Alibi (6 page)

“Mr. Nagoshi,” he said after a breath, “Peter is barely out of diapers. I mean . . . law school. He is young and inexperienced.

“I made a commitment to you people,” he said, immediately realizing this last comment may seem offensive. But he’d spent the past eighteen months dealing with the daily frustrations of US-Japanese cultural differences so, if it came out that way, then . . .

“I have worked damned hard under the circumstances,” he went on. “And, I must say, have found your disinterest in discussing my range of progressive recommendations to be nothing short of insulting. I have expanded our household products division, consolidated our growth into telecommunications and . . .”

But when he picked up his pace to turn back across what the company interior decorator had referred to as his “inspirational but functional minimalist workplace,” he saw that Nagoshi and his equally stealthy spawn were already on their feet and halfway across the coffee-colored carpet to the frosted-glass door. He still had no idea how they did that—moved like fucking cats without making a goddamned sound. It just wasn’t normal.

“Thank you for your kind wishes of sympathy, Bob,” said Nagoshi as he turned to bow before opening the door.

And with that, they left, leaving Bob to his million-dollar view and his ridiculously uncomfortable furniture, shutting the door behind them slowly, softly and without a trace of any audible click.

“You did well,
segare
,” John Nagoshi said to his son as soon as they were safely inside the private confines of their car moving south along Madison Avenue. John Nagoshi motioned for his driver to pull out into the thick Manhattan traffic and make their way back to their two-story apartment on Central Park West.

“Thank you, Father,” said Peter. “We are well placed.”

“Yes. Regardless of Crookshank’s incompetence, the forecast for the future is bright.”

And it was.

Despite the death of his daughter, as Mr. Crookshank so inappropriately pointed out, Nagoshi Inc. was just last week named in the Forbes 500 comprehensive ranking of the world’s biggest companies, at number 138—up twenty-seven places from the year before.

The list, which spanned fifty-one countries and twenty-seven industries and was measured by a composite of sales, profits, assets and market value, named Nagoshi Inc. the seventh most successful company in Japan—behind Toyota, Nippon, Honda, Nissan, Tokyo Electric and Sony. Its nearest market competitor was way back at number 205, just where it belonged.

Annual sales of their myriad of products, including everything from refrigerators and washing machines to DVD cameras and multimedia systems, computers and printers, cell phones and fax machines, were now at about eighty-five billion, with assets of over seventy-seven billion. They currently employed some 350,000 people worldwide with the company having 985 sub sidiaries, including 486 overseas companies.

If there was one thing John Nagoshi had learned from his grandfather Nagoshi Isako who, together with his younger brother, Yoji, had founded Nagoshi Inc. over eighty years ago when they opened a small electrical repairs shop in a Tokyo marketplace, was that expansion was key to success. But his wise elder also taught him that sensing his surroundings, feeling when it was time for growth and time for stillness, was the only way to prevent the disappointment of failure.

“The animals observe their environment,” his grandfather used to say. “They sense the ups and downs of the seasons. They feel the changes in the weather—the hot, the cold, the wet, the dry. They store food in times of plenty so that they can feed their young in times of famine. They know their enemies and assess their power and so learn when it is time to attack and time to walk away. Know this,
magomusuko
, respect all beings around you, and you shall be rewarded.”

And his grandfather had been right. Observing, respecting and most importantly timing the push for growth was paramount to achieving your goals.

And that was why the next few months were so important.

While Nagoshi Inc. had established itself as a world leader in the area of household appliances, home entertainment products, technology software and hardware, and more recently telecommunications, it did not go unnoticed that Japan’s most successful manufacturers were in the business of making cars. John Nagoshi had done what his grandfather had advised—stopped, listened, felt, observed, and now he knew in his heart that this was the time to push forward into the multibillion-dollar world of automobile production. The company was strong, the overheads down, the market ripe for a new alternative—and John Nagoshi, who had spent the past four years waiting for this moment, was on the verge of announcing to the world Nagoshi Inc.’s far-reaching expansion plans.

He wanted his grandfather’s name emblazoned on the finest automobiles Japan, or indeed the world, had ever produced. He wanted to hand his children—his
child
—an empire born out of devotion but run with intelligence and sensitivity to both the strengths of capitalism and the basics of solidarity. He also felt it was time he gave the Toyotas, Hondas and Nissans a run for their yen. And so . . .

If they were to launch their new initiative at the beginning of the year, less than three months from now, they needed to rid themselves of burdens and consolidate their strengths—in matters of business, in matters of life and, in their case, in matters of death. This last thought crossed John Nagoshi’s mind and with it came a wave of disappointment. Jessica’s life had not gone as he planned. The Japanese had always seen mourning as an integral part of life, but he had not had time to grieve his daughter’s passing, and now this acknowledgment of incomple tion sat inside him like a boulder in the middle of a stream. He knew he must allow his spirit to recognize her death, but this was difficult given the demands of his work and the inability of the authorities to identify her killer. His grandfather had taught him patience, but his soul was demanding answers with an ever-increasing fervor.

“Crookshank was a mistake,” said Peter, refocusing his father’s thoughts on the situation at hand. And in that moment Nagoshi wondered if Peter had not just postponed his own process of grief, but forgotten the obligation to do so.

“Yes,” said his father, perhaps sensing that applying himself to work was the only way Peter knew of mourning his sister. When his mother passed away, Peter responded by achieving the highest marks possible in his university entrance exams—marks high enough to gain him entry to the highly respected
Todai
or Tokyo University—an institution he attended briefly before transferring to Deane.

