Japantown (18 page)

“Wish I’d made it before I took the job.”

“No way you could. The only question is why the cover-up.”

I didn’t like being lied to, but I’d been warned that clients fudge their stories more often than accountants get creative with tax returns, and if we rejected everyone who spun half-truths, we’d have a thin caseload. Still, the lie left me uneasy.

“He’s playing us,” Noda said. “Money’s too big for the work.”

“His family was massacred, Kei-kun. Show some compassion.”

“No reason grief should make us his favorite charity.”

Noda’s point struck a nerve. I’d faced Hara’s grief head-on in San
Francisco. He was hurting, no doubt. But now he was stonewalling, which had me wondering what form his hurt would take.

George scoffed. “He’s throwing money around to stir up some action. Big money does it all the time.”

Another point. And George knew the territory. His father ran one of the largest private conglomerates in Japan.

Narazaki grew thoughtful. “Afraid I agree with Noda
and
George. So here’s the plan—we follow in the wake at low throttle.”

George’s eyes glazed over. “In real Japanese, please.”

“Simple. We stay close but not so close as to rock the boat. Hara’s paid us good money, so we funnel some of it into covering our back. Noda, call the Ito brothers and ask them for a work-up on Hara’s recent activities. Look for connections between Hara, Teq QX, this Soga village. Anything out of the ordinary. But
just
background. They’re to be discreet and not ruffle Hara’s feathers.”

Noda acknowledged the order with a grunt.

“Good. Meanwhile, Brodie and Noda will head to Soga as planned. Stay alert, boys, and watch yourselves.”

“I want to work the field this time,” George said.

“You’re support, George-kun. That’s a step up.”

“But I could contribute more. Accounts receivable won’t gallop off in my absence.”

With his business background, George filled a gap in accounting, but he was making the push I knew would come. It was only a matter of time. To set himself apart from the rest of the well-heeled Suzuki clan, he’d mastered karate, judo, and an ancient form of jujutsu. When I’d mentioned the Great Wall of Hara, a predatory gleam had flickered across my old friend’s face.

“Noda, what do you think?” Narazaki asked.

Brodie Security’s chief detective charged in with an abrupt
no
, once again stepping out of character.
What was going on here?

George exploded. “Just no? That’s it?”

Noda said, “
No
training,
no
basic skills,
no
field experience. I’ll go alone. Don’t need Brodie, either.”

Narazaki said, “That’s not a bad idea. I think—”

“I’m going,” I said. “I promised Renna.”

“And what about me?” George said. “How do I get any experience if I’m sitting in this dump all day? Let me drive down to Soga-jujo with Brodie. We can take the Viper.”

Noda’s look was dark and disturbing. “Not a good idea.”

“I have no intention—”

Their argument was cut short by a knock. The door creaked open and Mari’s orange highlights appeared once more. “An electronic money transfer was, like, sent to our bank account moments ago from Mr. Hara. I thought you’d want to see the notice.”

Narazaki stretched a hand out and Mari passed it over. Looking at the sheet, Narazaki frowned before handing it around. Hara had just deposited the balance of our fee.

I searched my memory for a sensible explanation but came up blank. “It’s far too early for another payment. He left a check with me in San Francisco.”

Noda frowned. “Great. Another satisfied customer. That can’t be good.”

CHAPTER 27

8:30 P.M.

R
IE
Mori, the linguist’s wife, lived behind Sengakuji, the temple where the forty-seven
ronin
were laid to rest in 1703. Three centuries on, visitors still lit incense in their honor, and clouds of scented smoke still hovered above their tombstones before drifting over the temple walls into the surrounding neighborhoods, a reminder that past treachery was not so far removed.

Half a block short of the house, Noda eased in behind a brown Mazda land cruiser and cut the engine. We sat silently for several minutes, in darkness. Neither of us relished the chore ahead, but it needed doing in case there was something to add to our meager stash of evidence.

“Quiet tonight,” Noda said.

“Too quiet.”

The detective grunted. “Like a slap in the face.”

My stomach knotted.

