The Killing Hands

by P. D. Martin

  “Yeah, but I’d rather stay here. Just in case something happens.” I couldn’t bear it if I missed the action.

  “Well, I’d love to trade places with you.”

  “Why don’t you?” I say. “You can take my car and I’ll stay here with Black.”

  Williams gives me a look. “It’s a tight race between facing my wife’s wrath at midnight or Petrov’s later today, but I’m going to stick with the rules this time.”

  “Chicken.”

  He laughs. “You’re right about that one, Anderson.” Williams gathers his stakeout goodies. “So, what’s this Rob Black like?”

  “A complete ass,” I lie. “You’ll hate him.”

  Williams laughs again. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  A few seconds later Williams is in Agent Black’s car and I’m driving off alone.

  Thirty-Four

  Driving by either location—the Carson house or the California Heights house—is probably not a good idea, at least until after 11:00 p.m., when there’s a chance the agents on duty won’t know my car. Of course, depending on who Petrov assigns, the relief agents may well know both me and my Bureau-issue car. So for the meantime, I head to the office—it’s only 1:00 p.m. At the moment we’ve got most of our case invested in Ima Yamada being dead, not missing, and Takeshi Suzuki as our contractor on Jun Saito. But I need some sort of verification that Suzuki is our man.

  I go through the files De Luca and I were reviewing this morning, paying particular attention to the information we have on three people—Takeshi Suzuki, Hiroki Kawa and Ima Yamada. After I’ve gone through Suzuki’s file, I spread the photos of him out in front of me, pushing the other materials away. I pick up a photo, hold it in my hand and study his face closely. I slow my breathing, taking longer, deeper breaths in and out. I focus on relaxing my toes, then my feet, then my torso, my shoulders, and lastly I let the tension in my face drop away. I close my eyes, enveloped in a bubble of relaxation.

  But nothing comes. No vision, not even a flash of Suzuki. I open my eyes again and look at the photo for another twenty minutes or so. Still nothing.

  Frustrated, I move on to Saito and repeat the process. This time I am rewarded with a vision, but it’s a replay of Saito discovering his girlfriend’s body—Saito’s tense, trying to get home to his girlfriend, but when he arrives she’s dead.

  Next I move on to Ima Yamada. Is she the reason Saito’s dead? The reason Saito’s girlfriend was murdered, too? The file we’ve put together on her is small. A couple of surveillance shots taken with Hiroki Kawa, a couple of interior shots of her apartment after she’d gone missing, and a two-page missing-persons report filed by her mother. I wonder if Takeshi helped with the report, or if he already knew the likelihood of his sister’s fate. I close my eyes, controlling my breathing once more.

  I’m naked, rocking backward and forward on top of him. He looks up at me in awe.

  I lie on the bed, watching him get dressed, and take a drag of the cigarette he holds out for me. I get up and pull on his favorite silk negligee. Maybe he will stay a little longer? Draping my arms around him from behind, I kiss his neck. He leans into me, but shakes his head.

  I stand at the window, like I always do, sad to see him go. But instead of watching the retreating figure of my lover, I see a flash from a doorway. Gunfire. I lean harder into the window, my open palms smudging the glass. I can’t see his body, but I know the shots must have been meant for Hiroki. I’m frozen, immobile. And then I see him. A man comes out of the doorway. He moves closer and now I can see his face under the streetlight. I take a deep breath in, and just at that moment he looks up at me.

  I hold my breath, knowing what I must do but unable to move. He’s seen me, I know him. I must run. It only takes a few seconds for my body to answer my mind’s pleas. Run! I bolt out the door, and up the stairs. He’s only one person. If I can get out of his sight, I could lose him. I must outrun him.

  I keep hurtling myself up the stairs, faster and faster. But then I hear footsteps behind me, heavy and fast. They get closer, and I open my mouth to yell for help but I’m too late. One hand grabs my arm, the other quickly cups my mouth, silencing my scream before I could get any sound out.

  Our breathing is fast, and in sync, just as it was with Hiroki only fifteen minutes ago. But this is different…so different. Hiroki. A small tear runs down my cheek.

