Toward Night's End (11 page)

“Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

The major leaned back in his chair, intensely contemplating Donald. “I see,” he finally said. “So, what if Matthew Kobata is planning something? Something big that might make a difference in this war? And what if you can help track him down before he does it?” When Donald didn’t respond, Major Dorrell added, “Think of it this way, Lieutenant. If something is planned for the west coast, some attack, and we don’t do everything we can to find Kobata, then what good is this Army? What good is that uniform you’re wearing?”

She had prided herself on her accomplished cooking skills, but she could hardly show them off with the paltry ingredients she had been given. It was just her first day on the job, but she had already realized that while camp meals were at the mercy of the cooks, such as herself, the cooks were at the mercy of the Army for supplies. And she was appalled by the food they had been given to work with. Bread, pasta, potatoes were aplenty, but vegetables, especially fresh produce, were nowhere to be found.

On just her first day at the camp, she had agreed to work as a cook after the family had gone to their assigned mess hall – one of 36 mess halls scattered across the camp – and found the paltry amount of food they received to be barely edible. When she had found herself politely remarking about this to a young soldier who looked not much older than Daniel, she was told that since there were going to be nearly 10,000 people in the camp and the Army had a limited number of cooks, she could become a cook for which she would be paid 50-cents a week. At first she had been insulted by the offer, but then she realized that life at the camp would be exceedingly boring if she didn’t somehow keep herself busy. She also knew that if she weren’t distracted by something, she’d just worry herself sick about Matthew. So she readily agreed to be a lunch and dinner cook for mess hall #14.

There were four Army cooks and now six Japanese-Americans, all working to prepare lunch for 300 people who would file through in just a few hours. At that moment, a private entered from the back door, carrying a large box of potatoes. The six Japanese-Americans exchanged disappointed looks. More potatoes. There was some discussion in Japanese concerning their exasperation with the food they were given. While they could abide by the rationing and understood that food rationing was taking place all across the country, the selection of the types of food they were given, in addition to the mediocre quality, was disconcerting to say the least. But no one could agree on what should be done. Kumiko asked if anyone had requested different food. They all looked at her as if she were crazy. And with that she walked out the back door.

Outside, three privates were busy unloading scores of boxes of raw potatoes from the back of a large truck. Supervising them was Corporal Fryer, who dutifully held a clipboard in his hands.

Two of the other cooks, both men, watched from the safety of the doorway as Kumiko approached the man holding the clipboard.

“Excuse, please?” she said meekly to Corporal Fryer.

Corporal Fryer looked startled. Kumiko had no way of knowing it was the first time a Japanese-American had ever spoken to him directly. “Pardon me?” he replied.

“Excuse, please,” she said again, this time with a courteous half-bow. “Excuse, many potato, yes?”

The corporal wasn’t sure why the woman was talking to him. “We’re unloading them now.”

“Excuse, please, potato, yes? Potato, not so good, yes?” As he gazed at her, she steeled herself and asked, “We prefer rice, please?”

“Rice?” he repeated, unsure.

She smiled. “White rice, yes, please.”

“I don’t know—”

“Potato, too many, yes? Rice, please. White rice, better, yes?”

“Look—”

But Kumiko just smiled again. “Yes, thank you. White rice, thank you.” Another half-bow and she turned for the mess hall. The two men had already darted back inside. A moment later she was gone too.

The corporal just stared after her. Rice? Why would anyone want rice? Of course, he had never eaten a single kernel of rice in his life. But he’d tell his sergeant what she said.

Johnstone had no problem finding Ueno’s, a Japanese restaurant in an area of Seattle known as Little Tokyo. The rain hadn’t let up, and he was grateful that he could park right in front of the restaurant. Hurrying to get under the entrance awning, he was dripping wet when he pulled on the glass front door. To his surprise, it was locked. He then noticed a closed sign dangling on the other side of the glass.

Cupping his hands against the glass, he could see that all the interior lights were on, and he could see more activity toward the back of the restaurant. He knocked on the glass, but he knew it was almost pointless. If there were people in back, they were too far away to hear over the howling rain. He knocked again, louder. Nothing.

