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THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. NIGHTSHADE An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / August 2012 Copyright © 2012 by Jonelle Patrick. Excerpt from Fallen Angel copyright © 2012 by Jonelle Patrick. All images copyright © 2012 by Jonelle Patrick. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. ISBN: 978-1-101-57880-3 INTERMIX InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
A LWAY S L E A R N I N G
PEARSON
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To my faithful readers—Marcia Pillon, Paula Span, Mary Mackey, Darlis Wood, Claire Abila, Elizabeth Soffer, and Shannon Manso—thank you from the bottom of my heart. You not only read the not-ready-to-be-pushed-outof-the-nest manuscript, you also told me the unvarnished truth about what needed to be fixed and managed to do it without making me want to commit seppuku.
Bottomless thanks to Noriko Raffauf and Shiho Nishida, who shall be held blameless for their student’s incorrect Japanese, but thanked profusely for helping me gather tons of useful information from kanji-infested websites.
Eternal gratitude to Yuki Iwanaga, Ayumi Shirao, and Hiroyuki Ootomo, who endured strange costumed gatherings, introduced me to all the best people, and graciously fixed my rude Japanese.
To Hugh Patrick, for convincing me I’d regret never having written this book more than I’d regret having brontosauran dustballs lurking under my bed.
Sandy Harding, Queen of Editors, and Elizabeth Bistrow, Editorial Assistant Extraordinaire, every single piece of direction you gave me made the manuscript sing. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am so lucky to be working with you.
To my beloved agent, April Eberhardt: Thank you for making dreams come true.
To my family, for not rolling your eyes every time I mentioned the J-word and for Absence of Persecution, thank you forever and ever and ever.
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Nightshade And to all the openhearted Japanese friends who took a chance and invited this foreigner into their hearts and
minds and opened doors to the odder corners of Japanese society: This book and my life would not be the same without you. Kokoro kara, arigatō gozaimasu.
Chapter 1 Friday, April 5 9:00 P.M.
The girl walked toward him across the moon-silvered parking lot, the long ribbons on her tiny black top hat fluttering behind. As she passed through the shadow of the looming Komagome Shrine, all he could see was the glow of white lace on the stiff petticoat peeking out from under her flouncy black frock. She just wanted someone to hold her hand, so she didn’t have to be alone anymore. He smiled. Holding girls’ hands for the very last time was his specialty.
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Chapter 2 Saturday, April 6 8:00 A.M.
Yumi
“Yumi, it’s time to get up! You’ll be late!” Pulling her pillow over her head, Yumi groaned. She was never going to drink again. Never. At least not at the Mad Hatter with Rika’s Goth-Lolita friends. The ones she’d been with last night looked like little girls in their Bo-Peep frocks, but they could put away cocktails like sumo wrestlers. Yumi wasn’t a Lolita herself, but her best friend had been dragging her along for so many years she’d become an honorary member of their Circle. If Rika hadn’t left so early for her mysterious date last night, they’d have gone home together as usual at a reasonable hour and Yumi wouldn’t have this pounding— “Yumi, please,” her mother persisted, now standing over the bed. “You know that Ito-san is coming in early just for you. Don’t be late.” Crap. Now she remembered. Her haircutter was booked solid, but he’d offered to come in at the ungodly hour of 9:00 A.M. as a favor. Tonight she had Date Number Five with Ichiro Mitsuyama. Actually, Date Number Four if she didn’t count their o-miai, the formal matchmaking introduction lunch with both sets of parents making stiff conversation at the other end of the table. After tonight it would no longer be too soon for Ichiro to raise the subject of marriage. She burrowed deeper. “In twenty minutes you need to be on the train to Harajuku,” her mother insisted mercilessly.
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Wincing, Yumi threw off the covers and struggled to her feet, making her way to what used to be the room’s bedding cupboard. Hugging herself against the cold, she pushed aside hangers until she found her green pants. A light touch was required; the clothes bar had been improvised when they’d retrofitted the eight-mat parlor as Yumi’s bedroom, and sometimes the entire thing collapsed. The Hata family had moved in with big plans, but over time, as the money needed to modernize failed to materialize, temporary fixes had settled into permanence. As she picked out a sweater, her mother couldn’t resist adding, “If you hadn’t stayed out so late with Rika and her Freeter friends . . .” Yumi grabbed some underwear and quickly shuffled to the bathroom to avoid the familiar lecture. It wasn’t unusual for grown children to live at home until they married, but after being pushed and prodded through school, a growing number of Japanese graduates just stepped off the treadmill. If they didn’t land a job in their chosen fields, they refused to get married or launch any kind of career. Freeters lived at home, worked part-time day jobs, and cruised the clubs at night. At least I’ve got a real job, thought Yumi, shutting the bathroom door. Sort of. Interpreting lectures on penile dysfunction for convention-going urologists, and professorial ramblings on “The Splendor of Longing in The Tale of Genji,” wasn’t exactly something to brag about to her former English Lit professors at Boston College, but at least she wasn’t working at a tea ceremony sweetshop like her friend Coco. She sighed, regretting for the thousandth time that she hadn’t been able to land a job in America with a permanent resident visa attached. Glancing in the mirror, she hoped her haircutter had made a big donation at his local shrine this year. Today it would take some divine intervention to transform her into anything remotely resembling a potential Mrs. Mitsuyama. Pulling her shoulder-length hair into a spiky ponytail, she splashed water on her face. Better. Did the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled made up for her sickly pallor? Better not answer that before chugging a bottle of Ukon no Chikara hangover cure on the way to the subway station. Nose nearly
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touching the glass, she inspected the dark circles under her eyes and prodded the slightly painful spot next to her nose, hoping it wouldn’t turn into something red and hideous by tonight. Fortunately, Itosan—makeup wizard as well as haircutter—used industrial-strength foundation that had proven effective before at fixing the ravages of the Mad Hatter. In the kitchen she found her mother settling a pickled plum into the middle of a bowl of breakfast rice. She handed it to Yumi and poured her a cup of green tea. Yumi noticed a large empty sake bottle sitting by the back door next to the nonburnable trash. Uh-oh, it hadn’t been there yesterday when she’d come home from her interpreting job. “Did Dad come home early yesterday?” she asked, picking the plum off her rice and squinching up her face at its salty sourness. “Yes,” her mother sighed. “Remember that professorship that’s going to be vacant next year? His interview was yesterday at three.” “How did it go?” Yumi asked, dreading the answer. “He says it went well.” The worry line between her mother’s brows deepened. “But he’s already predicting they’ll give it to the retiring professor’s protégé.” “The skinny guy with the terrible teeth?” Yumi frowned. “Isn’t he a lot younger than Dad?” “Yes, but apparently he won a prize recently. And his area of specialization is popular right now. He’s already written three books.” They contemplated that fact in silence. After twelve years, Yumi’s father’s magnum opus still wasn’t quite done. His angry outbursts on the “publish or perish” dictum he blamed for his series of temporary professorships were never mentioned within the family. Every time he’d been passed over for a permanent position during their years in America, he’d spend the first week nursing his disappointment with liberal doses of sake, then he’d dig in for several weeks of feverish writing and research on After the Black Ships: Japanese-American Trade as an Instrument of Change. Eventually he would run out of energy and put the project aside until inspiration returned—usually when another
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coveted chair was awarded to a rival. Then his mother died, leaving them this house in Tokyo. Yumi was transplanted from the third grade class at Boston Elementary to Komagome Shōgakko, and Dr. Hata took a lecturing position in the history department at Toda University. They’d all hoped that moving back to Japan would bring a change in his fortunes, that perhaps at Toda he’d be judged by the quality of his scholarship, not by his failure to publish. But as the years slipped by and he continued to be passed over for promotion, the plans for renovating the drafty old house grew outdated and Yumi learned to make herself scarce when she saw her mother’s lips set in a thin line and empty sake bottles by the back door. Yumi rinsed out her bowl, detoured to her room to toss her phone into her purse, then scuffed on some shoes by the front door, calling a hasty “Itte kimasu” as she escaped the dim, cramped house. A handful of cherry blossom petals fluttered by in the fresh spring wind, and Yumi began to feel better. At the Family Mart on the way to the station, she ducked in to buy a can of hangover elixir and downed it right outside the store, tossing the empty can into the recycle bin. Crossing the bridge near the subway station, she discovered that a few of the trees lining the tracks had turned into princesses overnight. It still thrilled her each spring when, among the regiments of bare, brown trees, a few suddenly revealed themselves as blossom-crowned royalty. Even the hoary old cherry tree at the Komagome Shrine was beginning to flower, changing from a crusty old man to a dowager queen. A gust of wind swayed the heavy, rice-straw rope on the torii gate as she crossed the intersection to the subway station. Waving her train pass over the turnstile sensor, she didn’t even slow as it beeped her through. A train was still paused at the platform, but the doors closed with a sigh just as she came within range. The train pulled away. Four minutes until the next one would arrive. Time to call Rika. Pulling out her mobile, Yumi flipped it open and was surprised by a picture of the scary, rooster-haired band Moi dix Mois on the display.
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She groaned. This wasn’t her phone. She and Rika had gone to the Docomo store together to buy new phones a few weeks ago. As usual, they’d decided on the same model, and, after a brief argument, the same color. There’d never been any danger of a mix-up before, because Rika always transferred her collection of phone ornaments. The thick tassel of little figures on their strings was a living record of Rika’s enthusiasms and travels since first grade, but she hadn’t switched her collection to this phone yet. Rika must have scooped up the wrong one when she left the Mad Hatter. Yumi would have to remember not to answer any calls today, unless the display showed they came from her own number. Scrolling through Rika’s address book, she found her own name and hit Send. The call went immediately to voicemail. She asked herself to leave a message. That was strange—Rika always picked up, even when she was sound asleep. Was she . . . with someone? Rika had been awfully closemouthed about where she was going last night and whom she was meeting. The only thing she’d admitted was that she’d seen a new editor that afternoon, some guy interested in a freelance piece she was pitching. That was why she’d been dressed so strangely. Well, strangely for Rika, anyway. Ever since middle school, Yumi had rarely seen her in anything but thigh-high, lace-edged stockings, frilly pink dresses, and eccentric little French-maid mobcaps. Rika was the queen of the Sweet Lolitas, girls who demonstrated their commitment to each other by dressing in variations on Little Bo Peep. Outsiders often made the mistake of thinking the Lolitas were trying to appeal to men with weird fetishes, but that was before they saw the scorn Rika and her friends heaped on salarymen who looked at them the wrong way. All the Lolitas—Sweet, Goth, Elegant, Punk—put on confidence and style when they tied the ribbons of their frothy hats beneath their chins, no matter how shy or awkward they’d been before. One end of the spectrum was defined by petticoats, Mary Janes, and bonnets, the other by artfully tattered dresses, black-buckled boots, and top hats.
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That’s why all Rika’s parasol-toting friends at the Mad Hatter had turned to stare when she’d appeared last night in a navy blue suit and high heels. Clearly the new editor she’d been meeting didn’t work at GothXLoli magazine, where Rika was a staff writer. And whoever she’d had a date with last night hadn’t been a member of her Circle, either. Yumi heard the train approaching as the phone’s low-battery icon glowed red. She texted, dying to hear about last night CALL ME, and pushed Send.
Chapter 3 Saturday, April 6 8:00 A.M.
Kenji
Tokyo Metropolitan Police Detective Kenji Nakamura leaned his tall frame against the side of the squad car and watched as Assistant Detective Suzuki arranged roadblocks across the entrance to the Komagome Shrine’s parking lot. A slight breeze lifted the wings of his thick, nearly-black hair, reminding him he ought to get it cut on the way to judo practice tomorrow. Once a would-be girlfriend had embarrassed him by saying it drew attention to his dreamy eyes, but Kenji found it annoying to have his hair in his face all the time. He squinted as the sun began to break through the trees. It was a good thing Shinto priests started work early—one of them had noticed the lone Lexus shortly after 7:30 A.M. and had called the police as soon as he saw what was inside. Kenji had been a detective for nearly a year, but these were the first suspicious deaths he’d been called to investigate. Crime in Tokyo tended toward burglary and assault; murder was rare, usually the work of drunken family members who dutifully turned themselves in afterward and confessed. Not that these deaths would require much investigation—it looked like a garden-variety suicide pact, the kind that had become all too common. Now that the Internet made it so convenient, the despairing could plan their final deadly get-togethers as easily as cherry blossom viewing picnics. A
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flurry of spent petals whirled past him like a small blizzard, the classic Japanese reminder that life is fleeting. Kenji sighed and pulled on his police-issue white cotton gloves. He bent to peer through the window at the three bodies inside. A middle-aged man and woman in front, a young woman in back. The twenty-something girl was obviously a Goth-Lolita, one of the doll-like eccentrics who dressed exclusively in black and white, right down to the Buddhist rosary she’d chosen to clasp while saying her final prayers. She wore thigh-high, black stockings and platform Mary Janes under lace-edged, white petticoats and a short, ruffled, black dress. A tiny top hat, jauntily canted over one ear, tied under her chin with ribbons that trailed to her waist. In her fingerless, black velvet gloves and studded-leather choker with dangling crucifixes, she must have made an arresting mixture of innocence and decay. Her heavy makeup gave her an artificial appearance, yet there was something familiar about her. Kenji frowned. What was a twenty-something Goth-Lolita doing in a car with a couple old enough to be her parents? He opened the front door on the passenger side and unlatched the glove box. Inside, registration papers listed the owner’s name: Mr. Tatsuo Hamada, with a Shirogane address. “Excuse me, sir?” Suzuki stood at attention on the other side of the car, having secured the shrine entrance with multiple barriers against incursion by worshippers, tourists, and passing imperial armies. Kenji wasn’t quite used to having a kōhai to mentor yet. Being called “sir”—as all kōhais properly called their sempais—still made him look around to see whom Suzuki was addressing. His new assistant’s attention to the finer points of the regulations was impeccable, if a little hard to take first thing in the morning. Suzuki had graduated from university two years behind Kenji and was on the same National Public Servant Career Group fast track, but he was so new to the Komagome detective detail that his suit hadn’t even been to the cleaners yet. And his haircut would have to grow out
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for months to even slightly threaten the dress code. “What shall I tell the priests, sir? There’s apparently a wedding scheduled later and they’re becoming anxious.” Kenji glanced at the knot of men muttering to each other under the cherry trees. Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples divided the business of life and death neatly down the middle: Everything to do with life and the living fell to the Shinto priests, while the Buddhists took care of death and the afterlife. It was such bad luck to have a death at a Shinto shrine that the priests would have to do some serious parking-lot purifying before the wedding party arrived. “I’ll talk to them in a minute. I doubt this is anything but suicide, but we should cover ourselves. Could you give the crime tech unit a call? And arrange transport for the bodies?” “Which hospital, sir?” Kenji thought for a moment. Komagome Hospital was closest, but if it turned out there was anything suspicious about the deaths, the bodies would be transferred to the Tokyo University School of Legal Medicine. “Let’s decide after the tech team finishes. Call them first.” “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Suzuki walked away, pulling out his phone. Kenji called after him, “Suzuki-san? Could you fetch some tea? If the priests don’t have any, try the Family Mart across the street.” Being a sempai did have its advantages. He returned his attention to the bodies. The man in the driver’s seat had died holding hands with the woman next to him. Two unlabeled prescription bottles sat near the gearshift, and a half-empty bottle of good sake lay on its side by the driver’s foot. Matching cups sat on the dashboard, the one on the passenger side stained with pale pink lipstick. They were conservatively—but expensively—dressed. The woman’s hair was glossy black, but
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would have been peppered with gray if she hadn’t colored it. Lines on her face were beginning to show through her careful makeup. She was close enough to the man in age that Kenji suspected she was his wife, not his mistress. A thick, business-size envelope sat propped behind the steering wheel. Given the empty pill bottles and the old-fashioned charcoal burner he’d spied squatting on the floor in the back seat, Kenji bet he’d find a suicide note inside. He’d read it after photos were taken. He pulled open the back door. The girl still puzzled him. How did she fit in? The small handbag on her lap most likely contained her ID, but he didn’t want to disturb anything until the tech team was finished examining the scene. Unfolding himself from the Lexus, Kenji turned in a circle, surveying the surroundings. What a beautiful place to die. Kenji had grown up in the neighborhood, but had seldom stopped to appreciate the serenity of the shrine while cutting through it on his way home from school. The sugi trees lining the parking lot cast long shadows over the asphalt. Their subtle cedar fragrance perfumed the breeze, a scent evoking the very soul of Japan. A red lacquer torii gate stood solemnly over the entrance to the shrine path, which passed beneath it into a frothy pink tunnel of blooming cherry trees. Beyond, the shrine stretched its red and gold wings above the awakening gardens. It would have been a fine day for a wedding. “The crime technicians are here, sir,” said Suzuki, appearing at his elbow with a steaming cup of hot green tea. He leaned in to whisper, “Just to warn you, we got the foreigner.” Kenji accepted the tea and information with thanks and watched as his assistant jogged over to move the roadblock. He’d never met Crime Technician Tommy Loud, but that name had frequently been the subject of Australian stereotype jokes in both English and Japanese, as had his employment in the notoriously clubby National Police Administration. According to the gossip, Loud’s appointment had nothing to do with his degree in Legal Sciences from Jikei University. Everybody knew he’d been hired because of his wife.
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The daughter of the Superintendent General of the Metropolitan Police had inexplicably and defiantly eloped with this gangly red-haired foreigner who shared her passion for the novels of Yasunari Kawabata. Only the news of an imminent grandchild and a job offer in Sydney had finally convinced the Superintendent General to abandon his hopes for a speedy divorce and pull strings instead. A van rolled to a stop just inside the entrance and the Australian jumped out, toting a digital camera. He jogged toward them, stopping a few feet away to bow at the proper angle for greeting a Detective-grade officer. “Good morning, I’m Tommy Loud, from the crime lab. Sorry it took me so long to get here,” he said in impeccable Japanese. Kenji’s mouth dropped open. It was like hearing a dog speak. He stammered his own name in reply. “Ah, Nakamura-san, a pleasure to meet you. Nice day for some suspicious deaths, ne?” “Not so suspicious, Rowdy-san,” Kenji replied, recovering from his shock but mispronouncing Loud’s name in the typical Japanese fashion. “Group suicide. Looks pretty open and shut.” Suicide wasn’t a crime, but they had to go through the motions, just in case. Unless compelling evidence emerged to the contrary, the file would be inscribed “jisatsu,” the case closed, and the bodies released for cremation within a day or two. Loud nodded, already fiddling with his camera. “Shall we start with the car?” Kenji nodded. “I’ll be over there, talking to the priests if you need me. If we need a wider perimeter, I’ll let you know.” Loud directed his three blue-jumpsuited assistants to fetch evidence bags and begin searching a grid around the Lexus while he photographed the victims. Grabbing his cooling tea and still marveling at hearing fluent Japanese from such an unlikely source, Kenji approached the priests. Bowing respectfully, he said, “Good morning, kannushi-san. I’m Detective Kenji Nakamura. Who discovered the bodies?” A thin, nervous man in white robes and the traditional, black, oven-mitt-like headdress stepped
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forward. “I was the one who called 110. When I came out shortly after sunrise to make sure there was nothing inappropriate in the parking lot before the wedding today, I found . . . this.” His eyes flicked unwillingly to the silver car, then back to Kenji. “What do you mean by ‘inappropriate,’ kannushi-san?” The priest exchanged glances with an elderly priest, robed in green, with a long, thin beard. “The parking lot is surrounded by trees,” he explained. “It’s one of the few places in Tokyo that can’t be seen from neighboring buildings. Sometimes young people come here for . . . privacy.” “Ah. Couples that can’t afford a love hotel?” “Sometimes. And sometimes it’s kids, raiding the Suntory vending machine behind the pachinko parlor and bringing their cans of chū-hai here to get drunk.” “Foreign kids,” interrupted the older priest. “Well, not always,” said the young one. “But when I saw the mess by the path, I was pretty sure it was just young people sleeping it off in their parents’ car before driving home. I was hoping they spoke some Japanese because my English isn’t so good. I went over to roust them, but when I looked in the window . . .” He shuddered. “Where is this ‘mess by the path’ you mentioned?” The priest stood aside and pointed to a splat of vomit in the bushes next to a sign pointing the way to the shrine. Kenji stepped over to look, then bent down to peer into the thicket of azaleas surrounding the cherry trees. “When can we start cleaning up?” asked the old priest. “I don’t know if your colleague mentioned it, but . . .” “Yes, I know, the wedding.” Kenji looked back at the car. Loud was bent awkwardly into the back seat, his camera flash bouncing around inside like caged lightning. “Let me get our crime scene specialists over here to collect any evidence that might relate to our investigation, then we’ll let you do whatever you need to do.”
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Kenji began to walk back toward the Lexus, then turned and asked, “What will you tell the wedding party?” “Nothing they’ll be happy to hear.” The young priest sighed. Kenji returned to the car as Loud was putting away his camera. “Okay if I look in her purse now?” he asked. “Go ahead,” said the tech. “But put everything back when you’re done. Let me know when you’re finished so I can bag it up properly.” “While you’re waiting, there’s a white mobile phone in the bushes over by the path to the shrine. Collect that and anything else that looks like it was dropped since the last rain, including a sample of the vomit by the phone.” “Will do.” Loud grabbed two of his assistants and steered them toward the torii gate. Kenji leaned into the car and gently pulled the handbag from the girl’s hands. He unsnapped it and peered inside. Cheap gel pen, a piece of paper smeared with something that was the same color as the vomit by the path, and a thin, spiral-bound notebook. No phone, no ID. A ¥5,000 note was tucked into a side pocket. As he replaced the bag on the girl’s lap, he noticed the corner of a rumpled, white envelope poking from her skirt pocket. Kenji teased it out and read the front. Clearly it wasn’t intended for the “Mother and Father” in the front seat, who wouldn’t be around to read it. Maybe there was a name on the note inside. Careful not to tear the envelope, Kenji lifted the flap and drew out a sheet of folded stationery. It was blank.
Chapter 4 Saturday, April 6 3:10 P.M.
Yumi
Yumi’s session with Ito-san was a distant memory by the time she was forking up a bite of cream puff and steeling herself for Coco’s reaction to the juicy information she’d been unforgivably tardy in sharing. “You’re going out with Ichiro Mitsuyama?” her best friend gasped, leaning across the table at the Tea Four Two café. “As in Mitsuyama department stores? Mitsuyama Bank? The Mitsuyama subway line? That Mitsuyama?” Yumi nodded, amazed that her best friend’s eyes could get any rounder than they usually were. Every morning Coco used eyelid glue to give her the “Western” look dictated by the Princess Gal style she’d adopted in middle school. Her father was a respectable post office bureaucrat, but Coco bleached her luxurious curled hair to the color of milk tea, wore short babydoll-style dresses, and had fingernails so long and embellished they required workarounds just to dial her phone. Back in seventh grade, they’d been drawn to each other by a shared love of red bean buns and a stubborn refusal to kowtow to the popular girls. Even though Yumi had been back in Tokyo since third grade, she would always be “the foreigner” and Coco’s Princess Gal look had made her far too popular with the boys for most girls to have anything nice to say about her.
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“Sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Yumi apologized, poking at her cream puff. “It’s just—” “How’d you meet him?” her friend persisted, lighting one of the cigarettes that were the reason they were sitting out in the chilly courtyard instead of in one of the Tea Four Two’s cushy booths. Coco took a puff and held it out to the side so smoke wouldn’t drift onto the uniform she was required to wear at the Akebono tea ceremony sweets store. She’d already been cautioned once. “He went to graduate school at Boston College,” Yumi said. “So . . . you met him when you were at BC?” “Sort of. His quartet performed at an event I helped organize my senior year.” Not that Yumi had noticed him back then. When they met again at the o-miai lunch and their parents finally began chatting amongst themselves about the lateness of cherry blossom season, Ichiro had gazed at Yumi through his trendy glasses and said in English, “I don’t know if you remember me, but . . .” She’d remembered the occasion, but everyone there had been forgettable except her then-boyfriend Andrew, who’d spent the evening sulking near the drinks table, punishing her for dragging him to yet another Japanese cultural event. “I guess Ichiro remembered meeting me,” she continued, “so when he turned thirty and his parents began pressuring him to get married, he asked them to put me on the o-miai list.” “You met through an o-miai?” Coco shrieked. “You’re having an arranged marriage?” A pair of Goth-Lolitas at the neighboring table turned to stare. “Shh! No!” Yumi yelped, embarrassed. “It’s only our fourth date. My mother filled out the questionnaire they sent, so when the invitation came, we sort of had to go.” “She did it without asking you?” “No, it was right after I broke up with Ben. The third time.” Ben Samuels was her high school boyfriend, the first (and third and sixth) relationship to be doomed from the start. Like all her other boyfriends, Ben was boyishly handsome, thoroughly American, and incapable of understanding that the
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girl with one foot in America and one foot in Japan often had to bow to family obligation instead of putting her relationship with him first. She’d met him when they were fifteen, both of them earning pocket money tutoring English at the Number One Elite Cram School. “I didn’t think the Mitsuyamas would actually call,” Yumi said. “I mean, my father’s a lecturer at a perfectly respectable university, but the Mitsuyamas are kind of out of our league.” “I’ll say. What’s he like? A guy from that kind of family—isn’t he hopelessly Japanese?” “Well, yeah . . .” Yumi admitted. She and Coco had spent many hours dissecting the failings of Japanese boyfriends. Never opened the door for you, never helped you with your coat. Always said, “I like you,” never “I love you.” Ichiro was 100 percent Nippon danshi in public, but Yumi felt he’d demonstrated some potential in private. Clearly, he hadn’t been studying business on Saturday nights at BC. “He’s nice,” Yumi admitted. “I kind of like him.” Coco narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and stubbed out her cigarette. “So tonight’s Date Number Four. Where are you going?” “Roppongi Hills Club. To his Toda University class reunion.” “Yow. He must be serious about you if he’s planning to introduce you to all his friends. I can’t believe you met him through an o-miai,” Coco said, shaking her head. “It’s so . . . medieval.” “Come on, it’s no different than if we met at a party. Just because our parents pre-approve doesn’t mean we have to get married.” “But that’s the idea, isn’t it? To get married? How many times can you go out before you have to decide?” Yumi shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Oh I don’t know, five? Maybe six?” “Is he cute?” Yumi thought a moment. “Sort of. I mean, he’s nice-looking, but you wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd. Short hair. Glasses. He has good taste in clothes, though.” She smiled. “Really good taste in
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clothes.” “Tall?” “About as tall as me,” she admitted. Back in high school, she and Coco had agreed that tallness in a boyfriend was key. That was back when trading character for looks was unlikely to turn into a lifelong mistake. Coco took a sip of tea. “All I can say is, you work fast. A month ago you were sitting at this same table, telling me how you hated that it shocked people if you gave your opinion when they asked for it, how you’re always being treated like an outsider, how you’d never fit in here. Now you’re marrying—” “Thinking about marrying. Considering thinking about marrying.” “—a guy from one of the oldest and richest families in the country!” Coco shook her head in disbelief. “Does he have any brothers? The first bars of Ayumi Hamasaki’s “Sparkle” chimed from Coco’s handbag. She dug out her phone and frowned at the display. “Hey, what do you know? It’s you,” she said to Yumi. “Moshi-moshi. Rika, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” She listened for a moment, confused. “Oh! Sorry, officer. What?” She listened. “Oh. I guess that explains why Rika hasn’t been answering.” Silence. “No, Rika Ozawa is the one who dropped it but the phone you have belongs to Yumi Hata. Rika picked it up by accident on Friday night.” She listened again. “Ozawa . . . That’s right, the characters are the ones for ‘big marsh.’” She juggled the phone to her left hand. “Yes, I have that information, but Yumi’s right here—do you want to talk to her?” She listened again. “Okay, I’ll tell her. What kind of incident? Was Rika involved?” Silence. “Ah, I understand . . . So, you just need their contact info, right?” Rooting through her purse, Coco pulled out a dog-eared address book plastered three-deep with photo stickers and read off Rika’s and Yumi’s addresses, along with their families’ home phone numbers. “When can Yumi get her phone back?” She listened. “Okay, thanks.” Coco dropped her phone back in her bag. “Now we know why Rika hasn’t been picking up. She
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dropped your phone at the Komagome Shrine. The police are investigating some kind of incident there and your keitai got swept up with the evidence. He said you can probably get it back in a few days.” A few days? Yumi groaned. She didn’t want to be confronted by Moi dix Mois every time she made a call, but she certainly didn’t want to give Rika her phone back and be cut off from all communication while the police took their sweet time investigating this “incident.” “What happened?” she asked, peeved. “He didn’t say. Apparently it doesn’t have anything to do with Rika, though, because he said he just wanted her contact info so they could return the phone. If she was involved, he’d probably have wanted to confiscate the one you have, too.” Yumi forked up her last bite of cream puff. “Good thing you didn’t tell him I had it.”
