In this sequel to The Closed Circle, Tom & Mark go to Japan to investigate the mysterious death of Mark’s uncle.

PROLOGUE

January, 1996

The politician’s wife woke to a fevered feeling of someone in the room and reached over to find cold sheets on his side. She forced her stuffy head high enough to scan the shadows. No one there. The green digits on the nightstand clock read 2:23.

Where was he?

The medicine made her foggy. She’d taken the strongest dose and gone to bed early, fighting the flu. Now, struggling to sit up, she winced at the chill and tried to remember her husband’s schedule. Something about a late meeting. But not this late, not since his heart trouble. She willed her aching body off the bed, drew on robe and slippers, and opened the bedroom door to peer down the hallway. A faint light showed under the door of his home office.

She shuffled down the hall. Knocked. Called his name. No answer.

She slid the door aside.

The office was an extension of the hallway, no more than a long closet, with cluttered shelves on the left and a thousand neckties streaming from pegs on the right. At the far end, the closet widened into a windowless alcove with a desk facing the wall. She was relieved to see him, sitting with his back to her, head tilted in sleep. The dim wattage of the desk lamp reflected a shiny film on his hair. Still wet, she thought, from walking home in the rain after drinking too much with his colleagues. The old fool! Dozing off in this frigid room! She fully intended to scold him in the morning. But for now, she would guide him gently to bed.

Stepping forward, she stumbled over campaign knick-knacks strewn across the darkened wood floor. What happened here? she wondered. She reached out, touched his shoulder. There was no warmth under the white shirt. Concern turned to confusion when she realized the shine on his hair wasn’t water. It was plastic. A bag. Sealed around his neck with one of his ties.

Alarm reached her throat in a desperate wheeze as she wrenched the armrest to swivel his chair. Inside the clear wrapping, his face was a rigid mask.

“Midori!” she screamed, calling for her daughter.

She tore at the plastic, crying now, ripping it open. “Midori!” Slapping his face, pounding his body. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

Her daughter appeared at the door, sleepy. “What?”

“Call emergency!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Something’s wrong with your father!”

[updated 5-16-24]