by Barry Lancet
“Can I claim ‘need to know’?”
“Don’t you dare. How did it happen?”
“The first lady and Sharon Tanaka were at college together.”
Rie folded her arms. “And?”
I sighed. Dating a TPD officer was harder than it should be. “Stays between the two of us?”
“Of course it does.”
“And if your superior should question you?”
“I will keep your secret.”
“As I am trying to do right now.”
“But I do not have a relationship with my boss. I have one with you.”
“I’m not sure that qualifies as a—”
“It does.”
Short and abrupt and allowing no argument. Rie had earned insider’s rights, I suppose. She’d found pivotal clues in my last two cases, one involving a ninety-six-year-old World War Two veteran in Tokyo, the other an elusive killer working both sides of the Pacific. Had we spent more time together since my arrival in Japan, it would have spilled out naturally—with a confidentiality clause attached.
“All right,” I said. “But you cannot tell anyone. Brothers, father, uncle—”
“Of course not.”
“—cop buddies. Men, women, Martians.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Okay, fine,” I said and brought her fully into the loop.
Once I filled in the gaps, Rie dropped into thought. I could see her engaged with the facts. Ordering and reordering them. Slotting them into one place then another. I watched a range of emotions roll across her face like cloud shadow passing over a field.
Eventually her eyes swung up to find mine. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but, considering all that has happened, you don’t have much, do you?”
I nodded unhappily. “Crumbs. But under them is a secret.”
“With Homeland Security, Chinese spies, and the PSIA involved, it must be a big one.”
“I’m coming around to that opinion too.”
“Secret agencies are stingy with their facts by habit, so scraps are all any of us ever get. Even the Tokyo PD.”
Her comment gave me an idea. “What if we make an end run around the first two?”
“What do you mean?”
“A back door.”
Rie pulled the sheet tighter around her. “Go on.”
“Noda’s bumping heads with his PSIA friend, as I told you. But it’s a big organization. Think your PSIA guy would talk to us? As a personal favor? We might get a jump on what Swelley is up to. He’s leading the charge.”
Rie’s eyes hollowed out. “Covert badges are tricky.”
“Can you try?”
Rie chewed on her lower lip. “For you, I’ll ask. But it’ll be a personal back door, not professional, so I can’t go with you. If I arrange a meeting, promise you’ll take Noda . . . for protection.”
What was that about? I wanted to ask, but since I’d all but dragged her this far, I held back.
“Fair enough,” I said.
“Unless there’s another way . . .”
“I can’t think of one.”
Rie nodded. An uneasy reluctance sullied the air between us, and only later would I recall it.
CHAPTER 37
JIRO Jo and I first clashed in my antiques shop in San Francisco, during the Japantown case.
The Korean had a dark, round meaty face with flaring cheekbones and short black hair. His eyes glistened with intelligence. His shoulders were broad, his muscles were firm, and his overall demeanor spoke of speed and strength. At six-four and with 240 pounds hanging on long, thick bones, he was a great wall of a man. In fact, “Great Wall” became my nickname for him. Other than his size, there was nothing excessive about him, which signaled trouble. There was not even an inflated ego to use against him.
He had accompanied a Japanese billionaire businessman named Katsuyuki Hara, who was weighing the idea of hiring me for a job. It turned out Jiro Jo was an integral part of the interview process . . .
The billionaire had moved his chin maybe a half a millimeter, and the Great Wall charged.
Anticipating the move, I preempted his attack, brushing his rising hands away with a forearm sweep and plowing the heel of my other hand into his nose but pulling back enough to keep the breathing apparatus from turning to pulp. Anything less and he would have trampled me. The Wall staggered sideways and grabbed for his face. I connected with a knee kick to the stomach, eschewing the more damaging targets above and below. He went down.
Hara stared at the immobile form at his feet.
I said, “A little less bulk, he’d make a nice doormat.”
