The Pearl Diver (20 page)

Three days after the ride back to Washington, I still hurt all over.

The ER attending had prescribed Percocet, which had upset my stomach so badly that I’d flushed all the pills down the toilet. My local doctor gave me a prescription for something that bothered my stomach even more. Fractured fingers I could live with, and my eye had healed enough for me to take off the patch, but my stomach ached for what it had lost.

My parents called me every day from Fiji, on a crackly connection that often cut out. They were the only ones I could bear to speak with. Hugh shadowed me from room to room, running loads of laundry, puttering, and going out to run the occasional errand. He also kept out people I couldn’t bear to see. The press, for the first few days, were incessant. The Marines had been happy to speak and pose for pictures, but I’d refused to be interviewed and begged my police contact to keep my name private—which they couldn’t legally do. At least it hadn’t gotten out about the baby.

After three long days, the cameramen stopped hanging around. They went back to Kendall, who was willing to oblige with her comments on the situation. She’d called up right away to offer her
sympathies—as far as she knew, all I’d suffered were the bruises and scars of a kidnapping. I decided to keep the story simple, like that, because I didn’t want to become a family horror story. I could imagine the news of my lost pregnancy making the Howard family telephone rounds. “How California,” Grand might say. And the rest would shake their heads, musing with each other about why I didn’t know about birth control when, for God’s sake, I was living with a man—and why a woman who was almost thirty didn’t know it was unsafe to walk around the District of Columbia after midnight.

Kendall had offered to help me write a press release about the kidnapping, but I’d refused. Then she’d offered to take me out for a drink at Zola, but I’d declined. In the end, she promised she’d stop by one evening after work. I was anxious to have a face-to-face talk. I thought that, if we talked, I might remember more about the men who’d taken me. I wasn’t sure if my memory was so vague because I’d lost consciousness after the jump, or because I just wasn’t thinking hard enough.

Detective Burns had been frustrated with me, I knew. He’d come to visit the day of my return. I’d settled in for the morning on Hugh’s long leather sofa with an old Japanese patchwork quilt wrapped around me when the downstairs buzzer rang. I spoke into the entry phone, and I recognized Louis Burns’s voice.

When Norie opened the door, the detective nodded at her. Then he looked at me. “Miss Shimura. I’m very sorry about your loss.”

“Thanks,” I said quickly, hoping that would end it. He obviously knew that I’d miscarried.

“May I talk to you for a little while?” Burns’s voice was gentle. “I’ve read the reports from Virginia, but since the crime originated in the city, and bears some similarity to what happened to your cousin, it’s fallen in my bailiwick.”

I nodded and looked at my aunt. In Japanese, I said, “Obasan, please could I ask you to make some of your cherry blossom tea for the detective?”

As she disappeared into the kitchen, Detective Burns looked after her. “Your mother?”

“No, she’s my aunt, Norie Shimura, from Japan. My mother’s American. She’s in Fiji, so I’m really lucky to have my aunt here in her stead. But please don’t say anything about the baby. She doesn’t know.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to dwell on that sad issue. I’m here to ask you about the American side of your family. Is it your mother who has the link to Kendall Howard Johnson?”

“Yes. My mother is the sister of Kendall’s father, Douglas Howard.”

“And are there other cousins I could contact?”

“Just Kendall’s brother, my cousin Dougie Junior. He lives in Millersville. I’m not close to him, so I don’t know the phone number or address.”

“Hmm. You say that you’re not close. Was there some problem growing up?”

I flushed, feeling as if I was becoming a suspect for some reason. “No. It’s just that we grew up on different sides of the country, and he—well, I get along with Kendall better.” Although that wasn’t saying much.

“So, any reason to think members of this family—the Howards—might be in trouble of some sort? The target of anyone?”

I shook my head. “The Howards are an old Maryland family, but our branch doesn’t have any significant land holdings or money. I mean, Kendall and her brother both have trust funds, but we’re just talking about a few hundred thousand dollars each—not millions.”

