Daughter of the Sword (17 page)

Yamada grunted. “No. What you saw there was no magic at all, just years of practice.”

Mariko felt a sheath of ice envelop her heart. “You…you’ve
practiced
killing people?”

“Of course.”

Mariko shuddered. Yamada was silent for a while, his head craned oddly toward the door. Then, as if understanding her meaning for the first time, he gave a wolfish laugh. “You’ve got a lot to learn about swordsmanship,” he said. “The practice is mostly with wooden swords, Sergeant Oshiro. It takes an expert to train with live steel. I suppose I’m reckoned an expert, but don’t worry; I’m not like the men who led the Bataan Death March. I don’t cut people down just to test the edge of my blade.”

Mariko blushed and shook her head, then realized Yamada could see neither. “No,” she said, “I didn’t mean to suggest you were a butcher.”

“Yes, you did. You believed it, if only for a moment. That’s all right. What’s more important is that you believed in the power of the sword. Magical, you called it. You’re a believer now.”

“No,” she said. “Magic isn’t real.”

“Then call it something else. The blades of Master Inazuma are works of art, and like any great art, they have the power to sway men’s souls. No finer masterpiece was ever crafted in steel; thus no steel can match the power of an Inazuma blade. I call it the flow of destiny. You may call it what you like.”

How could this man lecture so calmly about art? The stink of blood enveloped them. Mariko squeezed her eyes shut, and images of Yamada wielding the sword flashed in her mind. Poise, balance, and power—there was nothing supernatural there. Why had she leaped to the conclusion that the sword had done it? She was a detective. She gathered evidence and drew inferences from it. How had she let herself stray so far from reality?

Not for the first time, she felt embarrassed in Yamada’s presence. It maddened her that he could elicit such shame so readily. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she said. “It’s the adrenaline. The fight. It’s got me confused.”

Yamada shrugged. It was an odd gesture coming from a man wielding a huge, bloody sword. “Combat has a way of letting us see the truth of the world,” he said. “Come close to death, and your food tastes better. In truth it always tastes that way, but day by day we let ourselves grow blind to it.”

Strange thing to hear from a blind man, Mariko thought, but Yamada wasn’t finished. “You haven’t lost your mind, Sergeant Oshiro. You’ve only opened it. Why not leave it open for a spell?”

Mariko closed her eyes again. “No. This destiny stuff, it’s all nonsense. The universe doesn’t get to pick what I do next.”

“Indeed not. Or at least not often. But consider the evidence, Inspector. Tonight of all nights, you come to speak to me about the murder in Kamakura. She was killed for a sword, a sword that was not there, and killed by a sword as well. The blade that killed her is of similar vintage to mine, hence your coming to see me. And when do you come? On the very night that men break in to take my sword.”

“Coincidence.”

“Is it? I told you already: there are only three swords of this kind in private hands. One is in a place no one can steal it. I am holding the second. The third slew a woman in Kamakura, and the man who killed with that one intends to own this one as well.”

Mariko frowned. “This is the third time you’ve spoken of these crimes that way. You’re much too familiar with what’s going on to be an innocent bystander. Tell me how you know so much about the Kurihara murder.”

“You’re dodging the issue, Sergeant Oshiro. Only three swords of their kind, and your work has led you across the paths of two of them. What you call coincidence is indistinguishable from destiny. And what’s more, you believe in the power of the sword now. Destiny brought you to me just as it brought the sword to me. It’s brought you and the sword together.”

No, Mariko thought. It was a fluke, a random convergence. But even as she thought it, she could not deny that for that one moment she truly believed there was more to Yamada’s blade than molecules. Even if only for a moment, she was certain it gave him the power of second sight.

Even now she found the thought as unsettling as an earthquake. What did she have if not a rational mind that relied on logic and data? What would be left of her if she let those go? Her father died because Takemata Plastec was willing to cover up the facts of its gas leak and sugarcoat the truth about its effects. Mariko’s career as a detective was born out of a desire to uncover the facts and expose the truth. There was no room for magic in her worldview. To change that now would be to change who she was.

