An Excerpt from Tokyo Kill, a Thriller by Barry Lancet ~ Omnimystery News

Omnimystery News: An Excerpt courtesy of Barry Lancet
Tokyo Kill by Barry Lancet

We are delighted to welcome author Barry Lancet to Omnimystery News today.

Barry was recently honored by the editorial staff of Deadly Pleasures with the 2014 Barry Award for Best First Novel for his debut thriller Japantown, and now the second in series to feature antiques dealer-turned-P.I. Jim Brodie Tokyo Kill (Simon & Schuster; September 2014 hardcover, audio and ebook formats) has recently been published. We are pleased to introduce you to it with an excerpt, the first two chapters. And you can enter to win a copy of the book by visiting this page. Entry period ends Monday, December 8th, 2014 at 11:59 AM; prize provided courtesy of Simon & Schuster.

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CHAPTER 1
Tokyo, 2:36 P.M.

EIGHT PEOPLE HAD ALREADY DIED BY the time Akira Miura showed up at our door fearing for his life.
When the commotion broke out I'd been on a long-distance call to London trying to track down an original ink painting by Sengai, the renowned Japanese painter-monk of Circle, Triangle, and Square fame. The rumor had come out of the United Kingdom, so I was plying channels to nail down the potential gem for a client in San Francisco who would kill to get it, and kill me if I didn't.
People killed for a lot less. I learned this anew with each day spent at Brodie Security, the detective agency and personal protection firm established by my father in the Japanese capital more than forty years ago.
Had I been sitting in my antiques shop in San Francisco instead of behind my father's battered pine desk in Tokyo, I wouldn't have given the shouting match in the front office a second thought, but in Japan a loud altercation constituted a serious breach of decorum.
If not more.
Mari Kawasaki tapped on my door. "Brodie-san, I think you should
get out here."
All of twenty-three but looking more like sixteen, Mari was the office tech whiz. When I came to town, she lent me a hand. We were a small operation and people wore multiple hats.
"Could I call you back later today?" I asked my London connection. "Something urgent has come up."
He said certainly and I jotted down his schedule, bid a polite goodbye, and stepped out onto the main floor.
Mari pointed across the room to where three hardened Brodie Security ops had herded a fourth man against a wall. The man cast indignant glares at them, and when my people didn't wither and fall back, he pelted the trio with the exasperated sighs middle-management salarymen usually fling at underlings.
That didn't work either.
Mari rolled her eyes. "He charged in here demanding to speak with you and refused to explain himself or wait at reception."
When the unexpected reared up at Brodie Security, containment came before all else. Our work brought us into contact with every manner of fringe character. Old-timers still talk about the right-wing lunatic who sprang from the elevator with short sword drawn and put two of the staff in the hospital.
"Calm down," one of the three men cooed. "If you would just return to the reception area …"
The salaryman was irate. "But it's urgent. My father is a sick man. Can't you see that?" He saw me and yelled across the expanse in Japanese, "Are you Jim Brodie?"
Since I was the only Caucasian in a sea of Asian faces, it wasn't a brilliant deduction. Our unannounced guest was handsome in the unassuming way Japanese men can be. He was in his fifties and sheathed in the requisite business suit — dark blue in his case — with a white dress shirt and a perfectly knotted red silk tie. The tie had set him back some. What looked like platinum cuff links sparkled at his wrists. His attire was flawless, and under normal circumstances he'd be considered nonthreatening. But his expression was frayed, as if he were unraveling from the inside.
"That's me," I said in his native language.
He drew himself up. His eyes grew watery. "Kindly allow my father to intrude. He is not well."
All eyes shifted toward the paternal figure waiting patiently at Reception. He had a full crown of silver-gray hair and the same unassuming good looks: sculpted cheekbones, a firm chin, and the deep brown eyes women habitually swoon over.
He waved a wooden walking staff in salute, then began a tremulous foray around the unmanned half-counter that passed for Reception in our no-frills office. With singular determination he shuffled forward. His hands trembled. The cane shook. He wheezed with each step. And yet, there was something noble in the effort.
He had dressed for the trip into town. A brown hand-tailored suit that had gone out of style maybe three decades ago. As he drew closer the smell of mothballs suggested his attire had been plucked from a dusty clothes rack expressly for this visit.
Three feet away, he stopped. He squinted up at me with unflinching brown eyes. "Are you the gaijin the papers said caught the Japantown killers in San Francisco?"
