Death in Little Tokyo (5 page)

6

T
hat morning I parked my Nissan in the lot at Second and Main, paid my $3.50 for the day, and started walking the block and a half to the office. In a part of town where parking can cost $3.00 every twenty minutes, this lot was a real find. I had the still-unopened package tucked under my arm, and although the day was sunny and not yet too hot, I was a little grumpy.

Mariko didn’t show up the night before, which disappointed me. I figured she was late at her acting class at the East West Players theater. The aspiring students tended to sit around and share dreams of glory after the class. For Asian actors, those dreams were especially tough to realize.

Mariko told me once that she was resigned to the obvious: as an Asian, she would be forever cast in “Asian” roles. She said, “It’s frustrating to realize that I’ll never get to play Desdemona or Lady MacBeth unless I’m cast as a novelty. And let’s face it, Ken, the number of Asian roles are few and far between. The number of good Asian roles are even fewer.”

One reason a place like the East West Players thrived was that it allowed an outlet for the fermenting creativity of Asian actors, writers, and directors. Almost all the plays done by East West were written by Asians for Asians. Because of this, however, they have a limited audience and limited commercial value. Mariko’s ambition to make a living at acting would never be realized at a small company like East West. In the commercial world, the world of mainstream television and movies, the number of paying jobs for Asians could typically be counted on the fingers of one hand during any given month.

“The odds of any actress making it are pretty slim,” she once said to me, “so it’s not like only Asians have a hard time.” She was tough in her own way, and very determined. I think that toughness motivated her to fight her problem with alcohol and join AA. In AA you make a commitment to change your life. Stopping the drinking was only a part of that life change. I liked her courage. I was trying to decide what to do with the rest of my life, and in Mariko I could see a model for someone who was bootstrapping her life, changing it, and following her dream. I admired her. Maybe my problem was I had no dreams beyond finding another job.

As I approached the office I saw a white Mercedes sports car coming down Second Street. The top of the car was down, and behind the wheel, with her hair blowing in the wind, was Rita Newly. She looked like a scene out of a trite car commercial.

I was about to wave to her when I saw the expression on her face change to alarm. She was looking at two men who were standing in front of the office building. Both were Asians. One was a thin, slight man dressed in an expensive looking double-breasted suit. The other man was bulky to the point of being ape-like, with thick shoulders and a boxy head, shaved bald. His suit looked like it was tailored by Kmart. They straightened up when they saw Rita’s sports car, and waved at her. The big man was missing half of his baby finger on the hand he waved with, and it looked peculiar when contrasted to the almost delicate, fully formed hand of the small man waving next to him.

Heedless of the oncoming traffic, Rita quickly spun the big wheel on the Mercedes and flipped a U-turn. Brakes squealed, horns sounded, and the drivers of other cars started cursing in a jarring mixture of English, Spanish, and Japanese, but Rita made her turn without a scratch.

The two men ran toward a blue Ford sedan parked in front of the building. They jumped in the car and also made a U-turn from their parking spot to pursue Rita, who was already half a block down Second Street. Cars, which had just started moving forward again after Rita’s maneuver had stopped them, once again jammed on brakes and blared their horns.

I stood on the sidewalk watching the disappearing cars, washed by alternating waves of concern and puzzlement.

When I finally got to the office I tossed the package on the desk. I couldn’t come up with a good reason for opening it. It obviously contained papers of some kind, but I figured whatever was in the package was Rita’s business and not mine, even though I still didn’t believe the story about photographs.

About an hour later the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Tanaka?”

“Yes.” I recognized Rita’s voice. It sounded like she was on a car phone.

“Did you get the package?”

“Yes I did, but . . .” I was about to ask her what was going on with the two men and the cool maneuvers with the cars, but she quickly rushed forward.

“Look, I can’t come in this morning to pick up the package. I want you to make sure that you put that package in a safe place. I might not be able to come in today at all.”

“Sure, but I don’t understand. Why do you want me to put some . . .” I was cut off by Rita’s voice. This time her voice had an edge to it. She was very nervous.

“Please do as I say. In view of the fee I’m paying you, I think I should be able to ask for some special consideration when I make a request.”

“Well, of course, Ms. Newly, but . . .”

“Thank you very much Mr. Tanaka. I’ll be contacting you later when I can come by and pick up the package.”

“But . . .”

“I can’t talk anymore. Good-bye.”

I sat listening to a dial tone. I picked up the package and looked around the office. I could bury it in a file cabinet or stick it in one of the desk drawers, but both were almost empty because they were essentially props. Maybe I should be clever and tape it to the back of one of the pictures hanging on the wall. Finally I decided the best thing I could do would be to get the package out of the office and leave it someplace nearby, where I could get to it easily.

I checked my watch. The boutique would open in a few minutes. I stuck the package under my arm and strolled out, locking the door behind me.

When I got to the boutique I could see Mariko and Mrs. Kawashiri inside arranging the stock hanging from chrome poles. I rapped on the door, pressed my nose flat against the glass, and put on a forlorn look. Mariko looked over to the door and jerked her thumb to indicate that I should take off. I shook my head and rapped once more on the glass.

