Tokyo Enigma

by Sam Waite

  The young man I encountered yesterday may or may not have deserved what happened, but I felt no remorse. He had chosen his own perils and taken a path paved with the weakness of victims. I was simply a rut in that road.

  Over the phone, Morimoto told me that the photos from Yuri's camera were good. However, he had not been able to identify the man who had met Ito. He was also trying to find out more about Hosoi's bank accounts, but hadn't come up with anything new.

  I told him someone needed to change the cartridge in the tape recorder that Yuri and I had planted. He said that had already been arranged. Yuri had called and pinpointed the tree limb where the device was hidden.

  "Tell anyone going near Foxx Starr to be very careful. I might have made people there angry enough to want revenge."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Never mind why. I'll explain when I see you."

  "We are already cautious because of what happened to Taen-san."

  "Good. Whatever precautions you're taking now, should be increased, if possible. You too Morimoto-san. Be careful, even if you don't go near there. They've seen your face."

  Morimoto was silent for a while. "That's why we don't give out phone numbers."

  One man's logic is another man's non sequitur. Let someone else set the rules, then learn them and obey your way to happiness. Morimoto had followed that philosophy to success and then to jeopardy, but he still didn't question the tenet. Perversely, that thinking had led him to hire thugs to pressure debtors. His predecessors had done so. His former colleagues probably still did in obeisance to their ultimate morality, corporate success.

  I had no response to Morimoto's implied accusation that my demand he transgress by giving me Yuri's phone number was somehow a factor.

  "I'll call later." I hung up.

  Except for some stiffness in my knee, the damp cold outside felt good. The sidewalks were still wet and strewn with gingko leaves. There seemed to be more on the ground now than in the trees. Soon they would be bare. I had two hours before a meeting with Dorian's lawyers, so I walked. Using a map and occasional visits to koban, neighborhood police boxes, I found the place with time to spare.

  The lawyer, Ishii, had not been impressed with my evidence that Dorian did not kill Hosoi. He was, however, impressed with the fervor of my own conviction and my insistence that it was vital for Dorian to believe it. He agreed to stop advising his client to beg the court's mercy. The focus would be solely on acquittal, if Dorian agreed.

  I tore a slip of paper off a notepad on Ishii's desk and wrote, "Hang in there," on it. Then I signed it and pushed it toward Ishii.

  "Before you talk to him, hand him that."

  It occurred to me after I left that "hang" might not have been the finest choice of words, but I expected Dorian would get my meaning. It also occurred to me that my confidence, at the moment, lacked substance. We were spinning wheels. Unless Morimoto could identify the man who was with Ito, or unless we got something useful from the tape, I didn't know where to go from here.

  Then again maybe I did. If the mystery man was a ranking bureaucrat, as Yuri suspected, then an investigative agency might not be the best resource. They'd have better files on felons. I called Morimoto and asked him to make a copy of the SD card that contained Yuri's photos and to look up the phone number to Reuters' Tokyo bureau.

  Will Simons, an old friend from university, covered financial news for the British wire service. After he graduated, he'd enrolled in a Japanese university and studied economics. He could write articles in either Japanese or English. I figured he was underemployed as a reporter, but he liked what he did.

  Morimoto had the SD card ready when I arrived. He was co-operative as always, but he didn't look happy with me.

  The punch-out at Foxx Starr was a grave matter.

  "We don't use violence in Japan," he said.

  The oddest thing about that statement was he obviously believed it. I wanted to grab his ears and tell him to take off the blinders, but he probably wouldn't think that was very Japanese either. Who did he think had attacked Yuri? What did he think happened to the people he had intimidated as a banker? There was a gulf that wasn't going to get crossed, so I left it alone.

  Simons said he could meet me in the evening and chastised me for not calling earlier for old time's sake. I didn't say that I hadn't thought to call at all until I figured he could help me in the case.

