Travis Justice (7 page)

So Hana stayed very still, hands clasped before her, answering
yes, sir
,
no, ma'am
, as Travis had requested, her gaze steady as she answered each question. All the while she stifled worry about Takeo, hoping, praying that Ernie was facing a less stringent inquisition. Perhaps he could at least get out on bail and find a way to get Takeo back.

* * *

In a separate interrogation room, Ernie kept his cuffed wrists resting on the table in front of him, looking quite at home. The two Austin detectives before him both recorded him and made handwritten notes in his file as he amiably answered their questions as briefly and truthfully as possible.

Where did you learn to open safes like that?
New Orleans.

What else have you broken into?
Nothing much lately. I'm reformed.

What did you and Ms. Nakatomi intend to do with the blade?
Ask Hana that.

If you've reformed, why did you help her?
She's my friend and she needed me.

And so on. At the end of the interrogation, the lead detective looked down at his notes. They were thick across the page, but he shoved them away in disgust. “You haven't told us a damn thing we don't already know.”

Ernie smiled. “I answered every question I was asked, did I not? Was it my elocution or was my word choice a bit problematic for you?”

The detective looked as if he wanted to hit him, then blew a bitter breath. “I think he just insulted us.”

The other detective said, “I know he did.” They exchanged a look. “Time to call in the cavalry.”

His colleague nodded.

* * *

In the adjacent interrogation room, Ms. Doyle reached into the file and pulled out a picture to shove on the table before Hana. “What can you tell us about this man?”

Hana glanced down. Kai. She stared for a long time, debating what to say. They already knew from her previous arrest record that she'd worked for him, so lying would only exacerbate their suspicions. Yet, she didn't dare tell them the truth: How could she claim she'd always intended to give the sword back if they knew Kai was blackmailing her to hand it over by kidnapping her son? Surely they'd believe she was still his paramour if they knew about Takeo.

Takeo . . . the picture wavered before her eyes as she wondered what tender mercies his father would subject him to before she could rescue him. Above all, she had to get out of here. If she couldn't obtain the sword as a bargaining chip, she had no choice but to invade the compound and rescue her son or die trying. If she could find it . . . she'd been forced to wear a hood when she was allowed inside several months ago to see Takeo.

She shoved the file back across the desk toward the gray-eyed woman. “I'll tell you everything I know . . . but only if we can make a deal that gives me total immunity from prosecution.”

When John Travis's eyes flared in rage, she stared right back, her spine as straight as the katana still lying on the table next to her.

* * *

In the rugged hills outside Austin, a cool, dank cavern was lit only by occasional walkway lamps and overhead fluorescents. They illuminated an uneven path through the labyrinth. The sub-chambers leading from the main path like rough rooms were partially carved by erosion in the limestone, but tunneled deeper by excavation. All had heavy metal doors with locks and key-card readers firmly anchored into the limestone.

From above the main cavern, Kai's stocky figure was, as usual, garbed in black as he came down two levels of precarious metal circular stairways. He was holding a small boy. Kai wore his usual arsenal: katana strapped in a sheath on his back, short blade, his
tanto,
fastened at his side, and a leather satchel holding various other weapons, such as throwing stars, attached to his belt.

The little boy was restless and squirmed to be put down. “
Otosan,
let me go. Where is my mama? You promised you'd take me to her.”

Kai soothed the boy with a quick pat on plump little buttocks. “Soon, Takeo, soon. But first you must get better in your lessons so we can impress your mama with your skills.”

As Kai carried him, Takeo looked around at his surroundings, as if still getting used to this strange place. While most of the sub-chambers were dark, they passed one bright room bustling with activity. Glass insets revealed a sparkling clean room and white-coated figures wearing masks working over what looked like chemistry benches. They were laden with beakers, burners, huge vats, vials, and other drug-making paraphernalia. Above them, lining the walls, shelves held bottles and boxes. Some were marked
flammable
or
poisonous
in bright red.

Takeo couldn't read the words, but he knew the universal symbol of a skull meant bad things were inside.

As they passed, Takeo looked inside curiously. “What do they do in there,
Otosan
?”

Kai said sharply, “Nothing that concerns you, Takeo. Mind only your lessons. Everything important begins in your mind, my son. You must learn this if you are to be a good samurai. Get into the ring.” Kai plopped Takeo down. “Walk yourself, little inquisitor.”

