Clear Skies Read online

  “Make that twenty-four hours until further notice.” Slade went back inside to shower and dress in work clothes.

  Concern had segued into something closer to fear. Isa was a target. She must have information vital to solving this crime, and drawing out that information would be crucial to the investigation. Now the target was unprotected, and the clues would never fit together if she didn’t survive.

  He wanted this particular woman to survive—and not just to help solve the crime.

  CHAPTER 10

  (Friday Morning—Tokyo)

  The young woman glanced at her reflection in the window of the limousine bus taking her from Narita Airport to central Tokyo.

  A bad hair day again, she thought, although her thick flowing hair was one of her best features. Most people look better in real life than in passport photos, but her image in the window glass made her think today was an exception. Even allowing for exhaustion after the eleven-hour sleepless flight, her face was a tad too pale, and dark circles underscored her eyes. She put it down to persistent stress and the intense emotional ride she’d taken through sharp curves and steep inclines over the past eighteen months.

  Her entire life was like a small yacht attempting to sail through a category-five hurricane. She didn’t know why. Maybe she had undiagnosed bipolar disorder.

  More than a year had passed since the breakup with her last boyfriend. They’d been together six months, and she’d felt they were perfect together. They’d talked for hours, and she confided all her fears and private thoughts to him without inhibitions. Their sex was good, although not as good as it had been with some of her former lovers, but so much else about their relationship excelled. He’d been the most attentive partner she’d known. It was just three weeks after their first date when he’d moved in with her. He’d worked out of town and came back on weekends and whenever else he could.

  One evening, she’d come home from work to find his clothes gone and a note on the kitchen table. He’d said he’d fallen for another woman and did not want to deceive her any longer.

  Support from an office colleague and planning for this vacation had lessened the pain. She spent less time thinking about him these days, and her memories were no longer rose-colored. He’d lacked the courage to confront her face-to-face, exposing a side of his character she’d not allowed herself to see before.

  She gazed through the bus window, her emotions soothed by the verdant green rice paddies and patches of forested land stretching between the highway and the horizon.

  He’d been one of many examples of poor judgment she could have avoided with a more mature approach to life. The slipshod way she’d treated family, friends, and work colleagues combined with her poor work ethic, had culminated a little more than a year ago—at the same time as the breakup—in a serious incident that taught her the value of accountability and moderation. She’d been framed, but those around her and the authorities had not been convinced.

  She’d avoided imprisonment but was forced to comply with restrictions on her activities and a court order to carry out public service to atone for her alleged misdeed. Life now bored her, and both her personality and lifestyle were too gray. Her previously unrecognized envy of a few people who should be part of her life had caused her to push them away, estranging her from them. It forced her to accept a dreary nine-to-five existence shuffling papers on a desk and answering mundane telephone calls in a dull office where she had neither aspiration nor opportunity for upward mobility. She’d made plenty of mistakes, for sure, and several had been serious, but she was still young, and a new beginning lay ahead.

  That’s why now, on a whim, she found herself on the way to central Tokyo. It was time for a change, a change for the better. There would be no return to the earlier dark period of her life that led her to the troubles she’d escaped from relatively unscathed. Now she needed an adventure, a challenge to liven up her existence. That’s why she’d come to a country where she could not even communicate, and where she would rectify the worst mistake of her life and start over.

  CHAPTER 11

  (Friday Morning—Tokyo)

  Three plain-clothed officers watched Isa Kato’s apartment building—one at the rear entrance, and two, Shimozaki and Tanaka, seated in their unmarked sedan with a clear view of the front door.

  Their instructions were to look for anyone fitting the assailant’s scant description without drawing attention to the stakeout. That meant any person of interest must be suspicious enough to justify exposing the surveillance.

  Makino had dispatched them in the faint hope of apprehending a person of interest in the double murder case, a goal more vital than protecting Isa Kato, in his view. Slade was taking care of her in any case. But the chance of the killer returning to the scene of an aborted hit was remote, and Makino’s primary objective in this exercise was to protect himself. If trouble percolated to the top levels of the CIB hierarchy, he could show he’d made a significant effort to solve the case before handing it over to International Liaison.

  Six tenants—Kato, four other women, and one man—resided in the building according to the names on the mailboxes. The other four women departed before nine, most likely headed to their respective places of employment.

  The current stakeout detail reached the tail end of their shift. Tanaka left the car and sprinted to Starbucks for takeout coffees to sustain them through the final thirty minutes of their assignment.

  Two minutes after he left, a young woman matching Kato’s description arrived in a cab and entered the building, carrying an oversized bag.

  Shimozaki was alert, but not concerned. They would close in if a potential assailant appeared, and with the prey in place, they’d have a better chance of seizing the criminal and scoring points with Makino.

  A stream of deliverymen, company employees, and housewives with shopping bags passed the building. An elderly, white-haired man carrying a sack loaded with fruit limped up the steps and entered the building. Most of his weight transferred to a walking stick in his right hand because of a stiff left leg. He struggled to open the door and keep his balance without dropping the fruit.