  Seconds pass and nothing happens. He’s still, silent behind me. Maybe he won’t kill me. I cling to the glimmer of hope. I can tell him I’ll never reveal his identity. I try to speak, but his hand forces down harder on my mouth, and starts to block my nose as well. I’m gasping for air, and the panic returns. I try to move my head, get my airways clear, but his grip is so strong…too strong. His hands move from my mouth to my head and in that moment I know death is imminent. My eyes widen and two small tears form, but I don’t feel them trickle down my face. Instead, I hear a loud crack that reverberates inside my head and then darkness.

  I pace on the landing between floors, glancing every now and again at Ima Yamada’s lifeless form. I take a deep breath in. I need to come up with a plan, fast. But first I need to get her somewhere private. I pick her up and carry her down the stairs and back into her apartment, locking the door behind me.

  This wasn’t meant to happen. This wasn’t part of the deal. I never wanted to kill her, not a woman. And now, what will I do with the body? I have to make the call. I have to trust him.

  We lower her body into the grave, placing it on top of a coffin, and then replace all the soil. She’s been erased.

  I find myself slumped over the meeting-room table, waves of nausea riding me. The nausea is more severe than usual, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because it was such a long vision. Usually I get much smaller snippets.

  Eventually the feeling subsides and I’m able to straighten up without worrying I’ll be sick all over the files. The first part of the vision was from Ima’s point of view, and then once she was dead I jumped into Jun Saito’s shoes. And there’s no doubt, it was Jun Saito. Ima Yamada’s dead all right, and no wonder her body was never found—she was buried soon after her death, atop who knows whose grave. Without the name on the tombstone she lies under, her body will never be found.

  I start to replay the vision, hoping to find something else useful in there. One of the men lowering her body into the grave must have been Saito, but who was the other man? Whoever it was, I’m guessing he told Takeshi Suzuki what really happened to his sister that night. And once Suzuki knew, Saito had to run. We’ll never know the exact sequence of events—maybe Saito just sensed something was wrong, was worried he was being followed and decided to run with his girlfriend. Or maybe he knew of his friend’s betrayal, knew that his days were numbered if he stayed in Tokyo. Either way, Saito was ready to pack up with his girlfriend and leave the Yakuza and Japan for good.

  I think back to the start of the dream…Hiroki and Ima in her apartment making love. There’s something familiar about her bedroom. Something that I’ve seen before. I take out all the photos we have relating to Takeshi Suzuki, including shots Agent Young has taken. We have surveillance shots of several Yakuza buildings: the two “safe houses” where Mee was held, a restaurant in Little Tokyo out of which Tomi Moto runs an office, a karaoke bar and nightclub that Suzuki runs; and, through Agent Young, we know where some of the key players live. Moto lives in a large security-gated house in Rancho Palos Verdes, and Suzuki lives in a smaller but still glamorous house in Newport Beach. Both houses have swimming pools and tennis courts and both have high levels of security. Young has been to their homes, and was able to take a few snaps on his cell phone during visits about six months ago. It’s in these grainy photos that I see the familiar item—a painting of a cherry blossom that hung above Ima Yamada’s bed. Obviously Suzuki brought it with him to the States.

  Looking at the photos gets me thinking…could Suzuki be stupid enough to hold Mee and Agent Young at his home?

&nb
sp; I dial Petrov’s number. “Hi, it’s Anderson. Are Moto’s and Suzuki’s houses under surveillance at the moment?”

  “Hold on, I’ll just check for you.”

  I hear papers shuffling and the sound of a keyboard as Petrov looks up the current surveillance operations.

  “Not from the Gang Impact Team. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” I bite my lip, trying to work out how much I can tell Petrov without him asking questions. I can certainly present the hypothesis. “You think Suzuki might be holding Mee Kim and Agent Young at his house?”

  Petrov’s silent for a few beats, thinking. “He’s married with three kids. How’s he going to keep two prisoners in his own home without major questions?”

