Mas returned to Takeo’s room, only to see his grandson cast on open seas, surrounded by doctors and nurses, their gowns the color of green toothpaste and after-dinner mints. “ Gambare, gambare, ” Mas murmured. Don’t give up. Don’t sink. Mari was constantly trying to swim toward Takeo, but the waves prevented her from moving forward. Lloyd, unconscious, was taken away on a gurney. And again, Mari was too far, her loved one unreachable. She looked as though she were underwater, and even to Mas, sounds were distorted, movements in slow motion. Before she collapsed, Tug, the tall angel, grabbed her arm, while Mas, the father, grabbed the other.
Mari rested on a couch in the waiting room, a cold pack on her forehead, while Mas and Tug spoke in the hallway.
“Couldn’t catch him. No good knees anymore,” said Mas, dejected.
Tug handed him a paper cup filled with water. “Drink this, and take a few deep breaths.”
Mas kept on wheezing, and Tug theorized that perhaps decades of smoking were finally taking their toll on his health. If Mas weren’t so worn-out, he would have snapped at his friend. He didn’t need useless health advice when his daughter had almost passed out, his grandson and son-in-law attacked. Lloyd was now conscious but being X-rayed to make sure that his brains weren’t scrambled from the blow to his head.
Both Detective Ghigo and Jeannie Yee were now on the scene. Ghigo said that they had an APB out for a dark-haired man named Larry Pauley. But hair could be colored and IDs falsified; Mas knew that much. And besides, had Larry been behind the shooting of Kazzy Ouchi? His style seemed more rough-and-tumble, while Kazzy’s murder had been more calculated, with an attention to details.
Mas and Tug made their way to the waiting area. Jeannie paced the linoleum floor, her heels clicking, kachi-kachi, like the red and blue castanets that children pressed together while dancing in circles at the summer Obon festival at the Pasadena Buddhist Church. Instead of a shimmering waterfall, Jeannie’s hair was uncharacteristically mussed up, a blue jay’s nest. Funny that both she and Ghigo would show up at the hospital together, thought Mas.
“We’ll pick him up,” said Ghigo. “He had a large amount of money recently transferred to his personal account. He and Penn Anderson were using the Ouchi Foundation to embezzle money from Waxley Enterprises. Using their own business contacts as vendors, overpaying them, and pocketing the extra.”
“The police traced the anonymous calls back to Penn,” explained Jeannie. “He had a voice-altering device. He’s been feeding all this information about Mari and Lloyd to divert attention from the missing money. He made such a production of hiding his identity that it seemed obvious that he was hiding something. I guess that it didn’t hurt that he had been double-crossed by Larry. He’s admitted the embezzling, and is willing to testify against Larry. He just doesn’t want to be associated with any murders or attempted murders; he’s said that’s all Larry’s doing.”
“I need to see my son.” Mari removed the ice pack from her head and tried to lift herself up from the couch.
“You hear docta; Takeo orai,” Mas said. “Sleepin’ now. Needsu his sleep.” Ghigo had ordered two police officers to keep watch in front of Takeo’s room.
“Yes, Mari. You need to rest a little. They could get you a hospital bed.” Tug placed his huge hands on the top of the couch.
Mari shook her head. “I can go over to Lloyd’s room and keep him company.” Lloyd had a mild concussion. He’d been knocked out by a fire extinguisher. He hadn’t seen his assailant, unfortunately, but several security cameras got pictures of Larry-his mouth covered with a mask, but that medical jacket, soaked in the scent of a designer cologne, had plenty of dark hairs. Good thing that Mas had pointed it out to the police.
“Maybe, Dad, you can get a few things for me from home?”
Mas nodded.
As Ghigo and Jeannie moved over to have a private discussion by a magazine rack, Tug clapped his hands together. “Well, good thing, Mas, the mystery’s solved. It looks like that Larry Pauley killed Mr. Ouchi.”
But Mas wasn’t in a celebratory mood. He was far away, looking beyond Tug, toward the darkness of the street through the hospital windows.
It was past midnight before Mas reached the underground apartment, but people-some alone with their heads down, others in pairs making loud noises-were still walking the streets. You could never feel lonely in New York City, thought Mas, wondering if that was one of its main charms.
After he entered the apartment, he turned on the lamp. White papers littered the front of the fireplace. Dorobo, thief, thought Mas. He slowly retrieved them, realizing as he did that they were actually a product of the fax machine. With the help of his reading glasses, Mas arranged them in order. The first page stated, FAX COVER SHEET/Kinko’s. Kinko? Sounded like a strange Japanese name. But then Mas remembered that name on storefronts all throughout Los Angeles. A chain of photocopy services.
Underneath Kinko’s was another name: Haruo Mukai. So Haruo had come through again.
There were three additional pages. All were from Asa Sumi’s journal, although the script looked a little different. Instead of the neat hatch marks that could have been made by the end of a sharp knife, the handwriting was rushed, fluid like running water. The entry was dated February 20, 1931. Yesterday was my last day at the Waxley House, it began. Even to think of it now, tears are running down my face. The morning began as usual, preparing fresh bread, jam, and fruit for breakfast. But no one came down. I wondered what was wrong, and then I heard Ouchi-san call my name. Mas kept reading, sometimes unable to make out certain words, but continuing, knowing that something important was contained in there. He read the entry five or six times to let its weight settle in his gut.
Kazzy hadn’t been killed to cover a man’s greed, but a daughter’s scorn.
chapter thirteen
Mas didn’t sleep at all that night. He was a walking mummy, stumbling on the sidewalks of Park Slope, leaning against trees, watching a man wash his Pontiac at three o’clock in the morning. Everyone here was alive, completely engaged with what they were doing, whether it be corner-store workers setting out the new newspapers for the day, or people drinking coffee and long Mexican sugared donuts. He figured that the energy of the streets could help him think. To take pieces of paper, casual conversations, and chases-both physical and mental-and somehow pull them together into something that made sense.
Mas then knew that he needed to see the pond again. He walked more purposefully, ignoring the weight and weaknesses of his legs. A gray fog covered the top of the Waxley House, erasing the existence of the watchful rooftop dragons. He figured that the house would be empty. He entered the back through the side gate, hearing the woeful barking of a dog a few houses east.
The past few days of both sun and coolness had done wonders for the garden. The cherry blossoms were ready to pop open, and the long, skinny blades of the silver grass was fluffed out like a bouffant hairstyle. Mas greeted all the plants silently in his mind. You needed to talk to plants, but you didn’t have to do it out loud like Becca.
