“Who’s Dale Earnhardt?”
“Race-car driver. Died in a car crash,” she said. She looked up at the plain, blocklike building. There was a row of narrow balconies along one side, and futons were hanging over many of them.
“I’m going to try to find out where the hell Taka is. Things are in too big a mess right now—I don’t know who can be trusted. As soon as I do, I’ll dump you.”
“Lovely,” she muttered. “And I’ll appreciate being dumped. Are we going to stand here trading insults?”
“No. You go first. Just in case someone’s figured out about this place. Who the hell knows—maybe there are more Russians on the way.”
“You sure you want me to be on the front line of fire? I thought you were supposed to protect me?”
“I’m beginning to think it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”
She pushed open the door, faced with a long flight of narrow stairs running along the outside of the building. “Three flights up,” Reno said. “No elevator.”
She wisely kept her thoughts to herself, trudging up the stairs. He was right behind her, and if he’d been interested, he could be watching her ass, but he wasn’t interested.
She was only slightly out of breath when they reached the third floor. At this point he pushed past her, his body brushing hers, and she felt her pulse quicken, the blood rushing to places it had no business rushing. At least she could manage her poker face.
He unlocked the anonymou
s white door at the end of the corridor, kicking off his cowboy boots with more ease than she would have thought, and stepped inside, holding the door open for her.
Her sneakers were a little trickier, but she got them off and put them on the small platform before stepping inside. The apartment smelled musty, closed up, as if no one had been there for months, and Reno quickly strode across the small space, pushing open the door to the narrow balcony, letting in the cold winter air while Jilly looked around her.
Somewhere she’d gotten the impression that Tokyo apartments were small and crammed with possessions. This particular one was certainly small, but it had a Zen-like simplicity. There was a futon couch on one wall, a computer on the other. Bookshelves neatly organized, every space used, what looked like diplomas framed and hung on the walls. One was in French, from the Sorbonne, given to Hiromasa Shinoda, summa cum laude, from the school of engineering.
“Your friend is an engineer?” she said. “I thought you’d only know biker gangs and gangsters.”
“And secret agents,” he added. “Masa was a childhood friend and a wonk. We live very different lives, but we still share certain things.”
“Where is he? Isn’t he going to mind that we’re taking over his apartment?”
“He’s out of the country. Besides, I had a key, didn’t I? He knows I come here.”
“But why? Don’t you have your own apartment?”
“I do. Obviously the people who are working against my grandfather would know exactly where it is. This is where I go when I want to disappear.” He headed toward the small kitchen alcove, looking through the packaged foods. “We’ve got dried octopus here if you’re hungry.”
“Tentacles,” Jilly said glumly. “I don’t eat tentacles.” She wasn’t going into the tiny kitchen with him—it would put her too close and she was feeling too skittish. “I’m sure I can find something.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“You said you were going out to talk to your grandfather again. If you survive, you could bring some food back with you.”
“Nice,” he said. “If they kill me you can make do with octopus. In the meantime the bathroom’s behind you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I suppose he has one of those space-age toilets that do everything but cook dinner.”
“It doesn’t work from across the room, Ji-chan. You have to go in and sit.”
She glared at him. “And when I come out, you’ll be gone. What if you don’t come back?”
“I’ll come back.”
“What if they kill you?”
“I’m hard to kill. Go and use the toilet, Ji-chan. You’re making me uncomfortable standing there with your knees together.”