  Shimozaki alerted his colleagues, but again felt no cause for alarm.

  Tanaka returned with coffee five minutes later.

  “Has the old guy come out yet?” Tanaka asked.

  “No. I think we can assume he’s the male tenant.”

  Ten minutes later, the old man emerged without the bag of fruit and limped down the steps onto the street. Something about him nagged at Shimozaki’s subconscious while he watched the man shuffle around the corner into a side street and disappear from view. He reflected for a minute and then it hit him. The old man leaned on his walking stick, but this time to the left side. His weak leg had changed from left to right.

  “Call Makino and tell him we might have a problem,” Shimozaki said to Tanaka and dashed after the man. He rounded the corner but did not see the suspect.

  “Did an old man bending over a walking stick pass here a few moments ago?” he asked a part-time salesman handing out pamphlets in front of a cell phone agency.

  “A white-haired guy charged past here holding a stick at waist height, so he didn’t seem to need it.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He got into a parked car and took off down the street real fast, but I didn’t see which way he turned.”

  “Did you notice the make and number?”

  “It was black. A typical company type of car—a Toyota Crown or a model like that. I didn’t even look at the number.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “I doubt it. I glimpsed his face for less than a second. Just long enough to know he wasn’t all that old, even with white hair. He had the hands and body of a younger man, maybe in his forties. One thing I did notice was a snakehead tattoo on the wrist of his left hand.”

  Shimozaki barreled back to Tanaka, out of breath. “We’d better get inside and see what’s
happened. There’ll be hell to pay over this if the killer slipped past us.”

  They ran into the building and called the third officer, who sprinted from the back exit to meet them at the elevator. He’d been aware of a large black car passing the rear of the building at high speed, but could not recall any details.

  # # #

  Slade was edgy when he arrived at the squad room. He’d skipped breakfast and coffee because of his delayed start to the day and apprehension over Isa’s whereabouts and safety.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  “We’ve got one team on stakeout duty, and another’s on its way to relieve them. And since you asked, where have you been?” Makino replied.

  Makino’s cell phone rang, giving Slade the chance to dodge an answer and move to his desk. Makino put down his phone and strode over to him.

  “I don’t know what this means, but one of the officers at the Kato stakeout says a young woman matching her description went into the building about twenty minutes ago. I assumed she was with you.” Makino paused for a response, and when Slade remained silent, he went on. “An elderly man with a cane and walking difficulties entered the building a short time after the woman. Our guys were not alerted until he came out—it seems he didn’t limp as much, and his gait had changed. They’re entering her apartment to check as I speak.”

  Makino’s cell phone rang again. He looked at Slade. “It’s bad news. Let’s go.”

  They reached Isa’s apartment in less than fifteen minutes. Slade pushed past the door, forced open earlier by the stakeout officers. A trail of blood, still wet, led from the living room to the bathroom. He followed the path, heart racing, mouth clenched, palms sweaty. He saw Isa lying face down on the floor. All movement stopped. His organs shut down as he took in the scene.

  One of the officers rolled her over just enough to show she’d been stabbed in the chest several times and her head bashed with a metal lamp stand, now lying covered in blood on the bathroom floor beside the body.

  Slade snapped into action, pulling on plastic gloves. He turned her head slightly to get a closer look, but her face was unrecognizable because of the trauma. Her long hair was tangled and congealed with blood, but her remarkable hazel-brown eyes were open. They still had a luminous glow, even in death.

  Slade struggled to control his emotions and fought the urge to throw up. Unaware of having moved, he found himself back in the living room standing next to Shimozaki, who’d finished marking off the crime scene for the forensic team.

  “I’m sure the perp’s walking stick concealed a weapon,” Slade said. “It might have been one of those sword canes or a cane with a retractable knife in it. Maybe in his initial blitz assault, he struck Isa with the stick from behind to stun her and flicked out the blade to finish her off with several strikes to the chest. He didn’t manage to kill her outright, and she staggered into the bathroom. He grabbed the metal base of this lamp, followed her and struck her head multiple times. He’s a vicious killer.”

  Shimozaki nodded agreement, “That’s how I see it too. With a tall, young victim like this, an old man needing a cane to walk couldn’t have overpowered her so easily. It was the perfect disguise. It fooled the young woman and us as well.” He went on to report the information he’d picked up from the street witness.

  His pulse still racing, Slade said, “It’s clear from the witness that he was much younger and taller if he stood up straight. He could have overcome a strong young woman of Isa’s build, no trouble at all.”

  “We found both taps in the vanity sinks still running,” Shimozaki said. “The killer wanted to eliminate any evidence. He washed hair, fibers, and potential clues down the drain. Forensics will check the pipes, of course, but I’m sure all traces have long gone by now.”

