by Steve Bein
Hayano-chan foresaw that Matsumori would either destroy his enemies or destroy his friends, and I now fear it will be the latter, for she also saw that Japan would not see victory in this war. It sickens me that I was so slow to decipher her message; I could have changed the future if only I had been quicker to see what she showed me.
“It’s a letter from Yamada,” Mariko whispered. Inspecting it further, she said, “It’s to his father. Shōwa 17. That’s during the war.”
“1942,” said Shoji. “I was just a little girl.”
Mariko’s re-read the same paragraph. In her mind it was Yamada’s voice reading the words, and felt good to have a new connection with him. “Some of this is sensitive information,” she said. “Weren’t they censoring soldiers’ letters back then? How did this letter get through?”
“Who can say? Destiny follows strange paths where the Inazumas are concerned.”
“Is it true that you foresaw Japan losing?”
“Yes.”
Once again Mariko directed her attention back to the letter, unfolding it as carefully as she could. Her clumsy four-fingered right hand made her afraid she’d tear the paper. She read from the beginning this time, her eyes skimming over the faded, spidery lines. “‘More frightening still is the thought that the homeland should fall and the emperor be unseated,’” she read. “‘I should like the sword to find a place in the imperial household. At the very least I do not want the Americans and Russians and British to choose what government Japan shall take.’ I can’t believe it. But it’s true, isn’t it? Yamada saved Japan.”
“He may have,” Shoji said with a shrug. “It’s hard to say. But for all these years he’s also carried the fear that it was his fault we lost the war. He had a chance to destroy Beautiful Singer once before. I’m not sure how much would have changed if he’d done it, but who can say? The Inazuma blades had the forces of destiny forged into their steel. They certainly commanded the fate of families and clans; why not a whole country?”
“Why not?” Mariko echoed. “But it sounds grandiose, doesn’t it? One man lost the war for us, and the same man saved us from becoming a colony?”
“Better to say that one man stood where those two threads of destiny intertwined. Many followed the paths of those threads and took their part in weaving them. Keiji-san was one of the few that followed both paths.”
“And you saw that? In advance?”
“After a fashion, yes.”
“Just like you saw me dying on Fuchida’s sword?”
“Yes.”
Mariko swallowed. “And still you let me walk into a fight you knew would kill me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Suppose I had. Suppose I told you Saori would escape with her life but you would not. Would it have made a difference?”
“No.”
“Of course not. One way or another, destiny will find its path. Its roar still echoes in my ears, Detective Oshiro. Our work is not yet done.”
79
Tokyo Prefecture maintained a high-security evidence storage facility on the north side of the harbor. It was the only place that made sense to keep two seized Inazuma blades. If Yamada’s appraisals were correct, at auction each of the swords could easily fetch five hundred million yen. Storing such treasures in a cardboard box in Lieutenant Ko’s precinct simply would not do.
The storage unit by the harbor was also the most likely place to hold fifty-five kilograms of seized cocaine. Only two government facilities had the capacity to dispose of cocaine in such quantities. One was the incinerator at the National Police Agency headquarters. The other was the incinerator at the storage building north of the harbor. Fifty-five kilos of ecstasy pills might have been divided among Tokyo’s precincts for use in officer instruction and narcotics stings, but cocaine was useless in that regard. Thanks to the long-standing agreement between the bōryokudan and the police, no sensible dealer in Japan would touch the stuff. Because of the recent seizure yakuzas would tread carefully around the cops for months to come, but the safe prediction was that sooner or later things would return to status quo.
Since the swords and the coke were connected to the same suspect, both would likely be held in the same evidence locker. Mariko, navigating the harborside facility in search of that locker, found that she and Shoji made a good team. Dr. Hayakawa had forbidden Mariko from using her arms to wheel herself around—too much upper-body movement might rupture her stitches—so Shoji used Mariko as part walking stick, part Seeing Eye dog.
