Japantown (7 page)

I said, “Can I help you?”

Sharp eyes scanned me from head to foot. “Are you Jim Brodie? Jake Brodie’s son?”

That explained it. He knew my father. Or his work.

“Yes.”

Off the mogul’s left flank stood the Great Wall of China, an Asian bodyguard of Chinese or Korean descent with expansive shoulders and hair cropped to bristles in a style you don’t see much in Japan anymore outside military schools and martial arts clubs. His face was round and meaty. Cheekbones pushed his flesh to the sides and made him look like an overfed Buddha. The muscles across his chest and down his arms weren’t overfed, though. They stretched his brown knit shirt to the limit and spoke of strength and speed.

Hara glanced around the shop with disapproval. “Not at all what I expected. Is it perhaps an older brother who took over Brodie Security? Or a relative?”

His English was flawless.

“Nope. Just me. You’ve got the right Brodie and the right place.”

I’d listed Brodie Antiques on the agency’s website and in the phone book as the stateside contact for Brodie Security. Embedded in the wall alongside the front door was a brass plaque that announced our presence with discretion:
Brodie Security—Inquire Within
, which riled Abers no end.

Narrowing his eyes, Hara raised the sword guard. “Tell me about the
tsuba
.”

The object in question was disc-shaped and about three inches across, with an elongated triangular slit at the center to accept the tang of a sword. Because sword guards formed a pivotal part of the samurai’s most important possession—his symbolic soul—some of them had been decorated with silver, gold, lacquer, hammered smithery, cloisonné, and inlay work by the finest craftsmen in the land. Today, collectors around the world sought out the best pieces.

“That particular tsuba is from the late fifteen hundreds and belonged
to a Tokyo family that can trace its lineage back to a samurai ancestor who served Lord Hideyoshi.”

Hara nodded. “Impressive. And the motif?”

The front side of the guard showed two wild geese in flight; the reverse side showed the same pair, one soaring free, the other plummeting earthward, perhaps weakened by its attempt to crest a pagoda in the background, or perhaps wounded by a hunter.

“The motif sets off the hazards of warfare against the Zen belief in the impermanence of life.”

“At least you know your art,” the mogul said flatly, replacing the piece in the case. “How are you on the investigative side of things?”

Outside on the street, a jet-black Silver Shadow limousine idled at the curb. A chauffeur, capped and immaculate, swept a long-handled feather duster back and forth across a spotless hood that gleamed in the afternoon sun.

I said, “Why don’t you step in the back? We can talk there.”

I ushered him into the conference room adjoining my office. With its beige carpet, coffee-colored leather chairs, and walnut table, it was a class act. The table was an early-eighteenth-century William and Mary that I picked up at an estate auction. A Charles Burchfield watercolor hung on a pastel gray wall. Burchfield was a talented but underappreciated mid-twentieth-century American master. We got along just fine.

Hara took a seat and the Great Wall angled his shoulders into the room. The next instant, Abers appeared with coffee, set it down, then eased the door shut, giving me a thumbs-down behind the mogul’s back as he closed us in.

Hara crossed his legs. I remained standing, an eye on the Wall.

Hara scanned the room.
“Ano e mo warukanai kedo . . .”
The painting’s not bad either, but . . 

I dropped my head in a modest bow. “It’s adequate,” I replied in his native tongue with the proper tone of self-deprecation.

Hara was a handsome man in his mid-fifties, his picture often in the news. In person, he had the same square chin, the same glowing tan, the same piercing eyes. What was different was the shock of white
hair combed up and back. The stills in
Fortune, Time,
and
Asia Today
showed him with a black mane graying with dignity around the edges.

“Do you handle any work here?”

I decided he wasn’t talking about the art.

“I run stateside security jobs out of this office, but Tokyo is still the main liaison for the agency. I hire local expertise as needed, or bring people over from Tokyo.”

The Wall had spread his legs, squared his chin, and clasped his hands behind his back. At parade rest, while the general spoke to the flunky.

I jerked my chin at the watchdog. “Isn’t he kind of big for a pet?”

