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  His eyes remained fixed on the narrow entrance of an old apartment building squeezed between a supermarket and a ten-story, glass-walled pencil building on the other side of the street. Anywhere else in the world, the area would be a zoning nightmare. But here in Akasaka, like much of Tokyo, a superabundance of small- and large-scale developers had created a discordant reality patchwork.

  A cab pulled up in front of the apartment building. A young woman climbed out and made her way to steps leading up to the entrance. He looked at the photo sent to his cell phone by his client’s partner and confirmed the woman’s identity. His wait had dragged on, but in the end, patience had delivered the target.

  The man sauntered across the square as unobtrusively as he’d waited.

  The woman stopped at the foot of the steps, hesitated, then turned and strolled toward the supermarket. He crossed the road, darting between cars, and followed her to the store. When he saw her buy a takeout bentō lunchbox, he hurried back to her apartment building and dashed into the shadowy recess of the lobby ahead of her.

  # # #

  As Slade pulled into a car space directly across from the supermarket, he saw Isa heading toward her apartment building. He bolted between cars as she entered the narrow passage leading from the lobby to the building’s windowless, stygian elevator hall, just before he reached the building.

  Once inside, his eyes, still shielded by sunglasses, took several moments to adjust to the abrupt loss of glare from the sun.

  When he strode into the passage and closed behind Isa, Slade sensed rather than saw the first slash from a long metal bar. He was little more than a few armlengths away when a hefty Japanese man appeared from the shadows and swung at Isa when she approached him.

  “Isa, look out,” Slade shouted.

  He lunged at the assailant, putting the man off balance and making it easier to yank Isa away from the full force of the blow and throw her down behind him.

  The bentō flew out of her hand and splattered on the floor. Two police officers sprinting into the building from a patrol car dispatched to the address slipped on the food and stumbled to the ground.

  Slade tried to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, but the metal bar thumped into his chest, and his legs buckled. When he dropped to his knees, he caught sight of a snake tattoo on the upper wrist of the man’s gloved left hand. A heavy crowbar clattered on impact with the tiled floor.

  He managed to stand up again, his heart pounding. He bent down to check Isa for injury.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. He winded me. I just need to catch my breath.”

  Slade turned back to tackle the assailant, but he’d fled at a surprising clip for a man of his size, escaping through a door at the far end of the elevator hall leading to the trash room and out to the street at the rear of the building.

  The two uniformed officers took off in pursuit after they’d picked themselves up and shuffled past Isa and Slade. Slade followed and was running flat out a few meters behind them, his lungs screaming, when he heard gunfire. The officer in front of him caught the bullet in his left shoulder and lurched in front of his partner, knocking him to the ground.

  Slade veered right in a futile attempt to avoid them and tripped over someone’s leg. He regained his footing and elbowed aside stunned office workers and shoppers, but lost precious time. He was about to put on another burst of speed when an engine roared, and the Japanese attacker disappeared around the corner in a nondescript black car before Slade could take down the registration number.

  Slade instructed the uninjured officer to call an ambulance for his wounded partner.

  “And arrange for someone to collect the bullet and take it to central ballistics as soon as possible,” he yelled, running back to the elevator lobby. He found Isa still sitting on the floor where he’d left her two minutes earlier.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “I hoped you could tell me. You’ve never seen him before?” Slade helped Isa to her feet. She seemed shaken, and he held onto her a few moments longer than necessary.

  “I’m still figuring out what happened. I didn’t see his face,” Isa said.

  “He was Japanese. My guess is he’s your employer’s killer. He, or the person who hired him, thinks you know too much. We need to talk, and you’ll have to come up with more than before—recall every detail, even if you think it’s trivial.”

  “Did he follow me here?” Isa’s self-assurance from the early morning interview appeared to be evaporating.

  “I believe he waited for you to return home. I noticed a heavyset man walk across the road in your direction from the plaza over there, just before I pulled up.”

  “Why were you here? Did you follow me? You said I wasn’t a suspect.”

  “You’re lucky I did follow you.”

  Slade explained about the second murder.

  “You can’t stay here. I don’t know why, but I think you need protection. We’ll go up to your apartment now, so you can pack a few things and stay with me until we get a fix on your attacker.”

  The words slipped out before he’d thought the idea through. Slade surprised himself more than Isa. This won’t go down well in the Department. Makino will spend half a day checking the rulebook.

  Her body stiffened as she appeared to deal with conflicting emotions.

  “Thanks, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want to bother you.”

  “It won’t be a bother. I have a spare bedroom.” He knew his voice sounded hollow and was unlikely to put her at ease. Her misgivings would escalate when she saw the size of his apartment and learned the second bedroom was nothing more than Japanese futon bedding pulled out from storage onto the living room floor.

  “What if he follows us there? I can’t hang out with you while you’re at work. When I’m alone in your apartment, the risk will be the same as staying at my place.”

  “I live in a Police Department apartment building. It’s well protected. You’ll be much safer there, and we’ll put a uniformed officer on watch outside my door.”

