by David Liscio
“Let me leave it this way. I shall tell you something and if you find it both truthful and useful, then perhaps we shall talk again.”
Hannah smiled. “Please do.”
“I believe you are attempting to learn what has happened to two of your colleagues, and also to a man named Yoshi Yamamoto who evidently was their ally, or at least someone with whom they were conspiring.”
Mashima paused, as though awaiting a reaction. When none came, he continued. “I believe you are also interested in a young woman named Hiraku, the niece of Yoshi Yamamoto. Unfortunately she has not been seen for the past twelve days at The Lucky Carp, the casino and hotel in Garapan where Mr. Yamamoto is among the owners. Nor has she boarded a flight to Tokyo where she shares an apartment with her uncle when they are not on Saipan. We would know if she had.”
“This is a fascinating story,” said Hannah. “Sounds like this Hiraku has gone into hiding or else she has been abducted.”
“That is my presumption, although her fate by now could be far worse.”
Carrington affected a look of bemusement. “Why are you telling us all this?”
“Please, let’s not play games, Mr. Marson, if that is actually your name. Time may be of the essence.”
Hannah chimed in. “Have you tried to find her?”
“Of course, but Saipan is an island with many secrets. If certain people with power want her to remain hidden, it’s unlikely anyone searching for her will have success. The yakuza are feared because they live by a code of violence and do not hesitate to eliminate those they believe are their enemy.”
“Did you tell this story to the FBI?”
“I did. They were not interested. They only want to know who murdered Mikito Asaki, the yakuza boss whose body was thrown off Banzai Cliff. For them, it’s a homicide case and because Saipan is a U.S. protectorate, they’re here to solve it and make an arrest. Nothing more.”
“And you think we’re here for a different reason?”
“As you Americans say, I feel a vibe.”
“I’m Argentine,” Hannah said coyly. “Jake is American. Maybe it’s coming from him.”
Jake feigned offense. “You say that with such distain, Mariel.”
“Not at all, Jake. But apparently you do have that special vibe only Americans possess,” she said, kicking some sand at him with her bare foot.
Mashima blushed, realizing they were flirting with each other. He made a mental note and handed them his business card. “I’ll leave you in peace to enjoy such magnificent surroundings. Contact me anytime, night or day, if you wish.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” said Hannah. “If you’re interested in a hotel and beach vacation package in Buenos Aires, I’m your best source.”
Mashima smiled knowingly, again showing the handsome side of his face as he envisioned what sort of action he’d have to take if the pair caused trouble.
9
A Box of Rocks
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
March 1990
Detective Mashima and two CNMI officers stood facing the relentless wind at the top of Banzai Cliff. The spot was precisely where blood had been found that the local police and the FBI were convinced belonged to murder victim Mikito Asaki.
Mashima pointed at four cardboard boxes stacked near their police vehicle. “Put six heavy stones in each container,” he said with authority. “We want to make our packages heavy enough so that they drop straight down, like a body.”
The two uniformed police officers loaded the boxes with the largest stones they could carry and secured the lids with duct tape. Over the course of six hours they collected additional stones and dropped the boxes over the edge on Mashima’s command at 90-minute intervals.
The tide flowed slowly and persistently inward, until it nearly touched the third box where it had landed on the rocks. The box rested just above the wrack line, the natural mound of seaweed and flotsam deposited by the previous high tide. The forth and final box landed only inches from the water’s edge, though it was not yet high tide.
Mashima was pleased with the results of their field test. “This confirms Asaki’s body landed on the rocks and remained there until the tide rose,” the detective said. “On the morning of the murder, there was a high tide with a plus of two-and-a-half feet. That is when his body was washed out to sea, at approximately 10:55 a.m., when the tide was highest.”
Mashima needed the tidal information to establish a timeframe for the crime that would eliminate alibis when suspects were questioned. He was delighted that his forensic team had found blood atop the cliff along with tire tread tracks, but the crime lab was having difficulty saying for sure whether the blood was from a human, a dog, or a fish. Mashima knew any defense attorney would use that evidentiary weakness to great advantage.
