women at the booth across the aisle from her, a cluster of young men and women at the bar itself. Everything looked reassuringly ordinary . . . just as she had planned.
She had known all along that she had no choice but to meet with Sadamori Fujiwara but she had stubbornly made him wait until the third night after her father’s funeral. When she called from the lobby, Akiko had answered and, after a brief pause, had agreed to the hotel bar as the meeting place and ten minutes later as the time. Lisa was determined that she would not be taken by surprise. If they wanted to kidnap her, or kill her, they would not do it easily.
But they could do it just the same. If they really wanted to. She had only to remember Takashi Yamagata’s eyes and his fingers around her wrist to know that.
She glanced down at the glass of soda water in her hand, poked absently at the submerged lime with the tiny cocktail skewer in the shape of a red plastic sword.
“Takara-san?”
Her head snapped up and saw the short man standing by her table. She had a brief vision of a broad face, eyes banded with sunglasses, then he bowed slightly. “
Konbanwa
. Fujiwara Sadamori
desu
.”
“
Konbanwa
,” she answered and asked him to join her, gesturing to the padded booth bench across from her. The Japanese syllables sounded awkward in her mouth. She had dreaded this, that he would speak only Japanese to her, and she would be forced to struggle through its tangles of courtesy and obligation, where any slip might mean her life.
“Thank you, Dr. Takara. If we could speak in English, I would be grateful. I am afraid my knowledge is somewhat outdated and I am happy for any opportunity to practise,” he said smoothly. His English was impeccable. Lisa was torn for one wild moment between anger and gratitude. He had spared her the necessity of negotiating her freedom in Japanese with perfect courtesy, but she knew that he could have insisted on his own tongue . . . and that now she was already in debt to him for the favour.
“Of course,” she said at last and was relieved when a waiter materialized at her side.
“Two of whatever the doctor is having,” Fujiwara said, and the waiter vanished again. Lisa watched across the table, wishing the man would take his sunglasses off. They seemed to cover more than his eyes, somehow turning his whole face into a mask. She could not even tell his age with any certainty; his hair was touched with grey at the temples but his face seemed unlined, the wide jaw firm. His grey suit looked expensive, as did his tie, silk woven with a subtle pattern of flying cranes. There were no rings on the broad, strong-looking fingers resting on the table. She could not help a glance at his wrist, hunting for a tattoo beneath the immaculate white cuffs of his shirt, but saw nothing.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Of course. You could, for instance, have gone to the police. But if you were going to do that, you would have done it after Mr. Yamagata questioned you. It has puzzled me greatly that you did not.”
She almost asked how he knew she hadn’t, then realized it didn’t matter. “I had enough of the police back in Toronto. I told them everything I know about what happened. I told Mr. Yamagata everything I know, too. Now I just want to be left alone.”
“I cannot speak for the police in Toronto, but I know that Mr. Yamagata does not believe you.”
“I can’t help that.”
“But I can. Perhaps if you were to tell me . . .” His voice trailed off as the waiter reappeared and set down their glasses. When he was gone, Lisa spoke, leaning forward and lowering her voice unconsciously. She told him that same story she had told everyone else.
When she was done, she saw a faint smile edge the
yakuza
leader’s mouth and he nodded thoughtfully. She closed her fingers around her glass and took a slow, measured sip. She noticed that Fujiwara had not touched
She had known all along that she had no choice but to meet with Sadamori Fujiwara but she had stubbornly made him wait until the third night after her father’s funeral. When she called from the lobby, Akiko had answered and, after a brief pause, had agreed to the hotel bar as the meeting place and ten minutes later as the time. Lisa was determined that she would not be taken by surprise. If they wanted to kidnap her, or kill her, they would not do it easily.
But they could do it just the same. If they really wanted to. She had only to remember Takashi Yamagata’s eyes and his fingers around her wrist to know that.
She glanced down at the glass of soda water in her hand, poked absently at the submerged lime with the tiny cocktail skewer in the shape of a red plastic sword.
“Takara-san?”
Her head snapped up and saw the short man standing by her table. She had a brief vision of a broad face, eyes banded with sunglasses, then he bowed slightly. “
Konbanwa
. Fujiwara Sadamori
desu
.”
“
Konbanwa
,” she answered and asked him to join her, gesturing to the padded booth bench across from her. The Japanese syllables sounded awkward in her mouth. She had dreaded this, that he would speak only Japanese to her, and she would be forced to struggle through its tangles of courtesy and obligation, where any slip might mean her life.
“Thank you, Dr. Takara. If we could speak in English, I would be grateful. I am afraid my knowledge is somewhat outdated and I am happy for any opportunity to practise,” he said smoothly. His English was impeccable. Lisa was torn for one wild moment between anger and gratitude. He had spared her the necessity of negotiating her freedom in Japanese with perfect courtesy, but she knew that he could have insisted on his own tongue . . . and that now she was already in debt to him for the favour.
“Of course,” she said at last and was relieved when a waiter materialized at her side.
“Two of whatever the doctor is having,” Fujiwara said, and the waiter vanished again. Lisa watched across the table, wishing the man would take his sunglasses off. They seemed to cover more than his eyes, somehow turning his whole face into a mask. She could not even tell his age with any certainty; his hair was touched with grey at the temples but his face seemed unlined, the wide jaw firm. His grey suit looked expensive, as did his tie, silk woven with a subtle pattern of flying cranes. There were no rings on the broad, strong-looking fingers resting on the table. She could not help a glance at his wrist, hunting for a tattoo beneath the immaculate white cuffs of his shirt, but saw nothing.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Of course. You could, for instance, have gone to the police. But if you were going to do that, you would have done it after Mr. Yamagata questioned you. It has puzzled me greatly that you did not.”
She almost asked how he knew she hadn’t, then realized it didn’t matter. “I had enough of the police back in Toronto. I told them everything I know about what happened. I told Mr. Yamagata everything I know, too. Now I just want to be left alone.”
“I cannot speak for the police in Toronto, but I know that Mr. Yamagata does not believe you.”
“I can’t help that.”
“But I can. Perhaps if you were to tell me . . .” His voice trailed off as the waiter reappeared and set down their glasses. When he was gone, Lisa spoke, leaning forward and lowering her voice unconsciously. She told him that same story she had told everyone else.
When she was done, she saw a faint smile edge the
yakuza
leader’s mouth and he nodded thoughtfully. She closed her fingers around her glass and took a slow, measured sip. She noticed that Fujiwara had not touched
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