Year of the Demon (20 page)

“Well, maybe I could use some
gokudo
,” he said. Again the knife cut through the pineapple with a bang. “Besides, I got an in with you. You get the mask, I call off the hit. Deal?”

Mariko ignored that. She wasn’t about to start trusting a contract killer. “What is this mask anyway?”

“Nothing. Some antique. I collect that stuff.”

“You shouldn’t. You’ve got shit for taste.”

“Heh.” Kamaguchi motioned toward the living room/observation deck with the tip of his knife. “In my line of work you want things that’ll appreciate in value,
neh
? Art. Real estate. That kind of thing.”

“Because it’s handy for laundering money?”

“Bingo.”

Mariko was begrudgingly impressed. It took guts to talk business so openly with a cop. And the Bulldog wasn’t done. “So I got my front companies. A chemical supply place down by the harbor. A couple of travel agencies. That packing company whose door you knocked in.”

“Let me guess,” said Mariko. “You decorate every office with your art collection.”

“Heh. See, Bullet? We got her thinking like a criminal already.”

Idiot, she thought. Thinking like a criminal was in her job description. It was how she knew the mask thief was also the one who had stolen her sword. Kamaguchi’s mask wasn’t the only antique on that shelf. If the thief had been in it for the money, he’d have stolen everything valuable. And since he didn’t, the mask had special significance for him.

“There’s more going on here. Your friends—what did you call them? Pansies? They wanted the mask for a reason. You bought it for a reason. What was it?”

“Who knows? Sometimes I go on streaks. For a while there I was collecting samurai shit. Armor. Weapons. Your kind of thing,
neh
?”

Mariko didn’t care to be reminded of her samurai showdown. “That isn’t a
mempo
,” she said, pointing at the demon mask glowering back at her from the screen of his laptop.

“Huh?”

“
Mempo
. Face mask. As in armored. The samurai used to wear them. I thought you said you were a collector.”

He shrugged. Mariko shrugged back, aping him. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a wine cellar somewhere with a few hundred bottles whose names he couldn’t pronounce and whose nuances he couldn’t distinguish from a cheap lager. “This mask you bought is decorative,” she said. “Maybe for kabuki or something. It’s useless for combat.”

Another shrug. “I don’t give a shit what it is. I just want to know when you’re going to get it back for me.”

“Right. Because it was stolen by those mean boys you were playing with after school,
neh
?”

Kamaguchi finished off his pineapple, his hands and blade sticky with the juice. He licked one of his knuckles clean with his too-fat tongue. “Look at the balls on you. I ought to make you drop your pants. Make sure you’re a chick.”

Mariko hopped off her stool and headed for the door. “Have a nice day, Kamaguchi-san.”

“All sass, no patience. You’re a chick, all right.”

She heard his knife drop on the countertop, felt his heavy footfalls behind her. Without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she stabbed the elevator’s down button with the stub that had once been her right forefinger. But her left hand was ready to reach for her gun.

“Okay, fine, you win,” the Bulldog said. When he saw her turn away from the elevator, his shoulders sagged in relief. “I ought to put you on my payroll. That way you’d have to listen to me.”

Mariko gave him her most insolent smile. “You couldn’t afford me. Now, you want me to look into these people, you’ll have to give me something.”

“I don’t
have to
give you shit. This is my house, girl.”

“Well, then you’re out of luck, because you don’t know where these guys are, and neither do I.”

“What makes you think I don’t—?”

“Please. If you knew where to find the people you’re looking for, would you be talking to me? No. So you lost them. So start talking.”

Kamaguchi frowned, exaggerating his underbite and making his lower teeth stick out. “You’re an annoying little—”

“We can start with why they were so insistent on getting the mask last night. Why did they risk showing up when they knew we were going to launch a raid?”

“Who knows? We’re talking religious nuts here, not businessmen.”

“What makes you say they’re religious?”

“Heh.” He shook his head in disgust and licked off another finger. “They call themselves the Divine Wind, for one thing. Sounds pretty
gokudo
at first, naming themselves after kamikaze dive-bombers, but with these guys you get the feeling it’s more about the divinity and less about the ‘fuck it, let’s go down fighting’ thing.”

“How can you tell?”

