The Samurai's Daughter (24 page)

“Take it, Mr. Energy,” I muttered to Hugh, who was still reading by torchlight on the other side of the futon.

“It's for you,” he said, not moving.

The phone trilled again.

“The phone's closer to you,” I pointed out.

“Darling, every time I pick up the phone and answer, people ring off. It happened earlier today three times. Go ahead, give it your best.” Hugh grabbed the receiver, pressed “On,” and put it to the side of my head.

“
Moshi-moshi
,” I muttered.

“
Moshi-moshi
, this is Okada…” On the other end was a woman's voice, sounding tentative. But I'd woken up fully. Okada was Manami's family name. Maybe her parents had called me back about her whereabouts. Although the timing was inconvenient, I was glad I'd have the chance to learn what happened to my parents' missing houseguest.

“Yes, thank you for calling!” I said in a bright voice. “Is it about Manami-san?”

“Yes. I mean, I
am
Manami Okada. I hope to speak with Shimada-san?”

“This is Shimada,” I said, sitting upright and shooting Hugh a significant glance. Her father had passed along my messsage—and my fictitious name—to her. Manami's voice sounded just the same as always, but I couldn't be myself; I'd have to playact a bit to get the information I needed. “Okada-san, where are you calling from?”

“From America,” Manami said. “However, I'm very eager to return to Japan.”

“I understand,” I said, not believing her for a minute. She'd probably been in Kobe for a while, but was putting on a proper face with me, to show she wasn't a quitter.

“As you must have heard, I was taking advanced studies in
pathology in the United States. I would prefer to finish my course of study in Japan, as I will practice here someday.”

“Was there something that didn't please you with the program in San Francisco?” I asked, playing the interviewer.

“Well, the pathology department at the University of California at San Francisco is excellent, but culturally, the city and people are not so nice. I heard people say that one never really understands what it is to be Japanese until one has been on the outside, living with foreigners.”

This was the girl I'd thought was my only real Japanese friend in America. I swallowed my hurt and asked, “And how are the foreigners? Can you describe them?”

“Well, my host family tried to be kind, but they were just so…strange. It was a half-and-half family, to be honest. Their manners were different than ours. You wouldn't believe the behavior of their daughter, too—so wild, with this foreign boyfriend, right in her parents' house! I guess it's the custom with American girls. Let me assure you that I am not like that; I am a regular Japanese and a hard worker. I am ready to work hard at any hospital. I didn't catch the name of the hospital you represent, by the way?”

I had moved from embarrassment to rage. “The hospital of the sick and disillusioned.”

“What place is that?” Manami asked, sounding innocent.

“It's a hospital where people go who've learned the hard way about opening their hearts and homes to strangers. Think about the efforts your host family made to include you in holidays, to feed you, to comfort you when you were sad! And that badly behaved daughter, who tried to teach you English slang because she thought you were genuinely interested—”

A gasp. “You—you aren't—”

“I'm not a Shimada, I'm a Shimura.” I said it with anger and pride. “My name is Rei Shimura. My mother, the one who made lunches for you, is Catherine. And my father—you know him as Kenji—is on the verge of going to the San Francisco police about you! He knew you were troubled all along, but you're so much worse than I thought.”

“Rei-san, I'm sorry. I didn't intend to—”

“You say the words, but you don't mean them. It's all lies.”

I heard Manami gasp. Then she spoke in a voice that was in an entirely different register. “You shouldn't have played a trick to get me to call you. It isn't right.”

“It's not Japanese manners, is it?” I was still on my rampage. “Well, excuse me. And one last thing: I don't expect you to do this, but what you really should do is go back and face up to what you did. Tell people the truth. For once.”

I was sick of Manami. I clicked the receiver and threw it down on the quilt.

There was a moment of silence. Then Hugh spoke.

“I don't need to ask who your caller was, but as for your reaction, darling…maybe you were too frank—”

“Well, it's too late now.” I groped around the quilt to recover the telephone receiver. I wanted to see if the Caller ID function would show me if Manami was in Japan or the United States. The phone she had used, however, couldn't easily be tracked;
NO DATA SENT
was the message that appeared in the window when I clicked back. I had no idea where she'd called from. But I was mad enough that I still wanted to talk to my father, and I dialed overseas to my home number.