Chapter 5 Saturday, April 6 3:30 P.M.
Kenji
Kenji pushed aside the report he’d been working on since noon and rubbed his face. The protection racket investigation was going to put away some small-time gangsters, but Kenji had no illusions that it would make much difference. More petty criminals would pop up overnight like poisonous mushrooms. Maybe he should take a break, get a cup of tea. He stood up to stretch and looked around the halfdeserted squad room. It was a slow day for interrogations—the interview room doors surrounding the common space all stood open. Rows of desks, assigned according to rank, marched from lowliest next to the elevator up to the section chief’s near the windows. Kenji had been assigned to a desk halfway between the elevators and the section chief’s, which overlooked the room from beneath the only window. Although everybody received the same nondescript, government-issue equipment, it was easy to tell who sat at each desk by the personal items on top. The golf trophy Section Chief Tanaka had won last spring as one of the Superintendent General’s foursome attested to his years of climbing the ladder, both on and off duty. Next to Kenji, framed photos of Detective Oki’s family, going back to when his teenage son was a baby, jostled with a large collection of snapshots showing his judo students triumphantly holding trophies. Kenji’s desk remained almost bare. No wife, no kids, no commendations, no trophies. The only
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personal items in evidence were the three ornaments dangling from the cell phone he’d tossed on top of his paperwork: a success-in-exams charm he’d bought before he landed a coveted spot at Tokyo University, a small wooden gourd that had belonged to his mother, and a slightly grubby Year of the Dragon dangler he’d swiped in fifth grade, hoping the girl who still owned a little piece of his heart would discover his crime and ask for it back. He wondered where Yumi was now. Was she was married yet? His desk was clear of clutter, except for the evidence bags pushed into one corner. He set aside the protection racket report and pulled them over. One held a white envelope and a blank sheet of stationery; the other, a business envelope, a suicide note, and two passports. The note from the business envelope left few doubts about the intentions of the two people found dead in the Lexus’ front seats. He reread the bold calligraphy: To The People Of Japan, Our Loyal Customers, Employees, Family And Friends: By offering up our humble lives, we assume all responsibility for actions taken during our stewardship of the Hamada Sweets Corporation. Please accept our deepest apologies for any harm we have done, not only in the past, but any result of those actions in the future. We entrust to our son the duty of putting the company back on the right path. It would be most regrettable if innocent people were harmed as a result of the mistakes made under our imperfect management. Please accept our sincere sacrifice as a pledge that the wrongs done were ours and ours alone. Our son and the management of the Hamada Sweets Corporation are blameless and did not participate in the practices that precipitated this act. We, the undersigned, attest that we took our own lives without coercion or assistance.
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It was signed by Masayo and Tatsuo Hamada and sealed with two vermilion hanko stamps. “Nakamura-san.” His neighbor, Detective Oki, had just returned from investigating a burglary at the Fujimoto Corporation headquarters. Loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt as he dropped into his swivel chair, Oki cracked his neck left and right, looking exactly like the fifth-degree black belt in judo that he was. Even taller than Kenji and twice as broad, the big detective’s graying brush-cut hair and good-natured face routinely made suspects mistake him for someone whose brawn exceeded his brains. They never guessed he’d been within a year of getting a psychology degree before transferring to the police academy, until he trapped them into admitting something they later regretted. “I was just down at the lab talking to Rowdy-san,” the big detective said, dumping a couple of file folders on his desk. “He said they’ve started on your suicides. The dead girl’s fingerprints were all over that phone.” “Thanks, Oki-san.” Kenji held up the note he had just been reading. “Take a look at this and tell me what you think.” Oki took the bag and read the suicide note through the plastic. “Huh. Looks like another chicken farmer case.” Kenji nodded. During the most recent bird flu panic, dozens of poultry farms had faced bankruptcy when entire flocks were slaughtered to keep the epidemic from spreading. To avoid certain ruin, one family-owned business near Kyoto quickly butchered and shipped birds that were known to have been infected. Although nobody died as a result, the owner and his wife hanged themselves, leaving a note apologizing to the Japanese people for causing so much “inconvenience.” Oki handed the evidence bag back to Kenji. “What do you think is going on at their company? Sounds like it might be worth investigating. Do you know anything about their business? Or their son?” “Not yet.” Oki picked up the bag with the white envelope addressed to “Mother and Father” in it. “This one
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belongs to the third victim?” Kenji nodded. Oki flipped the clear bag over and saw that the piece of paper was blank on both sides. “No note?” “That’s it.” “Sir?” Suzuki appeared, a file folder in hand. “Ah, Suzuki-san. What have you got?” “That phone you found in the bushes, sir. It turns out that the person who owns it is different from the person who lost it.” “How did the phone company know that?” Suzuki reddened. “Well, sir, I . . . I hope I didn’t break any regulations, sir. I, uh . . .” He glanced nervously at Oki. “Remember what I told you—there’s breaking, and there’s bending,” the older detective said with a grin. He looked at Kenji. “I mentioned that there was an easier way to get that information than beating his head against phone company bureaucracy.” “He suggested I return the most recent received call and ask whose number came up on their caller ID, sir,” Suzuki explained. He glanced down at his notes. “Coco—the woman who answered—told me the phone we have belongs to someone named Yumi, but Yumi’s friend is the one who actually dropped it at the shrine. Apparently, they have the same model and the friend picked up the wrong one by accident. The friend’s name is . . .” He consulted his notes. “Rika Ozawa.” Rika Ozawa. A Rika Ozawa had been in his high school class, although he hadn’t known her personally. He hoped that wasn’t why she looked familiar. “Did you get an address?” Suzuki extracted a piece of paper from the folder. Kenji glanced at it and frowned. “4-14-21 Hon-Komagome.” She was local. Kenji hadn’t hung around with the Goth-Lolitas in high school, but this Rika might have. He wondered if the victim’s
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missing cell phone had messages on it that would explain why the dead couple had joined her to commit suicide. He’d track it down after he did the next-of-kin notifications. “Good work, Suzuki-san. What about the couple in the front seats?” Suzuki shuffled his papers. “According to Minato Ward family records, the Hamadas have one adult son, who lives with them at the address on the car registration.” He pushed another piece of paper across Kenji’s desk. “Did you find anything on the family business?” “I haven’t had time to check yet, sir.” “Do an online search. I’d like to know as much as possible before we notify the son. The suicide note suggests that the company is involved in something that warrants investigation, and we may need to ask him some questions before he has a chance to hide whatever it is.” “Yes, sir. I’ll do that right away, sir.” Suzuki bowed deferentially and left. Oki sat down at his desk and pulled out a form to start his burglary report. Kenji hesitated, then said, “Oki-san? Um, I could use some advice.” The older detective looked up. Kenji lowered his voice. “Have you ever had to request an autopsy?” Oki frowned. “A few times. Why? Suicide isn’t a crime. It’s even considered honorable, in some circumstances.” “I know. But . . . I’m not completely convinced it was suicide.” Oki looked around and saw that the section chief was sitting at his desk within earshot, muttering to himself as he stamped a thick stack of forms with his hanko. The big detective jerked his head toward one of the interview rooms; Kenji followed. Inside, Oki closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded. “Why don’t you think it was suicide?” Kenji perched on the edge of the interview table. “First of all, even though there was a charcoal
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burner in the car, the doctor on morgue rotation told me none of the victims had the reddened skin associated with carbon monoxide poisoning. He was sure they must have died from something else first.” “Such as . . . ?” “We found empty prescription pill bottles, so they might have taken enough to do the job. But the doctor said most people don’t trust meds alone—if you take too many, you throw up before they kill you. If you take too few, you don’t die. That’s why they usually back up the sleeping pills with a charcoal burner. The pills knock you out quickly and the fumes finish the job.” “Didn’t you say that someone did toss their cookies near the scene?” Kenji nodded. “We think it was the girl. The examining doctor found traces in her mouth and there was a piece of notebook paper in her purse that looked as if she’d wiped her mouth with it. But if she threw up the pills before they killed her and she didn’t show signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, what did she die of?” “The doc didn’t find anything else out of the ordinary?” “No. She had recent scrapes on her knees and hands, but he said she could have gotten those any time on the day of her death.” Kenji hesitated, then said, “The doc on morgue rotation was young. I don’t think he’s done many exams like this, and he didn’t seem to like it much. I could tell he hated even touching the dead bodies. He suggested I wait and see whether the lab finds drugs in the vomit or not, and whether it matches the swab from the girl’s mouth. If Rowdy-san finds she threw up before taking any pills, it would be safe to assume she died of overdose, same as the others.” He shifted in his chair. “But there’s something else, too. The note. Or rather, the lack of one. Why would she address an envelope to her parents, then forget to put in a note?” Oki shook his head. “It’s hard to believe anybody would be that distracted. Or that cruel.” “Do you think I ought to wait before asking the family for permission? For a post-mortem?” Oki thought a moment. “Without more evidence, they’d be well within their rights to refuse. Wait
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and see what the lab says. You don’t have to ask the family at the same time you do the notification, you know. Nobody will think it’s strange if you don’t release the body for a day or two. Besides,” he added, “If you get permission and the autopsy indicates it wasn’t suicide, you know what will happen. They’ll send in the elite murder squad from headquarters.” “Wouldn’t that be a good thing? We’d have access to all their resources, get to work with the experienced investigators from downtown.” “Yeah,” said Oki with a cynical laugh. “We’d get to work with them, all right: Driving the superintendent to his interviews, hauling their equipment around for them, making copies. It’d be a real education, I guarantee it.” “Oh.” Kenji’s face fell. “Thanks. I guess I’ll wait and see what Rowdy-san comes up with.” Oki turned to go. “Oki-san . . . ?” The big detective stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “Have you ever done a next-of-kin notification?” “Yeah,” he replied, without enthusiasm. “Is this your first?” Kenji nodded. “So . . . what do you say? When they come to the door, how do you tell them that someone in their family is dead?” Oki sighed. “There’s no good way. If you dress it up, it just delays that awful moment when they figure out you’ve brought them the worst news they’ll ever hear.” “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Chapter 6 Saturday, April 6 7:00 P.M.
Yumi
Sitting in a taxi that was creeping along in Tokyo traffic, Yumi pulled out her phone. 6:54. Oh no, she was going to be late. In America, she’d have been on time, but in Japan, 7:00 really meant 6:55. Why had her supervisor at the International Interpreting Company picked today to lecture her about using the honorific form when addressing clients, correct her bowing style, and remind her that even if the client was an idiot, he was paying for interpretion, not correction of his so-called facts? She slipped her heels back into her shoes, wincing. The new flats were cute, but she’d had to buy a 24.5—the largest size most stores carried—and they were a half-centimeter too short. When she went out with Ichiro she didn’t want to be taller than him, so she’d stopped wearing heels. In America, her 170-centimeter height had been unremarkable; but in Japan, she towered over nearly all the women and half the men. Finding shoes that fit and pants that were long enough was a perpetual irritation. Almost there. She glanced at the meter and pulled two ¥1,000 notes from her wallet. As the cab pulled up to the curb, she spotted Ichiro waiting just where he said he’d be, checking his phone for messages. He looked good tonight. Had he gotten a new haircut? It suited his glasses. He was so confident of his place in the world, few women noticed he wasn’t tall or especially good-looking. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, running the few steps from the curb.
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His face brightened as he saw her, and they bowed to each other, even though they’d parted after their third date far more intimately. Trading small talk about her interpreting job and his day at the office, they ascended to his reunion in the soaring steel and glass Roppongi Hills tower. Yumi was reminded of the first time she walked through the swanky development with her parents, past the precious little restaurants tucked between handbag shops and minimalist florists. Even the tonkatsu joint had been tarted up, the menu offerings reduced to premium bites of deep-fried pork, portions halved and prices doubled. Her mother had looked around with a melancholy smile, wondering whether the neighborhood residents who’d traded the land under their wooden houses for luxury apartments ever wandered sadly through the halls, longing for the roasted sweet potato man and his cart. But the echoes of that old neighborhood faded long before reaching the Roppongi Hills Club on the fifty-first floor. Without slowing down, Ichiro gave a friendly bow to the woman at the members’ checkin desk and led Yumi up the wide granite stairs. Plush carpet and fine wood paneling made an opulent backdrop for the lively conversations multiplying as members of Ichiro’s Toda University class arrived for their annual get-together. Subdued lighting gleamed off the polished bottles behind the bar, as a steady stream of well-dressed thirty-yearolds and their guests surveyed the room, then made a beeline for the cocktails that would ease them into the evening. Yumi and Ichiro waded slowly into the crowd. They stopped a few times as Ichiro introduced Yumi to old friends, then drifted with the tide toward the drinks. Ichiro ordered a Kirin Ichiban and a glass of white wine, then turned and nearly bumped into a willowy woman in a red Alberta Ferretti suit. She beamed him a wide smile. “Hey, when are you going to pay me that five hundred yen you owe me from our bet back in freshman year? I think it’s up to about ten thousand yen now, with interest.” Ichiro handed the wine to Yumi and said with a grin, “Momo-chan! When did you get back? I thought you were living in Manila.”
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“Just transferred to Hong Kong. I flew in last night, had a meeting, have to go back early tomorrow morning.” She turned to Yumi and introduced herself. “Oh, sorry,” Ichiro said to Momo. “This is—” “Yumi Hata. Hajimemashite.” Ichiro pointed his beer bottle at his classmate. “And you actually owe me. You bet the Giants would win, so the fact that they tied . . .” The bartender passed Momo a gin and tonic. “And what about you?” she asked Ichiro, taking a sip. “Still slaving away at ye olde family store? How’s your golf game?” Ichiro grimaced. “Ma-ma.” Momo leaned toward Yumi and whispered, “Don’t let him fool you—the last time I checked, he had a two handicap. He’s got plenty of time to practice until his father retires, and I think his grandfather still shows up at the office every day.” A short man with a Rotary Club pin already in his lapel arrived. “Long time no see, Princess Peach!” “They’ve opened the buffet,” Ichiro said to Yumi. “Shall we get something to eat?” As they excused themselves, Momo laid a manicured hand on Ichiro’s sleeve and leaned in to murmur, “Before I forget, Ami says hi.” A look of consternation flashed across his face. He muttered something noncommittal as he and Yumi moved away. They helped themselves from platters heaped with creamy, tofu-sauced vegetables, chicken glazed with ginger, and assorted sushi, discovering they both liked anago eel better than unagi, and agreed that wagyu beef was unpleasantly fatty. With plates finally filled with enough appetizers to make a meal, they surveyed the crowded room for somewhere to sit. “How about over there in the corner, by the windows?” Ichiro suggested. He pulled out Yumi’s chair for her, then busied himself pushing the candle to the far corner of the
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table and fetching chopsticks. When they’d finally settled in and both had full cups of sake, Yumi asked, “Who’s Ami?” Ichiro sighed. “She was my girlfriend in business school.” “Were you . . . serious?” “Yeah.” He frowned. “Or at least, I was. She was pretty heavily recruited by the Asian Development Bank’s main office in Manila, but she was talking to the Tokyo branch, too. I was hoping we’d be together here after graduation, but something happened and the Tokyo offer just dried up. She took the Manila job and didn’t tell me until after she’d signed. Later, I heard the head of the Tokyo branch had owed my father a favor.” “Why didn’t you try to get a job in Manila?” Ichiro answered with a short, dismissive laugh. “The Mitsuyama Corporation paid for me to go to business school. Even if I weren’t a Mitsuyama, I’d still owe them five years of indentured servitude after graduation. And the Mitsuyama Corporation definitely didn’t need me in Manila. In fact, they needed me anywhere but Manila.” He tossed back his sake and refilled his cup before Yumi had a chance to do it for him. “Besides,” he said, “Ami Watanabe never really wanted to work in Tokyo.” Yumi didn’t understand. Her name sounded Japanese. Why wouldn’t she want to come home? And why had Ichiro’s family been so against her? “Her parents are third-generation Americans,” he continued, as if reading her mind. “She grew up in Los Angeles. Even her parents barely speak enough Japanese to order sushi.” “Oh.” Yumi tried to imagine the conservative, relentlessly proper Mitsuyama parents struggling to carry on a dinner conversation in their rusty textbook English. “So . . . Your family didn’t really feel comfortable with her?” “You could say that.” The bitterness in his voice brought her up short. Maybe she’d been wrong about the way he’d been pursuing her—was he still in love with his old girlfriend? Maybe he wasn’t as
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eager to get married as she thought. “Ichiro,” she said hesitantly. “Are you . . . just going through this arranged marriage thing to make your parents happy?” He looked at her with an apologetic smile. “Oh no, Yumi-san, of course not. I’m completely serious. How else am I going to find someone to marry who I actually like? And,” he added with a sigh, “someone my parents like. They want a daughter-in-law who’s comfortable in Japan, and I want someone who’s comfortable in the rest of the world. It’s not easy to please everybody.” Yumi relaxed back into her chair. Someone who couldn’t speak Japanese would never be able to mix in Tokyo society with the ease required by Ichiro’s family obligations. More than once, she’d sparred late into the night with her college roommates on this very subject. Her American friends never quite understood that love was only part of a happy marriage. Seeing that Yumi’s sake cup was still full, Ichiro dribbled the last drops from the flask into his own. “The night I first met you was the day Ami told me she’d decided to go to Manila. I was still in shock, but I remember seeing you across the room and thinking that at least I wasn’t the only one hurting that night.” Yumi looked at him in surprise. “Your boyfriend? The blond guy downing one beer after another by the drinks table?” Ichiro picked up his cup. “For some reason it cheered me up to imagine that maybe someday in the future you and I would meet in Tokyo and be able to laugh about that night.” “And here we are.” Yumi smiled and picked up her cup. “To our exes.” Ichiro returned her smile. “No. To us.”
Chapter 7 Sunday, April 7 11:00 A.M.
Yumi
The next morning, Ueno Park was paved with people. Drunken people. It was only eleven in the morning, but the partiers had been up and toasting the cherry blossoms for hours. Barricades kept the main walkway clear, but bright blue waterproof tarps had been laid right up to the edges. By nine o’clock every square centimeter was already occupied, and bottles had begun to be emptied. Salarymen in coat and tie vied with office ladies in spring suits to keep each other’s sake cups brimming, reveling in the one day each year when they were not only allowed but actually encouraged to publicly cut loose. Yumi walked down the main promenade under the arch of blooming trees, searching among the extended families and groups of friends for the Mitsuyama Corporation encampment. Ichiro had invited her to stop by their annual o-hanami party, and he’d looked so eager for her to say yes that she couldn’t refuse. So this morning she’d dug through her closet and pulled out a pale green Chanel-ish suit that had just enough pink in the weave to qualify it as a cherry-blossom viewing outfit. She’d left the house feeling more obligation than anticipation. Her mother was becoming a little too excited that the match with the extremely eligible Ichiro Mitsuyama hadn’t yet derailed. Although Yumi hadn’t mentioned where she was going, it was clear when she appeared in the kitchen wearing last
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year’s o-hanami suit that she wasn’t off to interpreting gig. Mrs. Hata had scrutinized Yumi’s outfit, fretting that the skirt might be too short, that it might make a bad impression on Ichiro’s father. Yumi finally had to flee without breakfast, stopping on the way to the train station for a red bean bun. She’d felt slightly cross getting on the train, irritated at her mother’s eagerness to nudge her toward a marriage that would be a huge step up the social ladder for their family, but was a little lacking in the fireworks department for her. Ichiro was a nice guy, well-educated, polite, accomplished. But that didn’t feel like quite enough. She was comparing him to Ben as she crossed the street to Ueno Park. There had always been fireworks with Ben, but in the end she was the one who got burned. As she made her way up the stairs, pale petals dancing around her in the chilly breeze, she thought about how Ichiro had gazed at her in the flickering candlelight over that final toast last night, And how later, in the back seat of the cab, he’d made it clear that it wasn’t just her résumé he liked. What he lacked in skill, he’d more than made up for in enthusiasm. She sighed. In time, would she feel the same way about him? “Oh! Sorry!” A disheveled young man bumped into her, pushed by a roughhousing colleague. His eyes went wide with undisguised appreciation. “Hey babe, why don’t you join us?” He yelled into the crowd, “Oi! Bring the sake over here!” “No, that’s okay, thanks anyway,” Yumi said, stepping back with a smile. “Actually, I’m looking for the Mitsuyama Corporation party . . . ?” “Really? Too bad.” Her admirer pointed down the pathway. “They’re next to the big fountain, near the National Museum.” “Thanks,” Yumi said, continuing on her way. “Come back later!” he called after her, before the crowd swallowed him again. Yumi spied Ichiro amid a group of laughing young men and women standing in their stocking feet on a crowded expanse of blue tarp, dozens of shoes lined up at the edges. As she drew closer, she
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noticed that even though the two men with him were taller and more attractive, all the office ladies were elbowing each other aside to top up Ichiro’s cup. “But what about me?” one of the salarymen wheedled at a pixie-ish young woman in a pink blouse and very short skirt. He held out the small cup with an exaggerated sad panda face. The young woman gave him a saucy look and whipped her flask away. “Sorry, I fetched this specially for Mitsuyama-san.” “That’s okay,” Ichiro said. “I still have some. See?” He held out his half-full cup, but to his dismay, she took the opportunity to pour in more. The thimble-sized cup overflowed, sake running down his hand onto his sleeve. “Oops!” She giggled and rushed in close to blot at his sleeve with her scarf. “Ichiro?” Yumi called to him from the edge of the group. He looked up and grinned with relief. “Yumi! You came!” Leaving her shoes behind, Yumi stepped over the cord that marked the reserved Mitsuyama area and caught the irritation flitting across the office lady’s face as she pulled back with her damp scarf. Heads turned, curious about the newcomer. “Do you have any more sake?” Ichiro asked the office lady, flicking drops off his fingers. “Wait, we need another cup.” He boldly grabbed Yumi’s hand and pulled her into the crowd. Ichiro’s face was slightly flushed, his usually perfect hair mussed. He’d loosened his Ferragamo tie. Even though his Armani suit was unbuttoned, Yumi noted how well it fit. “Wait here a minute.” He pushed his way through the crowd surrounding a table where sake was being dispensed and came back with a clear glass flask and an extra cup. As he reached her, a smile lit up his face and Yumi felt an unexpected burst of affection—it was spring and the air was filled with the scent of cherry blossoms, and the heir to the Mitsuyama Corporation had abandoned his admirers to be with her. He led the way to the less-crowded fringe. Ichiro poured for her, then allowed her to fill his cup.
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“To spring,” he said, and they both drank. “It’s o-hanami,” he pointed out with mock severity. “You’re supposed to drink the whole thing, not just a little sip.” “I have to stop by the Komagome Police Station later to try to get my phone back,” Yumi explained. “They won’t arrest you unless you’ve had about sixty of these,” he insisted. “My father knows how many toasts everybody has to drink today, so the company cups are extra-small.” She gave in and emptied her cup, then they poured for each other again. “Why do the police have your phone?” Ichiro asked, after he’d cajoled her into finishing the second drink. Yumi explained about the mix-up and how Rika had dropped it at the Komagome Shrine. “Oh.” His cheeks flamed. “Do you think that the police will be, uh, listening to your messages? Because last night after I got home I tried to call you, and when it switched over to voicemail I left kind of a . . . a private message. I guess I shouldn’t have had quite so much sake at the reunion.” Yumi opened her mouth to reply but spotted Ichiro’s father striding toward them, trailed by a retinue of subordinates and a scurrying geisha in full makeup. A casting agency couldn’t have sent anybody who looked more like the head of a multibillion-yen empire. With his thick silver hair and hand-stitched Savile Row suit, he wore power like a pair of custom-made shoes. “Hata-san, how nice you could join us today,” he boomed, red-faced and beaming. “Thank you for inviting me,” Yumi replied, bowing politely. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Mitsuyama.” The shocked looks of the executives behind Ichiro’s father told her immediately that she’d made a horrible mistake. She’d forgotten to use the honorific form. Again. The special verbs and conjugations didn’t come naturally to her because she hadn’t used them at home in America. She often forgot them at crucial times, and unfortunately she’d just publicly addressed the head of the Mitsuyama Corporation in an insultingly familiar way, as if he were a family member.
