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She’s extremely religious, a Christian, but we’ve only talked about his father once—sounds like a drinking problem—he changes the subject whenever I ask.” They crossed another street and continued strolling east. “He’s mentioned his grandfather a few times. They were close before he died . . . I get the feeling that’s why Max likes spending time with Mr. Murayama.”
    “You know that guys from bad families usually have hidden issues.” Miki clicked her tongue for dramatic effect. “Lots of emotional baggage.”
    “Seriously? Did you just quote that from a magazine?”
    “It’s true! You need to be careful that he doesn’t become another one of your ‘I can fix him’ projects. You remember how the last three guys turned out.”
    “This is different. He’s different.”
    “If you say so.” They both took a little step to the right as Miki nudged her friend gently with her hip and changed the subject. So what’s it like to have sex with a Gaijin ? You know what they say about a guy with a big nose!” Miki mockingly licked her lips.
    The two stopped next to an ornate dry fountain, and Tomoko turned to confront her friend. “I can’t believe you!” Attempting to appear angry, she couldn’t help but grin a little at the same time.
    “Oh, don’t be a prude. Here’s the deal. You tell me about the sex, and I’ll give you the information you asked me to find.”
    “No.”
    Miki put a finger to her bottom lip and rolled her eyes upward. “Okay, but some of the material is quite . . . mmmm . . . interesting.”
    Tomoko folded her arms across her chest. “This is not fair.”
    “No, turning twenty-six and being called ‘Christmas cake’ to your face because nobody wants you after the twenty-fifth—now that’s not fair.” Miki patted her purse with her free hand. “This is just called creative negotiating.”
    “Fine.” Tomoko held out a half-thawed hand, and they shook on it. “But can’t we go inside somewhere?”
    “Sure.” Miki pointed back the way they had come. “There’s a breakfast place—Rope 101—just on the other side of the fountain. We can go . . .”
    Tomoko was already on the run, moving before Miki could finish speaking, and as she charged around the corner and across the street, she could hear her friend laughing while jogging to catch up.
     
    G ripping the cup of hot tea with both hands, Tomoko felt the tingle of blood finally reaching her fingertips. She blew on the steaming liquid. “So what did you find?”
    “Well, there’s plenty of information about Mr. Murayama. He was a public servant in the diplomatic corps, so there’s a bunch of boring stuff. Postings to embassies and things like that. I’ll give you the folder later.”
    “Thanks.” Tomoko sipped her tea while Miki picked at a croissant.
    “However . . . there were a couple of interesting things that stuck out.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, there was information about his daughter, Yoko Murayama, but only back to 1985.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I found some post-1985 newspaper articles about a Tokyo art showing, but nothing before 1985. It’s like she just didn’t exist before then.”
    Tomoko wrinkled her forehead and frowned. “But how is that possible?”
    “I don’t know.” Miki adjusted one of her feather earrings. “I’ll keep looking, but I’m telling you, if there was something to find, I would have found it by now. Plus, everything is digitized these days. There should be records,” she said, shrugging, “but there simply aren’t.”
    “Was there anything else?”
    Miki appeared slightly uneasy as she looked around the empty, rundown café. The owner, perched next to a ceramic good-luck kitty, was hidden behind a newspaper. “There was one other thing.” She motioned for them to move closer together and her voice became a whisper. “According to diplomatic records, Mr. Murayama never had any children.”

DUTY-BOUND, HIRO sat on the hard-padded