Collector of Secrets (14 page)

S
tanding in the room’s center, Yoko’s mind seethed with clear, unfettered rage. Bad publicity and a loss of confidence were the last things she needed as she fought to finalize the sale of the school’s shares. Years of meticulous work lay in the balance. She needed just a few more weeks to wrap things up. Her chance to start over again was so close.

The police had been most uncooperative in providing any information. Thankfully, however, one officer liked to talk. He let it slip that two men—one blond—had been seen running from the building, and the injured restaurateur had managed to utter the word
“Gaijin”
before lapsing into a coma. Since the building’s lock was undamaged, the “foreigner” in question could have been only one person: Max. But she couldn’t check to see if his passport was still hidden in the drafting cabinet. The detective and two police officers in the room were not allowing anything to be touched. If Yoko could have breathed fire and destroyed everything in sight, she would have done it.

“Excuse me, are you all right?” The detective was now standing almost directly behind her.

“Yes, I’m fine. This is all so upsetting.” She turned and pursed her lips into a half smile, meant to convey fortitude in the face of hard times.

“If you will sit down again, we can finish up sooner.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Your father isn’t handling this well. He should probably go home.”

Yoko glanced at the pathetic old man slumped sideways in the black leather chair. His normally slicked-back hair hung like fuzzy gray twine around the outer edges of his wrinkled face, framing his square-rimmed glasses and puffy, red eyes.

The detective excused himself to answer his ringing cell phone.

Movement to the right caught Yoko’s eye, and she turned to see Kenji’s arrival. He stood stoop-shouldered while his eyes swept slowly over the carnage in the room. With a fortune-teller’s skill for reading people, she could see the culpability in his face like it was a blinking sign. Since the detective appeared engrossed in his call, she took the opportunity to cross to the doorway.

Her lips barely moved, and her voice was whisper-soft to avoid being overheard. “You know something. Tell me what it is.”

Kenji’s mouth hung open. He stared at his Adidas. “I’m not sure—”

“Out with it!” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“I think Max took my building key yesterday.”

Anger coursed through Yoko’s veins.

Returning to the couch, the detective motioned for Yoko to join him and she complied, sensing that her veil was wearing thin. His tone had changed from that of a moderate inquisitor, and he now spoke with new authority. “Mr. Murayama, I’ve just received instructions from headquarters to collect your cell phone.”

Ashen-faced, the old man stared into space, his chest rising and falling in hesitating spurts.

“Mr. Murayama, please. Where is your phone?”

Yoko interjected. “This seems silly. How is his cell phone tied to all this?”

“I’ve been asked by the superintendent of the Bureau himself to request it.” The detective glowered. “Sir, are you going to comply?”

Mr. Murayama’s silver head edged upward and ticked slightly from side to side. His glazed eyes were accompanied by a raspy, hollow voice. “I don’t know where it is.”

Yoko interjected again. “He probably left it at home. Kenji can run over and get it for you.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll have an officer take your father home. He can assist in locating it.”

Murayama groaned and rubbed the top of his left arm. He began to stand but slowed as his face twisted into a grimace. Frozen in a half stance, he gasped, sucking in great gulps of air before collapsing forward onto the coffee table. The wooden cube rang hollow with the weight of his body, and it was the detective’s quick reaction that stopped him from falling a second time as he pitched toward the windows.

Bolting around the table and lowering the limp body to the floor, the detective slapped Murayama’s cheeks. There was no response. He threw off his suit jacket and barked at the officers, “Call an ambulance! He’s having a heart attack!”

The detective hesitated and threw a glance at the two wide-eyed officers before he began CPR. He covered Murayama’s mouth with his own and puffed three times. His shaking hands landmarked the chest before he leaned onto his straightened arms, thrusting forcefully downward. The room resonated with the sound of snapping ribs.

K
enji stared at the ensuing chaos, certain no one was paying him any attention. He took several stealthy steps backward toward the drafting cabinet. Thankfully, the long, narrow drawers had been left open. Slowly, he pressed the top three drawers backward with the edge of his left hip. They couldn’t be closed completely, or there would be an audible click. As the top of the fourth drawer became exposed, his left hand slid into it. Without looking down, he probed with his fingertips beneath the layers of tissue paper and artists’ prints, his heart beating a little bit faster when at last he felt the passport’s smooth exterior. Finally free, it slipped smoothly into the back pocket of his Levi’s as he breathed a hushed sigh of relief on his way to stand behind the sofa.

The commotion in front of him continued. Looking down, he thought how odd it was that Yoko didn’t appear upset or even engaged by the life-or-death scene playing out before her. Instead, she looked like someone waiting for a train or passing time in a doctor’s reception. What past event could make a daughter care so little for her father?

THE STARS no longer glowed, but Max could detect their outlines on the bedroom ceiling. He supposed a child must have put them there. It would be easy to lie quietly for hours and ignore the sliver of hallway light creeping in under the door, announcing the morning.

He tried desperately to drift back to sleep, but reality crept in and clawed him back with each failed attempt. Soon enough he succumbed to wakefulness and admitted it was time to get up and face his problems.

His wet clothes were missing. Beside the daypack lay a plaid house robe folded overtop a pair of bedroom slippers. Pulling upright into a sitting position, his back muscles sparked, and the ribs on his right side ached. As much as he wished the
Yakuza
ordeal had been a sleep-induced nightmare, his body wasn’t about to let him forget what had really happened.

