InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Love's Smirking Revenge ❯ The Best Laid Plans ( Chapter 3 )

Love's Smirking Revenge

- Chapter Three -

The Best Laid Plans

In an abandoned store house located just east of the Tsukiji Fish Market, a dozen members of Inagawa-kai waited to hear the details of their next assignment. The place reeked of fish. It was dank, cold and foreboding - the perfect location to arrange such a thing. Not even the homeless bothered to take refuge here.

Algae coated the water logged wooden beams overhead and every now and then a fat drop of stagnant water would seep down, plopping loudly against the floor or atop an unsuspecting head. The atmosphere in the hollowed out room felt charged with their anticipation and more than a few of the dark suits smoked idly to keep their hands busy and their thoughts clear.

One of the twelve, a slight man with sharp features and a menacing scar running the length of his jaw, elbowed his burly, dour-faced partner.

“Hey, Yaguro! You hear the news? About `Lucky'?”

The answering grunt he received was as much of a response as he was going to get.

The news of the hit on “Lucky” Akita had made the rounds through the usual channels. Taking him out had been good business, for all of them. Rats were nothing but a waste of resources, especially when they inconveniently landed some of the best men in the business in jail.

There'd been nothing personal about his death, though it'd been sweet payback all the same for those who'd felt the brunt of his treachery. This new hit, however, was anything but business. This was about as personal as it got.

Like the other men standing around him, however, all Kesuke Yaguro cared about was getting paid. Turning away from the slight form of his fidgety partner, he stubbed out what was left of his cigarette and watched the door. Here he was, waiting for instructions on how to ruin another innocent life and yet, he couldn't find it within himself to balk at the thought.

`It's just business', he'd remind himself silently. For him, it had to be.

Though no one had uttered a word, a quiet hush suddenly fell over the group. They watched in unison as the Boss, making an unusual personal appearance, stepped gracefully into the storehouse and made his way to the small table and chair that'd been set up for him. He wasted no time taking a seat and turning on the single desk lamp that adorned the table.

“You know why I've called you here.”

His voice was smooth, eloquent and refined. He spoke with a controlled softness, implying that he should never have to speak above such a quiet volume to be heard or obeyed. Not one of the dark suited men standing before him stirred for fear of missing a single word uttered from his lips.

He motioned to the aid at his side with two fingers, beckoning him forward. The habitually nervous man, both lanky and awkward in stature, placed a collection of 8 x 10 photos across the front of the desk. The sweat glistening on his brow shone in the dim light from the table lamp and he wiped it away with a handkerchief as he shakily stepped back into place. The attendants stepped forward - not too close, but close enough to catch a glimpse of their intended target.

“Bring the target to my private store house at the docks. This is not a direct kill. Anyone who gets trigger happy will answer to me. Is that understood?”

A murmur and a nod traveled in a wave of acknowledgement through the small group. The Boss's eyes narrowed and he studied their expressions until he was certain he had their full obedience.

“And no touching, understand? This one is mine to play with.”

This time a nervous chuckle erupted from the group and a corner of Kesuke's mouth lifted into a twisted smirk.

With that final comment hanging in the air, the group understood that they were dismissed and each turned heel to leave as silently as they'd arrived. They piled into their black Mercedes, one after another, and peeled off into the night.

xXx

The dimmed lights and soft Parisian music serenading the patrons of L'Espace were designed to create a romantic atmosphere.

Within the small but quaint French bistro only three tables were occupied; one by an affluent elderly couple, the second by a pair of obnoxiously happy newlyweds celebrating their freshly inked status as husband and wife, and lastly, the Detective and his date, Kagome Higurashi.

Seated next to the warm glowing fire in the stone hearth they appeared, from the outside at least, like any normal couple. If anyone happened to take a closer look at the two would-be diners however, they might have noticed something very odd indeed - a complete lack of conversation.

The pair had arrived twenty minutes earlier after an uneventful and equally silent car ride. Takahashi had picked the reporter up at her office in an undercover squad car, a move she apparently found appalling, and proceeded to drive in silence the entire way to the restaurant.

She'd made a few mild attempts at small talk - commenting about the rain and how it hadn't let up all afternoon, asking where he got the new shirt he was wearing - nothing but simple, polite questions any stranger would ask another. His response had been silence and then more silence.

Now that they were seated at a finely polished cherry wood table, with a newly pressed white linen tablecloth and a bottle of the house red resting untouched between them, their situation hadn't improved. And he wasn't exactly keen to make any moves to change that. Or, at least, he hadn't been until she'd caught him staring. Now he was fucked three ways from Sunday.

He could feel her eyes boring into his skull and kept his own glued to the menu.

`Damn harpie…,' he thought with a hint of bitterness.