  I went to the hotel and loaded the images from the SD card onto my notebook computer. They were good. Enlargements of the small shopping bag, however, offered no evidence of what might be inside. For more than two hours I tweaked pixels hoping more detail would help. I became so absorbed that I nearly worked through the time to pack up and meet Will.

  * * * *

  "You're working on the Dorian case?" Will dropped his head back. "Hah!" His sharp laugh attracted attention from other diners, but he didn't seem to care. "Do you read Harry Potter stories?"

  "What?"

  "Do you believe in magic?"

  "I believe the guy's innocent."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Uh huh."

  "So who killed poor Maho-san and why?" Will sliced a bite off a rack of Australian lamb. An oily film glistened on his lower lip as he chewed. He wasn't exactly portly, but he had enough fat in his face to smooth out wrinkles and make him look ten years younger than his age.

  "I've no idea, but I know it wasn't Dorian."

  Through the course of the meal, I explained my doubts and sketched the progress to date, leaving out key details such as the money transfers.

  "All right, Mick that's enough to pique my interest, only because it's you. I'll look at your photos, but my personal association with bureaucrats extends to top people in the Finance Ministry and Ministry of Economics Trade and Industry. Not likely I'll recognize the guy."

  After supper, we went to a wine bar that Will recommended. Nice place, lots of labels of vintners and CDs alike. They played sixties cool-era jazz. Coltrane, before he got too wiggy for me to understand; Monk, turning second-intervals into African harmonics; Jimmy Smith, refining raw passion through the beauty of an organ, The Sermon, twenty minutes long and full of sin. Besides the wine and the music, the place had a seductive selection of cheese and breads. If I hung around Will long enough, I might get my own wrinkles ironed out.

  I set my notebook computer on the table and fired it up. When I displayed a close-up of the mystery man's face, Will lost his humor.

  "Where was that taken?"

  "I don't know. A Japanese colleague shot it."

  "Show me the whole photo."

  I panned out so Ito was in the picture.

  "Who's the woman?" Will emptied his glass in one swallow and refilled it.

  "Who's the man?"

  "Okay Mick, here's the deal. I said I'd help you, but we need to do some serious horse-trading. If you tell me who the woman is and the circumstances of the photograph, then I'll identify the man."

  It looked like the investigation's spinning wheels were about to get traction. I made a quick call to Morimoto to make sure he had not turned up anything. He hadn't.

  "Let's negotiate," I said to Will.

  We reached an agreement that covered a lot more than names of the people in the picture. Will would pursue the possibility of any link between the man and my client or Hosoi. We would meet periodically to exchange information, and he would not write any story without consulting me, unless it was breaking news. Also, the final decision on what to write or whether to write would be his.

  With those ground rules, I identified Ito and even gave him her home and office addresses.

  Will tapped his pen on his notepad after he wrote down the information. I was about to remind him it was his turn, but he spoke first.

  "The man in the picture is not a top bureaucrat, but your guess was close. He's the chief secretary of Hisahiko Ohashi, a commissioner in the Fair Trade Commission. I've seen him a few times at interviews with his boss. I don't remember his
name. I'll get it for you by tomorrow morning."

  Will held his pen between both index fingers and pressed it against his lower lip. Not exactly a Rodin pose, but it looked like he was thinking.

  "Do you know that game, six levels of separation? The idea is that anyone can find a link to anyone else in the world within six relationships. You might not know it, but you can get to Saddam Hussein in two. You know me, and I interviewed one of his generals who fled the country ahead of a purge."

  I could've linked to Saddam in one, but that was another story.

  "Yeah, I've heard of it, but I don't think it works with everyone. Mongolian nomads, for instance. What's your point?"

  "Just that in terms of coincidence there's not much to tie the secretary to Dorian."

  Not in terms of coincidence, but the attack on Yuri was not coincidence. I wasn't ready to share that information. Even if I did, it wouldn't mean anything to Will. I knew it the same way I knew Dorian didn't kill Hosoi: evidence and instinct.

