“Good. Dermott.”
Dermott turned the deadbolt on the front door, flipped over the shop sign, and lowered the blinds. Then he approached, threaded cuffs through the chair spindles of the eighteenth-century comb-back Windsors we occupied and locked the metal bracelets around my wrists. He repeated his performance behind Abers’s back.
“Excellent. Now, let’s get the pleasantries out of the way. I’m Lawrence Casey, and my associate, whom you had the pleasure of meeting once before at your residence, is Dermott Summers.”
Sneering and cocky at our first encounter, Dermott became the attentive lackey behind Lawrence Casey, which I could understand. Casey commanded allegiance. His bearing was loose-limbed and princely, as if he were above it all. Every strand of his hair was pulled back and gathered into a ponytail of inhuman symmetry, suggesting exacting precision. He wore a well-tailored black suit and matching turtleneck, each fashioned of the same material our attackers donned in Soga, only a shade thicker. Dermott wore a variation of the same suit, but with wider lapels to accommodate his huskiness. Both men wore identical black loafers that were soft-soled and soundless. Both men were Japanese.
“Dermott? Casey?” I said with lingering disbelief considering their Japanese origins.
“They’re our working names.” Slipping his piece into his shoulder holster, Casey shrugged to set the lay of the suit.
“Now, can we talk about my daughter?” I asked.
Casey’s look was humorless. “Are you dictating the rules, Mr. Brodie?”
“No, I simply—”
“We wouldn’t want to keep you waiting, now would we? Dermott, start the clock.”
Clock?
Before I could respond, Dermott raised his gun and shot Abers.
CHAPTER 59
A
BERS
rocked back in his seat, jaw plunging open in shock. His left thigh bled freely.
“Brodie,” he muttered.
“Hold on, Bill.” I fired an icy glare at Casey. “What the hell are you doing? You have us handcuffed.”
Casey’s face darkened. “You’ve meddled far too much in our affairs, Mr. Brodie. I’ve had to make a special trip back to San Francisco, which is not only a waste of my time but violates . . . our rules. It seems only fitting that we disturb you in equal measure. Dermott has grazed the femoral artery. Blood is pumping from Mr. Abers’s body at a calculable rate. He will be dead in twelve to fifteen minutes unless the bleeding is stopped. With your hands cuffed behind your back, you cannot offer aid. We hold the key. Do you have any more requests?”
“None,” I said, biting my lip. I glanced at Abers. The pain etched crags across his forehead.
Casey smiled. “A wise answer.
Now
we may begin. Our proposition is simple. We wish to defuse the present situation. Taking your daughter is the first step. Normally, we’d just kill you and be done with it, but your involvement with the SFPD and Brodie Security complicates matters. So here we are. The woman cop is dead so you’ll know we’re serious. What we require of you is one thing—drop Hara’s case. You will fade away without fanfare, Mr. Brodie, like a bad sunset. If your firm backs off, and the police investigation flounders, then your daughter lives. We’d like you to go through the motions for a few more
days to satisfy your client and the police. Then you will come up empty-handed. Your daughter’s life depends on it.”
“I’m listening,” I said, thinking,
Jenny stays alive as long as I’m a threat.
But Casey scared me. He was ruthless, methodical, and intelligent. Worst of all, he was frighteningly unpredictable. Even as I strove to bolster my spirits, I felt my confidence seep away under Casey’s frigid gaze.
“Good. Aimless activity should fill your hours. At the top of your list will be a second interview with Ms. Lizza Hara. You will fly to New York. Understood?”
“Easy enough.”
“Next, we want you to send Mr. Suzuki and Mr. Noda globetrotting on a few unrelated errands under a pretext of your own devising. Just make it convincing.”
“Not a problem,” I said, glancing over at Abers. “Can we hurry this along?”
“Pardon?”
Dermott took aim at Abers’s other leg, his grin far too eager.
Jesus.
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Go on. Please.”
Casey nodded approvingly. “From here on in, Mr. Brodie, neither you, nor anyone in your employ, must stray from the plan. We can and will strike at any time if we’re dissatisfied with your performance. Family and friends will be our targets.
Nedayashi ni suru zo.
Do you understand me?”
Nedayashi ni suru zo.
