by Barry Lancet
Trudging uphill toward the entrance, Renna scanned the area. “Looks like a big spread. Never makes for a good crime scene.”
I nodded. “Acres and acres. Gift shop and a small gallery are through the front door. The main gallery is three, four minutes up the hill by shuttle. It’s ten times larger and holds the permanent collection. Then there’s offices, the original home, and an outdoor sculpture garden stretching back even farther.”
Renna shook his head. “Not big. Huge goddamn crime scene.”
Two sheriff ’s deputies escorted us from the entrance to a waiting patrol car out back. We rolled upward toward the main gallery, which one of our guides referred to as “a queer place for an accident.”
Renna’s brow furrowed.
We entered the gallery and traipsed past an “art car” by self-proclaimed “junk sculptor” David Best. He’d strip down a vehicle, refashion it, then smother the surface with thousands of small objects, from toys to bits of mirror to endless salvaged knickknacks, until the car sparkled and glittered and told an American story.
A long hall peppered with sculpture and paintings and collages led us to a covered back patio and David Ireland’s famous Angel-Go-Round—a collection of prostrate classical Greco-Roman cemetery statuary huddled in a circle. Normally, an angel—winged and pious and draped in a white robe—glided overhead in a tight circuit above the “dead.”
It was present but unmoving. As lifeless as the corpse of an adult Japanese male that had fallen across the statues.
The body of someone I knew well.
Someone I had, in fact, talked to eight months ago when I visited his father’s studio in Kyoto to collect pieces for my shop.
CHAPTER 4
THE angel hovered over the pallid corpse of Toru Nobuki, son of my friend and world-class artist Ken Nobuki.
Like his father, Toru is—had been—of a creative bent. He made public sculptures, which explained his presence at the di Rosa art park. But only partially. His father had mentioned sending Toru to look at the di Rosa collection once the exhibition exchange with the mayor’s people was finalized. Which wasn’t due to happen until next week.
So why the hell was Ken’s son here now?
In Japan last spring, Toru had dropped by his father’s studio with his young son for a quick chat, mostly revolving around whether I could place some of his outdoor sculptures in the States.
I’d promised to develop some leads—a promise now empty for all the wrong reasons.
Toru had collapsed on top of David Ireland’s horizontal effigies. The artist lay limp and neglected, like a discarded sack of old rice. His upper body had come to rest on the lower limbs of a full-figured female, while his legs were draped over a Greco-Roman male. A concave gash behind his left eye echoed the curvature of the woman’s upper thigh. His hair was matted with blood, capillary action drawing some of the body fluid up from the wound. As I took in his dead eyes and slack lips, sadness consumed me.
Ireland had gathered up the sculptures from Colma, the Bay Area’s very own “City of the Dead.” By the end of the 1800s, San Francisco had matured from rowdy gold-rush town to budding metropolis. Land had grown scarce, so the city passed laws prohibiting any new cemeteries. Then in 1914, officials went after the existing burial grounds, and the dead were handed their walking papers. Countless bodies were exhumed. For some reason, the pigs-and-potato outpost of Colma became the relocation spot of choice. Today, the town had more than seventeen graveyards, and a thousand horizontal residents for every inhabitant walking upright.
A stocky man stepped forward and introduced himself as Sheriff Tom Nash. He was five-ten, with bushy brown eyebrows and a paunch edging over a black cowhide belt. He followed up with the names of his deputies. Renna did the honors on our side.
I tore my eyes away from Toru’s lifeless form to shake hands all around. The sheriff and his deputies wore beige shirts and olive-green pants, with copper-colored stars on their chest. The city cops had donned navy-blue tops and bottoms, with silver stars.
“Thanks for coming out,” Nash said.
Renna grunted. “Thanks for holding the scene until we got here.”
My gaze drifted back to the body. A good measure of Toru’s blood had pooled under the statues. A small puddle of oil directly below the angel’s mechanical track running along the ceiling had collected on the concrete patio. A skid mark where someone had stepped in the oil bisected the puddle. More oil glistened on the sole of Toru’s right shoe.
