Girl in a Box (30 page)

I thought for a minute, then said, “But he might want to do something to help them.”

“I don't follow.” Michael looked up at me.

“The Nozumi-gumi, a much older
yakuza
organization, has been historically linked with Mitsutan.”

“Yes. It was in the background history of Mitsutan I gave you to read on the plane from California to Washington.”

“What I remember is the part about the Nozumi-gumi being involved in the rebuilding of Mitsutan after the war. The gang was able to procure luxury goods like stockings and chocolate from the black market, which they in turn sold to the store, and the store in turn sold the goods to customers. Later on, after there were no more shortages of luxury goods, the Nozumi-gumi expanded into different arenas—construction projects,
pachinko,
and so on.”

“That's right. But those construction scams, some of which involved Mitsutan and other big companies, were exposed, fines paid, and so on.”

“But what if the Nozumi-gumi were still entrenched within the store? What if, somehow, they're involved in the profits?”

Michael shook his head. “But we've just figured out that Mitsutan's profits aren't
real
. I don't follow your logic.”

“Well, according to basic knowledge—I mean, stories I've read in the papers here—Nozumi-gumi and Kanazawa-kai are competitors.”

“I've read those stories, too. Kanazawa-kai isn't as powerful as Nozumi-gumi, but wants to be. There are lots of turf battles, minor-league gangsters getting shot, and so on. It goes back at least five or six years—”

“What if the Kanazawa-kai figured out a way to run a totally discreet war, using Americans as pawns instead of their own people?” I paused, because my thoughts were so far ahead of my words. “If the Kanazawa-kai could, using their friend Warren Kravitz, expose Nozumi-gumi's secret operations within Mitsutan—it would smash that operation. And their hands would be clean.”

Michael stared at me for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky. “Rei, have I ever mentioned how glad I am to have hired you?”

“A few times.” I flushed. “Thank you. It's kind of a stretch, my hypothesis—”

“I want to believe it,” Michael said slowly. “But we don't know all the pieces. What's the evidence that the Nozumi-gumi are still operating within Mitsutan? What are they doing there? What can we prove?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “And as you said, I can't go back. But if you let me work from here, I'll do my best to figure it out.”

Michael smiled. “I'm going to the Sanno right now, for those receipts. And yes, you do have clearance to keep working. As long as you stay in the hotel.”

“Don't worry.” I went to pick up my laptop, which was lying on one of the boxes he'd brought. “I may have the situation figured out by the time you return.”

“Great. Just don't forget about getting your hair cut and colored.”

I threw a stiletto pump at him, but it missed.

Once you've gone Japanese, it's hard to go back.

This saying was often repeated by western men to explain their obsession with Japanese women, but I was finding it apt with regard to my hair. The Japanese straightening technique I'd undergone a few weeks earlier wasn't quickly reversible. At the hotel salon, the hairstylist told me that only the passage of time—specifically, five or six months—would convert my ramrod-straight hair back to its looser natural state. If I shortened the pageboy to chin length, I was going to look like a Japanese kindergartner.

So I whispered in the stylist's ear what I wanted her to do. I was almost embarrassed to say it aloud. But she understood. Lots of women in Japan did it, and she had the products to pull the whole thing off. Once the decision was made, it felt exquisite to lie with my head back at the edge of a stone bowl, then get an invigorating head massage that was part and parcel of any Japanese grooming. And as my head was pummeled, it took me away, for a few minutes, from all that I needed to do.

I had to get in touch with Ravi. Before Michael had left, he'd told me he was willing to meet Ravi later that day; but the call I'd made to set up the meeting with Ravi had gone unanswered, and I was too worried about my friend's security to leave a voice mail message. I was using public telephones with a telephone card now, instead of my cell phone, because Michael was worried about the gangs' tracking my whereabouts through the cell phone towers. I kept my cell phone in my pocket, though, on vibrate mode, just in case Ravi called in.

Time to take off the towel, rinse the head, and see the hair. I kept my eyes averted from the mirror intentionally, until everything was cut and dried. It seemed like a reprise of my time at Dora's beauty salon, when I'd turned so dramatically Japanese.

