Japantown (13 page)

“I’m sure. He look like cop?”

“He’s a pro of some sort.”

“Maybe your client’s checking up on you.”

“Why would he?”

“Why
wouldn’t
he? I’ll send some boys by to pick him up.”

“I could brace him myself but with my leg I figured I’d give you first crack.”

“I’d like that.”

“Thought as much. He’s on Lombard, maybe twenty yards west of my shop. If your people split up and come at him from both ends, they should be able to box him in.”

“I’m on it. Might get some answers.”

“Be nice to have some of those before I forget what they look like. Guy you want has black hair, beige sports coat, light pants. You want
maybe
s?”

“Yeah.”

“Caucasian with a tan or a brown-skinned Asian, Hispanic, whatever. Couldn’t get a straight-on look without spooking him.”

“Got it,” Renna snapped, and disconnected, the dead line buzzing in my ear like an angry bee. Clearly, Renna was being harassed from all sides.

I moved to the front of the shop and stood behind the counter where I could be seen from the street. I listened with half an ear to the radio Abers kept stashed under the counter as I gazed with seeming disinterest out the window.

Five minutes passed, then five more. I occupied myself with minor chores at the front counter while keeping my antenna pointed toward the street, alert for any activity. I couldn’t see the tail, but I felt him out
there for those ten minutes, then nothing. He was gone. The cops must have nabbed him.

As time ticked by, doubt distracted me and presented alternative scenarios, none of them good. A half hour after the tail had faded from my radar, two rookie cops sauntered in, one rectangular and sturdy like an upended tank, the other tall and slim and thoughtful-looking.

The tank said, “You Brodie? The point man for the loiterer?”

“Yeah.”

“We caught the squeal from Lieutenant Renna. I’m Dobbs.” He jerked his head at his partner. “This is Sayles.”

“You catch him?”

Dobbs said, “We came at him from opposite directions, as advised, but he crossed the street and turned the corner before we could cut him off. We followed but couldn’t close. We figured we’d wear him down, then hit him with a sprint and tackle. But the dickwad vanished.”

“Don’t really see how,” Sayles added quietly.

I frowned and stared off at the far wall, disgusted.

Dobbs panned a look my way, then glared at his partner. “Damnedest thing we’ve ever seen, right? Alley’s a dead end. A fuckin’ titmouse couldn’t hide in there. Buildings on both sides, cyclone fence with razor wire strung across the back.”

The comment got my attention again. “The alley off Chestnut?”

“Yeah.”

Dobbs had a point. It
was
a dead end. The alley ran between two converted Victorian shops fronting Chestnut before grinding to a halt thirty yards in, where the flanks of the Victorians smacked up against the rear of a third home with front access on the next street over. There were maybe two side doors opening on to the passage from the Chestnut units and a high chain-link fence running across the back of the third Victorian. There were no walkways between buildings. It was a walled-in enclave of wire and redwood.

I said, “Maybe he just outran you and ducked around another corner?”

“No,” Sayles said. “We chased him into that alley. We were half a
block behind and closing. The alley doors were locked. He must have found a cubbyhole somewhere.”

“Or flew,” Dobbs said. “Fucking sprouted wings and sailed over the rooftops.”

“Dumpsters?” I asked.

“Checked.”

Abers brought coffee for the patrol boys and a sharp look for me that said
This is more about the unmentionable, isn’t it?

I said, “Either of you get a look at him?”

Sayles reddened. “Never got close enough.”

I took a deep breath to still my frustration. They’d blown it. Completely. A dull ache built at the base of my skull. What was Renna thinking? Sending virgin badges to cage our first potential lead? I should have tackled the tail myself. With my limp, maybe I wouldn’t have nailed him, but I wouldn’t have squandered the chance to catch a glimpse of the suspect. These rookies came away with less than zero: they showed our hand but gained nothing in return.

I shot Sayles a probing look. “How did he react when he saw your approach? Did he jackrabbit on you?”

Dobbs’s nostrils flared. “You bet your ass the bastard hightailed it out of there. Otherwise he
knows
he’s dogmeat.”