10
A Night Out in Garapan
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
March 1990
Hannah and Carrington parked their rental car on the village outskirts and walked toward Garapan’s commercial strip — a few hotels, small casinos and tiki bars catering to tourists. They passed several local watering holes that were little more than half sheets of plywood laid across a pair of rusted 55-gallon steel drums, a rickety plastic shelf for the liquor bottles as a backdrop, and a galvanized tub filled with ice shaded by a tarp for the beer. A handful of restaurants, dive shops, beachfront surfboard rentals, and mom-and-pop grocery stores were spread out along the white coral street. The only visible marked police vehicle was parked in front of the JoeTen food market but no officers were inside it.
Hannah smiled at Carrington. “Sort of like Rodeo Drive, only different.”
“I think Tiffany is right around the corner. Or is it Van Cleef and Arpels?”
Hannah flashed a dazzling smile. “More likely Coconuts Are Us.”
The street was crowded with shoppers on foot and drivers on motorized scooters, forcing Hannah and Carrington to weave through the persistent prostitutes gathered in doorways. Several of the women reached for Carrington’s arm as they passed but he politely shrugged them off.
Hannah rolled her eyes. “Must be your cologne.”
“Oh, Ms. Becker. How can you so easily discount my animal magnetism?”
“Keep it in your pants, buster.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It didn’t take long to find The Lucky Carp, with its orange and blue neon sign and flashing marquis that appeared to have been liberated from a theater in New York City’s Times Square in the 1960s. Live Nude Girls. Sex Show Tonight. Tourists Welcome. Win Cash.
Hannah shook her head in disgust. “I thought this shit was illegal unless you’re in Vegas or Amsterdam.”
Carrington shrugged. “Garapan may be the G-string capital of the Pacific. The police overlook it for whatever reason. Undoubtedly there are perks involved. How do you say kickback in Chamorro?”
Seconds before they entered the casino, Hannah spotted a four-door sedan parked along the road shoulder where the streetlamp was dark. Two men in navy polo shirts slouched in the front seats, baseball caps partially covering their faces.
“Feebies,” she said, cocking her head toward the car. “So much for blending in.”
“Saw them. Maybe they’re waiting for a later show when the admission price goes down.”
“Let’s go inside and see if we can find somebody who will talk about Yoshi Yamamoto and his niece.”
Carrington held open the grimy door with a flourish. “After you, my island princess.” he said. “By the way, are we on a date?”
“Only a guy nicknamed Billybong would ask that.”
“I take it that’s a yes.”
Hannah glanced at the girls dancing topless in cages set high on pedestals along both sides of the room. She headed straight for the bar. The place shuddered with electronic dance music emanating from massive loudspeakers in every corner. Orbital’s Chime blasted out from the walls, followed by N
ew Order’s Blue Monday.
The dance floor was packed. The EDM crowd was mostly young Japanese women on holiday dancing with each other and in some cases with Japanese men of varying age. At least twenty locals – Carolinians and Chamorros – leaned against the far walls and sipped beer as they observed the tourists. Carrington lightly pressed a hand against Hannah’s back, which was fully exposed in her white linen dress. He ushered her to an open spot amid the dancers where they happily began moving to the beat. They danced for three songs, which consumed more than thirty minutes considering the EDM mix relied on extended tracks. Both were sweating when Hannah announced she’d had enough and needed a drink.
Tony, the beefy bartender, was an ethnic Chamorro — the indigenous people of the Marianas. He looked directly at Hannah and Carrington but didn’t ask what they’d like to drink.
Hannah flashed an engaging smile. “Two cold beers would be just fine. Something local.”
Without a word, Tony plunked two beaded bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the bar. Hannah slid a twenty from her purse, presuming correctly she would receive no change unless she made a point of it.
