Flashback

Nick looked back at him again. He suddenly understood. “You were on Keigo’s security detail,” he said softly.

“I was Keigo Nakamura’s security detail,” said Sato. “His life was in my hands the entire time he was here making his film about Americans and flashback addiction.”

Nick rubbed his chin and cheek, feeling the stubble there from his hasty shave that morning. “Jesus.”

The gelding hummed and rattled along for a few minutes. The regenerative braking had helped some, even though it didn’t really show the added charge on the crappy gauges. Nick thought they might make it back to the Cherry Creek Mall Condos garage after all.

“Your name wasn’t in the files,” Nick said at last. “I’m certain of that even without checking under flashback. That means that you didn’t come forward. Nor did Nakamura ever mention it during the investigation. You had vital evidence about the murder of Keigo Nakamura, but you and your boss kept it secret from the Denver PD and all of us.”

“I do not know who murdered Keigo Nakamura,” Sato said in low tones. “We were… briefly separated. When I found him, he was dead. I had nothing to offer the police. There was little reason to remain in the United States.”

Nick barked a cop’s laugh. “The man who found the body flees the country… nothing to offer the police. Cute. I guess the main question is, how are you still working for Hiroshi Nakamura after his son was killed while under your protection?”

It was a brutal thing to say and for a minute Nick’s shoulder blades itched as he imagined the massive security chief firing his pistol through the back of Nick’s driver’s seat. Instead, there was only a slight intake of breath and Sato said, “Yes, that is an important question.”

Nick had another revelation. He blinked as if flashbulbs had gone off in front of him. “You already did an investigation—you and your security guys—didn’t you, Sato? What—five and a half years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And even with all your technology and MUAVs and satellites and shit, you still couldn’t find out who killed your boss’s son.”

“No, we could not.”

“How long did your investigation run, Sato?”

“Eighteen months.”

“How many operatives on the job for those eighteen months?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Holy shit,” said Nick. “All that money and manpower. You couldn’t find Keigo’s murderer and you never told us—the Denver cops or the FBI—that you were carrying out your own investigation.”

“No,” confirmed Sato. His voice seemed to be coming from very far away.

“All that money and manpower and technology,” repeated Nick, “and you couldn’t find out who cut the boy’s throat. But your boss expects me to find the killer with nothing but shoe leather and some flashback.”

“Yes.”

“What happens to you if this last try fails?” asked Nick. Somehow he knew the answer as soon as he asked the question, even if he couldn’t remember the correct word at that moment.

“I commit seppuku,” Sato said softly, neither his voice nor expression changing. “Just as I offered—but was denied permission to do—the first two times I failed my master. This time, permission has been granted ahead of time.”

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Nick.

His phone in the diskey slot buzzed a terrorist alert at the same instant he heard a distant THUMP through his open driver’s-side window and he saw a plume of black smoke to the north and east of them. Black Homeland Security helicopters were clearly visible, circling like carrion crows two miles or so north.

Nick verbally queried his phone but the phone had no data yet.

He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Sato touch his left ear. The earphone had been so tiny that Nick had missed it earlier.

“What is it?” asked Nick. “What’s going on?”

“A bombing. A car bomb, evidently. At the interchange of I-Seventy, I-Twenty-five, and Highway Thirty-six that you call the Mousetrap. Segments of two of the overpassing highways have collapsed. Several dozen vehicles are in the debris of the collapsed roadways. There seems to be no radiological, chemical, or bacteriological contamination detected.”

“Christ. I almost went that way. We’d be there now. Do they know who did it?”

Sato shrugged.

Nick interpreted the shrug not as I don’t know nor as It’s not on the Net yet but as Does it matter?

And did it?

Hajji, AB, reconquista, flashgangs, anarchist syndicate, spanic militias, anglo militias, Black Muslims, Nuevo cartels, local cartels, Posse Comitatus, draft dodgers, aggrieved veterans, New Caliphate infiltrators… it didn’t matter, Nick realized. Knowing which terrorists had blown the Mousetrap to bits wouldn’t really help you avoid the next terrorist with a gun or IED or van full of fertilizer with a fuse.

But Nick was still irritated that Sato’s phone was picking up secure data faster than Nick’s not-quite-legal, grandfathered-in tap on the police tactical net.