The Bride's Kimono

by Sujata Massey

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “So, how was she killed?”

  “I can’t tell you that until the investigation’s complete.”

  “Oh. I was just wondering if she was killed in the Dumpster—or killed somewhere else, then brought there.” What I needed to understand, though I didn’t have the guts to say it, was whether there was a psychotic American serial killer stalking the hotel, in which case I would be getting myself, and my parents, out posthaste.

  “Let’s talk in person,” Detective Harris said, which made me all the more nervous. It had to be really bad, if he wouldn’t tell me over the telephone. “I can give you directions to the county police headquarters. It’s about fifteen minutes away.”

  I went to my father’s room to tell him the situation.

  “May I come with you?” he asked immediately. “I haven’t eaten yet. Maybe we can do that together.”

  “What about Indian food?” I was thinking about the plainest vegetarian dishes—rice, a bit of green peas, maybe some potatoes. I needed carbohydrates.

  Our Nigerian cabdriver had grown up eating Indian food, and he recommended a south Indian vegetarian place on Chain Bridge Road, Fairfax City’s main drag. From there, we could walk a couple of blocks to the police headquarters.

  “I’m surprised you know where it is,” I said to the driver.

  “Oh, it is the largest building in the town. Fourteen stories high.”

  That didn’t sound very tall by either Japanese or American standards, but when I saw the height of the building compared with the rest of Fairfax City, I understood what the driver meant. Fairfax was tiny, from the narrowness of Chain Bridge Road to the diminutive brick row houses that lined either side. It was a pretty little town loaded with small shops that I was sure my mother would have loved.

  I paid for the cab. My father had offered, but I told him to take me to lunch instead. The food was fair—more authentic than Tokyo, but not bursting with the flavors of the Indian food I’d tasted in Singapore. Over dosa stuffed with potato curry and idli, we talked about how nice it would be one day to taste the real thing in its country of origin.

  After lunch, it was a short walk across the road to police headquarters. The building’s receptionist, an unsmiling young woman in a police uniform, asked to see ID from both of us after we’d passed through the metal detector. I opened my wallet and pulled out a few cards before realizing I had nothing. “My passport was stolen,” I said. “Actually, that’s the reason I’m here.”

  “No driver’s license?” She seemed disapproving.

  “It’s at the hotel.” I didn’t mention that it was an international one—that would probably not have pleased her.

  “Here, write down my license number for both of us. We’re a family unit.” My father smiled and held out his California license.

  The woman must have caught my father’s light accent, because she asked, “What country were you born in?”

  I stiffened, as I always did when people tried to single us out.

  “Japan,” my father said. “But I have lived here for many years.”

  “She’s from Japan, too?”

  “No,” I said briskly. “I’m an American citizen. Now, can I show you a social security card or credit card?”

  After having me write down my social security number, the guard finally allowed us to take the elevator to the eighth floor. A set of locked glass doors faced us now. Inside them was a police officer, who pressed a code that allowed us to open the doors. It was all very secure. When I’d visited the police in Japan, it had been just like walking into a post office. This place, with its warren of cubicles, each with a computer terminal, and dull beige carpeting was more like a corporate office than my image of a police station.

  Detective Harris came out to meet me. I noticed he didn’t look happy to see my father. “Who’re you?” he asked bluntly.

  I was sick of the curtness of American officials, so I decided to inject a little civility. “Detective Harris, please meet my father, Dr. Toshiro Shimura.”

  “How do you do,” my father began, but he was interrupted.

  “What we’re going to discuss with your daughter today is serious. You might not be comfortable hearing it.”

  “I’ve done forensic psychiatry, so not much can shock me,” my father replied politely.

  “Yes, he’s pretty tough,” I said.

  The detective gave me a long look. “Let’s get out of the hallway and into a conference room, where we can begin the formal discussion. My boss and some of the people from vice and narcotics will be joining us there.”

  Vice and narcotics. Maybe they thought Hana had been killed by a drug dealer. I felt the fear inside me melt into shock. I wouldn’t have thought Hana would buy drugs, but she had been a curious person. Maybe she’d taken a risk, just so she’d have another wild memory before her wedding.

  “Oh, good! A real police experience,” my father said, rubbing his hands together.

  Detective Harris snorted. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

  There were three other men and one woman in the room dominated by a long fake conference table. There was also a tall stand holding a television, with a video-cassette recorder. I wondered if things were so quiet around Northern Virginia that they watched movies on the job.

  “Miss Shimura’s here,” Detective Harris announced as we walked in.

  “Ooh. Well, look at her today,” drawled a man wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots, feet crossed and up on the conference table. I flinched, because showing the undersides of one’s feet was a very disrespectful act in Japan and a number of other Asian countries. I wondered whether my father was thinking the same.

  “You her lawyer?” a second man asked, looking at my father’s socks and sandals with a quizzical expression.

  “Oh, no. I’m her father—”

  “Her father! You’ve got to be kidding,” said the only woman, whom I now recognized as Lily Garcia from the previous night. She seemed rowdier. I wondered whether it was because of peer pressure.

  “So, this is your sugar daddy! Nice sweater,” the cowboy said.

