Authors: Peter Lovesey
In the morning when he tried phoning Stephanie, his timing was still wrong. After listening to the dial tone until his ear ached, he worked out that it was noon in England and she would be at the Save the Children shop. He went out to breakfast convinced already that this would be another frustrating day. , . . . u
But when he returned to the Firbank and tried again, she answered, and still the timing was wrong. Even five thousand miles and a time zone away the disapproval in her tone was unmistakable. He was in the doghouse. He didn't make much impression explaining that he'd tried phoning earlier. The legendary Diamond charm was put to the test, and he had to dredge deep. "The reason I'm calling you now—apart from wanting to hear your voice, my love—is to check something you mentioned just before I left, about shoe sizes. Am I right? Is an English seven equal to an eight and a half over here?" .... ,J
There was time-out for thought during which he could sense the reproach evaporating. Then they had a normal conversation. He didn't mention that Mrs. Tanaka had been murdered, but he told her Naomi was still missing, and she sounded genuinely concerned.
He admitted, "I may be forced to abandon this."
"You wouldn't give up," she said, shocked. "Peter,
"You wouldn't give up," she said, shocked. "Peter, you couldn't leave the poor little soul a prisoner in New York. Besides, what would you tell that wrestler—the man who paid your fare?"
"I haven't even thought about that"
"Listen, if it's me you're bothered about, I'll be perfectly all right for a few more days. Don't worry. Just do what you can for that child. There must be some way of tracing her."
"I hope you're right." And he added, meaning it, "Love you."
"Love you, too."
"Thanks, Steph. You're very understanding."
There was a distinct pause before she said, "Sometimes I understand more than you give me credit for, pussycat"
Outside, it had started to rain, so he borrowed an umbrella from the hotel before stepping out to the station house, where pandemonium reigned. He learned rapidly that Naomi's abduction was yesterday's news. Overnight, there had been a triple killing in a shooting gallery in West Harlem. It took him rather longer to work out that a shooting gallery was the slang for an abandoned house frequented by drug addicts and pushers. Some of them were having their prints taken while he waited to talk to anyone he knew.
Sergeant Stein came in and nodded. He would have walked straight through to another office if Diamond hadn't called across to him.
"Did you get any more out of Lundin?"
"Not much. He was sleepy."
"Any clues about what happened to the child?"
"Zilch. Now, if you don't mind, I have the arrest report to type."
"Nothing else has come through about her?"
Stein shook his head. "Why don't you go sightseeing, look at the Empire State or something?"
"Is Lieutenant Eastland about?"
'This afternoon. Maybe."
Biting back a sarcastic remark, Diamond walked out and hailed a cab, not to go sightseeing, but to drive out to Lundin's apartment in Queens. An idea had surfaced; when he was feeling fractious, his brain sometimes went into overdrive.
The van in the street indicated that a forensic team was at work in the house. Meeting one of them on the stairs, he explained who he was, which was received with a narrowing of the eyes, and then he mentioned Eastland's name, which made more of an impression. "When we were here yesterday, we found some torn pieces of a photograph of the missing child."
"In the toilet. Yeah, we have them. We found a couple of extra pieces trapped on the inside."
"Could I examine them?"
"You'd better talk to my boss."
The fragments of photograph were in a polythene bag in the van, and there was some reluctance to let Diamond see them until he explained his thinking to the senior man, giving it the sales pitch he'd noticed was obligatory when you wanted results in New York. "The style of picture, from what I remember of it, full face with a pale blue background, strikes me as typical of a school photo. These commercial photographers are smart. They persuade a school to let them take shots of all the kids, one by one. The style is pretty much the same the world over. You see beaming kids in their school uniforms on businessmen's desks, the mantelpiece in the White House, everywhere. Are you a family man?"
"Yeah, we've got a grandchild."
"So the photographer has to print dozens, maybe hundreds of photos to order, right? And he has to have some way of identifying them. He can't get each kid to hold up a board with his name on it like a mugshot. So what does he do? He pencils some kind of serial number on the reverse. If we're lucky, one of those torn scraps may have the number that identifies the child."
