Epilog

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        Baxter did prove useful and got what he wanted, after a fashion.  The Inquirer broke the story a day after the events in the warehouse, tipped off by me indirectly through some discreet sources I’d used in the past, cut-outs I guess you’d call them; small time operators, not wholly bad but not angels either.  Baxter bit on the hook and unwittingly set things in motion.  The sword murders appeared to be solved and created a brief, if intense international shit-storm in the process. 

         The Japanese government moved quickly to petition for the bodies of the dead. The Mounties were assigned by to the matter and pushed the TPS out of the way citing ‘national security’ given that Nakajima had possessed diplomatic status of a foggy sort.  There was some grumbling about jurisdiction from the Chief but not anywhere near as much as you’d expect; he did enough for form’s sake.  At the same time, it looked like the feds weren’t interested in too thorough an investigation as they quickly surrendered the four dead men to the Japanese government.  After all, it appeared to be foreign mobsters killing mobsters with one of them, the sword-killer, responsible for killing a local contact (Parish) and his girlfriend in a deal gone bad.  Nakajima’s shady past came to light in subsequent editions of The Inquirer on bits of information I made sure Baxter got as well as using some of the material that he’d collected.  He was interviewed several times on the TV and radio news about his scoop and disclosed that he had a book in the works on the whole affair.  He also claimed that the suicide of financial wunderkind Martin Eric Berg (yes, this became official) was tied to the murders, but Baxter never called me about his planned opus.  The media played up stories about the yakuza possibly being a new force in the organized crime make-up of the city for weeks afterwards and the idea that there were unidentified parties involved in the quadruple homicide still at large, though possibly no longer in the country.

         My medical leave was extended and my request and Pia took leave as well, ostensibly to look after me though in truth we looked after each other and stole a couple of weeks in Cuba.  The clouds over me blew over and I returned to work.  I should’ve been satisfied but I soon started thinking about getting out.  Pia resigned from the Coroner’s office to take a teaching job at McMaster University in Hamilton, just down the highway, though the commute would be hell even if the university was theoretically just over fifty kilometres away. We decided to look for a new place together and talked about what happened a lot at first but by the time I returned to work and Pia made her career switch, we’d filed it away.  Things moved on and the city had other stories, though we both had nightmares.

        Chang recovered from his wounds and returned to homicide, though we both got partnered with newbies.  I guess the only casualty at TPS from the business we’d been through was Chuckles McLaren.  He’d finally retired, or rather been retired, in a flashy ceremony full of testimonials to his great public service from the Chief and the Mayor.  Molloy passed on to me that McLaren had to wear the horns for not giving me all the resources I’d wanted to take down Koga in the first place, which might have, it was believed, prevented the subsequent high-profile killings.  Perhaps there is a God after all.

         One of the last things Ozawa said to me as we got out of his car near the Museum that January night was that it would be unwise for us to have any more contact. No kidding. I’d glanced at Mika sitting in the back of the Lexus as the snow came down.  She resolutely ignored me.  Bitch.

         I took Ozawa’s advice for six months.  I couldn’t help myself.  As much as I wanted my life to start with Pia I also needed to see Mika just one final time.  I had a lot of questions.  By talking with her I thought I could finally expunge my fascination with her.  And I needed to thank for saving my life and Pia’s.  I was pretty sure that why I wanted to see her.  

        I showed up at Mika’s building on one of those perfect days that Toronto experiences in June; a clear blue sky, a perfect temperature with no hint of the humidity that will soon roll over the city, magnified by pollution.  I flashed my badge to the concierge on duty and he confirmed what I had half-expected.

 “I am sorry, sir, she moved some months ago. For her work, a transfer.  A sudden thing.  She rented the unit so it was no big deal to pick up and go.”

        “Do you know where she moved to?”

        “Japan, I think. She had her mail forwarded for three months,” the squat man told me.  “She looked kind of Japanese.  A beautiful lady.  I think I may still have the exact address if you’d like it, Detective.  Was it important?”

         “No, that’s okay,” I told him. I imagined that she was in Osaka with Ozawa, who no doubt sold off his tuna stock some time ago and was on to something else.

         “Are you sure?”  The concierge looked at me warily.  “Is she...in trouble?”

         “No, not at all,” I said easily to the man’s clear relief.  “I just need to tell her something.  It’s all right.  It wasn’t important.”

         Then I went back to work.

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