Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  “Sorry for intruding. I wanted to let you know the four men who were arrested, not all of them are guilty of crimes, and certainly not of murder. I’m not convinced any of them killed Mikito Asaki.”

  Hannah invited Mashima into the hotel room. “Please have a seat on that lovely couch,” she said sarcastically, calling attention to the gaudy fabric pattern and numerous cigarette burns in the upholstery.

  “I try not to notice such things, but being a detective, sometimes they’re hard to overlook,” he said.

  Shedding his surfer-boy act, Carrington went straight to the point. “So, detective, why are you here?”

  “Because the FBI does not care about motive, only arrests.”

  Hannah arched her eyebrows. “What about the motive?”

  “The FBI has attributed Asaki’s murder to underworld rivalries. That’s the term used in court. A generalization. No further explanation, most likely because no more information was available. The news media, eager for a story, is often willing to accept such generalizations, as is the public.”

  It was muggy in the room despite the sea breeze coming through the balcony’s sliding door. Hannah poured a glass of bottled water for herself and offered one to Mashima who gladly accepted. Fresh drinking water was scarce on Saipan.

  “I believe Orochi Tanaka was convinced that his business partner, Asaki, was stealing from him, which may be true,” said Mashima, who reluctantly brushed what appeared to be breadcrumbs and cat hair off the upholstery before sitting on the dilapidated couch. “We know that billions of dollars in drug sales have been laundered by Tanaka and his associates over the past few years. We also know The Lucky Carp casino is among the businesses used for that purpose, although we cannot prove it.”

  Carrington nodded, as though accepting the possibility. “So what you’re saying is, for some petty thievery, they threw this guy Asaki off Banzai Cliff? No option to repay the debt over time? What about loan sharks? Certainly the yakuza have a few of those. Wouldn’t it have been wiser to let him live and eventually get the money back on the installment plan?”

  “You do not understand the yakuza. Not everything is about money. Asaki dishonored Tanaka and that cost him his life. And it was not petty thievery as you suggest. The amount was far greater — one hundred million stolen by Asaki, possibly more.”

  “And what about Yoshi Yamamoto? You seem to think the yakuza erased him as well?”

  “Same situation — a matter of dishonor for the Ichiwa Kai – the crime family to which Tanaka swears allegiance. Only the Yamaguchi-gumi family is larger, and the news of Yamamoto’s death will spread quickly among its members, so that Tanaka may hold his head high. Such action shows Tanaka will not tolerate his own soldiers stealing from him. If he did, all order would be lost. In my opinion, the large amount stolen also played a role in Tanaka’s decision to eliminate Yoshi.”

  “So now the FBI can go home, satisfied they have done their job,” Hannah hissed.

  Mashima looked down at his shoes. “That’s correct. Now the real work begins. We must find Yoshi and Hiraku, although we may be too late. Lt. Brick, an American police lieutenant assigned here because he has had much success in cracking down on drug dealers back in the States, may also be of assistance. I know he would be willing to help. He’s not here looking for glory, so he would keep things confidential.”

  Carrington eyed Mashima warily. “We? Us?”

  “If we work together, even if Yoshi has been eliminated, maybe we can still save Hiraku.”

  “I’m all right with that,” said Hannah. “Where do you think she is?”

  “Somewhere here on Saipan. My first guess would be Tanaka’s house, but getting inside would be nearly impossible. He has dozens of guards and the place is wired with alarms. But we need to know what Tanaka is thinking. We need somebody close to him,” said Mashima, staring oddly at Hannah.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Orochi Tanaka is a womanizer. He prefers tall, young, beautiful blondes, not unlike you,” he said, embarrassed by his own words and observation.

  Carrington abruptly stood and held out a hand like a traffic cop. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you trying to suggest we bait Tanaka with Hannah? Dangle her in front of him like some piece of meat?”

  “That is exactly what I am saying, though not in those precise words,” said Mashima. “I think in your spy vernacular it is referred to as a honey trap.”

  16

  The Evidence is Missing

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  The sight of thousands of dollars in small denomination U.S. currency – some of the bills soiled, wrinkled or torn, but all neatly stacked and banded in a cardboard box — stirred the blood of CNMI Police Sgt. Alfred Torres. He set the box on a storage shelf in the department’s evidence locker cage. Before closing the lid, he pressed both hands atop the bills and ran his fingers across them, imagining what he’d do if the money were his to spend. He envisioned a lovely fishing skiff, painted bright red, with a shiny Honda outboard engine hanging from the transom. He saw every line of the skiff. It was hauled up on the sand of Micro Beach, and next to it was a brand new pickup with crew cab, raised suspension and brush guards on the grille. As his mind wandered and his imagination soared, he saw the swimming pool behind his modest home. It was surrounded by comfortable patio furniture just like his wife was always daydreaming about, and the laughter of his children could be heard above the splashing. Haves and have-nots, he thought. It just doesn’t seem fair. Everywhere he looked, the Japanese seemed to have it all, at least those who had visited his island over the past two decades with bundles of cash, ready to long-term lease the beaches and build their luxury high-rise hotels, while he worked six days a week as a low-paid cop, struggling to feed, shelter, and clothe his family.