Gaijin means "foreigner," literally "outside person."
"Guilty as charged."
"And tackled the Japanese mafia before that?"
"Guilty again."
For better or worse, the overseas murders and my run-in with the Tokyo thugs had made headlines in Japan.
"Then you're my man. Got notches on your belt."
I smiled and his son, who had sidled up on the other side, whispered in my ear. "That's his meds talking. Makes him emotional. Sometimes delusional. I only mentioned coming here to calm him. I never thought he'd actually do it."
His father frowned. He hadn't heard what was said, but he was astute enough to guess the content. "My son thinks I've toppled off the train because I've put on a few years. Well, I'm ninety-three, and until last December I could walk three miles a day without a damn stick."
"A few years? You're ninety-six, Dad. You shouldn't be charging around town like this."
The old man waved the cane under his son's nose. "You call this charging? There are tombstones in Aoyama Cemetery that move faster than I do, but upstairs my train's still running on straight tracks. Besides, when a man my age no longer wants to shave off a couple years to impress the ladies, then he's done for."
I was going to like this guy.
I said, "Why don't we step into my office? It's quiet there. Mari, would you show these gentlemen the way? I'll be there in a minute."
"Follow me, please," she said.
Once Mari had shut them in, I turned to a pale-faced detective nearest the entrance. "Anything else besides their showing up without an appointment?"
"Only the last name. Miura."
"Okay, thanks. Do you know where Noda is?"
Kunio Noda was our head detective and the main reason I came away from the Japantown case in one piece.
"He's out on the kidnapping case in Asakusa but supposed to be back shortly."
"Send him in as soon as he arrives, okay?"
"Will do."
I headed back to my office, where I exchanged cards and the customary bows with the new arrivals. The father's name was Akira Miura and he'd once been senior vice president of a major Japanese trading company.
The son with the pricey tie was a fuku bucho, or assistant section chief, at Kobo Electronics. His company was equally impressive but his position was not, especially for a Japanese salaryman in his fifties. You didn't start making good money until you hit bucho, the next step up for Yoji Miura, so either he was spending beyond his means or there was money trickling in from another source.
Taking my seat I said, "So, gentlemen, how can I help?"
Before they could respond, Mari knocked and entered. On a tray she carried green tea in decorated porcelain cups with lids. Guest chinaware. In Japan, courtesy rules.
"I was in the war, Mr. Brodie," Akira Miura said after Mari departed.
When a Japanese mentions the war, he or she means World War II. And only the youngest soldiers — now the oldest surviving veterans — were around today. Japan fought no further battles after the big Double Two.
"I see," I said.
Miura Senior's eyes zeroed in on me. "How much do you know about Japanese history, Mr. Brodie?"
"Quite a bit, actually."
My endeavors in the field of Japanese art made knowledge of the country's history, culture, and traditions mandatory.
"Did you know that in the old Japanese army you followed orders without question, or your commanding officer put a bullet in your head?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then you probably also know that my country conquered part of Manchuria and set up a puppet state."
I did, and he seemed pleased.
Japan had entered China aggressively in the early 1900s, then cemented its grasp by laying railroads, bringing in settlers, and setting up branches of its large conglomerates. In 1932 it famously resurrected the rule of China's twelfth and final Qing Dynasty ruler, Pu Yi, canonized in popular culture as the Last Emperor.
Miura said, "I was sent to the Manchurian front in 1940 as an officer. My men and I fought many battles. Then new orders shifted us to a frontier outpost called Anli-dong. Our assignment was to stabilize the region, and I became the de facto mayor of Anli and the surrounding area.
"We were outnumbered two hundred to one, but by that time the Japanese military had a reputation so fierce we retained control without incident. Although I preached nonviolence and it held, my predecessor had been ruthless. Any Chinese male offender faced a firing squad or worse, and his women became the spoils of war. Which is why I need you."
"For something that happened more than seventy years ago?"
"You've heard about the recent home invasions in Tokyo?"
"Sure. Two families slaughtered within six days of each other. Eight people were killed."
"You saw the police suspect Triads?"
"Of course."
"They're right."
Inwardly I cringed at the mention of the blade-wielding Chinese gangs. I'd run into them in San Francisco once when I lived out in the Mission. It hadn't ended well.
"How can you be so sure?"
Miura's handsome brown eyes flooded with fear. "In Anli-dong they told me they would come after us. Now they have."