“You want to tell me you can’t tell the difference between some
guy
ringing your doorbell and some
missionary
ringing it? It’s the way they dress, the way they talk—all this ‘there is no place the wind cannot reach’ horseshit. Why can’t they just threaten you like a normal criminal? I swear, this is the last time I’m doing business with a bunch of cultists.”

Mariko wasn’t a fan of making assessments based on others’ gut feelings—especially not people with nicknames like “the Bulldog”—but in this case she guessed he was probably right about the mask thief being religious. For one thing, anyone who deliberately crossed the Kamaguchi-gumi would have to be pretty optimistic about the afterlife. For another, walking through an active crime scene dressed as a SWAT operative took a certain kind of lunatic fearlessness, one Mariko thought she was more likely to find among religious extremists than the dope slinger set.

And then there was the mask itself: an expensive trinket, yes, but the street value of the speed seizure was more than double what Kamaguchi’s insurance assessment said the mask was worth. Apart from religious fanaticism, Mariko couldn’t imagine what could tempt anyone to pay double its value
and
risk being caught in a police raid. It was a sure bet that the cops wouldn’t have seized the mask. It wasn’t contraband. The only reason Mariko had noticed it at all was that she’d half remembered that sketch of it in Yamada’s notebook.

So why not wait a few days to steal it? Someone could have recognized the perp wasn’t SWAT. He might have been masked and armored, but that limping, rolling gait was distinctive. It only made sense for the thief to come for the mask if he had to have it
right then
, at that appointed time for some appointed purpose, and that suggested a very weird belief set. Very weird, very specific,
very
strongly held—all of it pointed to a cult.

It pointed to the break-in at her apartment too. Centuries ago, the mask had some kind of connection to Inazuma steel. Last night, Kamaguchi’s mask and Mariko’s sword were stolen within hours of each other. It couldn’t be coincidence.

Now that Mariko thought about it, she wondered how the perp had stolen authentic SWAT armor too. Apart from the military, only SWAT could legally own fully automatic weapons, and so to say they kept their gear under lock and key was a gross understatement. Better to say it should have been as easy to steal a tank as to steal a bulletproof vest with SWAT’s label on it. Yet somehow this perp had the full getup.

Did these Divine Wind guys have an inside man? Was that how they’d known the raid was coming in advance? Or were they really modern-day ninja? Had they stolen the SWAT gear just as they’d stolen her sword? By passing through walls? It was impossible, and Mariko didn’t believe in the impossible. She was a detective; she believed what the evidence led her to believe. And faced with evidence of the impossible, a detective’s only choice was to reconsider what she meant by “possible.” In this case, that might mean a ninja clan operating in twenty-first-century Tokyo.

But that was something she’d have to sort out later. For now, she had a yakuza hit man bullshitting her. “So let’s pretend you don’t know why they want the mask,” she said.

“I’m telling you—”

“Never mind. How did they find out you have it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. If you were an art collector, then yeah, maybe they’d come looking for you specifically. But you’re not. You just like to buy expensive toys that make you feel like you’re actually upper class instead of just pretending to be.”

“This is my house,” he said, slapping his chef’s knife down on the counter. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to—”

“Sure you are. You don’t know where to find the guys you’re looking for. You need me,
neh
? To save face. You lost your little plaything, and you’d better get it back before the street finds out you lost a mountain of speed too. As soon as word gets out that the Bulldog can’t protect his own doghouse . . . well, how long have you got before someone puts you to sleep?”

He glared at her with a raw, animalistic fury she’d only seen once before—in the eyes of his enforcer, Fuchida Shuzo, as Fuchida was trying to hack her to pieces. Kamaguchi would have strangled her then and there if he didn’t need her. She had no doubt of that. What she did have doubts about was his capacity for anger management. If she pushed him too far, he might kill her and figure out how to fix that little problem afterward. But backing down wasn’t a great option either. For bulldogs and yakuzas alike, fighting was all about posturing. To back down was to invite an immediate attack.

So Mariko took a gamble and just glared back at him.

If anything, he got angrier. “You’re walking pretty fucking close to the edge, girl.”

“You want to be
gokudo
, that’s where you walk.”

For a moment she thought she pushed him too far. He inhaled noisily, deeply, expanding his broad shoulders—maybe fueling up for a short but deadly fight that would cost Mariko her life. Then hung his head back and laughed. “You got some fire in you, that’s for sure. I can’t tell if I want to fight you or fuck you.”

