Chapter Twenty-three

Philip was up and out early on Monday morning, spurred on by communication with Captain Ellison at CIC. In addition to a Colt .45, Philip had a small radio set tucked into his duffel bag and could communicate in basic code with the Captain, who was temporarily stationed at nearby Fort Ord. This complicated communication network was established because CIC did not want Philip burned by someone who might be observing the Fort; neither did CIC trust the privacy of telephone lines. Philip was to remain anonymous, undercover, so he sent the Captain a coded progress report last night, or to be more exact a lack-of-progress report. Ellison got back to him in no uncertain terms that he should not take this as a vacation and “get off your duff and take care of this damn job.” In those very words and in plaintext rather than code.

So, bright and early this morning, Philip took up position down the road from the entrance to Kingdom Come. Hicks was his primary suspect as the one passing information on troop movements to the Japanese. With his pro-Nazi sympathies, Hicks was a logical choice.

But too obvious? he wondered.

Philip spent part of the morning parked in a turnout on the narrow country road near the Kingdom Come compound thinking about others the spy might be, about his dad’s ever-enlarging case, and also about Suzy. Actually, mostly about Suzy and his feelings for her. He’d had crushes before, but those seemed like casual involvements compared to the depth of feeling he was developing for Suzy. He figured it must be love. And it scared him. They’d only had a few dates, but already he felt like he wanted to always be there for her, to protect her. This was a dangerous feeling when his first obligation should be to his country, his sole focus should be the capture of the traitor who was passing on vital information to the Japanese.

He played through this scenario several times, finally deciding he should talk to his mother about these conflicting emotions. She always seemed to be the sensible one in the family about relationships. His father too often had his head in the clouds or buried in the case at hand.

No sooner had he made this decision than a Ford pickup pulled out of the drive at Kingdom Come. As it passed him headed to Highway 1, Philip recognized the long-haired driver from file photos as Hicks himself.

He felt a rush of excitement. Finally, some activity.

He gave it a two count and then started the Hudson, following at a safe distance. The sun was burning through the early-morning clouds, and there was very little traffic on the road, which made it harder to follow without being noticed. Philip had scored highest in his CIC class on surveillance tactics; he felt confident he knew the tricks of the trade, how far to hang back, when to take the initiative.

Hicks turned onto Highway 1, headed south, which was a good sign. The direction of Fort Ord. Maybe he’d get lucky.

Following a couple cars behind Hicks now, Philip had to pass him when Hicks made a sudden stop at a gas station. There was a turnout just down the road, and Philip pulled over there, trying to keep an eye on Hicks in the rearview mirror. It looked like he really was stopping for gas, but Philip would later need to discreetly question the gas jockey to make sure.

Hicks was soon on the road again, and Philip waited a few moments before continuing surveillance, trying to hold his emotions in check. His stomach was churning and blood pumping, adrenaline kicking in. He wanted to break this one wide open, to show Captain Ellison what he could do.

Breathe, he told himself. Take it easy. Follow the training.

Hicks was keeping to the 40-mile speed limit, like he didn’t want to call attention to himself. They were getting closer to Fort Ord and Philip was hoping that Hicks would take up watch somewhere nearby or better yet, perhaps meet with a contact he might have at the military installation.

No such luck. A half hour later, Hicks drove right on past Fort Ord, still headed south toward Monterey and Carmel.

“Where the hell you going, boy?” Philip said aloud. He checked his own gas now. He still had three-quarters of a tank.

And now Philip began to get the feeling he was not alone. He’d caught sight of a blue car behind him following at the same discreet distance he was keeping from Hicks. Maybe it was paranoia, but he felt the car was tailing him. But on this narrow highway there was no way to dry clean the other car, no way to determine if it really was a tail.

Another twenty minutes and Hicks was still headed south, along the rocky shoreline of Point Lobos just south of Carmel. The blue car was still there, too. And now he was almost certain someone was on his tail. Rapid breathing again, sweat on his lips. Who the hell could it be?

Soon the road began to narrow, affording views to the right of the Pacific through redwood glens. Then the road climbed above the ocean and crossed a high, concrete bridge with waters below running quickly to the ocean. It was trickier following here as there was even less traffic. Philip hung farther back, allowing the pickup to get out of sight at times, figuring there could not be many turnings. The blue car in back seemed to be doing the same. Then, coming around a tight curve, he saw no trace of the pickup on the straight stretch ahead. He pulled over and finally caught a glimpse of it up a long narrow drive on the ocean side of the road. He waited for the car tailing him to come around the curve, but it never did.

