Kai Tashiro and Esther Martinez lived on different planets.
Or at least that’s how it seemed. Remembering the crystal glasses and pale blue koi and veils of white gauze, comparing all that to the shabby cleanliness of his crime scene, Ryo found himself wondering if he had dreamed the night before.
For forty-five years, the Martinez woman had lived in the little Spanish-style house on Nebraska Avenue. She had raised her children and buried a husband and grown old in this house, and though she had been well into her seventies, everyone who knew her agreed Esther was still as spry and sharp as a tack.
Oh, yeah. They had interviewed everyone on this block and the next one over. For all the good it had done. But that was the job. You spent hours and days just talking to people, collecting and then sifting through all the bits and pieces of information that might eventually form the picture—though usually the bits and pieces amounted to a lot of funny shapes that never quite fit together. Jigsaw puzzles were the same, the world over.
The only thing Ryo and his partner Eddie Mayer had gleaned from Esther’s neighbors was that she didn’t miss much and that everybody had thought she’d be good for another seventy years.
It was that sprightly sharp-eyed quality that had made Esther such an excellent witness in the Revelez case eleven years earlier. One ordinary June morning she’d been walking back from the grocery store. She had to pass Stoner Park, which in those days had been located in a much worse neighborhood than it was now. Back then the park had been a hangout for gangs, home turf to the Sotels. You could still read fifty years of gang graffiti on the surrounding sidewalk. As Esther had marched along, toting her brown grocery bags, she’d looked across what was now the skate plaza in time to see sixteen-year old Mickey Torres march up to fifteen-year old Humberto Revelez, who happened to be dating Torres’ sister without Torres’ permission, and shoot him five times in the chest.
There had been other witnesses, but none of them had been willing to come forward, let alone testify. Only Esther had had the guts—despite living in such close proximity to the park and the Sotels—to ignore the advice of family and friends, and speak out. And her testimony had been key in putting Torres away. Not forever, sadly, because Torres was a juvenile offender and this was L.A., home to bleeding hearts and misguided social activists. But for over a decade Torres had been safely locked up, and the streets of West Los Angeles had been a little less mean and a lot prettier.
But all good things come to an end, and last month Torres had been released from prison. And apparently, once on the outside, the sick bastard had nothing better to do than even old scores, including murdering old ladies.
Ryo walked slowly from room to room of the dark, silent house.
The kitchen was due for a remodel. The appliances were all that scary avocado color so popular in the seventies. The table was set for one. A box of corn flakes sat next to a small vase with artificial daisies.
Ryo thought about his own breakfast that morning—an English muffin eaten over Kai Tashiro’s sink in the condo’s large kitchen with its quartz counters and stainless steel appliances. Kai was already back in his studio working when Ryo had stumbled out of bed. It was Saturday and Ryo had the day off, though technically he was on call. That didn’t mean he would get called in. He’d have been willing to hang around for a while if Kai had been interested.
But Kai had told Ryo to help himself to a shower and whatever he could find for breakfast. And that had been that. Not so much as a good-bye kiss. Hell, he hadn’t stopped long enough to take off his headphones.
The fact that Ryo even noticed made him uneasy. He’d gotten exactly what he had wanted—a night with the Ice Princess. And yeah, it had been better than he’d imagined, given that he’d previously pretty well convinced himself Tashiro was just a prick tease.
But, no. Wrong there. Tashiro clearly had his issues, but not putting out wasn’t one of them.
So what was Ryo’s problem? It wasn’t like he was looking for a relationship. It was his experience that cops and relationships were not a good fit. In fact, the only happily married cop Ryo knew was his partner, Mayer, and in his opinion, Mayer was in the wrong line of work. And even if Ryo had been looking for a relationship, Kai Tashiro was not the kind of guy you brought home to meet Mother. Or, as Kai would no doubt call her, kaachan.
Anyway, back to the job at hand. He opened Esther’s fridge and studied the rapidly spoiling contents. He had been through this house, combed the processed crime scene, a couple of times already, but if Torres’ alibi couldn’t be broken, then maybe he needed to take another look.