A flash of Mariko’s badge was enough to gain them entry. Judging by the raised eyebrows she got from the officer maintaining the security checkpoint, Mariko guessed the stories of her encounter with Fuchida had already spread through every precinct in greater Tokyo. Even among cops, who were supposed to have an eye for detail, rumors spread like a virus, mutating with each new infection. In all likelihood, whatever the officers at this facility had heard bore little resemblance to what had actually transpired, but Mariko didn’t mind the celebrity if it gained her access to a locker that would have been denied to her under ordinary circumstances.
If it weren’t for all the big steel lockers, someone could have landed a helicopter in the main space of the storage facility. The immense roll-up door facing the water was big enough to run a highway through it. The propane smell of forklift exhaust was inescapable in the dusty, cavernous room, and the lights hanging by long wires from the ceiling were scarcely bright enough to see by. If Mariko had to guess, she would have said there were a thousand lockers here, a little over a meter high and stacked double, their mesh faces painted institutional gray.
The swords, the security officer had said, were in locker 409. As Shoji wheeled Mariko into the 400s, Mariko let out a little gasp. Locker 409 was hanging open. It was empty.
“What’s wrong?” said Shoji-san.
“We need to get back to the security desk right away.”
They spun about and headed back the way they came. Shoji’s quickest pace wasn’t all that quick, and Mariko had to stick one hand in her purse and sit on the other one to keep from trying to wheel herself faster.
As they went, Mariko thought she heard a swishing sound. “Shoji-san,” she said. “Stop for a second.”
“Stop, please,” said Shoji, but she stopped anyway.
There it was: that sound again, like a swooping bird. It came from the far side of the bank of lockers. Had Mariko been able to walk, she might well not have heard it; it was faint and would have been lost under the sound of the air passing by her ears were she moving any faster.
As faint as it was, Mariko knew that sound. What surprised her more was that she had a good guess who was making it.
“Turn right,” Mariko said. “A little more. Now straight, please, quietly as you can, and mind the big crack in the floor right under my front wheels.”
They progressed silently toward the end of the aisle, and, reaching it, Mariko peeked around the corner to see Lieutenant Ko with Beautiful Singer in his hands. He stood between two long columns of lockers, his suit jacket lying on the floor nearby, Beautiful Singer’s scabbard resting on top of it. Glorious Victory Unsought was nowhere to be seen.
Ko’s back was to her, and he raised the sword high and slashed down diagonally. The blade hissed as it cut the cold air. Now a chest-high cut, parallel to the floor. The movement turned him on his heel, bringing him face-to-face with Mariko.
“You!” Ko stuttered, his face red. “What are you doing here, Oshiro?”
“Funny. That’s what I was going to ask you.”
“Be careful with this one,” Shoji whispered. “I see two futures for him. He stands on the razor’s edge between them.”
“Shut up,” Ko barked. “Get out of here, Oshiro, or I’ll have you—”
Suddenly his face broke into his winningest shit-eating grin. “I’ve got you,” he said. “At last I’ve got you. You’re breaking protocol being here. You’re still on medical leave. Thank you, Oshiro. You’ve finally g
iven me the excuse I need to strip your rank.”
“No, sir,” said Mariko. “You’ve given me all I need to crash your career into the ground. You’re tampering with evidence.”
“You’ll never make that stick. It’s my word against yours.”
“I don’t need to make it stick. You told me yourself so many times: all I need is the allegation. And I’ll allege more than tampering with evidence. Do you remember the very first case I worked under you? Bumps Ryota? That sting went down so bad, I told myself it’s like the new LT and this Bumps are on the same side. I never guessed how close to the truth I was. You weren’t in bed with Bumps, but I’ll bet a month’s pay you were in bed with Fuchida.”
Ko scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I never even laid eyes on the man before seeing his dead body.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But Fuchida sure knew a lot about me—too much, in fact. He knew I was the lead officer on the Yamada case and he knew I’d staked out Yamada’s house. Only an insider from our precinct could give him that information. Fuchida was talking to a cop.”
