2:19 a.m.

JAP hordes overrun Philippines! U.S. fliers sink JAP destroyer! JAP parachutists swarm Luzon!

The radio blasted it. Linny’s all-night deli—blackout Beverly Hills.

Kay Lake smoked and ignored her food. She wore a black dress and a trench coat. People stared at them.

Ashida sipped coffee. The British soldier’s brandy had worn off. He still smelled Dudley Smith.

Kay said, “You’re distracted.”

Ashida said, “I have to leave soon. There’s something I need to see.”

“At this time of night? In a blackout?”

“Time has a new meaning now. It’s why there’s so many people here. They can’t sleep, and they’re afraid they’ll miss something.”

Kay stubbed out her cigarette. She ignored the radio and the gawkers. It was très Kay.

He checked Bureau Teletypes and got the word on Goleta. The sub attack did occur. A fishing village got blitzed yesterday morning. It was très hush-hush. The Santa Barbara Sheriff’s sealed it there at the spot.

He took a big risk. He called the Sheriff’s Office and impersonated Ray Pinker. “Can I send a man up?”

They said sure. He didn’t say the man was a JAP.

Kay said, “Thanks for meeting me. I know it’s not really your style.”

“I don’t have a style. I met you because I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, and because we have engaging conversations.”

Kay smiled. Her teeth were lipstick-smudged.

“You’ll say ‘What do you want?’ to me sooner or later. If I’ve figured it out, I’ll tell you.”

Ashida heard Jap and white girl. The place was full of late-night touts. The place reeked of steamed meat.

“I know what you want. You want to trade perceptions about the world we live in and discuss Captain Parker. He’s given you a task that makes you feel important, and he’s proven himself important to me. You were invited to a party in Beverly Hills, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep. You don’t know what you want from one moment to the next, and now the war’s gotten under your skin.”

The radio erupted. Ashida heard dead and JAPS. The touts cheered and flashed V for Victory.

“I’m acquainted with both of your bodyguards. That fact intrigues me.”

“Yes. Because you see everything as you.”

“On that note, then. I know some people that you might find engaging. We want to film a documentary exposing the roundups, and I thought you might like to help us.”

Ashida shrugged. The radio blared an advertisement. Hacienda Homes in Sherman Oaks! Another Exley Construction smash!

The newscast resumed. JAPS perish as bombed destroyer sinks! Ashida said, “The City Council approved a building plan last year. It was a proposed block of homes in Baldwin Hills, and Exley Construction was given the contract. The buyers’ covenant permitted the Nisei to bid on home sites, but the City Council redlined the provision. The Nisei sued in district court. They won, and a few families moved in. They saw they weren’t wanted and sold their homes back to Exley Construction for a pittance.”

Kay looked around. Ashida traced her eyes. One wall featured Jewish-fighter photos. Barney Ross, Benny Leonard, Maxie Rosenblum. The Lutheran Bucky Bleichert, crouched below them.

Kay blew him a kiss. “I saw Preston Exley, just yesterday. He was leaving an office four blocks from here.”

Their booth adjoined a window. Ashida pulled up the shade. Beverly Hills was blackout dark and flatland flat.

Kay looked out. She stared at a parked car. A big man leaned against it. Ashida recognized him—Officer R. S. Bennett.

It startled Kay. Ashida lowered the shade.

“He’s on the Department now. I was at his swearing-in a few hours ago. He’s our first emergency hire.”

“Do you think he’s following me?”

Ashida smiled. “He’s twenty years old, and you’re nothing but seduction. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were.”

Kay laughed and touched his hand. It shock-waved him. He pulled his hand back. He stood up and toppled his chair.

He walked outside. JAP, JAP, JAP trailed him. The Bennett boy was gone. Beverly Drive was 3:00 a.m. still.

He got his car and drove west. He kept the windows down. It dried his sweat and rewired his adrenaline. Beverly Hills, Westwood, Brentwood. Blackout-dark enclaves.

Santa Monica, the coast road. A clear shot north.

Soldiers patrolled the beachfront. They manned searchlights and scanned the wave break. Sandbagged bunkers, machine-gun nests.

He was risking coastal checkpoints. There’s a blackout, he’s a JAP, he’s got a hot radio in his trunk.

He hid the radio gear from Dudley. They sat in his car and talked. Their shoulders brushed. He skimmed the JAP-language tracts and lied per their contents.

They were anti–L.A. Police. He soft-soaped that aspect and harbored the lead for himself.

Ashida drove north. Raw nerves and sea spray kept him revived. He passed Zuma, Oxnard, Ventura. He saw beach sentries and aircraft spotters. He lucked out on checkpoints—none, none, and none.

He passed Santa Barbara. Dawn was two hours off. The Goleta Inlet was close.