The telephone rang endlessly. One of my parents was probably online. I decided to try again the next day. I was tired and cranky and needed sleep.

“Will it bother you if I stay up a while longer?” Hugh asked, tucking the covers around me.

“No. What are you doing, work on the class action?”

“Actually, I'm reading your great-grandfather's book. Tom sent more pages.”

As I drifted off, I reflected that reading that book was supposed to be my job, not Hugh's.

 

It seemed like only a few hours later that sunlight was streaming into my eyes. I felt the space next to me on the futon, and it was empty. At 6
A.M
., I still craved sleep; but since Hugh was up, I wanted to know what he was working on.

I pulled on a hip-length wool sweater over my Japanese long underwear, since I was now back in the land of no central heating, and opened the door.

Hugh was hunched over the tea table, still reading. “Guess who came to the door about half an hour ago? The courier. I've got my documents from San Francisco.”

“Great,” I said, settling myself next to him. “So what are the answers to the questions?”

“No answers, really. The paralegal sent a transcript, but no actual tape from the interview that Eric and I did. She included a note saying that she's trying to locate the tape and will send it on when it's recovered. But I bet it's gone for good, don't you?”

“Probably. What does Eric's transcript say, though?” I sunk my head onto his shoulder.

“Well, I've read it through a few times and haven't noticed any mention of ingots or gold or tunnels. The most significant things recorded are Rosa's memories of abuse, and her claim that she saw Japanese officers order soldiers to bury some of the Asian laborers alive. That's stuff he translated for me, verbatim, during the interview, so I have a feeling it was spontaneous and true.”

“I agree. She brought up the burial again when I visited her.” I shuddered at the memory. “About the gold, though—we can't be sure. The tape we have is quite hard to understand. We didn't come up with the theory until we listened to it many times. We might be wrong.”

Hugh pulled away and looked at me. “I'm not about to order an excavation of the Philippine jungle, you know. I never said the gold was a sure thing.”

“But you'd like it to be. If it turns out that Eric and Charles have dirty dealings, they could be ousted from being part of the class action, couldn't they? You could be a hero at Andrews and Cheyne.”

Hugh snorted. “It wouldn't be quite as easy as that. And let me remind you that I want them to be good guys, and I'm only interested in justice, not personal gain.”

“Oh, isn't that noble.” I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “What's your plan at work today?”

“Hang on, Rei, you just insulted me!” Hugh's voice rose. “I don't think you even hear yourself anymore. The way you spoke to Manami on the phone last night, and this morning you're blithely accusing me of sinister machinations—”

“Don't say any more. You're right. I'm sorry.” He
was
right, of course. I'd lost it when I had spoken with Manami last night, and my words today were less heated, but just as offensive. “I don't know what's happening to me.”

“It's a difficult time.” Hugh smoothed my hair. “Ideally, all you'd have to worry about right now is compiling your family history. But so much…trauma has filtered out of my work into your life. I've never shared as much with you before, and now I'm starting to think it was a mistake.”

I glared at him. “I like knowing what's going on with you. I couldn't be married to you and not know.”

“Well, whatever you know, it's got to be kept quietly between us from this point on. If Charles and Eric got wind of what I'm thinking, it would be curtains for me.”

I thought guiltily about the keycards I'd cadged to Charles's and Eric's hotel rooms. Hugh would flip if he knew that I had them, and was still planning a covert inspection.

“So what is your work schedule today?” I could have asked,
When will all of you be out of the hotel?

“Well, I'll be hunkered down in the conference room most of the day. But you could talk me into a half-hour lunch break. The weather's supposed to be good today—how about meeting in Hibiya Park?”

Instead of answering, I hedged. “What about Eric and Charles? Are they going to be in the office all day?”

“It's not a real office, it's just a rented room in the hotel. And I have no idea of their plans. Why do you ask?”

Instead of telling him that I wanted to get in their rooms, I said, “Well, it will be awfully hard for you to figure out what they're up to if they're breathing over your shoulder.”

