by Barry Lancet
During the five years I’d lived near South Central, I’d seen more victims of extreme violence than I could count. Battered survivors. Abused corpses. Locals tortured then shot. So I knew a thing or two about beatings.
I knew four things about this one, and all of them raised alarm bells.
First, the drubbing had been thorough and systematic, not a brainless street mauling. The Triads had wanted something from Yoji.
Second, the number of blows testified to an unnaturally high pain threshold—a level off the charts for a desk jockey. I needed to find out why.
Third, Yoji’s continued resistance led to the snapping of limbs. The killers would have leveraged the pain to harvest every last shred of information they needed. All but the toughest folded here.
And fourth and most disturbing, the Triads had signed off with a trademark amputation—an unmistakable communiqué meant to warn away Yoji’s confederates and anyone else who might try to follow in his footsteps.
Which meant their message was aimed my way.
CHAPTER 10
IT took nearly half an hour for Miura to recover.
I sat patiently by his side. When my charge wasn’t looking, I caught a guard’s eye and nodded toward the back of the house. The Brodie op went in search of the wife, returning a moment later with a shake of his head and miming sleep.
“Was it bad?” Miura asked me eventually.
“Yoji was tougher than I would have thought.”
Miura absorbed the crumb about his son’s last moments with a father’s pride. “That’s his kendo training. Went twice a week.”
Which explained the severity of the beating. Kendo was a rigorous sport revitalized in the eighteenth century after a lengthy period of peace led to the deterioration of samurai fighting skills. The discipline was not without its painful moments, even with near-full-body protective gear, so kendoists developed a healthy endurance to the pounding they took from the stiff bamboo practice swords.
“I wish we’d put some people on him,” I said.
Miura’s eyes were watery but focused. “It’s war, Brodie-san. You can never think of everything.”
The old soldier was back. Resigned and philosophic. But back.
“I’m counting on you to find whoever did this,” he added.
“I plan to. Tell me what Yoji knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whoever killed him wanted information. I’m thinking Yoji knew something about China back in the day.”
Miura shook his head. “He didn’t know a thing.”
“Maybe an item you mentioned a long time ago?”
Yoji’s father was adamant. “I never told him about the old days. I’ve done my best to forget them.”
I inhaled deeply. According to my brief exchange with Inspector Kato in the squad car, the beatings mimicked those of the home invasions. Yoji was hiding something. The problem was, clients often concealed part of the truth even as they hired you to find the rest of it.
“Maybe an item you discovered on your later trips? Or a secret that has slipped your mind?”
“You’re talking spies and covert military actions, Brodie-san. I have no secrets. I served my country as an officer, then returned burdened with a shame of the things I did and saw. We Japanese enjoyed the power of conquerors one moment, then abused it the next.”
I studied the man before me. The guilt he carried weighed openly on him now.
Softly I said, “Give me something.”
“I’ve nothing to give.”
“It might be small. Less obvious.”
“It’s the echo of war, is all. China is letting her people out again and the Triads are looking for revenge. Sho ga nai.”
It’s unavoidable.
I looked away, suppressing my frustration. The jaunty sparkle in the eye of the man who had tottered into Brodie Security dressed to kill in his thirty-year-old suit had faded, but I wouldn’t fold so easily. I would not let Yoji’s death go unpunished.
“I’ll find them,” I said.
He smiled weakly. I saw a flash of the old spark. “I know you will. You got notches.”
What, I wondered, had Yoji been hiding?
CHAPTER 11
TOKOROZAWA, 4:43 A.M.
I COMMANDEERED one of the two Brodie Security cars parked in front of Miura’s home and charged through a tangle of streets out to the suburb of Tokorozawa, twenty miles northwest of Tokyo. Seven centuries ago the area had been the site of a pair of battles that brought down the first shogunate regime. Now it was a peaceful bedroom community noted primarily as the home of the Seibu Lions baseball team.
