Compromised (11 page)

“They’re both gang members?”

“Trinitarios.”

He shrugged.

“Fastest-growing street gang in New York. Mostly Dominican—their trademark is the machete-style execution. The Trinitarios started in the prison system, so even if Rodrigo wasn’t acting on his own and carrying out a revenge killing, it’s conceivable that Eduardo could have reached out from prison to take his pound of flesh.”

“You have pictures? Addresses?”

“Sure.” A few taps on the keyboard brought up pictures of the frightening duo. They looked like a pair of mangy, flea-ridden dogs. “Imagine running into these two in a dark alley.”

He seemed confused. The expression was apparently lost on him. “Alley?”

“It’s just an expression. It’s a way of saying they’re pretty nasty-looking characters.”

“Yeah. I agree. I’ll try to avoid alleys,” he said with a chuckle. “Forward their pictures to my phone along with Rodrigo’s address. I’ll take them.”

“
You’ll
take them?” I said with surprise.

“Yes. I have friends on the street.”

“You’re a cop from Japan.”

“Correct. A cop from Japan with friends on the streets of New York City.”

“Explain.”

“Sorry, Chalice, I’d like to tell you everything, but I can’t reveal the names of my contacts.”

“Like hell you can’t. You’re not going anywhere alone. What if you run into trouble?”

“I’ll be fine. Look, it’s smarter for you to stay off the streets where you could be spotted. I’m free to move around any way I wish. Let me do the legwork.”

“Um. Let’s see. Give me a minute to think about it . . . No. Not a chance, Harry. Where you go, I go. I’m not sending you out in a strange city to interrogate murder suspects. I understand that you’re a competent law officer, but—”

He cut me off. “I’m a professional police officer.”

I’d obviously insulted him, and it was beginning to surface in the tone of his voice.

“I assure you I know how to handle myself. Yana was your partner, but he was my brother. So I will ask some discreet questions while you work the computer.” He offered his hand in a spirit of cooperation. “Do we have a deal?”

I considered his offer. “For today, Harry, but I’m not committing beyond that. Let’s take it a day at a time and see how it goes.”

“I’m going to bed,” Ma said, her eyelids heavy and hanging low.
“It’s almost midnight.”

Gus was on the couch with a computer on his lap.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“I’m going to kill her,” he swore. “I’m absolutely going to kill her.”

“Oh, Jesus, what did my crazy daughter do now?”

“We have each other’s passwords. I just tried to log into the department intranet with her credentials and was denied access. She changed her goddamn password.”

“Why would she do that?”

“So that I can’t check the system log and see her last inquiries. The system administrator would know if she’s been logging on, but I certainly can’t march into the IT department and ask if an officer on leave is accessing the system.”

“I guess she’s covering her tracks.”

“Yeah. Stephanie’s sharp all right, too sharp. I just can’t believe she’d go to such great lengths to keep me from finding her. It really makes me angry.”

She sat down next to him on the sofa and patted his leg. “Look on the bright side. At least we know she’s okay. She’s the old Stephanie again, bullheaded and blind to everything but justice.”

“I suppose. Hey, before you go to bed, would you mind looking at something?”

“Of course, Gus. What?”

Lido picked up a folder and pulled out some photos. The first was of her husband as a teenager.

She gasped and snatched it out of his hand. “Oh my goodness. That’s Frank. Look how handsome he was. Is it any wonder I fell head over heels for that man?”

“There’s no denying that the man was a stud, but that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He handed her three additional photos. “These were his friends at the time. This one is Jack Burns, the boy who was assaulted. Do you recognize him and the others?”

She looked at each picture in turn and then spread them across her lap. “Oh my God. This brings back such memories.” She tapped the picture resting on her left leg. “Yes. This is Jack. It must’ve been taken after the incident because . . .” She sniffled and had difficulty swallowing. “He was always so full of himself despite the fact that he was all skin and bones. But after . . . well, he just wasn’t the same. You can see it in his eyes. He always looked tense, as if the sky might fall on him at any moment, and his mouth is closed because he’s hiding the awful caps the dentist made for him. It’s really so sad. It’s no wonder he never bounced back—a real tragedy.”