“But you and Kendall both disappeared,” Burns said. “And you’re first cousins living in the D.C. area.”

“Kendall said that the men who took her asked her name before they took her. In my case, I was just stupidly strolling toward Adams-Morgan after midnight, and I turned a dark corner, and they came after me. They didn’t ask my name, just chucked me in the trunk.”

“Do you think the men already knew who you were?”

“I thought about that, but it couldn’t be,” I said. “As you know, I started out on foot near Penn Quarter. Then I took the Metro from Chinatown to Dupont Circle. How could I be followed by guys in a car if I went underground for so long and later emerged at a point they couldn’t guess?”

“You said there were two of them. One man could have tracked you underground, and used a cell phone to signal his partner after you and he reached street level.”

“I didn’t notice anyone.” But the truth was, I’d been uneasy. Subconsciously, I’d felt something, but ignored it, because I was so eager to get home.

“Tell me about why you went to Plum Ink in the first place.”

“I’d never gone there before,” I said. “Some of the kitchen and waitstaff from Bento like to unwind there after the restaurant closes. I went because I wanted to talk to Andrea Norton—she’s my friend who used to be the hostess. And then, once I got there, I decided to ask their bartender some questions that related to my cousin’s kidnapping.”

“Why did you want to do that?” He stopped taking notes and looked up at me.

“The take-out box in the back of the car Kendall was kidnapped in was from Plum Ink, remember?”

“Certainly. We’ve already investigated that angle.”

“And come up with nothing?” I guessed aloud. “But you know, the thing about Plum Ink is, it’s not just the people who
pay
for food who can carry it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of the restaurant friends I’d gone with—two of the waiters—were given a bag of Chinese food for free when they left. Based on that, I think that a kitchen worker might have just given someone the food that turned up in the trunk of the car. He wouldn’t have told the restaurant owner about this, because it was a favor for friends, not paying customers.”

“That’s interesting.” Burns stroked his chin, where I noticed
that a slight goatee was growing. “But I’m more intrigued by the fact that your colleagues would patronize that particular restaurant. There’s competition between Plum Ink and Bento.”

“I thought the same thing and asked one of my waiter friends about it,” I said. “He said that people in the restaurant world are very social. They like to go to other restaurants and bars to relax after they’re done working.”

“But there’s bad blood between Marshall Zanger and Ken Chow, who owns Plum Ink.”

I was glad that Burns seemed in the mood to gossip. I decided to volunteer more, to encourage him. “Mr. Chow didn’t seem exactly warm when he saw all of us hanging out in his restaurant’s bar.”

“Ken Chow was the loudest of the local business owners who cried foul to the zoning board when Marshall Zanger was getting a permit to open Bento. Something about the property not being zoned for any back-of-the-building parking. Zanger got the permit to allow parking, and he called the city health department to report health code violations at Plum Ink.” He cleared his throat. “Allergies, sorry. So, getting back to your visit to Plum Ink. You were talking about your friends getting a few free bags of food from the kitchen. If it was left over from someone else’s plate, that’s a health-code violation.”

Aunt Norie came in the room with an Imari teapot and two small tea bowls on a lacquered tray. In English, she announced, “I have made tea from the fresh cherry blossom leaves. I hope you can drink it.”

“It’s actually rehydrated, packaged cherry blossom tea,” I added, mindful of the detective’s talk of health violations. If he thought Norie had brought in a live agricultural product from Japan, we might be in trouble.

“Whatever it is, it smells as beautiful as it looks,” Detective Burns said, watching my aunt pour. “Have you been to see the Japanese cherry trees on the Mall yet? They’re starting to blossom.”

“No, I haven’t seen them. I am too busy taking care of my niece,” Norie said. “So you are the detective?”

“I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I’m Louis Burns, with the District’s investigative unit.”

“
Ah so desu ka
,” Norie said, sounding unimpressed. “I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Please. I’ll answer what I can.”