The businessman raised his eyes to mine, his expression empty of mirth, anger, or any other emotion. “The Sony people recommended your firm. Highly. I guess it hasn’t slipped any.”
“Guess not.”
Our second encounter started the ball rolling downhill.
Jo had said, “I underestimated you the first time.”
“I know.”
“An art dealer. Dropped my guard.”
“By a fraction.”
“Won’t happen again.”
“I know that too.”
We’d both been ignorant of the other. Turned out Jo topped the list of bodyguards in Japan. I’d outfoxed him once but a repeat performance was unlikely without absorbing a tall measure of pain. We left it at an uneasy standoff to be settled another time.
It looked like the time had arrived.
* * *
First thing in the morning, Noda and I ambled into the offices of Tokyo VIP Security, Jiro Jo’s employer, and informed the receptionist we had come to visit the big man, then looped around her desk without waiting for a reply.
Noda threaded his way through islands of desks. I followed in his wake. Behind us, I heard the receptionist scramble for her phone to announce our arrival. In places, the walls were plastered with wanted posters and large colorful recruitment notices for the Tokyo PD, a display meant to curry favor with the neighborhood badges. I wondered if such an obvious ploy actually worked.
“Nice place,” I said. “The décor’s thematic.”
Noda grunted without interest.
As we advanced, the room—quiet to start—grew deathly still. Heads swiveled. Recognition crossed the faces of many. We were, after all, the competition, and had made headlines several times. Some of the employees were women. Most of them were men. They all looked like they could handle themselves. Their body language, while not openly hostile, was far from welcoming.
Exiting the firm might not be as easy as entering it.
Jiro Jo’s office was next to the president’s. Noda tapped once on a frosted glass door with Jiro Jo’s name on it and entered without waiting for a response.
Jo had just returned the phone’s receiver to its cradle.
“Noda, Brodie,” he said flatly.
Noda grunted. I nodded.
A cold smile stretched the bodyguard’s lips. “This ain’t a social call, I see. Otherwise, Brodie and I got business.”
“Otherwise,” I said.
“One day it needs settling.”
“I know.”
The Great Wall sat behind an expansive desk, which his bulk still managed to dwarf. “When that day comes, I plan to crack your head open like a coconut. Or maybe I’ll just gut you.”
“Ambition’s a fine thing.”
Jiro Jo didn’t sneer or smirk or taunt. “Lightning don’t strike twice” was all he said. Then: “What you doing here?”
Since he didn’t wave us to seats, we stood. Which, in close quarters, with someone of Jo’s caliber, was the safer bet.
“Got a question,” I said.
“Can’t say I care much.”
“You might once you hear it.”
Jo’s eyes flickered across my features, wondering about my direction. Our rivalry had complications. Not long after his defeat, I’d revealed his billionaire client’s duplicity. The deception had put my life in danger and most
likely sent Jo’s friend and colleague to his death.
Jo cracked large, rock-hard knuckles. “Since you’ve come this far, let’s hear it. Then I’ll decide whether you two are gonna leave here undamaged or not.”
“You heard of a splinter yakuza group called the Sasa-gumi?”
“Of course.”
“I need whatever you can tell me about them.”
Jo’s glance strayed toward Noda. “You need it too?”
The chief detective nodded once. Jo paused to consider. While Tokyo VIP Security’s prime bodyguard sat atop the list of Japan’s best bodyguards, Noda’s position in the upper ranks of Japan’s private detectives put them on equal footing. Which was why there was a clear and mutual respect between them.
“This is business, then,” Jo said. “Today.”
Noda acknowledged the gesture with a nod. Which satisfied Jo.
Leaning back in his chair, the Korean wove thick fingers behind his head. His dark walnut eyes grew darker. “Answer’s simple. They’re scum. Stay away from them.”
“Can’t,” Noda said.
“Actually,” I said, “we need their leader’s name.”
“Bigger scum. Stay clear of him too.”
I shook my head. “Wish we could, but his men just kidnapped a woman.”
