit on our hands. Giving her too much slack would only encourage her—and get us killed.

  * * *

  Plan One was, sad to say, our best shot.

  As soon as we were safely away from the poisonous gas, we had rushed in spotters from Brodie Security on the bullet train and set them up in rental cars at four points of the compass to watch for the Walker’s descent.

  She had to come off the mountain eventually. We knew she could camp out for days, but we expected her to emerge sooner rather than later. And she did, the next afternoon, while Noda and I were in Washington.

  We prepared our spotters for an extended wait. Provisions included food, beverages, a portable heater, regular and night-vision binoculars, blankets, and a new sketch based on our mountaintop encounter worked up by the fourth spotter, who was also our in-house sketch artist. Our people were not to approach the Steam Walker alone, but tail her from a distance, switching off lead cars regularly, until they could mount a task force of no fewer than six operatives. We had no intention of losing another person to the assassin’s formidable skills.

  The spotters spent a night in their cars, wrapped in blankets to counter the winter chill. Late the next day, a group of senior citizens stumbled on a married couple trussed up and gaggled behind a ten-foot boulder. Both were roughly the Walker’s size. They had been relieved of their outer garments three hours earlier, including a gray felt Tyrolean hat with a silver band. By the time the information filtered down to our staffers, the Walker was history. On debriefing, one of our spotters recalled seeing the Tyrolean hat on a male hiker, who wore the husband’s blue wool pants and the wife’s gray unisex mountaineer’s shirt.

  The killer had slipped away.

  Our first plan collapsed.

  * * *

  Plan Two began an hour after Plan One washed out.

  The same staffers dispersed across the region, going from house to house. They were seeking a photograph of Kiyomi Komeki, the fashion designer. We wanted to confirm one way or the other whether she could be the Steam Walker.

  We knew the killer to be a woman, but we didn’t have a positive ID.

  Since current images of the publicity-shy couturier did not exist, we set our sights on a snapshot from her school days. A class photograph, maybe. Or a team picture. Or a causal moment with friends. School yearbooks were not an option since the practice did not exist in the area.

  The major hurdle was that rural schools were collective. One school might serve a dozen villages and could be located anywhere within the region.

  The staff canvassed the area without giving away our suspicions. Absenteeism among the working adults was high. Many of the farmers spent long hours out in the fields preparing for the next planting, or were away in the big cities for winter jobs. Still others worked on the other side of Mount Asama, in the resort town of Karuizawa, which meant long hours and a lengthy commute. A further complication was the natural reticence of the villagers. They were protective of their local hero. All were aware of her celebrity status, as well as her keen desire for privacy. Even though only a few had ever met Komeki, no one wanted to be the Judas who betrayed her.

  It took our four staffers, working in pairs for their own safety, two and a half days to track down a local who possessed a fading snapshot of the fashion designer and was willing to share it. It took another day to negotiate the conditions. We would be allowed to look at the image, photograph it on a mobile phone for in-house use, but under no circumstances could we publish it or pass it along to anyone else, including the media or the authorities.

  After clearing it with me, the Brodie Security staffers accepted the conditions, signed an informal memo agreeing to the terms, paid a “viewing fee,” and then captured the image on their cell phone camera. The photo was creased and faded. It had been taken at a traditional neighborhood festival when Komeki was in junior high school. She wore a modest pink kimono and a tightly knotted red headband. The staffers spent an additional day hunting down two more locals who corroborated that the teenager in the picture was in fact the elusive designer’s younger self.

  Once authenticated, Noda and I received a digital copy. It was immediately clear that Kiyoshi Komeki was not the Steam Walker. Where the Walker had a longish, slender face and nose, Komeki’s features leaned toward the classic round Japanese visage with padded cheeks and a broad nose.

  Plan Two fell by the wayside.

  * * *

  All that remained was Plan Three—the slimmest of the slim.

  Our Hail Mary pass.

  On the off-chance that the Steam Walker might show up at Kiyomi Komeki’s home, we had people watching the hermetic designer’s Tokyo residence in the upscale Setagaya area.

  Our reasoning was simple—and desperate. There was a strong connection between the two women that we’d never been able to clarify. They both grew up in the region. The Steam Walker wore Komeki garments. And the Walker’s corporate entity had subcontracted Komeki Inc. to deliver victims to the Mount Asama area, although we could prove nothing. That was the extent of our knowledge. None of it was actionable.

  The desperation had to do with the outstanding contract on Naomi. We’d caged Sato. He was in police custody, but the Walker didn’t necessarily know that, and there was no way to cancel the contracts he’d put out. A search of his home and office turned up a throwaway phone with two untraceable numbers in the log—presumably those of the Steam Walker and her agent. Both led to burners long ago discarded.

  We called on Stockton to work his software voodoo a second time, but his efforts led nowhere. Similar exertions by Mari and her hacker squad proved equally futile.

