Trigger Break

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Ma’am, have you received any threats?’ Zeb asked, changing tack.

  ‘Mountains of them,’ Kantor snorted. ‘Threats to ourselves, to our families. Some nice ones that said we’d be raped in public. Burned alive. You want me to send you a garage full of files, Mr. Carter? Full of all the threats and harassment we have received?’

  ‘Did the TKWC women receive the threats too?’

  ‘Everyone associated with us gets warnings, Mr. Carter. Stop or you will die—that’s the gist of those threats. Yeah, those women became targets too. In fact, we lost our original funders because of those threats. We would have had to close up shop if Holly, Shira, and Theresa hadn’t stepped in.’

  ‘Did you receive more of those when you started the yakuza investigation?’

  She laughed throatily. ‘What investigation? Don’t try that with me, Mr. Carter.’

  ‘Ma’am, did you receive an uptick in threats recently? Say, six months back?’

  ‘Yes. And now let me ask you a question. Let’s assume, hypothetically, we have this reporter digging away in Japan. No one knows who she is or what she’s doing. Because we didn’t tell anyone and neither did she. How did the yakuza find out, to threaten us?’

  ‘Were the threats specifically from the yakuza?’

  ‘Whichever organization we look into threatens us, Mr. Carter. The cartels warned us to back off. We exposed Indian slavery rings. Those groups threatened us.’

  He couldn’t help smiling at the way she had skirted his yakuza question. ‘Did any of those threats name the TKWC women specifically?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He persisted for several more minutes, but she stonewalled him successfully. Not once did she admit any yakuza investigation.

  He gave up in resignation and made another call, to Holly Nicholson.

  Yes, she, Shira, and Theresa had been threatened by the cartels. By Asian gangs, too. She didn’t know if they were yakuza. The messages were simple. Stop funding WAS or they would die. Call off all WAS exposés, or they would die. Not just death. They would be violated. Burned. Cut into small pieces.

  ‘You didn’t report this to the cops?’

  ‘No, we get several such threats each year. From just about everyone. Antiabortionists. Homophobes. You name an interest group, and we’ve been threatened by them. WAS isn’t the only charity we support.’

  ‘What about the WAS-specific threats? How long have you been getting them?’

  ‘Ever since we started funding them. A few years back.’

  ‘How did anyone know you were backing them?’

  ‘It wasn’t a secret. There were media announcements. Several events that WAS organized.’

  ‘You didn’t think of funding them anonymously?’

  ‘No. We’re proud to be associated with WAS. They do great work. The whole point of TKWC is to be out there in the open.’

  ‘You saw an uptick of threats six months back?’

  ‘Yes. I mentioned that to Meghan, today.’

  ‘You didn’t mention these threats earlier, ma’am.’

  ‘Nope, because you folks were asking us about the corporate deals,’ she shot back.

  He messaged Meghan and briefed her on the call with Kantor and Holly.

  Yeah, know all that. So many calls and messages in a day, Zeb. Folks will think we’re in a relationship, she cracked.

  Another thought intruded while he was getting ready for bed.

  Why should killing the WAS reporter alter the equation between the two countries?

  He answered his own question when he was between sleep and wakefulness.

  Because that reporter is so high-profile.

  Chapter 37

  Zeb headed to Osaka the next day. The twins, Broker, and Werner would tackle the overnight leads. He was going to find a prosthetic finger maker.

  The idea had come to him as he was showering. He was recollecting the fight in the Kobe dojo as he massaged his shoulder. One of those yakuza had a short finger. Chopped off. Yubitsume.

  The killer in New York had a prosthetic one.

  He knew there were prosthetic finger makers who catered to ex-yakuza. Gangsters who had quit their gangs and wanted to reenter society. The chopped off finger was a deterrent, and hence the former gangsters flocked to these manufacturers.

  He had gotten Werner to run a search, and by the time he had dressed, the supercomputer had results for him.

  There weren’t many finger makers. It wasn’t a big market. There was one in Osaka. Another in Tokyo. There was a third one in Tokyo too, but it looked like that one had gone out of business.

