“Yamabuki Ogans,” Nishimura explained. “Beautiful and bland.”
“Identical twins,” said Miranda. “Golden reflections of each other.”
“I like the way those other two relate — the Asagi and the Sushui,” Morgan said.
“Like us,” said Miranda.
The hint of a blush rose to Morgan’s cheek, and he scowled. She smiled.
“If we really want a true evaluation,” Nishimura said, “I’d suggest trying to get Peter Waddington over from England.”
“He wrote Koi Kichi,” said Morgan. “There’s a copy inside.”
“He knows more about koi than just about anybody.”
“I’ve read some of his diatribes on the Web. Bit of a diamond in the rough.”
“Genius has its privileges,” said Nishimura. “He’s our man.”
“Do you know him?” asked Miranda. “I’ve seen him at shows, crossed paths with him in Niigata a couple of times,” Nishimura said. “The man exudes expertise.”
“I thought he was into Kohaku and Sanke,” Morgan said.
“There’s no koi lover in the world who wouldn’t revel in this wonderful collection, for goodness’ sake.”
“Okay,” said Miranda. “Will you try to reach him?”
“Absolutely,” said Nishimura, “but it’ll cost you big bucks.”
“Eugene,” said Morgan, “let me show you the setup inside.”
“Sure, but where’s the Chagoi? I need to commune with a Chagoi.”
“We’ve saved the best for last,” Morgan said. “He’s down in the lower pond with some absolutely exquisite Kohaku.”
“You’re in for a treat,” said Miranda. “We figure the real collection is down there. The other’s a major distraction, just for show.”
“I put the Chagoi in to bring them up for viewing,” Morgan said. “These, they’re very special Kohaku he keeps hidden from himself.”
Eugene Nishimura squatted by the lower pool’s edge. “Bentonite clay. They must have trucked in tons of the stuff.”
“Around the turn of the last century, late 1800s,” said Morgan, “a son and heir built the place next door and put in the fish ponds, the two lower ones. There’s another over there. They’re probably connected. It’s got koi in it, too. The formal pool came later, maybe put in by the last of the line. Would have been for goldfish back then, prize goldfish. There’s a pipe running down from the pumphouse …”
“But they’re spring fed!” Nishimura said. “Natural water flow, clay-lined, they’d never freeze over. Ideal conditions.” He paused, then stood back. “Call your fish, Detective Morgan. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Miranda glanced at Morgan. How did you call a fish? But limpid eyes in a massive bronze head were already watching them, responding to their voices. Morgan took some feed from his pocket and hunched close to the pond edge. He reached over and let the Chagoi snarfle a mound of feed from his palm. Suddenly, there were Kohaku swarming like a tangle of kites, mouthing the air for food.
The fish in this pond were used to gathering natural nutrients from their forest-garden setting — insect larvae and algae and small creatures that swam through the green haze. So food pellets were a wondrous treat. But only the Chagoi had been conditioned to associate food with human voices, most recently with Morgan’s voice.
“There are some beauties there,” Morgan said.
“Indeed, Mr. Morgan. There are some very nice fish. Quality nishikigoi. Very collectible.”
“But?” asked Miranda.
Nishimura frowned. “These are no better than the fish in the other pond. How many? Two dozen. Perhaps not quite as good. No, not so good.”
The trio gazed into the shifting pattern of white and red awash in the opaque green as it slowly resolved into separate shadows and the water closed over until only the Chagoi was left, still grasping at the air with its lips, eyes fixed above the water level on Morgan.
Miranda and Morgan were disappointed by what Nishimura had said. Morgan, especially, felt a little betrayed. They had wanted this to be a treasure trove and a key to their investigation. Neither was excessively bothered that their knowledge of koi was imperfect, but each felt that their forensic skills had been somehow found wanting.
“There was something …” Nishimura seemed hesitant. He had stepped away from the clay edge, but moved closer again. “He’s got such a collection. Why these —” He interrupted himself, nodding at the wall and the de Cuchilleros property. “Are the fish in the pond over there the same?”
“I think they can get back and forth,” said Morgan. “A diver went in. There’s a grate near the bottom. She couldn’t feel a current but thought there must be an open flow. It wasn’t blocked with silt.”
“A grate?”
“She said the gaps were big enough. She could almost get through herself except for the scuba gear.”
“Detective Morgan,” Nishimura said with unexpected authority, “get me that big net over there, and a tub. And some more food. There’s something —”
“What …” said Miranda, trying not to impose an interrogative tone.
“Something. There’s something. Sorry. I don’t mean to be inscrutable. I just don’t know.”
Morgan returned with the net and tub. He handed Nishimura a handful of food pellets. Nishimura tossed a few to the mighty Chagoi, which was still within arm’s reach. Suddenly, the undulating red-and-white mass rose into view, and separate fish peeled away, grasping for morsels floating on the surface.
“That one,” said Nishimura. “You two wade in here, over here. In you go.”
He was serious.
They kicked off their shoes and socks, and Morgan rolled up his pants above the knee. Miranda’s slacks were snug and wouldn’t roll or bunch up. Quickly, she stripped them off and tossed them onto the ground away from the pond. She looked Morgan directly in the eye. He said nothing.
“Body-by-Victoria,” she said, “lavender briefs, micro-fibre, on sale — all prices in U.S. dollars. Order number CQ 138 something. Matching bra, underwired, super-soft lining for discreet comfort, sale price $15.99, lavender blue, dilly dilly. That should keep you going for a while.”
Morgan grinned, blushed. He would like to have taken off his own pants or something silly to even out the vulnerability quotient.
“C’mon, boys and girls,” said Nishimura, who seemed to find them puzzling. “In you go. Hold that tub under, like that. I’ll bring her over the edge.”
“Who?” said Miranda as she and Morgan waded precariously into the shallows. All she could see was a shifting pattern of red and white and soylent green.
Nishimura didn’t answer but moved around on nimble feet along the shoreline, swinging the large net deftly, then slipped it into the water. Suddenly, one fish was separated from the rest, calmly allowing itself to be guided over to the tub, over the edge that dipped down below the surface of the water, and into a tranquil holding pattern, surrounded by translucent blue plastic. Nishimura leaned out and took an end from Miranda. She shifted to the side but wouldn’t let go. She was a part of this. Gently, they lifted the tub onto the clay bank.
Miranda stood straight. Her feet slid out from under her. She fell backward and disappeared into the green water. Morgan reached for her, but his feet