The Bride's Kimono Page 31

  After Takeo finished his short explosion I realized how quiet the restaurant was. About half the tables were occupied, and everyone was looking at us. A waiter in a black jacket was headed our way.

  “I don’t want anything,” Takeo said in loud, angry English. “Go away.”

  “Sir, there’s a problem with the noise,” the waiter said sternly. “Your conversation is disturbing the other diners. You’ll either have to lower your voice or leave.”

  “Lower—and you’re talking about me? Nobody is lower than this woman here!” Takeo flung his hand up to point at me, knocking over the bottle of wine.

  Diners gasped, and the room stayed still.

  “I’m very, very sorry,” I whispered, feeling my body start to shake. I stood up and removed from my pocket all the dollars and change I had and put them in the center of the table, hoping it would cover the meal, and put on Hugh’s coat. All I wanted to do was flee.

  “Go back to him!” Takeo yelled in Japanese, following me into the lobby. “I’m going out, too. After I’m done, you’ll know never to treat anyone like this again.”

  “Are you all right, miss? Do you want me to call the police?” The waiter had followed us into the lobby.

  “No!” I said quickly. “I think it’s going to be fine. We’re just saying good-bye right now.”

  “I hope you enjoy knowing that I’m going straight to the museum, where I’ll tell them all about the trick that you and your boyfriend pulled: the expense-paid trip to Washington, just so the two of you could screw.” Takeo had switched back to Japanese, perhaps because he wanted to make sure he could use the most clear, and vulgar, language possible. “After Allison hears the truth from me, I doubt you’ll ever get paid.”

  Takeo didn’t have a coat, but he ran out the door into the cold, turning in the direction of Connecticut Avenue—the route to the Museum of Asian Arts, which I’d taught him the day before.

  33

  There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief from the hotel’s patrons at Takeo’s grand departure, but I had no time to relax. I had to move. I couldn’t let him catch Allison without me there to explain. At the same time I didn’t want to go after him all by myself. Takeo had been so angry—he scared me.

  I dashed back into the restaurant, noticing, as I went, that Mr. Shima was sitting at a table having lunch by himself. His stunned expression let me know he’d heard all that Takeo and I had said to each other.

  The waitress was just starting to pick up the money I’d left on the table as I reached it. “Oh, I’m sorry but I need a couple of quarters back to make phone calls, and the fare card and that little paper. I’m sorry.” I turned to the other diners and made a sweeping bow that included Mr. Shima. “I hope I didn’t ruin everyone’s meal. I’m leaving now.”

  I ran out of the restaurant and back to the pay phone in the hotel’s hall.

  “Miss, maybe you should call 911, which is a free call,” the waiter persisted. “Or if you wait a minute, I think our concierge can call a women’s shelter—”

  I waved him off. I was already dialing Hugh’s number. It rang four times and then a recorded message came on. “It’s four-thirty,” I said into the telephone. “I’m about to leave the Sofitel to run over to the Museum of Asian Arts. Takeo’s already on his way there to see Allison Powell. He’s going to expose us. Please come to the museum, if you can, because I’m really—scared.” I hung up, knowing that it could be hours before Hugh heard the message.

  I left the hotel in the opposite direction from the one that Takeo had gone. I knew that California Street would lead me in the same direction as the museum. I would have to find a cross street that went all the way through to S Street. Takeo had about a two-minute lead on me, but he was walking. If he didn’t take a taxi—and I ran—I could beat him.

  It was Sunday afternoon, which was to my benefit, I thought as I began to labor on the uphill section of the run. Allison probably wasn’t working. Still, Takeo knew the administrative offices were located upstairs, since he’d seen me go there the previous day. If the museum was open, he would locate someone to whom he could shout his ugly story.

  It was seven minutes to five when I sprinted down Twenty-third Street and to S Street. To my left lay the museum, and to my right was the path that I guessed Takeo would be taking—or had taken. I could just make out the figure of a dark-haired man walking briskly. He was too far away for me to see his face, but I guessed it was the same person who’d been watching me outside the museum. Takeo, perhaps. Or maybe not. Takeo could already have made it into the museum.