“Rei, I don't think you realize I actually have work to do. I've got to figure out the next move with Morita and, at the same time,
gather names of more potential plaintiffs. As much as I'd like to figure things out about Eric and Charles, at the moment I simply don't have the time.”

But I do
, I said silently to myself. Out loud, I told Hugh I'd meet him for lunch at twelve-thirty.

As soon as Hugh was gone, I started making phone calls. The first was to Mr. Ishida, because I knew he was an early riser.

“What became of the staircase chest?” I asked after we'd exchanged morning greetings. “Did Charles Sharp decide to take it?”

“I haven't heard anything from him. Why, do you have a client who is interested?”

“I don't. I was just curious.”

“Well, since you are socializing with Mr. Sharp, why don't you ask him his intentions?” Mr. Ishida asked.

“Um, I'd rather not. Mr. Sharp knows I know you, but he doesn't know that I have any knowledge he was considering that
tansu.
I'd rather keep that quiet, for Hugh's sake—Hugh feels I've been getting too much into company business.”

“My, what modest, wifely behavior,” Mr. Ishida said.

“Do you approve?” I smiled, knowing he was teasing me.

“Well, I like the man you've chosen. But can you do this for me? I know he's here on business for a short while. If he leaves, please tell me so I can release the hold I've placed on the piece and can offer it to someone else.”

I promised that I would do that, and hung up.

The next person on my list was Mr. Harada, the lawyer Hugh had recommended. I wanted to talk to him about the possible form a
power of attorney agreement might take if the person in question was a hospital patient floating in and out of consciousness.

Mr. Harada told me the situation was quite complicated and I'd need an appointment. I made an excuse and decided to delay the appointment, thinking now that if money was involved up front, I'd better make sure the Moriuchis were even willing to be of help. I obtained their number from Tokyo information, and placed the call.

It was still early enough in the morning that Mrs. Moriuchi was making her son's boxed lunch, but she returned my call twenty minutes later, after he'd left the house for school. I filled her in on Ramon's brief comeback, and she was delighted.

When I brought up the power of attorney topic, though, she was less enthusiastic.

“Of course I want to help, but I don't want to take away the rights of his family. We spoke to the nephew, and he's quite concerned about his uncle. I'm sure he would be the best one to oversee the future,” she said.

“Oh, so the nephew spoke to you on the telephone? I can't believe Dr. Nigawa gave you his number, but wouldn't share it with me!”

“We didn't speak on the phone. Actually, I met him outside the door of Espinosa-san's apartment yesterday evening. He wanted to go inside, but the door was locked. I got my spare key and let him in.”

“Why did you do that?” Suddenly, my antenna was starting to rise.

“Why? I did it because I have a key to that apartment. As you know, we are like family with Mr. Espinosa.”

“What's the nephew's name?” I interrupted.

“Espinosa. I didn't ask his first name.”

Of course she hadn't, because according to Japanese etiquette, first-name use was rude. I sighed heavily. “Can you describe the nephew to me?”

“Well, he spoke Japanese very well—like a native, but of course, there was a little something in the rhythm that told me he was a foreigner.”

“What about his looks?”

“Black hair, medium height. He wore eyeglasses and was casually dressed.”

“How old is he?”

“Oh, I didn't ask a personal question like that, but he seemed to be in his twenties. Yes, almost certainly his twenties, because he didn't have a wedding ring. But late twenties, just like you. Oh, excuse me, I didn't mean to say something so personal to you—”

“Never mind,” I said shortly. “That's an awfully young age to be the nephew of a man in his seventies. Don't you think?”

“I have no idea. You could ask him yourself! The next time he comes by I will give him your name and number.”

“No!” I said a bit too loudly. “Please don't tell him where I live. We have no idea, really, if this is his true nephew. Why in the world did he want to search that apartment, with his uncle in the hospital? Did you watch what he did in there?”

“No, I let him go inside on his own. I wasn't sure what he needed, but I assumed he was bringing items of comfort such as clothing. When he left the apartment, he was carrying a small suitcase of goods, and he thanked me for the assistance. A very courteous young man, indeed.”

“But—the nephew hasn't even gone to see his uncle at the hospital.”

