***
At the convenience store near her father’s house, Jamie bought milk, yogurt, cereal, bananas and juice, which were if her math was correct, extremely expensive. She walked back towards the house feeling guilty, and a little angry, to have put off coming back for all those years. Why would she so willfully ignore her younger self?
Now, with her father’s death, and her mother’s indifference, she was thrust into a relationship with herself, a relationship long ignored in the busy swirl of New York. The dull job, her bank loans, the micro-apartment and the hard partying friends had kept her too well distracted.
Coming back to Tokyo—despite the sadness and regret—felt like getting rid of a weight she’d carried for too long, the weight of distance, of being alone in New York. After two days in Tokyo, her rush-around, talk-talk, get-ahead life in New York already felt far away. Maybe Tokyo was a place she could stay and not feel in between.
A block from her father’s home, she came across the ramen shop where she and her father shared bowls of noodles. She had been too young to use chopsticks and had to use a fork. The plastic displays of noodles and their handwritten labels were covered with a thick layer of dust and faded by the sun and time. As she walked on, she tried to remember the faces of the old couple, the aprons they wore, the jokes and sweets they made for her.
Inside the front door of the house, she toed off her shoes in the entryway, turning the lock and slipping the chain across the door. This was her home, too, or had been, and was now again. She headed to put away her overpriced groceries, wondering where the will was and what the bank and lawyer would tell her.
Steps from the kitchen, she spun around. Two voices spoke in low tones. She stopped where she was and turned towards the living room, the groceries dangling in her hand. Were they policemen? How did they get in? She looked at the kitchen door and the front door and treaded warily back towards the living room.
Two men in black tracksuits stared at her. They set down what they were about to put into their black bags.
The word for “who” came to her in Japanese. “Dare?” She searched for more to say, but the words stuck inside her.
They glided quickly towards her.
Jamie bolted for the front door and swung the bag of groceries into the head of the closest guy. Milk exploded over the entryway. She snatched at the latch chain and bolt but he pulled her backwards onto the umbrella stand, which crashed to the floor under her.
She sprang up and snatched desperately at the door, struggling to get the chain off before they grabbed both her arms and yanked her down hard onto the floor.
Jamie screamed when she hit the wood floor. One of them twisted her arm so hard she screamed again. Jamie flipped herself around and thrust a kick toward his balls that missed and caught his thigh.
He twisted her arm to flip her over on her stomach and then dropped a knee in her back, pushing until she quit wiggling. Jamie thought her back would break and her arm would twist off at the shoulder. Neither of the men spoke a word. She could feel their leather gloves on her skin as they yanked her up to carry her into the living room and drop her facedown on the sofa.
She could hear duct tape ripping from a roll and felt the tape tight around her wrists and elbows. She elbowed and kicked and butted her head back, missing with every try. One of them held her legs together as the other duct-taped her ankles and then her calves and knees, pulling the thick tape tight with each round. She tried to kick out again but could not even bend her legs.
Another rip of the tape covered her mouth and cut into her cheeks. She moaned as they wrapped turn after turn of tape around her wrists and ankles securing her to the woodwork of the sofa. Wrapped top to bottom, Jamie could only wriggle like a fish, staring at the wall with wild eyes and thinking of her father tied in the other room in the final moments before he was cut open and left to bleed to death.
Her arms hurt and she could feel her feet tingle as the circulation slowed under the tourniquet of tape. She sucked air in through her nose, desperate for more. They tossed a blanket over her head, making it even harder to breathe, and went back to work. She could hear them moving things nearby and dropping things onto the floor.
She tried to control her breathing by calming herself and inhaling steadily through her nose, but it was clotted with blood and snot and she had to suck in hard to get enough air. She bit at the tape over her mouth and caught an edge to gnaw open. She sawed at it with her teeth.
The sound of the two men got softer when they moved into the study. They seemed to be pulling books off shelves and dropping them on the floor one by one, kicking them around. Jamie could hear the kitchen cabinets opening and shutting. One of them walked upstairs, the house creaking under his steps. It sounded like every tansu chest and wardrobe was being pushed over upstairs.
