“What have you heard about Yoshiko’s collection tactics?” Hiro asked Mayuri.
“Lies and rumors, nothing more.” The teahouse owner waved her hand as if to dismiss the topic. “No man likes an aggressive woman, and some would rather make up lies than pay an honest debt. Wise people put no trust in debtors’ words.”
“Did you see Yoshiko last night?” Hiro asked.
“Briefly,” Mayuri said. “I didn’t speak with her myself. I had a meeting with the owner of the house across the road. You may have seen the ugly lanterns he installed a week ago.”
“I didn’t notice,” Hiro said.
“Clumsy carving, poorly finished … a disgrace to a high-class street.” Mayuri sniffed. “But you asked about Yoshiko. As far as I know, she picked up a list of debtors and left immediately.”
“A long list?” Hiro didn’t ask for names. A teahouse owner never revealed her customers’ identities.
Not voluntarily, anyway.
“No.” Mayuri’s lips pressed into a narrow smile. “Most of our visitors pay quite promptly since Yoshiko started work.”
“Do you welcome your debtors as visitors, then?” Hiro asked.
Mayuri’s smile vanished. “I will not disclose information about my patrons.”
“Not to me, perhaps,” Hiro said. “You may feel differently standing before the magistrate.”
Mayuri matched the shinobi’s gaze with intensity, but as the seconds passed her expression wavered.
“I will not reveal my patrons’ names,” she repeated at last, “but men who refuse to pay their debts will find no welcome here.”
Hiro lowered his voice. “I need to know if Yoshiko’s list included a man named Kaoru.”
Mayuri straightened. “You know I will not answer that. However, I have heard that name, and the man it belongs to is not welcome here.”
She spoke with a finality that indicated the end of the conversation.
Hiro stood. “Thank you for your time.”
Mayuri’s forehead furrowed, sending shadowed lines across her features. “What has happened to the man of whom you speak?”
“To Kaoru? Nothing.” Hiro paused in the doorway. “His father is dead.”
“And you think Yoshiko killed him.” Mayuri narrowed her eyes. “You believe it, without evidence, because she dares to call her life her own.”
“On the contrary,” Hiro said, “I have no objection to independent women. I do, however, take offense when the guilty blame the innocent. I will find this killer, as I did in General Akechi’s case, and if the trail leads back here, I promise, you will not escape unscathed.”
“You may leave,” Mayuri said. “Our talk is over.”
“At last, we agree.” Hiro slid open the shoji. “There is no need to escort me out. I know the way.”
* * *
Hiro headed for the river, regretting his decision to see Mayuri. The teahouse owner essentially confirmed that Kaoru owed her money, but her words had offered little else of note. Worse, Hiro hadn’t found an opening to ask what Mayuri knew about Yoshiko’s other employers, and he doubted he would have a second chance.
As he reached the Kamo River, Hiro saw a samurai approaching. He slowed, loathing the thought of another confrontation with Matsunaga Hisahide’s obnoxious guards.
A lantern lit the samurai’s features, revealing not a guard but Akechi Yoshiko.
She wore a masculine blue kimono and an obi of smoky silk. Her wakizashi hung from her sash and a long katana stretched upward behind her back. The longsword waggled when she walked like the tail of a happy dog.
Or a she-wolf, Hiro thought.
Yoshiko bowed. “Good evening, Matsui-san. Or, perhaps, I may call you Hiro?”
Hiro returned the bow. “Good evening, Yoshiko.”
His use of her given name gave her permission to use his also; Hiro saw no way to refuse without causing offense.
“This is a pleasant surprise.” She looked past Hiro up the street. “Are you coming from the Sakura?”
“Yes. I was looking for you.” Hiro smiled to cover the lie. He doubted the woman could see his features well in the gathering darkness but knew the smile would carry into his tone.
“For me?” Yoshiko’s voice revealed delight.
Hiro swallowed his distaste and smiled more broadly. “I hoped you would help me.”
“Of course I will. I can walk with you, and you can explain on the way.” Yoshiko inclined her head toward Hiro as she spoke.
Most of the time, the shinobi thought that particular feminine gesture unduly subservient. On Yoshiko, it looked absurd.
“No need,” Hiro said. “I do not want to interrupt your errand.”
“Please, it would be my pleasure.” She turned and stood at Hiro’s side.
He accepted the inevitable and started across the bridge.
“Where are we going?” Yoshiko asked.
“Ginjiro’s sake brewery.”
“Ginjiro brews the best in Kyoto,” Yoshiko said. “As it happens, I need to visit there myself. Ginjiro’s daughter, Tomiko, asked to speak with me this evening. I intended to see her later, but this works just as well. Better, really, because I can walk with you.”
She lowered her face as if embarrassed, but the light of a passing lantern lit the smile that touched her lips.
For the second time that day, Hiro wished he could disappear.