“Appointing Mr. Crookshank was an error of judgment,” Nagoshi went on, raising his voice over the customary din of honking horns and emergency vehicle sirens as he gazed out upon the sea of yellow taxis, private cars and pedestrians that negotiated the minefield that was midtown Manhattan. “But we agreed at the time that cultural sensitivities warranted us considering a local leader.”

“We were wrong,” said Peter, gazing out the opposite window at the standstill traffic, a look of pure intolerance on his smooth-skinned face.

“Yes,
segare
. But it bought us time. You have graduated magna cum laude. You have my support and my knowledge is yours as always. We keep no secrets, my son. That is how it should be.”

Peter said nothing, just nodded. “Consolidation has begun then,” he said a few moments later, and John Nagoshi took pride in knowing that he and his offspring breathed as one.

“Not just consolidation,
segare
, accountability. Crookshank was simple. One puff of wind and the dying leaf is gone to be replaced by fresh foliage. The other matter will take a greater effort. It is time for some answers,
segare
. Six weeks and still nothing. It is not acceptable.”

Peter nodded as their car negotiated a right-hand turn on West Fifty-ninth toward Columbus Circle.

“She was a Nagoshi—my daughter, your sister,” said the elder Nagoshi. “We cannot move forward until justice is recognized.”

“Justice,” scoffed Peter. “It is a joke, Father. Their efforts are incorrectly motivated. Mr. Katz is more concerned with individual progression than prosecuting the devils. How strange that Americans swear by the ethics of democracy, and champion the concept of teamwork, but live their lives dedicated to the benefit of the individual. They see personal ascent as a right, but it is a curse of selfishness and brings municipal downfall.”

Nagoshi nodded. His children had been raised in Tokyo under their mother’s care until her untimely death, when Nagoshi, determined to foster the international growth of his business but refusing to neglect his familial responsibilities, moved them all to New York.

Here Jessica, aged twelve at the time, attended the most exclusive international schools, all within blocks of their parkside apartment while Peter, then nineteen, began his graduate education at Deane—living under the supervision of Nagoshi’s butler, Harold Sumi, in the Nagoshi’s newly purchased estate at Wellesley during the week, and flying back to the Big Apple in the Nagoshi company jet on weekends. In other words, they were educated in a Western system but schooled in the traditions of their mother country—just as Nagoshi had always planned.

Together the two heirs to Nagoshi Inc. had made a potentially powerful team—Peter with his ambition and business sense, Jessica with her open intelligence and ability to embrace all that was American. As the children grew and Jessica graduated from high school, Nagoshi spent more and more time at their larger Wellesley estate, so that his children were not polluted by the trappings of American university dormitory life, so that he might watch over them during this important stage of their development, and they might join him on regular commutes to the company base in New York where they would sit in on conferences and meetings—quiet, observant, respectful.

Despite Peter having spent most of his adult life in America, his father knew that, unlike his sister, he was Japanese at heart—at
soul
. Even now his son preferred to read in Japanese rather than English, his only physical discipline came in the form of the Japanese martial art of
Bujinkan
and he often chose his native tongue over his adopted brogue in the confines of their private homes.

His American “friends” were acquaintances, his Tokyo connections expansive, and he showed no desire whatsoever to find a position for himself within the American societal structure. And as a result of his nationalistic attitudes, his grasp of English was almost completely “formal”—a dialogue learned from books, lectures and academic texts, rather than everyday conversation. In short, his command of the English language—or more accurately the
American
language—was somewhat strained.

Nagoshi was proud of his son’s respect for their heritage, but he also knew such unwavering patriotism did not come without consequence. He realized Peter’s inability—or perhaps subliminal unwillingness—to “acclimatize” to a nation that dominated the world economy had its drawbacks. And that is why he watched him so closely, guiding him every step of the way.

Jessica on the other hand had understood every nuance, every gesture, every shade of this technicolor society they call the USA. But that was not to be—
she
was not to be—and now was not the time to dwell on such irreversible matters.

Whatever the case, Nagoshi knew that this period in his son’s development was critical. Peter had his imperfections, but his saving grace was his hunger to foster and grow his family’s company to the best of his ability.

In the very least Nagoshi hoped his son was smart enough to understand the benefits of feigned assimilation. For it was such manufactured sincerity that had seen Nagoshi rise beyond the competition and become one of the few Japanese
kinmusha
to take their place on the world business stage.

“You are right about the selfish motivations of the Assistant District Attorney my son,” Nagoshi said at last. “My sources tell me Lieutenant Mannix comes with high regard, but Mr. Katz made a note of his superiority and I believe his desire to control has masked his ability to listen.”

“Mr. Katz is an egotist, Father,” said Peter. “He is a rooster who likes to plume his feathers, an
unuboreya
who looks to himself before others.”

John Nagoshi nodded. Perhaps his son was not so bad at reading Americans after all.

“You are right,
segare
. And enough is enough. I am going to set up a meeting for Wednesday,” the older Nagoshi said, “to discuss any new developments in the case. If I am correct, Mr. Katz will involve the police—if only so he can blame his lack of progress on others. We shall observe them then, and decide on a course of action.”

Peter nodded.

“Don’t worry, Peter, one way or another we will finalize this matter.”

“I know, Father,” said Peter. “I know.”