Feigning exasperation, Mariko went to the door and opened it. “What now?” she said. “You’re getting to be a pest.”

“I came to beg a favor.”

“What is it?”

I took the package out from under my arm. “Can you keep this here in the shop for me?”

“Sure,” Mariko said. “But why?”

“Just call it a special request. I want to keep it nearby, but I don’t want to keep it in the office.”

“All right,” Mariko said. “The big-time detective fan is getting mysterious.”

“I missed you last night.”

Mariko’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Ken. We got caught up in acting class, and then afterward we were building sets for the new production. It was past one o’clock before I even knew it. I was dead tired, so I just went back to my place.”

“Well, okay. But how about dinner tonight? My treat.”

“Sure. This will be the first time you’ve taken me out to dinner in weeks, so you know darn well I’m not going to pass up a free meal. Besides, now that you’ve got me acting like Federal Express,” she hefted the package in one hand, “I expect to be paid something for it.”

“Federal Express delivers packages,” I corrected her. “I just want you to hold this.”

“Ken-san,” Mrs. Kawashiri came up to us with a ready smile. She had a warm heart for all strays and stragglers. To her, I suppose I fell under both categories. “It’s so nice to see you. Come here,” she said, holding up a white paper package. “Take one of these cinnamon buns for breakfast. I just got them from the bakery. They’re freshly baked. They’re good.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Kawashiri. You’re always giving me pastries and I feel guilty. In fact, you just gave me some yesterday. Besides, I shouldn’t be here bothering Mariko.”

“No. No. It’s okay,” Mrs. Kawashiri insisted. “Now, come here.” She waved the sack in front of me. “You take this. You’ve been looking kind of thin lately. Now, come on. Take this.”

Like a little boy, I marched up to the older woman and accepted the sack of pastries. “Thank you. This is real nice of you,” I said.

“Anytime,” Mrs. Kawashiri insisted.

“Lately it’s been every time, Mrs. Kawashiri. The pastries are wonderful, but you can’t keep giving me something every time I show up here.”

She gave a snort that clearly indicated my protest was too silly to even discuss and turned around and went back to the racks of clothes.

“I’ve got to help Mrs. Kawashiri,” Mariko said. “Is there anything else you want me to do besides hold this package.”

“No,” I said. I held up the bag of cinnamon buns. “Thank her again for me, would you?”

“Sure,” Mariko said. “I may be a little jealous. She seems to like you more than I do. She’s always feeding you, anyway.”

“Pick you up at closing time,” I called out over my shoulder.

Mariko smiled. “Sure. See you then.”

7

W
hen I returned to the office I saw a uniformed Los Angeles Police Department officer and a man in a suit standing in front of the door. The man in the suit looked like a football player, with sandy hair and a stern face marred by a nose broken in some distant altercation or scuffle. He looked like a cop, too, just not one who advertised it with a uniform. Both men watched me carefully as I approached the office.

“Can I help you with something?” I asked.

“Are you Mr. Tanaka?” the man in the suit asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Mr. Ken Tanaka?”

“That’s right.”

“Kendo Detective Agency?”

“Well, that’s sort of a joke. It’s not really a detective agency.”

“A joke?”

“Sort of. It’s part of an L.A. Mystery Club weekend puzzle.”

“Puzzle? Mystery Club?”

“It’s sort of a long story.”

“My name’s Detective Hansen, LAPD.” He flashed an I.D. at me. “This is Patrolman Wilson. Maybe we can sit down for a few minutes and you can tell us this story.”

“Sure. Why don’t you come in?” I unlocked the door and motioned the two men in. Hansen went in but the patrolman waited until I preceded him before entering himself. I suppose it was to make sure I didn’t run away. I went over to the desk and sat down. I motioned to the seat in front of the desk for Hansen.

“No, thanks,” Hansen said.

Wilson, the one in uniform, stood by the door, blocking the exit. Hansen wandered around the office looking at the pictures on the wall and the furnishings in the office.

Despite my interest in mysteries, I’ve had minimal contact with police officers. I was fascinated to see that they acted very much like the police you see in movies and TV shows. I don’t know if this was because art imitates life or life imitates art.

“You said you had a story to tell us,” Hansen prompted.

I was puzzled, but not alarmed. I shrugged. “I belong to a club called the L.A. Mystery Club. Once a month we set up a fictitious mystery where club members act out parts in the mystery or try to solve the crime based on clues provided. It’s sort of a cross between a game and a play.”

“And this office?”

“The office is part of a mystery that I’m setting up for the next puzzle. I’ve only had it for a week.”

“Are you a licensed detective, Mr. Tanaka?”

“No, I’m not. As I’ve been explaining to you, this whole setup is part of a club I’m with.”

“Are you aware that to be a licensed detective in the state of California, a person is required to have two thousand hours of experience as a detective with a police force or a law firm?” Hansen finished circling the office, and sat down at the edge of the desk. I decided he was an officious ass.

“No, I didn’t. Look, if I’m in any trouble because of the sign on the window . . .”