“This car went to Virginia,
neh
?” Norie said. “Have you questioned Mr. and Mrs. Norton?”

“Who?” Burns gave me an irritated look, as if I should have said something earlier.

“The Nortons are the father and stepmother of my friend Andrea from the restaurant,” I said. “I mentioned to the Virginia police that we’d all gone down to Orange County to see them last week.”

“There’s no mention of anyone called Norton in the report we got from Virginia. Why exactly are you concerned about them?”

I weighed things. Andrea had tried to get the police to reopen her mother’s case, but she’d been turned down. If I said something now, maybe things would take a turn for the better. “It’s a long story,” I said. “I think Andrea should be here to tell it.”

“I’ll get Miss Norton’s story later. Tell me what you know.”

So I did. At the end of it, Burns said, “That is interesting.” I was beginning to think that this phrase was Burns’s own version of the Japanese use-anywhere phrase “
Ah so desu ka
.” “Is that so?” was the meaning of the phrase, but it really was a catch-all conversation filler.

“I guess there are a few possibilities,” I said, thinking over all that we’d talked about. “The first is that both Kendall and I were taken by the same or similar types of men, for no reason other than that we were women who were easy marks.”

Burns nodded. “That’s the most obvious idea.”

“On the other hand, you’ve said things that present a new theory about a restaurant war. In that scenario, Ken Chow would have sent thugs to take Kendall from the parking lot, and ordered the same crew to sweep me up later.”

“But what about the Nortons?” Norie interrupted. “Andrea-san
believes her mother was murdered. If Mr. Norton did that, maybe he is trying to stop Rei-chan from finding the truth. Please, you must investigate that man and his wife.”

“I’ll research whether this Norton guy has any old criminal charges,” Burns said. “I can also see if he’s willing to have a conversation with me. But I can’t descend on his home without a warrant. And to obtain a warrant we need some kind of evidence that gives reasonable suspicion he’s connected to a current crime. It doesn’t sound as if the visit, as you describe it, turned up that kind of evidence. You asked for some old papers, and he cooperated fully.”

“I haven’t had time to thoroughly read through those papers yet,” I said. “There might be something there—”

“But those papers are old. What could have been written thirty years ago that could be linked to what happened to you a few nights ago? Now, Miss Shimura, I have a question for you.”

Both Norie and I looked at him, but from the direction of his gaze, it seemed clear the question was for me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why you jumped.”

I was disoriented by the attention. “Because I thought that if I didn’t, they would open the trunk, take me out and”—I looked at my aunt, and decided to mince my words—“perhaps hurt me.”

“Your cousin was left unharmed in the trunk. You didn’t think of that?”

“My niece is brave. Very athletic,” Norie said. “That’s why she tried.”

“I could tell from the way the car was being driven that we’d left the city. And there was rope in the trunk, which made me nervous,” I added.

“Rope? You didn’t mention that to the Virginia police.”

“Didn’t I? The details come and go. I’m sorry.” I had felt it in my hand. A synthetic rope, stronger than straw.

“Rope doesn’t sound good. You were smart to make your getaway,” he said.

“Maybe you should look in all the people’s cars for rope,” Norie said. “The Chinese restaurant owner and Mr. Norton.”

“I need a warrant to do that kind of search. We have no evidence, at present, to obtain a warrant.” Burns was beginning to sound like a broken record.

“But what can we do, then?” Norie asked. Now that she was out of Japan, she was becoming so assertive. Her traditional manners were falling away from her just like the cherry blossom was expanding in my teacup.

She was blooming under the most adverse of circumstances.

I wished I could do as well.

I’d been consuming regular amounts of Aleve and irregular amounts of food, and that had taken a toll. My stomach ached steadily—enough to keep me from wanting to put anything in it, which exacerbated the situation. Norie explained this to me in between offering bowls of her famous gruel, a classic Japanese cure for the ill. Interestingly enough, the sludgy substance was tolerable. Ten days after I’d come home, the waistbands of all my jeans had become loose, but my slight reshaping didn’t feel like any kind of victory.

