The Mask: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel by Taylor Stevens Page B

lost.

The taxi pulled off the street and Munroe, in the backseat, leaned down to see through the window, up the three-story concrete square that housed the precinct police station. The structure was separated from traffic by asphalt and parking on two sides and hedged in by taller, less blocky buildings on the others. There were few windows and no easy unconventional access, and somewhere behind those walls, on one of those floors, was the man she’d schemed to see while the days to his indictment clicked steadily onward.
    Without knowledge of the enemy or of what Bradford may have already said, if he’d said anything at all, she could only pretend to predict the consequences of every word and action, so she’d come alone, without the pretense of an interpreter, willing to face whatever questions and accusations might later arise if her fluency was forced to surface.
    The taxi stopped just shy of the entrance and Munroe paid the white-gloved driver. The passenger door swung open on automatic hinges and she stepped out, into midmorning heat, onto the doorstep of the belly of the beast.
    Munroe pushed through the lobby doors, wedding ring on her finger, the modest dress on her frame, makeup heavy on the feminine, and papers stuffed into an enormous purse that she’d picked up at a boutique in the nearby shopping arcade. The interior was a cool contrast to the stickiness outside, relatively quiet, textured, and fragranced with standard open-floor-office air.
    There were no uniformed officers that she could see.
    No indifferent desk sergeant, burned out by a never-ending chain of human misery; no rank smells; no coughing, sniffling, dull-eyed bodies filling the few seats that lined the nearest wall; no radio background noise and incessant ringing phones; and no relatives and friends waiting with stress and fear and defeat etched into every movement. Instead, paper- and computer-cluttered desks were sandwiched in on one another end-to-end and corner-to-corner behind a wall-to-wall counter, while nonuniformed clerks went quietly about their work.
    One of the women stood when Munroe reached the counter.
    Munroe said, “I’m here to see my husband.”
    The woman smiled the earnest smile of helpful nonunderstanding and slid a laminated sheet onto the counter. She brushed a hand across the page with an encouraging nod, inviting Munroe to point to the problem.
    Cartoon drawings illustrated varied emergencies: I’m lost. I’ve been robbed. I’m hurt. I’ve been in an accident. Munroe shook her head and raised her wrists together in the universal sign of handcuffs. “
Gaijin,
” she said. She pointed to the ceiling and then to the floor. “He is here.” Then she pointed to the gold band on her finger. “I came to see him.”
    The mental gears clicked and the woman said, “Ehhh.” She turned to her deskmate.
She’s here to see the foreigner. She is his wife, maybe.
    No visitors for him without approval,
the deskmate said.
Call for Mori-san, he should be the one to handle things.
    The woman turned back to Munroe. “Yes,” she said in English. “Seat, please.” She motioned toward the chairs with a polite smile and courteous bow.
    Daichi Mori arrived several minutes later, stepping out from behind a door that had appeared to belong to an office but which, from the force with which he pushed through, had more likely connected to a hallway. He was a man in his early fifties, short and stocky, dressed in impeccably pressed civilian clothes, with thick wild eyebrows and a permanent scowl that hung deep into drooping jowls.
    Munroe stood when he approached, stuck out a tremulous hand, and pushing a quiver into her voice, she said, “Detective Mori?”
    “Captain Mori,” he replied, his English lightly accented. He wore an air of unquestionable authority, but his voice was soft and his demeanor gentle.
    He stared at her outstretched hand as if disgusted by the idea of touching it, then shook it gingerly. Munroe drew in a