Year of the Demon (30 page)

Was that what all the “liberating souls” business was about? Again Mariko’s thoughts turned to Akahata’s bashed-in face and the mantra on his lips. Hamaya, his lawyer, explaining that his client was praying for Joko Daishi to liberate everyone. There was something sinister there. Mariko was sure of it; “Great Teacher of the Purging Fire” didn’t have a nice ring to it. Did these Divine Wind cultists think of themselves as messiahs? If so, they were dangerous. And brazen too. Theft of police evidence carried a much heavier sentence than a simple burglary, but it took a whole new kind of crazy to take it from the heart of an active crime scene. That was the kind of crazy that thought nothing of swindling a powerful yakuza clan on a drug deal. It was also—and Mariko was afraid even to formulate the thought—the kind of crazy that motivated people to wear suicide vests or fill subway cars with sarin gas.

Thus far, Mariko had no evidence that the Divine Wind was a terrorist organization. She certainly couldn’t prove the cult was a blood relative of a centuries-old criminal syndicate. She had only a gut feeling that Akahata was unstable and violent, and that anyone who sent a lawyer to defend a person like that was probably even more dangerous.

Han would have pushed for the simplest explanation. Some dope rings stole cars to make extra cash; this cult hocked stolen antiques instead. But instinct told Mariko something else. Stealing the mask suggested a fixation with demons. That fixation, coupled with hallucinogens and religious fanaticism, suggested devil worship—or if not devil worship, then at least a cult of personality centered on whoever was wearing the mask. Joko Daishi.

Mariko closed her notebooks. Sooner or later she had to sleep. And she had to face it: she wasn’t going to figure out anything about Joko Daishi tonight. Yamada made no mention of him. If the Wind and the Divine Wind were the same group, and if the Wind was originally a ninja clan, then perhaps the Divine Wind had retained some of the ancient secrets—like how to break into a seventeenth-story apartment with all the doors and windows locked from the inside. That squared nicely with her intuition that it was Joko Daishi who stole Glorious Victory Unsought. But intuition wasn’t evidence, and notes on medieval ninja clans wouldn’t help her solve yesterday’s crimes.

The truth was that she had very little to go on. She didn’t have Joko Daishi’s real name, or a description, or past whereabouts—not a damn thing, really. Her only good leads were Akahata and Hamaya, if only it had been legal to follow up on them. But she’d done the right thing: she hadn’t tailed them when they’d left the hospital. She’d observed their constitutional rights, and now she cursed herself for having done it. She wanted to know who these people were, who they were pushing their drugs on, what sermons they were delivering to the hallucinating masses, what role the demon mask had to play in any of it.

In short, she wanted to know what kind of storm was coming and when it would strike.

29

L
ieutenant Sakakibara liked to hold his morning briefings early, a proclivity that made the top brass admire his diligence and made Mariko wish he’d fall over dead. Ever since she’d made Narcotics, she’d been cutting her hair shorter so it would look less rumpled when she dragged her ass in to post. Her attitude toward makeup was indifferent at best—she’d stopped making a fuss over it in high school, specifically to conserve precious minutes of sleep—and under Sakakibara’s command she’d taken to forgoing even a quick dab of mascara.

Orange light streamed in through the briefing room’s tall windows, cut into slices by Venetian blinds. One of those slices slashed right across Mariko’s face, leaving her half-blind and no doubt looking even more tired than she felt. She knew it was the wrong play, knew she was the newest member of Sakakibara’s team, knew she was supposed to make every impression a good one, but at seven o’clock in the damn morning it was hard to care about how she looked. She was well aware of the gossip going around that she was a lesbian, but it was easier to put up with it than to lose ten minutes of sleep every morning to “put her face on.”

That was a strange phrase, one she’d learned as a schoolgirl in the States. There was no equivalent slang in Japanese, though there were plenty of sayings about losing face and saving face. Ironically enough, not putting her face on was the very thing that could cause her to lose face. But this morning there was a more pressing concern when it came to losing face: she’d made no progress on the Joko Daishi case. Her late night reading had been interesting, to be sure, but it hadn’t actually given her any leads. Joko Daishi was an enigma, his lieutenant Akahata was off the leash, and their hexamine was nowhere to be found.

