Ninja, p.35
Ninja, page 35
“Are you saying the police were bought off?”
“What I’m telling you is that if I had any lingering doubts as to Tomkin’s complicity in this, they went bye-bye with that order to shut down. Very few people can command that kind of strict hush. He’s one of ’em.” His voice was a harsh whisper now, sibilant, lethal. “But now I got a lead. One of my contacts came through with a make on the other woman in Angela Didion’s apartment the night of the murder. I’m waiting for her name and address. When they come through, I’m gonna nail that sonovabitch’s hide to the goddamned wall.”
The service was brief but expressive, half in English, half in Japanese. But it was, basically, an American ceremony, which they had both wanted. Nicholas had been asked to eulogize both Terry and Eileen and he did so. He spoke in Japanese. There was music. A couple, friends of Eileen’s. They were professionals and it showed. They played traditional Japanese music on koto and shakuhachi. And there were the traditional flowers.
Croaker waited until they had walked away from the grave site. Behind them, the workmen were beginning to fill in the graves. There seemed to be no sound as the brown earth filled the spaces.
“Nick,” he said, “what do the names Hideyoshi, Yodogimi and Mitsunari mean to you?”
Nicholas stopped and turned away from the sun. He did not want to put on his sunglasses. “They’re famous names out of Japanese history. Why?”
Croaker seemed to ignore the question. “Could they be people who are alive today?”
Nicholas shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose. Sure. They’re family names. But those three are linked together by history. The chances—”
“I see what you mean.”
Past them, along the black macadam road, a car door slammed and a motor coughed into life, the sound seeming to float on the hot air. Plane and maple trees rustled their leaves by the side of the path they were on. The heat was mounting.
“You’d better tell me what this is all about.”
Croaker reached inside his coat pocket. He handed over a thin folded slip of what looked like scratch paper. As Nicholas opened it, he said, “I found this when I was going through Terry’s effects the M.E. gave me. It was in his pocket. It might have been made the night he was killed.”
“So?”
“So there was a man—a Japanese—at the dōjō the afternoon Terry and Ei were murdered. Two of the instructors—karate and aikido senseis—”
“Sensei.”
“All right, whatever. They said this man was the best they had ever seen. Afterward, he had a kendo match with Terry. Vincent told me Terry had been troubled by it when they had dinner together. That was the night of the double murder.”
Nicholas looked at him, ignoring the paper in his hand. It was thin and limp, seeming stained with sweat. “What’s the punch line?”
“This Japanese gave his name as Hideyoshi.”
Nicholas looked away for a moment, out over the cemetery. The white marble headstones were brilliant in the burning sun and even the dark gray or striated stones seemed as light as feathers, threatening at any moment to shake free of their moorings and float away into the sky as serenely as clouds. It was the middle of the week; there was little movement along the neat narrow paths, the close-cropped lawns. Bright blobs of color, flowers placed precisely at the doorways to heaven, gave the panorama a rather false festiveness as if they stood in the middle of a newly abandoned state fair. At the periphery of his vision, a yellow bulldozer moved fallow earth. Beyond, the highway arched in a steel and stressed-concrete rainbow, its traffic so muted its hiss seemed like the sigh of endless surf.
“In 1598,” Nicholas said, “Hideyoshi, the Kwambaku, he who controlled all the warring daimyo of Japan, died. It is commonly believed that he, being a farsighted man, bequeathed his power to Ieyasu Tokugawa, the strongest member of the governing council. This is not so. Hideyoshi’s mistress was Yodogimi and she had given him a son. He loved them both and wished, above all else, to have his heir one day rule Japan. Just before his death he asked to see a close friend, Mitsunari the policeman. He told him in strict secrecy to guard Yodogimi and his son. In effect, he set Mitsunari against Ieyasu. ‘Mitsunari, my friend,’ he said. ‘Ieyasu exults in my death though you will see him act otherwise. Do not be deceived. Ieyasu is as clever as he is dangerous. He will, within a short time of my death, seek to become Shōgun. Mitsunari, my friend, you must oppose this with all your might for, to do this, Ieyasu must destroy Yodogimi and the true heir.’