For days, Andrea had been telephoning. She’d wanted to come to the apartment and see me, and for a long time I hadn’t wanted to see her. I didn’t blame her for what had happened, but I was wary. I sensed there had to be a link between the trip I’d made to Virginia with her and the kidnapping that followed a few days later. The men who’d taken me were still out and about. I could only imagine them following her to Hugh’s apartment, the one place I felt was my refuge.

So to assuage Andrea, who was beginning to sound hurt, I agreed to meet her. On the first day that Hugh returned to work, Norie and I set off for Urban Grounds.

We went on foot, because it was just a few blocks away. Norie kept hold of my arm. I doubted a five-foot-one woman could stop anyone who intended to kidnap again, and I couldn’t believe anything like that could happen during the day, when so many people were on the street. The weather had turned at last; it wasn’t rainy anymore, and the tulips were finally opening. I’d encouraged my aunt to bring her camera to shoot some street scenes, but she’d said that would distract her from taking care of me.

Andrea smiled widely when she saw the two of us walk in. She’d taken the same table, way in the back, where I’d met her before. I waved at her and headed to the counter to order coffee, but she called out, “I got it for you already. Skinny latte, extra sugar. And for your aunt, I’ve got a pot of green tea.”

“How very considerate,” Norie murmured as we made our way to the back.

“I’m so glad you made it.” Andrea’s voice was almost shy.

“Oh, it’s good for me to get out. I was starting to grow roots into the couch,” I joked.

“No, I mean I’m glad you made it. Survived. If you had disappeared, I would—it would have been—” A hint of tears glittered at the edges of her gracefully made-up eyes.

“It
didn’t
happen.” I knew, all of a sudden, what she was thinking. The loss of her mother was being replayed in her mind.

“That detective called me.” Andrea wiped her eyes. “You know, the one who came to the restaurant. Louis Burns. He wanted to talk about all kinds of things, like why I went to Plum Ink, and who I know there. He said he might be able to dig up the old police records relating to my mother’s disappearance, if I helped him.”

“He should be looking into those things whether you help him or not,” I said, feeling my exasperation rise. “It should be part of the investigation about what happened to Kendall and me.”

“I guess he thinks of me as an informant.” Andrea paused. “Not that I told him a thing. But I’m wondering why he took an interest in my mother’s disappearance?”

Before I could answer, Norie answered. “I said to him, Andrea-
san, that maybe those strange people in Orange County were the ones who took Rei.”

“‘Those strange people.’ You mean my dad and Lorraine?” Andrea asked.

“Yes, exactly,” Norie said.

“They’ll freak if Burns goes down there!” Andrea set down her coffee cup with a bang.

“I don’t think he will harass them,” I soothed her. “He already told me there’s not the evidence to get a search warrant. Besides, he is pretty gung ho on his own theories of who’s behind the abductions.”

“Hmm. I wonder if that’s why he asked me if I’d ever seen Ken Chow snooping around Bento, which of course I hadn’t, though he’s sent over staff a few times to check out the menu and prices.”

“The detective should look inside Bento for a clue,” Norie opined. “A few nights ago, I mentioned that I found something strange about Takeda-san. I have not told you, because your heart is so heavy. I did not want to add more trouble.”

“What do you mean, Jiro’s strange? If you think he has an eye for guys, you’re mistaken,” Andrea said. “In fact, I could tell you stories—”

“I have the story for you, I think. Jiro Takeda is not Japanese.”

“What?” Andrea and I exclaimed in unison.

“I know you say he is iron chef, and maybe he appeared on
terebi
, but he is not
Nihonjin
. He speaks Japanese, but there is an accent. And he cannot cut a beautiful vegetable flower!”

“Obasan, his personal taste is just not geared to vegetable flowers. And there are regional accents in Japan. Remember that accent Chika picked up when she was in Kyoto?” I was struggling not to laugh.