CHAPTER 2

He had my attention. "How can you be so sure the Triads are targeting you after all this time?"
"Because I know what was not in the papers."
"Which is?"
"Two of my men are dead all of a sudden."
My men. "And you told this to the police?"
"Uma no mimi ni nembutsu," he said with undisguised disdain.
Might as well read sutras to horses. Meaning the Japanese police were too dense to understand.
"But you did tell them?"
He shrugged. "They insisted the killings couldn't possibly be motivated by 'ancient history.'"
During the war years, the Japanese police became an organ of terror at home almost as much as the armed forces did abroad. After the surrender, the police were emasculated. A heavy-handed bureaucracy filled the vacuum, and to this day a cautious mind-set colors their every action, which leaves a lot of territory for the likes of Brodie Security.
"And you think otherwise because?"
"My gut."
His son smiled apologetically.
I ignored Miura the Younger but could no longer dismiss his earlier comments about his father's instability. "And what is your gut telling you?"
"That two of my men killed so close together is no coincidence."
I said, "Even assuming that what you say is true, how would Brodie Security be able to help?"
"Guard my house."
His son wanted me to humor him, so I said, "That we can do. But security takes men, in teams, and doesn't come cheap. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
I looked at his son, who nodded reluctantly.
"Okay," I said, "we'll put some men on you for a few days."
"I also want you to find out who butchered my friends."
"The murders landed on the front page. You can bet the police have made them a top priority."
He shook his head. "The police are idiots. I gave them a connection and they didn't even bother to check it. Both men served together because they grew up in the same neighborhood. The same place they were killed. It is not a gang of thieves targeting the neighborhood, as the police think, but Anli-dong Triads targeting my men."
There was a knock, then Noda barreled in without waiting for a reply. The chief detective was short and stout and built like a bulldog — broad shoulders, a thick chest, and a flat humorless face. His most distinctive feature was a slash across his eyebrow where a yakuza bladehad left its mark. Noda's return swipe left a deeper mark.
I made introductions and brought Noda up-to-date. He grunted when I mentioned the Triads.
"What? You think Triads are a possibility?" I said, pushing the habitually laconic detective for a more revealing response.
Chinese gangs had been in Japan for decades. They could trace their roots back to the end of the Ming Dynasty in China, where they started as a political group aiding the government against the invading Manchus, and were hailed as heroes. Over time the glory faded. But the beast needed feeding. Triad leaders looked elsewhere to buttress their dwindling support and found the easy money — protection, extortion, loan sharking, prostitution, and drugs. First at home and, inevitably, overseas. In Tokyo, gangs inhabited the darker corners of Shinjuku, Ueno, and other enclaves. Yokohama Chinatown, thirty minutes by train, was a major operational base.
Noda shrugged. "Could be."
"And?"
"Tricky."
Frustratingly curt as usual.
Miura looked from Noda to me. "So you'll take the case?"
"Noda?"
He shrugged. "It's what we do."
Meaning Brodie Security had handled Triad cases before. That was the question I'd really been asking. I was still new to my father's outfit, having inherited half of the firm just eleven months ago. But showing my ignorance in front of a client was not an option.
"Okay," I said. "We can look into it. My father's people are very good at what they do."
"They'll need to be," Miura said, his eyes lingering on Noda with vague apprehension.
"How many men from your old squad are left?"
"Twenty-eight of us survived the war but most died long ago. Only seven showed up at our last get-together. Then Mitsumoto died of a brain aneurysm, and Yanaguchi caught the bird flu on a visit back to Anli last year. Before the home invasions there were five of us."
So only three remained.
"Where are the other two?"
"One left for a friend's vacation home in Kyushu. He won't tell me where. The other went to stay with his son in the countryside."
Noda and I exchanged a look. That the remaining members of Miura's troop had fled Tokyo — and one to the farthest western island of mainland Japan — bolstered the old soldier's claim.
I had a last question:
"If you ruled Anli-dong with an even hand, then why would someone want you and your men dead after all this time?"
He sighed. "It's the dirt. Whenever higher-ups came through they expected to be entertained. They invariably ordered us to 'weed out traitors' and 'set up inspections.' The first consisted of lining up any villagers in jail for target practice. The second involved examining local beauties in private. These were orders we couldn't refuse or they'd — "
"— put a bullet in your head."
Miura's shoulders sagged under an old guilt. "Without a second thought."
"I see."
"After the first VIP visit, the Triads threatened me. I told them I could only control those under my command, not above. They were unconvinced. 'If you wear the master's uniform, you can bleed for him too.' They didn't act then because they knew more villagers would suffer if any soldiers were attacked. But they told me they would come one day.
"Years later, when China finally allowed Japanese tourists into the country, a handful of us went back. We looked up the families we knew. We were shocked to see how poor they were, and still are today. We've returned many times, bringing them money and modern appliances like Japanese rice cookers. We ate together and drank together. We did what we could to make amends. But we couldn't help everyone. I think our trips triggered an old resentment. We gave out our addresses freely.
That may have been a mistake."
Noda grunted. "Revenge slayings."
Miura concurred with a nod. "My future killer is in Tokyo, Brodiesan. I can feel it."