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But Mr. Mitsuyama only grinned more widely in his slightly inebriated state and beckoned to the geisha. “Here, shall we drink to the coming of spring?” They held out their cups, and the courtesan drew back her long silk sleeve to pour for them. Mr. Mitsuyama clearly knew how to make good use of his extravagant cultural accessory. “Kampai!” they toasted in unison. Mr. Mitsuyama turned to his son. “Have you asked Hata-san about Monday yet?” Ichiro rubbed his forehead as if he felt a migraine coming on. “Father, I really don’t think that she’s interested in coming to a charity concert.” “Well, how will you know unless you ask?” he replied, as one of the senior executives-in-waiting murmured that the president of the Itoh Trading Company had just arrived to exchange toasts. Before he was ushered away, Mr. Mitsuyama leaned toward Yumi and said, “You’re a pretty little thing.” “Thank you, sir,” Yumi stammered, bowing farewell. Ichiro breathed a minimally polite good-bye and made a sketchy bow. When his father was gone, he sighed. “Sorry about that. Sometimes he’s just so . . . old school.” He grimaced apologetically. “Don’t worry, I understand.” She smiled, glancing over at the clique Ichiro had been drinking with when she arrived. A few eye daggers were still being flicked in her direction. “I think you’d better get back to your subjects.” He followed her gaze and groaned. She handed him her empty cup. “I should be going, anyway. My mother is expecting me to do some errands for her this afternoon, and I hoped to have time afterward to give Rika her phone back.” “Okay,” Ichiro said. He looked down at his shoes. “Uh, about the concert, shall I just tell my dad that . . .” “No, I’d be happy to come.” She smiled, stepping close enough to fuel Monday’s office gossip. She noticed that he flushed a little but didn’t move away. “What kind of concert?” “Classical.”
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“I like classical.” He looked up quickly, saw she was serious, and broke into a smile. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, then he stepped back, remembering they were in public, and saluted her with the sake flask. “Great. Thank you. So, I guess I’ll . . . see you Monday night.” “Mata ne.” She walked away, turning around once to wave. It was noon. Surely Rika would be awake by now. Pulling out her friend’s phone, Yumi scrolled through the stored numbers as the crowd carried her along. Since Rika no longer had any phone at all, maybe she could be reached through her mother’s mobile. Yumi found the entry next to the character for “mom” and dialed. It rang four times, then a voice Yumi barely recognized whispered, “Moshi-moshi?” “Mrs. Ozawa? It’s Yumi Hata.” She waited for a reply, but none came. Hesitating, she remembered she ought to inquire after Mrs. Ozawa’s health or comment on the season before getting to the point of the call. “How are you? Enjoying the cherry blossoms?” Silence. “Ozawa-san? Are you there?” The person on the other end of the phone took a sharp breath, then hung up. Yumi frowned. She checked to see if she’d dialed the right number. It was Mrs. Ozawa’s number all right. The phone in her hand vibrated, startling her. “Moshi-moshi?” she answered. “Yumi-san, this is . . . this is Keiko Ozawa. I’m so sorry. I . . . when I heard Rika’s ringtone I . . .” She gave a few gasps, then broke down sobbing. “Ozawa-san! What’s wrong?” Yumi stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of the crowd. A few shaky breaths came over the phone as Rika’s mother struggled to master herself. “They found her yesterday morning, in a car with two people. Two people who . . . the police say they
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committed suicide.” “What? Rika was in a car with two dead people? Is she all right?” Mrs. Ozawa fell silent, then continued in a barely audible voice, “No, Yumi-san. She’s . . . she’s dead, too.” All the blood drained from Yumi’s face and the walkway tilted. Staggering, she gasped, “No. That’s not possible. It’s a mistake.” Partiers fell silent nearby. Mrs. Ozawa stifled a sob. “A detective came last night and took me to the hospital. I saw her. I identified her. There’s no mistake.” She broke down again. Yumi sank to her knees. She tried to choke out some words, but none came. “I’m sorry, Yumi-san,” whispered Mrs. Ozawa. She hung up. Rika couldn’t be dead. They’d been laughing together at the Mad Hatter on Friday night. She couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be. “Yumi, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” She looked up to find Ichiro bending over her. She glimpsed the concern on his face before everything dissolved in the first wave of tears. He took her elbow and said, “My father’s car and driver are parked just on the other side of those trees. Let me take you home.”
Chapter 8 Sunday, April 7 8:00 P.M.
Yumi
The next night, a full moon cast a deep shadow over the Mad Hatter’s entrance. It looked like all the other unremarkable doorways along the narrow alley, except for the small, hand-lettered card taped at eye-level: CLOSED PRIVAT PATI. Yumi knocked, and the door opened a crack, revealing the reddened eyes of Rika’s friend Midori. She stepped back and let Yumi into the grotto-like café-bar, lit only by tabletop candles and spotlights trained on a wall of clear boxes displaying nearly a hundred Alice in Wonderland action figures. The owner’s collection of Alices ranged in size from cell phone ornament to “25th Anniversary 1/6th Scale,” but over the years they’d been joined by custom models crafted by the owner’s eccentric friends. Among the contributions were Sailor Moons, Innocent Venuses, and even a Gundam robot and a Godzilla, all meticulously painted with Alice’s trademark golden locks, blue dress, and white pinafore. The Mad Hatter himself was behind the bar tonight. He’d traded Friday’s Rasta beanie for a somber black trilby from a collection of headgear on the long shelf above the liquor bottles. Small and forgettable-looking except for his hats, the Hatter had never been seen without one. Some claimed they’d even spotted him in the local sento public bath, with a folded washcloth balanced atop a straw porkpie as he soaked, up to his neck in steamy water. Everyone called him Boshi-san, as if Hatter were
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his last name. He nodded at Yumi. She stood out from the rest of the crowd because she was the only mourner in the bar wearing regular street clothes. Tonight every flavor of Lolita-hood was represented: Sweet, Gothic, Elegant, Punk. They affected different interpretations of the Bo Peep look but were united in their commitment to a sisterhood more mannerly and chivalrous than the one inhabited by girls in jeans and T-shirts. Everyone in the bar tonight was a friend of Rika’s, assembled by the text messages that had wildfired from phone to phone since yesterday. At the center of the Circle were the GothXLoli magazine staff, where Rika had started as a fifteen-year-old cover model but graduated to writing music reviews, fashion tips, and helping style the photos that defined hot and not. Rika’s mentors Mei and Kei—never apart, one always dressed in white and the other in black— detached themselves from a knot of Gothic Lolitas near the bar. Bearing a length of wide, black ribbon, Mei solemnly tied it around Yumi’s left arm, carefully fluffing the bow as if preparing for a GothXLoli photo shoot. Even the most relentlessly pastel Sweet Lolitas wore black armbands for Rika tonight. The crowd parted as Yumi made her way toward the bar. Everybody knew she’d been Rika’s best friend outside the Circle. “Thank you, Boshi-san,” Yumi whispered, reaching for her pocketbook as he slid her usual White Rabbit across the polished glass. The owner shook his head and pushed her ¥1,000 note back across the bar. “On me tonight, Yumi-san.” She thanked him and carried her drink to one of the tiny tables. The Lolitas gathered around, led by Midori, whose tall figure and waist-length, perfectly-ironed black hair were often featured in GothXLoli fashion spreads. Her feet were laced into calf-high boots, her tight black jacket nipped in at the waist, over a full skirt of striped cotton and netting. Tonight her eyes were an improbable turquoise, fringed with thick lashes and outlined in black. Midori set her drink on the table and pulled up a chair. “I don’t know what to say, Yumi. We’re all just devastated.” She waited for the murmurs of
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sympathy from the rest of the Lolitas to die down. “I heard you talked to Rika’s mother. Did she tell you what happened?” Yumi shook her head and blinked hard to keep the tears from spilling again. “She told me Rika was found yesterday morning in a car with two other people. The police said they committed jisatsu.” “A suicide pact?” Midori’s voice rang with disbelief. The plastic Alices looked on as the Lolitas buzzed at the news. “I wonder if they met on one of those suicide websites,” ventured a Goth-Lolita wearing black-andwhite-striped tights under her ruffled skirt. “Rika wouldn’t do that,” Midori insisted. “I’ve known her since she was fifteen. She’s not the type to go spilling her heart to strangers on the Internet. If Rika was thinking of ending it all, wouldn’t she have talked to us first?” The Lolitas murmured and nodded in agreement. “Maybe she never got over that singer from Stacked Rubbish,” a Punk Lolita in a miniature pirate hat and eye patch suggested. “Never got over being mad, you mean?” Midori’s ice rattled as she stirred her drink moodily with her straw. “She did mention a few inventive ways she’d like to kill him.” “What about . . . that new editor?” Yumi said, remembering what Coco had told her. “What editor?” Midori asked. “My friend saw her in Shinjuku at the Tea Four Two with some thirty-ish guy on Friday afternoon. Rika told her she was doing a story for him, but Coco said it looked like Rika kind of, you know, liked him.” Midori shifted her gaze to the GothXLoli contingent. Mei and Kei exchanged glances. “He doesn’t work with us,” said Mei. “I think Rika was writing something for another magazine.” Kei added, “Our boss doesn’t mind if we freelance as long as long as we don’t work for a competitor. Usually Rika just did little pieces for Kera and Egg, but about three weeks ago she got really
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secretive about what she was working on. She assured Editor-san it had nothing to do with fashion, but all she’d tell us was that it was ‘real journalism,’ not ‘Hair Bow Do’s and Don’ts.’ She was staying late every night and started getting so many phone messages she was even texting under the table at the Friday staff meeting. Then she left early, and about ten minutes later I saw her coming out of the ladies’ room. I didn’t recognize her at first, because she was wearing such a strange outfit.” She shook her curls in disbelief. “A blue business suit. Like she was going to a costume party or something.” “She met with that editor, then came here,” Yumi said. “She ordered a salad, but barely ate any of it. Kept checking the time, as if she was worried about being late for something.” Yumi blinked as her eyes brimmed. “I can’t believe she was worried about being late to her own death.” Midori pushed back her chair and stood. “I don’t believe she committed suicide. I think the police are wrong.” Yumi wiped her eyes. “Why would they tell her family it was suicide if it wasn’t?” “Because it’s easier. Did they even investigate other possibilities? Maybe it just looked like suicide. Maybe someone killed them.” “Why would someone do that?” asked Mei. “I don’t know, but who did Rika know who owns a car?” Midori argued. “Did the police even ask how she met the people who died with her? Who were they, anyway?” “I don’t know.” Yumi wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue handed to her by the Punk Lolita. “Mrs. Ozawa didn’t say. She was pretty broken up when I talked to her.” “Do you think it was anyone we know?” “I’m sure Rika’s mother would have said something if she thought I knew them.” Midori frowned into her drink. “Maybe it wasn’t a suicide pact at all. Maybe those people had something to do with the story she was writing. What if they were sources and the story was about the kind of thing someone would kill to keep hidden?” “I could look on her computer tomorrow at work,” Mei offered. “Maybe there’s a draft.”
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“We could check her browser history, too,” suggested Kei. “She probably did all her research in the staff room because her family doesn’t have Wi-Fi at home.” “Tomorrow I’m going to try to get my phone back from the police,” Yumi said. “Maybe they’ll tell me who the other victims were. I’ll ask why they’re so sure it was suicide.”
Chapter 9 Monday, April 8 9:00 A.M.
Yumi
The next morning, Yumi sat on the hard, vinyl-upholstered couches in the lobby of the Komagome Police Station, handbag clutched firmly on her lap. Wanted posters scowled down from the bulletin board, a few accompanied by helpful diagrams showing which fingers the fugitive gangsters were missing. Policemen arriving for work crossed to the elevator and lapsed into shoptalk while they waited for the lift. Yumi checked her watch. 9:00. Where was the detective in charge of Rika’s case? “Suzuki-san?” called the uniformed officer behind the front desk. The serious-looking young officer who’d just arrived detoured to the counter and listened, then glanced at Yumi and came over to introduce himself. “I am Assistant Detective Suzuki,” he said with a formal bow. “How may I assist you?” Yumi returned the bow. “Hajimemashite. I’m Yumi Hata.” “Ah.” His face brightened as he made the connection. “We have your phone.” “Are you in charge of Rika Ozawa’s case?” “I, er, yes, I’m working on it.” He paused, uncertain about how to proceed. “I’m not sure we can release your phone yet, though. I’ll have to check with my superior officer. We’re not treating her case
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as a suspicious death, but . . .” “You should be.” Yumi’s face assumed a stony expression. Surprised by her directness, he drew back and said, “I know it’s difficult to accept, Miss Hata. But people don’t always tell their friends . . .” “She didn’t kill herself.” He sighed. “Perhaps you should speak with my boss.” He turned to the desk officer. “Is Detective Nakamura in yet?” “He is,” said the tall man who’d just breezed through the front door. He stopped, staring at Yumi. Relief flooded Suzuki’s face. “Ah. Good morning, Nakamura-san. This honorable citizen—” “Yu-chan?” Yumi looked up at him, startled, because he’d used a familiar form of address only allowed between childhood friends. Then recognition dawned. “Ken-kun?” She knew instantly why she hadn’t recognized him. He’d had The Mole removed. In childhood, it had been easy to identify Kenji Nakamura even from a distance, because of the huge mole right next to his nose. Plus, he was always the tallest kid in the class. Now he’d lost that beanpole look and no longer had a schoolboy buzz cut. In fact, without The Mole, he’d grown up to be surprisingly . . . “What are you doing here?” he asked, pushing his hand through his hair. Yumi smiled at the familiar habit; he’d done that every time he had to speak in front of the class, even when his hair was so short it couldn’t possibly have been in his eyes. “I’m here about Rika Ozawa.” He regarded her with a puzzled frown. “Was she a friend of yours?” Suddenly aware that Suzuki was still standing there, listening to every word, Kenji cleared his throat and suggested, “Why don’t we go somewhere a little more comfortable than the lobby.” His assistant snapped to attention. “Would you like me to see if an interview room is available,
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sir?” “No, that’s okay, Suzuki-san.” He checked his watch. “The staff meeting isn’t until ten. We’ll be back by then.” Suzuki bowed and headed toward the elevator. “Let’s go to Matsumoto’s,” Kenji suggested. “It’s never too early for o-hagi.” They both smiled; a love of o-hagi, the homely, pounded rice balls covered with sweet red bean paste, was a passion they’d shared as kids, and Matsumoto’s was less than a ten-minute walk from the police station. Yumi and Kenji had known each other since she’d abruptly appeared midyear in his third grade class. They’d been assigned to work together on their Japanese Culture project, building a scale model of the main building of the Ise Shrine. Irritated at being paired with a big, clumsy-looking boy, Yumi figured she would end up doing all the work, but she soon discovered that Kenji was much better at model-making than she was. One day when they were working at his house, he’d shown her his collection of Gundam robots, each tiny piece meticulously glued. Though he was only nine, he’d already built one of the big Perfect Grade kits, something most kids didn’t tackle before high school. They’d remained casual friends through middle school, sometimes hanging out with the same crowd, sometimes not. Then in high school, Kenji’s mother had died suddenly, and even the friendship of his schoolmates and his baseball team wasn’t enough to keep him from falling into a black well of grief. He left school for a while and went to live with relatives in Osaka; when he returned, he and Yumi never quite reconnected. Their friendship didn’t end, exactly—it just faded as they left childhood behind. Walking to Matsumoto’s, Yumi was amazed at how easy it was to pick up where they’d left off, slipping into the comfortable familiarity that went with years of shared experience. Some things never changed. But others had. Sneaking a look at Kenji as he reminisced about the time he and his friends had cut
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school to go to a Seibu Giants game, Yumi was uncomfortably aware of how attractive she found him now, just because that mole was gone and he’d let his hair grow. Ashamed to discover she was so shallow, she resolved not to make the same mistake with Ichiro.
Chapter 10 Monday, April 8 9:30 A.M.
Kenji
The bell jangled its welcome as Kenji pushed open the heavy glass door and held it for Yumi. Matusmoto’s coffee shop was unchanged, except for new prices pasted onto the hand-lettered menu that had been there since they were in elementary school. The shop’s name was spelled out in flaking gold letters across the big plate-glass window; Kenji could still read it backwards, even though one leg of the second “M” was now missing. The clock with plastic sushi instead of numbers still kept perfect time over the cash register, and Mrs. Matsumoto still wore the same faded apron and indigo-dyed kerchief. Only the Formica tables had aged, their shiny pink tops now dulled by countless scrubbings. “I hope you both still like o-hagi,” she said, setting a plate of egg-shaped red bean sweets and two cups of tea on the table. Kenji and Yumi both smiled. O-hagi had been the first link in their friendship, back in third grade. They’d always played rock-paper-scissors over who got the fifth one, too gooey to split. “Dōzo,” Kenji said, pushing the plate toward Yumi. Now that they were grown-ups, he ought to let her choose first. They ate their first ones in silence, transported back to childhood as the sweet starchiness of the red bean jam mingled with the chewiness of the sticky rice. While Kenji ate his second one, Yumi sipped her
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tea and asked, “How long have you been working in our old neighborhood? I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other before.” “Not so strange, really,” he replied. “I was just transferred in last November. They keep me pretty busy, and since I assume you haven’t been committing any crimes—” He grinned. “—it’s not surprising our paths haven’t crossed. What about you? Still living with your folks?” Yumi filled him in—the college years in America, the interpreting job. So she wasn’t married yet. Kenji hesitated, then asked the question he’d been dying to know the answer to since he saw her standing in the lobby. “You still going out with that foreign guy, the American?” “Ben? No. How about you?” “Me?” His face reddened. “No, I’m still, uh, single.” He excused himself, muttering about more tea. Damn, how could she still do this to him? Yumi had sunk a little hook into his heart the first day she walked into third grade. In all their years together at school, sitting three seats apart, she’d never guessed, never gave him a second look. Not that any girls did, back then. That hadn’t changed until the day he went back for winter term his second year in college, having spent his Coming-of-Age money at the mole doctor. He’d just switched to the law department and was mystified when girls in his new classes started asking if they could come to his room for help with their term papers. It didn’t take him long to figure out they had a rather different activity in mind. He spent a year making up for lost time, but by the time he graduated, he was long past worrying he’d never find a girlfriend. He abandoned the party circuit in favor of launching his career, and although he still got calls from girls inviting him to group dates, he wasn’t tempted. None of them were the least bit like Yumi Hata. He took a calming breath and returned to the table with his refill. Be professional, he told himself. Businesslike. “What brought you to the station this morning?” he asked. “Something about Rika Ozawa?”
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“I don’t think she killed herself.” “Yu-chan, I know it’s painful to think that . . .” “She didn’t kill herself,” Yumi insisted. “Why? What makes you think she didn’t commit jisatsu?” Yumi leaned toward him. “Well, for one thing, I was with her earlier that night. She kept looking at her watch, like she didn’t want to be late for something. She wouldn’t tell me or anybody else where she was going. Her friends at GothXLoli magazine told me she was really excited about something she was writing. She’d had a meeting that afternoon with an editor she hoped to sell a freelance article to—a man—and I thought maybe she was meeting him again later. That’s why she was wearing a business suit. I barely recognized her.” “She wasn’t dressed in a business suit when we found her the next morning.” “She wasn’t?” “No. To be honest, I wondered why a Goth-Lolita chose to commit suicide with a couple old enough to be her parents.” “Goth-Lolita?” Yumi’s head snapped up. “She was wearing black?” “Yeah—frilly black dress? Little black hat? Or is that regular Goth? I get them mixed up.” “It doesn’t matter, it’s wrong, the whole thing’s wrong. Rika never wore black. Never.” “People change.” “Not Rika.” “Then why was she was wearing a blue business suit when you saw her earlier that evening?” “There was a reason for the blue suit. She’d had an interview with someone outside her Circle. She probably borrowed it.” Yumi leaned toward him. “Rika was a Lolita. A Sweet Lolita. If you looked through her closet, you’d see. I’ve never seen her in anything but pink and white since she was thirteen years old, unless there was a really good reason for it.” “Maybe there was a really good reason for the black dress.”
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Yumi glared. “Maybe you should try to find out what it was.” “Yu-chan, I can’t. My chief has me finishing up an organized crime investigation. And all the evidence . . .” He hesitated, remembering the blank suicide note. “What? There was something, wasn’t there? Something made you wonder.” “Not enough to ask for an autopsy. The lab is supposed to get back to me today and then I’ll know more. But don’t get your hopes up—my superiors would need a very solid reason to ask a bereaved family to endure the trauma of a post-mortem. Even if the lab results raise some questions, it might not be enough.” “What are you looking for?” Kenji shifted his gaze to the sushi clock above the register, trying to decide how much he could say. He pushed his hand through his hair, taking in the middle-aged couple paying for their coffee. The clock read . . . 9:55? “Shit!” He snatched up the little bill curled in the silver stand on the table and stood abruptly. “Yuchan, sorry, I’m going to be late for the staff meeting and I’m supposed to be giving a report on the Kurosawa-gumi case. I’ve got a full plate today, but I’ll go over the file again and talk to the lab.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s my number. Call me later today and I’ll tell you if there’s enough evidence to request an autopsy.” He stopped at the counter to pay, pushed his way out through the glass door, and ran.
Chapter 11 Monday, April 8 12:30 P.M.
Yumi
Yumi emerged from Harajuku Station, still trying to map the shy, gawky Kenji she remembered onto the handsome, confident man she’d met that morning at Matsumoto’s. The eyes of every woman in the restaurant had followed him when he crossed to the counter to refill his tea. The light changed and she crossed to Takeshita Street, already thronged with fashion-cult shoppers and the gawkers who came to snap their photos. Yumi pushed past a raft of uniformed schoolgirls visiting from some rural prefecture, aiming their cell phone cameras at a pair of Goths dripping zippers, buckles, and silver chains. She swam upstream in the general direction of the MaccuDonarudo golden arches. Mei and Kei would already be settled at a table by now; there had been a delay on the Yamanote Line and Yumi was late. Spotting them in the back corner, she waved and squeezed between the other diners, not stopping to order. They moved their parasols off the chair they’d been saving for her. “Sorry,” she said, dropping into the seat. “I could have walked here faster.” “Don’t worry,” Kei said. “Sorry we had to eat without you—we have to be back by one, so we thought we’d better order.” She pushed an untouched ginger ale across the table. “Dōzo. We saved this for you.”
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“Thanks, Kei-chan.” Yumi took a grateful sip. “Did you get your phone back?” asked Mei. “Not yet, but I talked to the police.” Yumi recounted her meeting with Kenji. Both Lolitas were properly shocked that Rika had died wearing black. “Now I don’t know what to think,” said Mei. “What do you mean?” “There was nothing on her computer. No files except GothXLoli assignments and a few pieces she sold to Kera and Egg.” “That story has to be somewhere. Could she have been using someone else’s computer?” Mei and Kei’s disapproving faces told her how Not Done that was. “Maybe she still had her old college laptop,” Mei suggested. “You could ask her mother. It would be pretty old, but it probably still works.” “Okay. I’ll call Mrs. Ozawa and see if I can drop by. What about her browser history? Was she researching anything that might tell us what she was writing?” Kei dropped her eyes and her voice. “The only addresses in her history log that weren’t workrelated were . . . suicide websites.” “Oh.” Yumi set down her iced tea, dismayed. “Was there . . . any site in particular?” “At first she went to three or four, then she chose one and went there . . . a lot.” “Do you remember the name?” “I think it was called Whitelight. I’ll look when I get back to the office and send you the address.” Okay, good. Remember to send it to Rika’s phone, though. Our phones got switched on Friday night, and the police have mine.” She took a sip of ginger ale. “What about e-mail?” “Oh. We didn’t think to check. Who would use a computer for e-mail when they have a perfectly good cell phone?” Yumi watched a pair of Goths stroll by wearing skull-printed skirts, coffin-shaped purses, morbidly
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pale makeup. Death had become all too real for her in the past two days, and she felt a wave of revulsion at their shallow fascination. Turning back to Mei and Kei, she persisted, “The suicide website Rika visited. Did you look at it? Did she write anything about killing herself?” Mei picked at her half-finished hamburger bun. “No. Those sites are so creepy. Besides . . .” She paused. “What if she did kill herself? How could we have missed the warning signs? What if there’s something we could have done?” Yumi sighed. “Yeah. I know.” They all stared at the table. Kei checked the time on her cell phone. “Sumimasen,” she apologized. “We’ve got a photo shoot this afternoon.” Yumi picked up her empty cup and stood. Outside, Mei and Kei popped open their parasols, bowed good-bye, and swept past a foreign tourist, deftly blocking him from taking their pictures as they threaded their way through the slow-moving crowd toward the GothXLoli offices on the next block. Yumi let the river of teenagers push her back toward the train station. Why hadn’t Mei and Kei found any trace of this article Rika claimed to be writing? No drafts, no Internet research. Why had she been so secretive? Feeling a slight pang of guilt that she hadn’t thought to tell Kenji she had Rika’s phone when she saw him that morning, she pulled it out and called Kei to ask for the suicide website addresses. Kei insisted she’d already sent them. Yumi checked. No e-mails. Kei said she’d try again. Yumi waited. Nothing came through, although she was nearly back at the station. What was wrong? She opened Rika’s Inbox and stopped so suddenly that several people trainwrecked behind her. On the day she died, Rika had received three messages from someone Yumi had never heard of. Someone calling herself <sweetmama>.
Chapter 12 Monday, April 8 12:30 P.M.