“Who is Chika?” Andrea looked in confusion from me to Norie.

“Norie’s daughter—my cousin who lives in Japan. My aunt’s theory can’t be right. Jiro is as Japanese as—as Norie herself,” I added, because I’d been about to say “you and I,” which wasn’t much, given that Andrea and I were both classified as
hafu
.

“There is nothing bad about being foreign,” Norie said. “I have a friend who is Korean. Very nice lady, good at flower arrangement.”

“Where do you think Jiro comes from?” Andrea’s expression remained doubtful.

“That I cannot say. Mainland China, Taiwan, Korea, somewhere like that. There are very smart people in these countries. And most Asians can learn Japanese easily.”

“So the root of all the terror is an Asian chef who is closeted about his national origin. Let’s tell Louis Burns.” I made my sarcasm obvious.

“It actually is a big deal,” Andrea said slowly. “If you look around this area, most Japanese restaurants are run by Koreans or Vietnamese. Japan-born chefs are expensive because they’re so rare. Jiro added prestige to Marshall’s operation. If he’s exposed as not really Japanese, it’s a blow to Bento.”

If Jiro was a fraud, maybe Ken Chow knew it. Maybe the Plum Ink owner was blackmailing Jiro, or something like that. Kendall’s and my kidnappings could have been connected to that blackmail, or some kind of revenge. I could barely keep my theories straight because both Norie and Andrea had more to say.

“Takeda-san is not the only problem in the kitchen. Some of the other cooks do not cook like professionals. The whole kitchen is strange,” Norie said.

“I agree,” Andrea said. “What about that new cook on the line who came in last week to replace the guy who called in sick?”

“Toro-san?” Norie asked.

“Yes, he’s the one. He supposedly had all this experience at Jaleo, but he doesn’t cook like he has. He fries everything on high, like it’s a hamburger. When Jiro saw what he did to a piece of tuna last week, I assumed he was going to fire the fool. But all Toro got was his nickname, and Jiro shifted him to washing dishes.”

Toro was the name of a super-high-quality cut of tuna, so now I understood the nickname. I wondered how much of him my aunt had seen. “What do you think about Toro, Obasan?”

“I did not have time to watch him closely. I was busy cooking.” Norie sounded very pious.

“Norie, that dish you created, the
yosenabe
? People are coming in and asking for it because it was mentioned in the paper.
Marshall asked Jiro to put it on the menu permanently and, of course, he doesn’t know your recipe, so he’s in a jam.”

“When did the newspaper review come out?” I asked.

“Last Sunday. It was—mixed,” Andrea said. “I can’t believe you didn’t see it.”

I’d been lost in self-pity on Hugh’s calfskin sofa. “I’ll have to dig it out of the recycling.”

“I’d like to taste Takeda-san’s
yosenabe
.” Norie’s expression was almost mischievous. “Let’s see if he can prepare a Japanese dish without a cookbook.”

Andrea and I exchanged a quick glance. I didn’t want a failure in the kitchen, and I was sure that she didn’t, either.

“Why don’t you go along with Andrea to oversee Jiro’s cooking?” I suggested.

“But I cannot leave your side—”

“Rei, you come, then,” Andrea said. “Marshall’s been waiting for you to wax the ladies’-room
tansu
. And I made copies of those letters of my mom’s for you, Norie. It’s all in my locker there.”

“Rei cannot use hands to do any work,” Norie protested again.

“Really?” Andrea eyed the splints on my fingers.

The doctor had told me not to do anything to cause stress to the fingers, but I found myself wanting to go. “They’re healing pretty well. I can do some things. If I’m in pain, I’ll stop.”

The truth was, doing something more strenuous than reading or drinking tea might lift me out of my emotional slump, though I doubted that it would lessen the sensation that someone was watching me, from behind every corner.

I was greeted warmly when I entered the kitchen about an hour before the lunch service started. A crowd of cooks and waiters surrounded me in a giant football huddle, one that smelled of sweat and garlic and ginger. But I didn’t mind.