  Time and events were working against us. Naomi was being kept under heavy guard with the rest of her family in Kyoto. As for me, we had to assume the Walker would prioritize my hit whether she’d be paid or not, since I could positively ID her and link her to the other murders.

  We had no leads. My date for departure came and went, as did Jenny’s birthday. I couldn’t head back to San Francisco and risk bringing the Steam Walker with me, so I stayed in Tokyo. The surprise birthday party I’d arranged a month before went ahead without me. Jenny called me the same night to talk about the games and cake and presents she opened, and I promised more when I returned, but I could sense the hurt and the loneliness behind her words that I’d missed the festivities. I downed a couple extra beers that night.

  Then, three days after the photo search went belly-up, the unthinkable happened.

  The Steam Walker resurfaced.

  CHAPTER 75

  SETAGAYA DISTRICT, TOKYO, 10:30 P.M.

  AT half past ten at night, the Steam Walker was spotted letting herself into Komeki’s house with her own key.

  The alert went out immediately. I swung into action. As did Noda and six Brodie Security operatives. I arrived in fifteen minutes, with my shadows. Noda was already there. Including the three lookouts stationed at the house, we mustered thirteen of our people on site within half an hour.

  “Police coming?” I asked Noda.

  The chief detective shrugged. “Bicycle cops, maybe.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Jurisdictional problems.”

  “Great.”

  Tad had been taken into custody out at Narit
a, where Naomi’s assault and kidnapping had occurred. The fashion designer’s Tokyo residence was some fifty miles from the airport, in an entirely different jurisdiction. I shrugged it off. As Rie had pointed out, the Japanese police were thorough but slow. What she’d left unsaid was that their results were at best mixed when it came to complex crimes.

  We gathered a block away. Our sentries had eyes-on from three rental units, each with a clear view of one of the three entrances: front, back, and west side. Everyone was in radio contact. As Brodie Security was a private firm, we couldn’t officially arrest the Steam Walker, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t bundle her up and hand her over to the authorities. Preferably without casualties on either side.

  “Anyone know if Komeki is inside?” I asked.

  “She left at seven this morning and hasn’t returned.”

  “Better we do this now, then, before she returns. It’ll save us aggravation and maybe an official complaint and B and E charges.”

  “It’s all illegal,” someone said in my ear. “We move, we break half a dozen laws.”

  I looked toward Noda. “That many?”

  He nodded.

  “That ever stop anyone before?”

  A chorus of no’s resounded in my earpiece.

  “Good enough for me,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  We split up.

  Our spotters came down from their nests and we put four people each on the front and back doors, then five of us hit the darkened side entrance the Steam Walker had used. Two kicks frayed the doorjamb, freeing the lock. There was no dead bolt or alarm system.

  Our small group carried three guns and two knives. Only one of the guns was registered, which meant the other two and the knives would need to disappear if and when the cops appeared.

  The interior of the house was pristine and immaculate, the perfect expression of what I’d come to call the “sappari look.” The phrase captured a clean and refreshing feeling that the Japanese craved. In the designer’s case, the look manifested itself in white walls, white carpets, and white marble in and around black and gray furniture, all of which was light and airy and, where applicable, tubular.

  Every surface was spotless and gleaming. Every object was both of those as well as creaseless, flawless, and, irrespective of size, set parallel or aligned at right angles to every other object in the room. Every item from furniture to floor coverings to accessories to knickknacks was placed to within a millimeter of its life. Pillows rested on couches and chairs at right angles and were fully fluffed. Books stood straighter than soldiers. Surfaces were clean and uncluttered and polished. The kitchen carried over the white color scheme with white cabinets, white walls, and white marble on the floor and counters. All the appliances were white.

  Chaos and dirt had been banished down to the level of the microbe. There were no dirty dishes, no stray hairs, no stray crumbs, no dust motes.

  We cleared the rooms one at a time. Each was as pristine and immaculate as the last. Each showcased the same color scheme.

  The Steam Walker was not in any of the rooms unless she’d camouflaged herself in white.

  Then a voice in my ear said, “I’m in the basement. There’s a passageway.”

  CHAPTER 76

  TELL us,” I said into my microphone.

  “It’s an underground corridor. Plaster walls. Linoleum floor. All in white. I don’t know where it leads. I can take a look or wait.”

  “Wait,” I said.

  The four of us joined the detective in the basement. He pointed to a door opening onto a long dark hallway, and said he’d expected a closet on the other side.

  “Did you turn on the light?” I asked.

  “No. Used a flashlight.”

  “Good.”

  Simpler booby traps have been planted, but a surprise here seemed unlikely. We’d run a property check a few days earlier and Kiyomi Komeki was the owner of record. Not her company, not a fronting firm with an innocuous name. Which meant her public image was in play and needed to be maintained. There would be no rigging of the house with spyware or traps.

