A half hour after sitting on her bed and looking through Mark Suzuki’s information, Storm knew she had to get to another computer terminal. This brought another surge of annoyance at the kukae-eating low life who’d stolen her lap top, but it was tempered by a wave of excitement.
Though she expected calls among family members and friends such as Stella, Lara, Ryan, and Ichiru Tagama, there were a couple of surprises on Mark’s fax. Ichiru Tagama appeared to have a girlfriend. There were calls at least twice a day to a mobile phone owned by Yasuko Matsui. There were two calls between Stella and Pauline Harding, but that wasn’t as interesting as the two made from The Red Light to Stella’s phone. Even more intriguing was Mark’s note, handwritten next to a call from Pauline to a number that was no longer in service. Mark had printed Akira Kudo changes phones more often than I do.
He’d also starred two calls from the same discontinued number to Ichiru Tagama’s phone. The calls were barely a minute long, and they went one way. Kudo called Tagama, not vice versa.
Shortly after sending the fax, Mark ditched his old phone. Storm would lay odds that he’d burned the film in his fax machine, too. Hell, maybe he’d changed fax machines. Which was why Storm had to get access to the Internet. Who was Akira Kudo, anyway?
It was already after four, and Storm had planned to meet Damon in Lahaina at six. She changed into a dress and sandals, applied a bit of mascara and some lip gloss, checked that she had what she needed, and headed for her car.
At the first traffic light, she dialed Stella’s mobile number. The shaky anxiety in Stella’s voice gave Storm the answer before she asked the question, but she asked anyway.
“Any news from Keiko?”
“I called Pauline again. I also called the hospital and some other friends, but no one’s seen her.”
“Is Lara around?”
“Uh, let me see.” Stella must have put her hand over the phone, because her shouts were muffled. After a few attempts, she came back. “I guess she left. She’s upset about Keiko, too.”
Storm hung up and focused on driving the spectacular, winding road to Lahaina. About halfway through town, she found an internet café. Soon she was logged on to her email account. The first message she sent was to Mark Suzuki. “I’ll bring the beer. How many people are you expecting?”
He got right back to her. “I’m checking. Can you get to your previous phone number?”
“No.” She wasn’t about make the long drive back to Kihei and the pharmacy pay phone.
After a minute of staring at her inbox, she gave up on waiting for a response. She opened another window and went to Google, where she plugged in the name Akira Kudo. A link to Wikipedia opened, which listed Kudo as a member of the Yakuza, but after that tidbit, Wikipedia asked for facts, records, and a bio, if available. The guy was a ghost. That thought hit Storm with a jolt. Like his moniker, obake.
There was another link to a newspaper article dated four years ago, and Storm clicked on it. The site came up with, “The page you requested is no longer available. Please check the URL and try again.”
She did, and it still didn’t work, but it gave her an idea and she tried the websites of several Hawai‘i newspapers. Nothing came up on Akira Kudo. She went back to Google, and typed prostitution in Hawai‘i. That brought up several pages of links, most of them about AIDS or controversial prostitution laws. Prostitution rings in Hawai‘i elicited several articles, and one in particular caught Storm’s attention. It was dated a year ago, and revealed that a large prostitution ring involving Hawai‘i and a list of big mainland cities was being investigated for trafficking in underage girls. The article mentioned specific federal judges and investigators, but not one of the twelve persons charged with kidnapping, offering children for sexual purposes, child pornography, and money laundering was identified. Some of the girls were as young as eleven years old. All twelve suspects remained at large.
Storm was appalled. She still didn’t have any information about Akira Kudo, though. A quick glance at her watch and she marveled, not for the first time, at what a sinkhole of time the Internet could be. She’d been at the computer for over an hour, and she had only a few more minutes before she had to leave.
One more idea came to her. In the article about the interstate child prostitution ring, an investigator named Stephen McPherson was mentioned twice. She Googled him, and found an interview in a Detroit newspaper. McPherson mentioned how he had worked with Terry Wu of the U.S. Attorney’s office, Hawai‘i Division.
Five more minutes Storm told herself, and plugged in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, District of Hawai‘i. Terry Wu wasn’t mentioned, but there was a Honolulu phone number. Storm paid her Internet fee and left the café. Outside, she dialed the number and asked for Terry Wu, who actually answered when the operator transferred the call.
Storm explained that she was a local lawyer with a client on Maui, and that she’d read a newspaper article about the child prostitution ring he’d once worked on.
“I can’t talk about it,” Wu said. Storm thought she caught a note of frustration in his voice. If the case was still pending, he couldn’t discuss it. Storm agreed; whether or not his spineless slugs were the same as hers, she wanted them nailed.
“I understand. But perhaps you can answer a question or two for me. If you can’t say, just tell me.”
“Okay.” Wu drew the word out. Both of them knew that she would get a good deal of information from whether or not he answered the questions.
“Did the child prostitution trafficking include the island of Maui?”
Wu paused. “That’s public knowledge. Yes, it was on Maui and a couple other islands. Mainland cities, too.” Anger clipped his words.
“Do you recognize the name Akira Kudo?”
Wu made an odd choking noise. “I can’t answer that question.”
“Okay,” Storm said. “Have you ever heard the name Obake in connection with this ring?”
“Can’t answer that, either.” After a long pause, Wu cleared his throat. “I have some advice.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you’re doing, stop.” She could hear papers rattle before he spoke again. “And come back to O‘ahu. I don’t want to read about you in the papers.”