“You go, girlfriend,” said Justin, surprising me with a kiss on the mouth. I’d thought he loathed girls, especially me.

Alberto, the line cook who’d helped me before, asked me what I wanted to eat.

“Nothing right now,” I said. “I have to check in with Marshall and also see to the
tansu
in the ladies’ room. And my aunt has a recipe to share with Jiro—”

“Marshall and Jiro are together in the office right now, confabbing about the review,” Justin said.

“I can’t believe I missed it.”

“Well, you’ve had a lot on your mind, honey,” said Justin.

“I hear there was mention of the
yosenabe
. I hope my poor cooking did not embarrass this restaurant,” Norie said, playing her Japanese manners to the hilt.

“That was the good part,” said Phong, who had just come in. “Come over to the bar, Mrs. Shimura. I have a copy of it there.”

I was curious about the article, but I wanted my aunt to have a chance to see the good review of her dish first. So Norie went off to the bar with Phong, and I set to work in the ladies’ room with my container of wax and a few soft cloths. I’d put gloves over my bandaged hands, and while I wasn’t as flexible in my movements as before, I could manage.

After thirty minutes’ work, the
tansu
was drenched in wax. I needed to wait a while before rubbing it off, and it was high time, I knew, that I talked to Marshall. I wove my way through the restaurant to Marshall’s small office. Through the window set in the door, I could see that Marshall was at his desk, facing Jiro and talking. The office was soundproof, so I couldn’t hear what was being said, but Marshall’s expression was serious. I felt a flurry of anxiety that didn’t stop when Marshall caught sight of me and beckoned me in.

“You poor girl,” he said, getting up and taking a few strides through his clutter to embrace me.

Jiro had risen, but didn’t make a move to touch me. “Are you well enough to be here, Rei-san? You must take care.”

His manners were so Japanese; he couldn’t be anything else.

“Some of my fingers had small fractures, but they’re healing well enough for me to have waxed the ladies’-room vanity. Sorry
you had to wait so long for me to do it. I don’t think you’ll have water-damage problems for a while.” I smiled at both of them.

“Have the cops caught up with the guys who, ah, took you?” Marshall asked.

“No, they haven’t had luck, but they assure me they’re working on it.” I watched my boss, trying to figure out his motives. “Anyway, I’m just glad to be alive and finally out and about. How has business been over the last week?”

“Not great.” Marshall’s voice was flat.

“It looked pretty busy out there,” I said.

“Not busy enough. I’m sure last Sunday’s review has something to do with it.”

“Everyone keeps talking about the review, and I’m embarrassed to say that I missed it.”

Marshall picked up a newspaper from the top of his desk. “Do you want to read it?”

“Yes. I can take it out of here, if you like. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting,” I said.

“Please sit down. Jiro and I will carry on,” Marshall said.

“Yes, please take your rest. We are talking about tonight’s special,
yosenabe
.” Jiro sounded unhappy. It probably felt like a slap to him, having to add a dish to the permanent menu that wasn’t in his personal repertoire.

I sat down on the yellow love seat and began reading. The critic pointed out the true meaning of
kaiseki ryoori
, the classical Japanese cuisine term that Jiro and Marshall used to inaccurately label Bento’s cuisine. Then he went on to complain about the Kobe beef filet’s toughness and the grit in the mussels, though he praised a few dishes, like the salt-grilled red snapper and the
yosenabe
stew that he’d found “heady with complex aromas.” But the review was about far more than food.

“Oh my God,” I said. “They hate the interior because it’s not modern. Marshall, I’m so—so sorry.”

“I asked you to use antique furniture,” Marshall said heavily. “The customers tell me they like our china and the
bento
boxes. I just don’t get it.”

But I’d moved on to the last few damning lines of the review.

I refolded the paper and said, “I can see why you’re upset about this. I am, too.”

“We’ll survive,” Marshall said.