Suddenly, the robbing and ransacking sounds stopped. She could hear one of them close to her typing a text message. She heard the two of them whispering to each other in quick sentences. She knew they were not speaking Japanese, maybe Korean, Chinese, Thai. The rhythm was different from Japanese but her head felt too swollen and sore to make it out.
Jamie snorted to clear her nose for air, feeling both hyper-alert and like she was going to black out. She moaned as loud as she could and squirmed harder from side to side. She heard another staccato rip of tape from the roll. Their hands checked the tape around her body and one of them pulled off one of her socks.
They ripped the tape from her mouth. She felt like her cheeks were torn open and in the instant her mouth was free, she cried out, “Please, I can’t breathe. Please, my nose is stopped.”
She sucked in all the liquid blocking her sinuses and spit it out. But before she could think how to plead in Japanese, they grabbed her hair and stuffed the sock inside her mouth, taping it in place with a fresh piece of tape.
The sock made it even harder to breathe. She tried to blow out the snot and blood from her nose to clear a path, but it kept filling back up, blocking any air.
Then, she heard nothing more.
Chapter 13
Hiroshi got to Mattson’s house in Asakusa as soon as he could. After staying up half the night filling the French police in on an embezzlement case at a joint French-Japanese company, he’d gotten only a few hours of sleep before Sakaguchi called. The front door stood half-open despite the cold. Inside, Sakaguchi blocked the hallway, which was splashed with milk, arguing with Saito.
“You were in charge of getting someone here around the clock.” Sakaguchi leaned forward towards Saito, as if readying an oshidashi sumo thrust that would send him flying.
Saito took a step back. “The chief put you in charge of this case.”
“I’m taking my guys back from security at the Forum Hall.” Sakaguchi stepped forward.
“You’ll all have to be at the conference on Monday.”
Hiroshi put a hand on Sakaguchi’s arm to ease him back a step, despite wanting to see Sakaguchi stiff-arm Saito into flight.
In the living room, Hiroshi took in the cut strips of grey duct tape fluttering from the sofa. Cushion stuffing poked out from where the indigo-blue coverings were sliced to pieces. Ueno, Sugamo and Osaki were directing younger detectives to take photographs. Split books, shattered pottery, and smashed chairs littered the place, a worse shambles than before.
Seeing Hiroshi, Ueno nodded toward the stairway. “Upstairs.”
Hiroshi took the stairs two at a time. He ducked under the overhead beam and stepped into the bedroom where Jamie was sitting on a folded-up futon mattress talking on the phone. Noticing Hiroshi’s reflection in the mirror, she motioned for him to sit down. He kneeled on the tatami just inside the door. A floor lamp threw more shadows than light around the room. When she hung up, Hiroshi looked at her red and swollen face, but she would not meet his eyes.
“Can you tell me what happened? Or do you…”
“It’s better to tell you now.” Jamie looked past him at the wall and twisted the end
of a blanket around her hands.
“Take your time,” he said. The room felt small and close. Two large tansu chests, tilted at an awkward angle, must have been turned over and set back upright. Men’s jackets, blankets and sheets, and a few women’s underclothes and sweatshirts were piled randomly in the corner.
As she told what happened, Hiroshi wanted to reach out to touch her, but stayed where he was, kneeling on the tatami, listening.
When she was done, Hiroshi said, “I’m sorry.”
Jamie looked confused. “It’s not your fault.”
“Of course not, but Japanese take the blame for everything.”
Jamie hummed and wrapped her hands deeper into the blanket.
“Were they tall or short or…?”
“One tall, one short. They spoke Thai or Chinese or Korean. I really can’t tell the difference.”
“It wasn’t Japanese?”
“Definitely not. When I couldn’t see, I could hear more clearly, every bump and knock of them going through things. They texted someone too. Then, I couldn’t breathe. They left me to slowly suffocate.”
