Death in Little Tokyo Read Online Free

photographs I paid for.”
    “Are you getting the negatives, too?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And when I pick up the package, you want me to make sure you’ve gotten both the photographs and the negatives.”
    “No, I don’t,” she said hastily. “I don’t want anyone seeing those photographs. They kept their word about giving me enough money to go home and tearing up my contract. I’m sure they’ll keep their word on this, too.”
    “But they double-crossed you over what they did with the pictures.”
    “We didn’t have an agreement on that. I just wasn’t bright enough to think of all the possibilities or the kinds of trouble it might cause me later. I just want you to pick up the package.”
    “And who has this package?”
    “A man named Susumu Matsuda. He’s staying at the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel. He’s here from Japan. Anyway, I’ve already arranged for him to hand over the package. But I don’t want to go over and meet him to pick it up. Frankly, I’m a little scared.”
    I nodded sympathetically. “And after I pick up the package?”
    “I want you to hold the package until I call for it. If you can arrange to pick it up today, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    “All right,” I said. “Mr. Susumu Matsuda at the Golden Cherry Blossom.” I made a quick note on a piece of paper.

    Rita opened her purse, took out a Gucci wallet, and pulled out some bills. “Here’s a deposit. I’ll give you the balance after you’ve picked up the photographs. Is that satisfactory?”
    “Most satisfactory.” I stuffed the bills into my pocket without looking at them.
    “Can I have one of your cards, so I’ll know what phone number to call?” I was now sure this was a game set up by Mariko. Only Mariko knew I had a phone installed in the office and fake business cards printed up.
    “Certainly,” I fumbled in the top drawer of the desk and pulled out one of the fake cards.
    Rita looked at the business card. “Okay, Mr. Tanaka. I’ll be counting on you.”
    “I’ll do my best, Ms. Newly.”
    I escorted her to the door of the office and watched her as she walked down the hall toward the creaky elevator. Before she turned the corner to the elevator she looked back at me, as if she expected me to be there. I smiled and tried to wave reassuringly. She smiled back and turned the corner.
    When I returned to the office I closed the door and started laughing. I was convinced that Mariko was the mastermind behind the little charade I had just gone through. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small wad of bills. The laughter died. I was expecting stage money, but there in the palm of my hand were three crisp one hundred dollar bills.

3
     
    M ariko was the proverbial struggling actress. For her to put up three hundred dollars for a joke was, in itself, a joke. I decided to talk to her.
    Mariko disdained the standard actor’s job as a waitress and she worked at a dress boutique in Little Tokyo. It was only a few blocks from the rented detective office, so I committed what passes for a peccadillo in Los Angeles and walked. The Kawashiri Boutique is part of a tourist complex on First Street known as Japanese Village. It was designed by a Korean, so it looks like a Korean’s version of what a Japanese Village in Los Angeles should look like. That’s America.
    The entrance to Japanese Village is marked by a three-story yagura, or fire tower. A yagura was used in ancient Japan as a watchtower to look for the incipient signs of smoke in crowded cities. The yagura in L.A. is made from bolted together telephone poles, so it would hardly qualify as a museum piece, but I suppose it could be used to spot a tourist bus and the incipient signs of cash.
    A cluster of new buildings radiate out from the tower: numerous restaurants, gift shops, bakeries, toy stores, souvenir shops, and a couple of dress shops, including the Kawashiri Boutique. As I walked in, Mariko was helping a couple of customers.
    Mariko had on a