Maybe his contempt for gang bangers like Torres was clouding his perspective. He doubted it, but…it never hurt to take another look.
It wasn’t like there were no other possible suspects. Esther had left fifty thousand dollars worth of CDs and stocks to her daughter, Graciela. She had left the house to her son, Oscar. Fifty grand wasn’t a fortune, but like a lot of people these days, Graciela was drowning in credit card debt. As was brother Oscar, who was trying to put his own kids through college. The house wasn’t large but it was now sitting on prime real estate.
Money was always a motive. No question. But in his initial interview with Graciela and Oscar, Ryo hadn’t caught a glimmer of anything but the shock and grief you would expect from the recently bereaved. Both Graciela and Oscar had separately brought up Mickey Torres and the threats he’d made a decade ago. In fact, those accusations were what put Ryo on Torres’ trail, but once he’d read the case files, done a little background checking on Torres, and finally personally interviewed Torres, he’d had no doubt he was talking to the perp.
Not that Esther, a bit of a busybody and the kind of old lady who turned the sprinklers on people who cut across her lawn, hadn’t managed to make her fair share of enemies. Well, enemies was a strong word, but everybody had people they rubbed the wrong way, people whose hearts wouldn’t break if you fell off the planet, who might even give you a push if it seemed safe enough. A lot of people liked Esther, a few people loved her, but it was safe to assume a couple of people hated her. Everybody made enemies.
It was the violence of the crime that caused Ryo to zero in on Torres.
Strangling was personal. It required strength—or at least know how—and in this case it had required being the special kind of person who could look your victim in the face as you choked the life out of her. And then lifting that heavy statue of the Virgin Mary that had formerly sat on the dining room credenza, and bashing it over the old lady’s head a few times. That wasn’t your average every day citizen. Or even your average every day burglar.
And while it was always possible that money-hungry offspring might commission a murder, this hadn’t been a professional hit. There had been nothing professional about it. This was animal-like rage and brutality.
The killer had come in through the dining room window during the wee hours of the morning. The other windows were secured by iron grille, but this particular window was ornamental. It had been high and round and made of stained glass. At one time it had probably been inaccessible, but the trees in the front yard had grown tall over the years, and if you were lean and agile and determined, it was your access into the house.
It hadn’t been quiet though, and the noise of the breaking glass had woken Esther who had come trucking out wearing her yellow, quilted bathrobe and carrying her baseball bat.
And that had been that.
It made Ryo angry. It made him sick. But mostly it made him determined to see Mickey Torres back behind bars where he belonged. So, yeah, maybe he did have a one-track mind, but you needed a one-track mind in his business, because it wasn’t a business for the faint of heart or infirm of purpose.
Ryo moved over to the boarded window. He didn’t need to be able to look out to know the vantage point offered a scenic view of treetops and beyond, the pale citadel-like towers of the condos on Armacost Avenue.
* * * * *
“Food before romance, Ryo-chan,” Ryo’s grandmother told him over dinner when he dropped by his mother’s house that evening.
“That’s why I’m here, Obaachan. I could be out on the town, but I’m here with my best girls.”
Dove and Raven, Ryo’s nieces, looked at each other and giggled. They were at the mysterious age where they giggled at pretty much everything. But Obaachan wasn’t letting Ryo wriggle off the hook. “Time you were getting married. That’s what I am saying.”
“If Ryo gets married, we’ll never see him again.” Ryo’s mother smiled, serving him another helping of vegetarian lasagna.
Ryo shook his head. “Not true. Not fair.” He winked at his grandmother. She winked back at him. They both knew he was the apple of her eye.
“We never see him now unless he’s looking for a hot meal,” his sister Cheryl—Cherry to her family—observed. Cherry was four years older than Ryo, and still felt it was her bounded duty to make sure he didn’t get too big for his britches.
Ryo ignored her and said to his nieces, “Tell me everything you know about being a manga artist.”
