I peered through the coffee-shop window, wishing that Rink would hurry up, because the advantage would only last for so long. Pretty soon my would-be killer could check on the number of reported casualties and realise his poor excuse for a hit had failed.
My second coffee was finished and a third on the shelf by the time Rink pulled up outside the shop. His usual mode of travel tends to lean towards sporty model cars, but he arrived in a modest saloon. I watched him climb from it, as languid as a big cat. He caught admiring glances from a duo of office girls walking by. Rink winked and flashed them a grin that was pearly against his tawny skin. Beats me why the girls found him attractive: dressed in a bright orange bowling shirt with alternating cobalt blue panels down the front, he made my eyes sore looking at him. Rink never fails to amaze me. Visit his home, his office, or anywhere else associated with him, and you’ll see a space so minimalist that you’d think he’d never moved in. But when it comes to his choice of clothing and flashy cars… well. No one would guess he was in mourning.
But then, first impressions can be deceiving and Rink was living proof. He came forward, hitching his jeans on his lean waist. His hooded eyes cut through the glare off the window and settled on me, and I saw his grin slide back to be replaced by the face of a man in grief. I held up my cup and got a shake of his head in reproof.
‘You want a refill?’ he asked, grabbing a bottle of something from a cooler as he came inside.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ I said, downing the dregs of my current cup.
‘Gonna have to peel you off the ceiling before long,’ he said.
Rink believes I drink too much coffee. He’s probably right, but it’s one of the few comforts I’ll allow myself in an otherwise spartan lifestyle. That and the occasional Corona are my only vices these days. He came back from the counter with his bottled smoothie and another brew for me. He settled them on the shelf and dragged a stool closer. I saw him regard the CDs then use a thick finger to shove Howling Wolf off Doris Day. He raised an eyebrow at my choice in music. OK, so I have more guilty pleasures than coffee and Corona. Call me a sucker for ‘Secret Love’ as well.
Settling on the stool, he angled himself so he could get a view of who was coming and going through the door. I had also instinctively sat so that no one could surprise me with a sudden appearance. Perched dead centre of a plate glass window wasn’t ideal when there was a gunman out there, but how else would I be able to watch the road and buildings opposite? Not that I expected trouble here; it was like I’d assumed already, that the killer had bailed long before the cops showed up.
‘I think it’s time we step things up a notch.’ Rink twisted the cap off his smoothie and leaned back to drain the bottle. He placed the empty bottle on the shelf, then gave me a quick glance, wondering at my silence.
‘It’d be a little easier if we knew who we were up against,’ I said.
‘I vote we go find out.’
‘Yeah. I agree. But who’s going to tell us? Your mom’s already made it clear she has no idea who’s behind this.’
‘Now that Takumi is dead, there are only two other guys who know what happened back at Rohwer. I think we should start with them.’
He was correct. Recalling our conversation at Andrew’s funeral, I’d suspected that Faulks and Parnell knew more than they were letting on. Since then, I’d believed they’d held their tongues for the same reason Yukiko had, so none of them ended up in prison, but now I wasn’t so sure. I pulled the strip of Tylenol from my pocket. ‘Couple more of these and I’ll be good to go.’
‘You’re sure? I can call on them if you’re hurting.’
‘I’m OK, Rink. I just need to stave off the headache I’m getting from looking at your shirt.’
‘What’s wrong with my shirt? I can’t mope around for ever; I need to get motivated. I’ve dressed for purpose, is all.’
‘Purpose?’ I stepped off my stool, stretched, feeling the recent collision in all of my bones. I reached for my coffee and downed it, as if it would help lubricate my aching frame. ‘What purpose could a shirt like that have… apart from inducing nausea?’
Rink smiled, his hooded gaze giving my soot-smeared jacket the once over. ‘That’s why I stick so close to you, Joe,’ he said. ‘The invaluable fashion advice you give me.’
‘Fair point,’ I conceded.
Standing, Rink picked imaginary lint off my shoulder. Then he shook his head in mock derision and led the way out of the coffee shop. It was good that he was able to joke again; in the last few days I’d missed my friend’s mockery. I followed, walking stiff-legged and working a kink out of my neck. Physically I wasn’t up to scratch, but mentally I was definitely ready. Before, I’d thought of the killer from a third-party perspective, my role being to help protect others. Now that the killer had targeted me, things had just grown personal.
Chapter 20
On the way across town I checked my SIG for damage. My rental had been a scene of total carnage, a mangled heap, but the spare wheel had offered protection to my gun. I found it to be untouched and in full working order. I didn’t expect to utilise it while speaking with Parnell and Faulks, but I shoved it away in its usual place down the back of my trousers. You never could tell.
The car Rink had commandeered was his dad’s. It had been parked in the carport alongside the house. There were some of his personal belongings on the dash, mundane items, but it made me wonder how difficult Rink had found it driving the car, if it felt like his dad’s ghost was peering over his shoulder the whole time. Maybe he’d had to steel himself before climbing inside, but then perhaps not. He’d dressed — as he’d pointed out — for the purpose of moving beyond the grieving stage, and maybe driving his dad’s car was an exercise in catharsis too. They were tiny steps in the right direction, but I doubted Rink would feel better until his father’s murderer was in the ground.
Rink had learned Parnell’s and Faulks’ addresses from his mom, and told me that both old guys lived in the same apartment block. Apparently they had been friends before and had stayed in touch after the events in the cellar at Rohwer. Both men had previously lived in family homes in different districts of the city, but after their respective wives had passed away Parnell had moved to the smaller apartment block. Out of a need for companionship, he had talked Faulks into joining him and his friend had taken an apartment at the first opportunity. They’d both been there for three years now.
It didn’t surprise me to find that their wives had been Japanese, and also internees of the relocation camp in Arkansas. It seemed a majority of the Japanese-American families forced out of their homes and transported across country had been from San Francisco. Unlike Andrew, Jed, Dan and Takumi, neither of these men had a background in the military. They had spent their lives in mundane, blue-collar jobs, with little need to practise their fighting skills. I wondered if there was a reason they’d been left to last: was it because they were the least dangerous foes, seen as the easiest targets, and the killer had gone for the most able first? Then again, why target Bruce Tennant at the outset? As far as I’d learned Tennant was a low level criminal with no appreciable skills other than an ability to become an aggressive drunk at the drop of a hat. Then again, I had to consider Yukiko’s version of the story: Tennant had been the most vicious of all when dealing punishment to Charles Peterson. Perhaps that was why his murder had been particularly brutal in turn. It was Tennant’s death — and how closely it resembled Peterson’s — that made me think the killer must have known what occurred down in that cellar. Yukiko had kept the secret all these years, her burden of obligation weighing heavy on her while she protected everyone else, but I wondered if any of the others had been less secretive. Loose lips sink ships, they say. Maybe one of the conspirators had given up the secret in a moment of weakness. They were all growing old, perhaps feeling their mortality, and needed to unburden themselves of their sins before meeting their maker. How else could the killer have learned about Peterson’s fate, and therefore chosen to avenge him?