  I didn’t waste any more time wondering but sprinted the last twenty yards to the museum. Major Andrews practically jumped on me as I swung open the heavy door.

  “We close at five,” he said. I looked beyond him to the receptionist, who was pulling out the cash box from her desk and was making all the obvious signs of closing up.

  “I’m sorry, I just need to go in to the administrative offices—”

  “Oh, you’re the kimono lady. I didn’t recognize you in those clothes.”

  “Is Allison here today?” I panted.

  “Yes, it’s not a normal day for her to work, but I did see her earlier. I don’t know if she slipped out the door already, because I’m in the process of closing the galleries.”

  “Did a Japanese man enter the museum? In the last few minutes, I mean?”

  “Yeah, I saw a guy like that check in five minutes ago,” the guard said. “He didn’t want to pay admission at first, but we straightened him out.”

  “Thanks,” I said, my spirits sinking. “I know you’re closed, but can I just take a quick peek around to find him, and then we’ll both leave?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to go into the west side of the building, to close those galleries, so if I see him there, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

  As soon as Major Andrews had left the foyer, I quietly hustled up the staircase, glad for my rubber-soled shoes.

  Allison’s office was empty, with the computer, photocopier, and lights turned off. I didn’t see a purse or any other signs of her, but I decided to go down the hall to check the doors to the other offices of museum staff—the people I’d never really gotten to know. Now I wished I had—if they heard, in the last few minutes, Takeo’s interpretation of my relationship with Hugh, they’d think the worst. But they didn’t seem to be around. I didn’t see any museum staff except for the guard. Perhaps all I had to do was get Takeo out of the museum and calm him down.

  I was about to start downstairs when I overheard a commotion in the vestibule.

  “But I’ll just be a minute! I must speak to Miss Allison Powell immediately.” It was Takeo, his voice loud and clearly furious.

  “You’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning, sir. She’s not here, and the museum is closing.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow. I can’t spend another night in the city, not after what she’s done—Rei Shimura, that tramp!”

  “Sir, the lady was here, but she’s gone out. I need you to do the same.”

  So the major had fibbed to save me. How good of him, I thought with a rush of gratitude as I listened to some more sputtering from Takeo. Then I couldn’t hear him anymore. The guard must have successfully thrown him out. Perfect. I’d wait just a few minutes, to allow Takeo to walk a sufficient distance from the museum, and then I’d emerge.

  I could hear the guard whistling a cheerful, old-fashioned song called “Anchors Aweigh.” If he was whistling, he clearly hadn’t understood the awful things Takeo had said. So Takeo wanted to leave—I didn’t think it would be possible for him to get on a flight that evening. He’d probably wind up at the Sofitel for one last night.

  I wondered if Takeo would call my parents in California to scream at them about me. Fortunately, they were still in the plane, so I could call them ahead of time to warn them. Takeo might call Hugh, too—he had his number, and probably had figured out that I really hadn’t been at a gym Saturday mo
rning.

  Mindful that this museum was probably the only place in Washington where I could get away with a free phone call, I went back into Allison’s office to call Hugh. He was still out, so I left a message saying that I was about to leave the museum, and that Takeo had been thrown out of the lobby. I’d explain in more detail later.

  I hung up and started down the staircase, seeing the receptionist was no longer at the front desk. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was stunned to hear a chirping sound. A bright red light flashed on a security keypad next to the main door. It looked like a higher-tech version of the security system in Jamie’s apartment, I realized as I drew closer to read the message on its face.

  ARMED—ALL SECURE

  The museum’s alarm was on.

  I had the awful thought that perhaps the museum guard, when he spoke to Takeo, really did believe that I’d left the museum. After all—I’d told him I’d only be five minutes. Now, if the alarm was on and the guard no longer around to help me, I was trapped.

