Tokyo Enigma

by Sam Waite

  Tokyo Enigma

  A Mick Sanchez Mystery

  By

  Sam Waite

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-215-5

  Tokyo Enigma

  Copyright © 2016 by Sam Waite

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2016 by Judith B. Glad

  Cord photo: dhannte, morguefile;

  Tokyo skyline photo: pigprox, fotolia.com

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  For Naomi and Iris

  Chapter 1

  The bruises matched. That alone could be enough to convict. Japanese prosecutors believed that streaks across the hands of American executive Charles Dorian and a fatal ring around the throat of a young model were caused by the same silk cord. It was scarlet and enwrapped with strands of hair as though it had been woven through the victim's coiffure. A woman's adornment had been used as a garrote.

  The assignment appeared bound for a predestined outcome and was in a part of the world I didn't want to see again. I dropped the fact sheet back on Abe Granger's desk.

  "Find someone else."

  "This is high profile, Mick. It means a lot to the company, and right now we're thin on talent."

  Abe, boss and mentor, didn't have to say much more. I chastised myself. A man named Mick Sanchez ought to have an open mind about cultures, especially if his business card read Global Risk Management. I'd done a lot of work in Europe and Latin America, but there were memories of some places I'd rather leave dormant.

  It wasn't just the surreal horror of Vietnam. It was the work-a-day chaos in Thailand, Taiwan and Japan of dodging crowds walking, pedaling or driving in motley directions. It was the humanity that swirled around me, furtively brushing the surface as though I existed in a curious but perilous dimension. It was the feeling that I was a six-foot-one, two hundred and ten pound thumb in someone's eye that had made me vow never to go back to East Asia.

  In another life, I had done a two-and-a-half-year tour in West Pac that began with a hundred and ten degree summer in IV Corps, Vietnam. It ended with a minus thirty degree winter in Wakkanai, Japan, the home of a U.S. Air Force listening post that sat on a spit of land jutting toward Russia, taunting the country's cryptologists and the Arctic wind. From Wakkanai, I traveled along Hokkaido's north coast to interview an inmate in Abashiri Prison, a fortress on a stark landscape bared to Siberian storms blowing down the Tatar strait. The prisoner had been convicted of selling a controlled substance to a U.S. airman, and I was pursuing military justice for CID, Criminal Investigations Department.

  Snow lay deep. It was early February, and the convict wore a thinly padded jacket. What I could see of his skin had a translucent pallor, the color of lemonade, as though his strength had been leached by the cold. I questioned him for nearly an hour, but I never saw his eyes. He kept his chin tucked tight against his chest. It was a Pavlovian effect. My translator said that if a prisoner made eye contact with a guard, first he suffered a beating then he spent hours kneeling on a reed mat facing a wall.

  After twenty some-odd years and a worthless vow not to return, I was back to interview another prisoner. The stakes had been raised.

  My company's client, Kyle Solutions, had agreed to take over a Japanese robotics developer, started up on the personal savings of engineers who had been victims of corporate downsizing. The company was on the brink of bankruptcy. It had a prototype for an uncannily accurate stereoscopic guidance system for industrial robots, but no line of product. A start-up like that in America could put out a tin cup and empty it regularly as investors filled it with cash. In Japan, a company without products wouldn't be looking for a million bucks or a hundred million yen. It would be lucky to raise a hundred yen to buy the cup.

  Kyle Solutions, a technology conglomerate based in San Francisco, had stepped in for the rescue and put Charles Dorian in charge to make sure the prototype reached production stage. The Japanese engineers kept their jobs, and Kyle's management had a white-picket-fence vision of a blissful union.

  That ended when Dorian was found in a hotel room with the body of a young model. He had passed out and reeked of alcohol. She had been strangled with a cord, presumed by prosecutors to be the one found wrapped around his hand.

  Global Risk Management, GRIM among employees, provided private corporations with a range of services from anti-terrorist training to general-purpose troubleshooting. Kyle Solutions hired us to protect their investment.

  Pauline Cramer, our Human Resources chief, must have run a data search and found a match for "Japan, prisoner, interview." She sent my name to Abe Granger. I was tapped. Never mind GRIM's small stable of Asia specialists, or the decades-long gap.

  A lot had changed. Back then, my hotel lobby in mid-town Tokyo would not have looked like it belonged in New York. The athletic thirtyish woman carrying a Prada bag and wearing a mid-thigh black sheath with a vent in the back would have stood out anywhere but a hostess bar. The man wearing a navy-blue cashmere overcoat, lightweight wool suit and understated silk tie would have had to do his shopping overseas. There would have been fewer women and no men with hair dyed brown or red.

  One individual who did stand out was my contact from Protect Agency, an ill-named investigative outfit that GRIM had used before. He was not among the dyed set. What was left of his thinning hair was black, streaked white. It was long and framed his puffy cheeks in an anemic frizz. To his credit, he had made no attempt to comb it over his balding crown.