I looked at myself finally, and it was all right—not the awful, harsh greenish-blond that was the usual result when black hair was colored, but something more subtle and honey-colored. I looked almost like a young version of my mother, Catherine Shimura, circa 1970. Going Caucasian was extreme, but it was the most dramatic way I could think of to divorce myself from my identity of the past few weeks.

I put the hefty salon charges on the room account, and went upstairs, trying to find clothes that didn't look like Rei Shimura, K Team girl. From a box, I pulled out some of the athletic gear I'd brought to Tokyo—a long-sleeved nylon shirt, my old Levis, and the Asics sneakers. Then my cell phone buzzed. I hesitated, then went to pick it up. It could have been Ravi, but it was Miyo.

“Hello, Miyo-san.” I croaked my greeting, trying to sound as if I had laryngitis.

”Anego, you let me down!” Her voice was angry.

“I'm sorry, but I have—laryngitis.”

“You have enough voice to speak with; I understand you perfectly. How could you be gone today?”

“I'm really, really sorry that my mother wouldn't let me go to work because of my illness—”

“Forget that excuse. I don't believe it, anyway.” Her voice broke. “It's about Ravi-san.”

“Ravi Shah? Did he come to the store to see me again?” If he was out shopping, maybe that was why he'd missed my call. Although it had been a cell number, hadn't it?

“No, he…” She paused to make a great, gusty sob. “He was supposed to have brunch with Archie at Wolfgang Puck, but he wasn't there. Archie went to his building, to try to see if he'd overslept, and…”

My body was suddenly cold, despite the room's warm, even heat. “He was gone?”

“Ravi-san fell out of his living room window.” Miyo's voice broke. “Archie-san says that our good friend has died.”

 

Ravi had been a Jain—someone who believed so deeply in the sanctity of every life, no matter how small, that he wouldn't touch a vegetable that had been uprooted from the earth. Ravi had seemed worried, but not suicidal. He had been concerned that bank rules were being broken. This, I was certain, was why he'd been killed.

Of course, I didn't say a word about it to Miyo. We talked a few more minutes about how awful the situation was, and then she returned to her customers.

As I hung up, I realized that I was sliding into a state beyond shock and close to rage. This death was as much my fault as anyone's. Sure, I'd warned Ravi to be careful; but I had never understood just how dangerous his situation was. I shouldn't have let him go home after the party at the American Club. I should have protected him.

I turned on the television, and at noon when the news came on, his death led the report. An unnamed foreign banker had jumped from Roppongi Hills, a suicide. It had caused a lot of messy cleanup for a city sanitation crew. His employer, Winston Brothers Asia Headquarters, was not available for comment.

Tears streamed down my face as I made myself as small as possible, curling into a ball in a corner of the suite behind the sofa. I had known Ravi about forty-eight hours, but he'd made such a strong impression on me that I knew I'd never forget him—and never erase my own feeling of guilt for not doing more when I had the chance.

I must have been in the corner for a long time, because the light had changed, behind the room's translucent blind, when Michael finally came in. I heard the sound of the door clicking open, then his voice.

“I've got the receipts, and you were absolutely right, Rei! You paid less than what the internal store paperwork recorded—oh, wow!” He paused, as if taking in the situation. “You're a blond. It's not what I would have expected.”

I couldn't answer, just dug my face deeper into my knees.

Michael crouched down close enough that I could feel his body heat. “Okay, I didn't mean to cause any offense. And I'm sorry I had to ask you to make the change. You can get your natural color back the minute you touch ground in the United States, if you hate the color so much—”

I breathed deeply, desperately trying to take control. “Michael, something—happened.”

“It's not about your hair?”

“Ravi Shah was killed.” I said it slowly, because I still didn't want it to be true.

“You mean—he's the investment banker who suicided? I saw something on the little TV screen on the subway—how did you find out the identity?” Michael was peppering me with questions so quickly I could hardly answer them.

“Miyo has my cell phone number. She called a—a while ago. He supposedly jumped out—his window. But I don't believe he did it voluntarily. He never would have, I know him—” I'd used the wrong tense, and that made me cry. I didn't know Ravi anymore; I'd known him. And now he was gone.

