Chapter 1 Confrontation
“It’s happened again.”
“Hai?”
“In America. Los Angeles.”
“And you’re telling me this because…”
“Shinobu, you may be financially free of the family, but you’re still blood. And this concerns you specifically because of that fact! So it would behoove you to try to act like you actually give a damn!”
Shinobu Tezuka leaned back into the recesses of a decadently overstuffed chair and steepled his fingers, elbows balanced negligently on the plush armrests. He gazed at his father impassionately. He didn’t deign to respond to the older man’s rant, only quirked an eyebrow archly.
“Fine. Your holier-than-thou attitude won’t take you far if I pull some strings and shut down that paltry excuse you call a business.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?”
He would do it too. Shinobu gritted his teeth but still maintained his outward composure. Yes, his bastard of a father would stoop that low and ruin the agency his son had worked eight damned long years to build, if only to get what he wanted. Shinobu could try fool himself that he had escaped from his family’s tyranny, but reality whispered that the leash was short and his father’s reach long. The Tezuka name may have given Shinobu the advantages for personal success but it was that self-same name that could be his downfall.
“What do you want from me?” The silver-haired man spoke dangerously soft.
“You’re little agency is thriving, ne?” The Tezuka patriarch could afford to be magnanimous now that he thought he had the upper hand.
“Hai.” Shinobu’s voice was ominously steady. Where was the old man going with this?
“And you have contacts all over the world? Contacts in America?”
“Hai.”
“I want you to fly to Los Angeles and investigate these recent activities. Find out all you can about these killings. Who’s behind it, what they want, how much it would take to get them off our backs.”
“How do you know it’s us they’re interested in?” Whoever the hell “they” are, Shinobu told himself silently.
“The deaths form a pattern, son. Surely, in your infinite and all-knowing cleverness as a detective, you had picked up on that?”
“You assume I cared enough to follow these deaths in the first place.” Two could play at this game.
“Shinobu, don’t toy with me!” So his father had recognized the power play too. Point, Shinobu. It was the younger man’s turn to be magnanimous now.
“You’re right, otousan. I have been following the cases. Three dead CEOs in our European holdings, two in our South American branches. All female. Ages vary, of course, but the odd fact is that all five women had been hired by Tezuka Industries fairly recently. Within months of each other, in fact. Interesting turnover in company heads. Bad year at the offices, Dad?” Shinobu ended his impromptu report by addressing his father in the informal American way, having become extremely fluent in English during his years as an agent of Interpol.
The old man winced at the subtle disrespect. Shinobu kept expressionless. Point, Shinobu.
“There is another odd fact about the killings that you may have overlooked.” His father regained composure quickly. Shinobu grinned inwardly despite himself. The old man was good.
“The manner of death.” Shinobu’s wintry green eyes almost warmed as he thought of the puzzle this presented. The killer’s modus operandi had stumped even the most seasoned veterans at Interpol.
“Hai.” Uncannily, there was a similar gleam in the older man’s eyes. “All the women showed no signs of struggle, no apparent exit wounds, yet all died from severe loss of blood. Every coroner’s report indicated a “draining”, if you will. Miya Igarashi died the same way. She was our Executive of International Affairs in Los Angeles. I believe you knew her?”
Shinobu started from the chair, gripping the armrests with white-knuckled intensity. Miya. The name threw him violently back to his past, to his days at Ryokuto Academy, to Ryokurin Ryou, to Mitsuru…
“A good friend of yours was once involved with her, ne? I thought you’d remember the name.” Shinobu’s father smirked in satisfaction, pleased that he had finally gotten a rise out of his implacable son. Shinobu acceded. Point to you, old man.
“So, Los Angeles. I assume you want me to handle this outside the regular means?”
“Yes. Use your utmost discretion. I wouldn’t want it bruited about that Tezuka Industries was in a panic over this mess. Our spin doctors have been doling out information to the press in fits and starts, so they’re rabid. You’ll have to deal with them along with any others who might not look too kindly on a private investigation.”
“I can’t use my Interpol connections then?”
“Only the ones you trust.”
“That means nobody.”
Shinobu rose from his chair, ending the conversation on his own terms. He would handle matters in any way he saw fit and needed no more instructions from his domineering father. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he was taking this case on his own volition, not because the old man has asked him to do so. After all, if the press was already nosing around, and if he did solve the mystery outside of Interpol jurisdiction, then he could finally – finally! – make a name for himself and be free to expand his own agency without having to moonlight for the government.
As the man made his way across the wide expanse of rich Persian rug, his father stopped him. Apparently the bastard was not done turning the screws.
“By the way, what was the name of that young man involved with Igarashi? Wasn’t he quite smitten with you back at the academy?”
Shinobu paused in the middle of the room. He kept his back to his father but swiveled his head slightly in acknowledgement. The sunlight filtering through the heavy drapery that covered floor-length windows glanced at the angular planes of his face, harshly sculpted into maturity by time and deep sorrows. The only indication of the wrath that roiled in him was an infinitesimal tightening of his jaw that emphasized his sharp features even more.
“His name was Hasukawa Kazuya. And no, he was not smitten. You must have him confused with someone else.”
“Ah, sou. It was the other one – the blond-haired pansy with the amethyst eyes. That was the one who managed to capture your affections, was it not? There are rumors he’s in Los Angeles, you know. Do you think you’ll run into him and resume your little liaison?”