  Women who are involved with members of organized crime syndicates rarely have more than a superficial understanding of what their partners do. Sure, she may know he’s involved in the Yakuza, but she probably prefers not to think about it. It’s a strange arrangement, and the women definitely subscribe to the old saying: See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. So Petrov’s right—Suzuki isn’t going to hold Kim and Young in the house while his wife and children go about their normal day-to-day lives. That would be way too close for comfort. But he might have somewhere else he can take them.

  “Have you tracked him down yet? For the tail?”

  Another moment of silence from Petrov. “Not yet. I’m still trying to get some people.”

  “Okay.” Resources are tight, particularly when we don’t want to use anyone from the Gang Impact Team or anyone Petrov doesn’t feel he can trust one hundred percent. And I imagine after spending over twelve months trying to find the bad apple, Petrov’s trust levels have plummeted.

  “Leave it with me,” Petrov says.

  We say goodbye and hang up. I’m sure Petrov will assign someone to Suzuki in the next twenty-four hours, but in the meantime, what harm is there in a drive-by? Or maybe even sitting out front for half an hour or so. Plus I’ve still got a few snacks in the backseat, so at least I’ll be set up if I decide to stick it out at Suzuki’s home.

  I pull into Seascape Drive just before 6:00 p.m. and try to get a fix on numbers. Eventually I see a number on my right, and I cruise slowly down the street until I come to Suzuki’s home. I recognize it from the surveillance shots, although now the trees are bare instead of laden with crisp green leaves. Most of the fence line is marked by a high cream wall, but a large wrought-iron security gate at the driveway gives me a visual on the house.

  I park opposite and at an angle that allows me to see up the driveway and to the double-story redbrick home. The house itself is modern, but the grounds have been landscaped with touches of Japan—cherry blossoms, Japanese maples and a large Japanese-style water feature. Taking out my binoculars, I focus on the front room and catch a glimpse of movement. I move my binoculars until I find the source, a woman and two children sitting up at the table. I keep my eyes peeled, but it looks like Takeshi Suzuki is out. I reach for my cashews and a Diet Pepsi. Surveillance is definitely not good for the waistline. Although at least I’m doing a little better than Williams.

  Two hours later a silver Mercedes pulls up at the house. I can’t see the driver, but I have to assume it’s Suzuki. I check the license plates—it’s a match for his car. The wife greets him at the door, but I know the kids went to bed nearly an hour ago. Within a few minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Suzuki are sitting down to dinner. There’s still no sign of any of Petrov’s agents.

  At 9:45 p.m. Suzuki goes into the front room to take a call. He paces while he talks and within five seconds of putting the phone down the front door opens. I keep the binoculars trained on him as he gets into his car. The headlights go on, and soon he’s rolling down the drive, heading to me. I sink down in my seat, conflicted by my need to get a visual confirmation that the man is Suzuki and my desire to stay hidden. In the end, self-preservation wins out and I sink low—too low for him to see me, and too low for me to see him.

  I wait about five seconds before I start my car, swing a U-turn and follow the man that I have to presume is Takeshi Suzuki. Who else would be in his house and driving his car?

  We cruise through the streets of Newport Beach, making our way north and toward downtown L.A. It’s easier to tail someone in the dark, because all they can see in their rearview mirror is lights and general shapes. Soon we’re cruising into Little Tokyo and turning into a laneway that runs alongside Takeshi Suzuki’s karaoke bar.

  I idle out the front, taking a little bit of risk for a big return. The man parks the car in a space at the end of the laneway and gets out. He makes his way to a small door, presumably a back entrance to the bar, and once he’s under the light that hangs on the door I can see him properly. Bingo…it’s Takeshi Suzuki, all right. With the visual ID confirmed, I roll the car forward, looking for a spot and considering my options. I want to go into the bar; problem is, Suzuki was in the warehouse the night I got shot. He knows what I look like. I pull into a parking space a little less than a block from the bar.

