"Eddie," I said.

Ito nodded. "Yeah. Eddie's a real up-and-comer. Local kid. Arrest record could fill a book. We got him made for half a dozen killings but we can't prove it. That's the bitch with the yakuza. You can't prove it. People down here, something happens, they don't see it and they don't talk about it. So you've got to put a guy like Ishida's business under surveillance for eight months and pray some hotshot private license doesn't come along and tip him that he's being watched and blow the whole thing. You don't want that to happen because Ishida is overseeing a major operation to import brown heroin from China and Thailand for a guy named Yuki Torobuni who runs the yakuza here in L.A. and if you get Ishida maybe you get Torobuni and shut the whole fucking thing down." Behind us, the two guys from the coroner's office wheeled out the gurney. There was a dark gray body bag sitting on it. Whatever was in the bag looked rumpled.

I said, "If they're moving dope in, the guys down in Watts and East L.A. aren't going to like it. Maybe what happened in back is an effort to eliminate competition."

Ito looked at Poitras. "You were right, Poitras. This boy is bright."

"He has his days."

"Unless," I said, "it has something to do with the Hagakure."

Terry Ito smiled at me, then walked over to the cruller box and selected one with green icing. He said, "You're smart, all right, but not smart enough. This isn't your world, white boy. People disappear. Entire families vanish in the most outrageous manner. And there's never a witness, never a clue." Ito gave me a little more of the smile. "Have you read a translation of the Hagakure?"

"No."

The smile went nasty. "There's a little thing in there called Bushido. Bushido says that the way of the warrior is death." Ito stopped smiling. "Whoever took your little book, pray it's not the yakuza." He stared at me for a little while longer, then he took his cruller and went into the back.

Poitras uncrossed the huge arms and shook his head. "Sometimes, Hound Dog, you are a real asshole."

"Et tu, Brutè?"

He walked away.

They kept me around until a dick from Hollenbeck got there and took my statement. It was 3:14 in the morning when they finished with me, and Poitras had long since gone. I went out into the cool night air onto streets that were empty of round-eyed faces. I thought about the yakuza and people disappearing and I tried to imagine things like nothing I'd ever seen. I tried, but all I kept seeing was what someone had done to Nobu Ishida.

The walk to the car was long and through dark streets, but only once did I look behind me.

The next morning Jillian Becker called me at eight-fifteen and asked me if I had yet recovered the Hagakure. I told her no, that in the fourteen hours that had passed since we last spoke, I had not recovered it, but should I stumble upon it as I walked out to retrieve my morning paper, I would call her at once. She then reminded me that today was the Pacific Men's Club Man of the Month banquet. The banquet was to begin at one, we were expected to arrive at the hotel by noon, and would I please dress appropriate to the occasion? I told her that my formal black suede holster was being cleaned, but that I would do the best I could. She asked me why I always had something flip to say. I said that I didn't know, but having been blessed with the gift, I felt obliged to use it.

At ten minutes after ten I pulled into the Warrens' drive and parked behind a dark gray presidential stretch limousine. The driver was sitting across the front seat, head down, reading the Times sports section. There was a chocolate-brown 1988 Rolls-Royce Corniche by the four-car garage with a white BMW 633i beside it. I made the BMW for Jillian Becker. Pike's red Jeep was at the edge of the drive out by the gate. It was as far from the other vehicles as possible. Even Pike's transportation is anti-social.

When I rang the bell, Jillian Becker answered, her face tight. She said, "They've just gotten another call. This time the caller said they'd hurt Mimi."

She led me back along the entry and into the big den. Sheila Warren was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, feet pulled up beneath her, an empty glass on the little table beside the chair. She was wrapped in a white terry bathrobe. Joe Pike was leaning against the far wall, thumbs hooked in his Levi's, and Mimi Warren was on the big couch across from the bar. Her eyes were large and glassy, and she looked excited. Bradley Warren came in from his library at the back of the den, immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit, and said, "Sheila. You're just sitting there. We don't want to be late."

I looked back at Jillian Becker. "Tell me about the call."

She said, "A half hour after you and I spoke the phone rang. Whoever it was started talking to Mimi, then must've realized she wasn't an adult and asked for her father."

"What'd they say, Bradley?"

Bradley looked annoyed. He adjusted each cuff and examined himself in the mirror behind the bar. Sheila Warren watched him, shook her head, and drained her glass. He said, "They told me that they knew we hadn't stopped searching for the Hagakure and that they were growing angry. They said they would be at the Man of the Month banquet and that if I knew what was good for me and my family, I'd call it off."

Sheila Warren said, "Bastards." Her s's were a little slurred.

Bradley said, "They told me they knew our every move and we were at their mercy and if I didn't do what they said they'd kill Mimi."

I looked at Mimi. She was in a shapeless brown silk dress and flat shoes and her hair was pulled back. There still wasn't any makeup. I said, "Pretty scary."

She nodded.

I looked back at Bradley Warren. He was picking at something on his right lapel. "Is that the way they said it, using those words?"

"As near as I can remember. Why?" Not used to being questioned by an employee.

"Because it is so theatrical. 'If you know what's good for you.' 'Know your every move.' 'At their mercy.' Most of the crooks I know have better imaginations. Also, it's pretty clear now that we aren't just talking about robbery. The calls you're getting seem like harassment calls. Someone wants to hurt your business and embarrass you, and that's probably why the Hagakure was stolen."

I went over to the big couch and sat down next to Mimi. She was watching everything the way a goldfish watches the world from its bowl, all big eyes and vulnerability and with an assumption of invisibility. Maybe that was easy to assume when Bradley and Sheila were your parents. I said, "What'd they say to you, babe?"

Mimi giggled.

Sheila said, "For Christ's sake, Mimi."

Mimi blinked. Serious. "He told me it wasn't ours. He told me it is the last legacy of Japan's lost heart and that it belongs to the spirit of Japan."

Sheila Warren said, "Spirit my ass." She got up from the chair and brought her glass over to the bar. She wasn't wearing anything under the robe. "Well, I guess it's time to get ready for the Man of the Month's divine moment." She said it loudly, then turned away from the bar and leered at Joe Pike. "Want to stand guard while I'm in the bath, tough guy?"

Jillian Becker coughed. Pike stood solemn and catlike, mirrored lenses filled with the empty life of a television after a station sign-off. Bradley Warren found a hair out of place and leaned toward the mirror to adjust it. Mimi's face grew dark and blotched. At the bar, Sheila shook her head at no one in particular, mumbled something about there being no takers, then left.

Bradley Warren stepped away from the mirror, temporarily satisfied with his appearance, and looked at his daughter. "Finish dressing, Mimi. We're going to leave soon."