“Right. Obviously. Tell me, Oshiro, what kind of pain medication do they have you on? Because when Internal Affairs hears about your insubordination, I might be lenient and tell them this bullshit is just the drugs talking, not another one of your asinine conspiracy theories.”
Mariko shrugged. “If it’s any consolation, I really didn’t think you were corrupt at first. I thought you were just a sexist prick understaffing my operations to set me up for failure. Then I saw you talking to that great big rikishi I took down at Dr. Yamada’s. Too bad for you he’s the fattest guy ever arrested in our precinct. If he were a normal-sized perp, fewer people would have noticed him, but at his size I’m sure everyone who was there that night will remember you two had a nice long chat.”
“So what? You saw a talk; you heard nothing. We might have been talking about baseball for all you know.”
“I don’t care if you were talking about how many times a day you stop to check out my ass. The fact is, you were talking to Fuchida’s hit man, and the next time I walked into your office, you ordered me not to investigate bōryokudan connections to my case. Fuchida was a yakuza, and that means you gave me a direct order—an illegal direct order—not to investigate my lead suspect.”
Ko flinched as if she’d slapped him. Right then Mariko knew he was guilty of everything she suspected. “That’s enough,” he said, squeezing the sword’s grip so tight that Mariko could hear the wrapping shift under his fingers. “Conspiracy theories are one thing, but I’ll be damned if I’ll sit back and listen to you accuse me of breaking the law. Do you know how easy you’re making it for me to bust you down to patrolman? I’ll have you directing traffic for the rest of your career.”
“No, sir. Everyone in the precinct knows you’ve got it out for me, and now I’ve got you on record in my case file trying to protect a serial killer. Who knows, sir? If you had let me run my investigation the right way, maybe I wouldn’t be in this wheelchair right now. Maybe Fuchida wouldn’t have kidnapped my sister. Maybe he wouldn’t have murdered my friend.”
“That’s nothing but speculation. You’ll never prove a word of it.”
“I don’t need to prove it to ruin your career. Like you said, all I need is the allegation.”
Mariko could hear him grinding his teeth. “Shut your damn mouth,” he said.
“The only thing I don’t get is the why. Did Fuchida offer you something if the cocaine deal went through? Or are you really so threatened by me that you’d get in bed with a yakuza just to see me fail?”
“I said shut up.”
“Why risk your career just to prove women can’t be cops?”
“God damn you—”
“That’s not it, is it? You’re not worried that I’m good at this. You’re worried that I’m better at it than you are. Now that’s something you’d risk your career to disprove.”
Ko advanced on her, Beautiful Singer quavering in his right hand. “This is beyond insubordination! I’ll have your head for this.”
“You’ll want to put that sword down, sir. You just threatened an officer with a deadly weapon. Don’t make things worse.”
He stepped back, but now his other hand tightened down on the sword. Sweat stains emanated from the armpits of his white shirt. “I’m not going down without a fight.”
“I didn’t come to fight. I’m here to save your life.”
Ko scoffed again. “Right. Of course you are.”
“I can hardly believe it myself, but it’s true. That sword has a hold on you. It had a hold on Fuchida too. That’s why I’m here: it needs to be destroyed.”
“And you accuse me of tampering with evidence? Ha!” He stabbed a fat finger at her. In his other hand, the sword pointed right at her chest. “Traffic control is too good for you. I’ll have you cuffed to the station coffeemaker by the end of the week.”
Mariko smiled. “You’re going to bust the woman in the wheelchair? The hero cop from the headlines? No, you’ve been playing the political game too long for that. You’re going to put that sword down. Then you’re going to forget I was ever here, in the hopes that I’ll extend you the same courtesy.”
“No.” He marched straight at her, sword in hand, and at the last instant he turned the blade aside so as not to run her through. He loomed over her, close enough that Mariko’s toes brushed his pant legs. “The sword is mine,” he said.
“Have it your way,” said Mariko. Her hand emerged from her purse holding the Cheetah. She jabbed it hard into his groin and pulled the trigger.