En route I called to check up on my daughter. Inspector Kato had volunteered to leave the babysitter in place until morning. Officer Kawakami confirmed that Jenny was sleeping soundly.
The navigational system brought me to a halt on a quiet residential street in front of a white clapboard two-story house. Edging a token patch of green lawn was a brick planter with red spider lilies. Around the side of the house a carport accommodated a Lexus.
All typical, all expected.
The unexpected sandbagged me inside.
* * *
When the front door opened, I found myself face-to-face with my police escort to the murder site: Officer Rie Hoshino, but in civilian apparel.
“Hi,” she said, with a flicker of a smile. “Inspector Kato thought you might turn up.”
Out of uniform, Hoshino easily overcame the unflattering restraints of the Tokyo MPD’s official garb. She wore a subdued navy-blue blouse and skirt, the color bordering on black but still tastefully distant from official mourning wear. The wardrobe change affected her demeanor as well. Gone was the deadpan stare. Under short black hair curling inward, her attentive cocoa-brown eyes were a little brighter, her button nose a little friskier, and the round mature countenance of a Japanese woman in her late twenties a little warmer.
“Didn’t see the patrol car out front.”
“It’s three blocks away, in a public lot.”
“Discretion from the MPD?”
“We try.”
The second surprise hit when she moved aside to let me in: a child’s wheelchair, folded and secured with a bungee cord, rested against the wall behind the door. A cluster of little boy’s shoes crowded the entryway where footwear was discarded. The shoes were padded with thick pediatric soles.
I frowned. “How many children?”
“Just the one. A seven-year-old son.”
“That’s got to be tough.”
Hoshino’s eyes softened. “He’s been partially paralyzed from birth. Down syndrome, too. Dotes on the father.”
This case got worse by the hour. “How’s the wife taking it?”
Hoshino’s forehead wrinkled. “Badly. She won’t be comforted.”
“Anything useful?”
Hoshino shook her head. “She’s in shock. Maybe you could try.”
I nodded and Hoshino looked grateful. She motioned for me to follow. I stepped up onto a blond-wood floor with my stockinged feet, abandoning my shoes in the slate-tiled entryway.
A pale yet attractive Japanese woman sat in a heap on a bright-red couch. Roused suddenly, she wore jeans, a rumpled blouse, and no cosmetics. But she had a natural beauty that didn’t require much makeup. In her lap was a young boy with a square jaw on a square face, and an engaging smile. His head rested on the woman’s chest, and stunted limbs stretched out at unnatural angles. Mrs. Miura rocked him back and forth. Deformity twisted his feet inward.
Worse and worse.
“Miura-san,” Hoshino said, “this is Mr. Jim Brodie. If you wouldn’t mind, he has a few questions that might help us.”
Stroking the child’s head with one hand, Yoji’s widow gestured me to one of the matching red chairs.
“I’m extremely sorry about what has happened,” I said. “I only just met your husband and your father-in-law yesterday. They hired my firm to look into some trouble Miura Senior was having.”
She stiffened. “Please do not mention that man in this house.”
The boy slid a thumb into his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I said, understanding dawning. Conflict with the in-laws had prevented her from reaching out to them with the news.
I glanced around, waiting a beat for her to settle down. It was a pleasant, livable space. What the Japanese labeled an LDK, a “living-dining-kitchen area.” Separated by a counter, the kitchen was set against the far wall, with a petite dining table for four fronting the counter. A family room with the cheerful red couch, paired armchairs, and a wide-screen TV consumed the rest of the space.
“What did they hire you for?” Mrs. Miura asked flatly.
“They were worried about your father-in-law’s well-being.”
“So typical. I bet there was no discussion about my husband’s safety, was there?”
“No, but—”
“I knew it. Just like that man. Thinking only of himself. He never wanted us to marry, I can tell you that. Turned his nose up at my family background. After Yoji’s first wife died, his father set up an omiai with the daughter of an old friend, but Yoji chose me. When our Ken-chan was born, that man shunned his own grandson. Said Ken was proof I was tainted.”
