Year of the Demon (4 page)

Mariko could only assume
she
was Frodo, though for the moment she was less concerned about the nickname and more concerned about Sakakibara’s loaded question. She had a history with the Kamaguchi-gumi, all right. Not of her own design; they just took it personally when a cop got famous by taking down one of their own. Fuchida Shuzo—the man who chopped off Mariko’s trigger finger, the one whose crazed face flashed before her eyes every time she went down to the pistol range to retrain her left hand—was once a street enforcer under Kamaguchi Ryusuke.

Mariko had killed Fuchida out of sheer self-preservation, an offense that a high-ranking underboss like Kamaguchi Ryusuke wouldn’t usually take personally. Everyone had a right to self-defense, a right that Kamaguchi had exercised himself on more than one occasion, always with lethal effect. Word on the street was that Kamaguchi would have preferred to write off Fuchida’s death as an unfortunate cost of doing business. Fuchida had been getting uppity anyway, and it wasn’t as if Mariko was some contract killer from a rival clan. But thanks to Fuchida’s predilection for swords and a couple of bizarre twists of fate, Mariko had killed him in an honest-to-God duel, and that was the sort of thing that splashed Mariko’s picture and the phrase “samurai showdown” all over the nightly news for a week. Kamaguchi Ryusuke
had
to put out a contract on her after that. In his line of work it was just saving face.

He’d passed the job off to his youngest son, Hanzo, known on the streets as the Bulldog. Like his father, the Bulldog had an underbite and a big, muscular frame. Mariko remembered his photos from her debrief with Organized Crime. His father had a reputation for being cool, levelheaded, and tenaciously territorial, but the Bulldog was only known for a brutish, sloppy brand of bloodshed that had become his signature. OC had long suspected him of being the Kamaguchi-gumi’s go-to guy when it came to vendetta killings. Now it seemed he’d signed on to even the score on Fuchida Shuzo.

It made Mariko’s heart do somersaults just to think of the fight with Fuchida. Somehow the thought of a bounty on her head was less scary. Troubling as it was, the idea of a hit man out there somewhere was still an abstract concept, while the vision of a madman trying to hack her to pieces was all too vivid. She wished it were otherwise. It was embarrassing to be afraid of things in the past, things that could no longer hurt her. She wished she could be as worried about the hit man as Han and Sakakibara seemed to be, but that wasn’t what kept her up at night.

Either way, the lieutenant’s question was clear. It wasn’t
Would you like this case?
but rather
Are you man enough to take this case?
And there could be only one answer to that. “Damn right, sir. Let me at them.”

Sakakibara gave a single, curt, approving nod. “Good. Like I said, your buyer’s out back. If you pass the SWAT commander on the way there, do me a favor—hell, do yourselves a favor—and look like I just gave you a royal ass-whupping.”

The ambulance was parked in the loading dock, and to get to the loading dock Mariko and Han had to pass through the splintered wreckage of the door Mariko had bashed down. She felt a cold little thrill of adrenaline at the sight of it.

They crossed the factory floor, which was cavernous, and Mariko imagined it must have been deafening when all the machines were running. As it was, the only sounds came from the sparse population of cops that had migrated into the room. One of the cops sat idly with a rifle across his lap and eight or nine perps sitting against the wall in front of him, most with their heads bowed, all with their hands zip-tied behind their backs. A gaggle of narcs had gathered around the machine that, until Mariko had shut it down, had been processing an admixture of cornstarch and amphetamines into a thick white goo. Mariko had a quick word with them before she and Han proceeded to their suspect.

“Hey, by the way,” Han said, “what gives with ‘Frodo’?”

Mariko shrugged. “Because I’m short?”

“Nah. That was ‘munchkin.’”

The fact that he didn’t ask about “Batgirl” probably meant that he’d figured it out already, and not for the first time, Mariko was glad to know she and her partner thought so much alike. For one thing, it helped them work as a team, and for another, Han was a veteran narc and good police; if Mariko thought like him, it meant she was thinking in the right ways.