As we gazed through the moonless night at the linguist’s house, blue-gray incense trails wafted across our windshield. In 1701, when a corrupt shogunate official taunted the young Lord Asano by demanding a bribe before teaching him the correct protocol to receive an envoy from the emperor, Asano drew his sword in anger. Although he didn’t strike the shogunal bureaucrat, the law of the day automatically classified even an implied threat against a government representative as treason,
so Asano, a popular but inexperienced leader, received the death sentence. And with it the several hundred samurai in his employ lost their lord and livelihood and were relegated by a single act to a life of hardship as masterless samurai, or ronin.

Angered by the official’s callousness, the loyal forty-seven bided their time for two years while shogun spies monitored their movements, then one night stormed the bureaucrat’s luxurious residence and claimed his head. After the ronin marched across town to deliver their trophy to their master’s grave, the samurai became overnight heroes for their courageous strike against an unjust authority in an increasingly corrupt age.

Which was bad news for the shogun.

He was trapped.

His emissary had grossly abused the power of office. But first Asano, and now his former retainers, had attacked the shogunate.

So, in a peculiarly Japanese compromise, the shogun praised the virtue of the loyal samurai and accorded them the right to honorary warriors’ deaths rather than execution like common criminals for their treasonous strike.

Even today, people revere the faithful forty-seven for their stand against overbearing authority. And with good reason. After the fall of the shogunate in 1868, adept samurai autocrats stepped from one bureaucracy to the next, perhaps why present-day ministry officials enjoy a similar lock over the average Japanese citizen. Modern Japanese life is riddled with mind-numbing regulations and bureaucratic tollgates at every turn.

Noda watched a wisp of incense creep across our windshield. “You ready?”

“Your call.”

“Remember, you’re taking the lead.”

“I remember.”

“You can’t handle this, no way you’re going to Soga.”

“Got it.”

“So?”

“Let’s do it.”

We stepped into the night and approached the house, a newly built two-story with a fresh coat of white paint. A short walkway hedged with poppies led to a door of varnished wood with a brass knocker in the
shape of a cherry blossom. I rapped the knocker against its metal pad and we soon heard the shuffling of slippered feet.

The door swung open and Rie Mori invited us in. We abandoned our shoes for guest slippers waiting on an elevated landing, then Mrs. Mori guided us past a small kitchen into a parlor. We sat on a white sofa. She took up a position on a matching chair and poured green tea for both of us.

Noda cleared his throat and said, “This is Mr. Brodie. I mentioned him on the phone.” Then he sat back and green-lighted me with a nod that said
Let’s see what you got,
narrowed eyes signaling his doubt.

Mrs. Mori bowed a second time. She had a long nose with a high bridge and an extended jawbone that gave her a horsey look you sometimes saw in old woodblock prints. For our visit, Rie Mori wore a beige linen skirt and a light brown silk blouse with flowers in a faint plum tone. Her hair was black and dull and pulled back with a dark brown band. A black cord cinched her waist, accentuating a soft swell underneath.

“We’re sorry to barge in on you on a Saturday night,” I said.

“Anything to help,” she said in a curiously flat voice.

The apartment was appointed with sparkling appliances and pristine living room furniture. Nothing had the markings of wear. Japanese newlyweds start their life together immersed in newness. On the shelves of polished cedar cabinetry were a stereo, TV, digital recorder, and laptop computer. All new. The lowest shelf held books and photo albums. On the spines of the albums someone had painstakingly delineated the contents in charmingly naïve English lettering:
OUR WEDDING, OUR HAWAIIAN HONEYMOON, OUR HOUSE.
Women’s magazines were fanned out on the coffee table in front of us.

“Could you tell us when you last spoke to your husband?” I asked.

“The day he went down there.”

“When he checked into the ryokan?”

“Yes.”

“He called at what time?”

“A little after three.”

“You talked about what?”

She ran her hands over her lap to smooth out her skirt. “His trip on
the bullet train, the village, his excitement.”

“His excitement?”

“After he spoke with Mr. Noda, he discovered that the kanji was not in any dictionary. He’d always assumed it was.”