He felt relief. Paranoia, not another asset. Not someone tailing him.

Then he drove on, hoping there would be a spot to stop partly hidden but still in sight of the pickup and the mammoth house at which it had parked. Luck was still with him: at the end of the straight stretch there was an opening to a road on the left. He turned in and was confronted with a pair of sawhorses with a two-by-four extended between them, blocking the road.

Even better. No visitors turning down this road. He pulled the Hudson to the side of the blocked road, parked, took out his binoculars from the glove compartment, and set up watch on the house where Hicks had gone. He focused on it. By the looks of it, whoever owned it had a pile of money. It was a three-story mansion overlooking the ocean. What the hell could a man like Hicks want there?

He looked again at the barricade. It bore a sign: “Warning: Road Closure 100 yards. Pittman Creek Bridge washed out. February 19, 1942.”

That’d make life pretty hard for anybody living back there, he thought.

He also noticed a hand-lettered sign at the intersection of Pittman Road and Highway 1: “Bistro Chez Henri 200 yards. Open year-round for fine dining.”

I don’t think so, Philip thought. A hundred yards out of luck.

He played the binoculars on the house again and saw redwood numerals and letters on a post by the drive: 14459 Rt 1.

He wrote the address down in a notebook he carried. Worth a trace with Ellison.

As he waited and the minutes stretched to what felt like hours, he focused on the restaurant sign again and something clicked with his parents’ investigation; the Big Sur restaurant that was one suspect’s alibi. Could be. He wrote down the information next to the address.

It was past noon when Hicks finally re-appeared, dressed in a caftan. Through the lenses of the binoculars, Philip saw that the old lady who accompanied him had blue hair and a soulful look as she kissed Hicks’s left hand.

Another convert to Kingdom Come? Another rich person Hicks could bilk to build his cult playground? He’d find out later.

Hicks got back in his pickup and now headed along the road toward where Philip was parked. He came to a stop, blocking the road, got out of his car and approached.

Shit, Philip thought. Now what? Did he make me? Adrenaline kicked in but Hicks cut him off from his car and the gun in his glove compartment.

“You following me, buddy?”

But he didn’t wait for an answer, pulling out a Luger from beneath his flowing caftan. “I don’t like being followed, you understand?”

Philip’s heart was racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. I just pulled over her to take a piss.”

“The fuck you say. You’ve been on my tail. Who are you?”

Philip could barely speak for the lump in his throat. “Look, I’m just a soldier headed home on leave. What the heck’s with you? Put that gun down, will you.”

Hicks squinted at him, then nodded menacingly. “I don’t want to see your car behind me when I pull out of here. Understand?”

He spun on his heels, got back in the pickup and spit gravel as he sped off north.

Philip took a deep breath, shaking his head. So much for high marks in the surveillance course.

Getting back in the Hudson, he pulled the gun out of his glove compartment and put it on the seat next to him. He gave Hicks a full minute head start before taking up the tail again.

But he had not gone more than five miles when suddenly, on an isolated stretch of road, two black sedans pulled onto the highway, one ahead of Hicks’s pickup and one behind. Both displayed government plates.

“Shit.”

Philip automatically slowed down. The small parade continued around a wide curve in the road and out of sight. Philip slowed even more, and when he came around the bend, he saw that the three vehicles had stopped alongside the road. Hicks was out of the pickup, jammed up against the hood with arms in back of him. A wiry looking man in a gray suit and fedora was slapping handcuffs onto Hicks, while another man held a gun on him. Two other men sat in the front seat of the second car watching the arrest. Lettering on the side of the door told the story: “San Francisco Field Office—FBI.”

Philip drove by, keeping his eyes on the road, trying not to look at the scene. Just in case he did, the one with the gun flashed a badge at him and waved him on with the drawn revolver.

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

So was it the FBI trailing him earlier?

Betty raised her eyebrows at Max as he went past her to Sheriff McCall’s office. The door was open, but Max gave it a knock anyway.

“Enter,” McCall said.

Max did so, unable to suppress a grin at the sight of McCall relegated to a card table and straight-back chair while Henshaw now lounged behind McCall’s desk.

“What’s so damn funny, Byrns?”

“Musical chairs?” He couldn’t help himself.