Takeo planted his feet and looked back at his father curiously, but he was not upset despite the fact that his little feet smarted from the abrupt contact with the stone walkway. In that moment, though he did not know it, he was a tiny replica of his mother as he stared up at the figure looming over him. Even at five, he had Hana's inherent common sense and logical mind. “If only my mind matters, then why do you teach me to fight?”

Kai's eyes narrowed. “Get into the ring. Now.”

Sighing, Takeo turned toward their destination in the center of the large cavern: a full-sized martial-arts ring with a padded mat, ringed by elastic ropes that would bounce combatants back as they fell against the sides.

A strange look of both resignation and eagerness on his face, Takeo grabbed a short
bokken
, a wooden sword longer than Kai's to give him equal range, from a rack against the wall. Then he willingly climbed through the ropes into the ring.

Kai paused to pull off all his own weapons, glancing at the guards hidden in various dark corners of the vast chambers, wordlessly warning them to stay on alert. Then he chose a thickly cushioned
bokken
from the wall rack before climbing into the ring.

With a little bow of salutation, they squared off. And for the next hour, Kai painstakingly trained his son to use the
bokken
in all the stations of Shotokan karate. Every time Takeo missed his mark, Kai tapped him with his own padded weapon, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind Takeo who was master. At the end, during their last round, he only had to correct Takeo once. He praised his son effusively. “Harder this time, Takeo. Hurt me.”

Takeo stopped, the tip of his
bokken
wavering, as he breathed a bit heavily. He wiped sweat from his brow on his sleeve. “But you are my father. Why would I hurt you?”

“In this ring, I am your opponent. Show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. You must learn to fight without hesitation, someday even to kill. Such is the way of the world. You are a leader, Takeo, not a weakling. Show me.”

And thus did Kai breed in his five-year-old son the twisted values Hana had spent the last five years unlearning: Anger. Aggression. Feelings of superiority. Pride. By the last round, Takeo's
bokken
hit Kai's with such force that Kai had to juggle his stick to keep from dropping it.

He gave his son a huge grin. “Excellent, Takeo!”

Clambering out of the ring, Takeo wiped his
bokken
off and carefully put it back in the wall enclosure. Then he looked expectantly up at his father. “I can see Mama now?”

* * *

Hana was tired of all the questioning, but she maintained her composure. They kept hammering on the same line, her relationship with Kai: Did she know where his compound was or how he was distributing his product, always coming back to the motive for the murders. Finally Hana said, “My relationship with him is nonexistent. I avoid him when I can. But we still have some common interests.”

“What are those?”

She said reluctantly, “He also wants to hold the katana. He allowed me to use his connections to track down the blade only if I agreed to take it to him after I showed it to Jiji.”

All three questioners went still.

“And what does he intend to do with it?” John asked the question this time, his voice very quiet.

“Keep it, but I would have done all I could to return it to you, Mr. Travis, even if I had to fight him to get it back.”

“You've fought him before?” asked Captain Sinclair.

“Sparred with him, yes, many times, but it was years ago. I've never faced him with a real blade. I think he wants the blade as a status symbol against his rival gang leaders. I don't believe he'd ever use it to kill anyone.” The words almost stuck in her throat, but since her fears were conjecture, she owed the father of her child some loyalty, at least.

The three interrogators exchanged a look. Travis and Sinclair both gave slight nods. Ms. Doyle went back to her voluminous file and flipped through to something. She shoved several black-and-white pictures across the table to Hana.

Hana looked down, and all the color left her face. She had to cup a hand over her mouth to gag back bile. “Oh my God . . . you think I did this? That's what Zachary meant when he said I might butcher him.”

“And the Taylors were murdered not quite this horrifically, but after extensive retesting in the lab, forensics has confirmed the weapon could only be a long, single-edged sword. Like a katana,” Ms. Doyle said, watching Hana through a hooded gaze that missed nothing. “You recognize the pattern of these cuts?” Closing her eyes against the grisly pictures, Hana turned her head away. After a moment, she swallowed hard. She said dully, “It's an ancient samurai ritual. Test a katana's sharpness against an enemy. The better the blade, the easier the cuts. The best katanas are called five-body blades because they remain sharp even after several cuttings.”

Then she looked back at them, gripping the edge of the table. “I did not do this. I cannot believe Kai did it, either. I know he's been warring with a rival Triad gang and I recognize the victim's tattoos as one of the Triad gang members. Perhaps one of his men did it, trying to gain status?” This last was almost to herself, for Hana had retreated to the privacy of her thoughts, not even hearing the next questions.