“He’s still got a little bit of that look in his eyes today, like he’s always processing that painful memory.” Lido pointed to the center photo. “This one was marked Robert Cohen.”

She grinned sadly. “Bobby was a wise guy before the term became popular. He always had a smart-ass answer for everything—always working an angle. You just knew he’d amount to no good. Do you know what became of him?”

“Died of a heart attack two years ago,” Lido replied.

“Ah, he’s gone too? That’s terrible.” She peaked her eyebrows. “Well, I guess
he’s
not a suspect.”

“Unlikely, Madame Detective.”

“What about Reggie?” she asked as she lifted and examined the third photo. “The neighborhood kids used to make fun of him all the time. The poor thing stuttered terribly, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was so terribly underdeveloped. My uncle Mickey used to say that he looked like he was raised in a veal box.”

Lido snorted. “Shit. I shouldn’t laugh. That’s terrible.”

“He definitely went through the school of hard knocks. I hope
he’s
still around.”

“He’s still around,” Lido confirmed. “He’s a building manager.”

“Oh, I’m glad—that sounds like a nice safe job. I do hope he outgrew his awful stuttering.” She handed the photos back to him, picked up a throw pillow, and pressed it to her lap. “So much water under the bridge,” she said sadly. “Frank and Bobby gone . . . and now here you are questioning Jack Burns—why it’s as if two separate worlds have collided with one another.” She slapped the pillow with both hands. “I’ll check on Max, and then I’m going to turn in. You should do the same.”

“Are you all right in the guest bedroom?”

“Am I all right?” she asked. “I’m so tired I could sleep standing up.”

“You don’t miss your own bed?”

“Honey, it’s okay. I’ll be back in my own place soon enough. Give yourself a break and get some rest.”

“I don’t think I can sleep.”

“Bah! Have a glass of wine. It’ll put you right out.”

“Maybe in a bit. I’m going to go through this file until I get tired.”

“Okay, honey, but don’t stay up too late.” She kissed him on the forehead. “You need your sleep.”

“No promises, Ma.” He looked into the empty evidence box and noticed the corner of a slip of paper peeking out from under the bottom flap. Pulling it out for examination, he saw that it was an evidence receipt. “Holy shit!” His blood pressure spiked as he stared at it. The receipt was only a few days old, and his wife had signed it.

Haruki studied the stores along the street as he headed across town on the following evening.
The area seemed mundane in comparison to the shopping districts of Kyoto. Sure, Times Square was billboard central, but beyond Broadway the lights gradually faded with each pace taken away from Manhattan’s epicenter. By contrast, Kyoto was a neon city, an homage to fluorescent lighting and bright colors, where the sizzle of electricity was so intense it felt as if it would sear your skin off the bone.

Chef Aguri Maeda’s hands moved like precision machinery, slicing yellowtail into identical slivers and placing them in staggered rows upon a porcelain platter decorated with lotus blossoms. He claimed that his personal
takobiki
knife was the finest sashimi knife in the world and sharp enough to split a hair standing on end. He glanced up as Haruki entered the small restaurant, splitting his vision between him and the fresh fish fillet so that the slicing continued unabated. When he finished, he handed the porcelain dish to a customer sitting in front of him at the sushi bar, bowed, and motioned for Haruki to join him at the end of the bar where they’d have some privacy. He bowed to Haruki, then wiped his
takobiki
knife clean and laid it on the cutting surface in front of him. He stepped away momentarily, ladled miso soup into a small bowl, and offered it to his guest. “To what do I owe this honor?” Maeda asked.

“
Anata no oishī tabemono.”

Maeda bowed again. “You’re hungry? You flatter me with your praise, Haruki-san. I’m glad you came here for dinner.”

Haruki had made copies of Eduardo and Rodrigo Sanchez’s photos. He placed them atop the refrigerated glass case for Maeda to see.

“So,” the chef began with eyebrows raised high, “I see that you have a special dinner request.” He examined the pictures and flipped them over, where Haruki had scribbled the names and last known addresses of each man, noting that Eduardo’s current address was the federal penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.

