Collector of Secrets (39 page)

Tomoko picked up the knife and slapped the remaining supplies together, tossing them into his lap. “That’s a nice, clean excuse. People fight to change their lives every day. You may be tough on the outside, but maybe it’s your inside you need to worry about. Instead of just reading about courageous people, you should try being one sometime!”

“I tried to change once.” He said feebly.

The truck swayed as Tomoko turned and crawled back to the loose end of the rope. Parking her back against the wall, she pulled the frayed yellow fibers over her shoulder.

Hiro lowered his face again. “It’s too late now, anyway.”

“Look at me.
Look at me
!”

He lifted his head a bit.

“Anyone can change, even you. It’s never too late to try.”

Hiro nodded back.

She couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t her imagination, but for the first time she could recall, the edges of his mouth seemed to tilt slightly upward.

STEPPING GRACEFULLY from the elevator, Yoko eyed the cheaply tiled floor in the windowless corridor and thought that it would have been nice to hire legal counsel with a better location. A display of opulence always made people more comfortable when they were handing over large cash sums.

Nevertheless, the paralegal work was being done for half the usual rate, and all of the shares had been presold to her “ladies,” anyway. Getting the signatures was just a formality when the group arrived in thirty minutes.

Halfway down the hall, she turned into the women’s washroom. She checked her appearance in the full-length mirror. The new cobalt-blue Versace suit looked fabulous, and she knew it. Her hands smoothed the skirt and she made a last-minute adjustment to her blouse. A shiver of excitement crossed her shoulders.

In a few hours, this deal will be closed. The gallery will be filled with smiling people drinking champagne, and I will be congratulated on my latest triumph.

Behind her, a lone figure stepped into view. Yoko could see the old woman in the mirror’s reflection. A simple flowered scarf covered her head.

That face . . . it can’t be . . . she’s dead!

The vision dragged time backward. Her mother’s words were sharp and stained with worry. She was wielding a brush through Yoko’s hair. “Pull yourself together. This is not the time to act like a vain schoolgirl. Focus on staying in character. Remember to leave the door slightly open when you exit his hotel suite. Once you go out for dinner, I’ll come in and take the jewelry. We need this money to take care of our family and pay down the debt your father left behind. Don’t make a mistake, child. Our survival depends on it.”

Yoko blinked and the stern maternal figure was gone. Instead, she found herself staring at the withered face of the building’s cleaning lady.

The woman edged away from the doorway. “I’ll come back later.”

Yoko turned. “I’m finished here.” She shook off the mental cobwebs and stepped around the cleaning pail at her feet.

This is the last job. Get it done, and you never have to play this game again.

Continuing to the end of the hall, she came to the two-room office of Ito & Ito. An engraved plastic sign was glued to the metal door. Mr. Ito Sr. had passed away in the late nineties, and Mr. Ito Jr. was the only lawyer now occupying the space. He had a skeleton-like appearance befitting a mortician, with sunken cheeks and dark circles around his eyes.

Yoko tried the door handle, but oddly it was locked. Turning an ear, she noted voices inside. They sounded raised and angry. Nonetheless, her manicured finger pressed the buzzer, and soon the pinprick of light coming through the peephole went dark. Seconds later, the door cracked open and a harried-looking Mr. Ito Jr. slipped out into the hallway. He was wringing his hands and looking paler than usual.

“Hello,
Sensei
. It’s good to see you.”

His protruding Adam’s apple drew her eye. It always seemed so vast on his slender neck. But there was no time for his idiosyncrasies. Her tone was demanding. “Why is your office door locked?”

“Well . . . we seem to have a situation.”

“What situation? It’s critical for everything to go as planned. My ladies will be arriving soon and I have a gallery opening taking place at six.” She could feel her blood pressure rising. “If you’re holding out for more money—”

The lawyer waved his slender hands in the air. “No, no! You misunderstand me. Several guests have arrived early, and they have in their possession a letter that has . . .” He appeared to be struggling with phrasing the sentence. “. . . it has upset them very much.”

“A letter from whom?”

“It’s a translation, but the original letter was written by one of your English teachers named Max. It contains serious accusations against you.” Mr. Ito’s head dipped like a thief caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

“But how?” She suddenly felt as though an earthquake had struck the building. “Did you tell them the letter is full of lies?”

“I tried, but they seem convinced that it’s true.”

You’re a pathetic excuse for a man.

Yoko straightened her posture and inhaled sharply. “Then I’ll have to persuade them to believe otherwise. They are my ladies, after all. They will believe whatever I say.”

“Please, you don’t understand.”

“Step aside!” She pressed past the simpering man, opened the door, and strode into the office. The picture inside stopped her in her tracks. Almost a dozen women and their husbands lined the waiting room’s walls, some sitting, some standing in clusters. Several women looked as if they’d been crying, while the accusing eyes of all the others fell directly upon her.