Travis exchanged a look with Sinclair—if she was acting, she deserved an Oscar. She looked genuinely revolted to think that any man she'd once loved could do something like this.

Ms. Doyle said gently, “I'm sorry, but please look at the . . . uh . . . face of the person who was decapitated and tell me if you can identify him. We have no record of his prints or DNA in our databases.”

Hana gave a tiny shudder before she steeled herself. She picked up the photo of the head, carefully examining what remained of the face. She put it back down. “I don't know him. But as I've said many times, I'm not involved in any of the gangs any more. I've been working two jobs and going back to school—”

“Yes, we've verified that,” Sinclair interrupted curtly. “That doesn't mean you're not a person of interest in these murders and, at least, aiding and abetting the criminal activity that foments this sort of thing. You have a record as a drug mule, Ms. Nakatomi. Given the horrific nature of these crimes, you'd be wise to cooperate with us in any way we ask.”

Hana cried, “What else can I say to convince you my only interest was the sword?”

John Travis leaned forward. “Ingratiate yourself with Kai. Then become our informant. Help us get enough evidence to put him away for a long time, and we'll drop all the charges against you.” His smile showed the sharp intellect behind his aristocratic face.

In that moment, he looked exactly like portraits of William Barrett Travis, right down to his cleft chin. “It was your idea, right, Ms. Nakatomi? You want immunity? We aim to please.”

W
hile Hana was blinking in shock, for she'd never expected such ready agreement to her impulsive plea, a knock came at the door. Sinclair opened it, conferred with the Austin police detective standing there, and went back to whisper something to Travis. Travis looked at Ms. Doyle, his mouth twitching before he controlled it.

“You're needed in the other interrogation room, apparently.”

Ms. Doyle frowned, looking at Hana's pale face.

John said, “We won't torture her much longer. I promise.”

Ms. Doyle flushed slightly, obviously not realizing her compassion for Hana was showing. “Do you want the file?”

“No, you may need it in the other room.”

Ms. Doyle exited quietly.

Hana had regained her composure during the interval. She gnawed her lip savagely and then burst out, “You don't know what you're asking me to do. I despise Kai and everything he stands for. He knows that. I don't believe he'd even want me back. There is too much . . . strife between us for him to trust me.”

John Travis shrugged. “Well, it was worth a shot. I guess we don't have a deal—”

Hana leaned forward, her black eyes sparkling. “But I can offer something else. I might be able to show you where his compound is. It's also the place where he makes his product. I've seen his drug-making paraphernalia. If you catch him there, you'll have evidence aplenty against him and all his men.”

Now she had their acute attention.

* * *

Inside the other interrogation room, Ernie's long, untidy figure moved from its habitual slouch to bolt upright when Abigail Doyle entered the room. The lead detective accompanied her, but Ernie didn't even glance at him. His gaze, almost the exact silvery shade of Abigail's, appraised her from her sensible heels, up her severe pantsuit, lingered on the gentle flare of her bosom in a white silk blouse, down her long form to her toes again. When his gaze locked with hers, his slow smile widened until it ended in a grin of pure appreciation that was so male the ever-calm professional shifted nervously, from foot to foot.

He winked, his Cajun undertone pronounced. “Now, this is more like it. I'll share all my sweet nothings with you,
chere
. You must be the indefatigable Ms. Doyle. I've heard of you from my . . . er—colleagues. Such words as
brilliant
.
Tenacious forensics expert
. So on.” The cocky male grin spread to his pale eyes, darkening them. “But now I've seen you, I think other appellations would be more appropriate.”

Ignoring his compliments, or trying to, Abigail sat down across from him and made a show of straightening her already straight papers. When the high flush on her cheekbones had faded, she looked at him severely. “Mr. Thibodeaux—”

“Ernie.”

“Mr. Thibodeaux, with your background in prior, shall we say, illegal activities—”

“Safecracking. Kiting checks. Securities fraud. But the key word there,
chere
, is
prior
.”

“Hardly a defensible position, given you were caught red-handed breaking into a vault—”

“And I wasn't going to keep a thing. We only wanted the sword.”

“So you can confirm Ms. Nakatomi's statement that she only wanted the sword to let her grandfather hold it one last time and then she intended to return it?”

He hesitated, finally nodding.