Hara smiled without merriment. “Are you any good at what you do?”

“Some people think so.”

“You were involved in the recovery of the recent Rikyu, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive, but in the end that’s only art. Are you as good as your father was?”

What was I supposed to say to that? I shrugged. “I know how to get in and out of trouble.”

In truth, I doubted I could measure up to Jake’s legendary talents. Several people had lost their lives over the Rikyu and I came close to losing mine. At Brodie Security the vote was still out.

“That tells us you’re clever. But are you tough?”

“Enough.”

Hara moved his chin maybe half a millimeter, and the Great Wall charged.

Anticipating the move, I preempted his attack, brushing his rising hands away with a forearm sweep and plowing the heel of my other hand into his nose but pulling back enough to keep the breathing apparatus from turning to pulp. Anything less and he would have trampled me. The Wall staggered sideways and grabbed for his face. I connected with a knee kick to the stomach, eschewing the more damaging targets above and below. He went down, but it was all I could
do to keep from screaming at the intense pain that streaked down my leg. From beneath the bandage, I felt skin tear and blood trickle. In the heat of the attack, instinct had overridden caution and the knife wound had slipped my mind.

Now
I was going to need stitches.

CHAPTER 11

H
ARA
stared at the immobile form at his feet.

I said, “A little less bulk, he’d make a nice doormat.”

The businessman raised his eyes to mine, his expression empty of mirth, anger, or any other emotion. “The Sony people recommended your firm. Highly. I guess it hasn’t slipped any.”

“Guess not.”

Jake had roped in high-profile clients like Sony and Toyota, and they stayed on after his death. Name clients allowed me to keep my father’s loyal staff gainfully employed, but the problem was, VIP security took a lot of bodies, and each one required a salary. And a raise. And had growing families. Keeping the enterprise going was an uphill battle, but one I felt I owed Jake.

The Wall groaned.

I said, “Tell your boy to stay on the floor and play carpet until we’re done.”

“Surely that won’t be necessary. You’ve amply demonstrated what I wished to know.” The magnate’s eyelids slipped to half-mast. “By the way, my name’s Katsuyuki Hara.”

“I know who you are.”

“Do you?”

“CompTel Nippon. From making computerized toys in a garage in Shibaura to electronics to chips to factories in Southeast Asia, Europe, and China. Then radio, TV, cable stations, a couple of publishing houses, and one of the first Japanese to jump on the information superhighway bandwagon. Fiber optics, wireless, telecommunications.
On and on. A lone-wolf innovator in a flock of consensus-driven companies. Golden touch, never a wrong move. Except maybe in selecting bodyguards.”

He grunted. There may or may not have been some pleasure in the noise. “Tell me, Mr. Brodie, do your dual occupations of antiques dealer and PI mesh?”

Skepticism tinged his tone, as if the two professions were mutually exclusive.

“They both require scrappers,” I said.

“You know why I’m here?”

“No, and frankly, I can’t see any reason why you would be.”

“You saw my family.”

I didn’t understand him, so I let the words hang. The silence between us grew dark and heavy.

“Last night. On the pavement.” Five words, and he had trouble with each. His voice was fresh and controlled, but the pain was fresh, too, and less controlled.

“The Nakamuras?”

“That’s right. My eldest daughter’s married name.”

Japantown.
The mother.

“I see,” I said. “I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry.”

Once more I saw the woman’s death mask and what I imagined must have been a tormented end to her life. For the briefest instant I wondered about Mieko’s final moment. Had a madman come for her in the night? Had she seen him? Had she known her fate in the seconds before the flames consumed her?

“I want you to find him, Mr. Brodie. The person or persons responsible.”

“Me?”

“You. Your agency. I want him found and exterminated. Like the cockroach that he is. If it were physically possible, I would ask you to kill him twice, very slowly. I will pay you well in any currency you wish and deposit the funds anywhere in the world you desire.”

He mentioned a fee three times our usual rate. He would know our usual rate.

“Why offer high?”

“Incentive yields rapid results.”

“Try Mercenary Inc. They’re on the next block.”

“You saw my family torn to pieces and you can still say that?”