He hadn't meant to stare at her tits, hell, he hadn't even meant to glance in her direction, but the way they practically spilled out of that tight satin number she was wearing... Well damn, she couldn't blame a man for looking if she dressed like that.

With a defeated sigh he realized he would have to bite the bullet on this one. If he couldn't survive one interview with one annoying reporter he didn't have a prayer of salvaging his career. After tonight, he reasoned, he'd be free to go back to life as he knew it, whatever that was, and forget all about Kagome Higurashi.

It was a great plan in theory. If he'd been a patient man it might've worked out nicely for him too, but the repetitive `tap-tap-tap-tap' of her manicured nails against the table top was grating on his last good nerve.

“Do you mind?”

She fixed him with a look of mock astonishment. “Oh! So you aren't mute after all! And here I was beginning to think you'd lost your tongue and our date was a complete waste of my time.”

Her ruby lips curled into a mocking smile, one which he tactfully chose to ignore. Burying his nose in the menu he glossed over the pages but didn't absorb any of what was there.

“This isn't a date,” he determined, his voice sounding strained in the quiet atmosphere.

The moment the words left his lips he instantly regretted them. She lifted an eyebrow and looked at him as if she could smell his discomfort a mile away. He didn't like it one bit. He was used to having the upper hand but he'd gone into this one completely unprepared and now she knew it as well as he did.

“If this isn't a `date' then how would you define one?”

Inuyasha tried to ignore the question but after a minute of feeling her probing gaze on him, and realizing that he couldn't read a damn thing on the menu because it was all in French, he tossed it down, admitting defeat. Holding her gaze, he crossed his arms and sat back against the chair.

“Generally, the term `date' would imply that you're out with someone you're interested in or enjoy being around. Since I am certainly not interested in you and don't enjoy being in your presence for any longer than is absolutely necessary, no, I would not qualify this as a `date'. It's business, that's it.”

Kagome pouted her lips and tilted her head to the side inquisitively. “Are you sure you're not interested in me?”

Her voice was innocent and sweet, but her eyes were calculating as she leaned forward to rest her arms atop the table. He knew immediately what she was referring to and replied almost too quickly with a curt, “I'm sure.”

He cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced up to find a waiter. Spotting one, he motioned for him to come over and subtly wiped away the faint glistening of sweat that'd broken out along his brow. Damn if he wasn't sweating like a prostitute in church.

“Bonsoir monsieur, mademoiselle, êtes-vous prêt à passer votre commande?” The waiter's perfect Parisian French flowed off his lips like the smoothest of wines. Poised and ready, he took up residence at Inuyasha's side.

“Do you got burgers and fries here?” he asked, flipping a dismissive hand at the menu.

From the look on the waiter's face, if his jaw could've detached from his head and hit the floor it would have. At Kagome's disgusted `tsk' Inuyasha turned to look at her with an incredulous expression.

“What?!”

Ignoring him, she smiled sweetly at the waiter, apologized, and placed an order for both of them in perfect French. With an appreciative smile and a nod the waiter gathered their menus and scurried off toward the kitchen. Kagome smiled after him, looking the part of a content and happy customer. Once his white dress shirt was out of sight, she turned a scathing glare on her date.

“Do you got burgers and fries?” she mocked, imitating the naturally gruff tone of his voice. “Seriously?”

He shrugged and stared out the darkened windows at the bright lights of the city skyline. He hated that she had the ability to make him feel like a complete idiot without even trying. What was it about this girl that even made him give a damn? He'd actually gone out and bought a new shirt. It all seemed so ridiculous. One minute he hated her and the next he was...

An image flashed through his mind just then of an all too familiar picture that'd been burned into his memory a long time ago. It was of a woman who looked eerily similar to the one sitting across from him. The only difference was the woman in his picture was laid out on a morgue slab, her torso covered in vicious, gaping slashes. The thought made him swallow hard - real hard.

Blinking furiously, he tried to dispel the image that didn't seem to want to fade. When that failed, he hastily poured himself a glass of wine and gulped it down.

“Easy there tiger,” Kagome cautioned with a wry smile.

He caught the disapproving frown on her lips out of the corner of his eye and shakily set his glass back down on the table. He didn't make a move to refill it. Instead, he studied her in silence a moment, allowing his eyes to roam over her features one by one.

It took a few passes, but eventually he breathed a small sigh of relief.

`No… I was wrong. She looks nothing like her', he managed to convince himself with a sense of finality.

“So what did you order anyways?” he asked, hoping for a distraction.

“Well, for myself I ordered the Asian marinated yellow fin tuna on a bed of baby greens with balsamic vinaigrette sauce. For you I got the surf `n turf - steak and shrimp. I guessed medium rare, on the bloody side. Oh and a bottle of imported laeger as well. I didn't take you for a `sipping red wine' kinda guy.”