Kenji
The noonday sun pooled their shadows around their feet as Kenji and Suzuki rang the bell next to the locked glass door at the Hamada Sweets Corporation. Section Chief Tanaka had given Kenji the go-ahead to investigate what was going on at the suicide victims’ company without informing the higher-ups. Tanaka never wasted his superiors’ time with matters beneath their attention; he invited their participation only when it would burnish reputations all around. And he certainly didn’t want a First Investigative Division team camping at his station for anything short of murder. A stark hand-lettered sign on the front door informed visitors that the company had closed for the day out of respect for the death of its president, Mr. Tatsuo Hamada, and his wife, Mrs. Masayo Hamada. A buzzer sounded and Suzuki held the door. Glossy promotional photos of candy spilling from bags lined the reception area’s chalk-white walls, and dog-eared back issues of Japan Confectionery were arranged neatly on a glass-and-chrome coffee table. A “good luck” cat figure with a raised right paw peeked out from behind a bushy green plant that occasionally fooled visitors into thinking it was real. They crossed to the reception desk and Kenji said, “Sumimasen. I called earlier. I’m Detective
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Nakamura and this is Assistant Detective Suzuki.” He bowed to the woman, who was loyally on duty even though the other employees had been given a day of mourning. “I’m sorry for your recent loss.” “Thank you,” she said, crossing her hands palms-down on the desktop and bowing from the waist. Her bony frame failed to fill out her beige suit, and she wore no accessories apart from a limp floral scarf that drooped dispiritedly around her neck. She’d pinned her thin hair back severely with a goldtoned clip; no strands dared escape to soften her features. Plastic-framed tortoiseshell glasses magnified her eyes, doing nothing to disguise the fact she’d been crying. “I’m afraid I couldn’t reach the Hamadas’ son,” she apologized. “I called several times, but he must be too upset to answer his phone. I did manage to reach General Manager Fukuda, and he came in to answer any questions you might have.” Kenji gave her a reassuring smile and a slight bow. “Thank you. The sooner we gather our information, the sooner we’ll be able to close this case and allow arrangements to be made for the funerals. Before we speak with Fukuda-san, perhaps you can help us with the basics.” She sat up straighter and self-consciously adjusted her scarf. “I’m not important enough to know anything useful, but of course I’ll do my best.” “Let’s start with who works here at the plant.” She reached for a scuffed company directory. “Do you want to know about the factory workers or the management?” “Let’s start with management.” “Well Mr. Hamada is . . . was . . .” Her eyes glittered with tears, but she quickly blinked them away before they could spill down her cheeks. “Mr. Hamada was the president.” She swallowed, clutching a tissue. “Below him was Mr. Fukuda, the general manager, and Mr. Hamada’s son, Hiro, the head of purchasing.” “Head of purchasing? I got the impression that he was next in line to take over the company.” “He will, eventually. But his father believed he should learn every part of the business first. Right
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after college, Hiro-san worked in the warehouse, then in the kitchens where the products are made, then he moved up to foreman and plant manager. He just took over the purchasing job a few weeks ago, when Mr. Arita was . . . when he resigned.” “Ah,” Kenji said. “This Mr. Arita, had he been here a long time?” “Twenty-six years.” “Did he retire?” “No, he resigned.” “Any idea why he left?” The receptionist straightened the message slips on her desk, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know. One day I came in to work and he was gone. His office was cleared out. We were told he resigned, but not why.” She picked up a pen and put it down again. Kenji leaned on the desk and smiled at her. “I bet you’re pretty central to the running of the office, though. Surely you have some idea.” “Well,” she said reluctantly, “I heard that . . . there were some irregularities.” “Embezzling? Taking kickbacks?” “I don’t know. I couldn’t believe it. Arita-san seemed so honest and hardworking.” She clasped her hands in front of her on the desk. “And I shouldn’t gossip. I’m sure it had nothing to do with . . . what happened to Mr. Hamada.” “Of course.” Kenji straightened. “You’ve been very helpful. Perhaps you could ask Fukuda-san if he can see us now?” “Certainly.” She picked up the phone. A few moments later, a heavyset man with a Lions Club pin in his lapel appeared. He looked exactly like the descendant of shrewd Edo-era merchants that he was. His hair was combed straight back from a receding hairline and gravity was getting the better of his jowls. He looked prosperous, his full lips suggesting an appreciation for the finer things in life.
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After condolences and introductions, the general manager ushered them into his office and closed the door. White boards with scrawled details of shipment dates and quarterly product targets lined the room. On the wall behind Fukuda’s desk hung a framed piece of calligraphy with the characters “Purity. Quality. Value.” Fukuda seated himself behind his desk. “How may I be of service?” Kenji opened the file folder he’d brought. He hoped to discover enough to get a search warrant without alarming the management so thoroughly that they destroyed evidence before the warrant could be executed. “Mr. Fukuda, as you’re aware, Tatsuo Hamada and his wife Masayo were found dead in their car at the Komagome Shrine on Saturday morning.” The manager nodded gravely. “It looks like they committed suicide, but there are a few questions we still need to ask.” He looked across the polished wood at Fukuda. “The note left by Mr. Hamada and his wife suggested that they took their own lives because they were distressed about something that had happened—or was going to happen—at the company. Do you have any idea what they meant?” Fukuda considered the question. “No. There’s nothing I can think of.” He hesitated. “Not at work.” “Did they have a problem outside of the office?” Fukuda pursed his lips. “You’d better ask Hiro-san about that.” “That would be their son, Hiro Hamada? Was there friction between them?” “You mean at work? Not really. Just the sort of things common to family-owned businesses. The father is always reluctant to hand over responsibility to the son, and the son has a hard time waiting his turn. I guess Hamada-san wanted to enjoy having the corner office for a few more years before he turned it over to Hiro. Hamada Sr. resented the way his father-in-law made him earn every promotion, but he felt he had to uphold company tradition and make Hiro do the same.” “The company belonged to his wife’s father?”
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“Yes.” “I take it Mrs. Hamada had no brothers, so her husband was adopted as heir and changed his name when they married?” “Actually, Mrs. Hamada has a brother and a sister, both younger. Her father, the company founder, was the son of a famous confectioner in Osaka. In western Japan, old merchant families pass businesses down through the eldest daughter, so when old Mr. Hamada’s elder sister inherited the family concern, he moved to Tokyo to start his own company. He continued the tradition of inheritance through the daughter, however, since it was such a successful strategy.” Mr. Fukuda smiled at Kenji’s puzzled look. “Sons of successful businessmen may or may not turn out to be talented at business themselves. When a daughter inherits, her father can arrange for her to marry a smart, hardworking man from among his employees. The son-in-law takes on the family name and runs the company, even though it’s actually owned by his wife. That way, the business stays in the family and is assured of good leadership.” “Interesting.” Kenji consulted his notes. “But Tatsuo and Masayo Hamada had no daughters, so the company will go to their son. Did Mr. Hamada have confidence that his son would turn out to be a good manager?” Fukuda shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hiro-san is a smart boy. He’s learning that it’s not a good idea to make changes hastily.” “Ah. He wanted to modernize, but his father didn’t?” “Not modernize, exactly. He thought that we could make more profit if we cut a few corners.” “Was there friction about this lately? Between father and son?” “No more than usual. But . . .” The manager’s eyes slid away. “A couple of weeks ago, I came back to the office after closing because I’d forgotten some projections I intended to look over at home. I was about a block from the parking lot entrance when I saw Hiro speed out without stopping. I thought that everyone was gone, but Hiro had left the front door unlocked. When I passed Hamada-san’s door, it was
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closed, so I knew he was still there. As I was collecting the reports, I heard some sounds coming from his office, a sort of gasping. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t want to intrude, but I was worried he might be injured. I knocked and asked if he was all right. He said he was fine, but didn’t open the door. The next day he behaved as if nothing had happened, so I didn’t ask. I figured it was none of my business, maybe a family problem of some sort.” Kenji made a note. “Was this after your purchasing manager resigned?” Mr. Fukuda thought a moment. “No, before. It was a day or two before Arita-san was . . . before he left.” “Why did he leave?” “I believe he had some personal problems that made his further employment . . . unsuitable.” “You don’t know what those ‘problems’ might have been?” Mr. Fukuda sighed. “Hamada-san handled the entire situation himself and refused to explain what had happened, even to me. One day Arita-san was at his desk as usual, and the next day, he was gone. I heard all kinds of rumors afterward—Arita had a gambling problem, Arita owed money to gangsters— but Hamada-san never explained. I was worried he’d been caught with his hand in the till, but when I looked over the books, everything tallied. If it was some kind of financial wrongdoing, it must have been kickbacks that didn’t show in the spreadsheets.” Fukuda rubbed his jaw and added, “And even that didn’t make sense—we’ve worked with the same suppliers for years. I didn’t find any indication that Arita had bid out our contracts. There were no new suppliers who might have offered to slip him something under the table.” Kenji looked up from his notebook. “Were there any personal reasons the Hamadas might have taken their own lives? Their marriage? Health issues?” Fukuda straightened and frowned. “I wouldn’t know, Detective.” Meaning, even if he did, he was loyal to his late employer’s memory and had no intention of sharing with the police. “I understand.” Kenji said. “Perhaps his son will be able to tell us.”
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“Or you could ask his lawyer,” suggested Fukuda, compromising slightly in an attempt to shield the grieving son from questioning. “Nomura-san has represented Hamada Sweets for twenty-two years, but he’s also the family’s personal attorney.” “Thank you, I’ll do that. Do you have his contact information?” Fukuda nodded. He searched his address book, jotted an address and phone number on a company notepad, and handed it to Kenji, then pulled one of his own cards from a silver case. Kenji gave him a business card in return. “Thank you for your help, Fukuda-san. We appreciate your coming in to talk to us on a day of mourning.” They bowed and took their leave. As they walked back toward the train station, Kenji stopped and said, “Wait here a minute, Suzukisan. I’ll be right back.” He returned to the Hamada Sweets building to ask for the fired purchasing manager’s address.
Chapter 13 Monday, April 8 1:30 P.M.
Yumi
Yumi stared, unseeing, at the tight pink buds covering the azalea bushes across the tracks from the Harajuku Station platform. The e-mails on Rika’s phone left little doubt that <sweetmama> was the dead woman in the car. Even more depressing, her message had been sent from a whitelight.co.jp address, the suicide website Kei had mentioned. <sweetmama> appeared to have been the organizer. Where and when. Directions from the nearest subway station. The logistics of suicide. A train arrived and Yumi stepped into the near-empty car. There were plenty of seats, but she chose to stand, hanging onto a commuter strap, watching rain speckle the windows, then run in rivulets down the glass. The train gathered speed, rumbling toward Yoyogi as umbrellas bloomed outside. People hurried past the shops across from the tracks, heading for someplace warm and dry. Café windows flashed past, filled with women who would now linger over another cup of tea, waiting for the shower to pass. Yumi envied them their small complaints, their everyday concerns. They weren’t struggling with the death of a friend. A friend who appeared to have killed herself, with no explanation. How could Rika have done that to her family? How could Rika have done that to her?
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In the midst of her grief, Yumi felt a pinprick of anger. Who was this <sweetmama>, anyway? How could her best friend have shared the intimacy of death with someone Yumi had never heard of? She pulled Rika’s phone from her bag. There had to be another explanation. What about Midori’s theory that Rika had been meeting sources for a story? Date: Fri, 27 Mar, 15:34:32 Frm:
[email protected] Sub: Tonight’s meeting We decided the Komagome Shrine car park would be best. It’s more private than the other place, less likely that the car will be noticed. Look for a silver Lexus sedan. It’ll be parked in front of the sugi trees. We’ll meet you there at 8:00. Date: Fri, 27 Mar, 15:41:23 Frm:
[email protected] Sub: Directions Komagome Station is closest. Take the north exit, turn right, cross the street, shrine is on the right. Date: Fri, 27 Mar, 15:57:48 Frm:
[email protected] Sub: (Non title) I’ll talk to my husband and tell you tonight. That issue is weighing heavily on both of us. There’s no going back now, but you’re right, we should consider all the consequences before we go ahead. I wish we could do this without hurting people we care
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about, but that can’t influence our decision. There’s too much at stake. Too much at stake? What issue had Rika raised? There ought to be a copy of the message mentioning it in her Sent Mail. Yumi checked it. Empty. The Received box was empty too, except for the three that arrived on Friday afternoon. Why had Rika erased the record of her contacts with <sweetmama>? If all they were planning was suicide, it didn’t make sense. But if a source was feeding her sensitive information, she probably wouldn’t leave a record of it on a device that was easily lost or stolen. What kind of scandal would warrant secret meetings and concern about hurting people? Government corruption? Corporate wrongdoing? Maybe <sweetmama> had discovered something illegal where she worked and decided to become a whistleblower. She could have been worried about losing her job, concerned for her innocent co-workers, maybe even feared for her safety. That would explain the messages at least as well as suicide; if Yumi could find something— anything—to confirm that <sweetmama> and Rika were working together on an exposé, the police would have to investigate. The story had to be on that old college computer. The loudspeaker announced, “Next stop, Komagome.” As the doors parted, Yumi stepped out onto the platform and called Rika’s mother.
Chapter 14 Monday, April 8 1:30 P.M.
Kenji
“The lawyer’s office is only a few blocks away,” Kenji told Suzuki, examining the address he’d received from Mr. Fukuda. “Shall we drop by and see if he’s in?” “Would you like me to call first?” Suzuki asked. “No, let’s not give him a chance to make excuses.” A few minutes later, the receptionist at Saito, Okubo and Nomura was telling them that she expected Nomura-san to return from lunch shortly. They’d barely had time to sink into their chairs when a tall, thin man with brushed-back silver hair came through the door, talking earnestly with another lawyer. His eyes were intelligent ; a gold and silver pin identifying him as an officer of the court shone in the lapel of his expensive but understated suit. Kenji and Suzuki rose to their feet. “Nomura-san . . .” began the receptionist. The silver-haired man turned to her, but Kenji was bowing and introducing himself before she had a chance to remind the lawyer of his afternoon schedule. “We understand that you represented Tatsuo and Masayo Hamada,” Kenji explained, offering his business card formally with both hands. “If you could spare just a few minutes to fill in some blanks for
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us, we’ll be able to close their case more quickly and allow the family to begin making funeral arrangements.” The lawyer studied Kenji’s card, checked his watch, and asked the receptionist to show his next client into the conference room when he arrived. Ushering Kenji and Suzuki down the hall, he led them to a dignified yet comfortable office. Gesturing toward the two visitor’s chairs, he shut the door. Seating himself behind the walnut desk, he laid Kenji’s card in the center of his blotter and clasped his hands before him. “Mrs. Hamada’s sister called me this morning. I still can’t believe it. What a terrible loss. I worked with the Hamadas for over twenty years, and I never dreamed . . .” The lawyer pressed his lips together, choking off an unprofessional show of grief. “We extend our condolences.” Kenji bowed, then continued, “Did you know them personally as well as professionally?” “Only in the sense that I was intimately familiar with the arrangements they made with regard to their company and their son. We didn’t socialize, but I liked Hamada-san. Respected him. He was an honorable man.” “We understand he was adopted into the Hamada family when he married his wife.” The lawyer nodded. “Was Mrs. Hamada involved in the running of the company as well?” “Yes and no. She didn’t keep an office there and she had no title, but as the owner she was involved in all major decisions concerning Hamada Sweets.” “Hiring? Product development? Marketing?” “Not directly. She left operational decisions to her husband, but I know he consulted her.” “What about the recent firing of their purchasing manager, Arita?” Nomura frowned. “They were both extremely upset about that. As you know, in a traditional, family-owned business like Hamada Sweets, many employees belong to families that have worked there for generations. Mr. Hamada himself was the son of the former plant manager. He trained as an
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engineer, specializing in manufacturing automation. Before he married Mrs. Hamada, he was responsible for the retooling that doubled the plant’s capacity. The Hamadas understood the unspoken contract between a company and its employees—in the twenty years I’ve advised them, nearly all the turnover has been due to retirement. Arita’s firing was a shocking exception.” “Did they explain why Arita was shown the door?” “No. But a week ago, they updated their wills.” “What changes did they make?” “The first thing they did was add a personal bequest to Arita.” “How much?” “Sixty-five million, six hundred thousand and some-odd yen. When I asked why it wasn’t a round number, they told me it was equal to a year’s salary.” “Did they add any other bequests?” “No, but they made a change to their son’s trust.” “Changed it how?” “They named new trustees. Previously, his mother’s brother and sister shared those duties. If Hiro wanted to take money out of the trust before he was forty, he had to convince them it was a good idea. And that,” Nomura emphasized, “would not have been easy. His aunt and uncle thought Hiro had been . . . indulged. That he spent too much time and money enjoying himself rather than furthering the family fortunes. A week ago, Mr. and Mrs. Hamada named me as trustee instead. When I asked them why, they explained that their son had shown himself to have better judgment recently, and if they died, they didn’t want access to his money to be so restricted. They said he’d grown up a lot and proved that his values were in line with theirs.” Nomura shook his head sadly. “I never expected to take on my duties so soon.” A deferential knock at the door announced the receptionist, bringing tea. She deftly poured three cups, offered them with a small bow, and left the pot on the tray before letting herself out.
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Kenji sipped the fragrant brew. “Who inherits the company?” “Hiro Hamada,” Nomura answered. “Although that doesn’t change much—there are agreements in place to ensure that management will go on as before when the owner dies. Continuity has always been important at Hamada Sweets.” “What if he wanted to give himself a big promotion?” “I believe everything was set up so that nothing can be changed quickly, including hiring and firing.” The old-fashioned phone on the corner of Nomura’s desk burred. “Excuse me.” He listened for a moment and said, “I’ll be right out.” Replacing the receiver, he apologized. “My client is here. I’m afraid I don’t have time for more questions today.” “You’ve already been more than generous, Nomura-san.” Kenji bowed. “Thank you for accommodating us without notice. If I could ask one more quick question?” The lawyer nodded. “Did the purchasing manager or the Hamadas’ son know of the changes to the wills?” “Not from me.”
Chapter 15 Monday, April 8 3:30 P.M.
Yumi
Mrs. Ozawa clutched a damp, white handkerchief as she opened the door to Rika’s room. “Go ahead,” she told Yumi. “I . . . I can’t bring myself to go in quite yet.” “I understand, Ozawa-san. Thank you for letting me look.” Rika’s mother hesitated, then asked, “What are you hoping to find?” Yumi explained about the freelance article Mei and Kei believed Rika had been writing, how it might prove she hadn’t committed suicide if it turned out she was writing something that threatened powerful people. “You mean . . . maybe she didn’t kill herself? Maybe . . . ?” Mrs. Ozawa pressed the hankie to her mouth, her red-rimmed eyes widening in horror. Yumi knew there was no comforting reply. While it was painful to think Rika had committed jisatsu, it was even worse to hear her life had been cut short without the dignity of choice. In Japan, suicide was accepted as an honorable way out of impossible situations, but murder was always sordid, the family reputation forever tainted by the brush with scandal. “If Rika didn’t commit jisatsu, I’ll do everything I can to help the police catch the person who did it. Don’t you think Rika would want that?” Yumi asked gently.
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Mrs. Ogawa bowed her head and stood aside. Twin beds took up the entire room, with only a narrow space left between them. The late-afternoon sun shone through thin, flowered curtains, tinting everything pink. Yumi flicked on the lights. Like her own room at home, a piece of carpet had been fitted over the old tatami mats because it was cheaper than renewing them when they wore out. The twin beds were actually frames on which traditional futon pads and their matching thick covers were laid. They looked like Western-style beds, but were as comfortable as sleeping on the floor. Rika’s sister’s bed was bare and smooth, unchanged since she married and moved out a year ago. Centered above the headboard, a dated poster of the boy band Arashi curled against its pushpins. On Rika’s half of the room, magazine pullouts of rock bands tacked haphazardly over each other covered the plaster like a crazy quilt. Yumi knew she could peel away the layers and chart her friend’s changing tastes, all the way back to elementary school: Moi dix Mois, Venom Vixen, Dir En Grey, GLAY. A mountain of stuffed animals—mostly Monchhichi monkeys dressed in various outfits—hid the headboard and pillows. Yumi spied a familiar, grubby ear sticking out near the bottom. Sitting down, she excavated the Monchhichi she’d given Rika for her eleventh birthday. The features on its freckled plastic face had nearly worn off from being hugged under the covers on so many sleepovers. She smoothed the place where Rika had once tried to give the monkey a haircut. Clutching it to her chest, she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She couldn’t bear to look at the monkey’s hopeful and ever-smiling face, so she used its furry back to wipe her eyes and carefully placed it on top of the heap, facing the wall. As she settled it onto the pile, a cell phone slipped down from where it had been tossed on top, tethered to its charger. The thick tassel of danglers was instantly familiar—Rika’s old phone. Yumi unplugged it and flipped it open. Six missed calls, one unread text, two unread e-mails. The two e-mails were duplicates, sent by Kei this afternoon: the suicide website addresses.
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So that’s why they hadn’t come through. Rika had bought a new phone, but still used the old one for everything but . . . suicide? Or business, thought Yumi. That would fit with her friend’s yearning for a respectable writing career. It had been Rika who’d suggested it was time to upgrade their phones. And the timing fit—hadn’t Kei mentioned that she’d become secretive about what she was writing about three weeks ago? She forwarded one of Kei’s e-mails with the suicide website address to her own phone, then looked over the rest of Rika’s unread messages. The text was from her own phone, sent Saturday morning on the way to the hairdresser. The display blurred; when she’d sent that message Rika was already dead, but she didn’t know it yet. The missed calls were from Rika’s mother, increasingly urgent as Friday night turned into Saturday morning. Rika was still using her old phone, yet she hadn’t taken it to her appointment with death. If she was using the new phone exclusively for business, that made it more likely the man and woman who died with her were sources, not fellow suicide victims. Yumi checked both the Received and Sent mail. No correspondence at all with <sweetmama>. The dangling ornaments clicked against each other as she slowly closed the phone. A miniature Daruma doll brushed against her hand. The familiar rotund saint stared up at her with two blank, white eyes. Why hadn’t Rika made a wish, that long-ago New Year’s Day in eighth grade when they’d bought each other those Darumas at the Nezu Shrine? The familiar egg-shaped dolls, painted with red robes, fierce whiskers, and scowling eyebrows, were modeled after the founder of Zen Buddhism. Tradition credited Daruma figures with the power to grant wishes; for generations, optimistic Japanese had blacked in one eye with a fervent prayer to the bodhisattva, waiting to color in the other until the wish had been granted. Yumi had blackened one eye of hers immediately, hoping that the boy who sat two seats in front of her would develop as much of a crush on her as she had on him. But Rika had already become a Lolita by then; her entire social life revolved around her Circle.
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Yumi sighed. By the time Rika discovered boys, she had better ways of attracting them than wishing on a Daruma doll. Yumi searched out the place where the ornament tied onto the other phone danglers and teased the stiff string loose, pulling it from the bunch. She dropped it in her jacket pocket and settled the old phone back onto the pile of stuffed animals. Yumi stood and surveyed the room. She had a little over an hour to search for the computer before she had to go home and dress for the concert. Ichiro had called last night after she returned from the Mad Hatter to make sure she was all right. After he’d commandeered his father’s car to take her home, he’d accompanied her all the way to her doorstep instead of just telling the driver to deliver her. She’d cried all the way across town, blurting out bits and pieces about Rika, their friendship, her loss. She probably hadn’t been making much sense but he didn’t look away, embarrassed, the way so many Japanese men would have. He’d listened, and even though his efforts to comfort her were awkward, at least he’d tried. So when he’d called later, asking if she wanted to bow out of the charity event the next evening, she’d found herself saying that going to a concert with him would be a comfort, a welcome distraction from her grief. It would certainly be better than staying home with her parents in their gloomy house. There weren’t many places to store things in Rika’s room. She’d start with the closet. Edging sideways around the bed, she slid the door open. It was stuffed with clothes, all of them pink and white. On the floor, a rack displayed two tiers of platform Mary Janes and a pair of pink, lace-up, patent leather boots. Yumi pressed the clothes aside, looking behind the shoe racks. Duffel bag. Yumi hauled it out. It was navy blue, with “Aoyama Gakuin Daigaku” silk-screened on the side in white. Midori’s name was on the luggage tag. What was Rika doing with the Elegant Goth-Lolita’s college gym bag? Inside were two frilly black blouses, an unopened package of striped socks, and a little rhinestone crown with black satin ties. There was no skirt. Had Rika been wearing it when she died? Now Yumi knew where Rika had gotten the black clothing and why Midori had been so sure Rika hadn’t
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killed herself. What kind of friend would borrow your clothes, then commit suicide in them? On the shelf above, a box of grade school art projects sat next to a row of books, ranging from Prince of Tennis comics to journalism texts. Yumi closed the door and slid open the other side. Pink and white blouses and skirts continued along the pole over a rickety chest of drawers. Yumi spotted the old laptop on top of the dresser, looking dumpy and middle-aged. She opened the lid and pressed the power button, but it didn’t respond. Dead battery. She wiggled open the top drawer and found a neatly coiled power cord. By 5:00 she had skimmed only half the folders. Most contained old college journalism assignments, nothing more recent than two years ago. Yumi rubbed her tired eyes, irritated that she’d have to quit before finding anything. Usually she wouldn’t allow two hours to dress for a date, but a phone call that morning from Ichiro’s mother had forced her to change what she’d planned to wear. It had been a very delicate conversation between the two mothers. Since it would have been unseemly for Mrs. Mitsuyama to mention the suicide of someone she didn’t know—even though she’d heard the news from her own son—she first commented on the weather, then enquired after Yumi’s health. After being reassured that Yumi was fine, although she’d suffered a shock, Ichiro’s mother had murmured her condolences. Mrs. Hata assured her that Yumi was well enough to attend the concert and Mrs. Mitsuyama said she was delighted that Yumi would be accompanying them to the Empress’s refugee benefit. It was her favorite charity event, she confided, because Her Imperial Highness always attended and it provided a wonderful opportunity to wear a kimono instead of the cocktail dresses that were sadly becoming all too common at even the most formal affairs. They’d call with the car at 7:15, if that was agreeable. Yumi sighed and shut down the laptop, coiling the cord. It was time to go home and start struggling with the wraps, underslips, ties, and clips that kimono wearing required. She tucked the laptop under her arm and padded to the kitchen, where she found Rika’s mother
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staring off into space, a fist-sized bamboo shoot in one hand and a paring knife in the other. “Mrs. Ozawa?” “Oh! Yumi. Sorry. I forgot you were here.” She put down the knife and the takenoko, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Did you find what you were looking for?” “Yes and no. I found her computer, but so far I haven’t found the article she was writing. May I take it with me to continue searching and bring it back when I’m done?” “Of course.” “Thank you. I’ll tell you right away if I find anything.” She took in the dark circles under Mrs. Ozawa’s eyes. Her friend’s mother had aged more in the past few days than in all the time she’d known her. “Are you going to be all right here alone?” Rika’s mother gave her a wan smile. “My husband will be back soon. I sent him to the grocery store to get him out of the house for a while. His company doesn’t expect him to be at work at a time like this, but he doesn’t know what to do with himself at home. And her sister is coming home tonight on the train from Kobe.” Reassured, Yumi said good-bye. Passing the zori repair shop on her way home, she began thinking about which kimono to wear tonight. As she debated between the red-and-yellow-striped crepe and the purple silk with swirls, Rika’s new phone began vibrating in her purse.
