Mas and Tug made their way to the waiting area. Jeannie paced the linoleum floor, her heels clicking, kachi-kachi, like the red and blue castanets that children pressed together while dancing in circles at the summer Obon festival at the Pasadena Buddhist Church. Instead of a shimmering waterfall, Jeannie’s hair was uncharacteristically mussed up, a blue jay’s nest. Funny that both she and Ghigo would show up at the hospital together, thought Mas.
“We’ll pick him up,” said Ghigo. “He had a large amount of money recently transferred to his personal account. He and Penn Anderson were using the Ouchi Foundation to embezzle money from Waxley Enterprises. Using their own business contacts as vendors, overpaying them, and pocketing the extra.”
“The police traced the anonymous calls back to Penn,” explained Jeannie. “He had a voice-altering device. He’s been feeding all this information about Mari and Lloyd to divert attention from the missing money. He made such a production of hiding his identity that it seemed obvious that he was hiding something. I guess that it didn’t hurt that he had been double-crossed by Larry. He’s admitted the embezzling, and is willing to testify against Larry. He just doesn’t want to be associated with any murders or attempted murders; he’s said that’s all Larry’s doing.”
“I need to see my son.” Mari removed the ice pack from her head and tried to lift herself up from the couch.
“You hear docta; Takeo orai,” Mas said. “Sleepin’ now. Needsu his sleep.” Ghigo had ordered two police officers to keep watch in front of Takeo’s room.
“Yes, Mari. You need to rest a little. They could get you a hospital bed.” Tug placed his huge hands on the top of the couch.
Mari shook her head. “I can go over to Lloyd’s room and keep him company.” Lloyd had a mild concussion. He’d been knocked out by a fire extinguisher. He hadn’t seen his assailant, unfortunately, but several security cameras got pictures of Larry-his mouth covered with a mask, but that medical jacket, soaked in the scent of a designer cologne, had plenty of dark hairs. Good thing that Mas had pointed it out to the police.
“Maybe, Dad, you can get a few things for me from home?”
Mas nodded.
As Ghigo and Jeannie moved over to have a private discussion by a magazine rack, Tug clapped his hands together. “Well, good thing, Mas, the mystery’s solved. It looks like that Larry Pauley killed Mr. Ouchi.”
But Mas wasn’t in a celebratory mood. He was far away, looking beyond Tug, toward the darkness of the street through the hospital windows.
It was past midnight before Mas reached the underground apartment, but people-some alone with their heads down, others in pairs making loud noises-were still walking the streets. You could never feel lonely in New York City, thought Mas, wondering if that was one of its main charms.
After he entered the apartment, he turned on the lamp. White papers littered the front of the fireplace. Dorobo, thief, thought Mas. He slowly retrieved them, realizing as he did that they were actually a product of the fax machine. With the help of his reading glasses, Mas arranged them in order. The first page stated, FAX COVER SHEET/Kinko’s. Kinko? Sounded like a strange Japanese name. But then Mas remembered that name on storefronts all throughout Los Angeles. A chain of photocopy services.
Underneath Kinko’s was another name: Haruo Mukai. So Haruo had come through again.
There were three additional pages. All were from Asa Sumi’s journal, although the script looked a little different. Instead of the neat hatch marks that could have been made by the end of a sharp knife, the handwriting was rushed, fluid like running water. The entry was dated February 20, 1931. Yesterday was my last day at the Waxley House, it began. Even to think of it now, tears are running down my face. The morning began as usual, preparing fresh bread, jam, and fruit for breakfast. But no one came down. I wondered what was wrong, and then I heard Ouchi-san call my name. Mas kept reading, sometimes unable to make out certain words, but continuing, knowing that something important was contained in there. He read the entry five or six times to let its weight settle in his gut.
Kazzy hadn’t been killed to cover a man’s greed, but a daughter’s scorn.
chapter thirteen
Mas didn’t sleep at all that night. He was a walking mummy, stumbling on the sidewalks of Park Slope, leaning against trees, watching a man wash his Pontiac at three o’clock in the morning. Everyone here was alive, completely engaged with what they were doing, whether it be corner-store workers setting out the new newspapers for the day, or people drinking coffee and long Mexican sugared donuts. He figured that the energy of the streets could help him think. To take pieces of paper, casual conversations, and chases-both physical and mental-and somehow pull them together into something that made sense.
Mas then knew that he needed to see the pond again. He walked more purposefully, ignoring the weight and weaknesses of his legs. A gray fog covered the top of the Waxley House, erasing the existence of the watchful rooftop dragons. He figured that the house would be empty. He entered the back through the side gate, hearing the woeful barking of a dog a few houses east.
The past few days of both sun and coolness had done wonders for the garden. The cherry blossoms were ready to pop open, and the long, skinny blades of the silver grass was fluffed out like a bouffant hairstyle. Mas greeted all the plants silently in his mind. You needed to talk to plants, but you didn’t have to do it out loud like Becca.
Mas finally scooted down into the belly of the pond on his oshiri. The concrete was cold and wet from the morning dew, and Mas knew that it would take some time before his jeans dried completely. Mas crawled on his hands and knees to the spot. The carved message, left for who? Kazzy, the son? Or perhaps someone like Mas, a fellow gardener whose gaze stayed on small things, perhaps because that was all he was allowed to see. What had Kazzy’s father used? The end of a stick? The end of a rake? Either way, the strokes were sure and strong.. Child. And. To live. CHILD LIVES. CHILD LIVES. Jinx Watanabe said that Kazzy’s sibling had died in birth with his mother. But Kazzy’s father knew different. So did the housekeeper, Asa Sumi. A baby had been born. A baby with pale skin. A baby girl, according to Asa’s diary.
Mas didn’t know if it was the result of a love affair, but he doubted it.
“Fixing something?” Mas knew who it was even before he looked up to see the varicose-veined legs of Miss Waxley. She was holding a small gun; how did a genteel woman like Miss Waxley know how to shoot? wondered Mas.
Mas raised his arms, like he had seen done in so many cowboy and detective movies. It was such a natural response. I surrender. I give up. But Mas knew that Miss Waxley would not honor his defeat without payment. The shot, he imagined, might go through his heart, or perhaps his head, like Kazzy.
They both knew the truth, so there was no use in Mas saying it out loud. But Mas did have one question. “Youzu old like me. Whatsu the use? You gotsu no kids.”
“How can you say that? This is my life. The only life that I’ve ever known. All these years, I’ve wondered why my mother didn’t show more love to me. I had always blamed it on her sickness, but then Kazzy comes to me, saying that he has proof that we are half brother and sister. The same mother. The Irish maid.
“I told him that he was wrong. What’s this proof he has? And then he gives me a translation of the journal. That the Japanese housekeeper assisted in my birth. That she thought it unusual that the baby looked so white, with golden wisps of hair.”