  Slade hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

  CHAPTER 7

  (Thursday Afternoon—Tokyo)

  Twenty minutes later, they were in his car. He attempted small talk, but she was not inclined to chat, and lapses into silence did not appear to unsettle her. Any attempt to pry into the recesses of her memory for clues would have to wait until a better rapport developed between them.

  They left the car in the basement car park of the CIB’s secure residential building in the Kasumigaseki district of Chiyoda Ward, an area better known for its concentration of government ministries and agencies. They took the stairs to the front entrance and, from there, took the secure key-operated elevator to Slade’s ninth-floor apartment. He’d been careful to make unnecessary turns and deviate through several underground car parks after leaving Isa’s apartment building to shake off any potential tail.

  Two uniformed officers stood on duty outside the front door of the building, and in response to a call from Slade, headquarters had posted another man outside his apartment.

  “Suzuki reporting, sir,” he said when they approached.

  “You’ve been briefed?”

  “Yes, sir. Either I or my replacement will stay here. If the lady needs to go anywhere and you’re not available, one of us will accompany her.”

  Suzuki looked to be in his late twenties, around five foot eight, and underweight for his age and height. But his confidence and alertness reassured Slade that Isa would be safe when he left her alone.

  The CIB had set up Slade’s apartment along sparse lines, but he found it modern and pleasing to the eye. The tiny kitchen fitted with appliances, mostly unused, opened to a modest living room. The all-white background of walls, carpet, and curtains contrasted starkly with a black leather sofa, black marble coffee table, and medium-sized steel and glass dining table with black leather chairs. A double bed occupied most of the space in his tightly
furnished bedroom. The white-tiled bathroom, fitted with a shower and a small, deep, Japanese-style bath, was economical in both design and functionality.

  “What do you think?” Slade asked.

  “Small but elegant, although it could use a woman’s touch. I’m also wondering where I’ll find your second bedroom.”

  “You’re standing in it. You’ll sleep in the bedroom, and I’ll use a futon on the floor here in the living room.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of turning you out of your bedroom. I can sleep here.”

  “No, the only way to the bedroom is through this room, so in the unlikely event that anyone gets past the building’s protection, that person will also have to get past me. No argument,” he said.

  She looked at Slade’s muscular six-foot-two presence and seemed reassured that he could handle any crisis.

  “In that case, I’ll unpack.”

  He watched her pull off her jacket, hang it on an overcrowded peg behind the front door, and stroll through the living room to the bedroom, tying back her hair with a clip. Her nose was a tad sharp and her mouth too wide to describe as perfect, yet he enjoyed looking at her striking appearance, even with her thick hair pulled back in a severe style.

  He followed her to the bedroom door. Sensing his presence, Isa turned, and they locked eyes. Slade felt his pulse rise in response to her unabashed stare. He lowered his gaze to her breasts and waist and imagined what might happen if he reached out and touched her.

  He blinked and stepped back. Don’t go there. You’re working on a murder case.

  “I’m starving. I’ll fix us sandwiches for a late lunch.” Slade crossed the room to the kitchen alcove, and the moment ended.

  “Not much for me, thanks,” Isa said. “After everything that’s happened today, I’m not hungry.” She moved to the bedroom window. “You’ve got a view of the original Tokyo Tower to kill for. I’m envious.”

  “An unexpected benefit of working for Japanese law enforcement.”

  Before starting on the sandwiches, Slade called Hirota.

  “Any news on the Filipino maid?”

  “She lived with three other Filipinos, who didn’t see anything suspicious. The perp entered her bedroom through the window and slit her throat. There’s no weapon, no prints. We’ve got nothing yet; just a lot of blood. Clearly a silent hit—no one else in the house heard anything. The killer’s a pro.”

  “Right. Keep at it. I’ll bring in a laptop from Palmer’s house later today. It looks like everything’s been deleted, but I want our guys to work on it and see if they can retrieve any content. The French IT forensics expert, Alexandre Roche, seems to get results, so give him a heads-up to be ready when I arrive.”

  Slade and Roche occasionally hung out together over drinks, and the Frenchman’s work and character impressed him. On loan from France’s Service Central de la Sécurité des Systèmes d’Informations, the SCSSI, Roche’s data retrieval and computer forensic skills had inspired a fast-spreading reputation among their Japanese colleagues.

  Slade opened the refrigerator, and a few moments later, Isa joined him and sat at his dining table. She watched him put a pan on the stove and toss in ham and eggs. While they fried, he sliced lettuce, tomatoes, and a block of cheese. He toasted some bread and, a few minutes later, put a pile of club sandwiches à la Slade on the table and poured freshly brewed coffee.

  “You’re domesticated. I’m impressed.” Isa started to eat. “This is good.”

  “I have a narrow band of competency in the kitchen. I can handle a sandwich, but that’s about as far as it goes.”

  She acknowledged his words with a smile, and for the first time, it spread to her eyes.

  After they’d finished their meal and exhausted conversation about his apartment, she asked, “Do you have a girlfriend here in Tokyo?”

  “I used to. We split up about five months ago. She wanted me to spend less time working, but that’s not something I’ve got much control over. Crime doesn’t keep a nine-to-five workday.”