“Oh, Rei. I'm so sorry.” And then I was in Michael's arms, and he was holding me. His chest felt like a rock, I thought—the lifesaving security that I wished Ravi could have found before he fell. I cried on and on. And still, Michael stayed in place, no matter that I was soaking his oxford shirt.

“I shouldn't have let him tell me anything in public. Especially not at the American Club, with Warren Kravitz walking right by. He couldn't have heard the words, but he must have put two and two together—”

“But Warren Kravitz doesn't know about your real job,” Michael said. “And what you told me about the e-mail and then the computer crash makes it clear that Ravi had already been a marked man.”

“The
yakuza
make people jump out of windows. It's a favorite modus operandi. It was how they killed my favorite filmmaker.”

“Don't,” Michael said firmly. “Don't watch that same movie again. Believe me, it's a problem I have myself.”

“Why didn't we bring him over to meet with us, first thing this morning? We could have protected him. Instead we were drinking coffee and arguing about clothing receipts.”

“When there's an unjust, unexpected death, there are always what-ifs. Of course we're fallible. But we didn't kill him. Please remember that.”

I ran my fingers through my new blond hair, wishing I could tear it out. “But we're going to stand by and let this thing pass as a suicide because Warren Kravitz is not under our jurisdiction. You told me that our mission isn't to catch bad Americans committing crimes abroad; it's only to catch bad foreigners—”

“Ravi Shah's an American citizen. I didn't know it, but I found out after a few phone calls I made from the New Sanno. This means that his death, if from unnatural causes, is an issue of concern for our country—”

“But according to all the lectures you've given me, we can't interfere in the lives of American citizens.”

“It's true.” Michael's voice was subdued. “Under the system with which we operate, the OCI cannot investigate crimes against American citizens, even if they're abroad. That is a matter for the FBI.”

“I'm sorry to sound skeptical, but the system sucks. I can't imagine when the next FBI team is going to rush over to investigate the suicide of a foreign-born male banker. It's not like a case of a murdered blond hostess or English teacher—”

Michael grabbed my biceps so tightly I flinched. But the move worked; I finally raised my face to look at him.

“We'll work the system, together, Rei. Haven't I said this to you before?”

Michael's eyes were shining with something odd, and I found myself wondering to what—or whom—he truly gave his allegiance.

I was still in the hotel a day later—and it wasn't good. I felt as impotent as a woman could feel; all I could do with myself was order room service and talk on the telephone.

“My mother's driving me crazy,” I confided to Miyo in the middle of Monday morning, when I'd phoned in to the K Team desk, using a brand-new cell phone Michael had bought me. It was a standard spy procedure, changing cell phones, especially at times when surveillance was suspected.

“Really?” Miyo said. “Well, you'll have plenty of time to spend with her, talking about it, since you've given up your job.”

“I haven't formally resigned. You know I'm not feeling well.”

“Well, in any case, your chance to work here is gone. I heard Okuma-san talking about you on the telephone this morning to the secretary at Personnel, who wants to confirm your home phone number, because she wasn't able to reach you.”

“I can't imagine why.” Only that the phone was in the cleared-out apartment in Hiroo—unless Michael had taken it with him. “How are you doing with—the news about Ravi?”

There was a pause. “I'm still very sad about it, and Archie's just—devastated. We spent all last night just holding on to each other, crying. Archie said the family is arriving soon; people are coming from America and also India. Many people.”

“And how is the situation at his bank?”

“Archie says that everybody is shocked and sad. Archie said someone's coming in from New York to do an investigation, and he's sure it's because they think Ravi might have been doing something wrong, you know, to have taken his own life.”

“It figures.” So the crimes of Warren Kravitz's division would all be pinned on Ravi Shah. How convenient for everyone!

“Rei-san, I have to go in a minute, but there's one thing I want to ask. Are you really at home?”

“Why?” A prickle went up my back. I'd started to really trust Miyo, but who was she working with, that she was pushing for this information?

“Mrs. Okuma wants to know. She said there's no answer at your home, not even from your parents.”

“I am on the Izu Peninsula for a bit, to recuperate,” I fabricated. “The air is better for me there, and the hot springs are part of my doctor's recommended treatment.”