She opened the door to the loading dock and was greeted by a blue cloud of diesel smoke. Inevitably, in the tradition of cops and firefighters everywhere, the paramedics had left their vehicle’s engine running. Through the haze Mariko looked down on Urano Soseki. They’d strapped him to a backboard and, as Sakakibara’s nickname foretold, he was bound in a neck brace. A cop sat next to him in the ambulance, still armored just as Han and Mariko were; SWAT’s tactical medic, no doubt. Unintelligible voices squawked over the paramedics’ comms, different from the chatter coming in over the SWAT and narc channels. Straining in his neck brace to see who had just come in, Urano said, “You again.”

“Me again,” said Mariko, jogging jauntily down the short flight of stairs to where the ambulance was parked. In the tone a doctor would use with a six-year-old patient, she said, “And how are you feeling today?”

“I been bowled over by a piece of snatch before, but never quite like that. You want to go for another roll with me?”

Lovely, Mariko thought, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Han ignored him too, for which Mariko was eternally grateful. She didn’t need anyone leaping to her defense as if she were some kind of damsel in distress. There weren’t many cops that understood that—not very many
men
who understood it—and once again Mariko was glad to have Han as her partner.

The tactical medic wasn’t as enlightened. He thapped Urano in the forehead with a knuckle and said, “Shut up.”

Han hopped up in the back of the ambulance and sat down next to Urano. “So,” he said, “I guess you know you’re going to prison for a while.”

“You got nothing on me,” said Urano.

“I don’t know about that,” Mariko said. “There’s all that speed in your cornstarch hopper. That’s got to count for something.”

Urano snorted. “It’s not mine.”

“Sorry,” Han said, “that’s not the way this works. See, if it’s illegal and it’s in your building, we’ve got you on possession.”

Mariko nodded. “Felony possession, since our guys are saying you’ve got quite a bit of it in there. How much did they say, Han?”

“At least fifty kilos,” said Han. “Maybe more.”

“That’s right. Urano-san, did you know that machine in there has a scale built into it?” He didn’t need her to connect the rest of the dots. There was an inventory log too, and nothing could be easier than checking the weight of what was actually in the machine against the weight of the bags some factory worker had recorded pouring into the machine.

“You got nothing,” said Urano. “We didn’t pay for it. It’s not ours.”

“Really?” Han said. “So, what, some guy just came by and decided to
donate
a whole bunch of speed?”

“It’s not ours,” said Urano, his patience fading fast. He tried to sit up to look Han in the eye; a jolt of pain slammed him flat on his back. “Not ours,” he grunted. “We told that little shit not to bring it by here. He said you were coming. I told him we’d set up another meet. The dumb bastard came by anyway.”

“And that’s why you and your boys beat the hell out of him,” said Mariko.

“So we get to add aggravated battery to the possession charge,” said Han.

“Not possession. It’s not ours.” Another shot of pain made Urano wince. “Book me on the assault thing. Fine. He deserved it. But we didn’t pay for the shit. We don’t even got any money around here. Go look. You see any big stacks of bills, you tell me; I could use them. But we got nothing. We bought nothing. So
you
got nothing.”

“You keep saying that,” said Han. “We’ll have to sit down and chat sometime about how the drug trade works.”

“But maybe downtown,” said Mariko.

“Yeah,” said Han, “and maybe after you go see a doctor. You look like someone kicked your ass.”

Mariko and Han sat on the concrete lip of the dock as they watched the ambulance pull away. Han fished through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. Lighting up, he said, “You think he’s telling the truth about the cash?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Me neither.” He said it with a knowing tone. When it came to narcotics, no one wanted to tell the truth. Users, dealers, suppliers, all of them lied—and not just to cops, but to their own loved ones and even to themselves. Mariko knew that all too well, as did anyone with a history of addiction in the family. Mariko prided herself on her ability to detect when someone was lying to her, and if anything, Han was better at it than she was. Eight years on Narcotics meant eight years of seeing through the smokescreens.

“So what are these guys selling the dope for, if not for cash? A hostage, maybe?”

“I don’t like it,” Mariko said. “Why piss off the hostage takers? You’ve got to deliver payment on
their
terms,
neh
?”

“Good point.”

“But what, then? You can’t have a drug buy with no money.”