“How did he happen to have it on his database?”

“He found it in an old communiqué.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I update my husband’s database in my spare time, although I’ve fallen behind of late.” Her fingers hovered over the slight roundness of her stomach.

“Did you input this kanji?”

“Yes.”

“So you saw the source?”

“Yes. It was a memo from a minor
daimyo
warrior lord to a person of standing in the Soga-jujo area announcing an impending visit. A typical letter of the day. The writing was difficult to decipher in places. Until Mr. Noda showed up with his sample, my husband wasn’t sure he had transcribed the kanji correctly.”

“Do you have the document?”

“Oh, no. It was simply one of thousands of routine letters my husband habitually sifted through. Nothing of scholarly importance itself.”

“So he didn’t know what the kanji meant?”

“No. Only that it referred to something in Soga-jujo.”

“Would you have a picture of your husband?”

“I’ve prepared one. This is the most recent photograph I have. It was taken two months ago.”

Mrs. Mori handed me a color snapshot. In it, she stood beside a handsome man with fine black hair swept back over a firm brow. Ichiro Mori looked beyond the camera lens with the expectant air of someone planning to rush out into the world and bring it down with a full-body tackle.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“I don’t think so. Nothing has changed.”

“We will find him or the men who . . . took him.”

Mrs. Mori inclined her head with quiet grace. “I’m sure you’ll do your best, but I draw comfort in knowing that in his last days my husband was in pursuit of what he enjoyed most in this world. Our time, if over, was brief, but enough.”

Her eyes met mine, then Noda’s.

Brief, but enough.
The phrase fluttered painfully in my chest.

From her perch on the edge of the chair, Mrs. Mori bowed deeply to us. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you both for your concern. I know you’ll do what you can, but understand that my husband was his own master. He was that way in college, and had been that way ever since.”

Was. Had.

In her eyes, I saw forgiveness for all we might have done, or imagined we had done, to bring her husband to his end, whatever it might turn out to be. I saw a deep serenity. A profound otherworldly knowing. She lived at once in the present and already beyond her husband’s disappearance, and would keep him alive in her own way.

Under her artless gaze, Noda grunted and blinked.

“Thank you for coming, both of you,” Rie Mori said.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Mori,” I said. “We’ll do everything we can.”

She inclined her head once more. “It will be as it will be.”

Noda stood and bowed deeply. I followed suit. Then we left, stunned by our brief audience. In a few modest words, Mrs. Mori had offered release without hesitation, bitterness, or blame.

As we walked down the poppy-lined path to the car, I reminded myself that there were those who lived on higher planes, and I couldn’t help but make a comparison between the Moris’ life and my own. After Mieko’s death, I’d longed for one last chance to say all the things to her I hadn’t found the time to say while she was alive. To this day, late at night, misgivings kept me from a sound sleep more often than I liked to admit. The Moris, on the other hand, had lived their life fully, a day at a time. Rie Mori was at peace because they had told each other all those things Mieko and I had left unspoken. And what they had not shared directly, she intuited with uncommon insight.

As Noda pulled away from the curb, he stomped on the gas pedal, mumbling incoherently as we tore past Sengakuji temple and the graves of the forty-seven ronin.

With newfound clarity, I suddenly understood their driving compulsion to avenge their lord.

CHAPTER 28

A
N
insistent ringing echoed in the near distance as I padded down the hotel’s carpeted hall toward my room. I covered the last ten yards in a rush, hurriedly slipped my key in the lock, and charged toward the sound, dropping my suitcase en route and flicking on the light as I went to reveal a Western-style room with a mauve carpet, a bedspread in a cherry pattern, and a papered shoji grid over the windows.

Lunging for the receiver, I offered a breathless hello, my thoughts drifting to a scene eight years earlier . . 
Mieko with a dreamy smile . . . a swelling midriff . . . glowing cheeks . . . anticipation in her eyes.
Rie Mori glowed with the same anticipation. She was expecting. With her husband nowhere to be found.

“Brodie?” my art dealer friend from Kyoto said. “I’m glad I finally reached you.”