  I was beginning to think maybe I should have brought a lawyer. No, Hugh was the wrong sort; his experience was with contracts, not police. I looked at my father and said quietly in Japanese, “They’re being so rude. Would you like to sit out in the reception area?”

  “Absolutely not,” my father said in English. “I want to make sure you’re all right.”

  We settled down in two chairs next to each other, and I gave my father’s hand a quick squeeze.

  “Okay, now that we’re assembled, let’s get started. Mind if we tape this?” Detective Harris asked.

  “Go ahead,” I said, thinking if I protested, the police group would have mocked me even more.

  “Miss Shimura, I want to reinforce to you that my goal, as detective in charge of this case, is to identify the victim and apprehend a suspect as quickly as possible,” Harris said.

  I nodded. He had something up his sleeve, I sensed.

  “However, it looks as if the case might not be a simple matter of a tourist death. I’m hoping that you’ll be very honest with us today.”

  “Of course I’ll be honest,” I said. “I feel terrible that I didn’t talk to you earlier, when Hana might still have been alive. I’ll try to think of anything and everything that could be of significance.”

  “Miss Shimura, are you sure that you want your father to be present?” Detective Harris asked again.

  “Of course. Just because he was born in a foreign country doesn’t mean he can’t handle hard facts. As he told you before, he’s a psychiatrist who has had experience with criminals.”

  “All right, all right. I won’t beat around the bush,” the detective said, sounding grim.

  All of a sudden the people around the table were laughing hysterically. I exchanged glances with my father. This kind of behavior was very different from the sober Japanese police force I
knew. Now I could understand the reason far fewer criminals were convicted in the United States than in Japan. The American cops were simply too busy laughing.

  Detective Harris was snickering, too. “I’m sorry, it was a poor word choice. Seriously, folks, let’s quiet down so Miss Shimura can hear the charges and respond. We’re not going to get anything on tape this way.”

  “Charges,” I said, feeling faint. “How could you charge me with anything?”

  “At this point it’s just a conversation. We want to hear what you have to say about your other job—the one that you never mentioned last night.”

  “Oh? Well, I guess there are so many things I’ve done to make a living for the last few years that I didn’t tell you them all. I thought the situation with the death, and the theft of the kimono, was more important.”

  “Would you tell about your other jobs now?” the detective asked.

  “Sure. I have a small business exporting Japanese antiques to California, and I write occasional articles on arts and antiques. In case you’re wondering, I declare my income and pay taxes to the U.S. government on everything I do.”

  “But I don’t suppose,” the detective said, “you pay taxes on your income as a prostitute?”

  20

  “A prostitute?” I exhaled sharply. “You suspect that’s one of my jobs?”

  “Your main job,” Detective Harris said evenly. “We aren’t such country bumpkins that we don’t know what a big-money industry prostitution is in Japan. What I wonder is whether you’re here as a solo sex worker or as a representative of an organized-crime organization.”

  “This is absolutely crazy!” my father interrupted. “You cannot speak to my daughter that way. I want to make a complaint to a supervisor—”

  “I’m the head of vice and narcotics.” Cowboy raised a languid hand. “It seems to me that Detective Harris is doing a good interview. The dead Asian lady, whoever she may turn out to be, had engaged in sexual intercourse shortly before the time of death. Miss Shimura volunteered the information that she had a close friendship with this woman. Therefore, we suspect they both did the same kind of work.”

  “I didn’t hear a Miranda warning, you didn’t ask my daughter if she wanted a lawyer—” my father thundered on.

  “She’s not being arrested, okay?” Cowboy said. “As the detective said, this is just a conversation. An information-gathering experience. The more your daughter helps us, the easier it will be.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I said. “Yesterday, I went out to give a lecture at a museum. I came home on the Metro, learned that I was supposed to be dead, and I telephoned you to correct the misinformation. I’d never have called you if I knew you planned to frame me and poor Hana for something so obscene!”

  “Ah, here’s the first bit of your story that’s lining up with ours. You rode the Metro.” Cowboy’s eyes rested on me. “Did you ever ride.”

  Suddenly I knew. My private moments in an empty train car with Hugh had somehow been witnessed—and misunderstood. I could explain my way out of it, but I didn’t want to do it in front of my father.

  I looked directly at my father and spoke to him again in Japanese. “It’s not what you think. But I’d prefer to talk to them alone.”

  “Rei. Oh, my God.” My father put his head in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking.

  “I’m just going to find a place for my father to rest,” I said, standing up and taking him by the arm. “I’ll explain to you later,” I said in Japanese. “It’s not as bad as it seems—just a little bit embarrassing.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Lily Garcia said, as if I was going to try to escape. I gave her a withering look, but it didn’t do a bit of damage.

  “No, Rei, let me go alone. I’ll wait for you outside the building,” my father croaked.

  When my father had gone, I sat down again. The loss of my father didn’t make me feel any calmer. Knowing that my voice was shaking, I began to speak.

  “I’ll tell you what happened. Yesterday evening, I rode the Metro with a close friend. We kissed and hugged each other. We thought the train compartment was empty. I don’t know who could have seen us, but we certainly didn’t mean to offend anyone.”