  There was one problem with these finger makers. All of them worked only with former gang members. They didn’t service current yakuza.

  But they might know who makes fingers for existing gangsters.

  * * *

  Kobe to Osaka was a short train ride, from Sannomiya station, on the Hanshin Main Line, to Umeda station in Osaka. A smooth half-hour ride.

  Umeda was in the downtown part of Osaka, and the prosthetic maker was smack in the middle of a gaudy shopping arcade. Zeb hung around a milling crowd and surveyed the garish lights in the shopping center. It was ten in the morning. Late enough for crowds to gather.

  Maihi Fujihara manufactured not just pinkie fingers, but various limbs and joints as well. Artificial legs. Feet. Noses. She catered to a wide market. People who had been in accidents. In fires. The yakuza component of her business was small.

  She worked with two assistants, and in the window display of her store were several prosthetic limbs.

  She was alone behind a glass counter, in a white lab coat, bending over a microscope, when Zeb entered. He was struck by her young age. She seemed to be in her late thirties, with her black hair tied behind her. Clear eyes, open face that seemed to smile easily.

  He introduced himself as a special detective with Keishicho and gave Nishikawa’s reference.

  ‘You are gaijin,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, Fujihara-san. On special deputation from the New York police.’

  He gave her enough background to satisfy her and handed over a Keishicho card. The number on that card would be routed to his New York office, and any caller would be greeted by a Japanese female.

  An artificial intelligence engine would respond to the caller, and in case of any issues, the call would be escalated to Meghan.

  Fujihara seemed fascinated when he told his story and examined the photograph he showed her.

  She went to a computer, scanned the dead killer’s image, and ran a program. ‘Facial comparison,’ she explained. ‘I take photographs of all my customers. I don’t deal with those who are still yakuza. But still.’

  She shook her head after a while and turned the screen to face Zeb.

  No matches, was the message on her computer.

  ‘Carter-san, my customers have to prove to me that they are no longer in the gang. They have to get me letters from Keishicho or Osaka police or from the police of whichever city they come from.’

  She explained her manufacturing process when she noticed Zeb’s interest.

  She brought out pencil drawings and silicone putty. Several shades of it to match the various human skin tones.

  She took Zeb’s hand in hers and quickly sketched his left pinkie. It looked realistic. She then made a silicone mold over his finger while the sketch went inside her computer as a scanned image.

  She brought up a 3-D program that she played around with, while the mold hardened.

  ‘I take photographs when I am making the real thing. I made a pencil sketch to save time,’ she elaborated as she baked the mold in an oven and brought it out after an hour.

  She dipped it in a bowl of paint, put it in front of a blower, and presented the fake finger to Zeb.

  ‘Carter-san, that’s a crude prosthetic finger. The real one will take days and will require many sittings until the skin tone is exact, and the whorls on the finger look real.’

  ‘Do you know w
ho does this for existing yakuza?’

  Her face shuttered. ‘No, Carter-san. I don’t get involved in all that.’

  Zeb took the Nozomi train back to Tokyo, and when he was in its quiet, he made a call to Nishikawa. He wanted one final confirmation about the yakuza-WAS link.

  ‘Carter-san, Kobe is still intact. It’s not burning. I am a little disappointed in you, Carter-san.’

  ‘Nishikawa-san, do your police officers know how much of a joker you are?’

  ‘Alas, Carter-san, I have to resort to humor when I am dealing with you. Nothing else works. How can I help you?’

  ‘What is the biggest business the yakuza are involved in?’

  ‘White-collar crime,’ Nishikawa replied promptly. ‘But I don’t think that’s your real question, is it?’

  ‘No. Which crime will bring them down?’

  ‘That’s easy, Carter-san. It’s their business in people. They supply cheap labor to almost every industry. Not many people know this, but many of our nuclear plants run because of yakuza-supplied labor.’

  ‘And an exposé on that will bring the yakuza down?’

  ‘No, Carter-san. Because that’s not that high-impact a story.’