He’d slipped in the lubricant and bashed his head in when he fell forward onto the statuary.
Nash shrugged. “Didn’t want to move the father until you got a crack at the son. Especially since the big boys are plugged into this one.”
A reference to the mayor and company.
“Yeah,” Renna said. “Lucky us. The ME been?”
“In and out. He’s thinking accident too, but won’t confirm until he’s got the stiff on the slab.”
“Good enough. Did he mention a TOD?” Time of death.
“Already nailed down. Between six twenty-three and seven-oh-four p.m. yesterday evening.”
Renna smiled. “Impressive.”
“Last night?” I said.
“Yep.”
Anger welled up as I asked, “How’s it possible he could lie out here all night?”
Ignoring the censure in my tone, Nash said, “The dead guy wanted a look at the outdoor sculpture, even in the dark. Had a flashlight.” The sheriff pointed to a black cylinder a few feet away. “The curator gave them the go-ahead. Gallery was already locked up, so they said good night to each other and our man strolled around the grounds with his son while the curator put in some overtime, then clocked out around eight, figuring father and son were long gone.”
“How’d you get the times?” Renna asked.
“First time’s when the father called for a taxi. Second’s when the cab arrived for the seven o’clock pickup. The driver didn’t see his fare waiting in the bottom lot, so after a few minutes he buzzed the cell and no one answered.”
“Can’t ask for much more,” Renna said.
“Your tax dollars at work.”
Renna nodded and I scanned the patio. Toru’s son was nowhere in sight. “Was the kid out here all night too?”
“Yep.”
“Where’d you stash him?”
“You mean leave him. We couldn’t budge the little man. He’s right where we found him. And all yours.” Nash pointed up a grassy slope beyond the patio retaining wall.
Shu Nobuki, Ken’s grandson, sat in the shadow of a giant eucalyptus tree. He was tucked up against its vast trunk, a wool coverlet draped over his shoulders. Shu rocked back and forth in a rhythm all his own, bony knees drawn to his chest, rail-thin arms wrapped around bent legs, head down. His lips moved continually, though the words weren’t audible from where we stood.
“How long’s he been like that?” I asked.
“I’d say most of the night. We pushed the blanket on him this morning once we saw we couldn’t pry the kid loose without him going ballistic on us.”
The sheriff’s tone had softened and grown circumspect, as if he thought Shu might be on the brink of going over the edge.
CHAPTER 5
AS I approached I heard the chant: “Mondai attara Jimu Burodi-san ni denwa shite kudasai. Mondai attara Jimu Burodi-san ni denwa shite kudasai. Mondai attara Jimu Burodi-san ni denwa shite kudasai.”
The same refrain Renna had played for me on his phone. From a distance I deemed nonthreatening, I called out to Ken’s grandson.
He continued to rock and chant.
I eased closer. “Shu-kun,” I said softly, using an affectionate form of san, “I’m here.”
The chanting and rocking continued.
“It’s me, Shu-kun. Jim Brodie. You know me. You’re calling my name. Look at me.”
He raised his head. The chanting dropped to a low mumble, but the swaying persisted. His face was a sickly mushroom-gr
ay. His eyes were dilated and unfocused and they wandered around a bit before they found my face. When we locked eyes, the audio ceased but his lips still mouthed the words.
Under normal circumstances, he would recognize me. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I reached out to comfort him and he jerked away. A low keening escaped his lips.
I took a step back and reconsidered. I could only imagine what he’d thought of the husky deputies who had towered over him when they first arrived on the scene. Tall strangers with gruff voices. Demanding something of him in a mystifying foreign tongue. In tones that probably sounded menacing to his young ears.