Glancing askew at the half empty wine bottle and his glass, she smirked.

“Yeah, that sounds fine,” he muttered, hiding his surprise that she'd been able to read him so easily.

She wasted no time fishing a tape recorder out of her bag and setting it on the table between them, determined to document every earth shattering word that came out of his mouth.

“We might as well start while we wait for our food,” she pointed out.

He stared hesitantly at the reels as they moved slowly clockwise inside the device, winding tape around themselves. He gave a non-committal grunt and reached for the cigarettes in his blazer pocket.

“You can't smoke in here.”

Her reproach intruded unwelcome into his thoughts. He paused with a cigarette halfway to his lips and shot her an exasperated look.

“Why the hell not?”

She pointed innocently to the sign resting over the mantle of the fireplace next to them. It read, in delicately curved script: Attention: Defense de Fumeur, sil vous plait.

Uttering a defeated groan, he tucked the cigarette back into place and shoved the carton into the depths of his jacket pocket. Their `date' had just gone from bad to worse. Since when were the French ever against smoking?

“So tell me about Kikyou.”

He nearly choked at her words - apparently the harpie had no compassion whatsoever.

“Wh-what?” he managed to stutter out, pretending as though he hadn't heard her.

He could feel her dark eyes fix on him in an attentive stare; she was waiting to see his reaction. She would eat it up before spewing it back out in her next scathing article. An image flashed before his eyes, the same one as before. He'd spent half a decade trying to forget it with no luck.

Kikyou Inokuma - he blamed himself for her death. He hadn't protected her and because of his incompetence her killer roamed Japan a free man. The worst part was he still had no idea who the monster was.

“I said, tell me about Kikyou. You know, the girl from that homicide from back in 2001? The one that you couldn't solve? The one that ruined your career? I want to know about her. What attracted you to her case? Why do you find it so hard, even now, to distance yourself from it?”

Each question was like a swift punch to the gut. By the end he was left breathless and feeling slightly queasy. He glanced longingly at the red wine wishing it was something much stronger. He needed something with a bite, something that could burn away the regret that bubbled up in his chest and threatened to strangle him.

He took in one shuddering breath, then another, each time finding it harder to convince his lungs to draw breath.

He needed to escape.

The restaurant suddenly felt claustrophobic and smothering. He desperately needed the freedom of the cool night air against his face and the scents of the Tokyo streets lingering in his lungs.

The sound of the blood pounding in his ears was deafening by the time he stood and muttered something incoherent about needing to use the restroom. The girl gaped up at him, her eyebrows knit together with superficial concern, and watched as he stumbled away from their table. She didn't make a move to follow him and he was thankful for it.

When he finally crashed through the door to the Men's Room he was relieved to find it empty. He hastily turned on the nearest faucet and braced his hands on either side of the sink. He felt like he was going to be sick. A cold sweat had broken out over his body and he shivered as the cool air from the bathroom washed over his damp skin.

When the water was sufficiently cold he splashed several handfuls onto his face and braced himself over the sink once more, resting his forehead against the mirror. With his eyes closed he took in several shaky breaths and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

When he felt somewhere closer to normal, he stepped back and stared at his own reflection in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes, his skin was ashen and his eyes looked glassy and disoriented. He was a mess. What the hell was that damned reporter doing to him?

No, it wasn't her, not really. He knew that, but it was so much easier to blame her than to admit the truth. The truth being that he'd spent the past half decade running from the memory of one girl he couldn't save - Kikyou Inokuma. Only, it wasn't as simple as that, was it?

“Shit…” he muttered, the curse echoing in the empty bathroom, “I'm fucking losing it.”

He ran his fingers through his dark hair and turned to gaze at his tousled reflection in the mirror. With a trembling hand he wiped the last remnants of water from his face.

`Get it together. Get it together. Get it togeth-'

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the high pitched tone of his pager cut through the silence. Glancing down at his belt he scanned the page coming in and nodded his head. Apparently the lab finally had some results for him. Their timing couldn't have been more perfect.

After taking a minute to re-adjust his collar and fix his hair, he strutted confidently back to the table and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Where do you think you're going?” The reporter demanded, her face a mixture of anger and disappointment. He shrugged his jacked over his shoulders and pulled out the carton of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Duty calls. I've gotta head to the lab.”

He offered her a “what can you do” look and smirked as he tucked a fresh cigarette behind his ear.

“What about dinner?”

The food still hadn't arrived but he wasn't in any sort of mood to wait around for it, much less eat. Opening his wallet he pulled out ten thousand yen and dropped it on the table in front of her.