  What a mess. How could I extricate myself? Jamie, I thought suddenly. She might know which codes I could press to get myself safely out of the museum—and then rearm the system against intruders.

  I found Jamie’s number on a list in the unlocked top drawer of the receptionist’s desk. I dialed it, and Jamie picked up on the first ring.

  “This is Rei Shimura. I’m in a really bad position.” I paused and tried to get ahold of myself. My voice had been wavering like a scared little girl’s. “I accidentally got left behind in the museum—and the guard locked the doors and armed the system!”

  “Oh, no! How did that happen?”

  “It’s a long story. But I’m standing here, staring at a keypad by the front door that says the system is armed and all secure. How can I get out? I promise that if you tell me the code I’ll never pass it on to anyone else!”

  “Rei, that code is so classified that only the museum director and our two full-time security guards know it. I always leave before they punch it in.”

  “What can I do?” I was feeling frantic.

  “I can’t call anyone from security to come back for you because it’s so irregular, they’d have to report to Allison. The fact that you’re in there, alone after closing, would only make things worse. She doesn’t trust you. She called me this morning after the police called her. She told them she believes that you reported that kimono stolen but actually gave it to your parents to take to California to sell—that’s why she’s checking eBay all the time, looking for the evidence.”

  “I think I know who’s got it, Jamie, and I’m sure he doesn’t know much about eBay—”

  “Rei, that’s really interesting, but I’ve got to go. Did you hear that click on my line? It means I’ve got to buzz somebody in.”

  “Is it Dick? Do you think he knows the code?” I asked desperately.

  “Of course he wouldn’t have it. He doesn’t even work for the museum. And—and I don’t know why you think he’d be coming to my apartment!”

  “I saw the photo in your bedroom,” I said.

  “Oh!” She was silent for a minute. “Okay, it’s true. I’ll tell you about it later. But don’t call me again—please. At least not until after ten.”

  “After ten? What do you suggest I do with my time until then?”

  “Lie down on that couch in our office. Read some journals, make some coffee, whatever. Just be sure to clean up after yourself. You can sneak out after the museum opens tomorrow. I’ll help you do it.”

  Jamie clicked off, and I held on to the phone, unwilling to let go of my lifeline to the outside world. Then I heard a second click.

  I hadn’t heard that sound since the days my mother used to check which teenage friends were calling me—the right ones or the wrong ones. I remembered the telltale click, and how furious it had made me. Hearing the click now made me terrified. Someone was in the museum with me. Someone listening in, who didn’t want me to know.

  I had thought that I’d overheard Takeo being thrown out of the building, but perhaps he’d come back when the guard was closing up the different galleries. But if Takeo was crazy with rage, why would he tiptoe around, listening in on the phone?

  Something else nagged at me. What was it that the museum guard had told me when I’d come into the museum?

  I pictured myself running up the steps into the museum and asking straightaway about Takeo—no, asking the guard more generally about a Japanese man. Yes, the guard had said. A Japanese man was looking around in the galleries.

  I got up quietly and walked over to the pair of windows set on either side of the massive door. Through the window on the left, I saw it: a blue Geo Prism parked halfway up the block. I hadn’t noticed it during my frantic run to the museum. In the slight bit of light that came in from the window, I pulled out the car-rental receipt and looked at it again. The writing was so faint, but it looked as if the date the car had been rented was October 8. October 8—a full two days before I’d arrived on the plane with Hana.

  Mr. Shima had been in the United States even before Hana had died.

  My fledgling suspicion—the one I’d wanted to share with Jamie—was now confirmed. And suddenly my worry about setting off an alarm seemed quite trivial. In fact, sounding an alarm might be a very good idea.

  I tugged at the knob to the front door, but it wouldn’t move. I stared at the two additional locks over the knob. This was what was keeping me from exiting; they were the kind that required keys, and none was in sight.

