Tokyo Enigma (7 page)

"What does Mrs. Sanchez think about your illegally breaking
and entering in foreign countries?"

It took me a while to figure out who she was talking about.
"My mother's dead. My wife didn't much like it, so she didn't stay
Mrs. Sanchez very long. I never remarried. How about you? Is there a
Mr. Somebody?"

Yuri gave one of her crooked grins. "I'm pretty sociable, so
there's usually a 'Mr. Somebody', but I've never been married."

She followed up with an interview like the pro she was. All
through a pint of stout, she traced more of my bicultural-bilingual
background to a young Mick working summers as an honest-to-Pete
cowboy on the Benavides ranch, a tour in the Air Force, several
months on the freight docks of Southern Pacific Railway and one
year of law school before that fateful call from my old colonel, Abe
Granger, inviting me to join Global Risk.

By the time she was ready for a single-malt, I was ready to
change the subject. She pointed to a bottle of eighteen-year-old
Bunnahabhain Scotch and asked the bartender for a shot.

"Looks expensive," I said.

"You're paying right?"

"That's my point."

Yuri changed her order to a double and turned the
bartender over to me. I didn't have much hope, but I asked for
mescal. He brought out a bottle and pointed to the worm. Mescal at
an Irish pub. Only in Tokyo. "Only in Tokyo" covered a lot of ground.
I couldn't suppress a smile.

"What are you laughing at?" Yuri squared her shoulders, in
case the joke was on her. It was a nice pose. Her sweater was cut
wide at the neck. It framed the graceful sloop of her bare shoulders
and draped softly along the contours of her torso. Strands of hair had
worked loose from her braid and formed a dark mosaic on the white
of her skin.

"I just pictured Morimoto trying to pick a lock or climb a
tree to plant a bug receiver. Now tell me that's not funny. With you, if
something needs doing, you do it. In this business, that strikes me as
normal behavior. Morimoto's helpful and polite, but how can I put
this, he acts like he's preprogrammed and needs instructions for
anything unexpected. He doesn't react to what's going on around
him in constructive ways."

Yuri leaned away from me and opened one eye wide like
Popeye about to down a can of spinach. "Careful cowboy. That's our
nation's elite you're disparaging."

"Morimoto?"

"None other." Yuri took a slow draw on her Isle of Islay
Bunnahabhain. "He graduated from Waseda University. For Japan,
that's the equivalent of what? Yale? Dartmouth? Anyway Ivy League.
He landed a job at one of Japan's ten nationwide banks. At the time,
that was major league. By the time he hit his forties, he was in middle
management, right on schedule to cradle-to-grave coddling.

"He followed the rules better than ninety-five percent of the
nation. Then, bang, the ten city banks became four or five major
groups, depending on your definition of 'major.' Turns out the old
rules for progress didn't work anymore. They put the nation's
economy, and more specifically Morimoto's personal life, in a world
of hurt. Trouble is, he didn't understand the change. Neither does
anybody else who's in charge, at least not that I can see."

Yuri had gotten well beyond whatever I was getting at. "So
what happened?"

"So, mmm..." She sipped the Scotch. "After the bank made
Morimoto a section boss, he put his mind to work making sure
everything got done the way it always had. If he could point to a
precedent, he could justify whatever he did, even if it was wrong.
From the viewpoint of an entrepreneur, he was making no
contribution to his organization, but he was doing what was
expected, what he believed it took for further promotion."

"No risk, but gain?"

"Not anymore. Now it's like the Bible story about the
servants who were given talents. The two who went out on a limb
and made some profit got praised. The one who buried his so he
wouldn't lose it got reamed. I don't pretend to know what that story
is supposed to mean, but one way to look at it is that playing it safe
might be the most dangerous option."

"And that's Morimoto?"

"It's the whole top of the Japanese pyramid. The current
prime minister plays at innovation, but he's a throwback to world
war two morals."

"You take risks."

"Uh huh, but who am I? Do I look like a cabinet minister or
some bureaucratic honcho to you?"