Carrington shamelessly studied her dress and the long, shapely legs that extended from beneath the hem. “You look spectacular. The last time I saw you in that dress, we were in Havana. And if I recall correctly, you didn’t keep it on for long.”
“You’re such a bad boy.”
“Maybe so. But I love you.”
When Clear by Cybotron began playing, Hannah grabbed Carrington’s hand and led him back to the dance floor. She loved to dance and was having fun. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him seductively as her hips writhed to the music.
After a few more songs, Hannah retreated to the restroom where two young Japanese women were holding up the head of a third who was vomiting into a toilet. Another woman with reddish hair, pink highlights and a freckled complexion ignored the goings on as she applied a fresh coat of lipstick while seated with her legs crossed on the edge of a sink. A skimpy halter and ruffled miniskirt that could have adorned the stage at a Cyndi Lauper concert left most of the redhead’s body uncovered. Hannah sensed the woman might be an ex-pat living on the island. She definitely wasn’t native. Her skin was milk white.
Hannah attempted to strike up a conversation. “Love the color. I usually go for bright red but I think the dark red works for you.”
The woman slid off the sink, batted down her fluffed mini skirt that quickly returned to its ruffled flare, and indulged in a protracted glance in the mirror. “Thanks. In case you hadn’t noticed, black or dark blue are big lipstick hits with the Japanese. But I think us Haole girls should stick to tradition.”
“Haole?”
“White girls.”
“Speaking of white girls, do you happen to know where I might find a Japanese-American girl named Hiraku?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Actually I was looking for her uncle Yoshi Yamamoto, who is a friend of a friend. I thought she might be able to tell me how to contact him.”
The punked-out woman pulled a slim paper packet from the waistband of her nylon pantyhose and laid out two lines of white power on the sink countertop. She rolled a twenty-dollar bill and snorted a line. “Second one is all yours. Best cocaine in the Pacific.” She handed the rolled bill to Hannah.
Without hesitating, Hannah snorted the line, feeling its impact as a rush between her eyes and a sudden sense of hyperawareness and energy.
“That’s very generous of you.”
Hannah was suddenly overcome by a pang of guilt after years of denouncing illegal drug use. Her mind flashed back to the sight of her teenage sister Rachel in the back of an ambulance.
The freckled woman tucked the slim packet back into its hiding place and thrust out a hand. “Krill. And yes, I know, it’s definitely a weird name. It was my father’s idea. He was a marine biologist fascinated by whales.”
Hannah responded with a contained smile and extended her hand. “Mariel. My mother’s idea. I have no idea why she chose it. Some days I like it, but other times it seems too French. I was told it means bitter, but I prefer not to think about it because I don’t feel that way.”
Both women laughed as they shook hands. Krill made direct eye contact with Hannah before she spoke. “Nobody has seen Yoshi for weeks. Sometimes he goes to Tokyo on business, but most days he’s here. Not sure what’s up.”
“What about his niece?”
“You must mean Hiraku. Beautiful girl, smart, and very kind. She often seems sad, but aren’t we all? Haven’t seen her either. Maybe they’re both in Tokyo. Yoshi always calls her his Little Peacock.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she has a beautiful tattoo of a peacock with lots of feathers. It’s one of Yoshi’s masterpieces. It covers her entire back and wraps around her shoulders and waist. I’ve never actually seen the whole design, though I’d love to, but I guess she’d have to be naked for that.”
Krill’s tone suggested she would be equally comfortable with a male or female sex partner. “People say Yoshi is the best tattoo artist in all of Japan, maybe in the whole world. His wealthy clients fly him thousands of miles just to touch up their designs or add new ones. They’re happy to pay whatever he asks.”
Hannah rubbed her nose as she listened with interest to Krill, hoping the woman would not begin asking questions about how the two knew each other.
“I’d heard he had become a true master. Do you have any tattoos?”