Sakakibara walked into the room, his characteristic long strides clopping like horse’s hooves on the linoleum tile. Everyone snapped to attention, including Mariko, who had to do a little more snapping than average, since she’d been slouching in her chair, ready to nod off. “At ease,” Sakakibara said, and Mariko redeposited herself in her seat in the back row.

Her LT took his customary place behind his lectern, rapped a couple of manila folders on it to straighten their contents, and said, “All right, people, let’s get down to—what the hell, Frodo? Did someone exhume you this morning?”

“Late night, sir.”

“Where’s your partner?”

“Maybe in the grave next to mine, sir. Haven’t seen him yet today.”

Sakakibara ran his fingers through his stiff, wire-brush hair. “Oh, I can’t wait for this status report. What the hell, why don’t we start with you, and we’ll just get the embarrassment over with?”

Mariko swallowed. “Not much to report, sir—”

“Except that our investigation is rolling right along,” said Han. He pushed through the door in midbow and made repeated apologetic bows on his way to the seat next to Mariko’s. Walking while bowing while sitting was a tricky bit of choreography, and it made him look a little like a limping chicken.

“Well, if it isn’t the late Detective Han. Sit your ass down.”

Han immediately abandoned his course toward Mariko and zipped into the nearest empty seat. “Sorry, sir.”

“Well? Status report. Out with it.”

Han nodded, his floppy hair catching a little luff with each rise and fall. “Followed up on that supplier from that raid the other night. Remember him? Akahata? He’s the one the Kamaguchi boys tuned up. Easy to see why. Dude’s as crazy as they come, wrapped up in some weird-ass cult. So I did some background research on him. He’s a sanitation worker for JR, which—well, correct me if I’m wrong, Mariko—I’m thinking probably jibes pretty well with the whack-job cultist angle. Menial position, probably wants to feel like part of something larger than himself, wouldn’t even have to be a hundred percent sane to hold down the job,
neh
?”

He looked across the room at Mariko, who nodded and said, “Agreed.” She didn’t like Han’s tone. He was going somewhere with this, and Mariko had a sneaking suspicion where.

“Anyway,” Han said, “he lawyered up yesterday—or the cult sent its lawyer, anyway—and we thought he was out of pocket for good. But last night I caught a lucky break: one of my CIs fingered the guy. He’s holed up in a place in Kamakura, and right now he’s got no idea that we’re on him.”

Mariko deliberately averted her gaze, looking at the floor lest she accidentally make eye contact with her lieutenant or her partner. Sakakibara would see guilt in her face, and Han would see a bitterness that would rapidly reach a boil. She knew exactly why Han “caught a lucky break.” He’d broken the law. He must have tailed Akahata and his lawyer, Hamaya Jiro, from the hospital, even though Hamaya had made it perfectly clear that doing so was illegal. Akahata wasn’t officially a suspect. His only direct connection to a crime at this point was as the victim of a host of assault and battery charges. Mariko had considered tailing him anyway, because just like Han, she’d known Akahata was their best lead, and letting him disappear would douse what glimmers of hope they had in their investigation. But unlike Han, Mariko
hadn’t
followed him. Now it made her angry just to be in the same room with him.

“Hell of a catch,” said Sakakibara, his tone suspicious. Mariko didn’t know what to hope for. Did the LT know the same background information Mariko knew? If so, the whole unit was about to see Sakakibara slam Han on his back, grab him by the throat, and show him who was leading the pack around here and whose rules they were going to follow. Sakakibara might have been a prick, but he was good police, and he hated seeing perps slip away because one of his officers took liberties with search and seizure.

But if that happened, questions would come Mariko’s way. She’d have no choice but to answer them honestly, and that would sink Han’s career. Up until ten seconds ago, Mariko had trusted Han implicitly, unwaveringly. He didn’t deserve a torpedo from his own partner.

“You got anything on this guy that’ll stick?” said Sakakibara. Mariko tried to read his tone and couldn’t. Was it a commanding officer’s legitimate question at a morning roll call or was he trying to trick Han into setting himself up for the kill? How much did Sakakibara know about their investigation?

“Still working on that, sir,” said Han. “Obviously we’ve got him at the packing company, and
somebody
over there is guilty of felony possession. All that speed has to belong to someone.”

“Akahata?”