  ‘What would be high-impact?’

  ‘The yakuza involvement in trafficking women. Not just the street women. Their active roles in slavery rings. A story, backed up by evidence, would blow them wide open. Where women are involved, Carter-san, every country, every law enforcement authority, will sit up and take notice. Every newspaper and TV channel will demand action. People on the street will be outraged. That will be the end of the yakuza.’

  ‘You must have teams investigating that business?’

  ‘Yes, Carter-san,’ he said, becoming despondent for a moment. ‘It’s not easy, however. Getting witnesses, proof—that’s the hardest part.’

  ‘You didn’t send anyone undercover?’

  ‘Did. Several times. The yakuza have eyes and ears in Keishicho. A lot of times, my undercover police officers were killed. Or exposed and threatened. You know something you aren’t telling?’

  ‘No, Nishikawa-san.’ If the yakuza have penetrated his organization, no point in telling him anything. ‘Are you aware of any high-profile American woman in the country?’

  ‘No, Carter-san.’ The police chief was puzzled at the change of topic. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just curious. One more question. Who manufactures prosthetic fingers for the yakuza?’

  ‘If I knew, we would have questioned him, Carter-san. It’s not like the yakuza or the manufacturer advertise. Carter-san?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t kill anyone, please?’

  * * *

  Three hours later, Zeb was in Daikanyama, a neighborhood in central Tokyo, but quite different from large parts of the city. The neighborhood didn’t have large shopping arcades. Instead, it had small alleys, cafes, backstreets and numerous curio shops.

  The tattoo parlor Zeb was hunting was in one such backstreet, snug against a Korean curio store and a pet shop. The bespectacled old man in the parlor heard him out and grunted once.

  He disappeared behind a black curtain while Zeb eyed the waiting customers. Most of them were young, many males, some with their girlfriends or partners. All of them heavily tattooed. I guess having ink is one kind of hobby.

  Tatts had never interested him. Hadn’t interested any of his crew.

  Before he could reminisce further, the old man returned and beckoned with a gnarly finger. Zeb followed him through the surprisingly large rear of the store and through another partition. This store looked more like the prosthetics store.

  Glass cases similar to the ones he had seen in Fujihara’s. The manufacturer was thin and tall, with a straggly beard.

  He took just one look at the dead assassin and at the photograph of the prosthetic finger.

  ‘No,’ he said with finality. ‘I never made that finger.’

  ‘How come you’re so sure?’ Zeb asked, astonished. ‘You haven’t even looked him up in your database.’

  ‘No need.’ The manufacturer bent and removed a thick album.

  He presented it to Zeb. ‘Open any page. Don’t show it to me. Tell me the page number.’

  The album had photographs of men with their prosthetic limbs, the store’s customers.

  Zeb flipped through the book and picked a random page.

  The tall man described his customer in perfect detail.

  ‘Good memory. Eat lot of fish. It helps.’ He grinned at Zeb’s expression.

  ‘Who makes these fingers for the yakuza?’

  ‘Don’t know. Not interested. Don’t deal with yakuza. My customers are all good men. They were gangsters. Not now.’

  * * *

  Zeb drank green tea at a sidewalk café and watched Tokyo go by. He was stumped. They had good confirmation that all the killings had started because WAS had commenced an investigation into the yakuza.

  Why they targeted Shira and Theresa, I still don’t know. But stifling the investigation, or calling it off, is the motive. Looks like, anyway.

  The who wasn’t clear. Prosthetic finger. That didn’t lead to anything.

  But I still have one more person to ask.

  Chapter 38

  He went back to Kobe on the Shinkansen and walked swiftly to Ikuta shrine. Past throngs of visitors, and around a gaggle of tourists who were taking pictures of the man seated cross-legged on a bench.

  Zeb removed his shades and eyed the tourists coldly. They melted away. He sat down cross-legged next to Yoshisa Sakai and waited for the man to open his eyes.

  ‘You feel troubled, Carter-san,’ Yoshisa greeted him. That same trick again. How does he do it?