As much to change the subject as to get an answer, she said, “I just figured it out. You keep talking about the one who wants to steal your sword as if he’s not here. None of these guys are the one. There’s somebody else, isn’t there?”

“I wonder when your colleagues will get here,” Yamada said. “Would they consider it tampering with evidence if I clean my blade?”

“Now who’s dodging the issue? You know who he is, don’t you?”

Yamada shuffled, sword in hand, back to the staircase, his feet feeling their way around the dead body whose blood had irreparably stained his tatami floor. Once his hand found the banister he said, “My cleaning kit is upstairs. Will you excuse me?”

“Don’t. It
is
tampering with evidence, to answer your earlier question. Now answer one of mine. Tell me who he is, Doctor.”

Yamada’s feet went on, finding one step after the next.

“This conversation isn’t over,” Mariko said. But she had a feeling it was.

24

The moment he saw Mariko, Lieutenant Ko asked, “What are you doing in my station? Aren’t you supposed to be off tonight?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, already bristling at his tone. Most cops would be praised for coming in on an off night, but for Mariko there was only abuse. She watched her fingers tighten on the armrest of her plastic office chair, then channeled her frustration into that hand so it would not take residence in her voice. “I’m here to offer testimony, sir.”

Ko brightened at that. “Done something wrong, have you?”

“No, sir. I witnessed a break-in and an attempted murder.”

“Really? Just watched it happen? Didn’t try to stop it?”

Mariko offered a thin smile. “Actually, I fought like hell to stay alive, sir. Maybe I forgot to mention: I was in the victim’s house at the time of the break-in. And I brought in that great big son of a bitch, if that’s worth anything.”

She nodded toward the giant who had jumped her in Yamada’s sitting room. She would have pointed, but every time she moved her left arm she received riotous complaint from her ribs. Sooner or later she’d have to get them X-rayed.

The perp was sitting, thumbs still zip-tied behind his back, on the edge of a steel desk. None of the office chairs would accommodate him. He reminded her of Konishiki, the famed sumo wrestler, but
with a thinning buzz cut instead of a topknot, and a policeman taking photos of the tattoos on his massive arms. In truth the perp was probably only half Konishiki’s size, but even at half size he was still a beast. Gamera had fought smaller monsters. Mariko could see already that Ko had no intention of believing she’d collared him.

“We’ll see about this,” he said, frowning. “I want an incident report on my desk in twenty minutes.”

Mariko closed her eyes and told herself not to call him a slimy son of a bitch. Done right, the report would take the better part of an hour. If she didn’t do it right, he’d be justified in accusing her of a slapdash job. There was no winning with him.

She pulled the report and went to work anyway. Now and then she glanced up to see Ko speaking quietly with her giant tattooed
rikishi
. Getting his side of the story, no doubt, and gathering ammunition to shoot her down.

Nineteen and a half minutes later, he was still talking to her perp when she handed him the best she could do with the report. She wanted to dare him to find any cop in the department who could have done better. She also wanted to ask what he and a yakuza hit man had so much to talk about, but that shit-eating grin of his shut her up. Her blood was at a full boil, and she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she’d get herself fired.

Ko lit a new cigarette and smirked. “Sloppy police work, Oshiro.” He hadn’t even started reading the damn thing.

“Your officer does you great credit,” said a reedy voice behind her.

She turned to see Professor Yamada exiting an interview room, escorted by one of the few officers in the station at this time of night, a tall cop she didn’t know by name. “Had she not been there,” Yamada said, “I should surely be dead now.”

The tall policeman nodded appreciatively. At first Mariko could not understand why; she knew she had the respect of a lot of her coworkers, but almost none of them were willing to show it publicly. Then she realized the giant with the tattooed arms was behind her,
directly in the tall cop’s line of sight, and that the tall cop was not half as impressed with saving Yamada’s life as he was with the fact that Mariko had kayoed a suspect three times her size.

That was good, she supposed, since she certainly hadn’t rescued Yamada. If anything, it had been the reverse. Had four assailants caught her alone in that house, she didn’t foresee it ending well for her.