Mild disagreement suffused Sayles’s expression. “No, that wasn’t quite it. He reacted to our presence, but smoothly, calmly. I’d say he moved carefully away and led us down Octavia.”

I said,
“Led?”

“Well, it almost seemed that way.”

“Into the impossible alley?”

“Yeah.”

Sayles and I exchanged looks.

Dobbs caught the shared glance and said, “What?”

Sayles paused to compose his answer. “Maybe he
wanted
us to follow him into the alley.”

“Now there’s a shit-for-brains idea. Where would that get him?”

I said, “The best escape route is one your pursuers can’t follow.”

Dobbs squinted at me. “You mean he reconnoitered the area, then fucking crawled up a wall?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Sayles nodded, vaguely troubled eyes straying absently to the back of the room. “Mr. Brodie, I don’t know who that guy was, but I’ll tell you one thing, he’s got one tasty bag of tricks.”

Looking back, I would see that, despite fumbling the pursuit, it was this thoughtful blond rookie who first sensed the unparalleled threat we faced.

CHAPTER 19

T
HE
typhoon struck, as the Japanese are fond of dubbing an abrupt eruption of activity, while Abers and I pored over his new arrangement of the woodblock prints.

A blue truck from TV Tokyo screeched to a halt in front of the shop, and a newscaster with a scruffy crew in tow spilled from the back. On its heels came a gray four-door sedan with
Yomiuri News
scrawled across its side, reporters and photographers tumbling from its interior and jockeying for position on the sidewalk in front of my shop. Next, a white van from Asahi Broadcasting appeared. In less than a minute, a dozen Japanese press hounds had gathered outside my show window.

I had no clue as to the cause of the commotion until a black stretch limo double-parked alongside the van. An elegant Japanese woman in an amethyst silk day dress with silver belt and shoes stepped from the car and waved. Film rolled and cameras clicked.

Abers raised an eyebrow. “A lady friend of yours?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, there’s always hope.”

Approaching the shop, the woman paused to allow a camera op with the store sign in the frame. A clutch of microphones sprouted up in front of her, and she graciously answered a few questions we couldn’t hear.

Abers squinted at the car. “Nice wheels.”

Waving at the reporters, the woman turned her back on her admirers and pushed through the front door—and suddenly I understood.

“Bill,” I said, “let me introduce you to Ms. Lizza Hara.”

Abers lit up with understanding. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

After Sayles and Dobbs had departed, I’d fed Abers all the gory details of Japantown, telling him about the Nakamuras and Hara, then highlighting the connection to Mieko. During my recital, Abers’s face had displayed a kaleidoscope of emotion: disbelief, outrage, disgust, sadness, and—when I confirmed the kanji connection—a sorrow so deep his eyes widened into what seemed like endless tunnels.

Lizza Hara nodded in satisfaction. “And you’re Jim Brodie, of course. Father said you’d know me.”

“I do. By reputation.”

In person, Hara’s daughter was more stunning than her publicity stills, which was saying something. The violet dress, though bright, was suggestively regal yet accentuated her long legs and the curve of her hips. She seemed to wear everything well. For her latest album cover, she’d posed in tight bicycle shorts and virgin-white stiletto heels. The photographer had caught her long black hair whirling above skin-tight electric blue spandex as she glanced back over her shoulder, round hips set, impish breasts thrust forward, full lips pouting and painted a ruby red—the same components she exhibited in abundance now, but coming together in a more mature fashion.

Coloring slightly, Lizza waved dismissively at the air. “Anything I can do to help. Besides, California is so
fab
, and normally I
adore
coming here, but this time I . . . I . . .”

Her eyes clouded and tears flowed. Camera flashes exploded from the sidewalk as she brought out a handkerchief. Abers escorted Lizza to the conference room in the back while I locked the front door, flipping the sign over to
CLOSED.
Several reporters snapped my picture. I could only guess the headlines those shots would engender in tomorrow’s papers.

In the sitting room, Lizza said, “I saw Miki and Ken just three months ago, over the summer. We drove out to the beach in my limo.”