“Well, please feel better,” Miyo said, but there was an edge to her voice that made me think she hadn't believed a word that I'd said.

 

Now I understood that Michael had been correct about the danger of my remaining at Mitsutan. Still, I felt terrible that a man had been killed and nobody was close to being implicated in his death. All I'd figured out was the method by which Mitsutan was inflating its numbers.

I was trapped in my high-gloss box of a hotel room, without even Michael around to keep me company. At the moment—I checked my watch—he was supposed to be talking to a liaison at the American embassy who was close to the Japanese national police and might be able to persuade that organization to send detectives to inspect Ravi's apartment for evidence of a break-in.

Michael was doing something, at least; I could do so little. I thought about calling Personnel myself, since they were trying to find a way to officially fire me; no, I thought, Michael would hate that. Everything should be done through Mrs. Taki.

Her number had to be among the documents Michael had dumped into a box and brought to the hotel. I rummaged for twenty minutes before finding my little address book, which had her office, cell, and home phone numbers.

None of the calls were answered. I shook my head, wondering what she was doing. It was one thing if she was under a bubble-dryer at the beauty salon, but it was too late in the day for that.

I started the routine of calling her numbers one more time, and felt rewarded for my persistence when she picked up her home phone.

“Ah, Rei-chan. Is that you?”

“Yes, I'm sorry to disturb you. Were you sleeping?” I flinched at hearing her use my real name—she'd never been told my code name, or Michael's; but it would be pointless to try to explain these things to her now, over the phone.

“Happy Valentine's Day, though for you, it's already over,” she said. “And how did you and Michael celebrate?”

I'd forgotten that the previous day—the day of Ravi's death—was the holiday of love. It didn't matter at all. And what was she doing, hinting around that Michael and I were involved in a romance? For the first time, I understood exactly what Michael had said about how a relationship between us, sexual or not, would be regarded by the rest of OCI.

“Happy Valentine's Day to you, and to answer your question, I didn't do anything special. He does his job and I do mine.”

“Well, Rei-san, for what reason are you calling? Surely not to tell me you couldn't find that book before you left the store?”

“Oh, I've got your book, I'm sorry. I'll mail it to you today.”

“Ah, thank you so much! If you don't mind sending it express, and to my house—you have that address, don't you?”

“Yes. Actually, I'm calling because I think you may need to call Mitsutan's personnel department and—defuse a difficult situation. Because I haven't been working, they've been trying to reach me by phone in Hiroo, and of course nobody is there to answer.”

“Really! Did you move in with Michael, then?” Her question was coy.

Mrs. Taki's expertise in intelligence was showing, I thought, smiling to myself despite everything. “Okay, we're together, but not
together
. It's just a matter of security.”

“You mean,
kusare-en
,” Mrs. Taki said, using an expression for a kind of affair between people who were friends. It wasn't the Japanese ideal, more a relationship of convenience.

“No, please, it's nothing romantic at all.” I had to get her off the romance track; it was embarrassing me beyond belief. “Taki-san, this is what I humbly request you to do. Remember the Mitsutan number you used to report that I was sick? Can you please call them back—ask for Aoki-san's secretary, Yamada-san; she won't give you trouble. You could tell her that you knew they've been calling our home phone, but the fact is we're away, so that's why there was no answer.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Taki's voice was reassuring. “But is there something else I can say? That message sounds a little strange.”

“Actually, I'm afraid she'll want to tell
you
something—that I'm fired.”

“Heh? Michael never said anything about you having trouble in your work—”

“Just let Personnel give you the bad news. I suppose you'll probably apologize a million times and tell her that I'm a terrible, irresponsible daughter.”

“Are you sure? I could make an excuse about your illness again. Perhaps they'll take you back—we worked so hard to get you hired!” Mrs. Taki sounded more upset than I'd expected.

“Michael doesn't want me to return.”

“Why?”

“An order from his boss. Oh, and getting back to Personnel, if they say something about my credit card bill, please let them know I'm aware of the problem, and there are funds to pay at my bank. They can run any charges through again. The last thing I want is to have my name go into a loan shark's database.”

“That's a silly idea, Rei-san; you have no reason to worry about sharks in Japan. But the other things, like your clothing locker—I imagine Personnel might want to ask you to clean it out?”