Fingers still cradling his oversize cranium, Jo closed his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling. He breathing slowed. We waited. Jo opened his eyes and met Noda’s gaze. “Kidnapped girl, front page, this morning?”
“Yeah,” Noda said.
“You’re looking for a guy called Tadao ‘Habu’ Nakagawa.”
I blanched. “Habu as in the snake?”
With a measure of dry amusement, Jo nodded. “There’s a resemblance.”
“How so?” I asked.
The habu was a poisonous pit viper found in the Okinawa Islands to the south. Averaging four to five feet in length, it has a large diamond-shaped head and is a mild brown or olive, with a row of distinctive darker patches of green or black or brown on top. On a warm day it is easy to stumble on one sunning itself on a roadway or rocky surface. They are aggressive when threatened, and their bite can be deadly if not treated immediately. A high number of its human victims suffer from permanent disabilities.
“He’s Okinawan, his head’s kind of pointy, and he strikes fast.”
As the bodyguard counted off Habu’s traits, he’d rocked forward in his chair, raised his hand, and bent down a finger for each of Habu’s three attributes.
“Lucky for us you still have two fingers up,” I said.
The Great Wall folded the fourth digit. “And he’s deadly when he wants to be.”
Noda asked, “He have a weapon of choice?”
“Carries a double-edged fixed blade. Prides himself on one cut. Across the throat. But he’ll slice open your belly just as happily. He’s quick and hits his mark. Best not to irritate him.”
By definition, that was the least of what we intended to do.
Jo’s fifth finger was wavering.
“And the last item?” I asked.
The thumb went down. “Rumor mill says he’s turned his basement into a viper pit, filled with his namesakes. Enemies get tossed in, so don’t let him grab you.”
Noda glared at the big man, the scar slicing across his eyebrow darkening. “All that true?”
A knife fight with a yazuka pimp had left Noda with a bisected eyebrow, but the pimp fared far worse. The scar acted like a barometer, changing color when the head detective’s inner pressure rose.
“Yeah.”
The chief detective thought the bad blood between Jo and myself might cause the bodyguard to embellish the story.
“No games?”
“None.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” I said.
Jo stared at me. “Most people hear that list, they drop any idea of approaching the guy. You’re not. Why not?”
“I got a client.” And I lost two friends.
Jo shook his head. “Got to be a lot more.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you risked coming here and Noda let you.”
The Great Wall had a point. We weren’t going to fool him, and with the clock ticking we needed his cooperation. So I told him about Mikey and Sharon, then mentioned the spy agencies but left the presidential couple out of the picture. Jo listened stone-faced. A nerve on his left cheek flickered when I mentioned the PSIA and Swelley’s Homeland Security boys.
Once more Jo threaded his fingers behind his head. “Losing two friends is hard.”
I nodded.
“Lost one in the Japantown case. You dug out the truth.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I stayed pat.
Jo’s brow clouded and a question hung in the air for a beat. “You sure he was there? Short, broad. Broken nose. Scar at the corner of his right eye, running down the cheek.”
“Where’d the scar come from?”
“Me.”
“Doesn’t seem to have slowed him down.”
Jo nodded. “Made him meaner. Was he there?”
“Don’t know. They wore masks.”
“Then how’d you ID him?”
I told him about the tattoo.
Jo’s nod carried an edge I couldn’t decipher. “That’s his group. But he don’t do that kind of work unless he’s hired, so the woman’s hot property. Stunt like that is going stir up the badges bad, so he woulda gone to ground last night. The exchange’ll be tonight after dark. Once he’s got the cash in his grubby mitts, you’ll find him in Ni-chome celebrating.”
“Did you say Ni-chome?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I rocked back on my heels, confused. In the Tokyo address system, chome designated a cluster of city blocks. Ni meant two, so Ni-chome was shorthand for a second grouping of blocks in some district. But in this case it was also shorthand for a section of the Shinjuku area known fully as Shinjuku Ni-chome. Which as any Tokyo resident will tell you is the city’s most prominent gay quarter.