  “He’s a pro. This incident would not be this individual’s first kill, and certainly not his first violent assault.” Slade recalled the tattooed wrist of the man who attacked Isa the first time, and it matched the limited description of the fleeing man from Shimozaki’s witness. “From what you tell me, I believe the same man carried out both yesterday’s attack and today’s fatal attack on Isa. In all probability, he’s responsible for the other two murders as well.”

  Makino spoke for the first time. “I’m not so sure. The methods of killing are different. Shooting at close range and stabbing require different skills.”

  If he can play Bach, he can play Wagner as well. “If I put my money down, I’d say he’s a professional assassin who’s undergone a broad range of self-defense and offensive training.”

  Slade now believed he’d be hunting a master hitman as well as the person who’d hired him.

  # # #

  Back in the squad room, Slade strode across the room to his desk. Never let it happen again. Romance on the job leads to nothing but careless mistakes and distress. If he hadn’t let his guard down, Isa wouldn’t have left his apartment, and she’d still be alive.

  His cell phone buzzed.

  It vibrated against his waist, but the sound and motion did not penetrate his consciousness. His hesitation was evident to everyone in the room until their stares jogged him into action.

  “Dan Slade.”

  He pulled the phone away from his ear in a knee-jerk reaction, and the tension sucked air from the room. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, he regained his composure. “Who did you say it is?” He listened, his face blank.

  “Tell her to stay right there. Don’t let her out of your sight until I come down.”

  Slade looked at his colleagues. “It’s one of the officers on duty downstairs. Isa Kato is asking to see me.”

  CHAPTER 12

  (Friday Morning—Tokyo)

  Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Slade bounded down the stairs, two at a time, with Makino stretched to keep up.

  Isa stood at the reception desk. She wore a neon green shirt, catapulting her out of the crowd in the lobby. The plum-colored nail polish on her fingers and toes linked her with the relative normality of the previous day, and Slade wondered if he’d imagined the events of the past hour.

  She seemed calm, oblivious to the panic and shock he’d experienced as the day had unfolded, but the unsparing judgment in his expression and his race to the desk must have conveyed his disbelief at seeing her.

  Isa tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”

  Slade wasn’t sure whether his overriding emotion amounted to relief at seeing her alive or anger at her total disregard of his instructions and blatant withholding of information about another woman with access to her apartment, who would also be at risk.

  “We need to talk. Follow me.” He led her to a plush meeting room used by executive-level personnel to meet VIP visitors and asked an administrative assistant to bring tea.

  Makino grabbed Slade’s elbow. “Interrogation rooms are on the second floor. These rooms are off-limits for us.”

  Slade clenched his fists, and his eyes narrowed to deliver a look that could have stopped an elephant stampede. We are not going to an interrogation room. Isa’s personality was still a novel to be read, but from what he knew already, discussion in an interrogation setting used to coerce suspects to confess would be the least productive approach.

  They sat, and Slade asked, “When did you leave my apartment this morning and where did you go?”

  “Ono arrives at her studio every morning at seven, so I left at six-thirty to deliver my designs. I thought I’d hand them over and be back before you took off, but she wanted me to review each one with her team. She’s never done that before. Her response to my work flattered and excited me, so of course, I agreed.” She sipped the green tea placed in front of her. “My cell phone needs charging, so I called you a few times from Ono’s office phone, but you didn’t pick up. By the time we finished, I knew you’d have gone, so I came here. I don’t have a key to your apartment.”

  Slade nodded, and she went on.

  “I’m sorry for causing you concern, but
I knew I’d be safe at—”

  “The situation was and still is not safe for you. And it certainly wasn’t safe for somebody else,” Slade said, cutting her off. “Makino and I just returned thirty minutes ago from your apartment. We found a woman stabbed and bashed to death in your bathroom, and I believe the same perp killed Carol Palmer and Cora Martinique and tried to kill you yesterday.”

  “Oh my God. How did she get into my apartment?”

  “The question is not how, but who. She suffered severe facial trauma, I admit, but looked a lot like you. I sent the victim to the morgue with an ‘Isabella Kato’ name tag. Who had access to your apartment?”

  A look of understanding mixed with disbelief flickered across Isa’s face. “I have a younger sister, Naomi. We have a few features in common—same hair, eyes, and build—but we’re otherwise different.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me this yesterday? We talked over dinner about your family, background, ambitions, the whole works, but you never mentioned a sister?”

  “It wasn’t relevant. And even though she’s my sister, the situation between us is—was—complicated and distant. It’s not the sort of thing you tell a stranger.”

  “A stranger?”

  “Well, you were at the time.” After a moment of silence, she said, “I had no idea she’d come to Japan.”

  “How did she get into your apartment?”

  “She had a key. I sent it to her when I reached out and asked her to visit a few months ago. When she didn’t reply, I assumed our relationship was still at a low point.”

  “You will have to identify her at the morgue. It won’t be pleasant.” Slade realized that Isa’s shock had not drawn tears. They’d probably appear later, when reality took hold.

  Slade and Makino stood to leave and motioned Isa to follow, just as Slade’s junior detective, Hirota, and Roche entered the room.