The senior man was sufficiently interested to send someone down to the van.
Diamond, pink with the effort, said casually, "We may be unlucky, of course."
Presently the pieces of the photo were tipped onto a table. No number was visible at once, but they started turning pieces over.
"How about that?"
It was not unlike a conjuring trick, except that this was no illusion. Just as Diamond had predicted, the number 212 was penciled on a corner piece. His luck seemed to have changed at last.
"That was just a hunch?"
"Yes."
"Cool," the senior man conceded.
Thanks."
"Now you have a number."
"Yes."
"So next you have to find the photographer, out of all the school photographers in all the world."
"Right," said Diamond without stopping to explain that there was a way of narrowing down the hunt. He was going to have inquiries made in Japan, and in particular, in Yokohama, where Mrs. Tanaka had lived and worked. Of course there were plenty of schools in Yokohama, but fewer junior schools and even fewer children given the number 212.
Buoyant with his discovery, he returned to the station house and told Sergeant Stein. In a matter of minutes they typed and faxed a memorandum to police headquarters in Yokohama. Unfortunately, it was already past midnight in Japan. Policemen might be on duty; school photographers probably not
London, he knew, was awake. He asked Stein if he could make an international call connected with the case.
"You want to make a local call," said Stein with a stage wink. "No problem. We can make local calls whenever we want" Evidently the NYPD, like the rest of the city, paid lip service to economy measures.
Diamond tapped out the international code for Great Britain, took a card from his pocket and referred to the number handwritten on the reverse, realizing that he still didn't know the woman's name.
"Yes?" It was a man's voice.
"Could I speak to the lady who works as a Japanese interpreter?"
"One moment"
She came on the line, still guarding her identity. "Yes?"
"This is Peter Diamond, from New York."
"I remember."
"The sumo wrestler, Mr. Yamagata, kindly agreed to underwrite my expenses."
"That is so."
"I thought I should let him know what is happening. I'm working with the New York Police. The little girl is still, un-fortunately—"
She interrupted. "Mr. Diamond, before you say any more, I should tell you that I am no longer employed by Mr. Yamagata. The London
Basho
finished on Sunday. The entire party of wrestlers and officials has returned to Japan."
"Oh."
"If you remember, I handed you a card with his Tokyo address."
"Yes, I have it right here in front of me."
"Then I suggest you make contact with him in Tokyo later tonight."
"With Yamagata himself?"
"He lives in the
heya,
the stable of wrestlers. They have someone who will interpret."
"You think he'll stand by his promise? I'm running up some hefty expenses."
"Of that there is no doubt."
Without inquiring whether she was referring to the promise or the expenses, he thanked her and hung up.
The rest of the morning and afternoon were notable only for the fact that he moved out of the Firbank to a better class of hotel, on Broadway, a place with phones in the rooms and a bar downstairs. It was still only a short walk from the station house, where he returned at regular intervals, only to be told each time that no reports had come in of the missing child. Plenty of progress was being made on the shooting gallery murders.
"Has Lundin been put through the grinder to find out who hired him?" he asked Stein.
"Lundin knows nothing. The only thing he cared about was the money, and we think he was paid most of that in advance."
"How much?"
"Probably twenty grand."
About five, a fax arrived from Yokohama stating formally that inquiries would be pursued as requested. Further information would be dispatched if and when it became available.
"If and when. Doesn't sound too positive," Stein commented. "It sounds to me like computer-speak," said Diamond, "but I'm willing to wait around until late."
"You can go back to your hotel. We'll call you right away if anything comes through."
Diamond cast a glance around the office, still teeming with drug addicts, detectives, and patrolmen, and had more man a flicker of doubt "Thanks, but I'll stick around."
Soon after nine P.M., he tried making a call to Yamagata in Tokyo. Over there it was eleven a.m. next day. Someone explained in English that the
sekitori
were at lunch, and could not be disturbed. He should call back in two hours. He was sympathetic. For these big fellows, lunch, he imagined, was more than a coffee and a quick sandwich.