Literally, we’ll cut off your roots. Meaning your entire family. Casey was talking about one of the most terrifying weapons of war in a country swimming with gruesome warrior traditions. It was the feudal custom of killing every member of your enemy’s family in the belief that even small children could come after you later in life when they reached adulthood, as had happened throughout Japanese history. As a matter of honor, the survivors would seek revenge, so only the extermination of an entire clan assured safety. The implications paralyzed me. I floundered for an answer that would not trigger another violent response, and settled for a simple nod.
“Good, because we have practiced nedayashi with great success for three centuries. It has proved itself an unparalleled persuader. Know
that we won’t kill just you, we will wipe out your family and closest friends.” He snapped his fingers. “Dermott?”
“Sandra Fandino, 1713 Fremont Avenue, Apt B, Mill Valley.”
“My old girlfriend? She doesn’t know I’m alive.”
“She’s kept a number of mementoes and still has pictures of you on her refrigerator.”
“She’s got dozens of photos there. Probably just hasn’t bothered to weed mine out.”
“Their prominence indicates otherwise.”
In truth, friends had mentioned that she still carried a torch, but we hadn’t spoken in years. I feigned disinterest. “It’s news to me.”
“Fine. Then you won’t miss her. Consider her a warm-up.” He snapped his fingers again.
Dermott leered. “Done. She’ll be dead by tomorrow in a hit-and-run during her early morning jog.”
Jesus . . . Sandra . . .
My heart dropped down a black well. In an unsteady voice that betrayed me, I said, “I’ve seen your work. I don’t need another example.”
Casey peered at me through narrowed eyes. “But I think you do. You are far too argumentative for my taste.”
Argumentative? After the initial hesitation to sit, my resistance had been all but nonexistent. I’d kept my words neutral and few, and still he was unhappy. These guys
liked
killing.
“Call him off, Casey.”
“Too late.”
“Call him off.” I struggled against my restraints and heard a chair spindle crack. Casey watched me for signs of fear. They weren’t hard to find. Only a fool would be fearless in this situation—fearless and soon dead.
Casey relented. “This one time
only
, I will acquiesce to your request, Mr. Brodie. But I have to know if we understand each other. Do we?”
“Yes.”
“
Truly
understand each other?”
“Count on it.”
“Good, because Mr. Abers is looking noticeably distressed. If there is another outbreak, I will not reverse myself. I dislike rescinding an order.
It weakens the chain of command. The next mistake, Sandra Fandino will be sacrificed to your stubbornness,
as well as
the next person on our list. And mark my word, there will be no further negotiation.” Once more, Casey snapped his fingers.
“Jenny’s babysitter.” Dermott said. “The Meyers broad upstairs.”
My face drained of color.
“A close neighbor. That sounds promising,” Casey said. “Any ideas?”
“Drop her drugged and partially unclothed in a bad part of town late at night where they like white women and—”
Abers’s head lulled to the left and his eyelids flickered. “Brodie, I—”
Casey glanced at his watch. “Our timepiece seems a little fast. Pity. Jenny will follow unless you deliver, Mr. Brodie. With or without police backing, we
will
take you out if we must. We can reach you and your friends any way, any time. If anyone takes a step in our direction, your daughter dies, you die, they all die.”
Casey squatted down to my level.
“Mr. Abers is in a lot of pain right now. Pain
you
caused with your persistence here and in Tokyo. I trust I need not say more.”
He turned and strode out the door without looking back.
Easing away, Dermott waved his Glock in my direction. “See you around, Brodie.”
He dropped the handcuff key at his feet, slipping out the door with a grin. Eyes glued to the key, I scooted forward, the handcuffs cutting into my wrists, then tipped myself over on my flank. An armrest cracked in the fall and I heard a side stretcher snap. So much for a rare matched set. A third investment irreparably damaged.
Propelling myself forward with the edge of my foot, I inched up alongside the key, then rolled over on my back and felt around with my fingers. Abers groaned, his face white, a pool of blood below him expanding at an alarming rate. I found the key, wrapped my fingers around it, and rocked back and forth until I had enough momentum to flip back onto my side.
I probed the steel bracelets behind my back for a keyhole, found one, inserted the key, and heard the lock snap open. I slid free, undid the other bracelet, then uncuffed Abers. I laid him out on the ground, propped the wounded leg in the air to lessen the bleeding, and made a
tourniquet of a nearby blue kimono obi, wrapping the excess around the wound itself. As I tightened the impromptu bandage, Abers let out a low moan.