“He said he had—”

“The doctor told me yesterday afternoon that the nephew had telephoned, but had not yet flown to Japan. If you saw the nephew yesterday evening—” I paused. “Well, there's a small chance that he really did fly into Japan yesterday, and went immediately to the apartment building. It would make sense if that were the place where he planned to sleep. But he didn't sleep there.”

Mrs. Moriuchi sucked in her breath. “Do you think—the young Mr. Espinosa is actually the Kanda Ward Attacker? Why would a young man attack his uncle like that?”

“I can't answer that yet,” I said slowly. “But I think there's a good chance that the young man you met isn't related to Mr. Espinosa at all.”

 

I made my next call to Kanda General Hospital. Dr. Nigawa was not available, nor was Nurse Tanaka. I spoke to a junior nurse who confirmed that no nephew had visited—though a call had come from him checking his uncle's condition.

“Did you tell the nephew that he'd regained consciousness?” I asked.

“Yes, but of course we explained it was fleeting. He seemed most excited about this, and had many questions to ask about the likelihood of his recovery, and his ability to communicate.”

“I have something important to tell you,” I said. “I think the person who will claim to be Espinosa-san's nephew is not really a relative at all. I think it could be dangerous for the patient if you let this young man in the patient's room.”

“It's not up to me to decide. It's up to Dr. Nigawa—”

“Please have him call me right away. And in the meantime, why don't you check the identification of any visitors to Espinosa-san. And go with them when they visit the patient. Please, please don't leave Espinosa-san alone.”

 

Hugh had his cell phone back with him, so that was the number I punched in next.

“Can I call you later?” he whispered. “We're in the middle of quite a lot of work—”

“Oh,” I said. “Are you doing something with Charles?”

“Both of them. We're drafting some documents in English and Japanese.”

“When do you think the three of you will break?”

“It could be a while. I doubt I can make a twelve-thirty lunch after all.”

“Don't worry, I understand. I'll see you tonight.” I clicked off and looked at my watch. It was only 9:15. If Hugh thought they'd be working past 12:30, I was probably quite safe. Quickly, I slipped into another wife uniform—a cool black Ultrasuede pantsuit that had been my mother's, worn with a cream silk blouse underneath and a pink-and-purple Hermes scarf knotted around the neck. I slapped on some makeup, blew-dry my hair, and searched around
for a different department store shopping bag, settling on a compact model from Isetan. I slipped my wallet and the hotel room keycards inside the bag. My favorite pair of go-everywhere black high heels, and I was ready for the Imperial Hotel.

I rode the subway, wishing it moved as quickly as the ideas flitting through my head. I'd abandoned my earlier theory that the nephew was a Japanese person posing as a Filipino. My thoughts were focused on a man sitting in conference with Hugh a few miles away. Eric Gan.

I ran through what I knew. The first I'd heard from Eric, upon my return to Japan, was on January 2. I'd assumed he'd been calling from San Francisco, because that's what the Caller ID on my telephone receiver said. But Hugh had pointed out it had been his cell phone, which meant Eric could have been in Tokyo on January 2. And on January 1, the day Ramon was attacked.

And of course, Eric had been in San Francisco when we had—when Rosa was killed. He knew where she lived. He also knew how to get into my house, which he'd probably searched. He knew what my mother's car looked like; for all I knew, he'd followed Hugh and me on Christmas afternoon and broken the window.

As I sat, consumed with these awful thoughts, the train moved methodically toward my destination. Traffic flowed on and off—businessmen, lady shoppers, armies of schoolchildren in uniforms. How I felt for the small kindergartners, clinging for balance to any seat handle or post, since they were too short to reach the hanging straps. It amazed me that Japanese parents trusted the world enough to allow such young children to travel on trains by themselves. But then again, Mrs. Moriuchi had let a strange foreign man she didn't know into Ramon Espinosa's apartment. And she'd trusted me—another strange foreigner—with all this information.

Hibiya Station was next. I stood up, offering my seat with a smile to one of the small children. She shook her head and shyly turned away. She was choosing to stand, taking the hard way. Just as I was about to myself.

