A sign told Burroughs that Pearl City Road Junction lay ahead just three miles, where a left turn would take him to the Peninsula residential section and the Shuncho-ro teahouse.
He had not connected with Hully, and Burroughs wondered what his son might have uncovered-he only hoped the boy hadn't gotten himself in any jam. For once Burroughs valued his son's friendship with Sam Fujimoto-snooping in Chinatown without a safari guide would have been reckless. Not that he was worried, really, other than a standard fatherly concern: Hully was as smart as he was strapping, and could damn well take care of himself.
On the other hand, it was a murderer they were chasing. And Burroughs was starting to wonder whether Pearl Harada's death really had been a simple crime of passion, driven by the jealousy of one suitor or another … or was it a small yet important part of something greater and far more sinister?
Back at the Waikiki Tavern, after Colonel Fielder had departed, Burroughs and FBI agent Sterling had sat and talked for another fifteen minutes, in the matched-roofed pergola on the beach. No more rum punch: a waiter was dispatched to bring coffee for both men. As they spoke, a tropical sunset painted the water, the world, with shades of red and orange; but as the sun's ball of fire slipped over the horizon, darkness rapidly invaded.
Burroughs had told Sterling about the informal investigation he and his son were undertaking into the Harada girl's death, assuring the agent that Hully had not been clued in on Otto Kuhn's suspected status as a sleeper agent.
"To me, the most interesting thing you've come up with," the ruggedly handsome FBI agent said, stirring sugar into his coffee, "is that phone call that Kuhn and his wife argued about."
Burroughs lifted an eyebrow. "Apparently, Otto told her to deny there'd been any phone call, or anyway not to mention there had been one."
Sterling's eyes narrowed. "But who rang Otto, in the middle of the night? And why?"
"He's a sleeper agent-maybe it was a wake-up call."
The FBI agent nodded. "Maybe in a way it was-Otto receives a call, and then before you know it, he's on your doorstep, telling Jardine he witnessed Kamana killing that girl."
"You mean… the real murderer called him, and ordered up an alibi?"
Sterling made an openhanded shrugging gesture. "There's really only two reasonable alternatives, here: Kuhn did the killing and blamed Kamana; or someone else did the killing, and Kuhn is alibiing for him… or her."
"Her? Mrs. Kuhn, you mean?"
"She remains a viable suspect," Sterling said, and sipped his coffee. "Otto's reputation as a playboy has been well earned-he does run around on Elfriede … and you gotta give Otto his nerve for that: his wife is the niece of Heinrich Himmler himself."
The saltwater breeze suddenly seemed chilly to Burroughs. "So I really do have Nazis living next door."
"No doubt of that."
"Then where does the damn phone call come in?"
Sterling threw his hands up. "Search me. But I can tell you this-there's a reason why Pearl Harada's murder sent up a warning flare at my office … particularly with Otto Kuhn as a supposed eyewitness, apparently fingering a fall guy."
"Why is that, Adam?"
The agent leaned forward. "Remember what I told you about the network of nisei who are helping compile a list of potentially disloyal Japs here in Oahu?"
"Sure."
"Well, Pearl Harada's uncle-the Chinatown grocer-is on that list."
Burroughs half climbed out of his wicker chair. "Jesus, Hully went to question that guy this afternoon!"
Sterling patted the air, calmingly. "I didn't say Uncle Harada was dangerous-just that he's loyal to his native country… like a lot of issei in Chinatown."
Issei were first-generation immigrants.
Sterling was saying, "Until recently, Harada displayed photographs of the emperor in his shop. Plus, he's vocally supported Japan's war on China, buying Jap war bonds, helping organize an effort to send 'comfort bags' to Japanese soldiers-blankets, shoes, candy."
Burroughs shifted in his chair. "Well, this is beginning to look like Pearl Harada's death may have more to do with espionage than affairs of the heart."
Sterling shrugged again. "There's no question this was a beautiful girl who could have driven a man to some irrational, jealous act of violence… but with both her uncle and your 'Nazi-next-door' in the scenario, an espionage-related motive remains a distinct possibility."
"And let's not forget she knew Vice Consul Mori-mura, either-or that he was reading her the Riot Act in the parking lot, a few hours before she was killed."
Sterling's reaction was not what Burroughs had expected: the FBI agent laughed.
Astounded, Burroughs said, "This is funny, all of a sudden?"
"I'm sorry. It's just… That guy's hard to take seriously. My guess is Morimura was yelling at her because she wouldn't give him the time of day."
"How can you say that, Adam? Fielder admits this clown spends most of his time engaged in 'legal' spying."
" 'Clown' is the key word, there." Sterling sipped his coffee, then leaned forward again. "Listen, Ed-Morimura is an idiot. I have it on good authority that everybody else at the Consulate hates his guts, considers him a lazy ass. We've had him under surveillance, from time to time, and the guy just wanders around like a tourist, never takes a note or a photo or makes a sketch."
"Maybe he has a photographic memory."
"I sincerely doubt it, considering all the brain cells he's lost to sake. Morimura's a simpleton and a sybarite."
Burroughs was shaking bis head, astounded by Sterling's attitude. "Kuhn's a playboy and you take him seriously."
"Morimura spends all his time drinking himself into a stupor and screwing geisha girls-end of story."
"Maybe he's just a clever agent-you were concerned enough about the Consulate burning their papers, yesterday, and Morimura's a damn vice consul…."
Sterling held up his hands as if in surrender. "Check him out yourself, if you like, Ed-this is Saturday … he'll no doubt be at the Shuncho-ro teahouse, tonight. The management keeps a room upstairs for him, to pursue his debaucheries, and then sleep it off." Sterling checked his watch. "As for me, I have to get over to General Short's quarters, to try to jump-start him into taking all of these matters seriously… the Mori code, the Harada murder, the Consulate burning those papers. …"
Burroughs sighed, shook his head. "What the hell does it all mean, Adam?"
Sterling rose from his wicker chair. "Figuring that out isn't my job-my job is convincing General Short to figure it out."
The Shuncho-ro-Spring Tide Restaurant-was on Makanani Drive on the slopes of Alewa Heights, a surprisingly un-Oriental-looking two-story wooden house with generous picture windows on both floors and clean modern lines that wouldn't have been out of place back in Frank Lloyd Wright's Oak Park, Illinois, where Burroughs had lived in the teens. In the midst of a lush garden-no palms in sight-hugged by flowering hedges, the Shuncho-ro perched on the mountainside looking down on Honolulu, a breathtaking view any tourist-or spy-might relish.
Burroughs left his Pierce Arrow in the dimly illuminated crushed-coral parking lot, which was fairly full, the restaurant doing a good business. He noted, parked on the other side of the lot, a black Lincoln with a Japanese chauffeur in full livery asleep behind the wheel-the vice consul's car, no doubt.