Collector of Secrets (7 page)

“I just—”

“No need to explain.” The reply was swift and final. “I understand that I asked too much of you.”

Max rose and stepped back, longing for the awkwardness of the moment to dissipate. Desperate to change the subject, he glanced at the newspaper lying on the center table. “Hey, I saw those same pictures in today’s English paper. It said a retired diplomat was murdered yesterday. Did you know him?”

Mr. Murayama looked up, catching Max in a direct stare before responding with a definitive shake of his head. “No.”

THE PRIVATE elevator had only two buttons, one for ground and the glowing one indicating the thirty-first-floor penthouse. Jun Hirano wiped the sweat from his shaved head with a massive paw of a hand. The Yebisu Garden Terrace tower, with its clean marble floors and bright lights, made the twenty-eight-year-old feel uncharacteristically anxious. The setting blazed in sharp contrast to the gambling halls and dark alleyways of Shinjuku, where he felt most comfortable running card games, drinking whisky, and chasing after lovely girls out for a day of shopping. The streets, after all, were where he had grown up since being orphaned at the age of nine.

It wasn’t clear why the head of the family had extended him a personal invitation. The honor was usually reserved for the senior advisors of the
Yakuza
gang, but the caller’s words had been clear: tell no one of the afternoon meeting, and come alone.

Two guards were waiting as he stepped into the penthouse foyer. Dressed in matching black suits, they stood stone-faced, their feet shoulder-width apart with hands clasped overtop their enormous bellies—former sumo wrestlers by the look of them. Standing slightly shorter then his own five-feet-ten inches, they easily outweighed him by fifty pounds each. Their imposing presence didn’t help to settle his uneasiness.

The marble foyer was open to the floor above, with a grand, sweeping staircase rising to the second level. An ornate Western-style chandelier hung from the ceiling, while a dozen historic wood-block paintings adorned the surrounding walls. Jun felt as if he was entering a Hollywood movie set.

He removed his black loafers and followed the two men as they moved down a side hallway. The décor soon adopted a Japanese feel, with light wood and clean lines. Approaching a door on the right, they entered what appeared to be a changing area for a
sento
bath.

One of the guards spoke as if he’d already anticipated a question. “Father prefers tradition, but he also requires privacy. A public bathing house won’t do.” The expressionless man gave Jun instructions to place all his clothing in one of the wicker baskets provided before proceeding into the next room.

Resisting the temptation to respond with a cocky comment, Jun stripped off his leather jacket, long-sleeved dress shirt, and jeans. Removing his boxers revealed the full extent of the patterned tattoos blanketing his muscular shoulders, back, and buttocks.

Entering the second room alone, he noted that the white-tiled space was about twice the size of the first room. To his left, on the wall adjacent to the door, were five square wooden stools positioned in front of matching silver faucets. Directly ahead, covering the entire back portion of the room, was a waist-high bathing pool ten feet wide and six feet front to back. Steam rose from the pool and created a thick layer of moisture that swirled around Jun’s naked body and condensed on his skin.

He shuffled to the farthest faucet. Squatting, he perched his two-hundred-pound body on the tiny stool and began washing himself. Dripping, he stared at his round-faced reflection in the mirror. Slowly he ran an index finger down the old scar that traced the right side of his face. He had earned it in a weapons training camp when he was a teenager, and he relished the intimidating appearance it lent him.

Jun moved to the pool and dangled his legs into the heated water.

A shot of cooler air made him glance up as a slender blonde woman entered the room and held the door. Wrapped only in a white terry towel, she looked as if she’d stepped straight from the cover of a
Playboy
magazine. Behind her was
Yakuza
Father Oto Kodama.

Instinct took over, forcing Jun to slip into the pool, standing, in order to bow respectfully. Finding himself suddenly up to his hips in the scalding water, he winced in pain.

Oto’s gruff voice echoed off the tiled walls. “Don’t burn yourself, my boy.” He pointed into the water below Jun’s waistline. “You’ll find that thing useful on occasion.” Slick black hair edged with silver covered the Father’s head, framing his dark eyes and permanent scowl. Two dog tags suspended on a silver chain hung halfway down his bare chest.

The leggy blonde towered over the five-foot-five mafia leader. She removed the older man’s towel, revealing the tattoos painted across his sagging belly. Intricate drawings of dragons and samurai covered his entire body except for his feet, hands, jowly neck, and face.

The woman removed her own towel and placed it next to Oto’s. Jun remained standing, his eyes lingering on her body, watching transfixed as a train of silky hair fell down her back to her perfectly formed hips.

Oto spoke while shuffling across the tiled floor. “She is something, isn’t she? I bought her in Singapore. I hate Americans, but for her I’ve made an exception. She can’t understand a word we’re saying, but who cares?” The older man clambered into the hot water, followed by the elegant blonde.

Jun sank down to his neck, choosing to remain silent, unsure of how to appropriately respond.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

“Yes, Father.” He knew that he should focus on Oto, but he couldn’t stop his focus from drifting toward the pink breasts peeking above the water line.