“I’m going to be a manga artist one day,” Raven informed him. She was fourteen and favored motorcycle boots and frilly dresses. Dove was twelve. Her hair was chopped like a boy and she wore skinny jeans and T-shirts with anime characters. Tonight’s shirt featured Alphonse and Edward Elric from Fullmetal Alchemist.
“I know. So what does that mean?”
“Manga-ka,” Dove corrected through a mouthful of lasagna.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Dove,” Ryo’s mom said. “You girls can be whatever you like after you graduate from college.”
Raven and Dove exchanged another of those enigmatic giggles.
“Not every career requires a college education, Mom,” Cherry put in.
“But you’re glad you have one, aren’t you?” Ryo’s mother returned without heat. “Ryo’s glad he has a college education.”
This was covering old, old ground. Cherry, a graphic artist, and her girls had been living with Ryo’s mother since Cherry’s boyfriend, a potter, had split seven years earlier. In a household of five women it was only natural there would be the occasional difference of opinion. Most of the disagreements revolved around Cherry’s girls and all the possible scenarios for their future.
“Leave me out of this one,” Ryo said. “So how do you get to be a manga artist?” Partly, he really wanted to know; partly, he really wanted to change the subject.
Raven said airily, “You start drawing and you put your stories online and then you get a lot of fans and a publisher puts your pictures in a book.”
Right. Even Ryo knew it couldn’t be that easy.
“A Japanese publisher?”
“Maybe.”
Dove said, “Sometimes one person draws and one person writes the story. Like in Bakuman.”
“Yep,” Raven agreed.
“Have you ever heard of a manga-ka named Kai Tashiro?”
Raven’s dark brows drew together. She shook her head.
“He draws samurais and that kind of thing.”
Dove and Raven seemed to find this comical. “Lots of people draw samurais!”
Dove put in, “There aren’t many boy manga-kas.”
Ryo grunted. It belatedly occurred to him that Kai probably did not draw the kind of stories his teenage nieces were—or should be—reading.
“Why all the interest in manga?” Cherry asked.
“It has to do with a case.”
“I figured. You’re about as artistic as a sledgehammer.”
“We have enough artists in the family, right?” To his nieces he said, “Do manga-ka make a lot of money?”
This, too, the girls found funny. “You don’t do it for the money,” Raven informed him.
Well, that put him in his place. Ryo devoted the rest of the meal to his food, listening absently to his mother and sister and grandmother chit chat, the girls speak in the coded language of sisters. It would have seemed like a strange coincidence, his grandmother bringing up the subject of Ryo’s marital status, except lately Obaachan was always bringing up the subject of Ryo’s marital status. Ryo was thirty-two and, in Obaachan’s opinion, it was high time he settled down. Of course, Obaachan had no idea that if Ryo did decide to settle it would not be with a lovely young girl from a good Japanese family. Then again, maybe she did know. Just because Ryo had never discussed his sexuality didn’t mean his loved ones hadn’t had plenty of time to draw their own conclusions.
He had never really considered it before. He wasn’t sure he wanted to consider it now.
And yet…what would it be like if he could bring someone here to meet his family, be part of his family? What would it be like to have someone to come home to? To fall asleep beside the same person every night? Wake up to the same face every morning? Have all the sex he wanted whenever he wanted it with the same per—well, anyway, what would that be like?
Some people made it work. Not his sister, not his parents, not most of the guys and gals he worked with, but some people had whatever it took to make love last a lifetime.
Maybe it was just luck. Or maybe it was stubbornness.
Ryo hung around until about seven and then headed back to his own apartment on Carmelina Avenue. But once home, he realized he was too restless to call it a night. He dressed again and headed over to Akbar in Silver Lake. Strong drinks, lousy DJ, and most to the point, no Kai Tashiro.
He spent the rest of the evening drinking, dancing, and flirting, until some time after one when his cell phone rang and he was called out to investigate a floater found beneath Santa Monica pier.
It was five o’clock in the morning when he finally handed the case off to Detectives Hart and Ruiz, and started home. But somehow as he was driving along Santa Monica Boulevard he ended bypassing Centinela and speeding straight on ‘til he came to Armacost.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he muttered, but he still made the left turn. He was too tired and tightly wound to sleep, and Kai didn’t sleep anyway, so what harm would it do to see if he was on his own?
