Sato was almost certainly joking. But Nick, who still had a cop’s ability to pick up most of the subtle physical and auditory signals that someone was lying (with some inner-city types the signal was simple—the perp’s lips were moving), just couldn’t get any reading on Sato. Except for the security chief’s occasional and deliberate flashes of contempt, disdain, and amusement toward Nick, there was nothing. Beneath that Japanese layer of what Occidentals like Nick thought of as Asian inscrutability, Security Chief Sato wore another—probably professional—mask.
“The aerial video,” persisted Nick. “All MUAVs?”
“Not all miniature,” Sato said softly. “And one was a satellite feed.”
Nick laughed out loud. Sato didn’t join in the laugh or crack a smile.
Using full-size UAVs and tasking a recon satellite, even one of the Nakamura Group’s corporate sats, to watch me snort some flashback? He mentally laughed again at the thought.
Sato continued lying there like a tipped-over Buddha, his fingers interlaced over his broad but heavily muscled belly.
Nick braked lightly on the 6 percent I-70 grade down the mountain toward Denver, slowing the crawling car to an even more glacial pace, hoping against hope that the regenerative braking would add enough juice to the dying li-ion batteries to get him home. Even other old clunkers honked and roared past. The hydrogen vehicles in the far-left VIP lane were blurs.
He changed the subject in an attempt to keep Sato talking.
“How did you translate ‘gelding’ to your boss?”
“As a male horse whose testicles have been removed. This is correct, yes?”
“Yes,” said Nick. “But don’t you have geldings—old hybrids with the gasoline engines removed—in Japan?”
“Not legal in Japan,” said Sato. “Cars in Japan are inspected every year and must meet all modern standards. Few automobiles there are more than three years old. Hydrogen-powered vehicles are—how do you say it?—the norm in Japan.”
Vehicres.
Still braking, watching his meters while trying to keep both his batteries and the conversation alive, Nick said, “Mr. Nakamura doesn’t seem to like old movies.”
Sato made that deep noise in his throat and chest. Nick had no idea how to interpret that. Different topic needed.
“You know,” said Nick, “this liaison idea isn’t going to work.”
“Riaison?” repeated Sato.
Nick didn’t smirk but he wondered if he’d brought up this conversation strand just to get Sato to mispronounce the word.
“The idea Mr. Nakamura brought up of you following me everywhere, reporting on everything I see and hear, being part of the investigation with me. It won’t work.”
“Why not, Mr. Bottom?”
“You know damn well why not,” snapped Nick. He was approaching the bottom of the hill, emerging onto the high, mostly flat prairie that stretched east past Denver some eight hundred miles or so to the Mississippi River, and he’d have to decide in a few minutes whether to continue a little north and then due east on I-70 to the Mousetrap and a short stretch of I-25 south to Speer Boulevard, with no stops, or angle right to go back on Highway 6 to Speer the way he’d come. The 6 route was a little shorter, I-70 perhaps a little easier on the dying batteries.
“My witnesses and suspects won’t talk with a Jap listening,” continued Nick. “Sorry, Japanese person. You know what I mean.”
Sato growled something that might mean assent.
Nick turned to look back and around and down at the security chief. “You weren’t one of Nakamura’s assistants or security people who dealt with the Denver PD six years ago when Keigo was murdered. I would have remembered you.”
Sato said nothing.
At the last second, Nick took the Highway 6 exit. Shorter was better. Or it had damned well better be.
All the charge meters were reading flashing amber or red but Nick knew that the gelding, like him, had a few more miles hidden in it somewhere.
“So why didn’t you come to the States with Mr. Nakamura when his son was killed?” demanded Nick. “It seems to me that as head of Nakamura’s security detail, you would have been front and center in asking questions of the cops here. But your name’s not even in the files.”
Again Sato remained silent. He seemed to be almost asleep, his eyelids almost—but not quite—closed.
Nick looked back at him again. He suddenly understood. “You were on Keigo’s security detail,” he said softly.
“I was Keigo Nakamura’s security detail,” said Sato. “His life was in my hands the entire time he was here making his film about Americans and flashback addiction.”
Nick rubbed his chin and cheek, feeling the stubble there from his hasty shave that morning. “Jesus.”
The gelding hummed and rattled along for a few minutes. The regenerative braking had helped some, even though it didn’t really show the added charge on the crappy gauges. Nick thought they might make it back to the Cherry Creek Mall Condos garage after all.
“Your name wasn’t in the files,” Nick said at last. “I’m certain of that even without checking under flashback. That means that you didn’t come forward. Nor did Nakamura ever mention it during the investigation. You had vital evidence about the murder of Keigo Nakamura, but you and your boss kept it secret from the Denver PD and all of us.”
“I do not know who murdered Keigo Nakamura,” Sato said in low tones. “We were… briefly separated. When I found him, he was dead. I had nothing to offer the police. There was little reason to remain in the United States.”
Nick barked a cop’s laugh. “The man who found the body flees the country… nothing to offer the police. Cute. I guess the main question is, how are you still working for Hiroshi Nakamura after his son was killed while under your protection?”
It was a brutal thing to say and for a minute Nick’s shoulder blades itched as he imagined the massive security chief firing his pistol through the back of Nick’s driver’s seat. Instead, there was only a slight intake of breath and Sato said, “Yes, that is an important question.”
Nick had another revelation. He blinked as if flashbulbs had gone off in front of him. “You already did an investigation—you and your security guys—didn’t you, Sato? What—five and a half years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And even with all your technology and MUAVs and satellites and shit, you still couldn’t find out who killed your boss’s son.”
“No, we could not.”
“How long did your investigation run, Sato?”
“Eighteen months.”
“How many operatives on the job for those eighteen months?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Holy shit,” said Nick. “All that money and manpower. You couldn’t find Keigo’s murderer and you never told us—the Denver cops or the FBI—that you were carrying out your own investigation.”
“No,” confirmed Sato. His voice seemed to be coming from very far away.
“All that money and manpower and technology,” repeated Nick, “and you couldn’t find out who cut the boy’s throat. But your boss expects me to find the killer with nothing but shoe leather and some flashback.”
“Yes.”
“What happens to you if this last try fails?” asked Nick. Somehow he knew the answer as soon as he asked the question, even if he couldn’t remember the correct word at that moment.
“I commit seppuku,” Sato said softly, neither his voice nor expression changing. “Just as I offered—but was denied permission to do—the first two times I failed my master. This time, permission has been granted ahead of time.”
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Nick.