“I wanted to commend you for obtaining the information last night at the shrine.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“But did you really need to kill the diplomat?”

Shamed, Jun lowered his eyes. A story needed to be quickly created. “The man threatened to inform the police. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“But you must understand that his death raises questions with the authorities, and smoothing these things over costs a great deal of money.”

“Very sorry, Father.”

Oto ignored the apology. “However, I’ve used the information from the business card you obtained. A cleaning crew will bug Murayama-
san
’s
office tonight, after which I want you and Hiro to take the van and start listening.”

“For what?” Jun sat up higher.

“I’m looking for a brown leather satchel containing a priceless old book. I want you to recover it.” Oto’s dark eyes burned bright. “But―I don’t wish to coerce Murayama-
san
directly. He was a diplomat and the police could surveil him as well after the unfortunate shrine murder. It will be slower this way, but less obvious.”

Jun felt a swell of pride.
I’m being asked to carry out duties directly for the Father!

“And I have another task.” Steam rose into the already moist air as Oto continued speaking. “I’m growing concerned about your
Yakuza
brother, Hiro. I’m hearing reports that he’s acting strangely again. I believe he’s been tainted by weak Western influences.” Oto’s flat nose wrinkled. “All foolishness! The family is what matters. And his heart may not be with our family anymore. Do you understand?”

Jun’s chin dipped into the water as he nodded.

“He tried to leave us once. It was years ago. He was young, and I thought he learned his lesson, but perhaps not,” Oto said. “Let me know if you see anything unusual in his behavior.”

“Yes, of course, Father.”

The blonde woman whispered into Oto’s ear. He splashed a hand, giving approval for her to leave the bath. “These Americans can’t take the heat.”

Rising up and swinging her long, smooth legs up over the tiled edge of the bath, the woman fully exposed her entire body. Jun could feel himself becoming aroused, and in an attempt to avoid being noticed, he clasped his hands together in his lap while his gaze followed her every move.

Oto cleared his throat and the two men briefly locked eyes. “I too was once a young man.”

Jun felt a hot rush of guilt spread over his face.

“Don’t be ashamed, my boy. It’s only natural to be attracted to her. In fact, I’m feeling generous. You may have her for a few hours.”

Jun wiped his brow with a single wet hand, marveling at the father’s generosity.

“Woman-u!” Oto’s English word boomed and echoed in the little room. “Give-u him-u good-o time-u.”

She wrapped herself in a towel and showed her perfect white teeth in a dazzling smile.

Jun rose rapidly, sending a wave cascading over the pool’s edge and onto the floor. He bowed while keeping his hands folded tightly over his groin, attempting to awkwardly scale the bath’s edge.

As the door closed, the aging leader drew a napkin-sized white terry cloth out of the water. Folding it twice into a small square, he placed it on top of his head and settled deeper into the warm water, dreaming of the diary that would soon be his and the riches within.

IT WAS meant to be a pleasant evening of traditional
Kabuki
theater, and normally Max would have been excited about trying something new. But as he pressed down the crowded sidewalk, surrounded by bright neon-crowned buildings, he felt a clear sense of trepidation. Yoko, the Dragon Lady, was waiting for him, and her reaction was going to be unpredictable at best.

Delivering his resignation letter just hours before had lifted a huge weight from his shoulders. Yoko had been on the phone, planning an upcoming art exhibit, with her back to the door. Her vicious cat, Luciano, reclined on a guest chair, hissing as Max entered the office. Tossing the sealed envelope onto the desktop, he dashed out before she could spin around her high-backed chair.

He knew he would miss teaching the kids, but he was weary of Yoko’s lies and her ever-changing stories. She’d successfully seduced him with a position on the new board of directors, however in the end she was simply placating him. Having his school expansion ideas repeatedly agreed to, then ignored, had shown her objective wasn’t to create a viable business. And as if to add salt to the wound she had insisted he run her errands. The expensive purchases of clothing, along with the growing pile of Tiffany’s boxes, were a constant reminder of her true objective. Their once close friendship dissolved into silence, and as the quiet tension escalated, he grew confident that Yoko’s true agenda remained hidden behind a well-crafted layer of deception. She’d manipulated him, treating him like her blond poster boy, just so she could gather more investors. He was merely someone to distract the students’ mothers while Yoko reached her greedy hand into their purses and robbed them of their life savings.

In a country where he could barely manage the language, Max felt powerless to stop the wheels in motion. But his resignation was one thing he could still control. Tonight would be the last night he would play the part of Yoko’s Exotic Pet.

Walking a jagged line through the sea of strolling shoppers, he adjusted his blazer, which was beginning to show its age. Reaching into an inside pocket, he glanced at his grandpa’s pocket watch and saw that it read 7:10 p.m.

Damn. Ten minutes late already.

He had seriously considered backing out of this choreographed event. But he’d agreed to the outing a month ago and costly tickets had been purchased. His students’ mothers would be waiting. Expectations would be high, and he could not bring himself to disappoint them.