Omiai are arranged marriages, a practice still surprisingly common in Japan. Part of the process involved digging through the family history for anything unsavory. Unsavory applied to black sheep, less-than-reputable relatives, and anything not just like us.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, shifting uncomfortably, wondering how much the son could understand.
Lips pulsating, he sucked his thumb at a faster clip. He stared at a spot behind me. The smile was gone. Maybe he understood more than she thought. Or he’d picked up on her rising agitation.
“Listen,” I said, “perhaps it’s best if we don’t talk in front of your child. Is there someone else here who could look after him? Or maybe Officer Hoshino could tend to him in a back room for a few minutes, if she wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I gave him a sedative, so he’ll doze off in a second. I can’t really speak in front of Ken-chan. He’s so sensitive, you know.”
As I watched I saw the son start, then his eyelids grew heavy. He battled to stay awake, grabbing at his mother, wanting to remain with us. He tried valiantly to resist the pull of the medication, puzzled by his sudden desire to sleep, but his lids drooped and his head lulled against his mother’s bosom.
I felt suddenly unclean, as if I’d witnessed something obscene.
Mrs. Miura rose. “Ken-chan demands attention every moment he’s not asleep. It’s exhausting, I can tell you that.”
She left the room and Hoshino turned to me, a growing disquiet pooling in her eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. Even with the son gone, this won’t be easy.”
I took advantage of the widow’s absence to get a closer look at our surroundings. There were photos and, surprisingly, there was art. A pair of amateur oil paintings with Yoji’s signature graced the far wall. Depictions of a local shrine and a mountain waterfall.
And, on the back wall, a third surprise: hanging on the far side of a tall cabinet was a Sengai ink painting—a Chinese cleric in robes. Should you ever happen across one of Sengai’s renderings of a Chinese monk, ring me straightaway, any time of the day or night.
I shot up in my seat.
“What?” Hoshino asked.
I shook her off, thinking furiously.
London and now here. Dual sightings are not uncommon in the art world. When a new cache of work surfaced, you often see the same pieces in galleries across the globe for twelve to eighteen months running. After conflicts on the African continent intrude on sacred tribal lands, the same regional statuary, shields, or masks flood dealers’ showrooms from Paris to San Francisco. In like manner, multiple sightings of rare Japanese art are reported more frequently than you would expect. Yoji had an affinity for art, so he might covet a Sengai. But two Sengais emerging in close chronological proximity suggested a shared source.
Mrs. Miura returned to the couch, her posture prim. “My Ken-chan has special needs, you know. Yoji was going to take care of us. He was going to take us away from all this.”
Hurriedly, I shifted my glance to the nearby coffee table. On it was an array of glossy women’s magazines and travel brochures. Cooking and child-rearing in the glossies. Island getaways in the pamphlets. The Seychelles. Tahiti. St. Maarten. Smiling couples frolicked in crystalline blue waters or strolled along pristine white sands.
Mrs. Miura’s look trailed mine. “We were planning to treat ourselves to a tiny vacation, if you must know. What can I do for you, Mr. Brodie? As you can see, I have my hands full.” A cold formality descended with her words.
“I was wondering if I could look around. Check Yoji’s desk, if he has one.”
“Look around? Where were you last night? You were only looking after that man. Never mind my Yoji! Never mind us! So typical! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“I’ve been kicking myself for not—”
“Will your looking around feed us? Will it get Ken-chan his medicine and his day care? Yoji was so attentive. Now who’s going to take care of us? Who?”
I switched gears, hoping to salvage the visit. “Could you at least tell me where you got the Sengai?”
“Are you insane? You think Yoji’s stupid ink painting from China will help? Get out. Get out of my house and don’t ever come back!”
