Retribution ("M" Mystery) (15 page)

Like Buck, his slacks clung to his legs and his shoes squished with every step. He looked at the house at the top of the wooden stairs leading up from the beach. “I hope they have a change of clothes my size.”

Lemon gave a short laugh as he headed for the landing where the stairs met the sand. “Hot coffee and one grumpy chief of police is all I can offer.”

Jake and Buck exchanged looks as they headed for the stairs.

One hundred and fifty seven steps later they reached a small fenced yard and stepped up onto a deck. Hopping around and leaning on the railing, Buck managed to take off his shoes and socks. Lemon leaned against the sliding glass door, grinning as he watched.

Exhausted from climbing around the cave in waist deep water, pulling off clinging wet socks took the last of their focus and motor control. Buck caught Lemon’s grin and followed his gaze to where Jake was now rolling around on the deck trying to peel off his socks. “I haven’t felt this tired since one of M’s black belt classes,” Buck said.

“You guys look like shit,” Ramos said, when they finally made their way into the living room of the little cottage.

Jake set the metal box on the table and sat next to Buck in one of the wooded chairs.

Lemon walked in from the kitchen, two mugs in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other. He set the mugs down and filled them to the top. Buck wrapped his hands around his mug, while Jake leaned his head over the steaming liquid and took a deep breath.

“What did NCIC come up with?” Buck asked Ramos.

“Not much, it doesn’t go back that far. I’ve got the librarian going through microfiche of the Bay County Journal for 1945 and ‘46 looking for anything about a Japanese family returning from the camps. I also contacted the Feds about camp records for Manzanar, which is where anybody from Bay County would have ended up.”

”Good luck with that one,” Buck said.

“All we can do right now is run with Jake’s info, and hope we find something to substantiate it,” Ramos said

Sliding his coffee to one side, Jake grabbed the box and started prying at the lid.

“Hold it right there,” Ramos said.

Jake’s hand froze.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A decrepit Gremlin
blowing blue smoke pulled into a parking place on the Marin side of the Golden Gate Bridge. The occupant appeared to be looking for something inside his vehicle as soon as it came to a stop. A casual observer never would have noticed that he was wearing gloves. It would have been hard to lose anything in the car because the interior was spotless, not a scrap of paper. And though he appeared to be peering under seats and in the glove box, he was actually wiping everything down. Running his hands along the spokes of the steering wheel, across the dashboard and over all the knobs and door handles. Finished, he stepped from the rusted hulk and tossed the keys on the front seat. He then removed his gloves like a surgeon, one tucked into the other, threw them next to the keys and kicked the door shut, buttons down so it automatically locked. He looked around as though taking in the bridge and the city at the other end. He was scanning the tourists for anyone that might have been watching, been curious. But the few that were in the parking lot were taking pictures of the bay or headed for the giant span.

The wind didn’t mess his short-cropped hair, though he felt the chill on his face as he took off at a jog.

It was a long way to Sansome Street and the dojo there. He moved with an odd cadence, holding a four-foot long leather case, strung around his neck, so it wouldn’t bang against him with every step. The fog from the bay, blown over the bridge, left water dripping from his nose. He swiped it away for the hundredth time before leaving the bridge for the relatively sheltered Marine Drive. He rested for ten minutes at the Presidio, then again at Pier 45. When he reached Pier 31 he spotted Sansome Street just ahead, and the memories flooded back.

The job he’d gotten right out of the institution had been short-lived. After all, he was on a mission of Giri for the purpose of Retribution. In those days he repeated that phrase like a mantra. His first move had been to San Francisco where he studied sword with Sensei while they made their plans.

Sensei had been in Manzanar also, but never met his grandfather.

They’d spent many hours after class, Sensei telling of the loss of face at having to manufacture parachutes and camouflage for the soul purpose of fooling his fellow countrymen. He explained to Peter how the camp had divided into two factions: those content to sit out the war doing whatever it took to survive the camp, and those bent on creating resistance, causing problems for their American overseers.