Chapter 16 Monday, April 8 5:40 P.M.
Kenji
Kenji’s foot jiggled nervously as he returned the missed call from the unknown number. A streetlight glowed outside the darkening window behind the section chief’s desk. “Moshi-moshi, this is Yumi.” “Oh! Yu-chan! I wondered whose number this was. It’s Kenji Nakamura, returning your call.” “Thanks for calling me back. Anything new about Rika?” He’d learned some interesting things about the Hamadas this afternoon, but nothing about Yumi’s friend. “No,” he said, shuffling through the papers on his desk looking for the crime scene inventory. “But actually, there’s something you might be able to help me with. Do you know who Mizuki Ishii is?” “Rika’s sister. She got married last year. What does she have to do with this?” “We found an empty pill bottle in Rika’s pocket. The prescription was made out to Mizuki Ishii, dated February third of last year. We called the prescribing doctor to find out what polyethylene glycol is.” He paused. “I’ve never heard of anybody killing themselves with laxatives before.” “Laxatives?” “That’s what was in the bottle, but we won’t know if that’s what she took unless we do an autopsy. And nothing has changed on that front—we still don’t have evidence to suggest it was anything but
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suicide.” “Well,” said Yumi, “maybe now you will. I have Rika’s phone. The reason I called earlier is that I found something interesting on it. She got three e-mails from someone called <sweetmama> on the day she died. I think <sweetmama> is one of the other victims you found in the car. She may have been a source for the story I heard Rika was working on. Our friend Midori says Rika was writing some sort of exposé. It could have been the reason they were killed.” “What’s this story about?” “I don’t know,” Yumi admitted. “I’m still looking for it.” “Can you forward those e-mails to me?” “I’ll do it right now. Call me back when you get them.” Kenji ended the call and waited for the chime that told him he had unread messages. He scrolled through them, then called Yumi. “What do you think?” she said, picking up where they left off. “Is it enough to convince your boss to okay an investigation?” “Yu-chan . . . I’m not even sure that they convince me. The meeting she’s talking about could have been between a writer and a source, but it could just as easily have been a suicide pact.” Silence. “Look,” Kenji said. “Let’s not give up yet. When you checked her work computer for the story, did you look at her browser history, too? To see what she’d been researching?” “Mei and Kei did.” Yumi sighed. “But the only sites she visited that didn’t have to do with her job were suicide websites.” “I see. Do you remember which ones?” “Kei e-mailed the names to me. I’ll forward them.” “Thanks. It might explain how she met the people who died with her in the car.” “These other people . . . Who were they?”
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“A business executive and his wife.” “And you’re sure they killed themselves?” “Yes.” He couldn’t tell Yumi about the Hamadas’ suicide note and its alarming suggestions of wrongdoing, in case it blew up into a bigger investigation. But if the crime was awful enough to drive the president and his wife to kill themselves, it would have made a sensational story for a wannabe journalist like Rika Ozawa. Had they told her about it before they died? “This story Rika was supposedly writing . . . Where are you looking?” “I found her old college computer and I’m about halfway through searching it.” “Do you think you’ll finish tonight?” “I can’t. I’m . . . going out.” “Oh.” He hoped she hadn’t noticed the dismay in his voice. “Is there some way I could get that computer from you? I could finish searching it.” “Sure. Are you still at the station? I’m on my way home, about a block away.” “Good. I’ll come down to meet you.” “Mata ne.” A few minutes later, Yumi pushed through the front door. She held up a Seibu shopping bag. “Here. I’ve finished searching all the folders through ‘Misc Freelance.’” He thanked her, then groaned. “Damn. I meant to bring down your phone. I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave Rika’s phone with me, but we’re done with yours. Let me run up and get it.” Yumi looked at her watch. “I’ll be right back. I promise.” He ran for the stairs, not waiting for the elevator. A few minutes later, Kenji returned, slightly winded. Yumi was thumb-typing something on Rika’s phone, but she finished just as he arrived. They swapped, and she ran out the door with a quick wave, rushing toward her date. He watched her disappear down the block and sighed. Back at his desk, he resolutely pulled a notepad toward him. He jotted:
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Tuesday —Hamada Sweets purchasing manager? —Suicide websites? Check for Hamadas, Ozawa —Check with lab re: pills in vomit? Post-mortem? He sat back in his chair. When should he talk to the son again? Hiro Hamada had been in no shape to answer questions when Kenji broke the news of his parents’ death on Saturday night. Kenji had waited outside the victims’ Shirogane apartment from midafternoon until the son finally came home at 1:00 A.M. after a solid night of clubbing. He’d been irritated to find Kenji waiting on his doorstep and drunk enough that he shouldn’t have been driving. Hiro had grudgingly invited Kenji into the living room of the spacious flat he shared with his parents, and poured himself another drink before agreeing to sit down and listen. Despite his initial surly attitude, he’d seemed genuinely shocked and horrified at the news of his parents’ deaths. He read the copy of the suicide note with disbelief, denying any knowledge of what had driven his parents to take their own lives. Then he’d collapsed. Kenji fetched him a glass of water and offered to call a friend or relative, but he’d refused, insisting that Kenji leave immediately. Kenji was worried that, left alone, Hiro would have a serious breakdown, so on the way out he’d awakened the building manager, asking him to check on the Hamada son and make sure he was okay. He’d left the heir to grieve in peace, but now he had no choice but to probe deeper about what was going on at the company. Hiro’s name was added to his list. He’d contact Hamada Jr. tomorrow after hunting down the fired purchasing manager. Should he take Suzuki along, or ask him to start combing the suicide websites? How the Hamadas had met up with Yumi’s friend was still a mystery. Yumi. She looked exactly the same. Better, actually. Looking down at his pad, he saw that he’d been outlining a heart, over and over. Frowning, he ripped off the sheet, crumpling it into a ball. He tossed it at his wastebasket and missed. Kenji remembered the day his third grade teacher had stood Yumi in front of the chalkboard and
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introduced her, the day he’d first set eyes on the exotic creature from America who was not at all happy to be there and refused to speak to anybody. The class was split between those who were sure she didn’t speak Japanese and those who thought she was just plain dumb. Both were proved wrong at the end of the first week, when she overheard kids talking about her at lunch, and marched over to set them straight using perfectly fluent Japanese salted with the kind of words she could only have learned by watching gangster movies. After that, she’d been viewed with wary fascination. It turned out she was functionally illiterate—couldn’t read or write half the kanji characters already necessary in third grade—but could speak English better than those guys who came on TV early in the morning to explain foreign newspaper articles. Kenji had been far too shy to talk to her, but when they’d been assigned to work on that model together, he discovered she wasn’t scary at all. In fact, she was so straightforward and funny, if he made himself ignore the way her ponytail bobbed and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, he could almost pretend she was a boy. Yesterday at Matsumoto’s, however, he’d been utterly unable to ignore her laughing eyes and luxuriant hair and the funny way she frowned when she was concentrating on something. When he noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring yet and she said she wasn’t going out with that foreigner anymore, he had to instantly excuse himself to get more tea, afraid she’d see the longing that rushed back and hit him right between the eyes. In high school he’d told himself he wasn’t her type, that she only liked foreigners, but he couldn’t help hoping she’d changed as much as he had. His phone rang. Tommy Loud, from the crime lab. “I’ve got something for you,” said the tech. “Wait a sec, let me get a pen.” Kenji rummaged in his desk drawer. “Okay, go ahead.” “First of all, the vomit at the scene of your suicides matches the swab you brought me from your young female victim’s mouth.” “And what about drugs? Did she throw up before or after taking the pills?” “Before. We found traces of fruit juice and alcohol, some shreds of lettuce, and about three
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dispensers worth of Pinky.” “Pinky?” “Yeah. Those little breath mints. These were the grapefruit-flavored ones, I think; they were white. She ate about fifty of them. What’s really strange is that the Pinkys hadn’t been chewed. They were whole.” “Could those kill you?” The tech laughed. “The melon flavor might, because it’s so revolting.” “No sleeping pills?” “Nope. I also ran some tests on the dust inside the pill bottle we found in her pocket. Guess what it was?” “Laxatives?” Kenji said, hoping to stun Loud with his knowledge. “Nope. Pinky.” “Huh. Can you tell how much she had to drink before she threw up?” “Not without a blood test. But unofficially, unless she was unusually sensitive to alcohol, I’d say she didn’t drink nearly enough to make her vomit. Volume-wise it was one drink, maybe two.” “So what made her lose it?” “You’re the detective.” Kenji sighed. The tech asked, “Are you going to request a judicial autopsy?” “I don’t know. She went to a bar, had a drink or two, ate a salad, swallowed a month’s worth of breath mints, and threw up.” “Then something—or someone—killed her. That’s a pretty big loose end.” The tech paused. “Although I don’t blame you for not wanting to drag in the boys from downtown unless you absolutely have to.” Loud’s tone told Kenji that he’d experienced the three-ring circus that was unleashed once a murder was confirmed.
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“You know,” Loud continued slowly, “once you request a post-mortem, it can take a while for the official paperwork to come through. Those forensic specialists hate to have any reports out there with their hanko stamp on them until every single test has come back from the labs.” He was silent for a moment. “And that can take days.” “Days? How do any crimes get solved when the killer gets such a big head start on the investigators?” “I didn’t say the information isn’t available. I said the official report might not get to headquarters for days. Especially in a case that’s presumed to be suicide, the kind of case that wouldn’t interest the murder squad. Unless somebody requests their assistance, they won’t be assigned to move into the precinct unless there’s a major crime to investigate.” “Ah.” Kenji understood. “You don’t happen to know anybody who could get this advance information from the specialists, do you?” “As a matter of fact, just last month I attended a conference with the head of staff at Tokyo University’s School of Legal Medicine.” “In that case, I’ll talk to Section Chief Tanaka to see if he’ll authorize a post-mortem on the girl. Thanks, Rowdy-san.” Kenji sat back in his chair. He looked at his notes and reread the words he’d underlined as he talked with Loud. No drugs. Fifty Pinky tablets, swallowed whole. Swallowed whole as though they were pills. Rika Ozawa had swallowed pills that wouldn’t kill her and left a suicide note that didn’t say anything.
Chapter 17 Monday, April 8 6:00 P.M.
Yumi
“I’m not wearing that.” “But Yumi, you’d look lovely in it. It’s perfect for the season.” Mrs. Hata held up the pale pink kimono, dripping with cherry blossoms. She’d already sewn the white undercollar on, so it would be ready to wear. “No.” “But Yumi, Mrs. Mitsuyama said—” “I’m not dating Mrs. Mitsuyama.” “But the Empress—” “I’m not dating the Empress, either.” Yumi’s father called from the kitchen. “Okaa-san, do we have any more Otokoyama?” Mrs. Hata sighed. She folded the pink kimono over her arm and went to fetch a fresh bottle of sake. Yumi didn’t really intend to wear the slinky cocktail dress she’d threatened her mother with, but she’d been irritated at being pressured by Mrs. Mitsuyama, and when her own mother jumped in, trying to dress her like a 1970s tourist souvenir, it was just too much. If she had to wear a kimono, at least it could be a stylish one. Pulling open the bottom drawer in the
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wide kimono chest, she flipped through the carefully wrapped layers. Too bad she couldn’t wear her favorite—its purple morning glory design wouldn’t be in season until early September. Digging a little deeper, she pulled out a flat package wrapped in washi paper. Untying the cord, she lifted out a 1920s kimono of slithery crimson and black silk, patterned with large white flowers that looked like they were made of lace. She removed several obi sashes from another drawer, held them up one by one against the kimono, then put away all but the one woven with a lively geometric pattern of spring green, pale yellow, and red. By the time her mother returned, she’d stitched on a green-and-white-checkered undercollar and was halfway dressed, clips and ties holding the underslips in place as she tucked up the kimono so it would just skim her zori sandals. Mrs. Hata sighed in resignation and pitched in to help. “Why is Dad home so early tonight?” Yumi asked, holding her arms out to the side. Her mother adjusted the folds in back before measuring out the first wrap of the four-meter-long obi. “Today he was interviewed by the faculty panel for that professorship he’s hoping to get.” Yumi held one end of the obi while her mother wrapped the other end around her. “How did it go?” “He says it went great, but . . .” Yumi’s mother pulled the obi tight as both of them silently finished the sentence: That’s what he always said. Her mother started working on the bow in back, one of the elaborate winged knots that would identify her daughter as an unmarried women. “When will they decide?” Yumi asked. “Next week, I think.” Mrs. Hata tweaked the checkered obijime cord that held the obi in place and pulled back, eyeing it critically. “Want to go to the Nezu Shrine with me tomorrow to make a few offerings? Can’t hurt.” Yumi clipped a rosette of vintage lace to the cord, pinned on a veiled crimson hat at a jaunty angle, and pulled on her favorite black mesh gloves. She turned to look in the mirror, and her reflection confirmed she’d made the right choice. Technically traditional enough, but not boring.
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Her mother nervously adjusted the bow in back, frowning. “Why do you have to wear all those strange accessories? You look like one of those girls who parade down Omotesando Boulevard!” Yumi smiled, pleased that she’d succeeded. The doorbell rang. She snatched up her sandals and looped a shimmery silver evening bag over her wrist. Shuffling to the entryway, she set down her zoris and stepped into them, putting on a smile as she opened the door. It wasn’t Ichiro. “Oh! Good evening, Mrs. Mitsuyama,” Yumi said, startled to see his mother instead. Formal greetings were exchanged and kimonos mutually admired. Ichiro’s mother presented the Hatas with a box of expensive rice crackers, apologizing that she couldn’t come in because her husband was waiting in the car. The driver bowed and opened the back door of the big Lexus. Mrs. Mitsuyama slid in first, next to Ichiro’s father. Yumi peered in, checking both back and front seats. “Isn’t Ichiro coming?” “Didn’t he tell you? He had to be there early—he’s performing.” Yumi groaned inwardly. No wonder he’d been reluctant to invite her. This wasn’t going to be a date with him, it was a date with his parents. Too late now. She arranged her face into a pleasant expression and folded herself into the car next to Mrs. Mitsuyama. But the car ride wasn’t as awkward as she’d feared. Instead of seventeen stops on the subway with a change at Ueno and a long walk from Kamiyachō Station, the big car purred smoothly through the traffic and pulled up to the curb right in front of Suntory Hall as they chatted about music. The Mitsuyamas whisked her inside. As they made their way to their seats, Yumi was caught up in a dizzying whirlwind of introductions. Smiled upon by an ex-prime minister, casually invited backstage by a legendary Kabuki actor, and complimented by the man who would be shōgun if the Meiji Restoration had never happened, by the time they reached their seats, her head was spinning. It was the first time she’d experienced what it was like to be a member of the Mitsuyamas’ inner circle.
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She’d barely finished looking over the program when everyone stood and five hundred pairs of hands began to clap. A slight woman stood at the rail of the box opposite and waved graciously. The Empress was much smaller than she looked in photographs. The first half of the program was a performance by the wife of the American ambassador, playing two-piano Rachmaninoff with her Japanese counterpart. When the curtains reopened, Ichiro stood with his quartet, looking dashing in a tuxedo, his violin gleaming in the spotlight. The four musicians bowed first toward the Empress, then to the audience, before raising their bows to begin the first movement of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden. The intensity on Ichiro’s face was something Yumi hadn’t seen before. On stage, lost in the music, he wasn’t the plain, somewhat stiff man she had met across the o-miai lunch table. And he was surprisingly good. Yumi hadn’t really noticed how well he played at the long-ago Asia Society gathering in Boston. When the musicians lifted their bows in a final flourish at the end of the “Presto,” his features lit up with an incandescent smile. Applause rose in waves from the audience. After they bowed deeply to the Empress, then the hall, the curtain closed. The audience continued to clap and when the curtain reopened, the quartet bowed again, joined by the pianists. As they straightened, Ichiro looked up at her. She smiled back and clapped harder. Afterward, she hovered at the edge of a scrum of well-wishers backstage, as Ichiro flicked glances in her direction over the shoulders of the fashionable young men and women crowding in to congratulate him. As soon as was polite, he excused himself and made his way through the crowd to Yumi, leaving no doubt in anybody’s mind whom he’d been playing for that evening. Ichiro’s parents took a taxi home, leaving them the car and driver. She followed him back to the practice room where the quartet had warmed up. Well-worn cork tiled the floor, and dark scrapes along the walls attested to the instrument cases that had been wrestled in and out by generations of performers. Ichiro’s violin case sat open on one of the stackable chairs arranged in a haphazard semicircle behind battered black music stands. Musicians and their admirers drifted past the
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door, gearing up for the afterparties. The viola player had already put away her instrument and was pulling pins from her hair. She shook it out, and Yumi was surprised to see a magenta streak that had been carefully hidden under her chignon. She was wearing a pair of conservative Mikimoto pearl earrings, but tiny piercings marched up the sides of both ears. “God, I’m glad that’s finally over,” she said, shrugging a black leather biker jacket over her gown. “Mitsu-boy, you played well tonight.” “So did you.” Ichiro grinned. Turning to Yumi, the viola player said, “Apparently you’re a good influence. I’m Nikki.” “And I’m Yumi. Pleased to meet you. Great concert.” Nikki made a face and shouldered a black leather purse dripping with silver chains and crosses. “Just don’t tell anybody you saw me here, playing Schubert and dressed like this.” She gazed down scornfully at her black Vera Wang gown. “My band would disown me.” “How’s that going?” Ichiro asked. “We’ve got a ‘live’ at a club on Friday, actually. And I’ll tell you one thing—Goths pay a lot better than Her Imperial Highness.” She grinned wickedly. “You should come. It’d be good for you.” “Uh . . .” “Mitsu, you’re hopeless. Such an incurably dutiful eldest son.” The cellist stuck his head in the door. “Nikki-chan, you coming? The cab’s waiting.” She picked up her case and whispered to Yumi, “Work on loosening up Mr. Heir Apparent here, will you?”
Chapter 17 Monday, April 8 11:30 P.M.
Yumi
A few hours later, after making an appearance at the sponsors’ gala, Ichiro and Yumi sank onto a leather sofa in the penthouse suite of the Grand Hyatt at one of the private afterparties. Vast windows framed a view of the twinkling boulevards far below, and reflected the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the spacious room. Nearly half the young women were wearing kimonos, exotic flowers against the stark black of their escorts’ tuxedos. Ichiro’s black tie was hanging loose, and Yumi had stopped caring if her obi bow got crushed. The son of the chairman of Suntory uncorked a bottle of Chateau de Beaucastel and poured the wine around, assuring everyone they’d be ruined for any other Bordeaux after drinking it. Yumi secretly would have preferred a lemon-flavored, canned chū-hai, but Ichiro and his friends were clearly used to moresophisticated drinks. She didn’t want to embarrass him, so she dutifully accepted a glass. It wasn’t nearly sweet enough, but she managed to sip it without making a face. She wondered if she’d ever develop a taste for French wine. It was hard to imagine preferring it to a nice, fruity cocktail that hid the taste of the alcohol, but stranger things had happened in the past few weeks. Until a month ago, her entire social life had revolved around Rika and Coco. All three of them
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chafed against the unspoken rules about everything from proper dress to proper ambitions, but her friends would never understand why she sometimes felt like such an alien in Japan. Rika and Coco had never been out of the country, didn’t even have passports. Ichiro’s friends were different. Their families had been moved across the global chessboard by diplomatic and corporate assignments, their childhoods salted with exotic foreign languages. They too had encountered inedible-looking foods like artichokes and made foreign faux pas that were as embarrassing as forgetting to take off the plastic toilet slippers when returning to a Tokyo dinner party. This was the third time she’d met Ichiro’s friends, and she was still astonished she had so much in common with the privileged scions she’d expected to find snobby and spoiled. Unlike most people she met in Tokyo, they made her feel she was already a member of their club. She no longer felt uncomfortable with their expensive clothes and casual acceptance of luxury; the only thing she envied was that they were all so at home in Japan. Ichiro’s face was glowing as his friends drifted in and out, congratulating him on his performance. Sitting on the sofa next to him, aware of the city spread at their feet, she realized with an almost electric shock that she could choose this. Not just the luxury, but the belonging. She’d been trudging along, one foot in front of the other, and suddenly found herself on the crest of a ridge, looking down into a dazzling country she hadn’t realized existed. For the first time, she let herself imagine what it would be like to be part of Ichiro’s life. A sneaking discomfort interrupted her thoughts. She was going to need a bathroom soon. The penthouse suite was so trendily Western she knew it wouldn’t have a Japanese-style squat toilet, and experience had taught her that Western toilets and kimono could be a disastrous combination. Should she venture out into the public part of the hotel in search of a Japanese-style o-tearai? Or wrestle with her clothing en suite? Urgency decided for her. She’d better seek out the closest one. Excusing herself, she walked through the sitting room next door and found a powder room down the hall.
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It took a good ten minutes to deal with her kimono, then repair her makeup. Finally satisfied with what she saw in the mirror, she retraced her steps down the hallway, but slowed at the sound of men’s voices in the sitting room she’d have to pass through on her way back to Ichiro. Their confidential tone warned that it would be an intrusion to burst in, so she hung back and waited, hoping they’d leave soon. “. . . by the time she went with the building manager to open the Hamadas’ front door, Hiro was in really bad shape. Hadn’t eaten in over a day, hadn’t called any of his relatives to tell them the news. My mother said it looked like he’d been drinking his way through everything in the house. Empties everywhere. He was pretty out of it.” “No wonder. Poor guy. Losing both parents like that.” “Yeah, what a shock.” “Was it really . . . jisatsu?” “That’s what the detective told our building manager. Found them dead, early Saturday morning, in a car at the Komagome Shrine. Hiro was out of his mind with grief, saying all kinds of crazy things. My mother was so worried she asked our doctor to come over and give him a sedative. She called his aunt and stayed with him until she arrived.” “I wonder what’ll happen to Hamada Sweets. Will Hiro take over?” “I guess, but until he gets himself promoted to president, nothing much will change except the size of his golf bets.” “When are the funerals?” “Haven’t heard.” “Well, one thing’s for sure, he won’t be playing in the tournament next Saturday.” “Damn, that’s right. The tournament.” Yumi heard a groan. “Do you think we can get Mitsuyama to make up our foursome?” “I’ll ask him. You want another drink?” “Nah, it’s getting late. I have to work tomorrow.” The leather chairs sighed as they rose to leave.
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Yumi stood in the hallway, stunned. They’d been talking about the two people who’d been found in the car with Rika! Were they really the parents of someone Ichiro knew? What would it be like, to lose both parents at once? For a moment she let herself taste that immense loss: alone, in the drafty house in Komagome, kept company only by the ghosts of her disappointed father and worried mother. She shivered, remembering the weekend her parents had been away in Hakone, how dark and silent the house had felt the night she’d broken up with Ben. Smoothing her kimono, she made her way back to the party. The crowd had thinned and quieted. Intimate conversations warmed the room, lamps illuminating the faces of Ichiro’s friends. From the doorway, she watched him laughing easily with a pair of girls in beautifully cut gowns. She joined them and Ichiro pulled her down next to him with a grin. “Where have you been all this time? I thought you’d never come back,” he whispered in her ear, and she curled up next to him, grateful for the warmth.
Chapter 19 Tuesday, April 9 12:00 P.M.
Kenji
After a morning spent tying up loose ends on the gang case, Kenji finally escaped the station with Suzuki to track down the fired Hamada Sweets purchasing manager. They fortified themselves at a convenience store near Ueno Station with rice balls and cold tea before venturing into the warren of residential streets nearby. As they searched for the address, Kenji wondered whether the forensic specialist would do Rika Ozawa’s autopsy today. Her mother had given tearful permission that morning, and the body had been transferred to Tokyo University’s Legal Medicine morgue. He’d left a message on Yumi’s phone about the post-mortem. While Suzuki walked down the street searching for the Aritas’ apartment building, Kenji spotted a grandmotherly woman sweeping her front step with a twig broom. The indigo-dyed farmer pants she wore were as old-fashioned as her house, a one-story wooden structure crouching between the tall, stuccoed apartments. Her hair was pinned back in a bun, and her worn wooden geta clopped on the pavement as she bustled back and forth. “Good afternoon, honorable auntie,” he said, bowing and showing his police ID. “I’m Detective Kenji Nakamura. I was wondering if you know which building the Arita family lives in?”
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“Yutaka Arita?” she asked, her eyes suddenly as avid as a cormorant spotting a sardine. “What’s he done?” “Nothing, ma’am. He’s a witness in a case we’re investigating and we need to talk to him.” “Is that why he lost his job?” “No, honorable auntie, nothing like that.” “It’s that building there. The one with the bikes parked in front.” She gestured down the block with a gnarled claw. Kenji thanked her and started to walk away. She called after him, “He’s not home, you know.” Kenji turned. “Not home? Where is he?” The old woman clamped her mouth shut. “Better ask his wife,” she said, propping her broom next to the front door and slipping off her geta before stepping inside and decisively sliding the door shut. Suzuki joined Kenji in front of the five-story building. After identifying themselves by intercom, they were buzzed in, climbed the stairs, and found the door to apartment 202 already open. A salt-andpepper-haired woman with a pair of flower-arranging secateurs in one hand and a branch of cherry blossoms in the other peered at them curiously from the doorway. She wore a green canvas apron over her slacks and flowered blouse, a kerchief holding her chin-length bob away from her face. They introduced themselves and she invited them in, placing two pairs of brown vinyl slippers on the carpet beyond the entryway. She took off her apron and bustled back and forth, clearing flower cuttings from the table. A half-finished arrangement arched from a pale green ikebana vase. “Please don’t go to any trouble, Mrs. Arita. We just need to ask your husband a few questions.” She stopped, a tissue-wrapped bundle of flowering branches in her arms. “My husband?” she looked at them, puzzled. “Why are you looking for him here at this hour? He’s at work.” Kenji opened his mouth, then stopped himself. “Ah. We thought he might have come home for lunch. We’ll try to catch him this afternoon, but in the meantime maybe you can help us?”
