On this occasion, the garden was deserted, for it was after hours.

It was close to sunset and the grounds had been closed for the day.

But no one attempted to stop Lt. Fugisawa as he went through the

gate and made his way along the deserted paths toward the bridge.

He was fairly sure that he was being watched, but he saw no sign

of it until four men suddenly stepped out on the path before him.

Fugisawa recognized two of them. They had been at Kobayashi’s

office that day. The first man had been one of those standing by the

door. Fugisawa didn’t know him. The second was Kobayashi’s eldest

son.

“It’s all right, ” Shiro Kobayashi said to the others as they moved

to block Fugisawa’s way. “Let him pass,”

One of the men stepped forward and started to reach for

Fugisawa’s gun inside its shoulder holster. Fugisawa caught his

wrist. They locked eyes. The others quickly reached inside their

jackets, all except Shiro.

“I didn’t say to frisk him. I said to let him pass.”

There was icy finality in the young man’s voice. The others

relaxed, taking their hands away from their jackets. Fugisawa

released the man’s hand.

“Sumimasen, ” the man said, apologizing with a slight bow.

Fugisawa said nothing. His eyes met Shiro’s and they exchanged

brief nods. Then the men stepped aside and allowed him to continue

down the path.

Kobayashi was waiting for him on the bridge. He was wearing a

well-tailored gray flannel suit with a light overcoat thrown over his

shoulders.

“Good evening, Lt. Fugisawa, ” he said as he leaned against the

railing of the bridge, tossing flower petals over the side into the

water.

“Don Kobayashi.”

“This has always been my favorite spot in the city, ” Kobayashi

said, looking out at the reddening sky. “One stands here and seems

to hear the echoes of his ancestors.”

“It’s pleasant, ” said Fugisawa curtly.