Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Moto had no trouble interpreting Kurisaka’s silence. He was displeased.

Kurisaka said, “Billy, do what you must. Find him. And if a million dollars isn’t good enough, then convince Folger it is in his best interest to part with the card. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I understand.”

“Good-bye, Billy.” He hung up.

Moto considered Kurisaka’s words. Moto knew when he started working for the billionaire that he would be asked to do difficult things. A man like Kurisaka did not need another administrative assistant. He needed a right-hand man, and he expected results from Billy Moto. Yes, Kurisaka was willing to pay a million dollars, but he wouldn’t hesitate to get what he wanted by less scrupulous means.

Moto searched himself and wondered how far he’d go to get Kurisaka what he wanted.

The conversation with Billy Moto lingered in Kurisaka’s mind, distracted him. He flipped on his hundred-inch, flat-screen television and put in the DVD of Pillow Talk, which always calmed him down and let him think. Doris Day’s voice was like creamy butter.

But he barely watched the film, was hardly aware of Doris Day at all. His mind raced. It should have been so simple. Kurisaka had sent Moto to America to expedite the purchase of the DiMaggio card. Why should there be complications? Unless… Unless… Something was going on behind his back. His old Yakuza instincts bubbled to the surface. Hito Hyatta had agents everywhere, men who labored to make Hyatta aware of rare and valuable collectibles that came on the market. And Kurisaka knew Hyatta’s passion for their shared hobby. He knew Hyatta would spare no expense if he wanted the DiMaggio card for himself. Hyatta had practically admitted it at lunch. He was after a highly collectible card in Florida. What else could it be but the DiMaggio card?

Kurisaka would not be thwarted again by Hyatta! He was tired of playing second fiddle to his rival. This time he would get the card and rub it in Hyatta’s face. Let Hyatta sit and seethe with envy. This time Kurisaka would be the one to gloat over his new prize.

But Billy Moto was usually very competent. Moto’s lack of progress was most troubling. Could it be… no… was it possible that Moto would betray him? Had Hyatta gotten to Moto, made him a better offer for retrieving the card? Yes, of course it was possible. Anyone could be bribed or threatened. A lesson from Kurisaka’s Yakuza days he’d almost forgotten. Kurisaka had become complacent. He felt ashamed and lost. As a Yakuza boss he’d been feared and respected. As a legitimate businessman he was mocked and ridiculed. Men like Hyatta laughed behind his back. Damn them! Damn them all. He would show them. He would not be toyed with. He would-

A red flashing beacon in the corner of the TV screen and a harsh beep made Kurisaka jump. Kurisaka thumbed the remote, paused the film, and the face of one of his employees filled the screen.

“Mr. Kurisaka, there’s been another attempt on your life.”

Kurisaka raised an eyebrow. “Tell me.”

“A man outside your offices. A routine security screening found he had a bomb. We think he was going to try to sneak in disguised as a custodial worker. Probably plant the bomb in your office. Shall we turn him over to Tokyo Police?”

“No. Question him. Find out who hired him.”

“It shall be done. But if he proves as resistant to interrogation as the others…”

“Make sure no remains are found.” He had not completely forgotten the Yakuza ways.

“Hai.” The man’s face disappeared from the screen.

Enemies. All around him there were enemies. Enemies and traitors. Kurisaka needed someone he could trust. No one in his current organization would suffice. He needed somebody from the old days. He picked up his phone, dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Hello?”

“Cousin Toshi,” Kurisaka said. “It has been too long. How would you like to go to America?”

Joellen Becker had opened her mouth and puked lies until she’d convinced Billy Moto she practically had Teddy Folger in her back pocket.

Moto’s call to her office had intrigued her. She’d done a very specific Internet search. You can find some surprising information on the Web if you know where to look and how to read between the lines. An hour on Mercenary.com and a visit to Bountyhunterand-rewards.com confirmed her suspicions. She also made several calls to some folks she knew from her old NSA days.

Her investigation had turned up a few interesting things about the billionaire Ahira Kurisaka. Things she could exploit although she would need to first confirm a few details. Later.

After dinner, she went home and opened the gun chest in the bedroom closet, took out the Smith & Wesson.380 auto and two extra clips, snapped them into the lightweight nylon shoulder holster. She did not delve into the metal chests containing her array of special equipment. Keepsakes from her government days.

Becker had names and addresses and some other good information from Folger’s file, including where the man’s ex-wife lived. She’d go to the man’s places, follow the trail, sniff him out. She was an investigator. This was her specialty.

She shrugged into the holster rig, snapped it tight. She strapped the.25 automatic to her ankle. A million bucks for a baseball card? Yes, that was a lot of money. But to Joellen Becker, the card was merely bait for a much bigger fish.

When early man had formed the notion of real estate, it had been decided by all involved that land near water would be more expensive. A lot more expensive.

Still, oceanfront property wasn’t always a good idea. Every few years a grumpy hurricane shuffled through Pensacola and kicked over all the beachfront houses. People rebuilt. Insurance rates soared, but snowbirds and carpetbaggers flocked to the sunny coast, bought up the beachfront property, then the beach-access property, plunked down big wads of cash into cookie-cutter time-shares. Or they bought houses on canals that in turn led to the sea.

Anything to be on or near or in view of the ocean.

Conner figured Teddy Folger had caught on late. Folger’s sad plot of land was on a narrow canal which connected to a small river that emptied into a bay which opened into the Gulf of Mexico. It wasn’t much, but it was there, the distant connection to wide-open seas. Maybe Teddy could even feel it, standing on his back porch with a beer in his fist. Maybe he looked at the muddy dribble of a canal but felt and heard the salty roar of the ocean. Conner could only guess.

Jenny Folger and Conner Samson watched the house and the sailboat from a rented canoe two hundred yards away. He looked through his new binoculars. No signs of life. The boat was squeezed into the canal pretty tight, less than two feet to spare on each side. There was a spacious, green backyard and then the bungalow. They’d passed half a dozen houses after turning off the river. Then they’d passed two construction sites. Then about a mile of empty lots, and they thought they had the wrong canal, but they rounded a bend and there it was. Teddy Folger’s house was the very last one at the end of the canal, the sailboat backed in, stern away from them.

Conner handed the binoculars to Jenny.

“That’s it all right,” she said. “You can’t see where it says Electric Jenny from here, but that’s it.”

Jenny had changed into an American-flag bikini top and denim shorts. She was tan just short of leathery, breasts nearly overflowing the stars and stripes. Conner worried she’d catch him sneaking peeks.

He dipped the paddle into the water and began turning the canoe around.

“What are you doing?” Jenny asked.

“Leaving.”