The Pearl Diver (7 page)

It was too early to call San Francisco to give my mother the good news, and Hugh, I knew, was at a business dinner in Tokyo. I felt at loose ends, so I decided to take the run that I’d planned. Usually I ran without thinking of much other than avoiding obstructions and beating red lights. The best thing was to leave Adams-Morgan and run through the wooded trails of Rock Creek Park, something I did only during peak running hours, because Hugh had cautioned me about a young woman intern whose body had been found near a jogging trail a few years before.

This morning was like all the others. Sun filtered through the tall, leafy trees, and the damp leaves and earth were gentle underfoot. I started to jog, but didn’t have the power, or the desire, to push myself. So I walked quickly, glancing without really meaning to at every male who moved past. Nobody stared at strangers in Washington, just as nobody did in Japan. I dropped my gaze to the daffodils along the path. It was crazy to look at people like that. Anyone meaning harm would be lurking in the trees, not striding along a path full of morning exercisers.

I’d hardly sweated during the walk, but out of habit, I showered. As water drummed against my tight shoulders, I finally relaxed.
Afterward, even though it was slightly earlier than Detective Burns had suggested, I called the hospital. The emergency room receptionist told me that Kendall had already been released.

I decided to hold off visiting Potomac for a few hours to give her time for a reunion with the children. In the meantime, I could swing by the restaurant to share the good news and hear about how Jiro thought the restaurant opening had gone. It would be a relief to throw myself into some cheerful, trivial conversation—especially if I could forage for some good leftovers from the kitchen. My cousin was safe, and I had an appetite again. I was ready to live.

I drove Kendall’s car to H Street, where because of the early hour, I landed a spot close to Bento. Through its spotless windows I caught the languid movements of a bus boy setting out silver, Marshall gesticulating over a table as he talked to Andrea. This was still family time; Bento would open to the public at six tonight. In the next week, it was supposed to start its regular schedule, open from eleven to eleven daily.

“Hello, everyone!” I made my greeting as I stepped into the dining room.

“You’re cheerful today,” Marshall said in a voice considerably less so.

“The police found my cousin,” I announced. “She had been abducted, just like I thought. But she’s alive and well and I’m going to see her after this—I’m just so relieved!”

“That’s so great!” Phong punched his fist in the air.

“Yes, I heard already. They brought back my cell phone early this morning,” Marshall said.

Andrea gave me a long look, shook her head, and went off into the kitchen.

“Has something come up?” I asked. I couldn’t help but be shocked by Marshall and Andrea’s lack of happiness at Kendall’s rescue.

“Just a little bit of stress. Par for the course,” Marshall said. “Actually, I’ve got to dash over to Mandala to get some coconuts. Alberto!” he bellowed.

Alberto, the prep cook who had noticed where Kendall had gone the night before, emerged from the kitchen wearing a white chef’s coat and black-checked pants.

“I need you to come with me to Mandala. We’ll be bringing over some produce that we need for tonight,” Marshall said.

“Okay. I’ll find my coat—” Alberto said in halting English before Marshall cut him off.

“No time for that. My car’s parked right out front.” And with that, Marshall swept Alberto out the door.

I wandered into the kitchen, where I found Jiro sitting on a stool at the stainless-steel prep counter. He had a half glass of an amber liquid in one hand and a newspaper folded neatly before him. I watched him read an article through, then start reading it again.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s doing?”

“Join me for a drink.” He raised an eyebrow toward a bottle that I recognized as whisky. Whisky! I’d never seen Jiro touch alcohol before.

“It’s a little early for me,” I demurred. “But I could go for some leftover veggies from last night, if there’s anything to spare—”

“Ha, you may as well have a fresh fish. I expect few people will come tonight.”

“Why on earth?” I stared at him, finally noticing how upset he looked.

“Haven’t you read the
Post
?”

I shook my head, recalling the rolled-up newspaper I’d tossed in my foyer before I’d gone out to exercise. I hadn’t had time to read the paper while I was still in happy shock over the finding of Kendall.

I read the article over his shoulder:

As I finished, I realized I knew who the reporter was. She must have been the quiet woman sitting with the man who called me over to ask about the age of the
tansu
chest. To Marshall, I said, “I can’t believe she intended to write about us all along. That’s not supposed to be done on a soft opening, is it? And what a shame the information wasn’t reported that Kendall was found! But I know how these things work, they probably had to go to print before the police located her.”

“Marshall called the editor to complain.” Jiro paused to take another swig of whisky. “He said the reporter usually writes for the home and garden section, and she received an invitation from us to the opening. They’ll run a follow-up piece that will include the information that your cousin was found safe.”

“That should make things a little better,” I said. “Don’t you think?”

“The damage has occurred,” Jiro said. “All morning the press have been crawling around, trying to photograph the restaurant. They even tried for me, but I said no. I refuse to become the laughing talk of the nation—”

“Laughingstock,” I corrected gently. “And you aren’t! You’re a genius. It’s too bad they didn’t mention how good the food was.”

“No, the newspaper observes very strict rules about that. The critic visits several times to have a good idea about the truth in cooking.”

I sighed. “Well, the press isn’t here because the story about the restaurant is over. Kendall’s safe at home and being interviewed by every TV station I can think of in Washington. With this kind of happy ending, I’m sure the restaurant can go on.”

“I think the kidnapping was—how do you say?—rigged.”

“You mean someone set it up? Why?”

“We have several competitors in Penn Quarter. One of them might want to encourage the idea that our restaurant is in an area that is too risky. You know we have a difficult parking situation, and the valet service we hired was unusually slow last night. That could also have been part of the plot.”

