Daughter of the Sword (36 page)

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Sensei.…” Mariko said it to placate him, but as soon as she said it, she realized it was true: she was coming to believe in things she never thought she’d have a moment’s patience for. But coming to grips with that was going to have to wait; for the moment, she was on to something with the Fuchida case. “What I want to know is, if he believes in the curse, why in the world would he want
two
Inazumas?”

A wry grin stretched across Yamada’s lips. “Well, now. That is a good question. For myself, I have no doubt that Fuchida-san believes he can overcome the will of the swords. Indeed, he has proved his ability to do so. Beautiful Singer has destroyed countless families, yet Fuchida-san has owned her for twenty years. She has not destroyed him yet.”

“But isn’t he tempting fate by trying to get a second Inazuma?”

“Understand two things, Inspector. First, Glorious Victory Unsought is not cursed as such. It only harms those who seek glory. Second, in Fuchida-san we are dealing a man of supreme self-control. What other sort of man tattoos his lips to test his pain tolerance? If he can bend even Beautiful Singer to his will, why should he not believe that Glorious Victory will bring him exactly what its name suggests?”

Mariko wasn’t convinced. The Fuchida she knew was careful. His most recent killings were reckless, but still he eluded capture—hell, eluded so much as a sighting—and otherwise his track record described a man who accepted only calculated risks. And the risk posed by a second Inazuma was not easily calculated. How could it be? These were matters of magic, not of reason. Mariko would not let herself
believe in magic per se, but she didn’t need to; all that mattered was that Fuchida believed. And given that belief, why would he want a second blade?

The answer sprang out: he didn’t. Not to keep, anyway. He intended to sell it, or trade it, or do something with it, anyhow. At last she had something to hope for. She no longer needed Fuchida to walk into her stakeout. As careful as he was, he’d never given her much hope in that. But she didn’t need him anymore. She just needed to find his business partner.

“Sensei, please excuse me.” She went in the house to find her purse and in it her cell phone. She had her team’s hotline on speed dial, third only to her mom and her sister. “It’s Oshiro,” she said into the sweat-slicked phone. “I need you to research medieval swords. Expensive ones—nothing less than a hundred million yen. Find out who’s got them and who’s selling them. Then contact those people. Find out who’s buying, who’s bidding, who’s inquiring but not buying. I need a list of all the players in the market.”

The deputy on the other end was named Ibe. He was one of the precinct’s newest recruits. Lieutenant Ko had outfitted her surveillance team fully, but not with his best.

“A hundred million?” said Ibe. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Auction houses. High-end antique dealers. Get on the web, figure out where the collectors are talking, get some names. See what other sites they’re visiting. Don’t limit this to Japan either; our buyer could be international.”

Ibe protested again, but Mariko cut him off. “I’m going to put you on with a Dr. Yamada Yasuo,” she said, jogging toward the open back door and talking fast. “Yeah, he’s the house we’re staking out. He’s going to give you a list of names to start with. Don’t take no for an answer, Ibe. Here’s Dr. Yamada.”

Yamada’s memory was nearly photographic, encyclopedic in detail. Mariko was not surprised. A man had to have a good head for facts to
write all those books. Ibe must have been writing furiously to record all the names—not just the names of the sword collectors themselves but also which sword smiths they favored, the names of the individual weapons, and the auction houses or galleries where they were stored. Yamada didn’t know phone numbers, but his memory for addresses was uncanny. Not for the first time, Mariko’s mind conjured the image of an island in the flow of time: the river of years flowing past Yamada yet unable to move him. He was a relic, the last gentleman warrior of ancient days.

However, he wasn’t the only one with a good head for details. Mariko noticed there was one sword Yamada did not speak to Ibe about, and when their call was over, she asked him about it. “What about the third Inazuma? You said there were three: Beautiful Singer, Glorious Victory Unsought, and the one connected to those lone standing houses in the wakes of tsunamis and earthquakes. What was it called?”

Yamada shook his head, his face suddenly impassive. “Tiger on the Mountain.”

“Right. If you don’t tell Ibe who has it, it’ll be harder to find out who might be trying to buy it.”

“No one can buy that sword. Few even know it exists. Believe me, there are no leads there.”

“I’d rather be the judge of that.”