But when Ryo pulled into the parking lot in the back he immediately spotted Mickey Torres’ ride, a black Cherokee with the license plate RUBUOUT. The Cherokee actually belonged to Torres’ kid brother, but Torres had been driving it ever since his release from Chino.
Ryo parked and got out to examine the vehicle. The hood was cold, so it had been parked for a couple of hours. Meaning Torres was planted for the night and not there to…what? Do bodily harm to Kai? Or at least not any bodily harm Kai didn’t welcome.
Ryo got back in his Taurus before he was tempted to do something really stupid. Like what? Break in and arrest Torres for daring to sleep with the guy Ryo wanted to sleep with? That wasn’t just stupid, it was pathetic.
He had no grounds for hassling Torres. As a matter of fact, he should be grateful for the reminder of where Kai Tashiro’s loyalties lay.
Ryo gazed at the dark windows of Tashiro’s condo. Finally he turned the key in the ignition, started the engine, and drove home.
* * * * *
The Tashiro Nurseries opened in 1930. The first nursery was started by three Japanese brothers newly immigrated to the States. Two of the brothers had returned to Japan right before the outbreak of World War II. The third and youngest brother, Akira, had remained behind and continued running the nursery until his incarceration in the Manzanar Internment Camp. Akira had remained in Manzanar for the duration of the War, but when the War ended, he had returned to Sawtelle and the nursery. Business had boomed and by the Sixties, there were three Tashiro Nurseries in Southern California, and Akira was a very wealthy man. A pillar of the Asian community.
He had married twice and had seven children, including three sons. One son had died in the Korean War, one son had died in Viet Nam, and one son had drowned surfing off Malibu. That, it seemed, was how Kai had eventually ended as Akira’s heir. None of the remaining daughters had managed to provide sons. In fact, two of them had not produced children at all. Kai was the first and only surviving male child in two generations. The fact that he was only one-eighth Japanese and had been born Kevin Cole was apparently irrelevant.
Ryo learned all that and more on Sunday, which he spent further investigating the principals of his case—although now and then it felt uncomfortably like stalking an ex-boyfriend. Not that Ryo had ever stalked an ex, and he hoped he wasn’t laying the groundwork now, but there was no question he was fascinated by Kai Tashiro.
His investigation yielded little, and what he did learn was not remotely sinister. Tashiro owned his condo and car. He paid his bills on time. He lived debt-free. He bought his groceries with an American Express card, but paid off the card at the end of each month. That eliminated a lot of paper trail right there.
Tashiro paid his taxes on time and the numbers all added up. More money did not go out than came in.
He had attended Cal Arts for a couple of years, but had dropped out despite excellent grades. He did not have student loans.
Eighteen months ago he’d gotten a speeding ticket. That was the closest Kai Tashiro had come to a brush with the law.
Mickey Torres on the other hand…there was a wealth of information all confirming what Ryo already knew.
Torres was the product of a broken home. He had three siblings, each the result of a different father, none of whom had stuck around longer than it took to conceive the little bastards. Despite her lousy taste in men, Mama Torres was a mostly decent, hardworking woman who had somehow raised three gang bangers and a nun. Yep, after Mickey had capped her fourteen-year old boyfriend, Maria Torres had opted for a spiritual life. She had taken her first vows when she was nineteen. Mickey’s older brother was on death row at San Quentin, but since he’d been there since 1998, it didn’t look like he was going anywhere, anytime soon. Like Mickey, the youngest Torres brother had been in and out of trouble since he was twelve. Unlike Mickey, he’d so far managed to avoid anything more serious than a handful of misdemeanors. But with Mickey home to serve as an example, that would probably change.
And then there was Mickey.
His earliest teachers described him as bright, even gifted, with an extraordinary aptitude for art. In fact, his first arrest had been for tagging the abandoned Exposition right-of-way train line. It had been all downhill from there.