When Peter revealed that his father had been a child at the camp, losing a brother to pneumonia and eventually both parents upon their return to Dungeness Bay, Sensei had reacted with silence, then rage.

When he turned onto Sansome Street, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and closed his eyes to better savor the images that filled his mind.

***

He was a child again and it was Friday. Maybe his father would tell him another story. He hoped he wouldn’t cry again, it always made him feel really sad when his father cried, and not just tears but big sobs.

Peter opened his eyes, walked over and leaned his head against the cold stone of the Lam Wu building. He looked up, six floors of storage. He wondered if there was a Lam Wu or if it was a made up name. He closed his eyes again, turning to put his back against the stone, allowing the cold to penetrate.

H The memories flooded back, he could hear the screen door slam, his mother crying one of her “so sad” cries. She’d been drinking that stuff again. Leaning back against the sink, her eyes were fixed. He could feel what she saw before he turned to see.

***

Peter lurched away from the building as though breaking suction. The case concealing his katana swung wild with the movement and smacked him on the hip. He quickly reached down to still the annoyance and continued up the sidewalk, allowing the memories to continue.

Soft shoes, baggy pants, he couldn’t force his gaze any higher. Was he still swinging or was the room swaying. He looked down at the overturned chair then up at the baggy pants. The swinging had turned into a spin. He turned his back on his father, and walked past his mother.

He looked across the intersection searching for the dojo, sure it was the next building. But when he looked up, Sensei’s window was dark. Too late for the fish market, it must be the next block. The light turned red halting traffic. He stopped in front of the door without thinking. It was locked, but this was the day. Sensei knew he was coming. They had made the plan together.

He slipped the key into the worn lock and opened the door. The room was scantily lit by natural light coming through the high rear window. A figure kneeled on the floor in the center of the large room. Knees together sitting on his heels, he wore an hakama, the split skirt of the modern warrior, katana at his left.

Peter silently closed the door, peeled off his shoes and socks and padded to within ten feet of the kneeling figure, then dropped to his knees. He crabbed the remaining distance, stopping when he entered Sensei’s peripheral vision, touching his head to the floor. Rising, he folded his legs into zazen, resting his hands on his thighs, and began counting breaths. It was good to be home.

A scraping sound fractured his state of no mind. Peter opened his eyes. Sensei was standing, but was he? The once formidable martial art instructor was now bent. He jumped to his feet forgetting all protocol, and moved quickly to his side, not sure what to do.

“Please, what has happened?”

Sensei turned away without comment, limping and swaying in the direction of the stairs. He spoke without turning, words slurred.

“I am still your Sensei.”

Peter froze, brought his feet together and bowed. He spun around and retrieved Sensei’s katana, quickly catching up to him at the foot of the steps. He reached out as if to support a shoulder.

“I do not need your help.”

Sensei white knuckled the banister and leaning into the wall, hopped to the first step with his good left foot, limp right arm swaying, right leg dragging over the edge of the step. “Do not just stand there, go put on tea water.”

Peter lunged up two steps then stopped, and stared. He was shocked upon entering Sensei’s living quarters. The sun streaming through the skylight highlighted the dust-covered furniture. The door leading to the kitchen was propped open. He peered in, the kitchen table cluttered with tea-cups and rice bowls. At the center stood a stack of newspapers.

He spooned some loose green tea from a container he found into the strainer that was in the sink. He placed the strainer in to a tea pot and put it on the stove.

The tea cups looked clean, but he rinsed them anyway and set them upside down by the sink to drain. He walked back to the table to clear the papers, but sat down when his sorting revealed an article on the fire at the historical Dungeness Bay Hotel. His heart soared when he read of the death of Mary Malmstrom. Engrossed in the story, working his way down the article to the tiny bio on the Malmstrom woman, he was startled.

“The Malmstrom woman lives and you must never go back,” Sensei said.

Peter bowed. “No, she is dead.” He rose and bowed again. “Killed in the fire that destroyed the hotel.” He straightened up and looked his instructor in the eye. Reaching down, he grabbed the paper reporting her death and held it out for his teacher to see.

The old man retrieved a folded newspaper from under his useless right arm and threw it across the room.