A team of six men escorted Akira Miura home.
Once they arrived, two would canvass the neighborhood, then the local shops. Two others would secure the residence. Windows, doors, and other exterior access points would be sealed, then house, garage, and yard scanned for listening, tracking, and incendiary devices. The last pair would work with Miura on safety protocol, including an emergency evacuation plan, after which they would spend the next twelve hours with their charge until two rested operatives replaced them.
However, before the team left Brodie Security, they gathered in the conference room with the Miuras to discuss procedure. Sometime during the proceedings, the son slipped away and cornered Noda and me in my office.
"Thank you for indulging the old man," he said. "The murders haverattled him, but to be frank, we are seeing signs of senility lately, and mild paranoia."
"Has he gone overboard before?" I asked.
"No, but the doctors told us to expect a slow degeneration."
Noda and I traded a glance.
"Noted," I said. "But we'll want to treat the threat seriously until we can prove otherwise."
Yoji Miura remained skeptical. "Your presence will comfort my father, so what could it hurt? But between us, you'll be babysitting."
Noda scowled. "Two men murdered is beyond babysitting."
The head detective's voice was low and menacing. Yoji looked startled until he noticed that Noda's rage was not directed at him but at what might or might not be out there, lying in wait. Even so, when the younger Miura left my office, he gave Noda a wide berth. The detective himself followed a minute later, mumbling about clueless offspring.
Alone, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. Deep down, something primal stirred, disturbed by the undertow of Miura Senior's fears. I liked the old veteran a lot. Pulling out his musty suit for the visit. Habitually shaving three years off his age so he could still attract "the ladies."
What I didn't like was his fellow veterans abandoning Tokyo for safer grounds. Nor the triple threat — home invasions, Triads, and old war atrocities. I'd been through a lot in my life. Seen a lot. Had learned the hard way to give any early sign of danger its due.
This could be the world's wildest goose chase, or the beginning of something very nasty.

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Photo provided courtesy of
Barry Lancet

Barry Lancet has lived in Japan for more than twenty-five years. His inside access to the inner circles in traditional and business circles most outsiders are never granted informs his writing. The first book in his Jim Brodie series, Japantown is being developed for a television series by J. J. Abrams' Bad Robot Productions, in association with Warner Bros.

For more information about the author, please visit his website at BarryLancet.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.

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Tokyo Kill
Barry Lancet
A Jim Brodie Thriller

When an elderly World War II veteran shows up unannounced at Brodie Security begging for protection, the staff thinks he's just a paranoid old man. He offers up a story connected to the war and to Chinese Triads operating in present-day Tokyo, insisting that he and his few surviving army buddies are in danger.

Fresh off his involvement in solving San Francisco's Japantown murders, antiques dealer Jim Brodie had returned to Tokyo for some R&R, and to hunt down a rare ink painting by the legendary Japanese Zen master Sengai for one of his clients — not to take on another case with his late father's P.I. firm. But out of respect for the old soldier, Brodie agrees to provide a security detail, thinking it'll be an easy job and end when the man comes to his senses.

Instead, an unexpected, brutal murder rocks Brodie and his crew, sending them deep into the realm of the Triads, Chinese spies, kendo warriors, and an elusive group of killers whose treachery spans centuries — and who will stop at nothing to complete their mission.