  As midnight approached and the sergeant’s work shift neared completion, he took the box from the shelf and opened it. His first instinct was to grab a thick wad of bills, whatever he could clamp in one hand, and return the box to the shelf. But once the stack was in hand, the temptation to take another was too great. He grabbed a second, enjoying the weight, feel, and smell of it.

  For what may have been a half hour or more he sat at the steel table holding the two stacks, one in each hand, his eyes closed, his mind awhirl in a wondrous purchasing spree. New bicycles for his children. Fashionable dresses for his oldest daughter. A state-of-the-art satellite dish that would allow him to watch his favorite sports on a brand-new large-screen television set. And for his wife, a set of fine china to impress dinner guests, and new livingroom furniture upon which no sharp springs threatened to impale anyone adventurous enough to sit.

  Abruptly he stood and tossed both stacks into the box, pushed them down atop the others, neatly pressed the lid closed and carried it to his truck. He imagined blindly that nobody would miss the cash, not even the judge who had announced in court that the confiscated drug money would be used to help pay for police security details at the airport. If the money were actually used for that purpose, just about every CNMI police officer on Saipan would have benefitted from the overtime.

  The sergeant began whistling a favorite tune as he drove home with the box of cash on the front seat. About half way to his destination he pulled a sudden U-turn on the narrow coral road and headed for Round Two, the casino hotel in Garapan a 10-minute drive from his desk at the Susupe police station.

  The electronic video poker machines and roulette tables were in full swing, the place a cacophony of light and sound, brimming with tourists and locals drinking, eating and celebrating — or, more often than not, cursing their lack of good fortune.

  Torres nodded to the CNMI patrolman working a security detail at the front door but didn’t stop to make small talk. He was determined to double the amount of money in the cardboard box before the night was through, thinking he would keep his winnings and return the borrowed amount to the police evidence
locker before anyone knew it was missing.

  Torres was $7,000 down at Round Two when he decided to try his luck elsewhere. With three beers and a shot of tequila in his belly and $29,000 in cash in his pockets, he steered the short distance along the beach road to The Lucky Carp. The voice in his head wouldn’t be silenced. It’s a setback, but I can still make this happen. I’m feeling lucky. And when my wife sees all the money I’ve won, she’s going to be happier than she has ever been in her whole life.

  Tony was stacking cases of Budweiser beer behind the bar. The massive Chamorro crossed his arms over his chest and locked his eyes on the police sergeant. “You still on the clock?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re in uniform.”

  At that moment, Torres realized he had been so preoccupied with getting to the casinos he’d overlooked his appearance. “Thought I had a change of clothes at the station, but I guess I left them at home.”

  Tony was about the same size as the police officer, maybe a tad larger but far more muscular. “You want a t-shirt? XXL from the Surf Shack?”

  “That’ll work fine. Don’t want your customers to get nervous having some local cop around when they’re trying to score some blow.”

  “And I don’t want you to lose your stripes because somebody reports that you were gambling in uniform.”

  Tony tossed the florescent green t-shirt across the bar and Torres caught it. Walking toward the men’s bathroom he turned around briefly. “I owe you.”

  Although he still wore his striped uniform trousers and duty boots, the t-shirt made him less conspicuous as he sat amid the video poker machines and roulette tables.

  Krill was seated at the bar, her skirt carelessly hiked and exposing most of her thighs when the sergeant entered the room wearing the shirt.

  “Woo-hoo. Look at that t-top. Hey, surf’s up, Alfred.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Krill.”

  “I like the style. Really I do.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s because I look just like one of your blond surfer boys.”

  “You should lighten up, Alfred. Besides, I don’t fuck surfer dudes.”

  “What you see before you is Alfred lightened up. You going to get me a cold beer or are you going to leave it up to Tony now that you’re night manager?”

  “It’s just a job title.”

  “Well, I hope Tanaka pays you something for it.”

  Krill set a beaded bottle of Budweiser on the bar. “It’s on me.”

  “Thanks, Krill. I’m going to hit the machines for a while.”

  “Good luck, Alfred.”

  17

  Tanaka’s Rage

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  Tanaka fumed when he heard through his informants that $36,000 was seized during the police raid in Tanapag. It was his money earned from the sale of pot grown in his fields, using his water on an island where fresh water was a precious commodity. The cash should have been in his casino safe by the end of the week, not buried in the ground under some farmer’s goat shed. But the men hired to oversee the harvest were simple farmers and had been in no hurry to deliver the cash to Tanaka. Now it was in police custody. The yakuza boss cursed aloud. “Idiots. This is an island of idiots!”

  Tanaka’s mood worsened upon learning that the cash, which had been stored in an evidence locker at the police station, was already missing. Every last dollar had disappeared, or was misplaced.

  As soon as Mashima picked up the receiver on his desk phone and identified himself, Tanaka launched into a tirade in Japanese.