“Then, just moments afterward, Hideyoshi received Ieyasu. ‘You are the strongest of the council,’ he told him. ‘Thus you must take over the reins of power after I am gone.’ ‘Do not speak of such sad matters, Kwambaku,’ Ieyasu said, but Hideyoshi waved him to silence. ‘Listen to what I have to say. There is little time. When I am gone, there will be anarchy among the council members. Undoubtedly they will split into factions and the country will be plunged back into civil war. This must be avoided at all costs. You must seize power, Ieyasu. Those other three daimyo are as nothing to you. Sweep them aside; rule to forestall a civil war which would rip Japan asunder.’ And Ieyasu Tokugawa bowed his head in acquiescence.
“Thus did Hideyoshi set in motion at the very moment of his death a complex plan for the eventual succession of his heir; thus he hoped to manipulate the destiny of Japan even from beyond the grave. He knew that the moment of his death was most inopportune. His son was still far too young to be able to defend himself or to hold for long the loyalty of all but a tiny fraction of those who were loyal to him. He knew of Ieyasu’s ambition to become Shōgun and this he would not permit. That honor must go to his own heir.”
Off to their left, a small funeral procession made its lentitudinous way from the black macadam road from which heat waves rose, along one of the narrow paths toward an open grave. The gleaming casket was already in place, surrounded by garlands of flowers. The mourners were forming up and a slight commotion began as one of the family members collapsed. Distance and the heaviness of the air dampened the sound so that it appeared as if they were viewing a mime show.
“Was Hideyoshi successful?” Croaker asked after a time.
“No,” Nicholas said, “he wasn’t.” He was still watching the crowd of people. The person—a woman, it appeared—had recovered and the service commenced. “For one thing, Ieyasu Tokugawa was far too clever and powerful. For another, Mitsunari gathered a coalition of daimyo around him who were just not up to the task of defeating Ieyasu. In 1615 Ieyasu led his forces against those who sought to protect Yodogimi and the heir. They had retreated into the nearly invulnerable castle at Osaka. On June fourth of that year, Ieyasu’s forces breached the castle’s defenses but by that time both Yodogimi and the young heir were already dead; she had killed her son and then committed seppuku.”
“Is there a villain in this story?”
There came a flash in the sky and a drone, heavy with vibration, as a 747 headed in to Kennedy.
“I suppose it depends on your point of view,” Nicholas said. “But I can tell you that Ieyasu was one of the greatest leaders in the history of Japan. Whether Hideyoshi understood those qualities in Ieyasu is open to debate. In any case, they were two different kinds of men, and it is impossible, I think, to make an overwhelming case for one against the other. They were both crucial to the development of their country.”
“Yet, in the end, Hideyoshi is the loser,” Croaker pointed out. “His line died with him.” Nicholas said nothing. There was a kind of stillness over the cemetery. People looked like statues, caught within a moment as if part of an old photograph. The hazy spires of Manhattan, sitting astride the horizon in the west, seemed out of place, dropped there by mistake by some drunken stagehand. Croaker’s voice had lowered in volume when next he spoke. “Why would this man take Hideyoshi’s name—we can be certain it’s not his own—when that man failed?”
Nicholas smiled thinly, turned to look at Croaker’s face. Odd, he thought. Depending on the intensity of the light and which way it struck, one could see his face as either rugged or battered. But perhaps they were the same, after all. “That’s a totally Western way of viewing history,” he said softly. “In Japan there is what we call the nobility of failure. Many of our greatest heroes failed in their ultimate objectives. But their vision was heroic, as were their subsequent actions. In the West, you revere only the victorious. That’s a pity, don’t you think?”
Croaker squinted against the glare of the sun. “You mean this Hideyoshi was a hero.”
Nicholas nodded. “Yes.”
“What about the other names on the list? How would they fit in here?”
“Frankly, I don’t know, but Terry wasn’t just doodling.” He handed the paper back to Croaker.
“Well, I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” Nicholas said.
There was a kind of stillness in the air that had nothing to do with sadness and death and defeat. Nicholas thought, wonderingly, that it had been some time indeed since he had felt as close to another man as he did now to Lew Croaker.