“Very fucking funny, Byrns,” Henshaw growled.

“Hilarious,” McCall agreed. “Before you make us die laughing, what’re you here for?”

“I need to talk with my client.”

Henshaw shook his boxer’s head at this and muttered, “Jesus.”

“James Suzuki has rights just like all of us in America,” Max said.

“Yeah, until he’s sent to an internment camp,” McCall said.

“He’s going then?” Max said. “Even if he’s charged with murder?”

A nervous muscle played in McCall’s jaw at this. “What do you need to see him about?”

Max sighed, staring hard at the sheriff.

“Okay, okay,” McCall allowed. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with my secretary Betty’s daughter suddenly remembering she saw a couple of cars out at Hanson’s Lake the night of Jimmy Suzuki’s murder.”

“You have a witness to that?” Max said with feigned amazement.

“Get off it, Byrns,” Henshaw said, joining in the conversation now. “But it’s not going to help your cause any. Sheriff here tells me James Suzuki doesn’t own a car, that he only drives the company truck. But that’s not going to stop him from borrowing one, is it? Or maybe those weren’t even the vehicles involved in the murder. Maybe they were out there earlier, before the crime.”

“So sure,” McCall added. “Go on and talk to your ‘client.’ But let him know your little trick didn’t work.”

Max turned and left before they could comment further. He winked at Betty as he passed her desk, then headed toward the cells. Deputy Thompson was on duty and let him in to see James without any song and dance.

“Thanks, Deputy,” Max said as Thompson locked them in.

“Nothing more than I’d do for any dumb animal.”

Max loved consistency. He would hate to readjust any of his prejudices against McCall or his officers.

“What news, Mr. Byrns?” James was lying on his bunk now, reading last week’s edition of the San Ignacio Reporter.

“Looks like you’re making yourself at home,” Max said, sitting on the edge of the bunk.

“Looks like I’ll have to unless some detective starts doing his work.”

Max was glad to see Suzuki’s spirits elevated from his last visit. He quickly told him of Ruth Waller’s testimony about there being two cars at Hanson’s Lake when Jimmy was killed.

“Nice of the girl to come forward like that. Yuki used to help her in school, as I remember. But I doubt it’s going to do any good? Am I right?”

Max nodded. “They argue you just borrowed a car.”

“They would. At least McCall would. Even as a kid that man was mean as a snake.”

Max let the silence sit for a moment and then said, “James, I spoke with Mrs. Friedrich last week.”

He watched closely for any reaction. James made one, but it wasn’t what Max was hoping for.

James sat up and looked at Max, shaking his head and squinting his eyes in disbelief.

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Because I had reason to believe this is the woman you are protecting by not telling McCall your whereabouts for the nights Tadeo and Jimmy were killed.”

“Reason? What reason? Byrns, what did you do?”

“I asked her if she and you were having an affair.”

James Suzuki buried his head in his hands. “How embarrassing,” he said, lifting his head. “How can I ever look the lady in the eyes again? She could only think such information came from me and must now think I’m insane. Or a terrible liar.”

Max heard honesty in James’s voice as well as conviction. Were Norton and others wrong about the liaison? He began to feel like an idiot.

“I’m afraid that’s exactly how she responded.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

“People talk. Word was your truck was parked at Friedrich’s place numerous times.”

“I thought you were a real policeman,” James said. “That you worked by more than rumor or insinuation.”

They were both silent for a moment. Idiocy confirmed, Max thought. Not something I would have done at the NYPD.

“I am sorry, Mr. Byrns. Bad manners seem to be habitual with me. You’re helping my family and all I can do is complain. I would not blame you if you walked out of this cell and never came back.”

“No, you’re right, James. I did go with rumor. But I felt… feel an urgency about this. The internment date has been sped up, according to McCall. We have less than two weeks.”

James’s shoulders slumped at this information.

“Why did people see your truck parked at Mrs. Friedrich’s?”

James looked up, rubbing at his cheek. “Because of my stupidity, that’s why. Because I wanted something that was mine like my father had with his love of poetry.”

“You really were taking art lessons from her?”

“Of course. Why else would I spend valuable time away from the farm? My father was always lecturing us on how important it was to be well-rounded. To have a sense of the beauty in life. And I listened to that long enough to finally want to experience it for myself. I saw an ad in the newspaper and I just went there one day.”

“And kept going back? Making clay figurines?”

