What in the…
My eyes cut over to Go, who has his mobile out and, apparently, used it to kill the call.
“Why…why did you do that?” I demand, anger and confusion coursing through me.
Go looks to the side as if he’s not quite sure I’m asking him a serious question. “Because small talk with my Chief Project Manager isn’t in today’s plan,” he answers, his voice its usual monotone.
Usually, I don’t mind how impolite Go is by both Japanese and American standards. But today…
“I needed more information from…” I struggle, then have to ask, “May I have his name? I must get in contact with him.”
“Hugh Edgeworth,” Go supplies. “But why do you need to get in contact with him? None of our GoNoTo projects require propulsion or a metals skill set.”
I can all but hear my father’s voice in my head, commanding me to let this go, lest I shame myself in front of an important business associate—a Western one at that. But another wave of stomach-twisting desperation courses through me as I reply, “Go-san, please, it is a long story. May I have his contact information?”
“Yes,” Go answers.
I bow. “Thank—”
“After our stand-up with No.”
Blast. Not until after the meeting with my brother (whose Western friends call him No), I’ll need to call Go’s assistant at home to get the number for Hugh’s work phone.
Fortunately, Chris does not seem bothered to be contacted at home early on Christmas Day.
“Would you like me to put you through?” Chris asks in near-perfect Japanese, as accommodating to sudden and strange requests as Go is not—which is probably why the famously awkward tech billionaire brought him over with him to Tokyo.
“Dôzo arigato,” I answer, my heart beating wildly in my chest as I give him the go-ahead.
Only to have Chris return to the line a few moments later to say, “I am sorry, but he is not answering his work mobile. Would you like for me to keep trying him back until I get him?”
I tell him yes again, but many hours later, Chris still cannot get an answer. “I’m really sorry about this. I can see that the phone is on and even moving around, but unfortunately, a few of our stateside employees have made it a policy not to answer and sometimes even mute all notifications from their work phones once they have left for the day. And even more, unfortunately, the GoX offices are closed until January 2nd. Is it very important? If so, I can access his employee records to see if I can get ahold of a personal cell phone number.”
No, it was not important. Not technically. But I find myself recalling what Edgeworth had said about helping his wife prepare for tomorrow night’s Christmas party with her family.
Her family, which most likely includes Kristal.
“Yes, see if you can track down a number for his personal cell phone. Also, could you keep tracking his work phone for the next twelve hours or so?”
10
I Saw Her Again
Fifteen hours later, my private plane lands in San Francisco. This is crazy, I think to myself as my ex-Marine American driver/guard, Declan escorts me to the hastily arranged car. Yet, I’ve flown backward in time to get here.
My plane was cleared to leave Narida airport a little after 1 a.m. on Dec. 26th. And now, I am here in San Francisco, following Chris’s instructions to a location in Fisherman’s Wharf…which is within walking distance of the financial district.
If this location is indeed the place where Kristal lives. I try not to think of how close she might have been while I was searching for her on the internet back in January.
About forty-five minutes after landing, Declan pulls up to a large, red concrete building on Pier 22. I immediately lower my brow in confusion because the words Santa-san no wakushoppu are written across the front of the building in kana. But why would the name of this business be written across the front of the building in Japanese?
“Huh…Santa’s Workshop,” Declan reads, peering out the driver’s window. His Japanese lessons must really be coming along. Usually, he struggles to read anything written out in kana. “Maybe it’s some kind of toy factory?”
“Maybe…” I answer, thinking of the “elf” story Kristal told me to explain why she was disconnected from the real world.
The building looks like a warehouse, but it’s not quite as modern as the ones I’ve sighted on other San Francisco piers. Black iron casement windows line the top floors, and a pair of old-fashioned barnyard doors have been thrown open, revealing a party filled with people of all different sizes and races, wearing elf hats inside.
She’s here, I’m sure of it. Anticipation thrums through me at the thought of finally seeing her again. Of bringing her back to my hotel and losing myself in her soft body.
“Want me to come in with you?” Declan asks.
Usually, he stays behind in the car, only using his Marine skillset when specifically requested. But this is a strange situation for both of us, as I usually don’t attend what looks like a factory party. Not even when I served as the head of marketing for Nakamura Worldwide, before Norio and I cut ties with our family’s multinational automotive conglomerate.
“That is not necessary,” I answer before climbing out of the car.
Dressed in my business suit, I already feel out of place walking into a party of what must be at least two hundred people, most of whom are dressed in red and/or green outfits and sporting elf hats. My bodyguard would only make the fact that I’ve come here without an invitation that much more obvious.
The atmosphere inside the workshop is warm and filled with good cheer. A host of giant red and green metal machines take up most of the room on what looks like a factory floor. But planks line the floors instead of the concrete, like at the Nakamura Worldwide manufacturing plants. And though the machines gleam under huge vintage cage lamps, even with my automotive experience, I couldn’t even begin to guess what they were meant to make.
What sounds like a 60s girl group version of the song “Sleigh Ride” plays overhead, and most of the incredibly diverse group of partygoers in elf hats are either shouting over or dancing to the joyous Christmas music. A few of them are even singing along.
For a moment, I look around, entirely stymied by the Where’s Waldo situation finding Kristal in this crowd has suddenly become.
“Excuse me,” I ask two people in elf hats, talking to each other nearby. They have glass mugs of what looks like apple cider with sticks of cinnamon in their hands. “Do you know where I might find Kristal Kringle?”
“Kristal, ending with a t-a-l, t-i-l, t-y-l, or l-e?” the one, who also looks to be of Asian descent, asks.
“Ah, t-a-l,” I answer, though I’m not sure.
“Okay then, is it the Kristal from the Distribution, Manufacturing, or List Control department?”
Instead of answering a question I don’t know and drawing further suspicion, I tell them I’ll look for her myself.
As I’m wading through party-goers in elf hats, a voice suddenly squeals, “Oh my Santa, whoever you are, I’m SO happy you’re here!”
In the next moment, a heavily pregnant version of the other black woman from the picture I sighted back in Japan appears in front of me along with Hugh Edgeworth, the GoX Chief Project Manager who didn’t answer his phone.