A Clean Kill in Tokyo

was finished. Satisfied, I removed the ball and the paddles, wiped off the conducting jelly residue with an alcohol swab, and fixed his clothes. I looked into his dead eyes and was surprised how little I felt. Relieved, maybe. Satisfied. Not much more.
    I opened the door of the Taurus with his key, then placed it in the car’s ignition. I scanned the garage again. A woman in a business suit, probably on her way to an early meeting, came out of the elevator. I waited for her to get in her car and drive off.
    Using a modified fireman’s carry, I scooped up the body, walked it over to the car, and dumped it into the driver’s seat. I closed the door, then paused for a moment to examine my work.
    Yes, for Jimmy,
I thought.
And Cu Lai. They’ve all been waiting for you in hell.
    And waiting for me. I wondered if Holtzer would be enough to satisfy them. I got into the van and drove away.

CHAPTER 26
    I had one more stop to make. Manhattan, 178 Seventh Avenue South. The Village Vanguard.
    I had checked the Vanguard’s website, and knew the Midori Kawamura trio was appearing at the club from the first Tuesday in November through the following Sunday. I called and made a reservation for the 1:00 A.M. set on Friday. They told me they would hold a reservation until fifteen minutes before the set even without a credit card, so I was easily able to use an alias: Watanabe, a common Japanese name.
    I headed up Interstate 95, crossing from Maryland to Delaware and then to New Jersey. From the Turnpike, I could have picked up I-80 and gone on to Dryden, two hundred miles and someone else’s lifetime away.
    Instead, I left the Turnpike for the Holland Tunnel, where I entered the city and drove the quarter mile to the Soho Grand Hotel on West Broadway. Mr. Watanabe had reserved a suite for Friday night. He arrived before six o’clock to ensure the hotel didn’t give away his reservation, and paid cash for the suite, counting out fourteen hundred dollar bills for the night. The staff, to their credit, evinced no surprise, probably guessing the wealthy man with a passion for anonymity would be meeting his mistress.
    The early arrival gave me time to shower, sleep for three hours, and enjoy an excellent room service dinner of Paillard of Veal and an ‘82 Mouton from the hotel’s Canal House restaurant. With another hour to kill before I left for the Vanguard, I repaired to the visually spectacular Grand Bar, where the ambience of the high ceilings, warm lighting, and wonderfully symmetrical black glass tables made up for an unimaginative selection of single malts and the annoying house music. Still, there’s no quarreling with a twenty-five-year-old Macallan.
    I walked the mile or so from the hotel to the Vanguard. It was cold, and I was glad for the charcoal gabardine trousers, black cashmere mock turtleneck, and black blazer I was wearing. The charcoal trilby I had pulled low across my forehead also provided some warmth, while obscuring my features.
    I picked up my ticket at 12:35 A.M. , then continued walking until almost one o’clock sharp. I didn’t want to take a chance on Midori or anyone else in her trio walking past me at the back of the wedge-shaped room before the set began.
    I passed under the trademark red awning and neon sign and through the mahogany doors, taking a seat at one of the small round tables in back. Midori was already at the piano, wearing black like the first time I had seen her. It felt good to watch her for the moment, unobserved, separated by a sadness I knew she must have shared. She looked beautiful, and it hurt.
    The lights dimmed, the murmur of conversation died away, and Midori brought the piano to life with a vengeance, her fingers ripping into the keys. I watched intently, trying to lock in the memory of the way she moved her hands and swayed her body, the expressions of her face. I knew I’d be listening to her music forever, but this would be the last time I would ever watch her play.
    I had always heard a frustration in her music, and loved the way it would at times be replaced by a deep, accepting sadness. But there was no acceptance in her music tonight. It was raw and angry, sometimes mournful, but never resigned. I watched and listened, feeling the notes and the minutes slipping away from me, trying to find some solace in the thought that perhaps what had passed between us was now part of her music.
    I thought about Tatsu. I knew he had done right in telling Midori I was dead. As