“You know,” he said, “when I came to this country years ago, I deliberately put aside a certain part of my life. That is not an easy thing to do—for anyone—but especially for someone brought up in Japan. There was a debt I felt I owed to my father—to the West, really—where it resided inside myself.” Croaker’s eyes seemed silvery with the sunlight as he regarded Nicholas silently. He had come to understand the immense importance of this gesture.
“But, abruptly, I stopped. Just like that. It was as if I had suddenly awakened from a long dream-filled sleep. What had I been doing all these years here? What had I accomplished? I would not have myself, as my father had at his death, feel as if I had squandered the time allotted to me. It was enough that I had been encompassed by his sorrow, his bitterness. I could not countenance the same thing happening to me.”
They were silent for a time, listening perhaps to the unsteady wind reaching the elms. The sun was very hot.
“And now?” Croaker said with a hint of hesitation; he was still in unfamiliar territory. “Has anything changed?”
Nicholas laughed, not unkindly but with a sword-sharp edge. “My whole world has turned upside down. It’s as if the intervening years since I came here never occurred.”
“I’m trying to imagine something like that happening to me.
Nicholas looked at him for a moment in pleasure.
As if by mutual consent, they began to walk slowly down the path toward Croaker’s waiting car. Both seemed somehow reluctant to be on their way as if dreading the freneticism of the city. Just before they reached the car, Croaker said, “What’s your opinion of Justine’s old man?”
Nicholas looked at him. “That’s an odd way to put it.”
Croaker shrugged. “A figure of speech.”
But Nicholas suspected his friend of having inserted a subtle warning. “I started out by hating his guts,” he said slowly as if formulating his thoughts as he spoke. “But that’s hardly surprising, given Justine’s point of view and the way he and I first met. He’s deliberate and heavy-handed and used to getting everything he wants. I don’t like any of that.”
“I hear a ‘but’ hanging around there someplace.”
Nicholas stopped and faced Croaker. “Look, it would be very easy—and expedient for us all—to write him off as a rich villain out of some dime-store novel but it’s not as simple as all that.”
“He’s a murderer, Nick.”
“He’s vulnerable—”
“Oh, Jesus—”
“He loves his girls, no matter what they think of him. He’d do anything to protect them. And he’s not as sure of himself as he ought to be. There’s something—”
“It’s the grand act he’s putting on for you. He needs your help and he knows you’re no dummy.”
“I really think you’re wrong. He’s not as two-dimensional as you make him out to be.”
“All right. Your ninja goes out and kills people,” Croaker said. “But there must be someone somewhere who he comes home to and loves. He is still what he is.”
“You’re ignoring the complexities—”
“He’s a fucking shark, man. You’d better face up to it.”
“You’re looking at it from only one point of view.”
Croaker shook his head. “No, Nick. I just know him longer, that’s all.”
On the way into the city, Croaker told Nicholas all he knew about the circumstances of Vincent’s death. It wasn’t much.
He dropped Nicholas at Tomkin’s building on Park and continued downtown. At the office the M.E.’s report on Vincent was waiting for him. He slung his sopping jacket over the back of the gray and dull green chair, took a MintyPick out of his breast pocket, flipped it into his mouth and opened the folder.
What he saw brought the sweat out on his forehead and along the line of his upper lip. He ran a hand through his thick hair and swore under his breath. Then he reached for the phone. There was the minimum of delay.
“Nate?” he said when he got the M.E. on the line. “Croaker. Thanks for the report on Vincent Ito. Someone must have broken his back to get it here so soon.”
“I did it myself.” Graumann’s voice sounded tired. “We’re all still a bit stunned here and—”
“Hey, Nate, I’m working on it.”
“What’s up? And don’t give me any schmeer.”
“Not much,” Croaker admitted. “Only that it seems related to the deaths of Terry Tanaka and Eileen Okura. They were friends of Vincent’s.”
“Yeah, I remember the files. Vincent did the autopsies himself. But how? There’s certainly no similarity in M.O.”
Croaker rubbed at his eyes. “Right now, all I can say is that M.O. doesn’t seem very relevant.”
“I see. I phoned Doc Deerforth out on the Island. I wanted it to come from me.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Not well. Look, Lew, we’d—I’d appreciate anything you can do—you know—” His voice trailed off.
