“I’ve got to hurry. But I’ve a feeling that the next time you see me I’ll be in a better mood,” I promised, discarding the plastic wrappers in his waste-basket.
“Come back then, neh? And stay out of the tabloids,” Waka-san called after me.
33
It was two in the afternoon when I arrived home, midnight in Miami. I would call and leave a message on the law firm’s answering machine.
Opening the unlocked door to my apartment, I looked toward my answering machine and saw the message light was on. Hurriedly kicking off my shoes, I started to trip and reached out a hand to steady myself on a tall lantern. My hand went through shji paper, taking the lantern down with me. I moaned, feeling as bad about the ruined antique as the pain shooting through my knee.
“Careful.”
I looked up and saw Marcelle Chapman in her familiar zebra coat.
“Oh! Richard must have let you in,” I said, thinking how strange it was for her to be looking down on me like this.
“No, he went out an hour ago. But Mariko’s here.”
I followed Mrs. Chapman’s gaze to my futon. Mariko was lying in a fetal position, her wrists and ankles bound with electrical tape. She did not move.
“It didn’t have to happen. If it wasn’t for your meddling, I would have been out of here weeks ago.” Mrs. Chapman’s voice broke.
“Is she dead?” I whispered, panic rising.
Mariko twisted around so I could see her face. Her mouth was taped, but her eyes blazed.
“I’m not dating Joe Roncolotta, I promise,” I said wildly. “Neither is Mariko. None of us mean you any harm—I think we should all sit down and talk calmly.”
“It’s bath-time, but you have no bath in this apartment. I forgot that detail.” She pursed her lips.
The bath. I suddenly realized this visit had nothing to do with Joe Roncolotta.
“Because there’s no bath, I think the two of you will have to jump.”
“Jump?” I repeated dumbly.
“Things have been going pretty bad for you lately, haven’t they?” Mrs. Chapman stepped over my prone body, keeping one foot on each side. “You’re having trouble at work. The gangsters have a contract out on you. Your boyfriend’s going to prison for life.”
“He’s not!”
“Not going to jail? Well, I suppose you could save him if it turns out you did all the killing.”
“Nobody knows about you,” I said, thinking fast. “Why don’t you just leave while you have a chance to get out of the country? No one suspects you.”
“You’re a liar, Rei Shimura.” She drew out my name in an exaggerated accent that must have sounded Japanese to her. “It’s the Japanese half of you.”
“What’s making you act this way? You’re a caring person. You helped me from the beginning.” It was a risk to continue talking. If I irritated her, she might gag me like Mariko. Without a mouth, I would be a little less human, more like a corpse. Easier to kill.
Instead of answering me, Mrs. Chapman went to the answering machine and pressed play. As I struggled to rise, her Reebok connected with my jaw. I curtailed my groan so I could hear the recording.
“Rei, this is Rod Evans. I’m relieved to tell you that handwriting is nowhere near my dad’s. You gave me a hell of a scare.” He paused. “I may have a lead for you, though. The postmark on the envelope made me think of Rob Smith, a guy who served with my dad in Japan. Mr. Smith left a girlfriend and daughter there and always felt bad about it. He tried to provide for them by sending money and all. I know because my dad told me, kind of a warning when I was headed to Nam, but that’s another story. Smith was a Texas rancher, real high profile. He couldn’t acknowledge the Japanese girl and keep the business. The wife he married turned out to be mean as pig shit. He always said—” The machine beeped, cutting the rest of the message off.
Mrs. Chapman pressed erase with a black-gloved finger.
“Your passport said Smith, not Chapman.” I remembered how, at her urging, I’d explained away the glaring discrepancy to Captain Okuhara. I’d saved her, when she could have been caught.
I looked up at her, waiting. A time would come for me to move. My right leg hurt but I was pretty sure it would work for me, given the opportunity.
“For heaven’s sake, I came to talk to that Nakamura woman, to put some sense in her head!” Mrs. Chapman exploded. “I even brought my checkbook.”
“What did you want her to do?” I asked.
“To stop. To get the hell out of our lives, now that Bobby’s dead.” Pain flashed across her face. “The two of them carrying on with post office boxes in different cities, different states—you’d think they were having an affair or something. It wasn’t until after the cancer took him that I figured out what had been happening to Binnie’s money.”