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 slipped on the wet clay and he disappeared into the green, as well.
The pool was preternaturally calm for a moment, then they both came up sputtering.
Nishimura didn’t seem amused, watching as they helped each other to dry land, both of them looking sheepish, not quite laughing, not embarrassed, as if this were illicit fun.
“Well …” said Morgan, stripping off his shirt and wringing it out. Soggy as it was, he offered it to Miranda to cover herself after she took off her blouse and swung it up in the air and away as if she would never want it again. She accepted Morgan’s awkward gallantry.
“Well?” Miranda said, gazing down at their catch. “What have we here?”
Nishimura glanced up at them both, then down at the fish that now seemed opalescent in the shaft of sunlight falling into the tub. “Look!” he said, and didn’t say anything more.
The three of them bent over the fish, which seemed oblivious to being observed as it hovered gently so as not to brush against the sides of the tub.
“Look,” Nishimura said again.
“What?” asked Miranda, trying not to intrude on whatever Nishimura was experiencing. She was curious, though.
Morgan looked at Nishimura, who remained silent. Reaching across, he squeezed Miranda’s shoulder. His damp shirt bled streamlets of water on his hand, and she shuddered from the cold of wet cloth pressing against her skin but shifted her body weight slightly toward him.
“I know this fish,” said Nishimura.
“I know her.”
“Personally?” asked Morgan.
“Yes.”
They were stunned.
“You’ve never seen such white. Just look. It’s layers upon layers of the purest white over white over white, like a blessing. The red’s perfect, like continents floating on a pure white sea, like perfect wounds on a sacred relic. This fish is a holy thing.” At his own pace Nishimura tried to clarify. “It’s the Champion of All Champions, the Supreme Champion of the All-Japan Koi Show two years ago. I saw her there. I know her.”
“How?” asked Morgan.
“She was never missing. As far as anyone knows, she’s cruising peacefully in a vast clay pond in Niigata, breeding a fortune.”
“A fortune?” echoed Miranda.
“The