Haruki tapped Rodrigo’s picture. “This one. The address is an old one. I checked. He’s not there any longer, but I need to find this man right away.”

Maeda nodded and slipped the two photos into the pocket of his chef’s jacket. “How are your parents?” he asked, changing the conversation.

Haruki shook his head sadly.

“That’s too bad. I was so sorry to hear about your brother. This is why you are here?”

“Hai.”

“These men?”

“Possibly. It’s just a lead I’m running down.”

Maeda unwrapped a slab of bright red tuna. “
Kaiseki ryori?”

“Yes. Sure. That sounds great.” He tasted the soup and offered a compliment.
“
Sore wa subarashī kotodesu.”

Maeda smiled. “Anything to start?”

“You have
natto
?”

“I think there may be a little left.” He measured the tuna by eye and began preparing identical chunks of the raw fish. “The information you need may take a couple of days. I’ll do my best.”

Haruki spoke in an appreciative tone. “Whatever you can do is appreciated, my brother.”

Maeda served Haruki a bowl of
natto
before returning to the task of preparing his sashimi.

Haruki ate his meal in silence while he concentrated on the case he’d traveled across the Pacific to solve. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to notice the man sitting at the bar close to the entrance. It was Ryo, the same man he’d seen in Tiru’s tattoo shop the other day, the one who was having a snake freshly tattooed on his arm, and had photographed the jade fire-breathing dragon on Haruki’s back.

Haruki had taken the bait.
I hadn’t so much baited him, but I had successfully gotten him out of the hotel room without making it obvious that I wanted him out of the way. I did indeed want him to follow up on the Sanchez brothers even though, in truth, they were not at the top of my list of suspects.

I’d been watching the building Jack Burns had entered almost two hours earlier. Fragments of my memory were returning, kernel by kernel, each popping in my mind and dominating my conscious thought for an instant. The image of Jack Burns had come to me in a dream. I’d pictured him sitting next to his wife on the sofa while Yana and I interviewed the two of them about their daughter’s murder. A solitary frame from that dream had repeatedly summoned my attention. I remembered thinking,
There’s something wrong with this guy.
He seemed simple yet troubled at the same time, at ease but nonetheless hiding something. I used the word
simple
because in the past I had interviewed mentally challenged kids with poor coping skills who were easily riled. There was something about Burns that reminded me of them, as if he were struggling emotionally. It was enough to prompt me to check his history and subsequently pull his old file.

I’d been correct. Burns had been abducted and molested. I’d read and copied some of the case files before returning them to the evidence room. The clerk had recognized me and didn’t bother to check my shield before asking me to sign the official register and chain of evidence receipt. He never checked the computer to verify that I was authorized to sign out evidence.

Burns, the poor man, had every right to act the way he had. He’d been abducted and sexually molested as a child, and no amount of time could heal the wounds he had suffered. Yet as much as I wanted to be sympathetic, I knew that the kind of abuse he’d suffered often gave rise to aberrant behavior. As I said, his image kept coming back to me. Call it a sixth sense if you will, but there was something about the man I needed to understand better.

Burns was a very basic kind of guy, a neighborhood handyman. He had been wearing a tool belt and carrying his toolbox when he entered the building I’d been surveilling. Whose apartment he was in and what he was repairing was unknown, but my gut told me to stick with him and so I had.

Another forty-five minutes passed before he emerged from the apartment house. Sometimes you can just sense when something is off with a person and this was definitely one of those times. I could see his face clearly enough to perceive that he looked upset. I sensed it in his expression and his posture as he hurried down the block.

What happened in there, Jack? What’s gotten you so upset?
As I’d said, he seemed like someone who could be easily upset. He could have had an argument with his customer over the work he did or the price he had charged, but either way, the man was clearly agitated.

I started the engine and rolled slowly from the curb. Burns was moving quickly despite the weight of the large toolbox he carried. I didn’t have to follow him far. He turned at the corner and entered a bar. It looked like an old neighborhood watering hole, one that Burns was probably very familiar with—it looked like it was a hundred years old, replete with neon Miller and Budweiser signs so worn that the lights were dull and darkened in selected spots. The Miller sign no longer read Miller High Life. It simply read Miller High.