“Yeah,” Han said around his cigarette, “but you’re not supposed to have dealers show up to a blown sting either. Urano said his guy knew we were coming.”

“Which means his guy doesn’t mind pissing off the Kamaguchi-gumi. He’s got to be out of his mind.”

“Or desperate.”

“Lucky to be alive either way. Assuming he survives, that is.”

“Right,” said Han. “Sakakibara said the dude’s in surgery,
neh
?”

Mariko nodded. “So we’ve got a seller who’s willing to take enormous risks—”

“Enormous by dope slingers’ standards. Not exactly my grandma’s sewing circle.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And a buyer who’s willing to beat his supplier half to death. Is this case making any sense to you?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” Mariko chuckled and shook her head. “But you’re interested,
neh
?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Me too.”

3

M
ariko could smell herself in the elevator. She was sweaty, her matted hair felt as if it still had a helmet strapped onto it, and she smelled faintly of Fourth of July fireworks.

She was the only person in the whole apartment building who would have drawn that comparison. She was the only one who had ever celebrated the Fourth of July, because she was the only one who spent her childhood in the States. It was strange, thinking of fireworks she hadn’t smelled since junior high, and she wondered why on earth her hair would suddenly share that smell. Then she remembered the flash-bang going off right above her head.

The elevator announced her floor with a canned voice that sounded just like the woman who narrated those airline safety videos. Mariko hauled herself out of the elevator and tromped down the narrow corridor to her apartment. Her boots felt like they were made of lead and she wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and collapse into bed. But that was a pipe dream. She’d won enough races and tussled with enough bad guys to know her body’s reaction to an adrenaline high. She wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon.

That was all right, because she had some research to do.

But the shower came first. Then she flicked on the electric teapot, and when it clicked itself off she poured boiling water into two extruded polystyrene containers of Cup Noodles. It was something of a post-workout ritual for her, planting herself on the bed, savoring the soy sauce smell of instant ramen, and cracking open one of her old sensei’s
notebooks. Usually her evening workouts involved swords, not bulldozing bad guys through locked doors, but the cool-down ritual was equally effective in either case.

Professor Yamada Yasuo, her first kenjutsu teacher, had earned himself a seat in the pantheon of Japan’s greatest medieval historians. He harbored a fascination with the material culture of the samurai that began with his first week in army boot camp and stayed with him until his dying day, leading him to earn black belts in every sword art Japan had to offer. Fate had a cruel sense of irony: Yamada-sensei
died of a vicious sword wound, and at the hand of his own student, no less. Fuchida Shuzo was a butcher and a sociopath, and after killing Yamada, he’d forced Mariko into the sword fight that cost Mariko her finger and Fuchida his life. Mariko wasn’t religious, but she knew fate’s cruel irony when she saw it: living by the sword and dying by the sword and all that.

She had the honor of being Yamada’s last kenjutsu student, and also of being the inheritor of all of his notebooks. He’d written everything by hand—had never even owned a computer—and most of his work was over Mariko’s head. In fact, much of it was over the heads of the many tenured and gray-haired history professors whose dissertation committees he’d chaired back when they were in school, but even so, Mariko enjoyed working her way through his notes. She thought of them as her way to have a little conversation with him.

Tonight, however, she was looking for something specific. That demon mask, the one on the office shelf in the packing plant, was familiar somehow. At first she thought it might have been a pop culture thing—growing up overseas, she’d missed out on a lot of her generation’s icons—but Han hadn’t recognized it either. That made her think the mask must have been somewhere in Yamada-sensei’s many scribblings.

She had hundreds of his notebooks, stacked in tightly packed banker’s boxes along the far wall of her tiny bedroom. She had no space for them, but neither could she bear to part with them. She liked coming home to him, even if all she had left of him was his old notes and his sword. Glorious Victory Unsought, the final masterpiece of Master Inazuma, rested in the sword rack she’d installed over her bed. It was enormous, a horseman’s weapon, and it threatened to pull out the mounting screws with its weight. That in and of itself might have been tempting fate’s sense of irony—in a land of earthquakes, a swordswoman was unwise to sleep directly under her weapon—but the sword was so long that this was the only wall it would fit on.