A misty look fought a tremulous smile. Then the tears returned. This time her shoulders shook and a muffled sound of grief passed her lips. Her mourning continued unabated for several minutes, the sound of her weeping fading in stages to intermittent sniffles. Eventually, her shoulders ceased shaking. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Excuse me. I’m sure my makeup is utterly ruined but I don’t care. I’m safe with you gentleman, right? You’ll keep the press away?”

“Already a done deal,” Abers said. “We locked them out.”

Relief smoothed her features. “Thank you. You’re a sweetheart. The plane ride was so dreary. All I could do was think about my little darlings. It was simply unbearable.”

Her voice was soft, but each word emerged sonorous and musical. She spoke English with an engaging Japanese lilt that bounced along on its own, peppered with the melodramatic vocabulary of movie starlets and pop personalities she obviously favored.

Her voice had launched her career. Now everyone in Japan knew who she was. Her debut album had sold nearly a million copies after she happened to be photographed with male heartthrob Noriyuki Sawada. Daddy hopped on board and his golden touch sold another million. Grateful girlfriend and daughter that she was, Lizza wasted little time in calling a press conference to throw her boyfriend over because he did not appreciate liberated women, and denounce her father for meddling in her career. This move was timed with the release of her second album, which promptly outsold the first, even without Daddy’s help. She was offered movie roles, and a serial drama was written around her. Five years down the road and firmly established in Japan as a singer and actress, Lizza threw another public fit, this time to announce her emotional exhaustion and a decision to expand her career internationally by moving to New York, where the Japanese paparazzi soon snapped her clinging to Justin Timberlake’s arm at an Italian restaurant in the Village.

In America, she continued to nurture what would never be more than an incipient music career, but her prowess on the party circuit was legendary.

I said, “I’m sorry about your sister and her family, Ms. Hara.”

“You’re so kind.” She squeezed my knee. “And it’s Lizza,
please
. Both of you. If either of you turns out to be a stuffy old thing I’m going to be disappointed. I was
so
thrilled when Father said you were helping out on this, Mr. Brodie.”

“You were?”

“Yes, silly. Everyone in Japan saw your picture in the glossies when you found that lost Rikyu thingy. You’re a genuine hero.”

I said, “Kind of you to say so, but—”

“Father said to fly out here,” she said, switching to Japanese, “to tell you everything I know, so I’ve come. I don’t really know much, but for as long as you want me, I’m yours.”

“Yes, well, would you mind a few questions?”

“If you think I can be of help.”

“I’m sure you can. Were you close to your sister?”

Lizza pushed out her lower lip. “Yes and no, you know? I loved her and I’ll miss her and Hiroshi, but we’ve led such different lives.”

“When did you last talk to her?”

“Ages and ages ago.”

“Could you narrow it down a bit?”

“Say, six or eight weeks ago?”

“Did she have any worries, any concerns?”

“You mean something that could have got her . . . her . . . like that? Oh my God, no! She would have told me. At least, I
hope
she would have told me. I certainly
hope
 . . . I mean . . . what if . . . ?”

Her composure crumbled again. She covered her face and her shoulders shook harder this time. Abers gave me a look of censure. I pleaded my case silently. I needed what Lizza knew. Abers patted Lizza’s shoulder.

“It’s all right,” my assistant said. “Cry it out.”

“We could do this later,” I said.

Blinking, she gave a rapid, limp-wrist wave. “No, no, now. Just give me a moment.”

She drew a compact from an impossibly small black leather clutch and we waited as she retouched her makeup. Once finished, she tucked her compact away, snapped the bag shut, and gave me a brave smile.

“I’m ready.”

It was a fragile front, so I tiptoed in. “Let’s move on to your brother-in-law. Was he involved in anything risky?”

“I wouldn’t think so. He was a gentle creature. That’s why my sister loved him. The total opposite of Father. So kind, so quiet. He was a cutie-pie but he sold shoes. I mean, his company did. He was management but, I mean, men’s
shoes
? Honestly, can you imagine in your wildest dreams anything duller?”

She had a point.

“Tell me about your father’s bodyguard,” I said. “Has he always had one?”

“That’s easy. No.”

“Recently?”

“About three months ago. Ever since Teq QX.”

“What’s that?”

“Some Taiwan chip maker he took a fancy to.”

“What’s so special about it?”