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“What’s this about?” she asked, setting down the branches and folding her arms over her chest. “We think he might have witnessed a crime we’re investigating, so first we’d like to find out if he was even in the area where the incident occurred. Do you know where your husband was last Friday evening?” Mrs. Arita relaxed. “We were both in Nagoya over the weekend, visiting our daughter. He left work early on Friday and we took the three o’clock bullet train from Tokyo Station. We didn’t return until Sunday night.” Kenji made a note, nodding with satisfaction. “Thank you, Mrs. Arita. I guess it wasn’t him after all. You saved us a trip to your husband’s office—I don’t think we’ll have to bother him now.” Bowing, he shepherded Suzuki back out the door. Outside the building, they stopped under the overhang. It had started to rain. Suzuki said, “She doesn’t know.” “Apparently not.” “But he’s been out of work for a month!” “Yeah.” Kenji looked down the street and made a decision. “Let’s see if we can find out where he goes all day.” Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he dashed down the block and knocked on the old neighbor’s door. It cracked open. “Yes?” Kenji identified himself again and explained they were investigating an incident at Hamada Sweets. She looked at him sharply. “Where Arita-san used to work?” “May we come in for a moment?” Kenji asked. The old woman slid the door aside and fetched some woven straw slippers. A calico cat slunk out as they entered, stopping where the dry pavement ended, weighing its urgent cat business against wet feet. The old woman invited them into a modest tatami-floored room, bare except for a low kotatsu table
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covered with a thick indigo-dyed quilt. Although it was April, damp chill still seeped into the unheated, thin-walled house. The purring from the table’s built-in heater fan told Kenji and Suzuki that when they pulled up a pair of floor cushions and slid their legs underneath, they’d find an oasis of comforting warmth. The old woman probably spent most of her time in this room, and when she needed to venture into the unheated parts of the house, relied on a pair of the red, woolen long johns that people of a certain age still wore under their clothes for warmth and good luck. Tea appeared in thick Mino-ware cups, frothy white glaze dripping down the sides like frosting. “Thank you,” Kenji said, politely taking a sip. He took a rice cracker from the bowl she offered and thanked her with a polite “itadakimasu” before taking a bite. Even police business required the mandatory pleasantries. “Delicious,” he said. “They’re from Niigata. My hometown is famous for them,” she replied, pleased. Then she frowned. “Why did that company fire Arita-san after he’d worked there for so many years?” “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Kenji said. “Tell me, honorable auntie—how did you know Arita-san wasn’t home?” “Saaa . . .” She shook her head. “Poor Arita-san. He still goes out every morning, dressed in his suit and carrying his briefcase.” “Then how did you know he lost his job? It doesn’t seem like he’s told anybody.” The old woman sighed. “He comes home at the regular time, but sometimes there are leaves stuck to the back of his coat. And he’s not always sober.” “Do you know where he goes during the day?” The old woman selected a rice cracker from the bowl. “Last week I was on my way to the National Museum to see the Sesshu exhibit and I saw him in Ueno Park. He was sitting on a bench, playing Go with a homeless man. I turned my face away and hurried past, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.” “Where in the park?”
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“On the main promenade, across from the o-bento restaurant. The one with the red torii gate next to it.” “Can you tell us what he looks like?” “Let’s see . . . not too tall, losing his hair, a bit thinner than he used to be. He’s the kind of man you’d never pick out of a crowd, but he’ll be easy to spot today because it’s raining. I saw him walk by this morning, carrying his daughter’s old Hello Kitty umbrella.” The rain pattered on the roof and gurgled down the copper chains hanging from the eaves outside as Kenji finished noting Mr. Arita’s description. “He’s not in any trouble, is he?” she asked anxiously. “No. Don’t worry, you haven’t added to his burdens by talking to us.” “Poor man. He’ll have to tell his wife sometime. Doesn’t he realize it won’t get any easier?”
Chapter 20 Tuesday, April 9 1:30 P.M.
Kenji
The storm had knocked down so many cherry petals that the main promenade through Ueno Park was plastered in pink. Raindrops trickled along the branches overhead, plopping randomly onto the cheap, plastic umbrellas Kenji and Suzuki had bought at a Family Mart near Arita’s apartment. Fewer jobless men than usual huddled on the benches lining the path. Those who lived in tents made from blue government-issue tarps had retreated to their relative comfort, and the few unfortunates who were truly homeless hunched in ones and twos under cast-off umbrellas, occasionally sharing a bottle. As they neared the restaurant with the red torii gate, Kenji and Suzuki slowed, scanning for Hello Kitty. “There he is, sir,” said Suzuki, nodding toward a man sharing his bench with a weathered veteran of the streets. Between them sat a cheap Go board with a game in progress. Both men looked up as the police officers stopped beside them. Kenji pulled his police ID from his pocket. “Yutaka Arita?” The man under the pink umbrella looked beaten. Lines creased his forehead and drew deep parentheses around his mouth. His cheeks sagged, as though he’d lost weight suddenly. “I’m Arita,” he said, glancing at Kenji’s ID.
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“May we ask you a few questions?” “About . . . ?” “Your former employer.” The man’s mouth froze in a thin line. “We were wondering if you knew that Tatsuo Hamada and his wife are dead.” Shock slapped across Arita’s face. “Hamada-san is dead? What happened?” “You didn’t see the news?” He shifted slightly, showing Kenji the outdated Asahi Shimbun he was sitting on to keep his pants dry. “I don’t use the papers much for reading anymore.” “We found them Saturday morning. It looks like they committed suicide.” “Suicide? Both of them?” His brow furrows grew deeper. “Why?” “We hoped you might know.” “I don’t know anything about the Hamadas. I haven’t seen either of them since I left the company.” He looked down at his wilted suit, ashamed. “How did you find me, anyway?” “We visited your wife.” “No! You didn’t tell her . . . ?” “We didn’t. Someone else pointed us in the right direction. We told your wife that you might have been a witness to something we’re investigating. Which is true—what we’d like to know is why you resigned from the job you held for twenty-six years. We heard that it was Mr. Hamada who asked you to leave.” The ex-purchasing manager looked at Kenji for a long moment, then sighed and bowed his head. “It was March twelfth, a Thursday. My model train club night. I was anxious to get home and put the finishing touches on a water tower I’d built for our HO-scale setup; I wanted to take it with me to the meeting. So when Hamada-san called me into his office, I was hoping he wouldn’t keep me long. “He shut the door and asked me why I’d ordered cut-rate sweetener and milk without consulting
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him. I didn’t know what he was talking about. We always ordered our ingredients from the same suppliers we’d used since his father was president. Then he handed me a bill of lading from a Chinese company, showing we’d received a shipment of two hundred fifty kilos of artificial sweetener and one hundred kilos of milk powder the previous week. I told him I’d never seen it before, that I’d never dealt with that company, that I’d never even heard of it. “He pointed to the hanko stamp at the bottom, and I was horrified to see it was mine. I couldn’t explain it. I asked who’d given him the document. He wouldn’t tell me. He just shook his head and told me to clean out my desk. I was so shocked I started to black out. I had to sit down. Hamada-san just sat like a wooden Buddha, then he followed me to my office and watched while I put my things in a box. He didn’t say a word, just held out his hand for my passkey at the door. I walked to the train station and put my box of stuff in a coin locker, then sat in a bar until I recovered enough to go home.” “If you didn’t stamp your hanko on it, who did?” “Anyone could have done it. Anyone who brought papers for me to sign knew I kept it in my desk drawer. None of us locked our offices.” Arita looked stricken. “We were like family.” “But there must be someone you suspect . . . ?” Arita sat wordlessly, bitter lines framing his mouth. Finally he said, “Look at who replaced me.” “Hiro Hamada?” Arita remained silent. “He was after your job?” Arita tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Not exactly. He was being groomed to take over the company, everybody knew that. But his father saw himself as caretaker of the family legacy, and took pride in running it exactly the way his wife’s father had taught him. During O-bon he was fond of saying he hoped when his father-in-law’s spirit returned every year, he liked what he saw. So Hamadasan insisted his son work his way up from the bottom, learning every part of the business. Hiro didn’t get promoted until he’d mastered every task, down to the last detail. Hamada-san actually speeded up
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his son’s promotions after his cancer treatments last year, but it wasn’t fast enough for Hiro. Hamada Jr. thought that because he graduated from Waseda, he should go straight to the top. “Hiro started suggesting improvements, trying to impress his father with tricky ways we could change things to make the company more profitable. Fiddling with the accounting, bidding out contracts to squeeze lower prices from our suppliers, tinkering with the recipes, substituting less-expensive ingredients. “His father refused to consider any of them, and I was the one who had to deliver the bad news.” They listened to the rain whisper in the trees far above. “So what do you think Hiro Hamada did?” “I think he ordered cheap ingredients from that Chinese company in my name. Maybe he thought if he secretly substituted them and no one noticed a difference in the finished products, Hamada-san would finally admit his son was right: The company could boost profits without hurting quality and maybe the old man would let Hiro skip the rest of the low-level jobs, move straight into management.” Arita frowned. “Or maybe he just wanted my job. “In any case, he got what he wanted. When Hamada-san discovered that bill of lading, Hiro let me take the fall instead of admitting what he’d done behind his father’s back.” “But why would the president of a company fire an old and trusted employee for stepping out of line only once?” “I didn’t,” Arita insisted, offended. “But even if Hamada-san thought you did, why was making that one order so terrible he fired you?” Arita sighed. “Hamada-san was a man of honor; he came from an old samurai family. Ordering from an unapproved Chinese company made him think I no longer shared his commitment to the traditions his father had handed down. After he had cancer last year, Hamada-san was afraid Hiro might have to take over before his training was complete, so he became even more rigid about making his son
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do things in the traditional way. But Hiro pushed back. Hamada-san hated clashing with his son, so he made me the middleman. The thing is, some of Hiro’s ideas weren’t that bad. I tried to talk Hamada-san into trying a few of his son’s suggestions, but he refused every time. When Hamada-san saw that Chinese bill of lading, he must have thought I’d joined the employees who’d begun currying favor with his son, thinking he might become their boss sooner rather than later. It looked like I’d sabotaged everything the company stood for. And Hamada-san was more like his ancestors than he wanted to admit: A single insult was enough to make him draw his sword.” “Was it enough to make him commit suicide?” Arita nodded. “He’s the sort of man who would kill himself for honor. But how could two hundred fifty kilos of sweetener and one hundred kilos of milk powder that were never used make him take his own life?” “How do you know they were never used?” “The line manager or test engineers would have noticed a change in the taste. We have strict controls so our candy is always the same, even though milk from the same farm can taste different at different times of year, depending on what the cows are eating. I can’t imagine that cheap ingredients from a completely new supplier in a different part of the world would go unnoticed. Someone would have told me.” Kenji nodded and shifted his umbrella to his other hand, digging in his pocket for a business card. He handed it to Arita, apologizing for not doing it properly with both hands. Arita apologized that he no longer had one to give in return. “If you think of anything else, please call me,” said Kenji. “I hope that your fortunes improve soon, Mr. Arita. Thank you for your help.”
Chapter 21 Tuesday, April 9 2:30 P.M.
Kenji
Suzuki shouldered open the door to the interview room carrying two Styrofoam cups of tea. He set one in front of Kenji, who muttered his thanks and drank a slug without looking up. Suzuki perched at attention on the edge of his chair, waiting for his superior to finish reviewing the notes taken during the day’s interviews. Kenji looked up, marking his place with a finger. “You’re making me nervous, sitting like that.” Suzuki relaxed slightly. “Your notes are very . . . comprehensive.” “Thank you, sir. I think the four-color pen makes it easier to keep things straight, don’t you?” Kenji rubbed his eyes. “Maybe this would go faster if I organize the timeline and you look back through your notes for the details.” He stood to face the blank whiteboard. Drawing a black line across it, he marked a point near the right end. “Okay, let’s work backward. The Hamadas committed suicide on Friday . . . What was the date?” Suzuki consulted his phone. “April fifth.” Kenji wrote it on the board. He stepped to the left and made another mark. “About a week before
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that, they visited their lawyer and changed their wills. And Arita-san was fired on March fourteenth.” He marked the timeline. “Hamada and his son had some sort of disagreement after work a day or two before Arita was fired.” He wrote “March 12?” then stepped back and looked at the board. “What else?” “The bill of lading, sir?” “Right. Arita didn’t give me a date, but he said the shipment had arrived about a week before.” Kenji extended the line and wrote “Shipment—March 5?” He capped the marker, fetched his tea from the table, and turned to study what he’d written. “Okay, what have we got? A shipment of cheap sugar and powdered milk is delivered. The next week, Hamada and his son have a disagreement after everyone else has gone home. We don’t know what it was about, but Hamada Sr. is too upset to open his office door to General Manager Fukuda afterward. Two days later, Hamada confronts Arita, who claims to know nothing about the order. Arita is fired, but Hamada doesn’t explain why.” “Maybe we should add that Hiro Hamada then took over Arita’s job,” suggested Suzuki. “Good point. Probably right, ne? Let’s say March fifteenth.” Kenji squeezed it in. He resumed his narrative. “A week later, the Hamadas changed their wills, leaving money to the manager they just fired and making it easier for their son to raid his trust fund.” Kenji looked at Suzuki. “Why did they do that?” “Which do you mean, sir?” “Both.” Suzuki consulted his notebook. “It says here they left Arita a year’s pay. But if it was severance, wouldn’t the company pay that?” “Not if he was forced to resign. Clearly Hamada didn’t give him much choice, but if he wasn’t actually fired, the company would owe him nothing.” Kenji tapped his lips with the pen. “So why would the Hamadas leave him a bequest?”
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He looked up to see Oki passing by outside the interview room windows and called him in. The big man looked over the timeline as Kenji outlined the puzzling will changes. Oki swung a chair around to face the board and dropped into it, rubbing his jaw as he considered the question. “Okay, here’s what I think,” he finally said. “Two possibilities. One, they felt sorry for Arita’s family. This guy worked at the company for years, right? He was probably hired by Mrs. Hamada’s dad. Hamada-san’s decision may have been made in a fit of anger, but when he cooled off, he realized he was punishing Arita’s whole family by forcing his resignation. Perhaps Hamada felt he ought to have handled it differently, so the family had something to live on while Arita looked for another job. It was too late to make a legal severance payment through the company, so he decided to do it out of his own pocket.” “If that’s true, then he knew Arita would be getting that money soon enough to make a difference during his job search,” Kenji said slowly. “That means they decided to commit jisatsu before they changed their wills.” Oki nodded. “The other possibility is that Hamada found out after firing Arita that he’d made a mistake. That somebody else was responsible for placing that order.” He frowned. “But if they fired him by mistake, why didn’t they just apologize and give him his job back?” “And we’re back to asking: If not Arita, who ordered the cut-rate products? And why do you think the Hamadas eased up on their son’s trust?” “Well, the first thing I’d ask is why they made it so tough for him to get at the money in the first place. Then I’d want to know what changed. What kind of kid is Hamada Jr.?” Kenji reported that both Fukuda and Arita had described him as smart, ambitious, and impatient with his slow advancement. And, if they believed the ex-purchasing manager, Hiro was also willing to profit from cutting corners and let others pay for his misdemeanors. “Huh,” said Oki when he’d finished. “Sounds like a typical, spoiled rich kid. If that’s the improved version, I wonder what he was like before.”
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“Sir?” said Suzuki, who’d been paging through his notebook while Kenji talked. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about. Mr. Hamada knew his son was getting tired of working his way up from the bottom, and according to Arita, he’d already vetoed several sketchy suggestions from his son. So why didn’t Mr. Hamada suspect Hiro was involved in that order for cut-rate ingredients? Why did he blame Arita?” “It was Arita’s name on the paperwork.” “His hanko,” Suzuki corrected. “Surely Hamada-san realized that someone besides Arita could have put it there.” “Parents can be awfully blind when it comes to their children,” said Oki. “Yes, but when Mr. Hamada met with his lawyer, he seemed to believe that his son had grown up recently and proved that his values were in the right place. That sounds like Hiro did something specific to change his father’s opinion.” “What happened on that date there, right before the purchasing manager was fired?” asked Oki, nodding toward the timeline. “We don’t know exactly,” Kenji admitted. “Father and son met behind closed doors after work and afterward the father was very upset.” “The timing is right for discovering that bill of lading,” mused Oki. “I wonder who delivered it to Hamada. If it was the son, that might be what convinced his dad that he’d changed.” “But wouldn’t he want to wait until the cheap ingredients had been successfully used before telling his father?” objected Suzuki. “If he wanted to prove a point?” Kenji sighed in frustration. “I wonder if any of this matters. I’m not seeing any threat to innocent victims. So far, nothing about this little soap opera seems to warrant the kind of apology made in their suicide note.” They all sat for a few minutes, turning the evidence over in their minds. Oki heaved himself up out of his chair. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the Fujimoto burglary. Hope
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you figure it out. Good luck.” Kenji thanked him. He looked over the whiteboard again; it still wasn’t providing any answers. “Shall we take a break, Suzuki-san?” “Yes, sir,” replied his assistant, neatly aligning his pen on top of his closed notebook. He picked up his empty teacup. “Would you like a refill, sir?” “Yes, thanks.” On his way back from the men’s room, Kenji realized he was hungry. The two rice balls he’d wolfed down outside the Ueno Station convenience store hadn’t been enough. He stopped at the vending machine, disappointed to see a sign taped to the glass asking him to please excuse the inconvenience, the repairman had been called. Running out to the Lawson down the street would take too long. Maybe he’d find something in his desk. Aha. At the back of his bottom drawer, a single packet of Koala biscuits. Munching the chocolatefilled snacks he’d loved since childhood, he returned to the interview room to find Suzuki poring over his notes. His assistant looked up, then leaped to his feet, crying, “Stop, sir! Where did you get those?” He was staring at the Koala packet. The assistant detective was well known for his earnest dedication to healthy eating. “Suzuki-san, not all of us think we’ll drop dead if we occasionally eat junk food.” “No, really sir, those are poison!” He snatched the half-eaten packet from Kenji’s hand. “Suzuki-san!” “These were recalled over six months ago,” Suzuki chided. He shook the bag at Kenji. “They’re made with tainted milk. Melamine. It causes kidney failure. Didn’t you see the news?” Kenji frowned. “I thought that was in China. Babies died from drinking counterfeit infant formula or something.”
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“That was the first case. But then they discovered that the same company sold tainted milk to manufacturers all over the world, who used it in all kinds of products: cookies, candy, soft drinks . . .” “Wait. Candy?” They stared at each other. “That’s it,” Kenji said. “The Hamadas were afraid someone had ordered tainted Chinese milk products and put that in their candy. When you checked their company website, was there any mention of recalls?” “None.” “Or . . . deaths?” “No.” Kenji looked back at the timeline and circled the section between Arita’s firing and the visit to the lawyer. “Mr. and Mrs. Hamada must have spent this week trying to find out what happened to that powdered milk.” “And whatever they found—or didn’t find—made them decide to commit jisatsu.” Kenji stood up. “I’ll talk to Section Chief Tanaka. I hope it’s enough for a warrant.”
Chapter 22 Tuesday, April 9 2:30 P.M.
Yumi
The subway car was packed with students. Yumi had been lucky to beat a miniskirted coed to the last seat as the train pulled away from Waseda Station. She eased her heel out of her too-tight shoe, sneaking a look at an angry red patch rapidly turning into a blister. Yesterday she’d forgotten to go to Mr. Minit to retrieve the pumps she usually wore with her translating uniform and had to dust off the only other heels that met the strict guidelines of the International Interpreting Company. She’d been stuck in a stuffy English department classroom since 10:00 that morning with a visiting professor who couldn’t understand why she needed to consult her dictionary so frequently. At first she’d been apologetic, guilty because she’d spent yesterday investigating Rika’s death instead of prepping to interpret a panel discussion called “Innocence, Shame, Ambiguity, and Desire in the Work of Henry James.” But as the day wore on, she began to take a perverse pride in the fact that she wasn’t the kind of person who used words like “indubitably.” It didn’t help that her thoughts kept straying to last night’s revelation that she could walk away from pompous professors forever just by saying “yes” when Ichiro got around to proposing. Ichiro. She was confused by the increasing intimacy she wanted to push away and embrace at the same time. His father’s driver had diplomatically excused himself to buy cigarettes at the convenience
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store last night when they pulled up outside Yumi’s house at 2:00 A.M. She’d been nearly as reluctant as Ichiro to see the evening end, and had returned his affections with more enthusiasm than before. If she hadn’t been trussed up securely in a kimono, the driver might have been exiled out on the street corner for quite some time. Later, alone on her futon, she’d fallen asleep holding her cell phone, Ichiro’s goodnight text message still glowing on the screen. That reminded her. She pulled out her phone, remembering she’d felt it vibrate during the professor’s Q & A. One missed call from Ichiro, a voicemail from Kenji, and three new e-mail messages. The train slowed as it approached Takadanobaba Station. Wincing as she shoved her foot back into her shoe, she limped to the door. As soon as she cleared the exiting crowd, aiming herself toward the Yamanote Line, she returned Ichiro’s call. He picked up on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting. Would she meet him for dinner tonight? 8:00, at Tofu-ya Ukai, near Shiba-koen. She wondered how he’d gotten a reservation on such short notice. The legendary yudofu restaurant was booked weeks in advance. Yumi promptly decided she needed a new dress. A train arrived, bound for Shibuya, the opposite direction from home. She ran, angling between the doors just as they closed. Halfway to the next station, she remembered she hadn’t listened to Kenji’s message yet. “Yu-chan, this is Kenji Nakamura. I wanted you to know that we’ve received permission to do a post-mortem on Rika Ozawa. I’ll call you after the forensic specialist’s examination. I didn’t find anything on that computer you left with me last night, but I still like the idea that she met the other victims while researching a story. How carefully did you check her computer at work? Maybe she saved her story to an online archive. We don’t have enough for a warrant, but do you think her boss would let me take a look anyway? I’ll be out of the office most of today, but I might have time to do it tomorrow. Thanks.” Harajuku Station was on the way to Shibuya. She could stop at the GothXLoli offices and let them know that Kenji wanted to come in to look at Rika’s computer. Or she’d have a look herself—she might
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spot something Rika’s co-workers had missed. Mei and Kei would be pleased to hear the police were finally giving Rika’s case the attention it deserved. She was about to close her phone when she remembered the e-mails and checked her Inbox. She frowned. They were from someone she didn’t know. Someone called
. Then she remembered—last night at the police station, waiting for Kenji to run up and fetch her phone, she’d forwarded <sweetmama>’s e-mails about the Komagome Shrine meeting from Rika’s new mobile to her own phone. Although they’d originally come from <sweetmama>, they bore the stamp of the phone they’d been forwarded from. Why had Rika chosen as her e-mail user ID? She’d always used something incorporating her name before: Rikaloli, Rikadoll, Rikachan. Why suddenly conceal her identity? She should tell Kenji. And she’d let him know she was searching Rika’s computer for the article. She left a voicemail.
Chapter 23 Tuesday, April 9 3:00 P.M.
Yumi
As Yumi waited for Rika’s computer to boot, she strolled slowly around the office where her best friend had spent every workday for the past two years. The staff room was strangely quiet; Mei and Kei had left early to review an XtaSea concert at Zepp Tokyo, and the art director was upstairs in the photo studio. The J-pop that gave the room its usual heartbeat was silent. Shoulder-to-shoulder framed covers of past GothXLoli issues covered the walls. Yumi found the first one on which the fifteen-year-old Rika had appeared as a pouting Bo Peep waif. She studied the old picture sadly, remembering the day it had appeared on the newsstands. By then, the magazine had published Rika’s photo half a dozen times in its editorial pages—candid street shots, snapped by the staff photographers who roamed the trendy neighborhoods of Tokyo with spotters, looking for new, newer, newest. The cover shot had boosted Rika to a whole new level of visibility and access. She’d been allowed to roam freely through the wardrobe room at the magazine offices, grabbing a pink gingham pinafore from one fashion house’s advance samples, and a pair of white leather lace-up boots from another. The writers had followed behind her, taking notes. After that cover, wherever she and Yumi went, they’d been approached by Lolita wannabes, asking Rika to sign their autograph books. She began to sign her name “Rika-chan” in romaji letters with a
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heart instead of a hyphen. At first she reveled in the challenge of staying ahead of the pack, devising ever more inventive combinations of accessories, hungrily snatching each new issue of GothXLoli off the convenience store shelf to see how many of her innovations from the previous month had been copied. If she’d glued lace to her old Hello Kitty lunchbox and used it as a purse one month, the next issue would be filled with street shots of girls carrying lacy lunchbox handbags. When she wrapped the sprained ankle she got in gym class with pink satin ribbon, every fifth girl walking down Omotesando Boulevard sported a ribbon-bandaged leg. By the time Yumi returned to Japan during college vacation, though, Rika had tired of being adored by thirteen-year-olds. She began to hang out at backstreet cafes where she could mix with a darker crowd, and the Mad Hatter. Moi dix Mois wallpaper finally appeared on Rika’s computer screen. Yumi perched on her desk chair and wondered where to begin looking. She checked Rika’s downloads. Nothing recent, nothing that might be research for a story. What about e-mail? Nope, all from clothing companies. A dozen folders littered the electronic desktop. She opened them one by one, scanned the contents, moved on. DRAFTS contained revisions of an interview with girl band Lolita23. Another article followed pop star Miku around a ¥100 store as he bestowed instant coolness on cheap belts and hats. BEAUTY held a step-by-step piece on achieving perfect rhinestone-edged fingernails. SOURCES was stuffed with nearly a hundred subfolders, labeled with the brands featured in the magazine: Algonquin, Alice and the Pirates, Angelic Pretty . . . And then she saw it. Between Moi-même-Moitie and Peace Now was a folder labeled Nightshade. Mei and Kei had probably missed it because it sounded so much like one of the little-known Goth brands that popped up overnight, hoping to be the next Hellcatpunks. It contained one file: nightshade_draft.docx. She opened it, and a sea of unreadable kanji characters appeared. Even the morning newspaper required knowing at least two thousand basic words; it would take Yumi forever to look up the five hundred she didn’t know.
