The Key to Midnight

resemblance might be pure chance.
        For a while he stared at the telephone on the desk, and finally he said aloud, 'Yeah. Only thing is, I never did believe in chance.'
        He'd built one of the largest security and private-investigation firms in the United States, and experience had taught him that every apparent coincidence was likely to be the visible tip on an iceberg of truth, with much more below the waterline than above.
        He pulled the telephone closer and placed an overseas call through the hotel switchboard. By eight-thirty in the morning, Kyoto time (four-thirty in the afternoon, Chicago time), he got hold of Ted Blankenship, his top man in the home office. 'Ted, I want you to go personally to the dead-file room and pull everything we've got on Lisa Chelgrin. I want that file in Kyoto as soon as possible. Don't trust it to an air courier service. Keep it inside the company. Give it to one of our junior field ops who doesn't have anything better to do, and put him on the first available flight.'
        Blankenship chose his words carefully, slowly. 'Alex… does this mean the case… is being… reactivated?'
        'I'm not sure.'
        'Is there a chance you've found her after all this time?'
        'I'm probably chasing shadows. Most likely, nothing will come of it. So don't talk about this, not even with your wife.'
        'Of course.'
        'Go to the dead files yourself. Don't send a secretary. I don't want any rumors getting started.'
        'I understand.'
        'And the field operative who brings it shouldn't know what he's carrying.'
        'I’ll keep him in the dark. But, Alex… if you've found her… it's very big news.'
        'Very big,' Alex agreed. 'Call me back after you've arranged things, and let me know when I can expect the file.'
        'Will do.'
        Alex put down the telephone and went to one of the living-room windows, from which he watched the bicyclists and motorists in the crowded street below. They were in a hurry, as though they clearly comprehended the value of time. As he watched, one cyclist made an error in judgment, tried to pass between two cars where there wasn't sufficient space. A white Honda bumped the bike, and the cyclist went down in a skidding-rolling-bouncing tangle of skinned legs, bent bicycle wheels, broken arms, and twisted handlebars. Brakes squealed, traffic halted, and people rushed toward the injured man.
        Although Alex was not superstitious, he had the eerie feeling that the sudden violence in the street below was an omen and that he himself was rushing headlong toward an ugly crash of his own.

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    7
        
        At noon Alex met Joanna at Mizutani for lunch.
        When he saw her again, he realized that the mental picture of her that he carried with him captured her beauty no more accurately than a snapshot of Niagara Falls could convey the beauty of wildly tumbling water. She was more golden, more vibrant and alive - her eyes a far deeper and more electrifying blue - than he remembered.
        He kissed her hand. He was not accustomed to European manners; he just needed an excuse to touch his lips to her warm skin.
        Mizutani was an o-zashiki restaurant, divided by rice-paper partitions into many private dining rooms where meals were served strictly Japanese style. The ceiling wasn't high, less than eighteen inches above Alex's head, and the floor was of brilliantly polished pine that seemed transparent and as unplumbable as a sea. In the vestibule, Alex and Joanna exchanged their street shoes for soft slippers. They followed a petite young hostess to a small room where they sat on the floor, side by side on thin but comfortable cushions, in front of a low table.
        They faced a six-foot-square window, beyond which lay a walled garden. That late in the year, no flowers brightened the view, but there were several varieties of well-tended evergreens, and a carpet of moss had not yet turned brown for the winter. In the center of the garden, water fountained from a seven-foot-high pyramid of rocks and spilled down the stones to a shallow, trembling pool.
        They ate mizutaki, the white meat of a chicken stewed in an earthenware pot and flavored with scallions, icicle radish, and many herbs. This was accompanied by several tiny cups of steaming sake, delicious when piping hot but like a spoiled sauterne when cool.
        Throughout lunch they talked about music,