Point, old man. Damn him!
“I’m no catamite, Dad. And my “liaison”, as you put it, was over before it truly began, eight years ago. You made quite sure of that, if you recall.”
“And you should be falling all over yourself in gratitude that I did. Would you have risen to your current status if I had not done so? The little sapphist would have drug you down into a den of iniquity with his unnatural love,” the Tezuka patriarch sneered, somehow managing to make the word “love” sound like a perversion.
Game, set, match. Shinobu loses. The old man was better at this than he. He knew how to dig until he found a person’s Achilles heel. And he bided his time until he could reveal this discovery by going for the jugular. Shinobu felt his disgust and loathing for the man increase tenfold.
He struggled for control, willing his body not to lash out and perform some criminal act like, say, murder. His training at Interpol stood him in good stead for situations like this, and he recalled all the proper relaxation exercises that were supposed to distance his mind from worldly concerns. But for all his training, Shinobu’s fingers still itched to snatch the Rodin replica from a nearby table and bludgeon his sire with the statuette until the white marble bled scarlet. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his grey Armani slacks to prevent further temptation.
“Your sudden obsession with my past is curious and petty, quite beneath you. And I wonder that you pay attention to rumors. I haven’t spoken to Mitsuru in over eight years; why do you still keep tabs on him?” Shinobu’s voice was acid. He still hadn’t turned around to fully face his father. There was no telling what he would do if he did so.
“Call it an affectation on my part. I like to know where my potential enemies are at all times, regardless of their seeming innocuity.”
“He wouldn’t have been an enemy if you hadn’t done what you did.” So easy. It would be so easy to just turn around and bash his head in. On second thought, why do that? I could very easily snap his neck. Less mess that way.
Norio Tezuka studied his son appraisingly. He knew he was treading dangerous ground, could sense the man’s control reaching its breaking point. But he couldn’t help it. Norio loved to see how much he could push that control, what it would take to shatter it. As a boy, Shinobu had been slight, almost effeminate, his lack of interest in any physical exertion contributing to this. His father had despaired then, thinking his son would amount to nothing more than an apathetic ne’er-do-well. When he had graduated from Ryokuto Academy and after the debacle with the Ikeda boy, however, Shinobu had chosen a profession that was in contradiction to his languid nature. He had joined Interpol as a covert operative.
This choice was meant to infuriate his father, who had wanted nothing more than for his wayward son to inherit the family business. Working for a government agency, even one that spanned nations, seemed the perfect way to break from his elitist sire. Of course, Norio had ranted and raved, but secretly, he was pleased at his son’s choice. The harsh training, both mental and physical, had honed the boy’s innate predatory skills to perfection. His father was gleefully ecstatic.
This was the man he had dreamed his son would become. This compelling figure before him was the perfect end product of years of mastering eleven different forms of martial arts, five languages, and the use of advanced artillery. He was still lean and lithe; nothing could change what nature and genes had bestowed on him. But there was a lethal strength in the broad shoulders, the ropy arms, the tapering fingers that begged to sketch or play piano but were more used to putting men to sleep permanently instead.
Norio continued his internal cataloguing of his son. The rest of Shinobu’s appearance proved a contradiction in every sense and his father grudgingly approved. The silver hair flopped carelessly across his brow yet was cut short to the nape, Shinobu’s concession to his faintly militaristic profession. The loose, white linen shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a slightly-tanned neck and jutting collarbones, had its sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows, yet it effectively camouflaged a powerful chest and muscled abs. The shirt was meticulously tucked into a pair of sharply-creased tailor-made grey slacks, the virgin wool subtly molding to Shinobu’s powerful thighs. Yet the slacks met the tips of scuffed, utilitarian black boots, the man’s only concession to practicality. An obscenely expensive Versace belt cinched the narrow waist yet was equipped with several buckles that hinted at deadly purposes.
Yes, Shinobu Tezuka had metamorphosed into a capable mercenary, able to fit into any situation, be it a swank soiree of bureaucrats or a dank alley in a military war zone. His father’s only regret was that it hadn’t been he who had molded the man into the perfection he had become.
Why is he staring at me? Why won’t he say anything? Have I won this round after all?
Shinobu knew he was being scrutinized. His father had been performing this clinical studying ever since he had graduated from the academy and had had to endure these weekly meetings. It never failed to raise Shinobu’s hackles and later, when he had refined his abilities in detection, this detached observation awoke clarions of warning in his mind. He had never trusted Norio. This distrust had helped him survive family conspiracies during the years since his boyhood. But now, Shinobu was learning to acknowledge a new emotion that arose any time he was in his father’s presence. That emotion was fear.
The old man still hadn’t spoken. Shinobu allowed his body to relax and continued his previously aborted attempt at exiting the study. In his relief at being given a reprieve from his father’s cutting tongue, Shinobu could not resist a last parting shot.
“You really ought to go out more, Dad. Play some golf or something. Hiding away in this dark room is proving ghastly to your health. You’re looking decidedly pale.”
It was a good thing Shinobu did not glance back at his father after this snide pronouncement. Had he done so, he would have quaked in his boots at the malice that gleamed menacingly in Norio Tezuka’s hard agate eyes.