 

Inside the Imperial Hotel, past the fancy red Frank Lloyd Wright lounge, up the elevator to the tenth floor. Nobody gave me a second glance. The maids weren't around yet, but that's what I was counting on, remembering that they had arrived at noon the other day.

Both Charles's and Eric's rooms were vacant; I made sure by knocking on both before I took out the keycards. The first one I opened was 1014, Charles's room.

I closed the door behind me and stood for a minute, taking everything in. The Imperial had rather plain rooms, considering their cost, but at least there was a breathtaking view of the rolling green topography of the Imperial Palace grounds. I turned from the view to examine the room. The sheets on the queen-sized bed were tossed back. Charles had left a 100-yen coin on the pillow—the correct Japanese method for tipping the maid.

A “Message waiting” light was blinking on the telephone next to the bed. I picked up the receiver and pressed the button that gave me access. Charles had two messages. The first was from a well-known
tansu
dealer in Roppongi, an elegant American man I knew slightly. He had called to confirm an appointment that evening to show several
tansu
to Charles. He left a phone number, but I didn't record it, because I knew the shop well. The next speaker also left a message in English, but with a heavy accent. He identified himself as Mr. Murano, and asked that Charles supply him with his home telephone number. Mr. Murano recited his own telephone number and extension, which I jotted down on the notepad next to the bed, taking care to place both the message and the sheet of paper underneath, which might bear evidence of my scribbling, in my pocket.

After listening to the messages, I didn't feel that I had very much to worry about with Charles. Still, I hadn't given his room a good check. His Hermès suitcase, standing in the closet, had been completely emptied: all his suits were hanging in the closet, his shirts and underwear were folded in the room's chest of drawers. There didn't seem to be much else besides toiletries, though. I realized that he probably had all documents relating to the class action downstairs in the office space he'd rented.

About the only thing present in the room that gave me any idea of Charles's character was a neat stack of antiques catalogs and magazines. I flipped open one of the Japanese catalogs. He'd marked ads for two
tansu
sold at different shops around the city.

Charles seemed to really be in town to shop. And what he was looking for, to judge from all the Post-it notes in the different periodicals, was Edo Period wooden furniture. I was beginning to believe that Charles wasn't interested in false-bottomed furniture as much as he was interested in acquiring a very rare and old piece.

I shook myself. What was I doing spending so long looking at Charles's antiques dreams? He appeared to have no dirty laundry, the small pile of worn clothes in a plastic bag notwithstanding.

It was time to move on to Eric's room. There was still a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob, which I'd noticed earlier. I knocked and, hearing nothing, slid the keycard in.

Eric's quarters were significantly smaller than Charles's, but they still offered a Palace view. The room was neat as a pin—the bed was made, the bathroom orderly. No wonder he'd hung that sign out: He didn't want anyone messing with his things. A prickle of anticipation went up my back. Eric probably had something to hide.

My first step was opening up his bedside table drawer. Nothing there. His telephone had no messages waiting either. Perhaps he had erased any messages he had. Or, I thought suddenly, he might prefer to use his cell phone.

I poked around the drawers of the room's desk and bureau, looking for the cell phone. I couldn't find it. He probably had it with him in the conference room, I figured. I examined all the T-shirts and underwear folded in his drawer, and the slacks and polo shirts and jackets hung in the closet. Looking at the clothes, I felt a pang at seeing all the middle-range American brand names—Gap and Macy's and Dockers and Joseph Bank. It had been so long since I'd dated an American man, I'd practically forgotten what they wore. Charles and Hugh wore European brands; Eric didn't. On his translator's salary, he clothed himself in comfortable, modest clothing, the kind of brands I would have worn if
I didn't have such a super supply of vintage designer clothes from my mother.

Eric had two suitcases stacked on each other in his closet: a medium-sized Samsonite and then a smaller, zippered brown tweed case. I went for the Samsonite first. Inside, there was something that looked like a folded-up telescope. I decided not to bother opening it, since the likelihood was I wouldn't be able to put it back together the same way. I hastened on to the rest of the suitcase's contents. An umbrella, also folded up, plus a Japanese language map of Tokyo and several English language maps of the Philippines.