Mrs. Miura shifted in her seat, wrapped her arms around herself, and tuned us out. She glared at the far wall as if the world had collapsed on her head and we were the agents of that collapse.
Exiting the house, I took my time examining a collection of photographs in the entry hall. It was all I was going to get.
There was a shot of the three of them on a picnic under cherry blossoms. There was a shot of Yoji among a group of twenty-odd men and women in kendo regalia, helmets tucked under their arms, a mammoth trophy cradled in the team captain’s arms. Overhead, a banner in Japanese read NAKAMURA KENDO CLUB. There was a shot of Ken and Yoji at a water park, Ken splashing around happily, Yoji watching with a parent’s attentiveness, an empty wheelchair resting at the edge of the pool.
In all the photos Ken-chan had that endearing, joyful smile Down kids often exhibit. He was a happy child. In more than one picture, his parents posed with silly grins on their faces, as if their son had coaxed the smiles from them.
Maybe the wife was right. Maybe it had all collapsed.
Then I glanced again at Yoji in his kendo garb and thought, Go where the violence is.
CHAPTER 12
WITH her next breath the widow threw Hoshino out as well. The two of us stood on the stoop.
“That could have gone better,” I said in Japanese.
“She’s hysterical. A kid to feed and no husband.”
“Going to be hard.” We commiserated over the family’s plight for a moment, then I said, “You have time for coffee?”
Hoshino looked at her watch. “My shift’s been pushed back two hours so I could catch some sleep. Not enough time for that now, so yes.”
“Strong brew?”
“Jet fuel should power me through. Inspector Kato gave me a message for you, but coffee first.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “You know, I was thinking, the Miuras could be hurting financially.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Yoji liked to treat himself. Platinum cuff links, silk ties, expensive cars. That’s a high-end Lexus in the carport.”
“Don’t forget the tropical vacation.”
“Lay the pricey toys and trip over a mortgage, a son with special needs, and a modest salary, what’s that get you?”
“Financial headaches?”
I nodded. “Five’ll get you ten he spent his way into a hole and borrowed badly.”
“You mean the legal loan sharks?”
“Or worse, yeah.”
* * *
I drank my cappuccino. “And the message?”
We’d settled for chain-store caffeine at the local Doutor coffeehouse in the center of Tokorozawa’s awakening shotengai, a long narrow lane of stores on the north side of the station that once housed traditional shops like tatami makers and futon sellers but now leaned toward game centers and cell phone purveyors.
“The inspector requested that you pass along any information you think might help with the home invasions.”
“Not a problem. Goes both ways, right?”
Hoshino sipped some of her latte. “Unofficially, yes. You’re to go through me. He’s assigned me to the case.”
“Dreams do come true.”
She ignored the comment. “He also said, ‘Two-way streets are not always toll-free.’ ”
“Did he expand on that?”
“No.”
I nodded, knowing the words were a warning of possible danger down the road.
Her brow wrinkled. “Oh, and he wanted me to apologize for the chief inspector’s behavior.”
The overstuffed Burberry.
“Appreciate it.”
As we spoke, I could see Hoshino weighing the pros and cons of moving beyond official matters. Even if she chose not to, I’d already learned quite a bit about her. She was a fighter, although, like the best of Japan’s rising female workforce, she hid it artfully under a soft exterior. She knew when to press, and when to pull back, which was not a gender-specific talent but more vital for the upwardly mobile Japanese woman. What she lacked in experience she made up for with a passionate and forceful feminine doggedness, also sufficiently concealed. I had sensed her tenacity immediately. Hoshino worshipped at the altar of Stubborn, which had long ago been seared into the Brodie gene pool.
“I’ll tell him,” she said. “He also mentioned you lived in California but didn’t say much more than that.”
“In San Francisco. I sell Japanese antiques there.”
“Why Japanese?”
“I like them. A lot. They are refined and well crafted. The best pieces have a distilled serenity I can’t get enough of.”