“It started with that. But Mrs. Friedrich turned out to be quite knowledgeable about the arts in general. She educated me. Shared books with me. The only art we had at home when I was growing up were two old prints hanging on the wall in the living room. Cheap reproductions, father told us, but still something to be revered. He was very protective of them.”

He stopped and shook his head. “Sorry to be rambling, but that’s the truth of it, Mr. Byrns. I went to Mrs. Friedrich for art lessons.” He laughed. “A dumb farmer learning about art.”

“I think it’s admirable, James. My wife is an art restorer. She lives and breathes art. But what if I told you those two ‘prints’ in the living room were not some cheap reproductions?”

“What do you mean?”

“Those were the only impressions of an invaluable woodblock series of the seasons. The Metropolitan Museum in New York owns two of them, and it seems your father owned the other two. We think Tadeo financed the purchase of the initial fields with the sale of the Summer print. What’s remaining on the wall is Spring.”

James took this in, but was shaking his head as Max spoke. “Invaluable, you say?”

“Well, it’s got a value for sure. A collector might pay fifty thousand or more for it.”

“Dollars?”

“That’s what my wife tells me.”

“For a piece of old paper with coloring on it.”

“For art,” Max said. “Which you say you are beginning to appreciate.”

“But how did my father come into possession of these?”

“That’s the question,” Max said. “How much do you know of your father’s life in Japan?”

James shrugged. “Not much. My father did not dwell on the past, other than to warn us of the dangers of alcohol, a lesson he learned the hard way in an altercation with a friend.”

“Right. The famous fight on the Bluff in Yokohama. But did he ever speak of his parents or of why he decided to immigrate to America?”

James shook his head. “My father liked to look forward, not backward.”

“Did he ever mention the name Yumamato?”

James considered this for a moment. “No. Who is it?”

“Elizabeth has traced the history of these prints to a Yokohama family, the Yumamatos, a prominent military clan.” He watched for a tell in James’s expression that he might know more than he was letting on. Nothing to be seen.

He went on. “She’s pretty much convinced that your father was their son. Their only son. And that he had no intention of becoming a soldier as was expected of a Yumamato son. From what colleagues tell her about the provenance of these impressions, it would appear Tadeo stole off in the middle of the night with two of the prints in his luggage to finance his new life. Once in America, he simply changed his name to Suzuki and bided his time, waiting to cash in one of the prints until he had a son who was born in America and could purchase land.”

James made no reply to this at first, stunned by the news.

Finally, James said, “You’re sure of this?”

“The pieces fit together, James. But no, we cannot be one hundred percent sure. How else, though, to explain the two woodblock prints in Tadeo’s possession?”

“No wonder father was so protective of those prints. Hiding them in plain sight and then acting saddened when one of them was so water-damaged he had to throw it away. His way of explaining, I guess, why that print was no longer hanging there.”

Max felt a sense of satisfaction, like he was finally getting James to work with him rather than against him.

James looked thoughtful for a moment. “He even told me not too long ago that a dealer contacted him wanting to buy the remaining one. I just laughed at this, thinking it must be a joke—a worthless reproduction. Father was quite serious when he said he would never part with the print. He said nothing about its real value, only that it had deep sentimental value. A family heirloom. It should never leave the family.”

Max paused for a moment. “When your father talked of that drunken fight as a young man, can you remember any particulars of this friend?”

James hiked his shoulders. “Just that father felt betrayed by him. Something about the friend joining the secret police. He always described him as a large man. Father was surprised he had hurt the friend so badly, perhaps even killed him. He was very frank about this lapse in humanity. Panicking and running away from the scene. Why so curious, Mr. Byrns?”

“It’s possible that this friend from the past may have killed your father. There is the coincidence of place names. The Bluff in Yokohama and here on the coast. A symbolic meeting place to patch things up.”

He paused for a moment, letting this information set in with James. Then he said, “I’ve been going round and round about this and I can’t figure out what else would take your father to the restricted zone. Jimmy found a note in your father’s belongings from a man called ‘Basho.’ He went to talk with this man and he was later killed. I think it was this same Basho.”

“Basho,” James repeated. “That’s the name of father’s friend in Yokohama. I remember him mentioning that when I was young and he would tell the story.”

Max nodded, happy to have this confirmed by another of the Suzuki clan.

“But,” James said, “you have obviously not informed Sheriff McCall of this message from Jimmy.”