  "Ito must be shady, Will. I don't know what she's into yet, but you can bet it doesn't involve official business with the FTC."

  "I intend to follow up on this," Will said. "I'm just saying that for all we know right now, Ito could be the man's wayward niece."

  Will didn't believe it any more than I did, but he'd keep telling himself that until he had facts to the contrary. That's one reason I respected him.

  In the last two days, I'd had a fight with a gangster, found a tenuous link between my client and a man associated with the top of Japan's bureaucracy and, worst of all, entered a pact of trust with a news reporter.

  I wavered, then ordered a bottle of nineteen eighty-five Viña Monte, a Rioja with a funky name, oaky taste, mellow. Maroyaka, as they say in Japan.

  There's a fine line between "want" and "need." It was our third, and final, bottle of claret.

  Chapter 8

  I was surprised to see Yuri at my early morning meeting with Morimoto.

  "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

  Her forehead was creased with wrinkles and both corners of her mouth turned down. It could have just been an inverted smile, but I doubted it.

  "I might have taken another day off if I didn't have to worry about you getting us into a war with the Gotoh Gumi."

  The tone of her voice could have frozen the whiskers off a baby harp seal.

  "What's that?"

  "It's the yakuza faction that Panther, as you call him, belongs to."

  "He's not a panther. He's a—"

  "His name is Saburo Yamazaki. He's steamed about the guy you beat up. He has a broken jaw."

  I was right. The agency could ID a felon faster than it could a bureaucrat.

  "How'd you get that?"

  "We've been working on it since you and Morimoto-san surmised the yakuza connection."

  "We?"

  "Protect Agency. We're set up like a consultancy. A manager oversees a few cases and a director oversees a few managers. We also have a pool of assistants who do routine jobs and check questions without knowing the context. That lets us exchange information among investigative teams without compromising confidentiality."

  "That's not very Japanese is it?" I flicked a glance at Morimoto. "No walled-up fiefdoms."

  "People here are willing to break the mold. That's why we're successful. I also think I speak for everyone, when I say we're hoping you won't single-handedly send us all to hell in a hand basket."

  "I'll try not to."

  "Thanks to you, we've decided that it's too dangerous to use the recorder that we planted in the tree. So we put one in a tearoom. The reception isn't good, and there's a chance someone will find it, but it's safer to check on."

  Morimoto was quiet, but his eyes had been sniping at me from under bushy brows. Being double-teamed was bad enough. Deserving it made it worse. There wasn't much point in trying to explain the emotion that dogged me after Yuri was attacked. Some things I didn't understand well myself. It was time for appeasement.

  "I know who the mystery man with Ito is."

  Yuri didn't exactly sheath her sword, but she lowered it.

  "Who?"

  "He isn't a bureaucrat," I quoted Will Simons and paused to give Yuri a moment for no-one's-perfect self-reflection. "But you were close. He's the chief secretary to Hisahiko Ohashi, FTC commissioner."

  Yuri's personal storm clouds started dissipating. She leaned toward me.

  "Which means?"

  "I'm not sure. I should have the name of the secretary before noon, so you can confirm the ID."

  "How did you find out who he is?"

  There seemed to be more suspicion than admiration in Yuri's question. I wasn't ready to admit my pact with Will, so I hedged.

  "It comes from a personal contact. I trust that the information is accurate, but like I said, you should check it."

  Morimoto made a note in a pad.

  I made one in my mind. No more self-recrimination for today.

  "What's the story on the bug? Anything useful?"

  "No," Yuri looked disappointed. "We still haven't checked the recorder in the tree, but one day's tape from the tearoom didn't have much on it."

  "I'll get the tree tape."

  "You should wait until dark. Gotoh people might be watching the area."

  "All the more reason to go in broad daylight. They see us. We see them. The neighbors see everybody."

  "I'm going with you."

  "No you aren't."

  "All right then, I'll get there first and wait for you under the tree. Someone has to keep you out of trouble."

  "We'll go together. Somebody has to keep you out of the hospital."