  I was the only foreigner in the lobby. He spotted me quickly, nodded and shuffled across the carpeted floor as though he was trying to charge his body with static electricity. His shoulders slumped.

  I had a table in a teashop partially walled by waist-high partitions, which gave the effect of a sidewalk café indoors. A harpist in front of a mural of swans, lotuses and Grecian maidens was playing something neoclassical.

  "Mr. Mick Sanchez?" My contact's voice quavered in a high pitch that he tried to fix with a spasm of little coughs.

  I gestured to an empty chair, but he stayed on his feet and ran his thumb along a corner of a scarred leather valise.

  "Mr. Morimoto?"

  His arms stiffened along his sides as though he had been called to attention. I didn't like military reminders. Morimoto was making me nervous. He bowed from the waist, his eyes skipping from me to the chair as he fingered his valise. I felt like he was waiting for me to recite the second part of a password: "Russia buried Lenin... The maid can't make the beds." After a few seconds, I caught on, stood and returned the bow. Morimoto looked relieved and sat down.

  "You must be tired," he said. "I'm sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport last night," his head tilted down so that he peered out the top edge of wire-frame glasses.

  "I'm all right. No problems getting here, and I slept well. I know you had short notice but..."


  I was about to ask, "When do I see Charles Dorian?"

  I paused too long. He interrupted.

  "It's a fine day."

  The corners of Morimoto's mouth sagged into inverted crescents on either side of his chin. His voice and manner had an odd gravity as though the idyllic autumn weather was a disappointment.

  "It is." I held my hand up for silence in case he had anything else to say about the weather. "When do we meet Mr. Dorian?"

  Morimoto appeared not to hear. He pulled a brochure from his valise and laid it on the table. It looked like an ad for his agency. Either he was following company procedure to the letter, or he was guided by some ritual hard-wired into his psyche:

  Bows.

  Weather talk.

  Self-promotion.

  If I'd had time, I might have been interested to see how many steps he played through. I didn't. I put my hand on the brochure and gave Morimoto as much grin as I had in me.

  "Dorian. What time? Today."

  While Morimoto dabbed at perspiration beading on his forehead and upper lip, I explained that it had been three days since the "incident." Physical evidence on Dorian's body would be fading. I needed to see it. "We, Mr. Morimoto, need to see it."

  On the way to his car, he filled me in on the complexities and uniqueness of Japanese social mores and legal customs. There was form to follow. We had to go through lawyers. It might take a while.

  Form was not my strong point. The Dorian affair had lit up political radar in the U.S., and Kyle Solutions had clout and money. It was 6:42 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. I called GRIM from Morimoto's car and asked the night watch to find out which senator on Kyle's contribution list swung the biggest stick at State and have him or her twist arms at the Japanese embassy, preferably the ambassador's.

  Some things hadn't changed. I was still a thumb in someone's eye.

  It took us an hour and ten minutes to get to the attorneys' office. By then, the calls I had requested had been made. We were cleared to visit Dorian at our convenience, which meant 1:30 p.m., the earliest we could get to the Tokyo detention center.

  Japanese mores turned out less mysterious than Morimoto had supposed.

  He was right about having to bring a lawyer though. Masao Ishii, a young attorney from the firm representing Dorian, came along and brought me up to date on the case. Dorian and the victim, Maho Hosoi, had been found in a high-rent love hotel that booked rooms by the night or by the hour. A clerk had said Dorian and Hosoi checked in together and Dorian booked two hours. They overstayed the time, so he called the room. When he got no answer, he checked and found both Dorian and the girl nude and unconscious. He called police.

  That line of business was heavy with yakuza, Japanese crime syndicates, so the clerk's statement might not be gospel. At this point there was no reason to doubt it. Forensics had determined that the girl had been sexually stimulated shortly before her death. There was no seminal fluid. Either a condom had been used and disposed of, since none was found, or the nature of the sex act wasn't missionary-approved. The cord used to strangle her was wrapped around Dorian's hand. Marks on her neck were the only sign of injury.

  I asked Ishii if prosecutors were looking for any other suspects. He just tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. At least he didn't laugh.

  When we arrived at the detention center, an officious guard in a starched shirt with a collar too big for his neck led us to an interview room. Dorian and a policeman, both dressed in street clothes, were already waiting. The policeman offered to leave, but I said it was okay for him to stay. I didn't expect to learn anything that the authorities didn't already know. Everyone but Dorian exchanged business cards with the policeman, and a couple of minutes later, everyone including Dorian was served a small plastic cup of green tea.

  I guess Dorian was used to being in charge. He didn't wait for questions.

  "I won't be much help. Not even in my own defense. From around eight o'clock that night—" He held his hand next to his head and spread his fingers, "—it's gone, deleted. Zip. All I know is what the prosecutors tell me."

  He looked at his hands. Bruises from a cord were still faintly visible. "Not good, is it?"

  "Could be better."

  I paused to gauge his reaction. He didn't give away anything, and he didn't appear strained. Impressive after three days at the hands of Japanese interrogators. They had a record of getting confessions from innocent people.