  “Did you want to spend more time away from work?” The intensity of her hazel-brown eyes disarmed him.

  After a short silence, he said “Not really. I suppose that’s why we split. I wasn’t prepared to make the commitment she wanted.”

  “So you play the field now?”

  He laughed. “Cautiously.” No, delete that. More like not at all, recently. “But even if I found the time, I have to focus on the job. And since I’m talking about the job, I have a few more questions for you about Carol Palmer.”

  For the past eleven months at Tokyo’s CIB, asking questions was second nature. It had been how he did his job—asking questions and getting answers. It wasn’t difficult and typically led to a logical unfolding of facts that brought him to a conclusion. But this crime was different. The more he asked, the less he understood. Every answer led to more questions, and it wasn’t getting any better even now in the more relaxed circumstances of his apartment.

  He did learn, though, that Isa met Palmer’s husband in New York during a trip when she interpreted for Ono. She delivered a package of documents from Mrs. Palmer to his New York hotel. Her employer had issued strict instructions—do not open the package, do not lose it, and do not contact her husband directly: just leave it at the hotel’s reception desk for him to collect. Isa had ignored the last instruction and handed it to Palmer in the lobby to be certain he received it. They did not converse or exchange business cards, so she remained unaware of his company’s name and his position.

  “What did he look like?” Slade asked.

  “Around thirty-five. Chloe’s height. He wore jeans and looked like Mr. Average.”

  That put him at about five foot nine, too short for the high-end suit that Slade noticed earlier, but the low-budget suits and jeans hanging in the adjoining bedroom would be a comfortable fit. The question of who owned the expensive larger clothing remained unanswered.

  “She married twelve months ago, you said.”

  “That’s what I understood,” Isa hesitated. “Truthfully, it seemed more like a marriage of convenience than anything else.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, they didn’t often meet, even though Chloe went to the UK at two-month intervals. I got the impression they didn’t spend much time together over there either. Even if you take his work schedule into account, that’s hardly normal for newlyweds.”

  Slade would have agreed one hundred percent, except she’d just made a verbal photocopy of his parents’ recipe for their miserable marriage.

  “Why do you continue to call her Chloe even though she changed her name?” Slade asked.

  “The odd thing is that her sister’s name is Carol. Carol’s three years younger than Chloe.” Isa ran her hands down the front of her skirt. “I haven’t seen her for thirteen years. She and Chloe shared a family resemblance, but their hair color and other features were dissimilar, like any sisters of different ages. Carol Harris had brown hair. Chloe was blonde and a little taller than her younger sister. Actually, they were half-sisters, as Chloe’s mother divorced and another partner moved in for a while. I couldn’t get used to addressing Chloe by her sister’s name.”

  “She used her sister’s name when there are hundreds of thousands of others she could have used. Didn’t that make you think something was off?” he asked.

  Isa shot him a defensive look. “She offered no explanation, and I didn’t ask. Chloe was unpredictable. After knowing her a while, no one at college questioned her motives.”

  The more Slade thought about the unfolding story, the more levels on which he found it troubling. I know how I’d feel if James called from the States and said he’d changed his name to Dan.

  “Look, I have to head off to the squad room for a couple of hours to go through a bunch of paperwork. You’ll be safe here. Make yourself at home until I get back.”

  “Like I said, I have designs for Ono to finish, so I’ll spread out on this table if you don’t
mind. But I will have to deliver them to her soon. They’re already late.”

  “I’ll take you when you’re ready. It’s not safe for you to go anywhere alone.”

  Isa protested, but he was already out the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  (Thursday Afternoon—Tokyo)

  Abe, arms crossed, stood beside the body of Carol Palmer stretched out on a slab. He’d removed a portion of her skull to assess the damage and extract the bullet.

  “What have you got for me?” Slade strode through the open door and stood opposite the medical examiner.

  “Your victim died from a single bullet that entered the right side of her head and lodged in the left side of her brain. The folks over in ballistics have the bullet and can give you more information. She died instantly, of course.”

  Eat your words, Makino. “Have you pinned down the precise time of death?”

  “Well, the only sure way to know is to be there when the victim dies, and this case is especially tricky because of the heat, as you know.”

  Slade drummed his fingers on the desk. “Are you telling me you don’t know any more than you did at the crime scene?”

  “Hang on. I haven’t finished yet. Body temperature is merely our first parameter. I also looked at rigor mortis, among several other factors. Under moderate conditions, an average person’s body stiffens gradually, then the process reverses. It’s usually gone by forty-eight hours. Reversal starts from the head and ends at the toes.”

  Slade edged closer to the slab. “The fingers look stiff, but the arm is not. So this means she died nearly forty-eight hours ago, right?”

  “No. The extreme temperature will have accelerated the process of rigor as well. Based on my experience with corpses exposed to environmental temperatures of thirty degrees and above in the humid Tokyo summer, rigor might have been complete by six hours and started to resolve by twelve after death, not long before we arrived. I noticed the early signs of resolution when I examined the corpse on the sofa. I would say rigor is now between eighty-five and ninety percent completed.”