If it doesn’t sing, kill it, the first said.
If it doesn’t sing, make it sing, was the second’s philosophy.
The third, and most successful shogun, Lord Tokugawa had said: If it doesn’t sing, wait for it. It will.
Quinn had pointed out that Lord Tokugawa was also one of the most ruthless men who ever ruled Japan. “Balance, Quinn-san,” Miyagi had said. “It is always about balance.”
He smiled at the memory. The man behind the attempted murder of his little girl was very likely across the street. Balance was one thing, but at this point, the scales tipped toward going inside and making someone sing.
The American visitors were nearly to the front door.
Quinn turned to Ayako. Strands of black hair plastered across her face. “How about we get you out of this wind?”
She gave him a little bow. Grinning enough to show the delicate crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes.
“That is an excellent—”
Ayako gave a little jump when the cell phone in her hand began to ring. She looked at the caller ID, frowning.
“Moshi moshi,” she answered. “Emm… Yes… yes, of course.” She looked up at Quinn, eyes wide. “It is for you. A man named Winfield Palmer.”
CHAPTER 61
Mrs. Mori was able to watch Bowen and Hase on the closed-circuit monitors in her office off the lobby of the Luxor love hotel. The detective waved at the hallway camera when they reached Room 402. The door gave a faint click as she opened it remotely.
The king-size bed was turned down, but empty. A pixilated adult movie played on the big-screen television. A single pair of well-worn but highly polished black shoes had been placed in the alcove just inside the door.
Bowen was hit immediately with a face full of steam and the heady odor of scented bath soap. The sound of dripping water to their right said Watanabe was in the bathroom.
Thinking it was his date, the yakuza soldier yelled something through the door.
Hase grinned, putting a finger to his lips. “He says he has the oil,” the detective whispered. “He wants us to come in and… apply it… In so many words.”
“This should be rich,” Bowen said, and pushed open the door.
He was greeted by the unpleasant sight of the heavily tattooed Isamu Watanabe, who was facedown and naked on a large plastic air mattress that took up all the usable space of the bathroom floor below the tub. The gangster’s right hand was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. He kept it tucked in close to his side to protect it, but that hadn’t stopped him from using his other hand to douse himself with cooking oil. It puddled in the small of his back and ran down into the creases of the air mattress.
Facing away, with his cheek pressed against the plastic, he barked a command to who he thought was the girl he’d ordered from the free paper.
“He wants us to rub his back,” Hase said out loud. He stomped the end of the mattress, sending the startled yakuza rolling. “I don’t think I would care for that, would you?”
Watanabe spun at the male voice, drawing into a ball to cover himself and cowering against the far wall.
Body ink was nothing new to Bowen. Many of his friends in the military had tats. He’d heard of the Japanese mafia’s culture of tattooing their entire body, but he’d never actually seen one. Even on this sniveling runt it was an impressive thing to behold — blues, greens, and oranges flowing in surreal lines to form dragons and fire-breathing demons.
In a sudden gust of bravado, the surprised yakuza sprang for a pistol that lay on the counter beside the bathroom sink. He might as well have been reaching for the moon.
Hase gave the air mattress another stomp and sent the yakuza flying backward to bounce off the tile wall. By the time Watanabe could rebound, the detective produced an expandable metal baton from under his golf jacket and opened it with a flick of his wrist. Swinging the telescoping club with startling accuracy, the detective struck Watanabe twice in the injured hand and knocked out a front tooth before the man even knew he was being hit.
Bowen, who stood closer to the sink, snatched up the pistol and tucked it into his waistband, hoping Hase might forget he had it.
Though he’d appeared all mild manners and good sense from the time they’d met at the airport, Bowen was pleased to note that Detective Hase had an “on” switch. Evidently, Watanabe flipped it.
The yakuza soldier put both hands to his face and sank to his knees on the deflated air mattress. He sobbed as if he was choking to death.
Still clutching the expandable baton, the detective leaned in, launching into a series of spit-filled, rapid-fire questions. He hardly gave the cowering Watanabe time to answer before starting in on the next.
Bowen imagined it would be difficult for anyone to withstand a long interrogation by the screaming Hase, but enduring it with a mutilated hand while naked, slathered with cooking oil, and missing a tooth only added to the humiliation.
A look of amused surprise spread across Hase’s face. He turned to Bowen.
“Watanabe tells me that your fugitive cut off his finger last night and killed five members of his yakuza family. Ayako Shimizu killed a sixth.”
“So we were right that he is running with Shimizu?”
“Six dead.” Hase patted the metal club against an open palm. “And that is not taking into account those we found at Shimizu’s apartment. According to Watanabe, this American with a dark beard and cruel eyes cut the head off the gangster underboss and gave it to the top boss — a man called Tanaka.”
Bowen whistled. Quinn had really gone into the deep end of the pool.
“Does he say where we can find them?”
Hase began to shout again. The naked man groveled, still kneeling in the pool of oil. The peony flowers surrounding the fanged demons of his tattooed back appeared to ripple as his glistening skin twitched in pain and fear.
“He says he cannot seem to go two days in a row without someone beating him up.” Detective Hase half turned, trying to suppress a grin. “I told him you were an American police officer and your rules for interrogation were probably much more lax than ours.”
Bowen looked at the froth of blood streaming between Watanabe’s broken teeth. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said.
“He swears he hasn’t seen Ayako Shimizu since she stomped him in the groin…”
Watanabe broke in, bowing as he rattled off what sounded like a long excuse for something.
“Wait,” Detective Hase said. “He’s making a correction. Ayako Shimizu and the American were on a motorcycle the last he saw them, leaving a shrine near Tanaka’s warehouse.”
Watanabe chattered on, fearful he might leave something out.
“Apparently,” Hase said, rolling his eyes, “Watanabe has decided he hates being in the yakuza now.”
“Did he say where Shimizu and the American were headed?”
“He did,” Hase said. “I know the place. It is not too far from here. Yanagi Pharmaceutical.”
CHAPTER 62
Quinn turned his back to the wind that whipped down the alley as he spoke, eyes still glued to the front of Yanagi Pharmaceutical.
“How did you find me?”
On the other end of the phone, Winfield Palmer gave a long, deliberate sigh. Quinn could picture him sitting behind his broad mahogany desk, perusing a computerized map of Japan with a red blip that signified Quinn’s location.
“Don’t blame Emiko,” the national security advisor said. “She would have helped you escape even if I’d not told her to.”
“Seriously?” Quinn scoffed. “You have known all the time where I was?”