Petrevich of course was Warfield’s prime suspect in Antonov’s death. Antonov was a threat to him and his project, whatever that was.
Komeito listened to news on the radio and told Warfield they were announcing the discovery of a man found dead in the restroom at the Izumi.
When they reached Komeito’s home his face reflected the trauma of the last hour. Warfield wondered whether he himself looked as bad. He now demanded that Komeito explain what happened at the Izumi.
“First, Antonov waited outside the door while I checked out the toilet security. Opened all the stall doors. No one there, so Antonov goes in. I wait outside restroom for him. No one enters during that time. After he has been there too long I go in to check. Throat is cut. Head almost separated from body. Blood everywhere.” Komeito shook his head as he recounted the scene.
“God almighty!” Warfield whispered.
“Hai! I cannot believe this has happened. It is my responsibility,” Komeito said, looking at the floor.
Warfield was puzzled. “But you said you checked it out first. How did the killer get in there, Komeito?”
Komeito shook his head. “Door to supply closet is standing open when I go back in to check on Antonov. Killer must have waited inside closet with door locked, and when someone enters he checks to see if it is Antonov. Closet locked when I go in before Antonov.”
“So the killer tracks Antonov there to the Izumi and waits for him in the supply closet, figuring Antonov is going to the john sooner or later. When he does, it’s his waterloo.”
Komeito shook his head. “Waterloo?”
“Means it was over for Antonov,” Warfield said, “but how the hell did the killer exit? You were standing at the door.”
“Window to outside. It is cranked open wide when I find Antonov.”
Warfield thought for a second. “Why the stop behind the hotel?”
“The man at hotel works for me sometimes. Trustworthy. He went to the general’s room and packed his things. That’s what he brought to the door.” Komeito gestured to the suitcase.
Warfield thought for a minute. “Tell me everything you and Antonov did before I got here.”
Komeito spent ten minutes describing when, where and what. When he finished, Warfield asked about Romi.
“Gaishou, whore, as Antonov said. Took us to Tomodachi bath house. Antonov and Romi stayed there and Antonov sent me to meet you at airport. After I left you at hotel, I picked up Antonov and Romi at a bar near bath house.”
“You know her, Komeito?”
“Only few days, with general.”
Warfield opened Antonov’s travel bag from the hotel. There were the usual — slacks, shirts, underwear, toiletries — but a couple of things caught his attention. A leather notebook contained a five-by-seven black and white photograph of a man. “What’s this say?” Warfield said, referring to Cyrillic characters at the bottom of the photo.
“Ahh, Boris M. Petrevich. So now at least you know what your man looks like.”
The other item of interest to Warfield was a note pad from the East Island Winds Hotel. Antonov, or someone, had penciled two sets of numbers on it.
“First one is a phone number,” Komeito said.
The other was the number 8.6, underlined twice. Komeito said it meant nothing to him.
“You will be staying in Tokyo?” Komeito asked, after they finished going through the bag.
Warfield nodded.
“I work with you if you want.”
Of course Warfield wanted to keep him around. He wanted to keep an eye on him. No one was eliminated as a suspect in Antonov’s death, at least not yet.
“Need a different car. Regular sedan that won’t be noticed.”
Komeito nodded.
“And check into a hotel. They’ll start looking for us. I’ll move to a different one under another name.”
“Okay.”
“You trust TK?”
“Yes. He drove for Antonov. Russian security clearance, like me.”
“You got a private voice-mailbox?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody else have access to it?”
“No one.”
“Change the access code anyway. We’ll use that to communicate. No direct calls between us. I’ll need the phone number and code.” Both men were lost in their own thoughts for a few seconds. Then Warfield said, “Now let’s go to the Texas Saloon.”
On the drive to the Texas, Warfield went over what he knew, and every detail of what Komeito had said. When they got to the bar TK parked about a block away and Komeito suggested he and TK go in alone, as the Japanese bartender would be less inclined to open up to an outsider.
Warfield vetoed that. He wanted to see the bartender himself. Komeito could go with him.
It was after midnight when they walked in. The lounge was rather deep but relatively narrow from side to side, having a hardwood-covered section of the floor to the left, which adjoined the bar and separated it from an L-shaped carpeted area with tables on the right side and to the rear. It was empty except for a Conway Twitty song pouring from the jukebox and cigarette smoke that lingered in the air. And the bartender.
“Too late. Bar is closed,” the bartender said, without looking up from the cocktail glass he was washing.
Warfield had told Komeito to keep an eye on the back of the lounge and watch the door that connected to the Russian hangout in the rear. Warfield walked to the end of the long bar where the bartender was putting things in order to close for the night. Tex-san was sewn into the white shirt he was wearing, which was adorned with black pearl snaps instead of buttons. The Western hat he wore was too large for his face and despite his muscular build gave him a cartoon-like appearance.
“I said bar is closed.” His English wasn’t bad.
“How ’bout a beer? We’ll make it quick.” Warfield looked the place over. “Last time I was here it was crowded.”
“It happens,” Tex grunted, setting two drafts on the bar.
A set of steer horns hung above the back bar, and clusters of photos of cowboys in rodeo scenes covered the walls. A life-size cardboard cutout of a Japanese Marlboro Man stood near the end of the bar. The wood floor was finished to a high luster. Half way through his beer, Warfield made reference to a large blond-haired man he saw the last time he was in the place. He tried to sound casual. “Think he said something about an atomic bomb. Surprised anybody jokes about that here.”
The bartender put down the glass he was cleaning and looked at Warfield. “Funny, gaijin. I don’t remember seeing you here that night.”
“You were probably busy.”
Japanese don’t always make direct eye contact but Tex leaned on the bar and lasered into Warfield’s eyes. “Kyomou! You lie. I remember that night! Four people were here. Me, the drunk Russian, a woman and another man. You not here!” He sucked in a breath through yellow teeth and slammed both fists on the bar. “I do not know why you are here. Now leave!”
Warfield finished the last of the beer, pulled a bill out of his wallet and laid it on the bar. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind giving me the name of that Russian before I go.”