Hard Rain

mine," I said. "A kid named Haruyoshi.
    Yamaoto was using him, I think to find me. When they thought they'd
    gotten what they wanted, they got rid of him."
    "I'm sorry," he said.
    I shrugged. "It works out well for you. If I didn't know you as well
    as I do, I might have been suspicious."
    I regretted saying it as soon as it was out. Tatsu had too much
    dignity to respond.
    "Anyway, I want you to look into something for me," I said.
    "All right."
    I told him about how Kanezaki had been following Harry, how Midori's
    letter had been the start of it, how Yukiko and Damask Rose were
    involved.
    "I'll see what I can find out," he said.
    "Thank you."
    "Your friend was ... young?" he asked.
    I looked at him. "Young enough."
    He nodded, his eyes sad.
    I thought of how he had first briefed me on Murakami, how his jaw had
    clenched and unclenched when he told me that he believed Murakami had
    been involved in the murder of a child. I had to ask. Tatsu, was
    there ... did you have a son?"
    There was a long silence, during which he must have been digesting the
    realization that I knew something of his personal life, and deciding on
    how he wanted to respond.
    "Yes," he said after a while, nodding. "He would have turned
    thirty-two this past February."
    He seemed to be carefully weighing, even carefully pronouncing, the
    words. I wondered when he had last spoken of this.
    "He was eight months old, just weaned," he went on. "My wife and I had
    not been out together in some time, and we hired a baby-sitter. When
    we came home, the sitter was distraught. She had dropped the little
    boy and he had a bruise on his head. He had cried, she told us, but
    now he seemed all right. He was sleeping.
    "My wife wanted to take him to the doctor right away, but we checked on
    him and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. "Why trouble the little
    one's sleep unnecessarily?" I said. "If there were a problem, we
    would know it by now." My wife wanted to believe everything was all
    right, and so I was able to persuade her."
    He took a sip of tea. "In the morning the baby was dead. The doctor
    told us it was a subdural hematoma. He told us that it would have made
    no difference if we had sought immediate medical attention. But of
    course I will always wonder. Because I had a choice, you see? It may
    be terrible for me to say it, but it would have been easier if my son
    had died instantly. Or if the sitter had been less decent, and had
    mentioned nothing to us. The same outcome, and yet completely
    different."
    I looked at him. "How old were your girls, Tatsu?" I asked.
    "Two and four."
    "Christ," I muttered.
    He nodded, not bothering to make a show of stoicism by arguing with me.
    "Losing a child is the worst thing," he said. "There is no greater
    grief. For a long time I wanted to take my own life. Partly on the
    chance that by doing so I might be reunited with my son, that I might
    be able to comfort him and protect him. Partly to atone for how I had
    wronged him. And partly simply to end my pain. But my duty to my wife
    and daughters was greater than these irrational and selfish impulses.
    And I came to view my pain as a just punishment, as my karma. But
    still, every day I think of my little son. Every day I wonder if I
    will have a chance to see him again."
    We were silent for a moment. From behind the counter came the sound of
    beans being ground.
    "We're going to take this guy out," I told him. "I can't do it alone,
    and neither can you, but maybe we can do it together."
    "Tell me what you propose."
    "Murakami shows up at the dojo from time to time, but you can't stake
    the place out. It's on a quiet street with minimal automobile or
    pedestrian traffic, so not much cover. Plus I spotted at least two
    sentries on my way in."
    He nodded. "I know. I had a man make a casual pass."
    "I figured you would. But we might not need a stakeout. If I show up,
    someone is likely to call Murakami. That's when we nail him."
    He looked at me. "If Murakami killed your friend because they decided
    they didn't need him anymore to get to you, they probably know who you
    are."
    "Exactly. That's why I know that, when I show up, someone will call
    him. And even if I'm wrong, and they don't know who I am, Murakami
    said he wanted to talk to me at the dojo. Sooner or later he'll show
    up there. And when he shows up, I'll call you. You come with picked
    men, arrest him, and take him into custody."
    "He might attempt to resist arrest," he said dryly.
    "Oh yeah. A guy