  Zeb told him everything, and this time Yoshisa looked his way.

  ‘Our countries go back a long way, Carter-san. We had difficult times in the past. No one wants those times to return.’

  ‘Hai.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a prosthetic maker who works for the yakuza. Maybe more than one. That’s the only way of identifying the yakuza gang.’

  ‘You couldn’t identify them from their tattoos?’

  ‘No, Yoshisa-san. At the Kobe dojo, I was busy fighting. The men in the Tokyo bath, their gang isn’t involved. I have nothing else to go on.’

  ‘Come back tomorrow.’ Yoshisa Sakai went back to his prayers.

  * * *

  Yoshisa Sakai, like his father and forefathers, doled out impartial advice whenever people came to him with their problems. He had no truck with the yakuza. He didn’t have any dealings with the police. All he did was spend his days at the shrine. However, he observed and heard. He watched families squabble and couples fall in love. He saw businessmen make deals and yakuza gangs negotiate in the peace of the shrine.

  He was like a sponge. He absorbed all that he saw and heard. Finding contacts wasn’t difficult for him. No one questioned him when he asked. No one dared to refuse an inquiry from the descendant of Chiba Shusaku.

  ‘Toshimichi Saitou and Kunio Harata,’ he told Zeb the next day. ‘Both are in Fukuoka. Saitou is in Fukuoka City, while Harata is in Sue, a town in the Fukuoka Prefecture.’

  Zeb knew Fukuoka was on Kyushu, Japan’s third-largest island, famous for Mount Aso, an active volcano.

  ‘Both make these fingers for the yakuza?’

  ‘So I have been told. I don’t know if they make them for all four gangs or they work for only one gang. You will have to ask them.’

  ‘They will talk?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask and see, Carter-san.’ Yoshisa Sakai smiled serenely and closed his eyes.

  There was a Shinkansen from Shin-Kobe to Hakata station in Fukuoka in an hour’s time. Zeb called Meghan and relayed the two names to her as he walked swiftly to Shin-Kobe.

  ‘You went through the list?’ she asked him when she had finished jotting down the names.

  ‘Yeah. Will study it on the train. I�
��ve been thinking about that son. That comment Oyahashi made.’

  ‘Thinking is good, Zeb. It exercises—’

  ‘What if the son wasn’t a yakuza offspring?’

  ‘Then the dude wouldn’t be a son, would he?’ she replied acidly. ‘Wait! You mean a son by a mistress?’

  ‘Yeah. And maybe the son’s dead too.’

  ‘A son that never was. I think you hit it, Zeb,’ she said slowly, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice. ‘I’ll check out which yakuza leader has or had mistresses.’

  He was hanging up when she stopped him. ‘You remember that porn film ring that was busted in California?’

  ‘Yeah. Yakuza-owned and managed. Some gangsters got killed, didn’t they?’

  ‘Six. But get this. One of them had a prosthetic finger. I was going through those files again when I spotted this detail.

  ‘Send me the photographs.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Meghan sent him the addresses for the two men before he had even boarded the Shinkansen. She had also sent directions on how to get from Hakata station in Fukuoka, where he would have to detrain, to the two addresses.

  The train ride to Hakata was two and a half hours. Zeb used that time to scan the list Meghan had sent.

  It had the details of high-profile daughters, starting with the president’s. Zeb skipped that line. It won’t be his daughters. No gang will go after them. Too risky.

  There followed the president’s cabinet, and then came a second and third level of officials. She had noted the names, ages, and what the daughters were currently doing. Next to each name was a comment. Last eyes-on. When the women had been seen last in public. Meghan could get that from social media feeds, or in many cases by calling the protection details.

  There were three names that had no recent eyes-on.

  Jessica Whitley, Cynthia Lusk, and Stacey Hayes. She had starred all three names. Whitley was the daughter of the American ambassador to Japan. Lusk’s father was the FBI Special Agent deployed in the Tokyo office. Stacey Hayes’s dad was the CIA station chief in Tokyo. All three were in Japan.