“I know you two were close. Believe me, the minute I have something, I’ll be in touch.” He looked up. Vegas was in the open doorway, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He put one finger in the air, put his hand over the speaker, said, “Hold on, I’ll be off in a minute.”
“… the funeral arrangements,” Graumann was saying.
“Do that,” Croaker said, “I want to be there.” He looked down at the report. “About this chemical substance you found—are you certain—”
“Like I said, I did the autopsy myself. There’s no doubt about the finding.”
“Good. That narrows things down considerably.”
“There’s absolutely no way the substance could have been introduced accidentally. It happened shortly before his death.”
“So I see,” Croaker said, reading the typescript. “A modified nerve toxin; slowed down his muscular responses enough so that—”
“I’d say he was pretty near helpless by the time—by the time it happened.”
“It wasn’t injected.”
“No. It would have no effect that way. This is an organic compound we’re talking about, not a laboratory synthetic. It had to have been sprayed and from close range. He might have known his murderer.”
“Or just not suspected. Anyone—even someone coming quickly out of a crowd—could have sprayed him. Listen, I’ll get back to you.”
“Yeah. I just hope it won’t be long.”
Croaker cradled the receiver thoughtfully. Still no word from his contact. What was taking so fucking long? “Come on in,” he said to Vegas. He shifted the MintyPick from one side of his mouth to another. “Where you been all duded up?” Vegas was wearing a plum-colored suit with wide lapels and modified flare trousers. Underneath, he wore a pink shirt with a high collar.
“Been out pickin’ up the shit,” Vegas said, the wide smile still stitched to his mouth. “Yeah, real bad shit this time, my man. Took us three months settin’ it up.”
Croaker grunted. “Business as usual.” His mind was on the M.E.’s report.
“No way, man. No way a-tall.” Vegas lounged his huge frame against the open doorway, disdaining the chair inside the office. “This time I got me a fox among all this shit I just hauled in.”
Croaker clucked his tongue. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to mix business with pleasure.”
Vegas shook his head and his grin seemed to expand. “Uh uh, not with this fox. This fox is special.”
“Yeah? They’re all the fucking same, man, those cunts you come across.”
Vegas was waiting for this. He poked his forefinger toward Croaker and said, delightedly, “Not this one. This one’s your fox, man. I just been her guardian angel till I got her here.”
Croaker looked up, puzzled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Vegas laughed good-naturedly. “What I gots downstairs in the wagon is one piece of high-priced property, man. C’mon, follow me.” Croaker swung his jacket off the chair back, followed Vegas down the hall.
“This better be worth it,” he said shortly. “I ain’t got time for any of your jive.”
“Oh, no jive, man. No jive.” Vegas laughed again, stabbed the elevator button. “What I got on ice down in the alley is goin’ make your day. Trust me.” He gave a hearty laugh and slapped Croaker on the back as the elevator doors opened and they rode down. They shared the car with a uniform bringing a scruffy-looking Puerto Rican collar down for prints and pics and nothing more was said until they went out through the side entrance.
They came abreast of the police van in the cool dimness of the concrete alley. In this tightly enclosed space, Vegas’ body size was magnified; he was as big as Paul Bunyan amid the White Mountains.
He put an enormous hand on Croaker’s shoulder and Croaker was automatically reminded of one of the cases on which they had been teamed. The Atherton thing. Christ, he thought, but that was a bitch! Thought sure we were gonna float away on a sea of blood and never see this goddamned world again. Jesus! He could see it as clearly as if it had just happened: he down with his shoulder shattered by a .45 slug and Vegas rising from the shadows of the burned-out car like an avenging angel. Croaker had fired on his assailant, spinning him around, his second and third shots a useless reflex aimed at the stars. But there was the mountain of a black man with the tire chain and the snub-nosed pistol the bastard had modified so that it could blast a hole in a brick wall at ten feet; and Vegas took him on with just his bare hands and I never saw anyone go down so hard or so fast from one blow as that motherfucking hood. There were three other corpses that night; Jesus, what a fucking mess! Croaker felt the pressure of the other’s grip.