“Yes.”

Hara frowned with regal impatience. “The money means nothing to me. I believe in motivation. I want you to put the full weight of your organization behind this investigation and I’m willing to pay you for your
full
attention.”

He’d segued into Japanese though his cadence remained decidedly Western. Direct, gruff, and businesslike. A new breed. The legendary Japanese politeness had yet to surface, and probably wouldn’t. I could see why the traditional power establishment disliked him.

“Brodie Security doesn’t exterminate, Mr. Hara.”

“Perhaps we can discuss it at a later date after you have made some progress.”

“The answer will be the same.”

“We shall see. I am told I can be extremely persuasive. Invariably I get what I want.”

“And I’ve been told I’m stubborn. Though personally I can’t see it.”

He watched me without amusement. “Fine. Shall we double the offer?”

“My answer will be the same.”

He leaned forward, in his eyes nothing but a dark void. “Do you know what it’s like to see your children go before you? It’s a living death, Mr. Brodie. All your life’s work wadded up like so much newsprint and thrown in your face. You know that your children and your children’s children will not live beyond you, will not benefit from your achievements. When you die, all your work, all your accomplishments, die with you.”

His voice quavered, nearly cracking, but he managed to maintain his dignity. For most of his life Hara had soared. Now he was falling fast. Like the weakened goose on the sword guard he’d grilled me about.

I thought of his daughter on the cobblestones in Japantown. I thought of my morning after in Los Angeles, when nothing was left but dust and debris. I thought of all the sleepless nights I’d faced, all the times I’d held my distraught daughter until she fell asleep in my
arms. I had lost a wife but still had Jenny. The man before me had lost children and grandchildren in one fell swoop. I relented.

“All right, Mr. Hara. We’ll look into it.”

I wondered if his research showed I was a soft touch.

The mogul fell back in his seat, visibly relieved. “Thank you. Can you find him?”

“Sooner or later. With enough money and man-hours. And unless the police get there first. But either way, we won’t kill him. There’s been enough of that.”

“Use a freelancer if you don’t want to dirty your hands. As much outside help as you like. I will cover the additional expenditure.”

Inwardly, I winced and his words gave me pause. From his tone of voice, I could tell that the course Hara suggested was one he’d taken before.

I said, “Why are you so set on us? You could buy an army if you wanted to.”

“Brodie Security has more than twenty people in Tokyo, excluding affiliates. You
are
an army. I’ve been assured the police department here is working around the clock. By adding private manpower and someone who knows both Japan and America, I believe I can significantly increase the odds of success.”

His thinking made sense, but I remained skeptical.

Hara read my mind. Moving to squelch my doubt before it won out, he pulled an envelope from his jacket, offering it with both hands and a bow. “Here’s half of the higher fee now, exclusive of expenses, of course.”

Decision time. Silently, I debated the issue. Hara couldn’t force me to do what I deemed undesirable. We were not assassins. But if the Japantown kanji turned out to be Mieko’s kanji, I’d follow this thing to the end for her sake, and Renna’s. Two solid reasons to say yes. So I did. I stood, reached out, and accepted the envelope in the same formal manner Hara offered it, bowing and shutting the envelope in my desk unopened, as Japanese etiquette dictated, before retaking my seat across the table from him. “We’ll take the case,” I said, “and you’ll get a report. That’s all.”

Hara sat and smiled grimly. “Unless I can persuade you otherwise. But let’s leave that for now. What can I provide you with to start?”

“Your daughter’s itinerary. Basic bios on her and her husband. A list of friends and acquaintances in the States, including Hawaii. It should include old friends, new friends, business contacts, personal enemies, pen pals.”

He stiffened. “You joke about such matters?”

“It’s no joke. I want all American contacts, no matter how insignificant they might seem to you.”

He relaxed. “Done. You’ll have it within twenty-four hours.”

“Good. And Yoshida, the other male, he was a friend?”

“A distant cousin.”

I waited for more but it didn’t come.

“Okay,” I said. “The same for him. Was he or your son-in-law involved in anything dangerous?”

“No.”

“How about your daughter?”