“Right,” Max said.

“Because you feel he would not believe it or somehow misuse such evidence?”

“Again right.”

“So, I assume you are searching for this Basho,” James said.

Max nodded. “I pegged Kito Watanabe for it until your mother told me the story of his feud with your father.”

“Yes, I knew of that. But Watanabe is all bark and no bite.”

“That’s what I have come to believe, as well. Plus, credit my wife Elizabeth again, because this friend from Tadeo’s past may be a Westerner.”

“White?”

“Could be,” Max said. “According to Elizabeth, the Bluff in Yokohama was the exclusive residential area for the Western powers who were opening up Japan to trade at the time.”

“You’ve given me much to dwell on, Mr. Byrns.”

They were quiet again for a time.

“Who is it, then?” Max finally said, hoping that he had broken through James’s reticence and won his trust. “Who are you protecting? Secure an alibi and be there for your family during internment. They’ll need your guidance.”

“That is not helping me, Mr. Byrns. I have made up my mind. You can help me by finding the person who killed my father and nephew. That will allow me to be with my family when we are dispossessed.”

Suzuki’s stubbornness on this point was driving Max crazy. “Did you ever hear of a guy named Joe Allen, also known as Aleotto?”

Max sprang the question on him out of the blue purposely, again looking for Suzuki’s reaction.

James looked toward the ceiling of his cell, as if the answer might be there. Finally, “Sorry. Can’t say I do. Who is he?”

“Was. He was murdered the same night as Jimmy. He was the guy who found your father’s body.”

“So many murders.”

“Carswell, too.”

“What?”

“They wouldn’t be mentioned here.” Max tapped the local newspaper lying on the bed. “It comes out on Mondays, before Jimmy, Aleotto, or Carswell were killed. Just be happy you were already in jail or McCall would probably have you up for Carswell’s death, as well.”

“This is crazy,” James said, appalled. “Chandler County used to be such a peaceful place. Now it sounds like a combat zone. It’s this damnable war.”

Silence again. Then, “Do you think the deaths are connected somehow?”

“They’ve got to be,” Max said, and then remembered Philip asking the same question when there were only three murders to deal with. “Four murders in less than two weeks in a county of under thirty thousand people?”

Now he began to wonder if they really were connected. The death of Tadeo and Jimmy could both be linked to the mysterious Basho. Carswell’s also, as it had the same M.O. as Tadeo’s murder. But Aleotto? That one still bothered him.

That was up close and very visceral, while the other three were done at arm’s length. The killer did not even need to see the results of the violence. So, more than one killer?

Or did Basho kill Tadeo as revenge for their long ago falling out, then kill Jimmy to cover up the crime. And say Basho was still with the Kempeitai and tracking troop movements at Fort Ord and Aleotto tags him as a spy. So he hires Carswell to do the dirty work on Aleotto and then kills Carswell to get rid of any loose ends?

“Well, then,” James said, interrupting these thoughts. “You should stop wasting time talking to me, detective. Find Basho and get this solved.”

James said it in a kidding sort of way, Max knew, but it pissed him off anyway. Like he’d been sitting at home playing checkers all this time.

As he was leaving the sheriff’s office, he spotted Sam Norton dressed in a black suit scurrying toward the courthouse like a latter-day Ichabod Crane.

“Good day to you, counselor,” he called out.

Norton turned and smiled. “And to you, Max. Visiting our client?”

He nodded. “Got a minute?”

“Actually, no. I’m late for court as it is. We’ll meet later. And Max, this latest killing of Carswell is a bit much, no? At least McCall can’t pin this one on James.”

“My thoughts as well.”

“Are you investigating?”

“I was thinking about it,” Max said, approaching Norton now.

“I am sure that McCall and his team did their usual ‘thorough’ job of crime scene investigation. I can’t imagine they’d even bother looking at the real scene.”

“How do you mean?” Max asked.

“Well, the violence occurred on the Bluff, of course,” Norton said. “But death took place on the rocks below. The actual scene of death.”

“Nice thinking, counselor.”

Norton tapped his temple. “The grey matter still works at times. Got to be going. Give my best to your wife.”

Max watched as Norton hurried in to the courthouse.

Now why the hell didn’t I think of that? Getting a step or two slow. Not a good feeling.

But he was tired of blaming every frigging thing on the pull of a trigger.

Focus, asshole, he told himself.