He got through later, and talked to the same person, whose English was impeccable. Apparently Yamagata was somewhere close to the phone this time, because the interpreting was fast and to the point Diamond reported on what had happened in the hunt for Naomi, ending by admitting that he was making some hefty use of the Gold Card number. This was not a problem, he was told. Yamagata wished to do everything in his power to assist the investigation. In fact he would immediately contact the Yokohama Police Department to see what progress there was in checking with the school photographers.
The result was impressive. Just under twenty minutes later, a fax came through from Yokohama. All school photographers had been told to check their records. Another fax would be transmitted as soon as more information was supplied.
"I like that better man ‘if and when,' " Diamond remarked to no one in particular. Sergeant Stein had long since gone off duty.
Just before two A.M., the first positive news came humming through the fax machine:
Police Headquarters, Yokohama
To: Detective Superintendent Diamond, NYPD
Reference your fax, PD/2, inquiries among Yokohama photographers reveal that thirty-five children, nineteen male, sixteen female, at nine different junior schools, were issued with school photographs, serial number 212, during the last two years. Kindly advise if further information is required.
"You bet it is," he said, reaching for a pen.
26th Precinct, NYPD
To: Police Headquarters, Yokohama
Immensely grateful for your attention to my inquiry. It is vital to discover whether any of the female children is at present missing and has been absent from school for the past six weeks. Please include special schools for the mentally handicapped. Your urgent attention to this matter will be deeply appreciated.
A woman detective who had recently come on duty told him he was looking pooped, and he couldn't deny it. She offered to check the incoming faxes regularly while he caught up with some sleep on one of the cots used by officers forced to take off-duty naps in the station house.
Police Headquarters, Yokohama
To: Detective Superintendent Diamond, NYPD
Further inquiries reveal that among the female children listed as 212 in photographers' records, none are reported as missing from school. Two were absent for periods of two weeks and ten days respectively with minor illnesses, but are now back at school. One left the city three months ago to live in Nagoya. All others accounted for.
He looked at his watch. 5:20 A.M. He ached in every muscle. "Thanks."
She said, "You want coffee?"
"I must reply to this first."
26th Precinct, NYPD
To: Police Headquarters, Yokohama
Many thanks. Kindly send details as soon as possible of the girl who moved to Nagoya. Could you double-check whether the family live there?
Maybe it was the time of day, but he was inclined to believe that the night had been wasted—a night he could have passed in a comfortable hotel instead of an iron and canvas cot He decided to go for an early breakfast.
Police Headquarters, Yokohama
To: Detective Superintendent Diamond, NYPD
A search made of Nagoya school computer records has been unsuccessful in the case of the child you asked us to trace. We therefore transmit information from previous school records:
Noriko Masuda, aged 9, born 20 December 1983. Last known address: care of Dr. Yuko Masuda, M.Sc, Ph.D., (mother), 4-7-9, Umeda-cho, Naka-ku, J227 Yokohama. Father, Jiro Masuda, occupational therapist, died in automobile accident, January 1985. Mother engaged in postgraduate research in Yokohama University Department of Biochemistry until 1985. Child attended Noge Special School, Yokohama, September 1987 until March of this year. Diagnosed autistic, 1987. School progress: slow, hampered by muteness. Above average skill in drawing. Temperament: good. Conduct good. IQ rating (nonverbal): 129.
He read it a second time, dazzled by this treasure hoard of information after the weeks of guesswork and despair. To have so much confirmed was beyond expectation, beyond anything he had dared to hope when the faxes had started coming. There were more than enough indications that the child was Naomi. Or, rather that the child he knew as Naomi was actually Noriko. For her to be anyone else would be stretching coincidence to a ridiculous degree.
Noriko.
A simple name for a Westerner to get his tongue around. Personally, however, he was going to find it impossible not to continue to think of her as Naomi, so he'd have to stay with it. He justified the decision by telling himself it would avoid confusion in dealing with the police in New York.