The Sheriff’s man said they’d sealed it “on-site.” That meant an evidence shed off the water. The attack occurred at dawn yesterday. Expect cops and Army Intelligence. Expect catastrophe display boards. Expect cadavers and debris.

Expect rancor. Expect suspicion. Explain yourself. You’re a brilliant forensic chemist. It’s an early-wartime ambush scene. You had to see.

But, it’s a JAP sneak attack. But, you’re here unsanctioned. But, you’re a JAP.

It wouldn’t work. He’d risk detention. Parker, Pinker, Smith—name drops wouldn’t work. He had tenuous patrons back in L.A. He was a low-down JAP here.

He started to turn back. He saw beachfront lights ahead. He pulled up on a landside bluff and grabbed his binoculars.

He looked down. The site was eighty yards off. Arc lights framed an open-front shed.

He saw body tubs. Odd limbs extended. Dry-ice fumes blew out. He saw severed legs in a washtub.

He saw forensics pix clipped to clotheslines.

He saw trash bins full of charred wood.

The shed was lit bright-bright. One detail was off. Cops and Army brass should be hovering. Cars and jeeps should cover the beachfront and blacktop.

He saw one jeep only. He saw legs crossed at the ankle, sticking out.

One guard on duty. Goldbrick, predawn snoozer. There’s nobody else around.

Risk it, Mr. Moto. He might be asleep. Try it, Mr. Moto. If he’s awake, you’re fucked.

Those bright-bright lights. You don’t need flashbulbs.

Ashida grabbed his camera. He had sixteen exposures. He pinned his ID card to his jacket and crossed over to the blacktop.

He smelled charred wood and flesh. Salt spray merged with it. He walked straight to the jeep. He heard snores, straight off.

He looked in the cab. Sweet deal, Mr. Moto. The soldier wore earplugs.

The shed was decked out haphazardly. The attack was unexpected. Torpedoes hit the beach. It’s a fishing village. It’s “Collaborationist”—JAPS and Chinks allied.

Torpedoes hit. Explosive fire follows. It explains the charred wood in the tubs.

Cops and soldiers swarmed the scene and built this shed. They culled evidence haphazardly. They stuck around all day and got bored.

Think fast, Mr. Moto. You’ve got five minutes.

Ashida paced the shed. He paced quadrant-to-quadrant in strict crime lab–style. He photographed debris and the evidential photographs. He reconstructed the attack.

Torpedoes hit. The dock and fisherman’s huts blow up and fall down. Fishing boats burn into wave-scattered bits. Waves crash, waves recede. Severed arms and legs bob on the crests.

Men stumble out of rubble piles. They’re on fire. They scream and thrash. They fall down dead at the water-sand line.

Five dead men. Forensic photo–captured/​body tub–confirmed. A stray foot on the sand. Note the photo. Note said foot right here in a tub.

Ashida studied the foot.

He examined it. He photographed it. He got in close and smelled it. He caught early decomposition. He caught a fish-oil scent. He revised his ID to shrimp oil.

It was anomalous. It was familiar.

Nort Layman’s autopsy brief. Shrimp oil on the soles of the Watanabes’ feet. Blood-dotted glass shards at the house. Said shards reeked of FISH.

His trip to the Nisei farms. That worker he spoke to. He smelled FISH on him.

Five dead men here. In wet sand yesterday. In body tubs today.

Collaborationists. Note the pix and snap your own shots. Say what, Mr. Moto? Two men look Japanese. Three men look Chinese. Racial distinction runs close. You could be right, you could be wrong.

Ashida paced the shed. Ashida snapped pix of pix and pix of dead men right here.

Dead men on dry ice. Two men badly flame-charred.

He rolled them onto their backs. He brushed off black skin. One man was scorched down to his rib cage. One man was marked by a faded stab wound.

It was old and knife-inflicted. The scar was symmetrical. The knife had to be multibladed. The scar resembled a starburst. Note the single deep puncture.

Ashida paced the shed. Ashida reloaded his camera. He heard a wave crash. He heard the soldier snore five yards away. He heard his own heart beat on overdrive.

He touched all the dead men. He noted their physiques. He matched their missing limbs to the limbs in the severed-limb tub. He said Shinto and Christian prayers for them.

Four minutes down. Go, Mr. Moto.

He hit the last quadrant. He photographed photographs.

Small cans in a rubble heap. The labels read “Chopped Shrimp.” Charred paper. Kanji-script notations. Money tallies. A Japanese-yen-to-U.S.-dollar play.

Thirty seconds, Mr. Moto. That dozing soldier might wake up.

Ashida braced the last limb tub. He knelt and aimed his camera. He shot a sheared penis arrayed on dry ice.