  “You’re right that nobody was in the train compartment. We found out what happened from videotape provided by the Metro police,” Detective Harris said. “They’ve occasionally been using cameras on routes that have trouble spots. Officer Garcia, whom you met yesterday evening, reviewed the tape when it came in, so she recognized your face. Since then, she’s done a thorough analysis of potential crimes committed by you and the john and brought it to the attention of vice and narcotics. Good work, Garcia.”

  “Thank you,” she said gruffly, and I could see how much the praise meant to her.

  “I heard Virginia was a conservative state, but it’s simply outrageous that two people can’t kiss on a train without being called in by the police,” I protested.

  “Well, Ms. Shimura, you did a hell of a lot more than kissing. We’ve got a recorded image of you taking your payment up front from the client, followed by a discussion of what service you’d provide, followed by your performance of said service, followed by the two of you dressing and leaving the train at Woodbridge Station.”

  “I did none of those things!”

  “Let’s run the tape,” one of the cops at the table said. “The guys in vice said it’s pretty damn hot.”

  Lily Garcia worked the VCR controls, fast-forwarding through the teenagers boarding the car at Metro Center. I couldn’t even see myself, the car was so full of teenagers. There was no sound to accompany the video, but I clearly remembered the music that had been playing.

  “Those teenagers are the ones you should be after, not me. They were playing a boom box really loudly. Nine Inch Nails. It was a real assault on the ears—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Playing audible electronic equipment carries a two-hundred-dollar fine. Now, prostitution…that gets you up to a year in jail, a twenty-five-hundred-dollar fine, or both.”

  I watched the kids leaving the train compartment at Rosslyn. Now the camera, which had to have been mounted fairly high, and close to the back of the car, showed the train compartment with just Hugh and me in it. I was sitting on one side of the compartment, Hugh in a row across the aisle.

  A minute passed very slowly. I saw, for the first time, how Hugh gazed at me for a while before he said anything. Then I saw his hand holding up two bills.

  “It was left over from the money I lent him for a fare card. Just two dollars,” I added.

  “Oh, yeah? Since when do Japanese girls lend money to male American strangers?” the vice and narcotics chief in cowboy boots asked.

  “He’s not a stranger to me,” I said stiffly. I decided not to correct the misinterpretation of Hugh’s nationality, or give his name. The last thing I wanted was for Hugh to be hauled in. I could predict what would happen; his law career would fall apart, and he’d be thrown off the advisory committee at the museum. Not to mention that he was at risk for jail time—just as I was.

  The video continued, and I watched myself turn around to look at Hugh beckoning me to take the money. It was clear that I’d refused the money at first. Then I walked slowly down the aisle, holding the edges of the seats for balance as I went. Officer Garcia froze the screen on an image of me sitting down next to Hugh and tucking the money in my obi.

  “There you see it. Ms. Shimura accepts payment from john. The next thing we’re going to see is their discussion of the terms of the service to be performed.”

  At this point all one could see were the backs of our heads, though occasionally Hugh’s beautiful beaky nose showed as he turned to face me, all the while talking earnestly. I remembered that we’d been discussing how terrible it would be for my career to report the loss of the kimono to the Morioka Museum. Then I watched with a sinking feeling as Hugh began fiddling with my kimono sleeves, working his way up into the kimono until our bodies wer
e pressed tightly together. Officer Garcia fast-forwarded through the short, unhappy conversation I’d had with Hugh about Takeo, to the time when I lost control, climbed on Hugh’s lap, and yelled at him just before he kissed me.

  The camera had caught only the back of Hugh’s head and his shoulders, but it showed my face and upper body well. I had to admit that I was moving against Hugh in a way that was erotic. The ecstatic expression on my face added to the illusion that we were doing something X-rated. I knew that I should feel sickened, but the sight of Hugh and me so deeply involved was fascinating. Had I really reacted so strongly to him? I could see my lips moving, speaking to Hugh. I now remembered what I’d been saying.

  The scene ended with the videotaped image of me in tears—you could tell from the slow river of mascara running down one cheek. By this point I did not look anything like the fancily dressed young miss who had gone off to give a museum lecture in a formal kimono. I looked like someone who’d been through a war.

  Hugh and I got to our feet. I watched as I tried desperately to smooth the lower half of my kimono, which had loosened, and Hugh buckled his belt. After we left the train compartment, Lily Garcia put the video on pause. There was a smattering of applause.

  “Our very own Emmy Award nominee for prime-time drama.” The cowboy vice chief grinned and said, “If you don’t mind my saying, it looks like you really enjoy your work.”

  “I do mind you saying, and it most certainly was not work. You’re like a bunch of Peeping Toms, watching me with a man I care about strongly. And there’s no way you can possibly argue that it’s sex, because you didn’t see a single exposed body part! If I’m guilty of anything, it was poor judgment about sitting next to someone I find very hard to resist.”

  “Awesome speech,” Cowboy commented with a grin that revealed a gold tooth. “Still, I don’t believe a word. Does anyone here?”

  Everyone shook their head.