  I called Will, got the name of the secretary—Hisao Ueno—and gave it to Morimoto to find out what he could on the guy.

  Yuri escorted me to her motor scooter. It was hardly big enough for me, let alone both of us. I asked if there were any company vehicles, and she took me to a small parking lot. We might not have a lot of time to snatch the tape, so a motorcycle would be better than a car. A motorcycle could thread through traffic easier. I picked out a one-thousand cc Honda Hurricane.

  "Get the key. I'm driving."

  "Do you have a license for Japan?"

  "I have an international license."

  "For motorcycles?"

  "I didn't say I was driving legally. I just said I was driving. You coming or not?"

  Yuri brought the key and a few helmets. I found one that fit, and we took off on the very fine bike. Yuri clung to me from behind and shouted directions. Best of all, I was riding illegally, no motorcycle license. It was the most fun I'd had since I got here. I was even close to forgiving Abe Granger.

  We made it across town in good time. When we got to the vicinity of Foxx Starr, I no longer needed Yuri's guidance. I turned onto the street that was home to the tree that hid the recorder. If the area was watched, going fast might attract attention. So could going slow. I leaned forward and sped down the street.

  It didn't take long to find out the area was watched. As soon as we stopped under the tree, a man came walking toward us. I could jump for the limb or give Yuri a boost. I didn't want to leave her on the ground, so I cupped my hands and hoisted her up. The man shouted and started running toward us. He was about five seconds away and talking into a mobile phone. We weren't going to make it. Yuri would have to get down on her own.

  I charged the man and threw a linebacker forearm into his chest. He staggered back. I followed up with a punch to his sternum. He clutched his chest and dropped to his knees. I sprinted back to the bike. Yuri was on the ground and waving the recorder. Four other men were running toward us and a motorcycle was closing fast from behind. Yuri and I leapt onto the Honda. It had quick acceleration, but not enough. The motorcycle rider edged slightly ahead of us. I veered toward a wall.

  We had a heavier bike, but he was in better position and a good rider. We were hemmed between him and the wall and were bearing toward a concrete lamppost. I was about to ram
the guy and send us all into the street, when I felt Yuri's hand on my shoulder. She was using me for support. Her other arm arced, and she brought her homemade sap down on the guy's wrist. He lost the grip in his right hand, swerved left and took a hard fall. We did better. Only my forearm hit the post.

  I wasn't sure who had fired the first shot, but it was clear that Gotoh Gumi had declared war against us.

  Chapter 9

  "Were you really going to spend all day at the hospital?"

  Yuri held my skinned and bruised arm over the lavatory and scrubbed. As a nurse, she'd make a good stable girl.

  "Ouch." I left her question hanging.

  "Just to watch me?"

  "Ouch."

  After we had cleared the Gotoh Gumi sentries, Yuri had brought me to her apartment. It was a nice place. Three tidy rooms, a kitchenette and a goldfish. I was grateful to be here. My coat sleeve hadn't suffered much damage, but my skin had, and blood had stained my shirt cuff. I didn't relish passing the concierge again with blood on my clothes. He might think I was rowdy.

  Yuri smeared antiseptic cream on my arm and covered it with gauze, which she secured with large strips of medical tape. That was going to be fun to take off. Lots of ouches there. She had also thrown my shirt into a washing machine.

  "There you go." Yuri patted the bandage.

  "Do you have liability insurance?"

  She frowned.

  "In case I get infected."

  Yuri stepped back and looked at me as though I'd just filleted her pet fish.

  "American humor." I shrugged and made a limp grin.

  Yuri had insisted that we take care of my arm before we tried to listen to the tape. We might as well have gone out for dinner and a show. The bug had worked fine; the recorder hadn't. Voices on the tape were drowned by static. Yuri reverted to Japanese as she tried to make out intelligible words above the white noise. From her tone of voice, it appeared that Japanese had more swear words than I had guessed.

  "We can try sending it to a lab," I said.