“How did you…?”
“I woke up, and bit the tape, chewed and spit, little by little. I finally got some air.”
“You survived. You’re here.”
“None of it makes sense.” Jamie dabbed cream from a small jar on the red skin around her wrists, and after pulling up her sweatpants, on the blue-green-yellow bruises around her ankles. The fear, like the tape, had stripped away her outside layer, leaving only her humblest, simplest, most uncertain self.
“My mother told me to get on the next plane out of here,” Jamie said. “That was her on the phone. Maybe Shibata was right. You said the same.”
“I’ll take you to the airport right now,” Hiroshi said.
Jamie looked at herself in the floor mirror, and shook her head no. “Now I have to find out what they were looking for, his speech, his book, his surprise. I have to.”
Hiroshi wondered about the surprise. In Japan, the details for everything—a meeting, a conference, even a visit with friends—were worked out far in advance. The Japanese way of carrying out what was expected, of meticulously deciding ahead of time, left little room for surprise. Mattson would have been as aware of that as anyone. A surprise, especially in a speech or book, seemed unlikely.
Jamie looked up at Hiroshi. “I want to see his work published.”
“We have to find it first.”
Jamie got on her knees, wincing and resettling herself. “He always thought far ahead, like playing Go. It must be in the archives. Will you go with me?”
“We’ll go tomorrow. It’s probably there. But after that, it’s better if you leave.”
A few loud steps on the stairs and harsh words in Japanese drew their attention. Hiroshi stood up, leaning around the wood post at the top of the stairs, and saw Trey bounding up, Sakaguchi yelling at him to stop. Trey pushed past Hiroshi and went in to Jamie. Kneeling down in front of her, Trey wrapped his arms around her. Hiroshi watched the American hugging ritual with more than his usual envy. He had knelt on the tatami at a safe distance even though he wanted to embrace and comfort her. But he hadn’t. He was there as a detective.
“I should have come back with you,” Trey said.
“It’s nobody’s fault. My father’s maybe. Or that’s what my mother said.” Jamie settled back onto the futon and curled into a ball, pulling the blanket tightly around herself.
Trey locked eyes with Hiroshi as he stood up. In the dark of the room, the floor lights cast shadows upwards to the ceiling. Both men looked at Jamie and again locked eyes with each other.
“It’s the fault of the criminals. We’ll find them,” Hiroshi said, keeping his eyes on Trey’s, but speaking towards Jamie. “Someone will be here at all times. You’re not in any danger now.”
“Not in any danger?” Trey scoffed.
“They got what they wanted or found it wasn’t here. They’re logical, thieves. They avoid people like night animals,” Hiroshi said.
“You call this ‘logical’?” Trey turned back to Jamie.
“Please, I’ve had enough for one day.” Jamie kneaded the blanket from inside with her knuckles. “I’ve got to sleep.”
Trey leaned over and patted her shoulder. “I’ll stay downstairs on the sofa.”
Hiroshi shook his head. “The police will handle this. There will be two police officers here tonight.”
“The sleeping pill I took is kicking in and I want to be asleep before the shock wears off. Go now, both of you.” She jutted her head towards the door.
Both of them looked at her again and headed for the door. Trey and then Hiroshi gestured for the other to go downstairs first, until Hiroshi finally gave in, looking back to make sure Trey followed.
At the bottom of the stairs, Trey switched to Japanese. “This is how Japanese handle cases? I’m going to contact Pamela Carica at the embassy and Shinobu Katsumura, the Diet member, to be sure this is handled right. In America, you’d have a lawsuit on your desk by morning.”
“This isn’t America,” Hiroshi said.
“That’s evident,” Trey folded his arms over his chest.
“Where were you with Jamie this evening?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was helping her.”
“Helping her with what?”
“Her father’s manuscript.”
“What manuscript? There’s nothing around here that we’ve found.”
Trey raised his eyebrows. “There’s not? I thought the police would have everything in hand.”
Hiroshi paused. “If you knew Mattson had a book ready, maybe you have an idea what he was writing about?”