Palpable hostility pierced the air as Mr. Ito’s voice whispered from behind her, “Their husbands also came for support. I tried to warn you.”

One man stepped forward from the group. He thrust a single sheet of paper into Yoko’s hand. “You have some explaining to do!”

The room was filled with hushed breathing as she skimmed the document. Her raised plea broke the silence. “This is clearly fabricated! Max was caught stealing from me. The police are looking for him. I didn’t want to worry anyone until he was found.” The expressions in the room remained stoic and several heads continued shaking their betrayal.

This can’t be happening. These are my ladies. I have to get them to believe me. They can sway their husbands. Masami Ishi will want his money. I cannot go to jail.

Another man stepped forward and spoke up. “I checked the invoices my wife paid over the last three years.” He raised an open hand. “On five occasions you charged us for English classes while we were
away
. Other times we were double or triple-billed.”

“I . . . I’m sure it was a simple mistake. Every business makes a few errors. I’ll refund the money.” She scanned the hostile room. “
I’m
not the bad person.” Yoko shook the paper. “These are all lies from the mouth of a thief!”

A third man spoke. “It doesn’t matter. That
Gaijin’s
letter was just the catalyst. We’ve compared the stories you’ve been telling our wives. There are too many inconsistencies and half truths. I’ve spent enough time in business to spot a con artist. You won’t be getting any more of my money.” He barked an order to his wife. “Let’s go.”

Mr. Ito Jr. scuttled away from the door.

The strain registered in Yoko’s anguished voice. “Your children’s welfare is at the center of everything I do.”
I need my new life.

The women gathered their coats and handbags as a stream of silent couples exited the room. Yoko moved from one familiar face to another. She searched desperately for allies, but found none. Downcast eyes refused to meet her gaze. “I’ve cared for your children like they were my own. Please don’t do this. I can get you copies of the police report. Please believe me.” The room soon emptied and the sound of footsteps faded away.

F
rom her position in the hall, a mop in one hand, the cleaning woman watched through the office doorway as the elegant lady in blue collapsed to the floor.

THE COMMANDER’S shadow stretched across the cracked tarmac. He watched the coral sun begin its slide below the western horizon. Dusk was settling on Osaka’s Yao Airport. A cell phone rested against his ear as he waited to speak to a taxi dispatcher. Beside him, a Cessna’s engine pinged and popped, cooling off after the short hop across the country.

The Class Two private facility was quiet, probably since its dual runways could at most accommodate light jets.

The pilot climbed from the cabin with a dark-blue duffel bag. He apologized again for the mechanical delay that had kept them waiting on the ground in Tokyo for over six hours.

The commander acknowledged the excuse before entering the adjacent hangar. The waiting room at the building’s front was empty. Setting the duffel bag on the nearest bench, he retrieved a brown case from inside and glanced around before withdrawing his police-issued handgun. There was no point needlessly drawing anyone’s attention. It slid smoothly into the leather harness inside his jacket.

Moving outside, he lit a cigarette and paced like a caged animal. His thumb and forefinger rubbed nervously along the twin sides of his mustache. The day was not going as planned. He should have picked up his rental car and been in Nara hours ago.

T
he commander’s second cigarette was almost down to the filter when the taxicab finally appeared. Pulling into the darkening lot, the car’s back door popped open as the cabbie apologized for the delay.

The duffel bag went in first. “I’ve had a day full of excuses. Just drive.”

The two-lane access road hugged the wire fence running along the airport’s perimeter. The commander stared steadfastly out the cab’s window. A jet plane had landed, and he watched its outline as it approached the end of the concrete runway. It pulled onto the taxiway before rotating 180 degrees to sit facing back the way it had just come. The white, pointy nose was just back from the edge of the runway’s blast pad.

Squeezing the muscles in his shoulders, he glanced ahead and watched as the outline of a man appeared, walking on the grassy edge of the road. And he thought how odd it was that someone would be walking toward the airport in the dark. The high beams briefly illuminated the lone figure before dropping him back into shadow.

The commander let out a short, astonished grunt and spun around in his seat. Hastily unzipping the duffel bag, his hands dug inside. He yelled for the driver to turn on the light as his fingers groped for a folder. Yanking it from the bag, he scanned the single sheet of paper inside. The American’s headshot stared back at him.

He pounded his fist against the glass while grasping for his gun. “Stop!
Stop
the damned car!”

M
ax heard the taxi’s tires screech behind him. Without slowing his pace, he snapped his head around to see the red taillights fifty yards back. Something wasn’t right. The car was glowing from the inside, and he thought he could see someone staring out the back window.

His ankle complained as he increased his pace to a jog.

The straining, high-pitched whine of the car’s engine signaled that it was backing up quickly. Brakes squealed while it executed a three-point turn. Max broke into a sprint. Up ahead, the road veered to the left, and he could see the airport’s fence line.