I took my time answering. Light from esthetically placed
lamps at the bar traced a shadow play across her face. The tiny
beauty marks at the corner of her eye gained stature, and her smile
lines delved into impish depths that weren't apparent a moment
ago.

"You look okay," I said. In a flash, memories of Grandmas
Sanchez and Fitzgerald, the two women who taught me everything I
understand about human warmth, swirled up in a double team.
"Okay," is the best you can do? That short-circuit between your
brain and vocal cords is the reason you haven't made us great
grandmas. You've got a lot to learn about risk, Mr. Man from
GRIM.

I reckoned I did, and time was running out. Cyrano de
Bergerac was tough, ugly and had a way with words. As for me,
"tough, ugly and tongue-tied." I mumbled the words, but not low
enough.

"What did you call me?" Yuri looked mad.

"I didn't call you anything. I was talking about myself."

"I was trying to explain about Morimoto and the petty lords
who've walled up their little fiefdoms so tight there's no room for
Japan to maneuver out of the mess it's in."

"My mind wandered."

"So, I'm boring?"

"No, just the opposite."

Yuri's mouth dipped at one corner. "You're wrong."

"I just said you are
not
boring."

"You're a long way from ugly. Kind of odd though." Yuri
patted my arm and ordered another scotch. "Don't worry big
spender. I'm gonna nurse this one slow and easy."

It was after 1:00 a.m. by the time we left. The local trains
had stopped running, and there was a short line of taxis at a station.
Yuri told the driver to let me off first. We passed the ride mostly in
silence. I took up a lot of the back seat, and she rolled against my
shoulder now and again when the driver took a corner. It was a
comfortable camaraderie that I hated to break with shoptalk, but we
needed to fix tomorrow's schedule. I planned to meet Dorian at the
Tokyo detention center. Later, I would get briefed by Morimoto.

Yuri said she was going to stake out Foxx Starr to make sure
the bug was working and to monitor visitors.

The taxi driver made good time in the light traffic of early
morning. When we got to the hotel, Yuri gave my hand a squeeze and
held it a moment.

"It was fun."

"Yeah it was." I glanced at the hotel entrance. "Would
you..."

Yuri tilted her head, and a quizzical smile ticked the corners
of her lips.

"Um, be careful tomorrow." I leaned over and kissed her
hair. "Goodnight."

She winked.

I got out, and the driver took off for her home, wherever that
was. She waved as I stood at the curb.

Carpe diem mañana
, Don Juan.

I checked with Ishii, the lawyer, to make sure my
appointment with Dorian was still good, and then took a taxi to the
detention center.

Only a few days had passed since I last saw Dorian, but he
looked as though he'd aged years. Red streaked the whites of his
eyes. His face had an alabaster cast as though blood had drained and
pooled into purple half moons staining his lower lids. His voice
cracked.

"Maybe I should confess."

I pictured truncheon-wielding interrogators and halogen
lamps, until I realized he didn't know himself whether he was guilty.
That was a hard burden that I ought to have lifted earlier.

"No, Mr. Dorian, you shouldn't. I don't believe you killed the
girl."

A flash of fire in his eye showed it was the psychological
cancer of self-doubt that had ravaged him, not Japanese police. He
was a strong man.

"Can you prove that?"

"It's personal conviction. I can't prove it, but it's based on
physical evidence that can't be explained by the suppositions of the
prosecutors. At least not to my satisfaction, and I'm not the only
one." I related the events and rationale that had led Yuri and me to
our conclusions. Dorian accepted that news like a man who had just
learned the identity of his daughter's rapist. Rage swelled veins at
his temples and on the backs of his fists.

"How long have you known?"

I shook my head.

"How long?" He asked again.

"I still don't know much of anything, but as far as being
convinced, two days."

"Do you have any idea how close I came? At first I couldn't
believe any of it was real. They pushed hard. Threatened me with
execution, if I didn't admit guilt. My own lawyer told me that if I did
confess and looked repentant, I could get off lighter."

The anger left Dorian as fast as it had come. He opened his
hands and rested his forehead in his palms.