From a distance of two yards, I squatted down to his level. The raw minty smell of eucalyptus was pungent. I spoke in soothing tones. In Japanese. I repeated my name. I reminded him that he knew me. That we’d last met recently at his grandfather’s studio in Kyoto. Did he remember? I spoke to him as I spoke to my six-year-old daughter when she was troubled, which, with her mother gone four years ago now, was more often than I cared to admit.
I inched forward, then sat on the grassy slope with him. I continued with the soft patter, aware that comfort could be drawn from the sound alone, whether the meaning penetrated or not.
He maintained his silent incantation. I watched his lips stretch to form each syllable—If there’s a problem, call Jim Brodie.
Well, here I was, and my arrival had accomplished nothing.
“Shu-kun,” I said again, “talk to me.”
I reached out again and this time he didn’t pull away. The rocking continued but his mouth closed. His eyelids drooped. He rocked.
I thought about what he’d been through. In the last lingering light before the darkness swept in, Shu and his father had most likely gone out to the back acreage and viewed the outdoor sculptures. Shu-kun might have run through the grass. Maybe chased any birds that hadn’t gone to roost. Tossed some rocks. Eventually, father and son had swung back toward the office, taking in the nighttime aspect of the sculptural pieces along the road then trotting downhill to look at Angel-Go-Round.
Which is when trouble struck. Maybe Shu-kun had seen his father slip and strike his head. Or maybe, bored with the art, Shu had wandered off to play on the nearby hill and hadn’t witnessed his father’s fatal accident. Or maybe he’d heard the body strike the sculpture. Heard the rattle of the statuary. It would have been dark by then, so Shu wouldn’t have had to stray too far to be out of sight.
Maybe Shu had called out at the noise, and when he received no answer made his way back to the patio. Arrived to find his father fallen. No animation in his parent’s face. No welcoming smile. Just a motionless form.
Shu would have tried to rouse him. Would have called to him. Over and over. Maybe tugged at his shoulder. Pulled an arm. With each negative response, Shu’s panic would have risen a notch. And his confusion would have grown. He would have cast around for help. Sought another adult. But by that time, they were alone on the preserve, surrounded by acres of grapevines and grass and very little else.
Alone in the Napa countryside.
In a foreign land.
Where everyone spoke a language he couldn’t understand.
Even if Shu had thought to dig out the cell phone in his father’s pocket, whom would he call and what would he say? Somewhere along the line, the eight-year-old had decided to hold a vigil until help arrived, and when the sheriff appeared on the scene, he’d begun his chant.
Or maybe the chant had begun much earlier and gone on much longer.
Maybe Shu had slipped over the edge.
CHAPTER 6
I STUDIED him for a long moment before I said, again in Japanese, “It’s okay, Shu-kun. I’m here. The men down there are friends. They won’t hurt you.”
He raised his head. I touched his shoulder. He sprang into my lap and flung his arms around me in a frightened, childlike hug. He shuddered. Then the tears came.
I embraced his thin, shivering frame. Even though, under the blanket, he wore a knee-length down jacket of a Japanese make known for warmth, he trembled. From the cold or the situation. Or both.
The chanting started up again.
I held him tighter. “You don’t need to call me anymore, Shu-kun. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
The chanting faded.
“Talk to me,” I said. “When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” he said in Japanese.
Children can surprise you with their resilience. On the other hand, he’d been here all night, calling out for who knows how long.
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“My father said ask for you if there was ever trouble.” He lifted his head and ran wide bloodshot eyes up and down my face. “He told me just keep repeating your name, so I did what he said.”
“You did good. I’m here.”
“Can you fix him?”
“We’ll have a doctor look at him.”
Which, after a fashion, was true.
“Can’t you wake him up?”
“Let’s wait for the doctor.”
Shu-kun hesitated for the first time. “Is he dead?”
The words tore at my heart. Most times I could handle such open-faced volleys. My daughter tossed them my way all the time. But this was different. My friend’s son was dead and his grandson wanted a confirmation of the most terrible kind. What did you tell a young child at a time like this? And how did you tell him? I had no idea.