“Right now everything we’ve got on him is circumstantial, but we think we’ll find more. Oshiro figures we can connect him to a string of hexamine buys. We’re thinking MDA.”

That got an approving nod from the LT. “Nice. Both of you, well done. Keep me posted.”

And then the meeting went on. Kamaguchi Hanzo’s packing company was front and center, and most of the updates had to do with the raid and its various follow-up investigations. Mariko listened to none of them. She kept her gaze studiously on the windows, preferring the sun’s glare to glaring at her partner.

But she could only avoid him for so long. Soon enough the meeting adjourned, the troops filed out, and Mariko was left alone in the room with Han. “So,” he said, “you want to get a donut or a coffee or something? I didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Eat shit,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You tailed him? What’s wrong with you?”

Han looked hurt. “Hey, it’s not like that.”

“You can’t expect me to believe this. You
just so happened
to hear from a CI who
just so happened
to, what, park his car across the street from Akahata?”

Han shrugged and smiled. “Actually, that’s pretty close to it.”

“And then for no particular reason your CI calls and says, ‘Hey, is this guy a person of interest for you, by any chance?’ Because I’m sure that happens all the time, Han. Perps who slip through the system suddenly get ID’ed even when no evidence points us back in their direction.”

Now Han looked sincerely wounded, and embarrassed besides. “Mariko, will you keep it down? Let me explain—”

Mariko pushed him away. “I trusted you.”

“And you’re right to. I swear to you, Mariko, I didn’t tail him.”

It came as a splash of cold water in the face of her burning resentment. He was telling the truth. Mariko prided herself on knowing when people were lying, and Han wasn’t. That fact wasn’t enough to calm her, but it was enough to make her sit back down. “You’ve got ten seconds. Start talking.”

Han sighed, relieved. “What’s the last thing I told you before I walked out of Akahata’s hospital room?”

“I think you told the lawyer to go fuck himself.”

“Okay, before that.”

“I don’t know. Something about how Hamaya was aiding and abetting a criminal and you weren’t going to stand for it.”

“Right.”

“So you tailed him? Knowing we didn’t have probable cause? Knowing it was illegal?”

Han sighed again. “For
us
. It’s illegal for
us
to follow him. But not for one of my CIs. And I’ve got loads of them. Plenty of them want me to owe them a favor. So I made a couple of calls and I watched Hamaya and his client fly off into the wind. Just like you did. Only I got a phone call a few hours later.”

“Han—”

“What? What laws did I break? What regs? An ordinary citizen followed another one. That’s not illegal. Hell, if I’d hired a private eye, it would have been a cliché.”

Mariko sank back into her chair, heavy with frustration and fatigue. She pressed her palms to her eyes and let her head sag until it hit the top of the backrest. “Do you really want to try explaining the difference between violating civil rights and violating civil rights by proxy?”

“If it helps, I told my guy to stay well away. Keys in the ignition, doors locked, ready to drive off if anything looked fishy. All I wanted was eyes on the target.”

“I don’t know, Han.”

“Think of it like hiring a private investigator. I just did it cheaper than that. And a little faster. And if it was a PI, I wouldn’t have had to promise to look the other way on a possession charge or two.”

Mariko burst out of her chair, ready to deck him. “Damn it, Han—”

“Joking! Just joking!” Han hopped back and landed in a wrestler’s crouch, hands up high to defend against a sudden swing. “Sorry. Maybe not the best comic timing there.”

Mariko gave serious thought to kicking him in the crotch. Then she thought better of it. It wouldn’t hurt enough. She pulled the stun gun off her belt. “You know, I’m pretty sure I could neuter you with this thing.”

Han took an extra step back. “Sorry. Very sorry. I swear.” He relaxed his defensive posture, pulled one of the chairs around, and sat opposite Mariko. “So, you know, seriously, are we cool?”

“Han, I don’t know. I don’t like you cutting it so close to the edge.”

“This is narcotics, not beat cop stuff. We work with dirty people. Sometimes we need them to dime each other out, and we have to get out of their way and let them do it.”

“And sometimes we need to put them on their way to doing it?”

“Now and then, yeah, we do. Mariko, I know where the lines are. I might get close to them sometimes, but I promise you, I’m never going to cross them. Not while we’re partners. Okay?”