Better to think of them as spies than assassins. The same is true of the undercover Narcotics officer, is it not? Perhaps there was the possibility that you would kill your target, but that was never your goal.”
Mariko had to grant him that point too. She didn’t know what to do with this eccentric, genteel, criminal, ageless man. His words varied from fanciful to insightful, from outright lies to undeniable truths. Stranger still, he reminded her of someone. But who? What gave him insights into police work that she’d never considered herself? Could he have been a cop? No. He was too effete; he’d never survive academy. But then how did he know Mariko’s job better than she knew it herself?
An easy explanation lay in plain sight. The Wind was real. Furukawa was a member. He knew the ins and outs of the TMPD because he knew the ins and outs of everything. That was his job as middle management in an invisible criminal syndicate. There was only one problem with that explanation: a centuries-old, all-powerful, supposedly nonexistent ninja clan was pretty hard to swallow.
“Prove it,” she said.
Furukawa’s carefully groomed eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Wind. Prove it exists.”
A hint of a smile touched his dry lips. He regarded her with a sparkle in his eyes, as if she were a little child who had inadvertently asked a deep philosophical question. “And how would you have me do that?”
“Well, what the hell is it that you people do?”
He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose you could say we’re in the king-making business.”
“Then make one.”
“Hm.” He thought it over as he returned to the liquor cabinet, to refresh his tumbler of whisky. After some consideration he said, “We do not make a habit of tugging the puppet strings just to illustrate a point. But in this case . . . well, your reputation precedes you. You’re not likely to change your mind without evidence.”
“Nope.”
“Very well. Now let me see. If I recall your address correctly, your district’s member of the House of Councillors is . . . oh, who is it? Takanuki Hayato?”
“That’s right. A little creepy that you know where I live, though. I mean, at least pretend you need to look it up. Otherwise . . . eww.”
Furukawa smiled ungraciously. “Don’t flatter yourself, Detective. I know your address because I ordered a watch placed on it.”
“Huh?”
“You have a very expensive mask in your apartment and a sword that is beyond price. Koji-san—pardon me, you think of him as Joko Daishi—well, he wants both of them, neh? He’s already stolen the sword from you once before. Do you think he hasn’t tried again?”
Mariko didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Do you mean won’t or hasn’t?”
“He has tried on four separate occasions since you reclaimed the sword. Always through his acolytes, you understand. He seems to have suspended his efforts; we’re not sure why.”
Four? Jesus, Mariko thought. She didn’t like being talked to this way, as if she should already know everything he was telling her. It was familiar somehow, but Mariko couldn’t think of who Furukawa reminded her of.
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me what happened to the acolytes,” she said.
“You’d rather not know.” Furukawa raised his whisky in a little toast—to eliminated enemies, he seemed to say—and savored a mouthful of whisky. “But let’s get back to Councillor Takanuki. What do you think of him?”
“I think it’s a damn shame we’re stuck with him for another six years. He’s a cheap prick who keeps trying to cut federal support for local law enforcement budgets. That’s pretty much the only issue I vote on.”
“Then let’s not make a king of him. Shall I unmake him?”
“I don’t see how you could. He was just reelected.”
Furukawa picked up the phone that hung on the wall next to the liquor cabinet. He pressed one button, said, “Takanuki Hayato,” and hung up. “Let’s continue our conversation in the other room, shall we?”
He walked with short steps that made him seem considerably older than he appeared. Mariko followed him into the enormous room with the pool table. A massive flat-screen TV hung on one wall like a painting. Below it lay a dormant fireplace, home to a realistic ceramic reproduction of stacked, burnt logs. The pool table dominated the opposite half of the room, its ten balls packed tightly in their triangular rack. A universal remote sat nearby. Furukawa thumbed a button and the TV sprang silently