“Do not be impertinent. The Malmstrom woman lives. You must forget all this nonsense.”

“The seed of the man responsible for the destruction of my family lives and you tell me I must forget our quest for Retribution?”

Sensei hobbled to the chair at the kitchen table and collapsed into it. “I am your teacher, and I’m telling you not to go back.”

Peter dropped the newspaper. “You have had a stroke and it has made you weak. It was you who taught me the tradition of Giri, duty to one’s family and self. It was you who told me of my obligation to Retribution.” Peter walked over to the old man that used to be his teacher. “You may have forgotten but I have not.” He walked through the kitchen door, and turned to face his teacher one last time.

“Duty is my journey. Retribution is my destination.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

Doctor Ken Jordan
walked down the hall to the nurse’s station and checked his watch, shift change in five minutes. He caught the eye of the charge nurse. “Good morning Carol, any new admits?”

She smiled up at the doctor, “Just one. Smoke inhalation and dehydration, came in around noon yesterday.” She glanced down the hall at a figure moving their way.” I’ll let doctor Cranston fill you in.”

The two doctors shook hands. “Carol tells me the new admit suffered smoke inhalation, anything to do with the fire at the hotel?”

They walked down the hall to room 101 and stood talking just out side the door. “Pulled her out of some kind of tunnel under the hotel.”

They entered as one through the extra wide door. The patient appeared asleep, head swathed in bandages, IV feeding a saline solution. Cranston watched in surprise as Jordan continued up to the foot of the bed where he snatched up the clipboard.

“What is it, Doctor?”

Jordan didn’t answer until he finished scanning the patient admittance record then just shook his head. He tucked the clipboard under his arm and led Cranston through the door back into the hall. “That woman was in that very bed three days ago, head trauma.”

Cranston looked at the patient through the narrow window in the door. “Superficial lacerations to the scalp. Not as bad as it looks.”

Jordan read off the clipboard. “First and second degree burns to her side and back, hands and arms. The worst of it seems to be the smoke inhalation and dehydration.” He looked at Cranston for conformation.

Cranston shook his head. “We got her O2 up right away and the drip will take care of the dehydration, she’ll be ready to leave in a couple hours.”

Jordan was still looking at the clipboard.

“Anything else, Doctor?” Cranston said.

“This Mary Malmstrom is one busy lady,” Jordan said, turned and headed back to the nurse’s station with Cranston at his side.

* * *

“Hey, I was gonna share,” Jake said, with a smirk.

Lemon gave the Sheriff a hand, helping him to a chair across the table from Jake, and pulled up a chair for himself.

Ramos gave a nod and Jake lifted the lid. The inside of the box was coated with a dark residue. He ran an index finger along the inside and rubbed it against his thumb and held it to his nose, “Oil of some kind.”

He pushed the box across the table to his boss who lifted out a bundle wrapped in waxed paper and tied with an oily twine. Ramos pulled out his pocket knife. The twine fell away with a single swipe. He set the knife next to the box and gingerly lifted out its contents. “Get me something to set this on.”

Jake grabbed a roll of paper towels from the counter and tore off six. Ramos set the bundle on the paper towels. “Its got some weight what ever it is.”

He unfolded the wax paper and they gazed at a scale-covered bag tied at one end with a strip of leather. Buck extended a finger and ran it the length of the bag, “Some kind of hide or skin.”

Ramos untied the simple knot and emptied the bag on to the table. Several pictures fell out, face down.

Jake picked up the top one, flipped it over and sat back in his chair. “Oh, shit! You wanted proof, meet the Yamoto family. Take a look at this.”

He handed it to Buck, Lemon and Ramos leaned in. “What? All I see is a smiling family in front of their house,” Buck said.

Jake got up and walked around behind him, reaching over his shoulder. Covering the family and the house he said, “Recognize the background?”

“We’re still assuming it’s them, “Ramos said. “The house is where the hotel was.” He took the picture from Buck and flipped it over. “No name, no date, but the clothes and the woman’s hair-do are a dead give away for the era.”