Max pulled on the robe and ran a hand through his nest of scratchy hair while surveying the almost bare room. Other than the futon it held only a neglected wooden shelf topped with dusty baseball trophies and a framed diploma: “Toshi Suzuki, Master’s in Business Administration, Stanford University.”

With the daypack over his shoulder, Max shuffled into the hallway and down the smooth hardwood steps. Hazy light filtered through a pyramid-shaped skylight overhead. The drumming of rain on the glass echoed in the still air. Following the stairs’ ninety-degree turn, he could see across the foyer directly into the living room below. It bore Moroccan influences. An embroidered rug covered the floor, and a glass-and-silver
sheesha
stood guard in one corner. Oversized posters shouted from the walls. The artwork was covered in Japanese writing, but a few spoke in English: “Mongolian Invasion,” “Combat Unit One,” “Roman Conquest.” Toshi was reclining on a white L-shaped couch in the far corner of the room, still wearing the same blue robe from the night before. The yellow leather book lay closed on his chest.

Max tiptoed toward the wide, arched entranceway.

“Where did you get this book?” Toshi’s clear voice cut through the air.

Max jumped. It was too early in the morning for surprises, and his response registered mild annoyance. “Bit of a long story.”

Setting the patterned book on the granite coffee table, the Shinto priest sat up and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “You must tell me where you found it.”

Max needed to ease into the conversation. “I will, but first tell me about the posters.”

“My company makes these video games.”

“Seriously? On the train, when you said you owned a game company, I thought you meant a store or something.”

“Do you like video games?”

“A few, but I don’t play much. How’d you get into the business?”

Toshi stood and pointed at a framed black-and-white photo of a conservative-looking middle-aged couple. It was an old studio portrait with the man in a suit standing behind the seated woman; both wore solemn looks. “My father held a Ph.D. in history. When I was a young boy, we played many games. We would dress in costumes and make up stories like ‘Alexander the Great in Japan’ or ‘Jerusalem Siege.’ He had a great imagination. After my parents’ death, I wanted my father’s stories to live so that others could enjoy them. I was surprised when the games became so popular.”

Max thought of the two white urns in the hallway and quickly attempted to change the subject. “So how can you be a Shinto priest and have a video game company?”

“Most priests are volunteers. We don’t do it for money, but because we believe in something. My mother loved the shrine. I do it to honor her.” Toshi smiled but his eyes were serious. “I will get tea. Then you tell me the story of how you found that book.
Wakarimashita
?”

Max nodded in resigned agreement, knowing that revealing the whole story would mean explaining his own part of the break-in. “And thanks again for letting me stay.”

“My pleasure.” Toshi exited to the kitchen through a smaller arched doorway while Max unzipped the daypack. He laid the contents on the coffee table: a cell phone, a velvet bag filled with silver bracelets, several loose ornamental daggers, and a well-worn copy of
The Motorcycle Diaries
. Max recognized it from the photo on the cover, the defining journey of Che Guevara across South America, and thought how odd it was that he would be reading a couple of pages of the same book each night before falling asleep.

He picked up the cell phone, flipping open the front in order to power it on. It was a similar model to Tomoko’s.
I sure hope it doesn’t have GPS.
If this was Thick Neck’s phone, he would hate to make it that easy for those goons to find him.

Max shuddered at the thought of the
Yakuza
in the dark office kitchen and again in the alley. The phone made two shrill chirps before falling silent. He recognized the noise—a text message—and scrolled to the inbox:
893O.K.

What the heck does that mean?

Toshi entered from the kitchen, carrying a tray with steaming cups and bread with jam. The smell of food made Max realize just how hungry he felt. He turned off the phone before tossing it into the empty daypack.

The food made him talkative, and between bites Max recounted the story of the stolen passport and his quest to recover it. He detailed the encounter with the
Yakuza
as well as the building’s drunken owner, the race to escape from both the thief and the police, and finally the chance discovery of the business card in his pocket.

Toshi sipped his tea and listened without interrupting.

As Max reached the story’s end, he stretched out sticky fingers to grasp the yellow book.

Springing forward, Toshi stopped him. “Please wipe the jam from your hands first.”

Max laughed with nervous surprise. “Okay. But tell me why it’s so important.”

An inexplicable weight seemed to descend on Toshi’s slender shoulders. He sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “How much of my country’s history do you know?”

“Not as much as I thought, but I’ve certainly been learning. Why?”

“Have you ever heard of Prince Takeda?” Toshi paused, but Max’s returning gaze was blank, so he continued. “Prince Takeda was first cousin of Emperor Hirohito, also known by the name Emperor Shōwa after his death. Hirohito ruled for more than sixty years, from 1926 to 1989. Many foreigners think he had no real authority, but this is not so. In truth, he was the highest power in the government—before America took away much of his control. Until 1945, he was said to be a child of the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu. The red circle in the center of our flag is the Rising Sun, after all.”

Toshi paused to sip his tea. “Countless stories tell of empires growing, then falling. This is a fate most countries suffer at some time in their history. My country is no different. For many years before World War Two, we controlled Korea, Taiwan, Singapore, parts of China, and other countries.” His tone grew solemn. Pain tinged the edge of his voice. “Many sad and shameful things happened then. Millions of people were made into slaves. Others were raped, tortured, or worse—murdered.”