Pleasing the Dead by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

reason, Tagama was glad Ryan’s attempt at the gelato business had been a flop, as failure was apt to relax Obake’s attention. Even Ryan’s mother, though she’d remarried five or six years ago, could be vulnerable. Her new husband was a dot-com success story who’d sold his software company at the right time and retired to sail up and down the coast of California, doting on his new wife. She was probably out of reach, which relieved Tagama.
    Age and experience had mellowed Tagama’s feelings for his ex. For years after she left him, when Ryan was small, he’d had her followed. Now her happiness pleased Ryan, which enhanced his relationship with his father. The down side of this, however, meant that if Obake wanted leverage, she could be a weak link in Tagama’s armor.
    Obake replied, with a proper amount of ruefulness, that he had no daughter. It was time for Tagama to share his information.
    â€œI have asked about the leak you suspected.”
    Obake merely raised a tiny teacup to his lips.
    â€œThe word on the street is that Tom Peters, the Deputy Director of Liquor Control, was the only target. The people who set the bomb eliminated the person they wanted.”
    Obake raised one thin eyebrow to show his skepticism. In his suntanned face, the white creases that radiated from Obake’s eyes looked like a child’s drawing of black suns. They annoyed Tagama, perhaps of their false sense of jollity, but it could be because the man was nut brown from his twice-daily swims. Obake wasn’t good looking, but he cultivated a façade of virility, and he preened before women.
    Tagama had to remind himself that some of his disgruntlement came from the fact that his own skin was white and his arms puny.
    â€œWhy would anyone care about Tom Peters?” Obake asked. “And what else do your spies tell you?”
    Tagama took a sip of his tea. He would ask the same questions in Obake’s position. “They tell me the bomber is an independent.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œPeople suspect the husband of the woman he was having an affair with,” Tagama said.
    â€œGo on.” Obake’s voice was like gravel.
    Tagama watched him carefully. Had Obake relaxed an iota? “Information was leaked to your secretary, Noboru. You were meant to escape.”
    Obake’s thick fingers played with his tiny teacup. The severed pinkies stuck out like Vienna sausages. “Peters was a liquor commissioner and also served on the Maui Restaurant Association board.”
    Tagama nodded. “The special breakfast meeting was to assure that bars and restaurants operated by Paradise Consortium had unimpeded access to liquor licenses. Commissioners would overlook past legal problems, yes?”
    Obake’s eyes narrowed. “So? Peters was helping my interests. Yours, too. He was a small part of a big plan.”
    Tagama knew Obake saw himself as the center of his universe. No one else was as important; why would anyone else be the target of an assassination attempt?
    â€œAn intricate watch stops operating when a tiny wheel breaks,” Tagama maintained the deference in his tone.
    Obake’s voice was like gravel. “Who told my enemies that I’d be there?”
    â€œSo far, no one seems to know. Not even rumors are floating around. Perhaps you have some insight?”
    Tagama stared into Obake’s eyes and waited. This was a small but significant test. It was Obake’s chance to tell Tagama that Steven had worked at Blue Marine. He’d quit when his father flew in from Japan, about a week before the explosion. Tagama found the connection suspicious.
    Obake’s face darkened. “You and I have history, Tagama.”
    Tagama had wanted to push the man, but he might have gone too far. “I have never forgotten, Obake-san.”
    â€œYour past can be used against you.”
    â€œOf course,” Tagama said, and rose to leave.
    â€œI want more