Although Akiro had officially taken over the case for the Bureau,

Fugisawa was reluctant to let go, in spite of his laconic comments

to the agent about the Bureau being welcome to it. He had tried to

tell himself that it was one headache that he didn’t need and he’d be

better off letting the Bureau handle it, but whatever else he might

be, Katayama was not a cop. He was not streetwise. That much

had become clear to him almost immediately. He was a bureaucrat,

accustomed to investigations dealing with the use of thaumaturgy

in such things as corporate crime, not murder. Perhaps, in his

rather plodding way, he was even an efficient field agent, but he

was not a street cop. And this case required a street cop. There

were no witnesses, no leads, no clues. In the absence of such things,

a good street cop did not simply wait for them to materialize. He

went looking for them. And if he didn’t know where to look or how,

he went to the people who did. The killings had all taken place on

Fugisawa’s turf and he was deeply affronted by them. They had

also taken place on this man’s turf, as well, and Fugisawa suspected

that he would be equally affronted.

The office was large and spacious, carpeted in deep brown shag

and paneled in teak. There was a large wet bar; several

expensive-looking modern expressionist paintings; a black

leather-upholstered sofa and matching chairs; no windows and a

massive mahogany desk big enough to sleep on. Two sober-faced

Japanese men in dark suits flanked the desk and there were two

more behind him, near the door. Fugisawa’s trained eye picked up

the faint, telltale bulge of shoulder holsters, though the suits were

tailored so that no one but an experienced cop would have spotted

them.

The man sitting behind the desk was in his early fifties, though

he looked younger. He was dressed in an elegant dark suit and

white shirt with a touch of lace at the throat. He wore an expensive

gold watch and a tasteful diamond on the little finger of his right

hand. The little finger of his left hand was missing. He was Don

Teruyuki Kobayashi, the godfather of the Yakuza.

“Don Kobayashi, ” Fugisawa said, not bowing, but inclining his

head slightly.

“Lt. Fugisawa. ” Kobayashi smiled faintly. “Please, sit down. ” He