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But all was not lost. This was a job for her favorite electronic dictionary. Copying unfamiliar characters into it as she translated the headline, her heart sank. “The Dark Side of the Net: Inside the World of Suicide Websites.” This was the piece of investigative journalism Rika had been so secretive about? It wasn’t an exposé of corporate greed or dangerous practices, it was about . . . jisatsu. As Yumi made her way down the page, her hope that she’d made a translation error dimmed with every word. Japan apparently had one of the highest suicide rates in the developed world, with over thirty thousand a year. Unlike in Western countries, it carried no moral or religious stigma—in fact, the most beloved tale in Japanese history told of the forty-seven ronin, who avenged their lord and then, one by one, committed seppuku, ritual suicide. In the past few years, Rika had written, the number of suicide networking sites had skyrocketed. While many tried to talk people out of killing themselves, a growing number offered practical information, legal advice, and encouragement. “Suicide Shopping Lists” had become a common feature and some even offered ready-made “suicide packs” by mail, containing everything needed to do the job right. Nearly all had forums in which members could seek company for their final exit. Many provided e-mail services so the suicidal could make arrangements offline without putting the website operator in danger of being charged with encouraging people to kill themselves. What was so earth-shattering about this article? Everybody knew suicide websites existed; it was old news. But as she read on, with increasing horror she began to understand. The piece became personal. Rika had written about her own experiences, had posed as a suicidal girl online. Though the tone was sympathetic, there was no getting around it: Rika had obtained every example in her story by deceiving the desperate people who turned to strangers for advice and support. She hadn’t identified herself as a reporter. She hadn’t told them she intended to write an article and publish what they confided in her. But the thing that really alarmed Yumi was that the article was unfinished. The opening paragraphs
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were missing, although Rika had made several attempts at a first sentence. “How does it really feel to take your own life?” “Death often comes quietly, in a secluded grove of trees, in a quiet car.” “They came together from different backgrounds, different neighborhoods, for different reasons. They weren’t friends for life, but they became friends in death.” Had Rika been doing her final piece of research that Friday night? Had she intended to write about what it was like to watch people die? Had she planned to use Hiro Hamada’s parents the way she used the other suicidal people she met online? All for a story, so she could see her name in print? How could Rika have been so callous, so unethical? Shame welled up on behalf of her friend. Yumi had to act before Mei and Kei discovered the story—or, even worse, Kenji. She hastily closed the document and dragged the entire folder to the trash. With her cursor poised over the command that would scramble the file forever, she hesitated. The story painted a pretty awful picture of her friend, but it also suggested she hadn’t died by her own hand. What had really happened that night? Yumi dragged the file back onto the desktop. She e-mailed the file to her phone, then trashed the folder using the “Secure” command and shut down Rika’s machine. Shouldering her bag, she stepped into the hall. As she passed the editor’s door, the boss glanced up from a phone call, covered the mouthpiece, and pantomimed, “Find anything?” Yumi hesitated, then shook her head apologetically. Once she was out of the too-quiet office, she felt a little better. Yesterday’s rain had washed the city clean, and as she made her way down Takeshita Street, the sun felt warm on her back. Happy schoolgirls posed for cell phone snapshots, waving victory signs with both hands. Yumi took a deep breath of spring and her heart lifted a little. Tomorrow would be soon enough to mourn her friendship with Rika. Tonight she was going to one of the finest restaurants in Tokyo, and she needed some new clothes.
Chapter 24 Tuesday, April 9 7:45 P.M.
Yumi
Willow-green silk slithered against Yumi’s sheer stockings as she climbed the steps at Shiba-koen Station. The dress had cost an entire Henry James symposium, but tonight she would walk into the fanciest restaurant she’d ever been to and look like she belonged. Tofu-ya Ukai had been splashed all over the papers when it opened. Usually the trendiest restaurants were clad in haughty, polished granite and thick slabs of chilly glass, so when the owners opted instead for the old-fashioned elegance of a daimyo’s mansion, the novelty alone created a sensation. Beams of costly sugi cedar, planed to silky perfection, framed hand-plastered walls the color of new-mown hay. Ink scrolls from the restaurant’s private collection were changed to suit the seasons. Set on a shockingly large piece of land in one of Tokyo’s priciest neighborhoods, the restaurant was tucked into what looked like a centuries-old garden. The venerable cherry trees and contorted pines had been transplanted full-grown, so that each window framed a view as beautiful as a woodblock print. Critics debated whether it was the grounds or the chef or the impeccable service that justified the breathtaking prices, but they all agreed that an evening at Tofu-ya Ukai was unforgettable. Leaving the subway station, Yumi cut through the grounds of the Zojō-ji temple, passing under the imposing vermilion gate. She shivered a little as she hurried along the avenue of little Jizo statues
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dedicated to the souls of lost children. No bones were buried beneath the silent, stone sentinels, but it felt like a graveyard nonetheless. Rika’s ashes would soon be buried with her ancestors. Yumi wished she hadn’t stopped in Harajuku this afternoon, wished she hadn’t discovered that article. Reading it shouldn’t have changed her feelings about her friend, but it did. Rika’s family and friends would mourn her with untainted affection, but Yumi’s feelings were now confused, ambivalent. Rika must have gone along with the Hamadas and . . . faked it. Had she intended to wait until the Hamadas were dead, then walk away and write about it? And why had Rika died, even though she never meant to kill herself? Was it possible to die from an overdose of laxatives? What had gone wrong? Yumi wondered what the autopsy would reveal. The forest of pinwheels planted among the ranks of weathered Jizo statues spun slowly as Yumi passed, cheerful toys pressed into melancholy service. So many little lost souls. And now Rika was among them. Accident or murder, it was a tragedy. As she emerged from the trees, Tokyo Tower appeared, a perfect replica of the Eiffel Tower, except it was orange. Seeing the blazing landmark and the restaurant entrance down the block pushed Yumi’s troubled thoughts from her mind. She wasn’t going let anything spoil the evening ahead. The fragrance of an unseen flowering tree greeted her as she passed through the gate. Ichiro was already waiting, his starched shirt glowing in the lamplight. The look on his face as she drew near made her believe for a moment she was the most beautiful woman in Tokyo. “Welcome, Mr. Mitsuyama,” murmured the maître d’, bowing. The haunting twang of koto music drifted after them as they were led to a serene room, furnished with a low, lacquered table set for two. They exchanged their shoes for slippers and stepped through the door. The critics had all been wrong. The real reason this restaurant was among the most luxurious in Tokyo wasn’t the building or the garden or even the tantalizing dishes that had whisked by. It was the privacy.
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Spotlights illuminated a silk scroll in the tokonoma alcove above a Bizen-ware vase with a single, perfect, cherry branch. The maître d’ seated them and placed the evening’s hand-brushed menu on the table so they could read a description of each course as it arrived. No sooner had he bowed himself out than a kimono-clad server appeared with hot hand towels and a sake list. Ichiro glanced at it briefly and handed it back to her saying, “We’ll have the Kamotsuru tonight. The dai ginjo.” He smiled at Yumi. “For two.” She disappeared to fetch the drinks and Yumi said, “That was decisive.” “It’s easy to be decisive if you know what you want.” There was something about the way he said it . . . Oh, no. She suddenly knew why they were there. Her mind raced. Why hadn’t she guessed? She hadn’t spent nearly enough time thinking this through. She wasn’t ready. Picking up her hot towel, she busied herself wiping her hands. “Let’s see what the chef is making for us tonight,” Ichiro said, leaning in to inspect the menu. Relieved he wasn’t going to get down to business right away, Yumi joined him and commented that she was especially looking forward to the charcoal-grilled tofu skewers, basted with sweet-savory miso sauce. Ichiro told her the restaurant made its own tofu fresh each morning out in Hachioji, using the especially pure water found near Mount Takao. The server returned with a chilled, bamboo flask and a pair of cups. They poured for each other and toasted, then poured another to drink more slowly. As the first three courses were served, Ichiro regaled Yumi with office gossip and stories about the people she’d met at the concert afterparty. She relaxed a little. Maybe she’d been wrong about why they were here. Ichiro loosened his tie as the level in the sake flask dropped. She liked it when he looked a little tousled, admiring the way he could unbutton a bit without looking sloppy. Of course, it helped that his tie alone had probably cost more than her new dress. More than her dress and what was beneath it. After their third date, she’d been reminded of how long it had been since she’d had an occasion for new underwear.
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The fourth course was served and she entertained him with tales of recent interpreting jobs, turning the professors’ irritating demands into amusing stories. Remembering she had to be out at Waseda University first thing tomorrow to interpret a visiting Oxford historian’s lecture on barge transportation in Elizabethan England, she wondered what it would be like to never again put on her boxy uniform suit and have to look up words like “unequivocal.” She topped up Ichiro’s cup, shaking the last few drops from the flask. They were both drinking faster than usual tonight. He called the server and ordered another dai ginjo with the casual assurance of someone who didn’t have to worry about whether he could afford it. An earthenware pot of fresh tofu bathed in soymilk bubbled on the burner between them. After returning with the sake, the server knelt and ladled out two servings before bowing herself out. Yumi picked up the flask and poured for Ichiro. What would it be like to be his wife? To sit across from him in places like this, keeping his cup full? To move out of the drafty old house filled with her father’s disappointments and her mother’s unspoken worries? Ichiro wasn’t exactly undesirable—she thought of the social butterflies he’d turned his back on after his quartet’s concert, making his way through the crowd as soon as she appeared backstage. Plenty of women had been longing to trade places with her that night. He’d looked so distinguished up on stage, smiling at her as the audience applauded . . . “Yumi? Are you okay?” She snapped back to reality. “Oh. Sorry. It’s been a long day. I didn’t catch what you were saying . . . ?” “I, uh . . .” He tossed back a full cup of sake and sat up straight. Taking a deep breath, he began, “There’s something I think we should talk about.” Uh, oh. This was it. “Ichiro, I . . .” “Wait. Listen for a minute. I was wondering if you’ve been thinking about whether we have a
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future together? I mean, in this day and age, an o-miai is a pretty weird way to meet someone you’d want to spend the rest of your life with, don’t you think?” This wasn’t quite what she expected. “You know, I didn’t tell any of my friends that’s how we met,” he continued. “I let them guess we knew each other from business school, so if it didn’t work out, they wouldn’t think much of it. I mean, once you go out a few times with someone everyone knows you met through o-miai and then you break up, it’s so . . . public. And I didn’t want either of us to, you know, feel that kind of pressure.” Break up? Was he telling her he’d decided she wasn’t the one he wanted to marry after all? Had he brought her to this nice restaurant to say he didn’t want to see her anymore? He added, “I think we both know things don’t always work out the way we hope.” Yumi felt faint. He didn’t want to marry her. He was trying to let her down easy. She was shocked to discover that in the past twenty-four hours, so much of her had taken up residence in Ichiro’s world. “Look, Ichiro,” she blurted. “If you don’t want to get married, please . . . just tell me.” She bit her lip to hold back the tears that unexpectedly blurred her view of his astonished features. “What? No! I thought you might not want—I didn’t want to make it hard for you to tell me.” He peered at her. “You mean you do want to get married? You want to marry me?” “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” “Yes?” He beamed as if he’d just been given a new Ferrari and clambered to his feet. The room was so private he apparently felt no embarrassment pulling her into a giddy kiss. “Sumimasen.” Their server coughed politely and bowed apologetically from the doorway, bearing a tray of grilled ayu. They hastily broke apart and resumed their seats as she cleared their plates and set the crispy sweetfish before them, closing the door softly as she left. They looked at each other across the table. Ichiro filled both their cups and said, “To us.”
Chapter 25 Wednesday, April 10 8:00 A.M.
Kenji
“Thank you for allowing me to meet you here, Detective,” said the Hamada Sweets general manager, bowing stiffly. Kenji’s 7:30 A.M. phone call had caught Fukuda eating breakfast, still in his sleeping yukata. In his haste to arrive at the office in his own car rather than being fetched in a police cruiser, he’d put on brown shoes with his black suit. They were now standing in front of the shuttered Hamada Sweets headquarters. Kenji returned Fukuda’s bow and presented the letter from Section Chief Tanaka. It outlined the suspicion that adulterated milk products had been used at the plant, endangering public health. If the management voluntarily allowed a search of the premises, the police would refrain from involving the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare unless poisonous milk power was found. What the letter didn’t say was that Tanaka had not been at all happy to hear Kenji’s new theory. There wasn’t enough hard evidence to ask for a warrant, but he couldn’t ignore it, either. If Kenji’s suspicions proved correct, the Department of Food Safety would get involved, and Tanaka hated the prospect of a government bureaucracy taking over his investigation even more than he hated playing host to the elite murder squad. General Manager Fukuda read the letter, stone-faced. He didn’t want the police searching his plant,
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but the alternative was worse. Better the police than the bureaucrats. The Food Safety functionaries wouldn’t find anything, and they’d take weeks to do it. He looked at Kenji in consternation. “This says you want to search the warehouse, the production kitchens, the offices, and all records, including those stored electronically. I hope that doesn’t mean you want access to our computers . . . ?” “It does,” Kenji replied. “I can’t allow that. Our recipes are trade secrets. If our competitors—” “We’re not interested in how you make your candy, Fukuda-san. We’ll be sure to treat everything we discover with the utmost discretion.” “But if you’re looking for bags of powdered milk, you’re not going to find them in our computers or our file cabinets,” he argued. Kenji thought fast. Fukuda had put his finger on the weak spot in Tanaka’s attempt to find a paper trail when he didn’t have enough evidence to get a warrant for it. Reluctantly, he decided a tougher form of persuasion was called for. He pulled out his phone and said, “I’m just obeying orders—my superiors asked us to look for documentation as well as actual contraband. But if you’d prefer me to turn this over to the Department of Food Safety . . .” He pretended to scroll for the number. “No,” Fukuda said hastily. “Go ahead and search.” He scowled. “But you won’t find anything.” “Let’s hope not,” Kenji answered, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Suzuki joined them and Kenji acknowledged him with a slight bow. “Good morning Suzuki-san. You remember General Manager Fukuda?” Suzuki bowed deferentially in return. “What time does the first shift arrive?” Kenji asked the general manager. “Today, ten o’clock.” “Good, we have some time then.”
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“You aren’t going to interrupt production, are you?” “Just until we finish our search,” Kenji assured him. “How long will that take?” the manager asked, growing alarmed. “As long as it takes,” said Kenji, with a level stare. “Now if you could just open the door, Mr. Fukuda, we’ll get started.” The general manager fumbled with his keys and allowed them to precede him into the darkened reception room. Suzuki flipped on the lights. “We’ll need your keys to access other parts of the plant, Fukuda-san,” Kenji said. “I’ll be happy to take you anywhere you want to go. And I’ll tell the staff that you’re to have full access . . .” “I’m afraid I can’t let you to go with us,” said Kenji. “My superiors would be very unhappy if anyone with an interest in covering up our findings was part of the search team.” Offended, the general manager stared at him, then reluctantly detached a ring heavy with keys of various sizes. “Thank you. We’ll return them shortly. Now, is there somewhere you could wait while we conduct our search? A conference room, perhaps?” “Why not my office?” “As the other managers arrive, it would be best to have you all gathered in one place, in case we have questions.” And so they could keep an eye on the potential suspects and make sure nobody arranged for evidence to be destroyed. “I suppose we could use the conference room,” the general manager grumbled. “Would it be all right if I used my computer to get some work done while I’m waiting?” “It would be better if you caught up on the news,” suggested Kenji, handing him the Asahi Shimbun that had been lying on the doorstep. The manager sighed and started down the hall, then turned. “Nakamura-san? Do you think you could at least park the police car out back? The company’s
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reputation . . .” “I understand. Of course.” When the manager was settled in the conference room and the car had been moved behind the building, Kenji handed Suzuki the ring of keys and told him to have his team start checking every bag of powdered milk in the warehouse. Kenji paced through the offices, considering where to begin. As he returned to the lobby, a uniformed officer leaned against the doorbell, carrying two cups of tea. Kenji fumbled around, looking for the button that would buzz him in. “Suzuki-san said you might need this, sir,” he said, offering the steaming o-cha. “Thanks, but I think Mr. Fukuda needs it more. He’s down the hall in the conference room. When you come back, I’d like you to start looking through these files.” He pointed to the bank of tall cabinets lined up behind the reception desk. “What am I looking for?” “Delivery receipts. Bills of lading. Anything to do with shipments received from a Chinese supplier.” “Yes, sir.” He disappeared down the hall, and when he returned, Kenji was seated in the receptionist’s chair, scanning the receptionist’s computer in case deliveries were logged at the front desk. Fifteen minutes later, it was clear they weren’t; the only shipments she received were office supplies. Meanwhile, the uniformed officer had begun looking for a hard copy of the Chinese bill of lading the ex-purchasing manager had described. Kenji didn’t really believe they’d find something so damning filed with the regular paperwork, but it would have been negligent not to make sure. He decided to search the late Mr. Hamada’s office first. That was where the offending document had last been seen. The president’s office was slightly bigger than General Manager Fukuda’s. The original of the “Purity. Quality. Value.” calligraphy, mounted on a scroll, hung behind the desk. His two whiteboards
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had been wiped clean, as if it were somehow wrong for Mr. Hamada’s handwriting to survive him. Already a film of dust had settled on the polished desk, empty except for a blotter, a Montblanc pen, and an engraved, brass nameplate. A laptop sat to the side, as dusty as the desk. Kenji pressed its power button and looked through Hamada’s drawers while it started up. He found no papers or files, though he did come across a Polaroid of a stiff-looking Tatsuo Hamada at the Big Sight convention center, posing with Miss Sugar and Spice 1998. He shut the drawer, replacing the photo, and turned his attention to the computer. At 9:10, his phone rang. Suzuki. “We didn’t find anything in the storeroom, sir. All the milk powder is from the Hokkaido Dairy Company, their usual supplier. The bags are still sealed.” “Have you checked the manufacturing lines?” “We’ll do it now.” “Anyone assigned to the back door?” “Not yet.” “Put someone outside. The foreman and the plant manager should be arriving soon. Let’s intercept them before they have a chance to wander around.” “Of course, sir. I’ll do that right away.” Kenji returned his attention to Hamada’s computer, but half an hour later hadn’t found anything to do with shipments. As he got up and stretched, a distraught female voice was raised in the lobby. “Sumimasen! What are you doing? You can’t be back there!” He found the receptionist confronting Constable Kimura across her desk, two red spots flaming on her cheeks as she glared at the constable. She whirled to face Kenji. Recognition, then confusion. “What’s going on?” He explained about the search, and gently suggested she join Mr. Fukuda in the conference room.
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Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand, then scurried down the hall. Back in Hamada’s office, Kenji turned off the computer, shutting the door behind him before crossing the hall to the purchasing office. He’d just started a general overview of Hiro Hamada’s computer when his phone rang. Suzuki again. “I’m here in the manufacturing kitchens with the production manager and the foreman. We’ve checked the open bags of milk powder on the lines, but they all came from the usual suppliers.” “Did you ask if they were aware of Chinese milk powder being used in the past month?” “I did, and they said not.” Suzuki paused. “They seemed genuinely shocked at the suggestion. I believe both of them are second-generation Hamada employees.” “What about the test engineer? Ask him if he had any unusual-tasting batches recently. And find out if there’s anywhere else someone could have stashed that shipment. How much room would you need to store a hundred kilos of milk powder, anyway?” “I’ll find out, sir.” “Thanks, Suzuki.” “Oh, and the production workers have started to arrive. I’m having them wait outside on the loading dock with one of the constables, but they’re asking if the plant is going to open today.” “I don’t know. We haven’t found anything over here yet, either. But don’t let any of them go home. We may need to talk to them.” Kenji clicked on the SHIPMENT TRACKING folder and started examining the contents. March 4: 525 kilos of cocoa shipped from Nippon Trading Company. March 15: 300 kilos of cornflakes from JapanBrands LLP. March 26: 50 rolls of SureSeal thermal packaging film from Dai-Ichi Plastics, with rush charges. By 10:30, Kenji had searched every document in the likely folders. He sat back in Hiro’s chair, frustrated. As a long shot, he opened the one entitled PERSONAL.
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jh_party_map.pdf kyoto_itinerary.doc tournament_roster.xlsx document.ai What kind of file ended in “.ai”? When he opened it, the banner for Adobe Illustrator flashed onto the screen as the application started up. A graphics program? Why did a purchasing manager need a graphics program? An expensive foreign graphics program, at that. A toolbar appeared to the left, followed by a document that looked like a bill of lading. The letterhead looked Chinese but he couldn’t read the company name—many Japanese and Chinese words used the same characters but had totally different pronunciations. He could, however, read the characters below: 250 kilos of sweetener. 100 kilos of powdered milk. Now he was really confused. Who would send a bill of lading in the form of a document that could only be opened in a graphics application used by professional designers? He heard raised voices in the lobby. “Excuse me, sir, but the company is closed for the day. Perhaps—” “Are you the policeman in charge?” “No, sir. Are you an employee?” Kenji heard a laugh with an edge of hysteria. “Yeah. I’m an employee. I need to talk to the guy in charge. Where is he?” “Sir, if you’d please just follow me to the conference room where the other managers are gathered, Detective Nakamura will speak with you as soon as—hey!” Kenji looked up as Hiro Hamada appeared in his doorway. “That’s my computer!” Kenji stood. “Yes, Mr. Hamada. Fukuda-san gave us permission to search it. I’m glad you’re here
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because I just found something I’d like you to explain to me.” Swaying slightly, Hamada Jr. took a step into the room and Kenji caught a faint whiff of whiskey. Crossing swiftly to the desk, Hiro swiveled the monitor to see what was on the screen. All color drained from his face. He slowly crumpled into the visitor’s chair and buried his head in his hands with an agonized sob. Then the dam burst. Kenji stood, not knowing what to do. He cleared his throat. “Uh, Hamada-san?” Hiro shook his head helplessly and the wrenching sounds continued. Kenji went to the door and asked someone to fetch a cup of tea, or at least some water. Kimura dashed to the staff room and returned with a company mug. Hiro drank, the cup chattering against his teeth. Tears continued to leak down his cheeks as he raised his ravaged face and croaked, “It’s all my fault. I killed them.”
Chapter 26 Wednesday, April 10 12:30 P.M.
Kenji
Hiro Hamada stared, unseeing, at the untouched bowl of ramen before him. His clothing looked clean, but his hair hadn’t been washed recently. A few lank strands hung into his eyes but he didn’t bother to brush them away. He sat across from Kenji at a narrow white table in the third floor interview room at Komagome Police Station with a uniformed constable outside the door. Since his outburst at the Hamada Sweets headquarters, he hadn’t said a word. Kenji’s phone vibrated. Suzuki reported that they’d found no trace of Chinese milk powder at the factory, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the test results for the past ninety days. If tainted milk powder had been used, the products had gone out undetected. Kenji told him to wait at the plant until they’d had a chance to talk to Hiro. Oki joined them and seated himself behind the note-taking computer in the corner. The suspect moved his now-tepid noodles aside and winced. “Do you have any aspirin?” Kenji cracked open the door and spoke to the constable outside the room. A tall glass of water and a sealed packet of Bayer appeared. After Hiro swallowed the painkillers, Kenji asked, “Are you ready, Hamada-san?” “Yes,” he said, sighing.
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Kenji stated the date, time, and names of the participants for the recording that was automatically made of any interview. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Earlier, in your office, what did you mean when you said, ‘It’s all my fault. I killed them’?” For a moment he was afraid Hiro would break down again, but the Hamada heir pressed his lips together, shaking it off. “My parents. I killed my parents.” “Can you describe how you did that?” Hiro’s expression was bleak. “All I wanted was to get Purchasing Manager Arita off my back. I thought if I could make it look like he’d gone off the rails and ordered cheap ingredients, my father would finally let me bring my ideas to him directly, maybe even fire Arita-san and move me into management.” He frowned, playing with the paper-wrapped chopsticks that had come with the ramen. “Arita-san was the most backward manager in the whole company. I think my father would have been willing to consider new ideas, but I don’t think Arita-san even asked him before he shot them down. I couldn’t get around him because my father trusted him. He trusted all those old geezers who were hired by my grandfather.” Hiro put down the chopsticks. “So I talked a friend of mine who does video production into loaning me a copy of the graphics program he uses. I spent a couple of Sundays learning how to use it, then I searched the web for Chinese companies that sold the kind of ingredients that go into our candy. I found one and copied their letterhead.” He closed his eyes as if in pain. “I can’t read Chinese, so I didn’t know it was one of the companies involved in the melamine scandal. I just picked it because it was foreign and from a country my father would be prejudiced against. I thought that would be enough to shock him into thinking Arita-san had betrayed his trust. “I waited until after work one day, then I brought the dummied-up order in and showed him. My father is . . . my father was . . .” He blinked rapidly a few times, then swallowed and continued. “My
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father was so old-fashioned. He ran the company like everybody was family. It never occurred to him that anyone but Arita could have stamped his name with that hanko. Once he saw the red seal with Arita’s name in the authorization box, I could see he believed Arita-san had placed the order. He was really upset, but for once, he was upset with Arita, not with me. “He . . . he thanked me for bringing it in.” Hiro’s face became a battleground of pain and disbelief. “Two days later, he called Arita-san in and fired him. I was promoted to purchasing manager. My father never explained to me or anyone at the company why Arita-san was gone. I thought things had worked out even better than I’d hoped.” He looked at Yamato, pleading. “I know I got ahead by getting him fired, but my father couldn’t see that it would be good for the company to get rid of deadwood like Arita. Without guys like him, we could review all those suppliers who never bid competitively for their contracts, all those old relationships that were no longer in the company’s best interests. I wanted to change all that, bring us into the twenty-first century.” “So what happened?” “Nothing,” said Hiro in an anguished voice, “until you knocked on my door that night and brought me a copy of their suicide note. I didn’t realize how hard my father was looking for that shipment in the week after Arita-san was fired. He asked me about it, but of course I told him I didn’t know anything. I suggested he ask on the production floor, knowing nobody had seen it, because it didn’t exist. I didn’t realize he thought it had been used without being detected.” Hiro hid his face in his hands. “I should have noticed how worried my parents were. But I didn’t. I didn’t see any of the signs.” His chest heaved a few times. “I just went to work and played golf and stayed out late at hostess clubs and all the while it was killing them. Thinking that children might die from eating Hamada Sweets candy . . .” “Your mother, too?” “She would never have let my father die alone and take all the blame.” Hiro’s face crumpled and he
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buried his head in his arms, his shoulders shaking, gasping between sobs. Kenji looked at Oki, who shook his head slowly. Hiro Hamada had killed his parents, but not in a way any court in the land would convict. He fetched the tissues from the window ledge and set the Kleenex in front of Hiro, who ignored them, awash in grief and remorse. Kenji beckoned Oki out and closed the door behind them. “So much for our slam-dunk murder conviction,” he said with a sigh. “Yeah, but do you think a court could hand out any punishment worse than what he’s going to suffer for the rest of his life?” “I suppose you’re right. Thanks for your help, Oki-san. I guess I’ll call off Suzuki and start on the paperwork.”
