Free Kage by John Donohue

realized that he needed a little help with the project.
    You know, math and contracts and managing the help…”
    “Lucky he had a daughter with some real world skills.”
    Fiorella snorted. “You could say that. She’s a tough cookie.
    Anyways, I’d be surprised if some of their newfound affection
    wasn’t fueled by a profit motive.”
    “How nice,” I commented.
    “The world’s a complex place, Connor. You see it for what
    it is.”
    I’d heard that before from my brother. “So they had some
    mutual business interests. But why her insistence on pursuing
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    the murder theory? It’s not an insurance issue is it?”
    He shook his head. “Investigation would slow down a
    settlement.”
    “She the sole heir?”
    “Yep. All the ex-wives are dead. No other kids.”
    “So,” I pursued, “then I don’t get it. Is it just that she’s got
    this fixation and isn’t used to being told no?”
    “There may be some of that,” he admitted. “But she’s some-
    one who’s got her emotional side pretty well caged up. I’m
    like you—I can’t quite figure the angle.” We wandered along
    a twisting path, the blank walls of private patios and carefully
    manicured bushes offering a sense of privacy to the conversa-
    tion. “And I don’t know whether I really have to.”
    “She’s got the money to pay for any investigation she wants,
    I guess.”
    “And she usually gets what she wants,” Fiorella concluded.
    “It’s a bit cynical,” I commented. We emerged into a more
    open area, turned left and found ourselves at my suite.
    “I read about you, Connor. All the Asian martial arts stuff.”
    He paused. “What’s the definition of the word samurai ?”
    I was monetarily puzzled at the change in topic. “Well, they
    were the hereditary warrior class of feudal Japan…”
    He waived the explanation away. “What does the word
    mean?”
    “Oh,” I said, getting his point even as I spoke. “It means
    ‘those who serve.’”
    Fiorella stopped and smiled at me. “The lady’s father dies
    and she’s got money to spend to make sure nobody’s over-
    looked anything. Who’s it gonna hurt? The guy’s already dead.
    In the meantime, you get to spend some time out here in the
    sunshine.” He smiled pleasantly. “Get yourself settled in. I’ll
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    have the crime scene report sent over for background. I’ve also
    got some biographical stuff on Westmann. Have a nice dinner,
    maybe a swim. Tomorrow, I’ll take you out to his place. All the
    books and notes are in his library there.”
    It seemed fair enough. I shook his hand and headed toward
    the door. Then a thought occurred to me and I turned to ask
    a question.
    “Charlie?” He stood smiling, squinting in the sun.
    “Anybody who might have a grudge or motive, however
    farfetched? Anybody in the mix here look like they were hard
    enough to do Westmann in?”
    “Connor,” he laughed. “You mean outside of you, me, a
    coupla dozen members of the Tucson underworld, and your
    fabled Asian assassins?”
    “Yeah.”
    “The only other person I can think of is the nice lady who
    employs us.”
    Now there was a comforting thought.
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    5
    Jizo
    In Japan, small stone statues of Jizo stand silently in
    deserted places and graveyards. In Buddhism, Jizo is, among
    other things, the patron of travelers and pilgrims. I stood in
    the dust of the high desert, watching the eyes of the men sur-
    rounding me. Jizo often carries a six-foot staff. I wished I had
    one with me now.
    I’d picked up a hotel car that morning and followed Charlie
    Fiorella out into the hills toward Westmann’s desert retreat. We
    wound our way up along roads that were increasingly devoid
    of signs of human presence, with only power lines strung along
    the wayside to serve as a connector to town.
    Westmann had used some of his abundant royalty money to
    invest in a failed resort property that he had attempted to trans-
    form into a personal refuge and a mystic