Glancing around, Johnstone now noticed a squad car parked across the street. That surprised him as much as the locked door. Once again, he pounded on the glass door. This time, a young woman in the back heard him. She slowly headed his way, but when she got to the door, she just shook her head and pointed to the closed sign. Undeterred, Johnstone quickly showed her his badge. She looked over her shoulder, said something to someone in the back, then unlocked the door.

Before Johnstone could even introduce himself, the woman pointed to the far end of the restaurant and said, “Yes, please.”

Johnstone was taken aback and noticed that she had been crying. “Excuse me?” he said, puzzled.

The woman turned. “Kitchen,” she said, as if this explained everything.

He nodded and followed her toward the kitchen as a clap of thunder smacked overhead. At first he thought the kitchen was deserted. There were various foods clearly abandoned in mid-preparation. Then he saw a uniformed policeman with an older Japanese woman and a much younger Japanese man. They were all standing in front of a walk-in freezer. As Johnstone approached, he saw why the food had been discarded. A Japanese man was slumped against one wall of the freezer, a bullet hole in his forehead that left just a small red dot in its wake.

“Great,” Johnstone said.

The others turned in surprise. “This is a crime scene,” the uniformed officer said.

Once again Johnstone showed his badge. “Detective Johnstone.”

“Sorry, sir,” replied the officer.

“Your name?”

“Jim Calloway. Third Precinct. I was on my beat when the call came in,” he explained.

“Who’s the dead man?”

The officer referred to a small notepad in his hand, reading, “Sean Kanagawa.”

“Aw, shit,” Johnstone exclaimed, turning his back on them. “Dammit!”

Officer Calloway and the three Japanese exchanged looks as Johnstone paced a few feet away from them, clearly upset. Finally, Johnstone turned back to them, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. He removed a small notepad and pen from his jacket breast pocket.

“When was he found?” the detective asked.

“Just about an hour ago. His brother, George, went into the freezer, found him,” Calloway said. Then he added, “I just got here myself. I’m surprised you made it so fast.”

Johnstone ignored the last comment and said, “When was he last seen alive?”

The Japanese quickly conferred with each other in their native tongue.

“English, please,” Johnstone curtly told them. Having a promising tip in the Carsteen murder case turn up dead had left him in a sour mood.

The three quieted and no one said a word. Finally, the young man said, “Last night, he didn’t come home.”

“And you are?”

“George. George Kanagawa. He’s my brother.”

“You say he didn’t come home last night. You two live together?”

The man hesitated, then finally nodded his head.

“You have any idea who did this?”

George shook his head. Johnstone thought the man was holding back. Of course, he might just be frightened. The body of his murdered brother lay just a few feet away.

A conversation in Japanese erupted and Johnstone hotly said, “English, please. English.”

Again, silence. He turned to the younger of the two women. She looked like she was in her early twenties. He said, “English? You speak English?”

The woman gave a quarter bow of respect, “Yes.”

“Your name, please?”

“Tsuneko Kanagawa.”

“Kanagawa? You’re related how?”

“Please,” George Kanagawa interrupted. “This is not necessary.”

Johnstone shot him a nasty look. “It is if you want me to find your brother’s murderer.” He waited just a moment, then added, “Unless you know who did this.”

George was clearly surprised. “No, I don’t know.”

Johnstone couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable the man suddenly looked. He turned his attention back to the younger woman. “You are related to Sean Kanagawa how, please?”

“My brother,” she dutifully replied.

“Thank you,” Johnstone said. “When was the last time he was seen by anyone?”

Again a conversation in Japanese. This time he let it go.

“He didn’t come home last night,” the younger woman offered.

George Kanagawa upbraided her in their native tongue. Johnstone interrupted, saying to George, “You disagree? He came home?”

Clearly frustrated, George replied softly, “No, no he didn’t come home.”

More Japanese, this time initiated by the older woman. Then the younger woman said, “He sometimes went out at night.”

“Doing what?” Johnstone asked.

