He had no idea of how much time he had; he had to act based on the assumption that it was very little. He inched and scooted around, crawling toward the sake bottle. When he was within range, he drew his legs up and gave it good hard kick. The bottle went flying, hit the wall, and shattered into pieces, poisoned sake splashing against the wall and dripping down to the cement floor.
Taylor rolled over to the broken pieces and tried to kick a couple of the larger ones out of the pool of poisoned wine and line them up so that he could lean against the wall and saw the ropes without having to lie on the thick glass.
His bladder now felt in danger of bursting, and he knew he was going to have to give in to the indignity of peeing his pants. It added to his general fury — and discomfort — but once that was out of the way he was better able to concentrate on the task at hand.
Literally, at hand.
And now was the time to be grateful for his martial arts training. All that stretching and bending and limbering made it possible for him to move his arms out far enough from his back in order to saw awkwardly, frantically, against the dull chunk of broken earthenware.
Even so, that position quickly grew tiring and then painful and then agonizing. His shoulders and back ached with the strain, his muscles burned. Unable to see behind himself, he was unsure he was making progress.
Every minute or so he had to stop to rest his shaking arms. He used that time trying to free his legs, wiggling his ankles to loosen the ropes binding his lower limbs together. Alexandra and Yuki had not been taking any chances. The rope was looped around his ankles four times, but the excess of rope length actually meant there was play in the line, if he could just…
After a time he had to stop and rest. Had to. Getting slammed across the head, kicked in the ribs a few times, took it out of a guy. He rested, gulping, on the cool cement, willing the world to stop spinning, his guts to stop churning. Looking up at the faraway ceiling, he tried to calculate the time. He could tell by the reflected shadows that the sun was moving across the sky. How the hell long had it been now?
It felt like hours, but that was probably wrong.
Even so, Yuki might be on his way back to the house.
He wondered what Will was doing, tried to guess what steps Will would be taking to find him. He had no doubt that Will was hunting for him. No doubt that Will would find him — Taylor just wanted to make sure Will found him in time.
He heaved himself up and started sawing at the ropes around his wrists again.
* * * * *
Elegant brows raised, Alexandra Sugimori studied their badges for a very long moment.
She raised her milky blue gaze to Will’s. “Bureau of Diplomatic Security? It’s a long time since I’ve heard from the State Department.”
Mrs. Sugimori was a tall, slender woman in an elegant navy silk housecoat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon. She could not have looked more different from the description of the woman who had shot Denise Varga and helped to abduct Taylor, but as Will gazed into her pale gaze, he got that telltale prickle at the back of his scalp.
“Your name came up in connection with a case we’re investigating.”
“Oh yes?”
She sounded uninterested. Too uninterested. She smiled a chilly smile at Lt. Wray, who was — after some debate — letting Will take point on this, and said, “Well, we may as well be comfortable.”
She led them into a formal living room furnished with expensive Asian objets d’art. “Can I offer you something in the way of refreshment?”
“No, thank you,” Lt. Wray said. She looked around with the innocent interest of a tourist in a museum. She nodded to the credenza, where a silver-framed picture of a young Japanese man and a boy sat. “Is that your husband?”
“That’s Nori, yes. He died seven years ago. Seven years ago exactly, as of tomorrow.” She added into the awkward silence, “The boy is Yukishige, his younger brother.”
Will asked, “You’ve stayed in touch with your husband’s family?”
“I’ve stayed in touch with Yuki. He chose to attend school in the States.”
“Where does he go?” Wray asked.
The pale gaze rested on her. “Stanford University. The same as my husband.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother-in-law?” Wray asked at the exact moment Will opened his mouth.
He contained his impatience. He and Taylor had this kind of thing down to a science. There was no talking over each other, no waste of time or energy. Still, Wray was a smart cop, and he thought she was right there on the same wavelength.
Mrs. Sugimori didn’t hesitate. Her eyes slanted right as she said thoughtfully, “We met for dinner two weeks ago.”
The right-eye movement was a cue that she was visually remembering an actual event. Taylor put a lot of stock in these visual access cues; he was very good at reading them. Will was less sold on body language and eye movement, but he observed that their suspect was holding herself stiffly as she tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. All supposedly indicators for lying.
Lying by omission?
He deduced that Mrs. Sugimori had had dinner with her brother-in-law two weeks ago but had seen him more recently. “Where could we get in touch with Yukishige?”
Her eyes slanted left as she said, “Through the university, I suppose. I would call his dorm. Forgive me for asking, but why would you need to speak to him?”
Instead of answering, Will said, “We apologize for having to bring up what are undoubtedly painful memories, but we wanted to ask you one or two questions about your husband’s death.”
“Why?”
Seven