“I imagine so. It must remain out of reach—yours and everyone else’s, save the owner and his family.” Mariko frowned. She had heard this tone from him before. He’d probably get around to telling her the truth sooner or later, just as he’d done with everything he’d told her about Fuchida. Until then, however, he was going to clam up, and Mariko wasn’t in the mood to wait. “Sensei, this is the first genuine lead I’ve had on this case. I need to pin down everything I can on the Inazumas and I need to do it right now. You of all people know what Fuchida’s capable of if we sit back and wait.”

“I do. But I also know there is no connection between Fuchida and
the Tiger on the Mountain. You’d do better to simply put it out of your mind.”

Mariko sighed. He was telling the truth—or most of it, anyway. She was certain he knew more, but equally certain that he wouldn’t be sharing any of it no matter how hard she pushed him. A wry laugh escaped her mouth. “All right, I surrender. But you really would make my life a hell of a lot easier if you’d just tell me what you know.”

Yamada cleared his throat, and with no attempt at subtlety he changed the subject. “Inspector, perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me tomorrow evening. How do you feel about Dvořák?”

Mariko pulled her black-and-white-striped blouse over her head. It stuck to her sweaty undershirt and made her feel wholly unsuited to talking about classical music. “Dvořák,” she said. “Good, I guess.”

“Dvořák is not one to guess about. Now you really must come with me. My wife and I, we were members of the symphony for the longest time. They still mail me tickets for two, even after all these years.”

Yamada seemed softer for a moment, utterly harmless despite the long
katana
hanging from his rag doll right arm. This was the first Mariko had heard of his wife. She wondered what her name was, how they’d met, how long ago she’d passed. Were there children? Yamada had never mentioned any. Surely he would have by now. Realization dawned on Mariko’s mind: she knew so little about this man. He knew about Saori, about Ko, and all she knew of Yamada was that he took his gardening as seriously as he took his swordsmanship.

No, she thought. That wasn’t true. She knew a great deal about him personally. He was as prolific a writer as she was ever likely to meet. As voracious a reader as he was a writer. An anchor chain making sure the present never detached from the past. His home was an extension of himself, an island in the river of time, untouched by the last sixty years of progress. He appreciated the way a chrysanthemum blended its perfume with that of green tea. He was strong for his age, and spry, and never in his life had he tired easily. Mariko knew a good
deal about him; what she didn’t know, what she’d only first glimpsed here in the garden tonight, was his past.

“Dvořák,” she said. “Tomorrow night?”

“Seven o’clock. Suntory Hall. Do you know where it is? Do young people still go there anymore?”

“I can find it.”

Yamada smiled. “You’ll enjoy it. They play Mahler as well as anyone, but…well, one can only listen to so much Mahler,
neh
?”

“I’m more of a White Stripes girl myself.”

“Pah! You should listen to something Japanese.”

Mariko laughed. “And what about you? The last time I looked, Dvořák wasn’t a Japanese name.”

“Hmph. That’s what I get for associating with a police detective. Never misses a detail, this one.”

Mariko laughed again, and Yamada chuckled with her. “You ought to be happy I don’t miss much,” said Mariko. “Otherwise I might not have a car ready to take you where you need to go.”

“Oh, come now. I’m no invalid. I’ll take the train.”

“It’s not safe,” Mariko said with a cluck of her tongue. She walked with him into the house, where she found a pen and a sheet of paper. “Call this number,” she said as she wrote. She paused, then flipped the page over and rewrote the telephone number in script large and dark enough for him to read if he held it close. “You’ll reach one of the officers in the house across the street. He’ll come in a taxicab and honk four times. Two quick beeps, twice.”

Yamada raised a white eyebrow. “Clever. Your idea?”

“It was, as a matter of fact. Not that my lieutenant notices. Anyway, you need to go somewhere, anywhere at all, you call this number,
neh
?”

“I feel as safe as a baby in diapers.” Yamada grunted, his tone a blend of annoyance and amusement. “You take good care of me, don’t you, Inspector?”

“Of course. Who else do I have that can identify Fuchida on sight?”

Yamada laughed, his laugh lines deep and plentiful. “Too bad for you I can’t see.”

Mariko laughed back and patted him on the shoulder. “Call me if you need anything. And if not, I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”

“Until then, Inspector.”