After dialing 911, I stooped over my unconscious friend and slapped him, first across one cheek, then the other.
“Bill, can you hear me?”
No answer.
In the distance, the sound of a siren reached my ears.
“You hear that, Bill? They’re on the way already.”
His eyes popped open, pain carving up his face. “What?”
“The siren. Help is close.”
“I’m cold, lad. Real cold.”
I yanked a blanket from a Korean bedroom chest and spread it over him. “Better?”
His eyelids fluttered. “They tore up the place bad.”
“Nothing we can’t fix.”
“Guess I’ll have to sell a few more pieces quicklike to keep the frikkadel flowing.”
“Guess you will.”
“I will, you know.”
“You always do.”
With a faint nod, he closed his eyes and the last signs of animation drained from face.
CHAPTER 60
I
SAT
in the hospital waiting room with my head in my hands. I was utterly lost. I didn’t know where to turn or what to do. I didn’t even know what to think. A feverish uncertainty clawed at my chest. My breathing came in fits and starts. I’d put everyone I cared about in danger.
Attendants had wheeled Abers straight from the operating theater into intensive care, where visitors were banned. Most of the internal damage had been repaired, but there were complications, and the prognosis was uncertain.
Informing me that Abers would do nothing but sleep for the next twelve to twenty-four hours, the doctor sent me home, and I went. I drove back to the shop in a daze, left the closed sign in place, and pulled out a limited edition of twelve-year-old saké normally reserved for clients. I didn’t want to drink alone but I had nowhere else to go. Renna would be wrestling with his wife’s trauma and guilt. At the Meyerses’, I’d have to contend with Lisa, Jenny’s best friend. At home, everywhere I looked would remind me of my daughter.
That left the shop.
The premium saké disappeared in record time. I poured myself a second shot, downed it, grabbed the bottle, and marched from my desk into the small conference room adjoining the office.
I swallowed a third shot, then a fourth. I stared at the beige carpets and then at the pearl-gray walls. I had always been proud of this little hideaway where I closed deals and previewed new pieces. Now it meant nothing. My eyes roamed the room and settled on the Burchfield watercolor. I drank a fifth shot to the neglected painter.
The pale pastels of the piece drew me in, as they always did. Nightfall met an orange sunrise peeking over the horizon. In the foreground, a tree in a surreal combination of pinks, blacks, and greens sprouted upward—lush, pulsating, vital—waiting for the coming day with a decisive dignity.
Dignity was something I knew a little about.
—
With an ever-widening sneer, Scott Mutrux threw me for the third time. I was seventeen and stubborn, and when I staggered up and faced off for a fourth round, he slammed me to the mats again without hesitation. Mutrux was a snarling blond bully three years my senior, and I was a starry-eyed, fresh-from-Japan newbie to the L.A. dojo. Until that point, I’d lost to very few people in Tokyo or L.A.
Battered and bleeding, I tried to rise. Darkness gathered at the edges of my vision. Anger consumed me. Stepping onto the mats, Mieko bent over and whispered the poem about stillness and the Okazaki Hills. In Japanese. For the first time. Without fully understanding the nuances of the verse, I sensed an inkling of a Zen ideal about peace and knowing. The full message was beyond my years, but somehow I latched on to its essence.
Mieko’s breath was warm and sweet. My heart wrapped itself around the stillness she spoke of. The darkness grew bright and Mieko and I exchanged smiles.
I didn’t challenge Mutrux again that day. I let Mieko help me into a corner, where I sat until my head cleared. I sat straight and tall and proud. Like Burchfield’s tree.
—
Scott Mutrux knew something I didn’t. And whatever it was, it was overpowering. But I was determined to discover his secret.
For two years, I practiced.
Kata
and
kamae
and
shizentai
and
rei
filled my days and my dreams. And in my nightmares I saw Scott Mutrux’s sneer. After the first year, I began to mix in the street moves I’d learned. And some judo. Then tae kwon do. New combinations emerged. I practiced them, refined them. The stillness watched. I reached for it but
caught it only rarely. I couldn’t hold on. When I did connect, it brought a knowing calm. My skin tingled and an inner glow warmed me.