He turned back to the bedroom and saw red-and-blue flashes through the window. He stuck his head out and saw a pair of NYPD cruisers in the alley, and four cops talking to a couple of kids.
Shit.
Three choices: Climb back to the roof now and risk being spotted, wait them out, or leave by the front door. The third offered more chances to be seen by one of the neighbors, but he needed out of this crime scene. Now.
If he put on a pair of shades and pulled up his hood, he figured he'd be all right. He was doing just that on his way to the front door, carefully avoiding the blood splatters, when he heard a knock. He looked up and saw the door starting to swing open.
A voice said, "Mister Gerrish?"
Who—?
Didn't matter. Couldn't be caught here. He spun and dashed back to the bedroom. He was about to dive out onto the fire escape when the window lit up, then faded.
A peek out showed the two kids cuffed and bent over a car hood. One of the cops was flashing his car's searchlight back and forth over the building's outer wall. Another was using his light on the Tabernacle. Jack didn't know what they were looking for but they'd sure as hell spot him if he tried to escape.
"Mister Gerrish?" the voice repeated from the front room.
Only one thing to do.
He backed into the bedroom closet, pulled his Glock, and closed the door—the damn hinges gave out a faint squeak. He measured his breathing and waited, hoping it was anyone but a cop.
Anyone but a cop.
Upon approaching, Hideo had noticed that the door to apartment 4D was unlatched. He'd knocked anyway but the door had swung open under the gentle impacts.
Only darkness within.
"Mister Gerrish?"
He pushed the door open wider.
"Mister Gerrish? Are you here?"
He was concluding that Gerrish-san had left without fully latching his door, when he heard a high-pitched whisper of sound from within. He stepped across the threshold and fumbled along the wall for a light switch. He found one and flipped it.
Hideo found himself in a short hallway looking into the apartment's front room. A dozen feet away a body lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. The sight drove him back against the door, slamming it shut. He dropped the briefcase and fumbled for his phone. He speed-dialed Kenji's number.
"Get up here now! All of you!"
He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and conjured visions of Omi-shima, the tranquil Inland Sea island he'd visited last summer. He needed to calm himself. He couldn't allow the yakuza to see him like this.
By the time they arrived, he was standing by the body, briefcase in hand, looking calm and composed, although his gut was churning with nausea at the smell of all that blood.
The yakuza, on the other hand, took everything in stride, with no more reaction than if they'd found a dead animal along the side of a road. If a stick had been lying nearby, he was sure one of them would have picked it up and poked the poor man.
Gerrish. No question in Hideo's mind, and confirmed when Kenji pulled the wallet from his pocket and checked his ID. He checked the throat wound that gaped like a second bloody mouth.
"A very sharp knife."
Hideo met his gaze—better than looking at that wound. "Or katana?"
He nodded. "Or katana. But you have shown me the X-ray. Such a rotted old blade could not have the edge to make this wound."
Hideo had a feeling it very well could. Sasaki-san was not a junk collector.
He felt his dream of heading home to Japan tomorrow shatter around him. The sword was gone. It had been used to kill its owner. He might never find it now.
Yet despite that leaden certainty, he could not leave without being sure he had turned over every rock in this garden of death.
"Search the place. Look everywhere—behind furniture, behind appliances, everywhere. Leave no corner uninspected."
Jack heard two voices chattering in what sounded like Japanese. Naka Slater, maybe? Didn't sound like him but, then again, he'd never heard him speak Japanese. What was he doing here? Had he—?
Footsteps approached, passing the bedroom door, heading for the kitchen. He heard furniture moving in the living room, and then someone stepped into the bedroom.
How the hell many were they?
He heard drawers being opened and slammed shut, heard the bed moved, the mattress pulled off. The closet would be next. Inevitable.
He raised the Glock, depressed the trigger safety, and waited.
Seconds later, as the door flew open, Jack thrust the muzzle against the forehead of a stocky Japanese guy in a dark suit.
"Not a word," he whispered.
Maybe the guy didn't understand English, maybe he didn't care. Whatever, he started shouting gibberish, and a heartbeat later two other young suits darted into the room with silenced pistols raised. The cold eyes sighting down on him behind those barrels said they wouldn't hesitate to shoot if they had the chance.
He'd seen enough Kitano movies to know what they were: yakuza.
But Jack had already ducked behind his prisoner and twisted him into a half nelson. He had the Glock's muzzle pressed against his lower spine.
"Hair trigger here," he said, grinding the muzzle against the big guy's back. "You know what that means?"
"I know what it means," said a voice from the doorway. Uzi-fire Japanese followed.
Christ, a fourth. How many more?
The new guy was older and wore a lighter suit—business gray. He looked upset.
The boss?
"Good," Jack said, hoping what followed would sound worse than dying. "Then know this too. I pull this trigger, your pal never walks again. He'll be piloting a three-wheel scooter around Tokyo the rest of his life."
The newcomer either translated or gave instructions.
"Also," Jack added, "mine's not silenced like yours. One shot will bring those cops running up from the alley."