Ko shrieked and crumpled, balled in a fetal position. The Cheetah’s voltage left him conscious enough that he could still groan, so Mariko touched the silver studs to him again, this time on the cheek. Ko twitched once and fell still.
“What was that?” asked Shoji. “You hit him with something. It smells like ozone.”
“Can we roll about two steps to the left? Back up a bit so we don’t run him over.”
“You didn’t tell me you were armed.”
“I’m a cop. I’m always armed.”
Mariko’s front right wheel touched Beautiful Singer’s hilt. “Feel that?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Shoji. “It’s the sword?”
“Yeah. Hand it to me, will you?”
“Please,” said Shoji. But again she obliged.
The sword was so light it seemed to float. Of all Master Inazuma’s creations, surely this was his masterpiece. It was easy to see why men had died for it.
Mariko talked Shoji through the various aisles and corridors they needed to navigate to reach the incinerator, but all the while her mind was on the sword. What would it mean to destroy it? Beautiful Singer was a cultural icon: the finest sword by the finest master, and the master himself the greatest of a land whose sword smithing exceeded all others. It was worth more money than Mariko would ever make in her lifetime. But more important than that, it was a piece of history.
At last they reached the incinerator. Mariko had envisioned a great potbellied thing, cast iron, with a gaping maw opening onto glowing red-orange hellfire. What she saw was a door in the wall, not so different from the door she’d find on the front of a microwave. It was unguarded—but then, what was the use in guarding it? It had no value; its only function was to destroy things of value. And after all, the building itself was secure.
“Straight ahead, six paces,” Mariko said, and soon rolled to a stop in front of the little door. She tested Beautiful Singer’s weight in her hands. The edge of the blade was so fine that were she to drop a single hair on it, she was certain the hair would be cut in two.
“This is the third Inazuma blade I’ve held in my own two hands,” she said. “How many people in history do you suppose could say that?”
“Master Inazuma himself,” said Shoji. “Not many others.”
A little voice in Mariko’s mind cried out in protest. She couldn’t destroy the sword. It was evidence. Destroying it
would ruin her career. And besides, the sword was worth more than all the pay she’d draw from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department in her entire lifetime. It wouldn’t be hard to keep it for herself. She could say Ko stole it. Or incinerated it. He was lying helpless. It wouldn’t be a hard thing to kill him.
For the first time Mariko could understand Beautiful Singer’s power. It was worth killing for. But no more so than a Mercedes-Benz. People committed homicide over expensive property in every corner of the world. They killed for jealousy too, but Mariko wasn’t feeling any of that. As elegant as it was, Beautiful Singer inspired no thoughts of possessiveness in her. For the first time Mariko understood the full weight of what Yamada had told her so many weeks before: I don’t believe there’s ever been a man alive who could overcome the sword. No man alive. And from the beginning Yamada said he’d been waiting for a student like Mariko.
The dots connected so fast that Mariko could hardly follow them. Beautiful Singer was possessed by a geisha, a samurai’s jealous lover. It wasn’t so long ago that Mariko would have scoffed at herself for thinking such a thing. But now she was sure of it: the kami that lived in this sword was female, and it had a unique power to infect men’s minds. But not Mariko’s. Yamada had told her once that the old guard would have stripped him of his rank for teaching swordsmanship to a woman, but now Mariko saw it couldn’t have gone any other way. Only a woman could accomplish what she was contemplating now: extinguishing the spirit within Beautiful Singer.
And incinerating Beautiful Singer with it. The rarest, most conspicuous, most expensive piece of evidence in the whole facility.
“I wish I could be sure I’m doing the right thing,” Mariko said. Then she opened the incinerator door, thrust Beautiful Singer into the chamber within, and closed it quickly.
“Now we just have to figure out how this thing works,” she said.
80
Come on,” said Saori. “You just know you’re going to get a hero’s welcome.”
Mariko shook her head. “I’ve just spent a week in the hospital. I look like hell.”