“Enjoy the surf and turf and the cab home on me.”

Her expression turned mutinous. “I don't need your fucking money. What I need is an interview,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

He shrugged and tucked his wallet back into his jacket. “Whatever. Leave a really big tip then. I'm sure Pierre over there or whatever the fuck his name is would love you forever. We'll do the interview some other time. See ya around Higurashi.”

He exited the restaurant without a backward glance, leaving a very pissed off reporter behind him.

Kagome narrowed her eyes and scowled at the swinging exit door. Alain, the waiter, chose exactly that moment to bring their food to the table. He set down the plate of marinated yellow fin and then looked expectantly at the empty seat across from her.

Kagome rolled her eyes and suggested that perhaps he might wrap up the steak to go. Looking positively offended, the disgruntled waiter begrudgingly made his way back to the kitchen. In the meantime, Kagome snatched the tape recorder off the table and shoved it into her purse. One question and he'd balked and ran.

`Pussy,' she remarked bitterly, eyeing the empty chair across from her.

Hastily picking up her fork, she stabbed at her dinner until there was nothing left but tiny pieces of fish scattered about the plate. After a half second of reflection she stabbed at it some more for good measure.

`Damn that Takahashi! If he thinks I'm gonna let this slide he's stupider than I thought!'

Shoving a bite-sized morsel of fish into her mouth, she chewed it thoughtfully and mused over the many, many ways she was going to make the Detective's life Hell.

xXx

Down the road from the 29th precinct, Detective Takahashi backed through the doors of the forensics lab balancing a cup of piping hot java in one hand, black with one sugar, and a stick of street meat laden with ketchup in the other. He tipped his head to the youngest members of the forensics team and made his way to the ballistics department.

Jeff, the quirky American imported specialist, met him at the door and ushered him inside.

“I thought you were supposed to be on a date tonight?” he commented casually as he pulled out the ballistics report. The Detective shrugged noncommittally and shoved one last bite of chicken into his mouth.

“So what do you have for me?”

Inuyasha Takahashi was never one for following rules - rules of etiquette, rules such as no eating in the lab - they meant nothing to him and he did a fair good job of avoiding them. Setting his coffee down on the stainless steel work bench, he shrugged out of his water logged jacket and tossed it across a nearby stool.

Jeff looked askance at the Detective's brand new dress shirt and slacks and tried to hide the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. For someone who'd complained to anyone who would listen about what a pain in the ass that reporter was, he'd sure put a lot of effort into making himself look presentable for their `non-date'.

“Well this is the bullet the coroner extracted from the victim's skull during autopsy,” he pointed out, holding up a small plastic evidence bag with the deflated shard of metal inside.

Takahashi nodded and cocked his eyebrow as if to ask, `Where is this going?'

Realizing he needed to get to the point before his associate's limited attention span began to wander, Jeff jumped up and put one of the bullets under the microscope.

“Okay, so after we cleaned it off, I noticed that it didn't look like a normal bullet. Turns out, it's gold plated.”

Both the Detective's eyebrow rose at that one. Gold? It was doubtful even the yakuza would waste gold bullets on a rat like “Lucky”.

“Yeah, I thought it was weird too so I compared the striations to other bullets in our database and came up with a hit.”

The over-eager tech swiveled in his chair, pushed off the lab bench and came to a halt in front of one of the lab computers. After a couple mouse clicks, a screen popped up with an image of two victims - `Lucky' and a dark haired man the Detective knew all to well.

“These two were killed by the same gun. Same bullets and everything. What do you think it means? They're over five years apart!”

Inuyasha nodded his head dumbly and gripped the edge of the lab bench for support. His eyes remained glued to the screen and the name of victim number one - Hachiro Inokuma.

“It's a message,” he finally managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse.

“A message? For who?”

Jeff turned in his chair to fix him with an inquisitive stare. Trying to buy himself some time, Inuyasha hastily picked up the coffee at his side and choked down several scalding gulps before reaching for his jacket.

“For me. He doesn't want me to forget.”

Without another word, he pushed his way out the double glass doors of the lab, leaving his coffee and a very confused lab tech behind.

Jeff stared after him until curiosity got the better of him and he turned back to the computer. After a few clicks of the mouse the screen displayed another autopsy photo adjacent to the previous two.

The vicious slashes cutting deep and diagonal across the smooth skin of the woman's chest could not detract from the certain ethereal nature of her beauty. Her hair was long and dark, her eyes large and her lips full. Her features blended together in such a way that anyone who saw this photograph would know that, despite the deathly pallor of her skin, she had been stunning in life.

Jeff's eyes narrowed at the names of the victims and a low whistle escaped his lips. Talk about hard luck! It was no wonder the Detective had run out of there like a bat out of Hell.