This couldn’t get any weirder if it was Morpheus from The Matrix calling her. Then she remembered: she did have a Morpheus of sorts, an observer keeping tabs on her using methods she couldn’t understand.
As if on cue, the caller ID changed to ANSWER YOUR PHONE NOW. Who the hell were these people?
There was only one way to find out.
“Hello?”
“Detective Oshiro,” a man’s voice said. “We should meet.”
“Who are you?”
“I am To Whom It May Concern. You left a note for me to find.”
Holy shit, Mariko thought, they found that thing already? Her e-mail draft wasn’t three hours old. She managed not to say any of that aloud. “I want a name.”
“I’ll give you one: Yamada Yasuo. He was an old acquaintance of mine.”
That was the last name she expected to hear. Yamada-sensei was never far from her thoughts, least of all when she was in the dojo. Her morning meeting with Captain Kusama had her wondering what advice her sensei might have given on coping with an obstinate commanding officer. She hardly imagined one of Yamada’s old pals would ring her up.
“How do I know you’re not conning me?”
“You’re the one who invited me, Detective. Now, would you like a fresh change of clothes, or shall I pick you up from the dojo?”
She looked around furtively, then realized that was a forehead-smackingly stupid thing to do. She was holding a cell phone. A phone company tech on his first day could triangulate her location. These people could probably tell her which pocket she’d pulled the phone from and how much lint was in the pocket.
“I’ll go home and change.” After a moment’s thought she added, “Do me a favor and don’t watch me while I’m in the shower.”
“Very droll, Detective Oshiro. When you are ready, go downstairs. A man will be waiting for you. You’ll have no trouble recognizing him, as he’ll be carrying a baseball bat.”
“You’re kidding. I figured you guys for the silenced Walther PPK types.”
“Never in public, Detective Oshiro.”
The line went dead. Mariko caught herself studying her phone as if it were a piece of alien technology she’d never seen before. On a hunch she checked her recent call history, and sure enough, there was no record of the call.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said, and she took the next train home.
* * *
The order of events was eat; shower; change; find favorite purse for undercover work; find cigarette case used for undercover work; hide Pikachu in cigarette case; hide Cheetah in purse’s concealed pocket; toss cigarette case, cigarette lighter, tampons, gum, wallet, phone, keys, pepper spray, peppermints, compact, pack of tissues, second pack of tissues, little detective’s notebook, pen, lipstick, lip balm, hand towel, hand lotion, hand sanitizer, and boot knife in the purse, all in plain sight; and go downstairs.
In an ideal world, when it came time for the guy with the baseball bat to search her for weapons, he’d find the boot knife and pepper spray, figure she was hiding something else, assume he’d found it when he found the Cheetah, conclude that he was smarter than she was, and overlook the Pikachu. That was the ideal world. In a less than ideal world, he’d disarm her completely, and to arm herself she’d have to kick the guy’s ass and take his bat.
When she reached the sidewalk in front of her building, she was surprised to find a familiar face. His name was Endo Naomoto, and he was known in Narcotics circles. Endo was an ex-baseball player who still got to swing his bat now and again, but not at baseballs anymore. If it weren’t for his choice of profession, Mariko would have found him kind of cute. He’d graduated from hero of the minor leagues to major-league disappointment, and after a much-too-early retirement he became a slugger on the black market. He didn’t last long with the violent stuff, not because he couldn’t hack it but because he quickly showed a knack for the financial end of the biz. Narcotics hadn’t picked him up in several years, so either he was a hell of a lot smarter than most guys slinging dope—which was true—or else he’d gotten out of the business entirely—which was possible, given that he was currently serving as chauffeur and hired muscle for some very shady individuals.
As promised, he had the bat with him, and also a baseball, which he was idly bouncing on the end of the bat. When he saw her, he knocked the ball into his