Tsuneko glanced at her brother, then said, “He plays cards.”

“All night?”

George spoke harshly to his sister. Then said to Johnstone, “It is nothing.”

“It is if it has something to do with his murder.”

“I’m sure it did not. He played cards, yes. Soon we have to leave. In another week. He likes to play cards, we don’t know about the camps, so he went. It isn’t important.”

“He play for money? Gamble?” Johnstone asked.

“It’s not important!” George Kanagawa retorted, obviously agitated now.

A smattering of Japanese. All three talking at once. Johnstone decided to take a different tack. He turned to the older woman, asking, “Your name please?”

“She is our aunt. She doesn’t speak English, sorry,” Tsuneko explained.

“Her name?”

“Akiko Genji,” Tsuneko said, then spelling it for the detective. This got her a bitter scolding by her brother, but everyone ignored the outburst. “She say he plays cards too much. She no like. Thinks it is wrong.”

“I see,” Johnstone said. “Are we talking about gambling? Was he gambling?”

“No,” George hotly retorted. “No.”

Another eruption of Japanese. Finally, Tsuneko said, “My aunt says, yes, sometimes he play for money. He told her because he needed to pay off a debt. She sometimes give him money.”

“Who held the debt? You know?”

“Of course not,” George scoffed. “Friends, no doubt. He didn’t gamble like you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?” Johnstone asked, challenging him.

George sighed. “Can we please have someone come for my brother? Please? We need to have this, um, my brother, taken care of before we have to leave.”

“It will be,” Johnstone assured him. He looked at Tsuneko since only the women seemed to be honest with him. “Do you know where your brother played cards?”

Tsuneko asked her aunt while George seemed to seethe, silently watching them. Then Tsuneko asked her brother. George said to Johnstone, “We don’t know, I’m sorry. We don’t know where he was last night, why he didn’t come home, we don’t know anything.”

Johnstone nodded. “Who came in here first today?”

“I did,” George answered.

“How’d you enter?”

“The back door.”

“It was locked?”

George nodded. Then he added, “The front door was too. I had to unlock it for my aunt.

“And there are no other entrances?”

George shook his head. Johnstone thought this over. So either the killer had a key or perhaps used Sean Kanagawa’s to lock the door behind him when he left. Then Johnstone asked, “You know a man named Cody Carsteen?”

“No,” George immediately replied.

Johnstone looked to Tsuneko. “You? Ever hear of Cody Carsteen?”

She shook her head, now holding a handkerchief to her face. “Why? Who’s he?” she asked softly.

“Just a man that liked to play poker. For money.”

“Liked to play? He dead?” George asked.

“Oh, yes. Very dead, I’m afraid.”

George visibly recoiled. Johnstone didn’t miss it. The man was lying. He knew Carsteen. No doubt. Johnstone sidestepped the group, saying, “Excuse me, please.”

Johnstone went into the walk-in freezer. He estimated the size as five-by-five. Not huge, but large enough to store frozen food for a restaurant this size. Sean Kanagawa sat against the wall, his legs extended in front of him as if he had simply decided to sit on the floor. His left hand sat limply in his lap, his right dangled to his side.

Johnstone squatted down and studied the dead man. His eyes were wide open, but not a look of shock like Carsteen had had. The bullet had entered just about an inch above the eyebrow line, dead center between the eyes. Johnstone surmised the shooter was standing very close when he fired.

Nothing else looked remarkable. Sean had been wearing black dress shoes, nice black pants, and a striped blue and black dress shirt. No jacket, so maybe he had planned to meet the killer at the restaurant.

“I’d like the ring,” Tsuneko said, her voice almost a whisper as she looked down at Johnstone. “It belonged to our father.”

Johnstone noted the ring on Sean’s left hand, and picked up the hand to take it off. It was then that he noticed that Sean Kanagawa’s pinky fingertip was missing. Stunned, he turned the hand, carefully inspecting the pinky finger. “How’d this happen?” he asked, looking up at Tsuneko. “When?”

Fighting back the tears, she said, “January. He cut it. He was chopping off fish heads.”