She'd made a good point. The uniforms were there, and I probably needed to get them cleaned before returning them to Mrs. Ono. Thinking of Miyo, I said, “I'll ask a friend to do it for me.”

 

After I'd finished speaking with Mrs. Taki, I moped about the hotel suite. It was one of the largest guest spaces in the hotel, but I felt that it was closing in on me. I thought about going to the fitness center, but Michael had thought it was too risky. He'd tossed me a travel jump rope, also confiscated from the apartment, and some light weights.

I jumped rope until a phone call came from the front desk. Someone in the room below me was trying to sleep. I apologized to the clerk and switched to 100, a series of fast abdominal Pilates exercises that one could do lying on the floor. When the phone rang again, I was exasperated. The 100 were quiet exercises; I couldn't believe I'd disturbed anyone.

It was only Michael on the other end. He told me the situation looked promising with the Japanese national police. Although Michael hadn't revealed his true identity—he had posed as a bureaucrat from the State Department—he had suggested that the police take a second look at the scene of the suicide, including dusting the apartment for fingerprints.

“What are you doing? Have you had lunch yet?” Michael asked when he was through telling me about his work.

“I've been exercising, and, no, I haven't eaten. I'm sick of room service. This hotel is packed with excellent restaurants, and I just feel so—confined.”

“What about La Gola?”

“That great little Italian place on the street behind Kurofune Antiques?”

“Exactly. I'll stop there and look at the menu, give you a call, and you can order what you want. You'll hear from me by five at the latest, okay?”

La Gola had a marinated salmon that was one of my favorites, so I grudgingly thanked Michael. Only a few more hours to kill. I took a nap, and when I woke up, it was dark.

I got out of bed, went to the window, and opened the shade so that I could see the five-star view of Tokyo Tower, glittering skyscrapers, and boldly flashing billboards, including one for a
pachinko
parlor.
Pachinko
and other gambling games were almost entirely controlled by gangsters, but the games were so ingrained in Japanese society that there was even a large
pachinko
parlor right across from the historic Kabuki-za.

I switched on my laptop and started a search for references to the Kanazawa-kai and Nozumi-gun
yakuza
organizations. More than 3,000 hits. I scanned down for the newspaper articles that I trusted; and by the time I'd read the first forty, I had a good picture of the relationship between the two gangs, which had frequently tangled, with young gangsters on either side being the usual victims of shooting or stabbing.

Kanazawa-kai was one of the top
yakuza
organizations in Japan; it ran several loan-sharking agencies, in addition to the drug operations Michael had mentioned. Given its particular mode of work, I could see why the group had a need to launder money.

Nozumi-gumi was a different story. It was almost sixty years old, and it had diversified into many fields—including construction and real estate. But it did loan-sharking and debt collection, just like Kanazawa-kai. It had once filtered money through a bank, according to the news stories, but that bank had been shut down long ago.

Wait a minute
. If Nozumi-gumi needed a bank, perhaps Mitsutan's credit division was the answer.

I jumped up from the computer and began pacing the room. If Nozumi-gumi left its own dirty money with someone in accounting at Mitsutan—it could, theoretically, match up with the inflated profits Mitsutan was reporting.

Yes, I thought with growing excitement. There might actually be a lot of money sitting around in the coffers of Mitsutan just because the Mitsuyamas had a secret deal whereby they took in money for Nozumi-gumi, and then rationalized its existence by means of the inflated profits being reported to stockholders, the media, and the Japanese government.

How clever Mitsutan's strategy had been! While most retailers involved in money laundering would have declared a financial loss and diverted unsold goods as payouts to their gangster friends, Mitsutan's board had instead proclaimed a profit, and used their own banking division to discreetly handle the distribution of dirty funds. It was a brilliant strategy, but perhaps one that Kanazawa-kai was aware of, and was attempting to shut down using Warren Kravitz as a whistle-blower to the American government.

And if this theory was true, the gangsters stalking me a few nights earlier couldn't have been Warren Kravitz's Kanazawa-kai friends. My stalkers had to be Nozumi-gumi, linked with the store that had become my second home. Someone at Mitsutan had deciphered who I was.