So, yeah, very sad what the lack of opportunity and options could do to a kid. But, so what? Ryo had seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of similar cases during his years on the force. He wasn’t a social worker or a time traveler. He couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t change one minute of it. Plenty of other people had similar lack of opportunity and options and they didn’t turn out to be criminals, let alone murderers. It wasn’t his job to fix the system, just keep it up and running.
Torres was what he was—and that was too dangerous to let run free. Where he fit into Kai’s life, Ryo couldn’t quite see. Maybe he didn’t want to see. But given what he knew of Kai, Torres spending four nights at the condo on Armacost was significant. And worrying. Because apart from his case and—sure, admit it, sexual jealousy—Ryo didn’t want Kai to be hurt. In fact, he was made uneasy by how much the idea disturbed him.
Whether Kai thought he was slumming or whether he was genuinely infatuated with Torres or whether it was something entirely different, however Kai was reading this situation, Ryo knew Kai didn’t begin to understand what he was dealing with. It was like watching a butterfly go up against a hawk. Kai was going to end up in pieces.
Ryo couldn’t let that happen.
But how did he prevent Kai from jumping back into the fire? Nothing he said was going to stop Kai.
On impulse he contacted Akira Tashiro at his home and asked for an interview. His request was granted for that afternoon.
The house was built in the Craftsman style, a graceful structure of natural wood and smoky windows. It sat back from the street, surrounded by Japanese maples and roses. In fact, as attractive as the house was, the real beauty was the garden with its symmetrical walkways and artfully-grouped large stones. Chimes tinkled soothingly in the warm breeze as Ryo reached the front door.
Ryo rang the bell. The door opened and a very pretty, twenty-something, Japanese woman dressed in jeans and a pink flowered smock stood before him.
“Good afternoon.” Ryo flashed his tin. “I’m Detective Miller. I’m here to see Mr. Tashiro.”
It wasn’t that the woman’s face tightened. If anything her expression went more smooth, more blank. But Ryo sensed her bracing herself. “You’re here about Kai?”
Ryo raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think so?”
Her smile was polite and unamused. “Familiarity. I know Kai very well. Better than anyone.”
“And you are?”
“Laurel Tashiro.” Laurel added, “Kai’s wife.”
“Wife?” Ryo reddened at his own obvious shock, but how had he overlooked that information? He couldn’t have. Not that he never missed anything, but he wouldn’t have missed that.
“That’s right.” Laurel’s expression was a strange mixture of satisfaction and mockery. “If you’re investigating Kai, I don’t blame you for being surprised.”
“I am surprised. There’s no record of his marriage.”
“We were seventeen. The marriage was annulled.”
If that was supposed to clarify things…fail. If the marriage had been annulled, why was she still calling herself Kai’s wife—and what was she doing here at Kai’s grandfather’s home? Ryo was attempting to make sense of Laurel’s information while still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of a teenaged Kai marrying another seventeen-year old. Had they run away together? Who had pushed for the annulment?
“Are you, er, on good terms with your ex-husband?” Ryo asked.
Laurel laughed. “We’re not on bad terms. Kai is what he is. We don’t have anything to do with each other, really.”
That was clear as mud. Ryo said, “I think I’d better speak to Mr. Tashiro,” although he was already thinking better of the impulse that had brought him here. It was hard to imagine that anything he might learn in this house would tie in with his investigation, and it was suddenly clear to him that Kai would take a very bleak view of this particular digging into his past. But it was too late now. A detective had to be part psychologist, part diplomat, part…well, whatever was needed when it was needed. Sometimes that something was rude, intrusive bastard. Knowing how to handle different types of personalities, people coming from all walks of life—getting them to feel comfortable enough to open up. And then being able to assess the quality of information, and from all that, filter through all the possibilities to figure out a lead or even a suspect…it was all part of the job.
Ryo removed his shoes and followed Laurel through several beautiful, immaculate rooms that looked like no human had ever set foot in them, out shoji-style doors into a surprisingly large and lush garden.
The sound of running water and a child’s laughter greeted them as they walked down a graceful path of pale crushed stone.
“Did Kai grow up here?” Ryo questioned.