  My options are limited, so limited that I decide to take an even bigger risk. I sweep my hair up into a French roll and hunt around the car for one of my baseball caps. I tend to have hats lying around the place—in the car, in the house, in my bedroom, in bags—ready for the time I need sun protection. I’m not disappointed this time, as my hands clasp around a black Nike baseball cap. I take a look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I still look like me, of course, but the cap hides my hair and hopefully changes my appearance enough to fool someone who’s only seen me once. I’m also expecting the karaoke bar to be appropriately dark.

  I walk the block back to the bar’s entrance, which is simply a door with flashing neon above it, and make my way up a narrow staircase to the bar’s internal door. Once I’m inside I quickly scope the place and the patrons, as if I’m looking for someone. To my disappointment, about three-quarters of them are Asian, which will make it much harder for me to blend in. The fact that I’m a single woman in a bar won’t help matters, either. I look for the most likely target, someone I can approach. Two men sit on a table by themselves and I can imagine it would be easy for me to join them, although it may lead to complications later. Instead, I go for a group of three women.

  I focus on the nearest one and make a beeline for her. “Hi, Jane, isn’t it?” I put on my best American accent and place my hand on her shoulder.

  The girl turns around. “No, sorry.” She smiles. “I’m Emily.”

  “Emily. That’s right.”

  The smile stays, but becomes more uncertain. “I’m sorry, I can’t…”

  “I’m Tiffany. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?” I say it with what I hope is enough indignation that Emily will feel too embarrassed to admit that she doesn’t remember me…she doesn’t even know me.

  “Tiffany,” she repeats. “Yeah, hi, Tiffany.”

  She introduces me to her friends, Beth and Mary.

  “Do you mind if I have a drink with you guys while I’m waiting for my friend?” I ask. “Don’t you just hate drinking alone?”

  The girls all agree and soon I’m firmly entrenched in Emily’s girls’ night out, sipping a gin and tonic. I edge myself around in the booth slightly so I can see more of the bar. Suzuki is nowhere to be found, but I presume he’s out the back somewhere, perhaps in an office. Maybe the front-of-house wasn’t the best place to stake out. How will I see him if he leaves via the back door? I decide to give it another twenty minutes before going back to my car and waiting for Suzuki to make a move—assuming I haven’t already lost him.

  I only just manage to keep my head above water with Emily, Beth and Mary, but my attention isn’t really on them, it’s on the other patrons. I study each Asian male carefully, wondering if perhaps one of them is our hit man in one of his many disguises. It’s the height I concentrate on, and there are only five men I’d judge to be around six feet. One man sits by himself, but I can only make out a partial profile, not enough to be
sure one way or the other.

  I glance at my watch. “Gee, my friend’s running real late. Hope you don’t mind me sitting here a bit longer?”

  The girls all agree it’s fine, and I continue to superficially contribute to the conversation. It’s hard going when they mostly seem to be talking about fashion and the latest TV shows, but every now and again I’m able to add something or move the conversation to a celebrity or movie I have seen.

  The solitary man stays by himself, still nursing the same beer. I’m about to excuse myself and go back to my car when Suzuki comes out of a side door near the stage, marked Employees Only. I wait for him to make a beeline for the man’s table, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks around the bar. I manage to be engrossed in conversation as his eyes pass quickly over our table, a group of four women not holding his attention. He’s looking for someone specific. He looks around once more, before taking a seat by himself in a corner table with a Reserved sign on it. Again, I keep myself half in the conversation and half on the lookout.

  It’s a full five minutes before the man moves from his table to Suzuki’s. The man gives Suzuki a little bow, and at first Suzuki’s face is blank, but soon he smiles. From this angle I get a closer look at the man’s face and I’m sure it’s our guy, our hit man. Time to call in backup.

  I’m about to excuse myself and find a quiet corner—if that’s possible in a karaoke bar—when both Suzuki and Ling stand up. They make their way to the Employees Only door. My mind races with possibilities. Are Mee Kim and Dan Young out the back now, and Ling’s about to execute them? Or are they just going out the back to talk privately? I can either make a run for the door and hope to sneak in before it latches, or I can wait it out. In the split second I have to make the decision, I decide following Suzuki and Ling is too risky. But it’s also time for a move.