She pounced on his hesitation. “There's something you're both not telling us. And frankly, if we can't trust that you're telling us the full truth so we can assess your intentions, we have no other option but to ramp up every charge we can legally justify—and they are many—to keep you both off the streets.”

Ernie eyed her closely. Her nose was a bit prominent, but there was character in every patrician line of her bone structure. He looked at the detective, and back at his interrogator. “Hana won't tell you why she really needs the sword because she's protecting the person she loves most in the world.”

Ms. Doyle's busy pen froze as she made notes in the file. “Yes?”

Ernie hesitated. “She'll be very angry with me if I tell you.”

“She'll be in jail for a very long time if you don't,” Abigail retorted. “As will you.”

When Ernie still hesitated, Abigail said coldly, “Given the evidence we have that the Taylor murders were committed with a very similar sword to the katana, someone with Ms. Nakatomi's training performed that heinous crime.” She shoved over the same pictures of the dead gang member that she'd shown to Hana. “There are similarities between the Taylor murders to this gang slaying. Even the angle of the strokes, their depth, not just the type of blade. Only someone trained in cutting techniques could leave such carnage.”

Ernie stared down at the photos and for once in his life, was rendered speechless.

Ms. Doyle enunciated, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but it takes extreme skill and practice to be able to butcher a human body like this. The same skill was used in a slightly less revolting way on Sam Taylor and his wife. Coincidentally, the deaths occurred a few nights before you and Ms. Nakatomi—for the second time, in her case—went to great lengths to steal a priceless sword that's revered precisely because it was so well designed for these very cuts. And you wish us to believe the two acts are not linked and neither of you know who committed them?” She made a harsh sound in the back of her throat that was decidedly unladylike, but very to the point.

Still looking a bit sick, Ernie shoved the photos back toward Abigail. “Very well, I'll tell you everything. But you have to promise both Hana and me immunity.”

Abigail waved a dismissing hand. “That will not be my decision. I cannot promise a thing. But the more valuable your information in solving these murders, the more generous the prosecutors tend to be.”

Ernie looked at the detective. “You're recording all this?”

The detective nodded. “Do you wish to change your mind about a lawyer before we proceed?”

With the reckless, go-to-hell grin Hana would have recognized with dread, Ernie propped his cuffed hands on the table before him as if they were diamond bracelets. “Nope. I'm of Shakespeare's persuasions when it comes to attorneys:
The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers
.”

When he finally won the flicker of a smile from Abigail, he leaned forward as if he and she were in a cozy booth in a French café conducting their own little tête-à-tête.

“First off, you're right about the cuts. They probably are similar because the angles are almost perfect examples of samurai practice cuts. I'm pretty sure Kai is responsible, but I can't yet prove it. However, I'm going to tell you everything you need to understand Hana's motives. But only in the interests of clearing Hana of any wrongdoing. Let me tell you a story about two young lovers. The boy was a new illegal immigrant from Japan, the female half Japanese, but an American citizen. They were both wild and rebellious, but of uncommon martial-arts ability. I know, because I trained them. Unfortunately that's how they met. At my dojo. They became lovers when he was twenty-two and she was sixteen—”

* * *

Inside the other interrogation room, Hana read the brief and very conditional immunity agreement the DA's office had drawn up after hearing her offer.

John Travis warned her, “For the third time, I'd suggest you let us get you a pro bono criminal attorney before you sign anything binding.”

Hana signed the short document. “Lawyers took my grandfather's house away. And they'll only delay my release if we can come to terms now. Besides, I have nothing to fear because I've told the truth. I'm pretty sure I can find the compound if we duplicate the conditions of my other trip. A hood, a van, darkness, starting from the same place. Martial arts teach one to listen to one's senses and I counted between turns. I can't promise I can find it, but I won't know if I don't try.”

Hana shoved the document back across the table. A cop took the papers out with him. Hana turned back to John Travis. She nibbled at her lip, hesitating, then burst out, “But there are other people there. Young children. Workers. Innocents. If you storm the compound, Kai is not above holding them hostage. This must be done very delicately.”

“Understood,” Travis agreed. “First, let's see if you can find it and then we'll figure out the logistics.” He smiled at her—really smiled at her—for the first time since the interrogation began. “Even Texas Rangers can show finesse, from time to time.”