“Just one, and it wasn’t done by Yoshi,” said Krill, brashly lifting her skirt to reveal a delicately-inked pufferfish and next to it a red-and-blue feathered arrow. The arrow was aimed at the apex of her thighs. Beneath the shaft was the word Heaven in script.
Hannah wasn’t sure what to say so she simply nodded, as though a tattoo pointing the way to your vagina was in no way unusual.
“In my wilder days,” said Krill, by way of explanation, shaking her head slowly as though still stunned by that impulsive decision. “I thought Heaven was more tasteful than Meat Garage. What about you?”
Hannah burst out laughing. She appreciated Krill’s sense of humor. “None for me. Not yet, at least. But I have thought about it. Maybe a simple yin and yang, but I don’t know where I’d put it.”
“No special guy’s names?”
“Special guys, but no tattoos. Maybe it’s because I want to forget them. Tattoos would only lengthen the memories.”
“Well, if you decide to get one, wait until Yoshi comes back from wherever he has gone. You won’t regret it.”
Hannah sniffed repeatedly as the cocaine enlivened her nostrils, then glanced at her wristwatch, the Cartier she’d been given by an extraordinary man in her life, ex-Special Forces soldier, lover, and accomplished sniper Emmett Decker who as far as she knew was currently on a CIA mission in Iraq, Kuwait or Afghanistan. It seemed Decker was always in one of the world’s shit holes.
“I’d better be going. My friend will wonder what happened to me. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll stop by the casino again later in the week. Maybe Yoshi will be back by then.”
Hannah knew her chances of that happening were unlikely as she recalled Mashima’s words. Back in the bar, she ordered two more bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which she and Carrington carried out of the building and into the humid night. It was nearly eighty degrees despite the midnight hour. They strolled casually hand-in-hand for about twenty minutes until they reached Micro Beach where the surf splashed playfully against the soft sand. Carrington kicked off his Topsiders and tossed his shirt, trousers and underwear atop them. Hannah followed, leaving her clothing behind as they frolicked in the gentle waves. Feeling buzzed by the cocaine and beer, she wound her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, sighing as he entered her. She tried not to think about sharks.
Through his night-vision binoculars, Mashima watched them from behind a sand dune, feeling a pang of envy and a hint of anger. He neede
d to be sure they were CIA and not just tourists on holiday. He concluded they, in some ways, were both. If they proved disruptive, Mashima thought he might be forced to kill them and bury their bodies in the sand where the crabs roamed in uncountable numbers.
11
Searching for Little Peacock
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
March 1990
Detective Mashima relentlessly pursued his underworld contacts in an attempt to find out where Hiraku was being held captive or perhaps buried. He was reluctant to entertain the latter possibility. Although he never had been introduced to the young woman, he recalled seeing her on many occasions accompanied by her uncle and thinking she was remarkably beautiful.
Homicide detectives in Tokyo confirmed to Mashima they were looking into rumors that two CIA officers were slain by Tanaka’s men, their bodies taken to shark-infested waters, chopped to pieces, and tossed overboard.
As a professional courtesy, the detectives told Mashima the vehicle in which the CIA officers were last seen was a Chevrolet Blazer, reported stolen from Narita Airport. A paid informant had told them he saw what looked like a man and woman hot-wiring the ignition and speeding away from an airport parking garage. The detectives assumed the informant’s observation was about fifty percent accurate, maybe less.
Learning that two agents had disappeared was a new and painful experience for Stuart Ashwood, the CIA’s deputy director of operations. Tip-toeing his way through State Department protocols in an effort not to ruffle political feathers, Ashwood sent a forensic team to closely examine the SUV where it was abandoned in the Ginza. The vehicle had been hot-wired, but no useful evidence was recovered.
Mashima suspected there was more to the story but he didn’t pressure the Tokyo detectives. The yakuza had many connections within Tokyo’s prefectural police force as well as the Criminal Affairs Bureau.