"None of that really mattered. My own doubt made me too
weak to fight back. They showed me pictures of the girl. They talked
about her past and her family. If I believed I was guilty, if I had done
what they said, I'd hang myself. If I know that I'm innocent, then
there is nothing they can do to break me."

Dorian lifted his head and looked as though he wouldn't
mind sending me to the gallows. "Do you understand?"

I nodded. Saints have used the strength of their conviction
to redirect the course of history. The problem with that human
attribute is the delusion can impart similar power to madmen. What
was Dorian? I still hadn't figured that out, but I believed beyond
doubt he hadn't killed Hosoi.

"We're making progress," I said, "although I can't guarantee
anything. Meanwhile, don't sign any confessions. I'll talk to Ishii
about it."

I gave Dorian a moment to let that sink in before I switched
tack.

"I met Hosoi's brother. He said that she had made some very
large bank deposits recently. He figures that to be evidence you were
keeping her as a mistress."

Dorian's eyes locked onto mine.

"Why would he think that?"

Under other circumstances, the reply would have been a
normal response. As things stood, it was obvious. I shrugged and
wondered if Dorian might be fishing for something else. He opened
his mouth and closed it without speaking.

He tried again. "What do you know about the money?"

I decided not to mention the Spanish restaurateur's
statement about the payment he saw delivered to Hosoi. "When I
leave here, I'm going to meet a former banker who's working on
that."

"Do you think you can keep me informed a little more
regularly?" A spark of the old Dorian flared, but then he let his gaze
fall back to the table.

"I can't come here every day," I said, "but I'll try to pass on
new information to your lawyer. I told you that we were making
progress, but I figure no matter what we come up, with we're down a
dead-end alley. That is unless you can help crack a tough nut."

"What?"

"I think at least two people were directly involved in Hosoi's
murder. If you didn't kill her, somebody went to a lot of trouble to
target you. Can you tell me why?"

He shook his head without looking up.

"I believe that you can, Mr. Dorian, and why you don't
puzzles the hell out me."

* * * *

I looked at Morimoto's business card. It had a map with
English directions on it. Maybe I could have found the place on my
own, but I left the adventure of locating Protect Agency to a taxi
driver.

The headquarters was bigger than I had expected. It took up
three floors of almost prime real estate on the fringe of Shinagawa,
an industrial ward at the juncture of Tokyo City, Tokyo Bay and
Kawasaki.

I loitered next to the receptionist's desk until Morimoto
pushed open a door that had been secured by a digital lock. I
glimpsed dense rows of cubicles on the other side of the door. If all
those desks were staffed, investigations must indeed be a growth
industry.

Compared with the first time I saw him, Morimoto was
walking on the spry side of jaunty. Big change. Maybe he'd gotten
lucky in love. Or lucky in work. I wished for the latter. He asked the
receptionist to bring coffee, and then led me to a meeting room. He
kept a folder close to his chest and made small talk until the
receptionist brought coffee. It must have been another of his rituals.
He shoved the cup aside and laid the folder in its place.

"I found more money."

"That was paid to Hosoi?"

He nodded.

"How much?"

"Fifty-thousand dollars, paid in U.S. dollars from a bank in
the Caymans."

"Any connection to Dorian?"

"I don't know who paid it. I only know the bank that it came
from, and when. The deposit was made the day before Hosoi-san was
killed. I don't think it came from Mr. Dorian."

"Why not?"

"The same amount was transferred out of Hosoi-san's
account back to the Cayman bank. That transfer was made the day
after she died."

"While Dorian was a guest of Tokyo prosecutors."

Morimoto nodded.

"Most of the other deposits were in cash, but there was one
bank-to-bank transfer of three million yen that came from a trading
company."

That was about the annual salary of an office clerk.

"Why a trading company?" Nothing I learned about Hosoi
indicated she was likely to set up an import-export shop.

"I don't know the relationship, but the company, Ukeda
Trading, is known to be used by money washers."

"Money launderers."

"I know." Morimoto looked like a cat that had been scolded
for bringing home a wounded canary. "It's hard to pronounce
laun...der..."