  I could search through the receptionist’s desk, but that was locked. And the sound of my trying the door must have carried, because I heard the quick click of footsteps above. Mr. Shima was on his way down.

  I remembered the museum’s layout, which was a blessing, since it was dark and there were few lights on. I walked quietly to the left, entering the hall that led to the north galleries containing all the textile collections, including the special kimono show. I recalled an exit in the back of that side of the building.

  I’d made it into the first kimono gallery just as the other person started coming down the stairs. It was no longer at a fast clip—it was a stealthy one. That bought me a few more seconds but also made it clear that he wanted to catch me unaware—to trap me.

  Beyond the room holding the Museum of Asian Arts’ kimono lay the second gallery of kimono—the treasures from the Morioka. The emergency exit sign was clear—I’d been right about a door in the back. But now I was worried that it, too, was locked. If I got there, and I couldn’t get out, I’d be trapped at the back of the museum.

  Something I’d read about differences between women and men came to me. The male reaction to stress was fight or flight. The woman’s reaction was to stay and try to achieve safety. I could do that, maybe. I could hide until I had a chance to get back to the phone and call 911. Then again, I might accidentally set off a motion detector near something valuable, and I wouldn’t even need to call 911.

  I took a second to survey the kimono gallery. The Museum of Asian Arts’ large, padded ivory silk kimono was hanging on a large T-stand, about five feet six inches high. I knew how much the kimono had been revered by Jamie—maybe it had an alarm on it, an alarm that would save me.

  I put my hands on it, and nothing happened. Damn, damn. But then again—this was the biggest kimono in the exhibition. That was an advantage in itself, and I decided to use it.

  Making one last frantic check over my shoulder, I slipped inside the kimono and held its front lapels closed, hiding myself quickly just as I heard the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor of the museum’s lobby. The sound disappeared after a few seconds, and I guessed the person had gone to search the museum’s south wing, which housed the galleries devoted to ceramics and works on paper.

  I debated whether there was enough time to run out and make a phone call, but decided no, just as the footsteps came back, growing louder as they crossed the lobby floor. Then the footfalls were soft and close.


  He was in the kimono gallery. I kept my eyes on the gap between the kimono’s hem and the carpet and saw a flash of black. Black shoes, slightly worn down at the heels. Mr. Shima’s shoes—I’d noticed them when I’d first met him at the Morioka.

  I swore silently at myself. Why hadn’t I asked the car-rental agency the date of Mr. Shima’s rental? If I’d figured things out back at the Sofitel, Detective Harris and his colleagues could already have tracked Mr. Shima down. I’d lost another chance when I’d been on the phone with Jamie and I hadn’t revealed Mr. Shima’s name. Jamie could have told the police what I’d said in the event I disappeared. Not that they’d ever find me healthy and whole. I had the feeling that what Mr. Shima had meted out to Hana would be my punishment as well.

  34

  Mr. Shima had moved past me and into the back gallery, the one with the kimono from the Morioka. I couldn’t hear him anymore, but I didn’t dare peek from the garment. He could be standing anywhere, looking anywhere. Waiting.

  Now I understood how clever the registrar had been. He’d known my itinerary and must have arrived in Washington two days earlier than I—enough time to be thoroughly rested for the job ahead. Because he had a rental car, he could get around easily. He must have looked for the kimono in my room when he knew I was out. He would have gotten in when Hana had opened my door. I bet he had forced her to leave the hotel with him in his car. He’d taken the kimono from her, and then killed her and dumped her body.

  There was no risk to this theft, I thought with bitterness. Mr. Shima would go on with his job as the Morioka registrar, since there was no shadow of scandal or blame on him. The kimono theft had happened overseas, so it would automatically be the fault of Americans. The amount that Mr. Shima would earn on an overseas kimono sale might be $50,000 to $100,000. A nice sum, but not large enough to draw special notice at his bank.

  Then again, $100,000 wasn’t so much money. A hundred thousand dollars—was that sum worth the risk of committing murder?