even a hint of the symptoms would flood the nearest ER. Hundreds more would avoid going to any hospital, for fear that whoever had infiltrated St. Luke’s would attack other facilities as well.
In short, Joko Daishi had hobbled Tokyo’s entire health care system.
Mariko’s phone was in her hand before she knew it. She punched in Lieutenant Sakakibara’s number and started rehearsing what she wanted to say.
“What do you want, Frodo?”
“Sir, have you seen—”
“St. Luke’s. Yeah. What about it?”
“Sir, we know Joko Daishi has expertise in chemistry. If he can cook meth and build high explosives, he can make ricin.”
Sakakibara muttered something gruff, but Mariko didn’t catch it. She muted the TV. “What’s that, sir?”
“I said I don’t care if the man knows how to make a nuclear bomb. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“Sir, I know this man—”
“Yeah? Well, I know another man, and he outranks both of us. If His Eminence says you’re stuck working bullshit buy-busts, then that’s what you’re doing.”
“Isn’t there someone else you could talk to? Someone higher up the chain of command?”
“I tried talking to you, to tell you to keep your damn mouth shut. How far did that get me?”
Mariko felt her face flush. She wasn’t sure if it was out of shame or anger. “I know, sir. I’m really sorry—”
“I’ll bet. Learn to live with what you’ve got, Frodo. Have you talked to that ex-partner of yours?”
“About what, sir?”
“About his case work. I got him assigned to Haneda.”
Finally a piece of good news. Apart from improving Han’s standing in the department, it also gave Mariko a personal contact inside the investigation she’d rather be working. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t call me again. Call Han next time.”
“Sorry, sir. I only wanted to—”
“Just do your damn job, Frodo. Right now that means bullshit buy-busts, even if I could make better use of you elsewhere.”
He hung up and Mariko had a dead phone in her hand.
Lee Jin Bao’s perpetual frown curled into a smile. “Tough day at work?”
“Shut up.”
12
The pounding in Makoto’s head made it so hard to think.
He did not care for the way his concubines winced at him. It was in their nature, he supposed; they were trained to worship him. Nevertheless, their concern for their injured god strayed all too close to motherly despair. In their minds they would never infantilize him, but in their cringing faces he could see their need to reach out to him, to perform their ministrations on his body. If he could see it, others could see it too, and that threatened Joko Daishi’s godhood.
His fingertips ventured lightly, softly, painfully over the bruised flesh where his father had been. Even the slightest touch was a rasp on sunburned skin. His very skull felt as fragile as an eggshell. Contusions traced the bridge of his nose and the lines of his cheekbones. Small cuts ringed his eyes. His forehead was red fading into purple, darkest on the left side where the harlot’s bullet had taken him. But for his father, Makoto would be dead. Not for the first time, Joko Daishi had rescued Koji Makoto.
Makoto would happily submit to a thousand cuts and bruises such as these, a thousand times a thousand, if only they would restore his father to him. But his father was gone, stolen by the harlot whose name would never again be uttered in his presence. As soon as he’d regained consciousness, Makoto declared her dead to the church. Hamaya Jiro had already dispatched brothers and sisters to deliver the harlot to the afterlife. All men were in need of purification, but the divine flames would burn hungrily for that one.
Instead of his father’s voice, Makoto heard a ringing, piercing pain. It lanced him through from temple to temple, when what he wanted most was clarity of mind to see his father’s vision. “Thirteen-oh-four,” he said. “One thousand. Three hundred. Four.”
He ran the tip of his forefinger along a raised crease in the map unfolded before him. The map represented the city of Tokyo, and since it was very large, it showed the diseased metropolis in fine detail. With a blue pen he drew a long, straight line connecting a highway on-ramp to . . . to . . . to where? The closer he got to realizing his father’s dream, the harder it became to remember the final details. A lesser man would see nothing but blinding white pain. But Makoto was not an ordinary man. His was a higher