“I know that whatever Mattson wrote was important. But I also know that Mattson’s collection of netsuke ivory carvings should be in a museum. His tea bowls are priceless. Who knows what else he has in here?”
“You seem to have a pretty good idea.”
“I knew Mattson, if that’s what you mean.”
“How long did you know him?” Hiroshi asked.
He pointed a finger at Hiroshi. “Look, a murder and two break-ins and you’re asking me about his book? Shouldn’t you have found it and read through it already?”
As Trey and Hiroshi squared off in Mattson’s trashed living room, Sugamo, Osaki and Sakaguchi converged around them, Ueno two steps away. The six men stood in the middle of Mattson’s living room staring at each other in silence. Trey looked around the bulky circle of detectives and then backed away, pulling on his coat and leaving without another word.
Hiroshi saw Takamatsu coming in the entryway folding his coat carefully over his arm and looking down at the milk on the entryway floor.
“What’s with the milk?” Takamatsu asked with a grin.
“She smashed them in the head with her groceries,” Ueno said.
Takamatsu nodded in approval. “I like those American women. Feisty.”
“Who called you?” Hiroshi asked.
“This is starting to take time away from my private eye work. Who was that American guy?” Takamatsu pointed his thumb towards the front door.
Hiroshi shrugged.
“He didn’t look too happy on his way out.” Takamatsu chuckled as he draped his overcoat on the bannister and straightened his cuffs and tie. He nodded to Ueno, Osaki and Sugamo.
“So?” Takamatsu said to Hiroshi, as if he were not on probation.
Hiroshi sighed, knowing it was best to let Takamatsu in on what happened. “Interrupted the robbers. Taped her up. Took valuables. Destroyed others.”
“The daughter is good-looking from what I hear,” Takamatsu said to Hiroshi, looking upstairs with exaggerated curiosity. “That always makes things trickier. Better watch yourself.”
“Good advice coming from you.”
“The secret to life is to watch yourself, but not too closely. And not all the time.” Takamatsu looked around the room. “You better get this resolved
before the American embassy starts sticking its nose in.”
“Too late for that,” Sakaguchi said, coming in from the kitchen. “The media’s been all over it too, the chief phoned to tell me. Takamatsu, take a quick look around. Then get out of here in case the chief stops by, or I’ll be joining you on probation. Though that’s starting to sound pretty good.”
“The chief hasn’t stopped by? Sent Saito instead?” Takamatsu smiled.
“I sent Saito packing,” Sakaguchi growled.
“Give me fifteen,” Takamatsu said, stopping in front of the sword rack in admiration before striding into the living room.
Hiroshi followed Takamatsu’s systematic examination with his eyes and looked up the stairs every few minutes listening for any sound.
“I’ll meet you two for a drink when you’re done,” was all Takamatsu said before picking up his coat on the way out.
Chapter 14
Hiroshi and Sakaguchi sat quietly in the taxi on the way to meet Takamatsu. They found him waiting at the yattai street cart parked at the end of a bridge that angled along a row of bushes and leafless trees, right where he said it would be.
When Hiroshi and Sakaguchi pushed inside, the master said, “Irrashaimase! Welcome!” and bowed his scarf-wrapped head for a moment before turning back to a rubbery octopus with a long, thin takobiki knife.
Hiroshi plopped down at the end of the short wooden counter and Takamatsu scooted over as Sakaguchi settled onto a stool between them. A small kerosene heater and gently smoking griddle warmed the interior. A thick curtain of plastic hung from the roof down to the pavement to keep out the winter night.
The master handed them steaming hot towels and set out two bottles of beer and three small glasses. They gave each other a quick toast as the master set out pickled vegetables and scoops of corn pâté in soup. Takamatsu took a polite sip of beer for the toast, then Sakaguchi and Hiroshi finished the rest in big, tired gulps. When the bottles were empty, the master handed them steaming glasses of shochu and hot tea.
The Moving Blade Page 9