“I can tell you what happens if you try either one. Now what’s it going to be? Are you going to tell me what I need to know?”

18

“T
hey played him,” Mariko said. “The light’s green, by the way.”

“
Who
played him?” said Han. “What the hell happened up there?”

“Green means go,” she said.

At last he managed to direct some of his concentration away from her and back to driving. “Mariko, come on.”

“I told you already: those cult fanatics. The Divine Wind.”

“I thought you said
he
played
them
.”

“That’s what Kamaguchi thinks. He says a buyer approached him maybe six months ago through one of his front companies, some chemical supply place down in Odaiba. The buyer was a front man for this Divine Wind. The guy’s been buying hexamine by the barrel, making payment in Daishi. Kamaguchi says he conned the guy into paying double the volume he should have. But I think the buyer marked him as the owner of the mask from the beginning and wanted to play dumb.”

“Wait a minute,” Han said. “Did you say hexamine?”

“Yep.”

“So our buyer’s making MDA?”

“Looks like it,” said Mariko, happy to hear Han was thinking along the same lines. A boutique amphetamine like MDA fit in perfectly with Mariko’s mental profile of the cultist fanatic clientele. They were more likely to go for stimulants than depressants. MDA was both an upper and a hallucinogen, a religious experience in tablet form. Hexamine might have had a hundred industrial uses Mariko had never heard of, but in narcotics circles it was only known as a key ingredient in MDA.

“So his buyer’s got to be a hell of a cook,” said Han. “MDA’s rare, but this Daishi is something else. It’s not just the best speed on the street; it’s also cheap enough that these dudes can afford to sling it around by the truckload.”

“You’re thinking they’re
gaijin
?”

“Maybe. Or sourcing their precursor chemicals from out of country, anyway. Someplace cheap; it’s obvious they don’t need the cash. This mask, is it the only antique they’re interested in? Or have they been trading for a lot of stuff like that?”

“Kamaguchi says it was just the mask, just this one time. Otherwise it’s always the hexamine. But I think the mask thief and my sword thief are the same guy.”

Han’s eyebrows popped halfway up his forehead. “Seriously? That’s a hell of an inference.”

Mariko explained her logic. Han gave her a dubious look. “Twenty-first-century ninja clan, huh? Maybe you need to go back to the drawing board with that one.”

“Okay, fine,” she said, “the last part might be a little imaginative. But you have to admit it’s a hell of a coincidence, these two artifacts being stolen on the same night.”

Han agreed, his long hair flopping as he nodded. “Point taken,” he said, “but how does that help us make an arrest?”

“Well . . . it doesn’t. It’s still true, though.”

Mariko was embarrassed, but at least she got a sympathetic smile out of Han. “Chalk up a point for Oshiro,” he said. “Back to the other thing, I have to tell you I just don’t get it. Why are these guys trading speed just to make MDA? Why not just cook the MDA themselves? Cut Kamaguchi out completely?”

Mariko shrugged. “Maybe they can’t. Maybe the hexamine’s too hard to come by wherever they’re from.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Han went silent, frowning and looking out the windshield for a long time. At length he said, “Something’s not adding up. How much product are we talking about here? How much hexamine has Kamaguchi been selling them?”

“A barrel every few weeks,” said Mariko.

“So why haven’t we seen any arrests? If a new wave of psychedelic speed hit the streets, I’d have heard of it.”

“The Daishi got past you.”

“Yeah,” said Han, “and I’m mighty pissed off about that. My people are letting me down. But in a daily log it wouldn’t say ‘Daishi’; it would just say ‘amphetamine.’ We should have seen log entries with ‘MDA’ on them by now.”

“Maybe they’re selling it overseas? No. Never mind.”

Han shook his head too. Japan was expensive. Dealers here imported from Thailand, North Korea, Cambodia—the cheap markets. Export the other way didn’t make sense. Mariko wished she’d reached that conclusion a few seconds earlier, before she’d said the stupid thing she’d said. She supposed she should be glad she caught her mistake before Han had to correct her, but she was embarrassed nonetheless. It was the years of perfectionism that did it, the fear of her male counterparts seeing her as a girl instead of a policewoman. That wasn’t a big concern with Han, but still, even the little failures burned, lingering, like droplets of hot oil spat from a frying pan.