52

This time, Fuchida promised himself, he would be more careful. He’d taken too much pleasure in the last three. They were sloppy kills. Perhaps the frustration had gotten to him. And now with the American breathing down his neck, he was feeling frustrated again. There was still one more to deal with, and a good killing would ease his mind. But no, he told himself. This time he would be more discreet.

But why? a part of him asked. Gruesome killings sent a message. Having heard it, dealers would be more likely to mind their tongues.

Fuchida had been hearing a lot from this voice lately. He even gave it physical characteristics: it was a high, singing voice, beautiful and hypnotic and therefore not to be trusted. In this case, however, it remained convincing. As he parked his car under the streetlights’ glow, he wondered what to make of his dilemma.

Stepping out of the car, his beautiful singer in hand, he assayed the neighborhood. There was serious wealth here. Not the kind that would ever enable the people who lived here to buy a house, but the kind of wealth that would let them buy a parking spot within walking distance of home. In the neighborhood where Fuchida was hiding these days, renters paid sixty thousand yen a month for a parking spot and were happy to take an hour’s train ride to reach it. Another sixty
thousand would lease a flat three times the size of the bed those people slept on, a flat the size of the living rooms in this neighborhood.

Everything—asphalt, parked cars, concrete and glass—was lit in the sodium glow of the streetlights, colors washed out, the lights buzzing like cicadas. The smallest building here was twelve stories high. There might have been a thousand windows looking down on him as he tucked the sword within his overcoat.

Fuchida made up his mind. He would deal with Bumps more judiciously, but he would not regret killing the others. Kamaguchi Ryusuke said he wanted to hear no more rumors of Fuchida and narcotics. He would certainly hear nothing from those three.

But what if Kamaguchi heard of their deaths? It was the calmest, most rational part of Fuchida’s mind that asked the question this time. Ordinarily an underboss in the Kamaguchi-gumi would not concern himself with anything some newspaper reporter might have to say in the police blotter, but there was a formal ban now on violent theatrics. If Kamaguchi Ryusuke caught wind of the dead dealers, he might be persuaded to give a shit. If the mood struck him, he might even be moved to investigate. Fuchida did not need the full weight of the Kamaguchi-gumi falling on him now, not when things with the American were so heated and yet so near to closure.

To hell with the Kamaguchis, that other part of his mind said. No one is so powerful that he can turn a deaf ear to the message you sent. Those pushers died like dogs. No—they died like dogs died a thousand years ago. There was something in a sword killing that recalled ancient fears. Underboss or not, even Kamaguchi Ryusuke would think twice about throwing his weight around if he saw Inazuma steel in Fuchida’s hand.

Fuchida walked west along a street so narrow that car traffic could only pass one way. The sidewalk was narrow too, scarcely more than shoulder width. Fuchida thought of the old days when commoners would scramble into the lane rather than occupy the same walk as a
samurai, lest they bump his scabbard with their filthy bodies and invite him to cut them down where they stood. He knew the name of Fuchida had no such lineage, but he wondered what it must have been like to be born into a caste where calling debts in blood was a birthright.

At the end of the narrow street he found a busy avenue six lanes wide. Headlights flashed by in both directions. The whole city was like this: quiet neighborhoods abutting screaming thoroughfares, miniature highways with computer-controlled lights intersecting tortuous, claustrophobic lanes whose names were already ancient when Tokyo was still an insignificant fishing village. Contradiction heaped upon contradiction. Zones, wards, subdivisions: they were all attempts at containment. Pathetic, Fuchida thought. These people thought that because their world was controlled, it was safe. But the illusion of control only helped the predators draw closer to the prey.

Fuchida turned, walked to the nearest crosswalk, and crossed to the other side. This was the shopping district. All the housewives on the far side of those six lanes would spend their time here, and their husbands’ money, buying trinkets and kitchen gadgets and romance novels whose leading men could sweep them out of their lives and into a life that might mean something. It was just after six o’clock now. They had another three hours of shopping to do, another four or five hours before their
sarariman
husbands would come home, maybe smelling of cigarettes and whiskey, maybe expecting their obligatory weekly rut. Fuchida could not imagine enduring even a week of such a life before putting his sword through his belly.