“You can say the truth,” Shu said softly. “I’m eight now. I’m big. Everyone said I was old enough to come here to America with Dad. So you can tell me.”
He gazed at me expectantly with the same bloodshot eyes. Then his look strayed downhill toward his father’s body and the cluster of badges. His features grew somber, and his face suddenly seemed older than nature should allow. He lowered his head onto my shoulder again. There was no crying this time.
“He’s dead, isn’t he, Jim Brodie-san?”
It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, but, after some hesitation, I said yes.
I felt Shu’s body wilt. He clung to me for all he was worth, his fingers as stiff as steel rods. Quietly, the crying started again. Until that moment, Shu held out a slim hope that his father could still be revived. That if he called me and I came, I could “fix” him. I wished with every scrap of my being that I had the power to grant Shu the miracle he sought.
His body seemed to melt in my arms, as if he had willed himself to disappear. I stroked his hair and we stayed that way for a long time. Salt stung the corners of my eyes.
The sheriff and his men turned their heads away. One of the Napa city cops pawed at the ground with his boot.
* * *
When the tears faded, I said, “Maybe we can head up to the office, where it’s warmer.”
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, Shu stiffened. “I don’t want to go anywhere he might be.”
I looked downhill. “Don’t worry. The sheriff’s on our side. I thought we could—”
Shu’s head jerked up. “Not the policemen. Him. Do you think he’s coming back?”
It was a moment before I found my voice. “Shu-kun, I’m sorry, but your father—”
“No, no, not Dad. Him,” he repeated in a louder voice, as if raising the decibels would clarify the matter.
“I’m sorry, Shu-kun. I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?”
“The man with the gun.”
My spine went rigid. “You saw a man with a weapon?”
Eyes darkening in fear, the eight-year-old boy in my arms nodded with the gravitas of a war veteran who wished to see no more firearms of any kind for the rest of his life.
“Are you sure?”
Shu nodded again. “He didn’t see me. But I saw him.”
CHAPTER 7
AS I staggered up the rest of the hill with Shu in my arms, he began his tale. He spoke in short bursts, clinging to me, eyes squeezed shut in a near panic, clearly afraid of what
we might bump into at the top of the slope. When no gunman sprang from the shadows at the summit, the rest of the story spilled forth. Still hefting Shu’s boyish bulk, I cast a come-hither head-pull at Nash and Renna and they slogged uphill in our wake.
Once I set him down, Shu headed for a giant clay sculpture of a sitting woman painted in a passionate explosion of color. He snuggled against the sculpture as he had against the eucalyptus. Large splashes of red, orange, and purple over a white undercoat brought the figure to life, highlighting features or emotions or whatever the viewer chose to make of them.
I watched Shu’s mute dash for the statue in puzzled silence. Then I got it. The Viola Frey piece was reminiscent of his father’s colorful abstract forms of towering metal.
Shu wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
* * *
The sheriff scowled. “Damn scene was staged.”
Renna rolled his marbles, dark expressionless eyes locked on me. “The kid get a good look?”
“That’s what he said.”
Nash’s eyebrows were working. “You mind if I ask him myself?”
“No, but move slowly. He spooks easily.”
The three of us strolled over and Shu’s face rose to gauge our approach.
I stopped a yard short, easing my hands into my jacket pocket. “Did your father like this piece?”
Shu nodded, a smile spreading.
Sheriff Nash asked his questions, I translated, and Shu replied with impressive conviction.
We left him with the statue and pulled back to the office. The other cops gathered around.
Nash said, “I know a dynamite sketch artist over in Suisun City.” He nudged his shoulder mike to life. “Dick, call Suisun PD and ask if we can borrow Cheré Copeland.”
“Their forensic artist?”
“Yeah. Have her meet us at headquarters.”
Renna asked Nash if Copeland was good with children.
“She’s cop, artist, mother. She’s good with everyone.”