  “Detective, my name is Orochi Tanaka.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Is it true that the money seized during your drug raid in Tanapag has been stolen from the police evidence room?”

  Mashima had already monitored the police station gossip. The officer in charge of the evidence locker was an inveterate gambler.

  “I know nothing about any missing evidence, Mr. Tanaka. And if I did, I would not be at liberty to share that information with you.”

  “But surely you can tell me if such a theft has occurred.”

  “What makes you so interested?”

  “I run a casino where lots of cash changes hands. I want to make sure it’s safe to do so. Or should I be concerned that someone might attempt to steal it, maybe even a police officer.”

  “We do everything in our power to provide a safe environment for the residents of Saipan and those who conduct business here,” said Mashima, knowing his reply sounded like something being read from a training brochure on community policing.

  “So you’ll tell me nothing?”

  “If a theft has occurred, it’s a police matter. If you’d like to report a crime, I’d be glad to take down the information.”

  Tanaka resumed his cursing as he slammed the phone into its cradle. He vowed to find out who stole the cash from police headquarters. “I swear on my mother’s soul the cops will pay for this.”

  Sgt. Torres considered calling in sick the following morning, but he sensed that would only make matters worse. As things stood, he would act surprised when informed of the theft. He would swear the money was secured in the evidence locker when he left the building for the night and must have been stolen sometime before dawn, by someone familiar with the building and police procedures.

  Detective Mashima was already waiting for Torres when the sergeant walked into the police station ready to start his shift.

  “You’re up early.”

  “We need to talk, Alfred.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The money that’s missing from the evidence locker.”

  “Money? Missing?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Alfred. The $36,000 seized during the Tanapag raid is gone, and you were the officer in charge of the evidence. So where is it?”

  The sergeant acted offended, as though he had been deeply insulted. “If there’s anything missing from the evidence room, I’ll look into it and find out who took it.”

  Mashima stared at the sergeant. “I think you took it, Alfred.”

  “Fuck you, Mashima.”

  “You should probably get yourself a lawyer.”

  “What are you saying? Are you accusing me? You want to arrest me?”

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  Torres moved past the detective, knocking him with his shoulder. “Excuse me. I have to get to work.”

  “Alfred.”

  The sergeant stopped but didn’t turn around. “Unless you have some kind of proof that it was me who took the money, I suggest we end this conversation.”

  “We’re going to do a lot more talking – today, Alfred. The chief has already authorized a lie-detector test and he wants you to take it.”

  “Never going to happen. The chief is my cousin.”

  Shortly before noon, Detective Mashima informed Torres he was being placed on administrative leave pending the outcome of the theft investigation.

  “You can’t do this, Mashima.”

  “I just did.”

  “I’m not leaving the building.”

  “Then you’ll be arrested for trespassing.”

  “Is that the Japanese half of you talking? You’ve never been one of us.”

  Mashima remained expressionless. “Alfred, you refused to take a lie detector test. That alone could be grounds for termination, but for now, as a courtesy to you, we’re letting it slide. Now please gather your belongings and go home.”

  Torres lunged at the detective who agilely stepped out of harm’s way before delivering a precise open-hand chop to the back of the sergeant’s neck. The blow sent the sergeant crashing to the floor but he quickly rose to his knees and attempted to stand. Two uniformed police officers grabbed his arms. Torres fought back, struggling to break their
grip. Mashima joined the fray and soon the massive sergeant was face down on the floor. Although it was unnecessary, Mashima handcuffed the agitated sergeant to make a point that he meant business.

  “Alfred Torres, you’re under arrest for assault and battery on a police officer, for resisting arrest, and for the alleged theft of police property.”

  The big man looked strong enough to break the handcuffs as he rose to his feet, his arms still restrained by the uniformed officers.

  “I’ll get you for this, Mashima, you Jap bastard.”

  Mashima showed no outward sign of emotion, but deep inside he was filled with rage aimed at the irresponsible sergeant who had tainted the police department.

  During the night, a cup of urine was poured on the prisoner as he slept. A tray of food lay untouched on the floor of his cell out of fear it might contain poison or been otherwise tampered with.

  Less than twenty-four hours later Torres was in front of a judge in Garapan, where the defendant was released on his own recognizance.

  The judge was not pleased with the prosecutor. As he put it, “There’s not enough evidence to support the allegation of theft, and if this man had not been accused, there would have been no scuffle at the police station, and therefore no assault and battery.”

  A pre-trial conference was scheduled for mid-April, until which time Torres would remain on paid administrative leave unless the case was resolved sooner.

  18

  Akumu’s Prey

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  After retrieving his battered pickup from the police station parking lot, Sgt. Torres drove slowly, not wanting to give his law enforcement colleagues any reason to conduct a traffic stop and lure him into an altercation. Akumu tailed the sergeant’s truck along Beach Road and into the Joeten Supermarket parking lot. She waited in her small Datsun station wagon until he emerged carrying a twelve-pack of Budweiser bottles, a handle of tequila and a bag filled with snacks. He hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours and his stomach was rumbling loudly.