  "Let's say it was you. Then the question is 'Why?'"

  "Prosecutors have been pushing a theory of rough sex that got out of hand."

  "How does that sound to you?"

  "Out of character. I'm divorced. I'm not a monk, but I'm pretty straight in that regard. I've never physically hurt a woman."

  He looked at his hands again as though they were alien appendages that had attached themselves against his will. "Not that I remember."

  "Did you know the girl?"

  "No."

  "Ever have a blackout like this before?"

  "Not since college. I'm not a heavy drinker."

  "Did they do any chemical tests?"

  "What?"

  "Breath, blood, urine, stool. Did they look for anything besides alcohol?"

  "I'd been drinking. I stank when they arrested me. I remember that. Breath maybe? I'm not sure what else. I was groggy for a long time."

  "That's all right. Mr. Ishii will check."

  I looked toward the attorney, who nodded and made a note.

  "Do you think you can help me?"

  From his body language and tone of voice, Dorian might have been talking about a flat tire. He seemed more puzzled than frightened.

  "I'll be honest. Helping you is Mr. Ishii's job. I'm here to help Kyle Solutions come clean with the local community, if you're guilty. And to get everyone off the hook, if you aren't. If you are guilty, personally, I hope you're convicted."

  Dorian scowled, but it was better to clear any false assumptions.

  "May I see your hands?"

  The bruising extended from just inside the right palm below the little finger, across the back of his hand to just inside the palm below the index finger. There were no marks on the center of his palms, and the bruises were evenly distributed. Marks were similar on both hands.

  "Any other injuries?"

  "No."

  "Scratches on your back or shoulders that you can't see?"

  Dorian shook his head.

  "I need to take pictures of your hands, and if you don't mind, of your body,"

  "Police have done that."

  "The police aren't on your side."

  "You aren't either."

  "Touché. Let me restate. I'll assume you're innocent until there's proof otherwise. Everyone else thinks you're guilty."

  Dorian undressed to his briefs and, except for his hands, there wasn't a mark on him. I used a digital camera to record that fact and checked the images, while Dorian put his clothes back on. I pointed out the apparent lack of a struggle to Ishii, and noticed our representative from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department jot something on a pad.

  "What were you doing before eight o'clock?"

  "I was at a reception for a violinist. She'd just released a CD. I'd been invited by a music producer, whom I met through a mutual friend. I guess that's where..." Dorian's hands fluttered in small circles as his voice faded.

  "You said you didn't know the girl. Have you ever employed the services of a prostitute?"

  Dorian winced. "No need."

  "No doubt, but some men find the illicit exchange stimulating. The Profumo syndrome, natty U.K. parliamentarians and their madam. Way back. Ever hear of it?"

  "No, I have never hired a prostitute."

  "Any dangerous enemies, Mr. Dorian?"

  For an instant, it looked like Dorian's composure slipped. He shook his head.

  "Thank you, then."

  "Is that all?"

  "Is there anything else you want to say?"

  Dorian d
idn't answer. He rubbed a bruise on his hand as though he was trying to erase it.

  "The urgent thing was to meet you and get a firsthand look. I'll be back after I know more about what happened."

  A guard came to escort Dorian out. When he got to the door, he stopped and turned.

  "How can you do this?"

  "Do what?"

  "Work as a private investigator in Japan."

  "Conducting a little business on a tourist visa. Salesmen do it all the time. Besides, except for Osaka, investigators don't need a license in Japan. Right Mr. Morimoto?"

  Morimoto's hair wafted up and down as he nodded. He looked vaguely offended.

  We took Ishii back to his office, and then headed for Foxx Starr, the talent agency that had employed Maho Hosoi. It was in Nishi Azabu, a fusion-culture enclave on Tokyo's bohemian west side. I hadn't had breakfast, and my stomach was growling like a grizzly getting a root canal. Morimoto didn't know the area, so he parked at the first place he found. Menus posted outside a French café advertised Japanese ingredients in cordon bleu-inspired concoctions.

  So-called ethnic restaurants in the area had dishes representing every country in Southeast Asia. We went into a place called Westwind. I couldn't identify the décor or the fare. As far as I could tell, fusion cuisine was less an exotic stew than a random dropping of mismatched dollops. Haddock roe, daikon radish and avocado, for instance.

  After lunch, Morimoto called Foxx Starr for directions. The agency was off the main drag, deep in an area where narrow streets seldom met at right angles. There were no street signs or house numbers or sidewalks. Morimoto swerved from one side of an alley-wide road to the other to avoid a young woman pushing a buggy occupied by a fat, red-cheeked baby swaddled in woolen wraps and wearing a fluffy cap pulled down over its ears. The woman wore high-heeled boots, a tight skirt that stopped well above her knees and a leather jacket that stopped just above the hem of her skirt. She was smiling as she talked on a mobile phone, heedless to the dangers of traffic, either to herself or the infant. She was like a lot of Tokyoites I'd seen, meticulous with style, oblivious to safety.