Dale Furutani - Death in Little Tokyo

The two men ran toward a blue Ford sedan parked in front of the building. They jumped in the car and also made a U-turn from their parking spot to pursue Rita, who was already half a block down Second Street. Cars, which had just started moving forward again after Rita’s maneuver had stopped them, once again jammed on brakes and blared their horns.

I stood on the sidewalk watching the disappearing cars, washed by alternating waves of concern and puzzlement.

When I finally got to the office I tossed the package on the desk. I couldn’t come up with a good reason for opening it. It obviously contained papers of some kind, but I figured whatever was in the package was Rita’s business and not mine, even though I still didn’t believe the story about photographs.

About an hour later the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Tanaka?”

“Yes.” I recognized Rita’s voice. It sounded like she was on a car phone.

“Did you get the package?”

“Yes I did, but. .” I was about to ask her what was going on with the two men and the cool maneuvers with the cars, but she quickly rushed forward.

“Look, I can’t come in this morning to pick up the package. I want you to make sure that you put that package in a safe place. I might not be able to come in today at all.”

“Sure, but I don’t understand. Why do you want me to put some. .” I was cut off by Rita’s voice. This time her voice had an edge to it. She was very nervous.

“Please do as I say. In view of the fee I’m paying you, I think I should be able to ask for some special consideration when I make a request.”

“Well, of course, Ms. Newly, but. .”

“Thank you very much Mr. Tanaka. I’ll be contacting you later when I can come by and pick up the package.”

“But. .”

“I can’t talk anymore. Good-bye.”

I sat listening to a dial tone. I picked up the package and looked around the office. I could bury it in a file cabinet or stick it in one of the desk drawers, but both were almost empty because they were essentially props. Maybe I should be clever and tape it to the back of one of the pictures hanging on the wall. Finally I decided the best thing I could do would be to get the package out of the office and leave it someplace nearby, where I could get to it easily.

I checked my watch. The boutique would open in a few minutes. I stuck the package under my arm and strolled out, locking the door behind me.

When I got to the boutique I could see Mariko and Mrs. Kawashiri inside arranging the stock hanging from chrome poles. I rapped on the door, pressed my nose flat against the glass, and put on a forlorn look. Mariko looked over to the door and jerked her thumb to indicate that I should take off. I shook my head and rapped once more on the glass.

Feigning exasperation, Mariko went to the door and opened it. “What now?” she said. “You’re getting to be a pest.”

“I came to beg a favor.”

“What is it?”

I took the package out from under my arm. “Can you keep this here in the shop for me?”

“Sure,” Mariko said. “But why?”

“Just call it a special request. I want to keep it nearby, but I don’t want to keep it in the office.”

“All right,” Mariko said. “The big-time detective fan is getting mysterious.”

“I missed you last night.”

Mariko’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Ken. We got caught up in acting class, and then afterward we were building sets for the new production. It was past one o’clock before I even knew it. I was dead tired, so I just went back to my place.”

“Well, okay. But how about dinner tonight? My treat.”

“Sure. This will be the first time you’ve taken me out to dinner in weeks, so you know darn well I’m not going to pass up a free meal. Besides, now that you’ve got me acting like Federal Express,” she hefted the package in one hand, “I expect to be paid something for it.”

“Federal Express delivers packages,” I corrected her. “I just want you to hold this.”

“Ken-san,” Mrs. Kawashiri came up to us with a ready smile. She had a warm heart for all strays and stragglers. To her, I suppose I fell under both categories. “It’s so nice to see you. Come here,” she said, holding up a white paper package. “Take one of these cinnamon buns for breakfast. I just got them from the bakery. They’re freshly baked. They’re good.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Kawashiri. You’re always giving me pastries and I feel guilty. In fact, you just gave me some yesterday. Besides, I shouldn’t be here bothering Mariko.”

“No. No. It’s okay,” Mrs. Kawashiri insisted. “Now, come here.” She waved the sack in front of me. “You take this. You’ve been looking kind of thin lately. Now, come on. Take this.”

Like a little boy, I marched up to the older woman and accepted the sack of pastries. “Thank you. This is real nice of you,” I said.

“Anytime,” Mrs. Kawashiri insisted.

“Lately it’s been every time, Mrs. Kawashiri. The pastries are wonderful, but you can’t keep giving me something every time I show up here.”

She gave a snort that clearly indicated my protest was too silly to even discuss and turned around and went back to the racks of clothes.

“I’ve got to help Mrs. Kawashiri,” Mariko said. “Is there anything else you want me to do besides hold this package.”

“No,” I said. I held up the bag of cinnamon buns. “Thank her again for me, would you?”

“Sure,” Mariko said. “I may be a little jealous. She seems to like you more than I do. She’s always feeding you, anyway.”

“Pick you up at closing time,” I called out over my shoulder.

Mariko smiled. “Sure. See you then.”

When I returned to the office I saw a uniformed Los Angeles Police Department officer and a man in a suit standing in front of the door. The man in the suit looked like a football player, with sandy hair and a stern face marred by a nose broken in some distant altercation or scuffle. He looked like a cop, too, just not one who advertised it with a uniform. Both men watched me carefully as I approached the office.

“Can I help you with something?” I asked.

“Are you Mr. Tanaka?” the man in the suit asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Mr. Ken Tanaka?”

“That’s right.”

“Kendo Detective Agency?”

“Well, that’s sort of a joke. It’s not really a detective agency.”

“A joke?”

“Sort of. It’s part of an L.A. Mystery Club weekend puzzle.”

“Puzzle? Mystery Club?”

“It’s sort of a long story.”

“My name’s Detective Hansen, LAPD.” He flashed an I.D. at me. “This is Patrolman Wilson. Maybe we can sit down for a few minutes and you can tell us this story.”

“Sure. Why don’t you come in?” I unlocked the door and motioned the two men in. Hansen went in but the patrolman waited until I preceded him before entering himself. I suppose it was to make sure I didn’t run away. I went over to the desk and sat down. I motioned to the seat in front of the desk for Hansen.

“No, thanks,” Hansen said.

Wilson, the one in uniform, stood by the door, blocking the exit. Hansen wandered around the office looking at the pictures on the wall and the furnishings in the office.

Despite my interest in mysteries, I’ve had minimal contact with police officers. I was fascinated to see that they acted very much like the police you see in movies and TV shows. I don’t know if this was because art imitates life or life imitates art.

“You said you had a story to tell us,” Hansen prompted.

I was puzzled, but not alarmed. I shrugged. “I belong to a club called the L.A. Mystery Club. Once a month we set up a fictitious mystery where club members act out parts in the mystery or try to solve the crime based on clues provided. It’s sort of a cross between a game and a play.”