“I have some information,” Tagama said.
“Sit.” Obake gestured at the chair across the bar table. At nine in the morning, they were alone in the hostess bar. Yasuko had unlocked the entrance for Tagama, then disappeared.
“Yasuko will bring us some tea. Or would you like a whiskey?”
“Tea will be excellent, thank you.”
“How is your son? He’s a handsome boy,” Obake said.
“He is slow to learn the business.” Tagama practiced the Asian custom of disparaging that which he was most proud. To do otherwise would bring misfortune.
Obake lowered his head in approval. “My son will never run a business.” He shook his head, as if in despair. “He will stay a body guard.”
Tagama knew Obake was doing more than playing down his son’s worth. He was sending a layered message, which emphasized his strength and the depth of his knowledge.
Tagama had discovered that Obake, a word that referred to a faceless ghost in local Japanese folklore, was a pseudonym for Akira Kudo. Akira Kudo had a wife and three daughters in Japan, aged thirteen to nineteen.
Steven Kudo, the bodyguard son to whom Obake referred, was the son of one of Obake’s mistresses. Tagama had hit a wall when he’d tried to track the woman down; she’d disappeared. Steven had been born and raised on Maui, and had a rap sheet long as a roll of toilet paper. Among his transgressions were aggravated assault, gambling, and cockfighting.
“Sons are difficult to rear. They take longer to mature than daughters. You have a daughter?” Tagama’s voice oozed innocence.
Tagama knew that he wasn’t the only one gathering information. For that reason, Tagama was glad Ryan’s attempt at the gelato business had been a flop, as failure was apt to relax Obake’s attention. Even Ryan’s mother, though she’d remarried five or six years ago, could be vulnerable. Her new husband was a dot-com success story who’d sold his software company at the right time and retired to sail up and down the coast of California, doting on his new wife. She was probably out of reach, which relieved Tagama.
Age and experience had mellowed Tagama’s feelings for his ex. For years after she left him, when Ryan was small, he’d had her followed. Now her happiness pleased Ryan, which enhanced his relationship with his father. The down side of this, however, meant that if Obake wanted leverage, she could be a weak link in Tagama’s armor.
Obake replied, with a proper amount of ruefulness, that he had no daughter. It was time for Tagama to share his information.
“I have asked about the leak you suspected.”
Obake merely raised a tiny teacup to his lips.
“The word on the street is that Tom Peters, the Deputy Director of Liquor Control, was the only target. The people who set the bomb eliminated the person they wanted.”
Obake raised one thin eyebrow to show his skepticism. In his suntanned face, the white creases that radiated from Obake’s eyes looked like a child’s drawing of black suns. They annoyed Tagama, perhaps of their false sense of jollity, but it could be because the man was nut brown from his twice-daily swims. Obake wasn’t good looking, but he cultivated a façade of virility, and he preened before women.
Tagama had to remind himself that some of his disgruntlement came from the fact that his own skin was white and his arms puny.
“Why would anyone care about Tom Peters?” Obake asked. “And what else do your spies tell you?”
Tagama took a sip of his tea. He would ask the same questions in Obake’s position. “They tell me the bomber is an independent.”
“Who?”
“People suspect the husband of the woman he was having an affair with,” Tagama said.
“Go on.” Obake’s voice was like gravel.
Tagama watched him carefully. Had Obake relaxed an iota? “Information was leaked to your secretary, Noboru. You were meant to escape.”
Obake’s thick fingers played with his tiny teacup. The severed pinkies stuck out like Vienna sausages. “Peters was a liquor commissioner and also served on the Maui Restaurant Association board.”
Tagama nodded. “The special breakfast meeting was to assure that bars and restaurants operated by Paradise Consortium had unimpeded access to liquor licenses. Commissioners would overlook past legal problems, yes?”
Obake’s eyes narrowed. “So? Peters was helping my interests. Yours, too. He was a small part of a big plan.”
Tagama knew Obake saw himself as the center of his universe. No one else was as important; why would anyone else be the target of an assassination attempt?
“An intricate watch stops operating when a tiny wheel breaks,” Tagama maintained the deference in his tone.
Obake’s voice was like gravel. “Who told my enemies that I’d be there?”
“So far, no one seems to know. Not even rumors are floating around. Perhaps you have some insight?”
Tagama stared into Obake’s eyes and waited. This was a small but significant test. It was Obake’s chance to tell Tagama that Steven had worked at Blue Marine. He’d quit when his father flew in from Japan, about a week before the explosion. Tagama found the connection suspicious.
Obake’s face darkened. “You and I have history, Tagama.”
Tagama had wanted to push the man, but he might have gone too far. “I have never forgotten, Obake-san.”
“Your past can be used against you.”
“Of course,” Tagama said, and rose to leave.
“I want more information.”
“Yes, Obake-san.”
“One more thing.”
Tagama turned.
“Your daughter-in-law wants ownership of the land under her shop.” Obake’s brown face widened in a sneer.
Someone close to Tagama had talked. Funny thing was, he was thinking about giving it to her and Ryan as a wedding present. But now Tagama knew he had a rat in his own camp, and Obake had access to him—or her.