“He gay?”
Jo snorted. “He’s a womanizer and a partier. Can’t stay away from the nightclubs. Especially after a mammoth payday.”
“Who hired him?”
“Got no idea.”
“Any idea about who it might be?”
Jo shook his head. “He went in big, so it’ll be big. Big client, big payoff, big endgame. Only one other group in Tokyo can do what Habu’s group did, but their leader’s in Indonesia this week. Habu can be as thick as a whale, but when he smells money, he’s fast as a whip.”
“He an alkie?”
“No, just likes clubbing. Izakaya, hostess bars, all of ’em.”
“Why Ni-chome?”
The bodyguard’s eyes flared. “Not obvious?”
I looked at Noda. He shrugged. I looked back at Jo. “Enlighten us.”
“Winds up a big job? Lady’s man? Can’t stop partying? Think on it.”
I did. Then I knew. “Ni-chome is the last place the cops will look for him.”
“You got it. He brings his own ladies.”
“You have names?”
“Yeah.”
Jo rattled off three places.
“Thanks,” Noda said. “We owe you.”
“You owe me,” Jo said. “Not the dead man standing next to you.”
I fired a final question at the elite bodyguard: “Why you being so cooperative?”
“Purely selfish motives.” The Great Wall swiped a finger across his windpipe. “I need you breathing so I can kick your carcass across town and back. Most people who make Habu mad don’t come back alive.”
CHAPTER 38
THREE surprises followed on the heels of our confrontation with Jiro Jo. One came from Frank Renna out of San Francisco, the second from Lisa Kregg at the Freer Gallery in DC, and the last from Rie.
Noda and I were hunkered down at a local café for a few cups of Dutch summer-drip ice coffee some Japanese barista in K
yoto had perfected back in the day. Stoking up on caffeine for our upcoming night moves.
Renna had tracked down Jared Trooger, the braggart who, as an eighteen-year-old, had shot the convenience store clerk and fingered Mikey and his friend. Trooger was serving out his parole in Springfield, Virginia, his hometown.
My face grew hot. “Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah. Less than fifteen miles from where Mikey was popped.” Renna’s tone echoed my disgust. “Guy could have driven over to the Kennedy Center on his lunch break.”
“You pass it on?”
“Hardly had time to finish the conversation before the head investigator was out the door.”
“So we’re waiting on Springfield PD?”
“Yeah. I’ll keep you in the loop. Why do you want to know if he speaks Spanish?”
I filled him in on Anna’s abduction, then told him about the fork in the road: whether the kidnapping and the DC killings could be linked or not. The shooter at the Kennedy spoke Spanish. If Trooger spoke the language, we might have a link. If not, we’d need to look elsewhere. Before I wound up, my call waiting began its insistent bleating and a message popped up on my screen: incoming from the Freer.
“An eliminator,” Renna said. “Got it. I’ll pass it on.”
I said thanks, we disconnected, and I switched over. “Hi, Lisa. You looked at the Kabuki costume?”
Kregg’s voice was crystal clear. “It’s brilliant, Brodie. I need you to grab me that robe. I showed it to two board members. They practically did cartwheels and they’re both in their eighties. Did you see the design and stitching? Wasn’t it great?”
“Superb.”
The elegant woman’s ceremonial robe had bowled me over. A pine-and-wisteria pattern in lime green and orange stretched across a dramatic black background, with fallen maple leaves in a yellowish tone scattered in the open areas. All three motifs were done in an intricate hand stitching.
“This is the best costume I’ve seen in years. Maybe ever. What’s your take?”
“The same. A once-in-a-lifetime find.”
“If it holds up in person, snatch it for us, okay? Whatever it takes.”
“Be happy to. But know there’s other bidders.”
“We’ll roll over them.”
“That’s all I need to hear. There’s a story too.”