“Yes.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
At the end of the garden was a pond with a small ornamental bridge. A very old man stood on the bridge feeding koi. He wore dark monpe work pants and a baggy blue denim shirt. He had the kind of beard that was usually reserved for fairytales of ancient Japan. A small boy of about four, dressed in jeans and a Gap Kids sweatshirt, knelt beside the pond, peering down into the water.
“Please excuse the interruption, ojiisama,” Laurel said softly, formally. “This detective wishes to speak to you about Kai-san.”
The old man turned and stared at Ryo, who found himself automatically bowing. It seemed natural in this setting. In fact, it seemed mandatory. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Tashiro.”
“Mama, the koi are eating cantaloupe!” The kid began to babble about the fish. Laurel smiled and the old man’s dark gaze dropped to the animated little face and softened.
Laurel held out her hand. “Come on, Kenji-chan. Ojiisan has to talk to this man.”
Kenji jumped up and ran across the bridge, his small feet drumming lightly. He took Laurel’s hand and grinned with cheeky shyness up at Ryo.
Ryo nodded at him. “Hi.”
Kenji hid his face against his mother’s thigh. She ruffled his hair and led him away, giving Ryo a meaningful look. What meaning that look was supposed to convey, Ryo had no idea. Don’t upset the old man? Probably too late for that.
“You wished to speak to me about Kai?” Tashiro had a deep and vigorous voice, startling for one so very old. How old was he? Ryo did some quick calculating and guessed Tashiro must be close to a hundred-years old.
“Your grandson’s name turned up in one of my cases. I’m trying to get some background information on him.”
“Is Kai suspected of a crime?” Tashiro threw the last of the cantaloupe into the pond. The koi, dark red Goshiki, darted to the surface, hungry mouths sucking at the pale chunks of melon.
“Would that come as a surprise to you?”
The old man seemed to struggle internally. He shook his head and looked away from Ryo to the swarming fish. Ryo wasn’t sure the head shake meant Tashiro wouldn’t be surprised or if it meant a refusal to answer.
At last Tashiro said, “I know nothing of Kai’s life.”
That was pretty sweeping. Nothing in Ryo’s background research had indicated that state of affairs. He reconsidered his original plan of attack. While he couldn’t let Kai’s strained family relationships side rail his investigation, he didn’t want to aggravate the existing tensions more than he had to. “What can you tell me about Kai’s friends or business associates?”
Tashiro repeated, “I know nothing of Kai’s life.”
“Would it be correct to say there’s a-a family estrangement?”
“Hai.”
“Do you support Kai financially?”
“An arrangement exists.”
“What kind of arrangement?”
Tashiro turned his dark gaze back to Ryo. “The matter can have nothing to do with your investigation.”
“It depends. Could someone place financial pressure on your grandson?”
“No.” An almost rueful expression crossed Tashiro’s weathered face. “Kai’s temperament is not amenable to duress.”
“When was the last time you saw your grandson?”
“Three years ago.”
Estrangement was the right word. “His ex-wife lives with you?”
“My grandson’s wife and child live with me.”
Ryo had the feeling the ground was shifting beneath his feet. “But…Kai…that is, the marriage was annulled, according to your…”
Tashiro stared steadily at Ryo. It was pretty damned intimidating, but Ryo reminded himself he was a grown up LAPD Homicide Detective and not Kenji’s age. “According to your daughter-in-law, the marriage was annulled. You’re saying Kenji is Kai’s son?”
“Hai.”
Kai did not pay child support. That would have turned up in Ryo’s background check. Furthermore, Kenji couldn’t be more than four, five at the most, and though no expert on the topic, Ryo was pretty sure if you had children, you couldn’t get an annulment except in extraordinary circumstances—and those extraordinary circumstances would have turned up in his investigation.
Tashiro continued to stare at him, stony and unblinking.
Clearly, this line of inquiry was going nowhere fast. Ryo asked slowly, “Are you of the opinion your grandson would lie to protect a friend?”
Tashiro said bluntly, “My grandson’s entire life is a lie.”