The hard edges of his words chilled her.
“Right, thanks.”
Storm slowly lowered her phone, only to have it ring. She half-expected it to be Terry Wu reiterating his warning, but it was Mark, calling from area code 415, which she knew was in San Francisco. She’d have to ask him how he did that.
“We need beer and wine. Call me back and we’ll talk quantities.”
The restaurant should have a public phone. “Fifteen minutes,” Storm said.
She was at The Fiddler Crab five minutes early, but Damon was already sitting at the bar with a beer. He waved her over. “What can I order you?”
“Whatever you’re having,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
The pay phone was next to the men’s room. It was a busy place.
A guy with one hand on his fly sidled up to her. “Hey babe, you’re wasting your time. I’m right here.” Odors of beer and urine trailed after him.
Storm turned her face to the wall. “Mark, this is a really big hassle. You have no idea.”
“Neither do you, sweetheart. I’m putting myself out on a limb. I want this number off your cell phone. It’s there from the last call. At least get a new memory card.”
The drunk came back. “Whoever you’re talking to, I’m better.” His hand was still on his fly.
“Who’s that?” Mark asked.
“Just a minute.” Storm looked at the drunk, glad that she’d worn sandals with heels. She was taller. “Hey, you. My parole officer wants to talk.”
The greaseball’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “No shit?”
She handed the phone over and watched the drunk’s face change. In a few seconds, he dropped the phone like it had turned into a piranha. He slunk off, and Storm caught the swinging receiver.
“What did you tell him?”
“Never mind. You need to come home.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Change phones. Hell, change your name.”
“Take it easy. Are Akira Kudo and Obake the same person?”
“Yes. Now get home.” He hung up.
On the way back to the bar, Storm passed the drunk, who whispered something to a friend. Both men watched her, and if their eyes hadn’t been bloodshot, the whites would have been showing.
***
Ichiru Tagama scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen counter. He double-checked the lock on the front door and took the elevator to the parking garage, where he collected his car. He liked it better when Ryan drove, but his son had a lot to think about, and Tagama was old and wise enough to know that he needed to leave Ryan alone to sort through what he’d been told.
Before leaving the apartment, Tagama had visited the shrine once more, and he’d muttered a prayer for both Yasuko’s and Ryan’s safety. He also prayed that his son would understand Tagama’s regrets and forgive. Of all the ups and downs in Tagama’s life, Ryan was his biggest source of pride. Nevertheless, it was neither safe nor prudent for Tagama to reveal all of his secrets.
He drove across the island to Wailuku. The sun was already setting, and he was confident the man from the U.S. Attorney’s office would be on time. But his mind strayed from the meeting with Dave O’Dell. Where was Yasuko? Even if she missed a call, she always got back to him within a half hour, but an hour and a half had passed since his first call.
Throughout his life, Tagama had faced fear, but it had usually been for himself. Though he’d monitored Ryan’s young days and let his ex know he was watching, he’d never revealed how glad he was that his son lived in California, far enough away to escape the attention of his unscrupulous associates.
Now he was frightened. His hands, cold as fish, slid on the plastic of the steering wheel. Though he tried calming breaths, a meditative technique that had served him for years, it wasn’t working now. Why hadn’t Yasuko answered?
She believed in him. She’d done so much for his ki, his spirit, every aspect of his life. And despite the fact that she worked for his worst enemy, he trusted her. She’d proven herself.
In Wailuku, there was one spot left in the restaurant parking lot and Tagama required three tries to get into it. He banged the door of the car next to him, and nearly forgot to lock his own car.
Once inside the crowded sushi bar, he forced himself to slow down. Snatches of laughter and conversation grabbed at him as he wove through the tables of businessmen, families, and over-laden waitresses. A wave of relief passed through him when he saw Dave O’Dell in the corner, his cell phone at one ear, a forefinger plugging the other. O’Dell was shouting, but he put the phone down when Tagama got to the table.
“That was Terry Wu. He thinks the top’s going to blow off this whole scene. Some lawyer called him today with questions about Akira Kudo.”
Tagama’s eyes narrowed. “Storm Kayama?”
“Yeah, you know her?”
“I know she has a reputation for being a tough cookie.”
“Wu’s on his way over. He’s afraid she’ll look under a rock and scare someone out prematurely. He doesn’t want her getting in the sights of whoever set that bomb.”
Tagama forced himself to sit down and take a deep breath. “Does he know who set the bomb?”
“He’s got some ideas.” O’Dell looked around for a waitress. “Hope you don’t mind, but I ordered the same sake we had last time.”
“Who’s he suspect?” The waitress arrived and set down their drinks. Tagama removed the overflowing sake glass from its graceful box and took a generous swallow. The warmth barely reached the tightening knot in his stomach. He dumped the remaining sake from the lacquered masu into his glass.
“He isn’t saying much.”
Tagama’s phone vibrated on his belt, and he just about shot out of his chair, but when he checked the call number, the light in his eyes faded. “Lara, it’s nice of you to call.”
Like O’Dell had done, he stuck a finger in his ear to block out the buzz of conversation in the crowded room. “You’re where?”
“Your apartment.” Lara raised her voice, too. She could undoubtedly hear the background noise. “Where are you?”
“At a meeting in Wailuku.”
“Ryan asked me to call you. You’d better get here.”
“Why are you at my apartment?”
“Ryan wants to see you.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Tagama-san, he’s talking to the police. You need to come home.”