Ko, his cigarette dangling loosely from overlarge lips, nodded at the officer escorting Yamada. “Let’s see the difference between a job done right and Oshiro’s way of doing things.” His beckoning finger gestured at the manila folder in the tall cop’s folded fingers. A lanky arm handed it over and, as Ko leafed through it, the taller officer thanked Yamada for his time and excused himself.

Lieutenant Ko frowned at the papers reflecting in his glasses. Mariko considered explaining the difference between interviewing a witness and filing a complete and detailed incident report, but thought better of it.

As soon as Ko opened his mouth, she regretted her decision. “Three DOAs? One arrest? That’s not the way we do things, Oshiro. Perhaps you’d feel more at home if I transferred you to Chicago or Detroit.”

The
at home
comment was a deliberate dig; he might just as well have called her a
gaijin
. “With all due respect,” she began, telling herself the man wasn’t due any respect at all, “I had nothing to do with those deaths. Professor Yamada killed two in self-defense. The third died because he was stupid.”

“Is that so?”

“A man with a deep leg wound shouldn’t try driving a car. If he hadn’t fled, maybe I could have got him to an ambulance. But he drove off, and my best guess is that he passed out behind the wheel. I didn’t put his car through that woman’s concrete garden wall, sir. That was his own fault.”

Ko didn’t bother looking up from the crime report. “And whose fault was the dead man’s deep leg wound?”

“Mine,” said Yamada. “Or it would be, if I should be held at fault for it. In any case, I’m the one that cut him.”

“With a sword, it says here.” At last the dots connected in Ko’s mind. “You’re the Yamada that reported an attempted break-in last week. I assigned Oshiro to your case. Oshiro, what were you doing there on your night off?”

Mariko couldn’t answer. She certainly couldn’t admit she’d been looking into the Kurihara murder. That was none of her business, a matter for Yokohama PD to worry about. And Ko was looking for any breach of protocol to pin on her, anything at all. As Ko had happily told her himself, even an allegation would be enough. She could find nothing to say.

“She gave me her card,” Yamada said. “I was told I should call if I remembered anything else about the case. I’m afraid I didn’t know Sergeant Oshiro’s work schedule. It’s all right that I called, isn’t it?”

Lieutenant Ko looked at her, then at Dr. Yamada. “Yes,” he said at length, his jaw tight. “We’re always happy to serve.”

A frown beset Ko’s face; his wide lips, large glasses, and the lines around his mouth made Mariko think of a carp. “So you’ve got a good handle on this case, have you, Oshiro?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then we won’t be hearing any more of this Narcotics nonsense, will we?”

He gave her a triumphant smile, or as close to one as his fish lips could manage. Then he stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, lit a new one, and closed himself in his office.

“Well,” Mariko told Yamada, “I guess I’m stuck with you now.”

Yamada winked. “Destiny.”

“Uh-huh. How about you tell me what you know about these people who tried to steal your sword? These guys tonight seem like hired hands, and not just to me. You know who sent them. Tell me his name.”

Yamada held his wristwatch a thumb’s length from his eye. “It’s late,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I can book you for obstructing justice, you know.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“I’m trying to help you, Dr. Yamada, and I don’t appreciate you interfering with how I do my job. Why won’t you give me his name?”

Yamada’s face darkened, as if a shadow passed over him. “Fuchida,” he said at last. “Fuchida Shūzō.”

Mariko felt a thrill run up her spine. At last a real lead. “There,” she said, “was that so hard?”

Yamada’s face grew darker. “Harder than you know.”

“He lives here in Tokyo?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does he do? Does he have a day job? Has he got a record?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, you’ve got to give me something.”

Frown lines deepened in Yamada’s face. “I’ve given all I can give you tonight. Please, Inspector, let me go home.”

Mariko felt her face flush. The thrill of the hunt had overwhelmed her; only now did she notice how much this conversation had hurt Yamada. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll do a little looking into this Fuchida. We’ll talk later, all right?”

Yamada nodded, his usual vitality completely drained. “Until then, Inspector. Good night.”

25

Throbbing bass quivered the bones in Fuchida’s chest. It was American rap music, the lyrics much too fast for Fuchida to make them out, but he’d heard the song before. A lot of the girls requested it. They liked to dance to it.