  Still, there could be a hideaway built under the pretext of, say, an earthquake-proof bunker. One of us would have to clear the hall and investigate what was to be found at the other end. Since the case was mine and I knew the Steam Walker better than anyone else, I was up.

  The detective said, “There’s another door about thirty feet in.”

  I said, “Okay, I’ll go first, followed by Noda. Wait until we give the all-clear.”

  I borrowed a flashlight and a gun. I scanned the first ten-foot stretch of corridor—floor, ceiling, and sides. I was looking for cameras, switches, indentations, or any other sign of an installation. I found nothing. There could be micro-optic cameras or laser alarms, but if we were dealing with security on that level of sophistication, there was nothing we could do. Besides, time was short. We needed to corner the Steam Walker while she was still on the premises. If she’d barricaded herself in an underground capsule, so much the better.

  I advanced into the tunnel. Inside, the air was chilly and stale. I scanned the next ten-foot segment, then the last. Nothing and more nothing. We reached the door. Gun drawn, I crouched and, behind me, Noda did the same.

  There was no lock on my side. Slowly, I turned the doorknob. I met no resistance. The door opened inward. My flashlight revealed another basement-like room. I scanned the space from the hall, keeping low. No Steam Walker. No stockpiling of supplies. No extreme fortification. This was no bunker.

  There was a staircase leading up.

  I touched no switches and no objects. I spied no booby traps. Once we cleared the room, we called for the others. Cautiously, I mounted the stairs, Noda right behind me. The stairwell was obstacle-free. At the top, I flashed a quick look at Noda, who nodded. His gun was drawn and ready. He took high, I took low.

  Round Two.

  I turned the knob. There was no resistance. I cracked open the door. A domestic setting. No Steam Walker. No occupants of any kind. In increments, I eased the door open. An empty hall. White and pristine. So much for hideaways and last-ditch stands.

  We cleared the passage and the back of the house, then motioned the others to advance. We had a view of the backyard. Trees and shrubbery obscured the homes to the sides and rear. Straight ahead was the kitchen; to the right, the front of the house. While the others guarded our backs, Noda and I cleared the kitchen. Then we covered theirs as they inched through the front of the house: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a spacious family room with a picture window. We found ourselves gazing out onto an entirely different street.

  We were in the home directly behind the fashion designer’s main residence.

  * * *

  I said, “How about I look around the kitchen while the rest of you check the top floor?”

  Everyone agreed.

  Pristine and immaculate ruled the second home as well. The place was fully furnished but felt emptier. I strode back into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. Empty.

  Into my mike, I said, “Someone check the bathrooms for supplies. Quick. Let me know what you find. Toothbrush. Medicine. Soap. All or none of the above.”

  “We’re on it,” one of the team said.

  I opened the kitchen drawers. Then the cabinets. There were no pots or pans. There were no cooking utensils. There was silverware for four. There were place settings for four. All basic and serviceable in a pinch. I found dry condiments. Salt, pepper, basic spices. All open and partially used. I could find no wet seasonings or sauces: soy sauce, mayonnaise, dressings. Nothing that might spoil or sour or smell up the place. There was no cereal, flour, or rice. No dry foods to invite bugs.

  When a meal was to be had, it was ordered or brought home, precooked.

  “I’m in the bathroom,” an op said. “First floor. There’s only one. I see towels on the rack. Unused. No soap on the sink, liquid or bar. Medicine cabinet”—there was a pause—“empty.”r />
  None of the above.

  “Kitchen’s the same,” I said.

  This setup belonged to the fashion designer, not the Steam Walker. Other than the connecting passage, no stealth in any form was involved. For form’s sake, the designer had stamped her imprint on the place, but this was a ghost house.

  Noda strolled into the kitchen.

  I looked at him. “Now we know how Komeki manages to avoid the paparazzi.”

  And how the Steam Walker had just avoided us. We’d mustered a small army, covered all the known exits, and had still been hung out to dry.

  Plan Three had just gone up in smoke.

  CHAPTER 77

  I RETURNED to my hotel in a taxi, seated alongside my two Brodie Security minders.

  I was fuming. We’d missed the Steam Walker yet again. First she had escaped by going into the volcano. I could accept that, given her background. Next, we missed her coming down off the mountain. Again, understandable. Mount Asama was her home ground, and the paths leading to and from the peak were numerous. The Walker could choose any combination of time and place to descend. And she had, with the addition of a stolen disguise.

  But in an urban setting more our territory than hers, the Steam Walker had outfoxed us for the third time. With thirteen of us on site. We’d accomplished the near impossible and found her; we should not have lost her. Despite the lousy underground passage between houses. We were better than that.

  I had no words for the turn of events. And neither did my cabmates. What I did have was a mandate to get back to my daughter. We’d been separated far too long. I’d missed her birthday. My absence had soured what should have been a perfect day. I heard the heartache in Jenny’s voice during each of our now daily talks, even on the occasions when she wasn’t asking me about my return. And I missed her tremendously.