“I’m sure the police will look into that, if you mention it,” I said diplomatically. I thought Jiro’s ideas were crazy.

“My guess is that your cousin will not be able to identify the men who took her—and they wouldn’t be the business owners, but criminals hired to do the job. I’ve seen it in Japan with
chinpira,
the boys who work for
yakuza
, and also with gangsters in Brazil. You know, in Brazil I had a bodyguard to protect me, and a car with bulletproof glass!”

“I will find out all that I can from my cousin. I’m actually headed that way, but I was going to give her a little time to spend alone with her children.”

“You needed to eat. I’ll cook for you.” Jiro tipped his half-full glass of liquor into the sink. “I have a refrigerator packed with fresh seafood that will go bad if nobody comes tonight. What is your fancy?”

The jumbo Louisiana shrimp looked good to me, so Jiro taught me how to make Yin-Yang Shrimp, a dish in which the shrimp is fried with a black sesame seed coating on one side and white sesame seed on the other. The lesson seemed to cheer him up a little, and we were chatting about the health benefits of sesame seeds when Andrea came in. She wasn’t dressed in one of her typically elegant outfits today, but, rather, in jeans that hung below her navel and a faded Montgomery College T-shirt. I saw a silver ring gleaming in her navel, which was quickly covered when she put a clean white apron over her attire.

She opened the fruit and vegetable refrigerator and turned to Jiro. “How many carrots?”

“Six pounds’ worth, matchstick julienne. May I show you?” Jiro picked up a knife from his special cooking area.

“What’s happening?” I was startled to see Andrea attempt to peel vegetables.

“Marshall called me this morning to say I couldn’t be hostess anymore because of what the reporter said about my demeanor. This is my job now,” Andrea muttered. “Kitchen gofer.”

“‘I’m sorry,” I said. “So what’s—who’s the hostess now?”

“Marshall is training that asshole Justin to do it.”

“But Justin was the one who caused the problem in the first place by not letting her talk on her cell at the table,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I hope the loss in tips he’ll suffer will feel like a punishment to him.” Andrea put a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, I’m really glad the cops found your cousin.”

“Thank you.” I was surprised, by both the touch and the sentiment. Andrea was the only person who’d reacted with concern to Kendall’s kidnapping.

I moved in next to Andrea to watch Jiro demonstrate his julienne technique. The carrots jumped in the air as his flat-bottomed cleaver came down fast. He wasn’t turning them into matchsticks, he was turning them into shreds as fine as human hair. I cooked all the time, and I couldn’t cut anything that small. How would Andrea cope?

“I’m working now, but I’d like to—talk to you about something. Can you meet me tomorrow? There’s a coffee shop I like called Urban Grounds, in Adams-Morgan,” Andrea said as Jiro moved off to let her work on the technique by herself.

“I know it. It’s close to where I live.” I looked at Andrea, surprised again by her attention. “Can you meet me in the morning? I have to go to the airport in the afternoon.”

We agreed to meet at ten the next day. I left Andrea, slowly scraping carrots, to get into Kendall’s car and drive it over to Treetops. This time, nobody could possibly miss her house. Harmony Way was filled by two police cruisers and three television station vans. When I rang the doorbell, a blond woman about my age peered out at me from behind long, overly layered bangs.

“Ms. Johnson is booked for interviews for the next two hours. You have to call first to schedule,” she said.

“I’m her cousin, Rei Shimura. I came to return her car, and to see her if she’s feeling up to it. Who are you?” I was horrified that my cousin, just hours after her trauma, was being bossed into an interview schedule by this woman.

“You’re Kendall’s cousin?” An unbelieving, arched eyebrow. Obviously, my Asian coloring didn’t bear an obvious link to Kendall’s. But then, Jacquie trailed across the foyer, a blanket in one hand, and saw me.

“Aunt Way! Aunt Way!” She toddled toward me eagerly, almost slipping on the polished wooden floor.

“You’d better come on in,” the woman said, opening the door wider. “I have to be careful because we don’t want to overexpose Kendall. I’m Martina Shattuck. I’m Harp Snowden’s press attaché, but I’m helping Kendall out today. She called me from the hospital to meet her here an hour and a half ago. It’s been crazy.”

Shattuck. Like Howard, it was another good old name—this time from northern California. Maybe Martina Shattuck was one of Kendall’s gal pals, but it seemed unbelievable that Harp Snowden would allow his attaché to be Kendall’s personal assistant. Then again, Kendall and Harp seemed to have become very close.

“Kendall’s in her study with the police right now. If you like, you can join the media in the sun room, where we’ve set up coffee and bagels for them while they wait.”

“I’d rather hang out with this crew,” I said, picking up Jacquie and inhaling the scent of her hair.

“Yeah, well, don’t feel obligated. The au pair’s here for that.” She smiled brightly. “Hey, if you’re able to help at all, it would be super if you could take over handling the press stuff for me at four? I need to get back to the office to follow up on some things for the senator.”

“I have no press experience.” Except running away from Japanese reporters, I thought bleakly.

“Oh, it’s just manning the phones and booking interviews. If they press you for something immediate, there’s a prepared statement.”

“Whose statement?”

“Kendall dictated it over a hospital phone to me.”

I sat down on the living room couch with Jacquie on my lap, and Win Junior playing ball on the carpet with Lisa, a slender, doe-eyed South African girl who seemed barely out of her teens. As she called to them in her soft, British-edged accent, they giggled and squirmed. Lisa seemed totally focused on them, and energetic, too—more energetic than I’d be after a late night out. It must have been her youth, and also the relief that Kendall was safe.