Hesitantly, Hana smiled back. She wanted to believe him. Desperately. But all she saw in her mind's eye was Takeo, dragged with Kai as he deserted his men. She'd not seen it, but she knew it was there: He'd disappear down his escape tunnel, her son his key to freedom, the minute he realized he was being raided.

Immunity agreement or not, on the day of the raid she had to get to Takeo first. If it violated her agreement, so be it. She would somehow convince her mother to take Takeo if she had to do jail time.

* * *

The next day, released on bond after Ernie posted bail for the two of them, Hana chafed at the ankle monitor and its blinking red light. It was hidden beneath her jeans, but it felt more burdensome than leg shackles. And if Kai ever saw it, he'd know instantly she had betrayed him.

Ernie said, “My van has no doubt been towed, so we'll take a cab. Come along.”

Still on the steps, Hana balked. “Ernie, I'm sorry right down to my toes that you got caught up in all this—”

“Best fun I've had in years.”

“But you have absolutely no right to boss me around. I'm not your student anymore.”

“Uh-huh, you've done such a good job staying out of trouble with-out me.”

“With you, don't you mean? I think you also agreed to our strategy of breaking into the transit agency vault.”

He took her elbow to escort her down the stairs. “Let's not argue at least until we're a few feet from police headquarters.”

When they were a block away from possible surveillance cameras, Ernie flagged a cab. As it pulled to the curb he said, “I think you need to stay in my spare room until all this is over. It's not safe for you alone in that hotel room.”

As they sat in the backseat of the cab, she eyed his calm face suspiciously. “What do you have planned, Ernie?”

He lowered his voice. “Did they offer you immunity?”

She took her copy of the agreement from her jeans pocket and offered it to him. He read it quickly and gave it back. “So you think you can find the place?”

She hesitated a moment too long.

“I thought so. Your agreement is contingent on finding the damn compound. You would have said anything to get out because you're so worried about Takeo.” He sighed heavily. “So am I. There is an alternative.” He lowered his voice even further, now whispering in her ear, so even the cabdriver, a possible police informant, couldn't hear.

He said softly, “Ms. Doyle—man, I can't wait until I ruffle those armored feathers—agreed to approach the brass with making me the informant instead of you. And if I accept Kai's offer to tutor his men, I can say I need the money, which is true. I'll have a natural entry point.”

Hana sat back, her face drawn. At first she shook her head. “I can't ask you to put yourself in any more danger than you already have.”

“This isn't your decision, Hana. It's mine. I love Takeo too. He needs you. All you have to do is help me find the place. Have a little faith in me . . . when the time comes, I'll see he's protected.”

Still gnawing at her lip, Hana nodded reluctantly.

* * *

In a small conference room in John's office complex, Zach sat across from his father, Ross, and Abigail.

“So what did you think, Zach?” asked John Travis. “Was she telling the truth? Can she really find this compound?”

Zach shrugged. “Maybe. But there's still something she's not telling us.”

“You think she's involved somehow in the murders?”

This time Zach's shake of the head was certain. “No. Gutting someone asleep in their bed is not her style. She's probably not above skewering someone if she feels justified—I think we could all see that in her ease with the katana. But she'd do it face-to-face in a fair fight, not against a prisoner or an unarmed man.”

Wryly, Ross shook his head. “You talk like you admire her, Zach.”

“I do. I've faced her hand-to-hand twice and she got away both times. I probably outweigh her by a hundred pounds.”

“Ability does not equate with innocence, Zachary,” pointed out Abigail. “Usually quite the opposite.”

Zach shrugged again. “You asked my opinion. I gave it. As to the extent of her involvement with Kai and his ilk, on that I feel less certain. We took a risk letting her go. Could be she's still involved with him and will warn him we're close.”

Abigail nodded. “Your instincts are good.” She shoved over her own interrogation notes from her meeting with Ernie. “It took some persuading, but Mr. Thibodeaux can be quite . . . voluble when he chooses.”

Abigail's face took on a quizzical expression as she contemplated their other suspect's picture atop her second file. But her face cleared to its usual calm professionalism when she looked at John, Ross, and Zach in turn. “I believe Mr. Thibodeaux's long relationship as something of a mentor to Ms. Nakatomi has made him quite protective of her. He was much more forthcoming when he realized it was quite possible they could both get out on immunity agreements. Apparently, he also tutored Kai when he was a young man. Kai recently asked him to train his men. Mr. Thibodeaux refused, but he's proposing that he give a belated acceptance and use it to infiltrate the compound.”