“Do you know a Mr. Matsuda, Mr. Tanaka?” Hansen didn’t let me finish. I almost smiled at the familiar ploy. Except for the very real uniformed officer blocking the doorway, it could be part of an L.A. Mystery Club puzzle.

“I actually know several Matsudas. It’s a common Japanese name.”

“Mr. . . . excuse me,” Hansen reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, “Mr. Susumu Matsuda of Tokyo, Japan.”

“I met Mr. Matsuda last night, but I can’t say that I really know him.”

Hansen pulled out two folded sheets of paper from his jacket pocket, and handed them over to me. I unfolded them and looked at the sheets. They were photocopies of my detective business card, both the front and the back.

“Is that your business card?” Hansen asked.

“It’s one I had made up for the mystery puzzle. It goes along with the office.”

“Is that your handwriting on the receipt on the back of the business card?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Can you tell me what kind of package you received?”

“I don’t honestly know. I picked up the package for a client and that was my only contact with Mr. Matsuda. I couldn’t have spent three minutes in his room.”

“A client?”

I sighed. I was beginning to feel very flustered. “A woman stopped by yesterday and apparently made the same mistake you did. She thought I was a real detective. She asked me to go to Matsuda’s room and pick up a package for her.”

“His room?”

“I visited him at the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel. He’s a guest there.”

“When was this visit?”

“Last night.”

“What time last night?”

“I don’t know. I suppose a little bit after eight.”

“And you only stayed there a few minutes.”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Matsuda alone?”

“As a matter of fact, he wasn’t. There was a woman in the room with him.”

“A woman?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you happen to learn her name?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Was she there to pick something up, too?”

I shrugged. “I’d say she was there on quite different business, if you understand what I mean.”

“No, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“I believe she was a prostitute.”

“What would make you suspect that she was a prostitute?”

“Some of the statements she made and the way she acted and looked.”

“And you claim that this was the first time you met Mr. Matsuda?”

“That’s right.”

I knew what Hansen was doing. It was a cat and mouse game that I had played on more than one occasion myself in solving mystery weekend puzzles. Except in those circumstances I was usually the cat, and the person I was talking to was the mouse.

What made me the cat was knowledge—knowledge about the crime. When I did it, what I was trying to do in my questioning of the mouse was to draw some additional piece of knowledge or some statement that would connect the mouse to the crime.

It’s amazing how strong the need to confess is in people. Sometimes, but not always, the cat and mouse game would lead the mouse to blurt out some confession. The confession might be only a half-truth, without the mouse actually saying he or she was guilty. But it was from those half-truths that a bridge could be built, piece by piece, between the crime and the person suspected of committing the crime.

I wondered what the crime was that Hansen was investigating, and although I thought it might be better to show patience until Hansen finally told me, I couldn’t help myself and asked, “Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Earlier this morning Mr. Matsuda was found dead in his room.”

There was a long silence. I was flabbergasted and for a confused moment I wished this was actually still part of some elaborate hoax arranged by some other member of the L.A. Mystery Club. Finally, Hansen said, “You don’t seem very surprised.”

“Actually, I’m stunned.” Maybe I was hypersensitive, but I felt Hansen was doing the “inscrutable Asian” bit with his remark. It riled me. Now it was my chance to let the silence linger.

Hansen finally broke the silence by saying, “Did someone see you enter or leave Mr. Matsuda’s room?”

“I asked the desk clerk about a house phone when I entered the hotel. The woman with Mr. Matsuda saw me leave. I don’t know if any of the other hotel personnel saw me leave the hotel.”

“How did you spend the evening after you saw Mr. Matsuda?”

“Went home, took a bath, read, and went to sleep.”

“Any witnesses to that? You didn’t see anybody or meet anybody later that evening?”

“No. I was alone.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Tanaka?”

“Silver Lake, near Dodger stadium.”

“Do you have a car?” In Los Angeles, this was almost a given. Hansen was making a statement more than asking a question.

“Yes, I do.”

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“In the lot that’s about a block and a half from here.”

“Do you mind if we look it over?”

“For what?”

“We’d just like to look it over.”

To see if they can find any clues, I thought.

“And my apartment?”

“Yes. That would be nice if we could get your address and permission to look it over.”

I got scared. And with fear came anger. “You can look over anything you can get a warrant for.”

“That’s not being very cooperative.”

“I don’t have to be cooperative. It might not be in my best interest to be cooperative.”

“Something to hide?”

“I believe you’re the one who’s been hiding things, or at least not telling me exactly what happened to Matsuda. So far you’ve told me he’s dead. You’ve been interested in my whereabouts later last evening, even though I’ve admitted that I saw him. And you want to check out my car and maybe my apartment. What happened up there?”

“Mr. Matsuda was murdered. Very brutally murdered. In fact, he was more than murdered, he was totally dismembered; hacked to pieces. Our preliminary estimation is that it occurred at about one or two
A.M.,
and it was such a brutal murder that whoever did it must have been covered with blood when he left the hotel. That’s why I think it might be advisable to look over your car and possibly your apartment. In fact, since you’re the first person we’ve come across who saw him last night, I think I’d like to ask you to come down to the station to make a statement.”