Chapter 27 Wednesday, April 10 12:30 P.M.
Yumi
Yumi stood on one foot, waiting for the train at Waseda Station. Yesterday’s red spot had turned into a full-fledged blister. Her comfortable shoes were still at Mr. Minit. She’d done a dreadful job of interpreting the visiting Oxford historian’s lecture on barge transportation in Elizabethan England. Fortunately, the doddering professor who was her client knew no English whatever, so it didn’t seem strange to him that her translations were considerably shorter than the speaker’s meanderings. She’d missed whole swaths of the lecture because her mind kept veering off, trying to come to terms with her new future. She was getting married. She was going to marry Ichiro Mitsuyama. It astonished her. Had she really said yes? It didn’t seem quite real. Her parents had been thrilled when she woke them up to tell them. It wouldn’t be official until Ichiro formally asked her parents for permission, but Ichiro had already texted to say the Mitsuyamas would be pleased if the Hata family would be their guests on Friday night at the Tokyo City Club for a formal engagement ceremony. She took out her phone and checked for missed calls. One from Rika’s friend Midori. She returned it. “Moshi-moshi? Yumi-san? Thanks for letting me know you got your phone back. How are you
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feeling? Anything new about Rika?” Yumi told her that the police had finally decided there was enough evidence to do a post-mortem. Midori was pleased to hear they were finally questioning the suicide theory. “Is it all right to let the rest of our Circle know?” she asked. “Of course.” “Or maybe you can tell them yourself. There’s an event Friday night at Club Nyx and the girls and I were wondering if you can come? We’re going to set up a little tribute table for Rika, and I’ve got an extra ticket.” “I . . . sure. Where’s Club Nyx?” “It’s a little hard to find. Why don’t you meet me at my house? Doors open at six—come around five and we can go together.” A Lolita Circle tribute. Yumi couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. By Friday she hoped she could put her disillusionment aside and mourn Rika without reservation. The train arrived and she took a seat near the door, clicking through the stored pictures on her phone. The first one: Delete. Ichiro’s eyes were half closed. The next one: good, though they both looked more than a little drunk. They’d tipped their heads together and held their phones at arm’s length in the taxi on the way home, the brightly lit street glittering behind them through the rear window. Ichiro had wanted to e-mail everybody immediately with the photo and the news, but she’d talked him into waiting at least until after they’d told their families. She hadn’t told anybody except her parents, hadn’t even whispered the secret to Coco. Why was she so reluctant? She looked at the picture again. Everyone would tell her they looked cute together, would congratulate her on making such a good match. And it was a good match. Remembering how she’d reacted in that split second she’d feared Ichiro wanted to stop seeing her, it was clear she just hadn’t been aware of her true feelings. Her mind needed time to catch up with her heart, that’s all. There would be plenty of time after the engagement ceremony to let everybody know.
Chapter 28 Wednesday, April 10 4:00 P.M.
Kenji
Late-afternoon sun was slanting into the squad room through the big glass window over the section chief’s desk as Kenji started on the last page of paperwork closing their investigation of Hiro Hamada. The landline on his desk buzzed. It was the front desk, calling to say that Kenji had a visitor in the lobby, a Miss Hata. Grateful for the interruption, he found her in front of the bulletin board, studying the wanted posters. “Yu-chan?” She turned. “See anybody you know?” He grinned. She gave him a half-smile. “No, I was just thinking that this pair of criminals have the same last name, but they don’t look like brother and sister. Do you think they’re married? I wonder if their friends told them they looked cute together, once upon a time.” “Uh . . . ?” She must have mistaken his confusion for irritation because she quickly apologized, “Sorry, how rude of me. I’m interrupting you in the middle of work. I stopped by because Rika’s mother asked me to call people to tell them when the funeral will be. I already have most of her friends’ numbers, but I
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wanted to check the phone you have, in case there are some contacts that aren’t on her old phone. Would it be all right if I took a look at it?” She added, “I’ll be quick. You must be busy.” “Actually, you rescued me from writing a particularly depressing report.” He smiled. “Come on up. I’ll call the evidence room.” He took her to the third floor and led her to his desk. “Dōzo. Have a seat,” he said, nodding toward the visitor chair. He lifted the receiver of the landline and asked the evidence room to send up Rika’s phone. Yumi was digging in her purse, not trying to look like the girl of his dreams but succeeding all the same. The squad room suddenly seemed way too warm. Kenji removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, then rolled up his sleeves. Pen and notepad retrieved, Yumi glanced at his arms, corded with the muscles from his mandatory police judo training. “You still playing baseball?” she asked. “Nah, they tried to recruit me for the police league but I don’t have time. I have to do judo now— we’re all required to maintain at least a first-degree black belt, but because I never learned it as a kid, I’m still playing catch-up. I work out twice as often as the rest of the guys, but any one of them can have me on the mat in about thirty seconds.” He laughed. “Some even faster. The detective who usually sits next to me is a fifth-degree. He can flatten me just by looking in my direction.” Tommy Loud arrived with Rika’s phone. Kenji thanked him and signed for it. “I’ve got something else for you, too,” the crime tech said. “Call me when you’re done here.” “Thank you, Rowdy-san. Give me a few minutes.” Kenji extracted Rika’s phone from the evidence bag, handing it to Yumi. “Do you need the charger?” he asked. She chimed it on and checked the battery icon. “No, looks fine. Is there somewhere you’d like me to . . . ?” “No, go ahead and use my desk.” Kenji excused himself and took his phone to an empty interview room, pulling the door shut behind
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him. He called Tommy Loud. The crime tech picked up and said without preamble, “We were right. Your victim didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.” “How?” Kenji asked. “She died of asphyxiation. There was severe congestion in her lungs.” “But . . . the examining doctor didn’t find any marks around her neck or petechial hemorrhaging in her eyes.” “That’s because she wasn’t strangled. Whoever did it used a pillow. Or a plastic bag.” Kenji thought about the crime scene: no pillows in the car, no plastic bags. “Did you find anything like that at the scene?” “No, I’d have mentioned it,” the crime tech answered, slightly offended. “Of course. Sorry.” Kenji paused. “I guess that rules out murder-suicide.” “And suggests premeditation. Whoever killed her brought a bag or pillow to the scene, then took it away again.” Kenji ended the call. The section chief had given approval for the autopsy very reluctantly and he wasn’t going to like these results one bit. Plus, he was going to think Kenji was a prize idiot—not only had he sent everybody on a massive wild goose chase after the wrong suspect, he’d even been concentrating on the wrong victim. Leaning back in the hard interview room chair, he rubbed his face. It had been a long day. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the tension that had settled there. He wasn’t looking forward to judo practice, but a little punishing was probably just what he needed. Oki would give him a thorough smackdown, but afterward he’d be a sympathetic listener over their customary post-workout beer. Kenji sighed and pushed back his chair. Time to go out and tell Yumi she’d been right about her friend.
Chapter 29 Thursday, April 11 10:30 A.M.
Kenji
The next morning dawned bright and clear, but no sunshine penetrated the windowless interrogation room where Kenji and Suzuki were waiting to present their progress—or rather, lack of it—to Section Chief Tanaka. Detective Oki poked his head in. “I just ran into the chief in the staff room. He says he’ll be here as soon as his tea’s finished brewing. What’s the news on your suicide case?” Kenji asked him to shut the door and told him it was now a homicide, but the section chief didn’t know that yet. Oki pulled up a chair as Kenji told him what he’d learned from Tommy Loud. When he finished, the big detective leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “You want to know what I’d do if I were you?” Oki rocked forward. “First thing, I wouldn’t receive that call about the autopsy results from Tommy Loud until, say, one this afternoon. Tanaka’s calendar says he has an intra-agency communications meeting at noon today with the chief superintendent, but that’s actually a tee time. So even if I diligently put my memo about the Ozawa post-mortem on his desk at one thirty, he won’t see it until tomorrow at the earliest. Then I’d bust my butt finding something to make him think I’ll be able hand the main office a suspect before they get involved.” “You think that’s possible?” asked Kenji.
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“Probably not. But it doesn’t matter. All you want to do is survive the explosion when Tanaka-san finds out our unsolved homicide rate just doubled, and make it look like you’re close to moving it into the other column.” As Oki left, the section chief arrived, his mug from last year’s National Police Chiefs Convention in hand. By the time Kenji finished reporting that there was no evidence that Chinese milk powder had ever been used by Hamada Sweets and it looked like Hiro Hamada was telling the truth, the tea in Tanaka’s cup was half gone. The section chief asked pointedly, “You’ll be releasing Mr. and Mrs. Hamada’s remains to the family now, I hope?” Mrs. Hamada’s sister—wife of the chairman of Ichiki Electric—had been telephoning daily, asking when funeral arrangements could be made. The section chief had been the unfortunate one who’d had to call her yesterday and break the news that, due to certain statements her nephew had made, there would be a further delay in releasing the bodies. She’d insisted that was ridiculous—Hiro was totally devastated by his parents’ deaths, and Tanaka should know better than to listen to self-accusations from a grief-stricken young man, especially one from such an old and upstanding family. Now Tanaka would have to admit she’d been right, and apologize profusely. He was not pleased to be in that position, and Kenji knew it. “I’ll do the necessary paperwork right away, sir.” Tanaka scowled and finished his tea. “What’s happening with Rika Ozawa? I suppose it’s too early for the post-mortem report?” “I haven’t seen it yet, sir,” said Kenji. He glanced at Suzuki, whose head was bent over his notes. Suzuki knew that Loud had called with the results, but Kenji was relieved to see that the Assistant Detective apparently agreed that a kohai’s duty to support his sempai trumped the truth in this case. He wasn’t volunteering the information that Kenji hadn’t seen the results, he’d merely heard them.
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But the section chief had good reason not to be happy that an open-and-shut suicide might turn into a major crime. Suicides didn’t contribute to the station’s solve rate, but failing to catch a killer would. Plus, if Rika’s death was reclassified as a homicide, the elite murder squad from the downtown Chiyoda Ward headquarters would certainly descend on the Komagome Police Station. If the killer were caught, the elite squad would take the credit; if not, the local station’s initial investigation would be blamed. “We’re completing a thorough analysis of the crime scene evidence while we wait for the postmortem results, sir. Rowdy-san is working overtime to get the testing done,” Kenji assured him. Tanaka frowned. “That foreigner is the tech on this case? I’ll try to get it reassigned.” A short knock at the door interrupted him and Tommy Loud himself entered, carrying a folder. He bowed and said, “Please excuse my rudeness, I’m sorry to be late,” in perfect honorific-form Japanese. His pale, freckled face was flushed as though he’d been running, and his tie was askew. Noting the section chief’s disapproval, he self-consciously corrected it. Kenji explained, “When we spoke this morning, I asked Rowdy-san to join us to share his latest findings.” Tanaka grimaced, looked at his watch and briskly pushed his chair back. “I’ll leave you to your work, then. Keep me informed.” He looked at Kenji. “I’m going to consult with the chief superintendent this afternoon about how best to allocate resources to this case. If I decide to make any personnel changes, I’ll let you know.” Kenji and Suzuki stood and bowed as their superior left the room. “What was that all about?” Loud asked, dropping into the section chief’s empty seat. “He’s not thinking of replacing you as lead investigator, is he?” Kenji thought the section chief had been talking about getting rid of Tommy Loud, but now he realized he could be the one who was reassigned. “Let’s not give him any excuse to do that. Please tell me you have good news.” Loud grinned. “I stopped by the lab to see the technician doing Rika Ozawa’s tox screen. While he
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was explaining at great length why he would never do something so irregular as to give me results before circulating them through official channels, I noticed that the report was actually sitting right there on his desk. So, as he pontificated away, I read all the important bits upside down.” “You what?” “I can read Japanese, you know,” Loud said, slightly offended. “Sorry Rowdy-san, that’s not what I meant.” Kenji glanced at Suzuki, who was clearly scandalized at the crime tech’s craftiness. “Sometimes ‘the way things are done’ gets in the way of actually getting things done. I’m happy to be working with someone who knows the difference.” Loud smiled, good humor restored. “So . . . ?” Kenji prompted. “Rika Ozawa was nearly sober when she died. Blood alcohol 0.02, and no trace of drugs in her system.” Kenji sat back in his chair. “Huh. So our victim goes to the Mad Hatter, eats a salad, and has a drink with her friend. Then she dresses up like Bo Peep’s evil twin, puts a blank piece of paper into an envelope addressed to her parents, meets two suicidal people at a deserted parking lot, eats fifty breath mints, throws up, drops her phone, and is attacked and suffocated by an unknown assailant.” “There’s more,” said Loud. “We discovered why none of your victims had signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. Remember the charcoal burner we found in the back seat of the car? The only thing that went up in smoke that night was incense. There were four chunks of charcoal in the grate but they weren’t even singed. The only ash was from the sticks of Kojurin that someone lit instead of torching the sumi.” He let Kenji puzzle over this for a moment before adding, “You want to know what I think? I think your victim never intended to commit suicide. I think she wanted the Hamadas to believe that they would all die together, but she made pretty meticulous plans to avoid following them to nirvana.” “But why would she do that?” blurted Suzuki, whose by-the-book sensibilities had been shocked
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too many times that morning. “As they say in my country,” said the crime tech, “cui bono?” He rose. “I’ve got to get back to the lab. Good luck, and I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.” Kenji thanked him and Loud sketched a wave as he disappeared through the door. Kenji uncapped his pen and opened his notebook. Why was killer at shrine? —Kill Rika or other reason? —Planned or opportunistic? Who knew Rika would be at shrine parking lot? —Someone who followed her from a bar? Which bar? Ask Yumi —Was she working on a story? —What was it about? —Who would be hurt? —Who was she working for? He sat back in his chair, thinking, then looked up at Suzuki and said, “If you get lunch, I’ll start searching those suicide websites.”
Chapter 30 Thursday, April 11 12:30 P.M.
Kenji
Kenji picked up a juicy tempura-fried prawn with his chopsticks and tapped it on the side of his noodle bowl so it wouldn’t drip. Pulling out his phone with his other hand, he searched for the e-mail Yumi had forwarded with the suicide websites and wondered what she was doing right now. She’d know what Rowdy-san had meant when he tossed off that weird foreign word at the end of the meeting. Setting down his chopsticks, he paged through his notes, looking for it. Pulling his computer over next to his noodles, he used the phonetic alphabet reserved for foreign words to type “ku-i-bo-no” into the search field. A dictionary definition appeared. It was Latin, not English. “Cui bono? Who benefits?” He slurped up a big bite of noodles. Who did benefit from killing Rika Ozawa? She worked as a staff writer at a magazine with a small circulation and didn’t come from a wealthy family, so she probably hadn’t been murdered over money. More likely it was because of something she knew. Had Yumi continued to search for that article Rika was writing? He called her. “Moshi-moshi?” In the background, he heard a muffled thank you, then a request for an extra napkin. “Yumi, it’s Kenji. Did I get you at a bad time?” “No, just a minute.” Offline, she asked for chopsticks. “Sorry, I’m at a convenience store, grabbing
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some lunch. What’s up?” “Did you ever find that article Rika Ozawa was writing?” A brief silence. “No.” “Really?” More silence. “You found it, didn’t you? Or at least you discovered what it was about.” “Why do you think that?” “Because in tenth grade I heard you tell our history teacher that you had no idea who pulled the fire alarm before that big test.” “That was you? I thought it was Coco’s boyfriend.” “Neither of us had studied.” “Oh.” “Yu-chan, you’re a terrible liar,” he said. “The article?” Long silence. Finally, she sighed and said, “I found it on her work computer. It was about suicide websites.” “Suicide websites? I thought you said this was going to be her big break. Suicide websites are hardly cutting-edge news.” “Yeah, but . . .” Yumi paused, then continued reluctantly, “The piece she was writing was full of first-person stuff. She’d been using the name and posing as a suicidal person online.” Tommy Loud had guessed right. Rika had gone to the shrine intending to mislead the Hamadas. Had she planned to watch them die, then write about it for the suicide article? That was cold. It ruled out the theory someone had killed her to prevent an exposé becoming public, though. So what were the alternatives? A thrill killer? A stranger who’d followed her and murdered for the fun of it? “Yu-chan, what bar did you and Rika go to that night?” “The Mad Hatter.”
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“Did you see anybody there who might have followed her?” “And killed her? Someone from the Hatter?” She thought a moment. “No. But I wasn’t really paying attention. Boshi-san—the bartender—you could ask him.” “Can you tell me how to get there?” She hesitated. “I think I’d better go with you. He might be more helpful if I introduce you.” “I need an introduction to a bartender?” “Look, I’ve got to be somewhere at eight, but I could meet you after work. Say, six o’clock?” He’d miss judo practice, but he didn’t even hesitate. “Okay, thanks. Where would you like to meet?” “In front of the convenience store outside the Omotesando exit, Harajuku JR station?” “I’ll be there,” he said. “And e-mail me that article, will you?” He hung up and grinned. He was having a drink with Yumi Hata tonight. “Sir?” Suzuki appeared at his desk. “What would you like me to work on this afternoon?” Kenji reviewed his notes. A bar wasn’t the only place a thrill killer might have met Rika. Those suicide websites Yumi had sent him were probably filled with crazies. Grabbing his phone, he looked up her message and copied the first three addresses onto a notepad for Suzuki. He’d investigate the one she used most often himself. “I’d like you to check these sites and see what Rika posted there. Hata-san told me she was using the name . Find out who she engaged with and note their user IDs—we’ll hunt down their real names. Maybe one of them will turn out to be our killer.” Kenji looked at the remaining address: whitelight.co.jp. He typed it into his browser.
Chapter 31 Thursday, April 11 12:30 P.M.
Kenji
His screen went black, then a tiny, white glow appeared in the center and spread to fill the screen. The words, “Surrender To The Light” slowly rippled to the surface in gothic lettering, both English and Japanese. Apparently, one had to register in order to gain access. He clicked on Create New Account. What user name should he adopt? Nothing that would reveal his actual identity, of course. He fell back on <southpaw> and entered his password as era262, his senior year Earned Run Average. A new page appeared, welcoming him to the community of those ready to face the great beyond and explaining that he could read and post in any topic. All entries were subject to monitoring by the site administrators, who took no responsibility for the content or users’ actions. He was automatically assigned the e-mail address [email protected]. Under “Etiquette Tips for New Users,” Kenji discovered that sharing or asking for personal contact information in public forums was frowned upon; e-mail was the way to make private arrangements. Users were urged not to make negative comments. The purpose of the site was to support people in their personal decisions and provide helpful information, not encourage them to end their lives. Before posting in any topic, users should introduce themselves.
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He moved on to the discussion forums. • Introductions • Resources • Making Arrangements: Legal & Otherwise • Advice & Answers • Share Your Story The last thing he wanted to do was introduce himself on a suicide website, so he skipped the first forum and clicked on Resources. The threads ranged from a comparison of various suicide methods to practical advice about getting the equipment and drugs needed to kill yourself. Links to articles and videos made by so-called experts were helpfully provided. Kenji shuddered and skipped to Share Your Story, looking for and <sweetmama>. Scrolling quickly through the posts, he slowed down when he hit the ones made since the middle of September and sifted through them until he found what he was looking for. #1401 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (8:05 PM) Can anybody point me to information about modern methods of committing suppuku? My husband and I want to die with honor, and it has to be foolproof. We don’t want to end up in the hospital— that would just make everything worse, maybe even attract publicity. We want to do the honorable thing, but quietly. #1402 of 1455 Wed 27 Mar (8:48 PM) You’re really dying for honor? Why? #1403 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (9:02 PM)
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We have to take responsibility for something that was done by our family’s company. #1404 of 1455 Wed 27 Mar (9:12 PM) A public apology isn’t enough? #1405 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (9:21 PM) That would only create panic. If we take the blame, our son can move forward with a clean slate and set things right. There’s no need for the problem to become public if we act quickly. #1406 of 1455 Wed 27 Mar (6:15 PM) Perhaps we can help each other. I need to act quickly too. Have you decided how you’re going to do it yet? #1407 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (7:22 PM) No, but I understand most people take painkillers. Or is it sleeping pills? I don’t actually know how to get either one. Have you thought about it? #1408 of 1455 <deathmerchant> Wed 27 Mar (11:19 PM) Hey, there’s an ***awesome*** chart at offyourself.com that not only compares different ways to do it, it rates them. Check it out! #1409 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (9:32 AM) That site is really offensive, <deathmerchant>. How could you suggest it to someone who’s trying to do the honorable thing? You
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are such a dick. #1410 of 1455 <deathmerchant> Thurs 28 Mar (10:36 AM) Well fuck you . #1411 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (11:00 AM) <deathmerchant> may I remind you *again* that this site is intended to be supportive. This is your second warning. , please no insults. <sweetmama> and , there are links to articles in Resources you might find helpful. You can also visit the Advice & Answers forum, where Whitelight users and guest experts answer specific questions like the ones you pose above. #1412 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (11:12 AM) The links in the Resources section are fine, but I’ve noticed there’s some important information missing. #1413 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:21 PM) Like . . . ? #1414 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:24 PM) Well, for example, you’ll want to consider how you’ll look when you’re discovered. Some methods have unpleasant side effects and are shocking to survivors. #1415 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (4:32 PM) I hadn’t even considered that. Do you have any recommendations?
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#1416 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (11:34 PM) How old is your son? #1417 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (4:45 PM) 26 #1418 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:46 PM) Does he still live at home? #1419 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (4:47 PM) Yes. #1420 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:55 PM) So you can’t do it there. You don’t want him to be the one who discovers you. And you’ll want to make sure you look as natural as possible, as if you’re asleep, so when he comes to identify you at the hospital, it won’t be so painful. #1421 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (5:03 PM) That’s really good advice. How do you know so much about this? #1422 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:09 PM) I’ve been thinking about it my whole life. When I was five years old, they discovered I had a degenerative neurological disease. I decided a long time ago to end my life before it becomes unbearable. #1423 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:12 PM)
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I remember you from the Introductions topic, . You seem like a very brave person. I can’t imagine what it would be like, having death shadow you your whole life. Is your condition painful? Condition? Kenji returned to the homepage and clicked on Introductions. He found ’s at the beginning of March. #105 of 116 Sat 2 Mar (10:58 PM) “I gaze into the empty twilight sky, My breath, a wraith, ascending to the stars I cannot see, My heart, it whispers, praying for a miracle…” Alas, my time for miracles is past. I’m ready to start thinking about my final exit. I’ve been planning it my whole life. The doctors told me I had a rare neurological disease when I was five, predicted I’d die before I was ten. But here I am, 12 years later, still breathing, still ALIVE. Really beat the odds. But now it’s finally catching up with me, and there’s still no cure. I can’t walk without crutches anymore. Soon I’ll need a wheelchair. I don’t want to wait too long, until I’m at the mercy of the nurses and machines, helpless and alone. I want to do it while I’m still able to choose when and where and how. So here I am, looking for someone to join me for the grand finale. A few posts later, and <sweetmama> appeared. #109 of 116 Fri 22 Mar (5:10 PM)
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I don’t really know how to begin. I guess I should say hi. Or maybe goodbye. I’m 20. Six months ago I’d have said you were crazy if you told me I’d be introducing myself in a place like this. But that’s before I lost everything that was important to me. Now all I want to do is rest. Forever. #110 of 116 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (9:40 PM) I’m here because I want to protect my family from scandal. I don’t need help deciding what to do, only how. Kenji sat back in his chair. was suffering from some terrible degenerative disease. <sweetmama> definitely sounded like Mrs. Hamada. And if was Yumi’s friend Rika, she’d lied about her age. But her introduction was exactly the sort of vague bait someone fishing for a good story might use. Pathetic enough to get sympathy, general enough so she could make up the details once she figured out what would really hook them. Kenji returned to the Share Your Story forum. #1423 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:12 PM) I remember you from the Introductions topic, . You seem like a very brave person. I can’t imagine what it would be like, having death shadow you your whole life. Is your condition painful? #1424 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:18 PM) No, not really. In fact, to look at me, you wouldn’t know I was dying, bit by bit, piece by piece. But I’ve read all the studies. I know that every day I’ll lose a little more function until I
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can’t move at all. I don’t want to live like that. #1425 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (5:21 PM) What do your parents say? Do they know you’re intending to do this? #1427 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:23 PM) Sadly, they both passed away. #1428 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (5:25 PM) So you’re all alone in the world? #1429 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:31 PM) That’s why I’m here. Because even though I’ve lived alone for so long, I don’t want to die alone. #1430 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:44 PM) “Looking toward darkness, Our fingers entwined In our next lives Will we meet again?” #1431 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:48 PM) Yes, yes exactly! How did you know “Again and Again” is my favorite song? #1432 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:50 PM) It’s mine too. I saw the Venom Vixen tribute in your introduction.
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I too dream of holding hands with someone as we cross to the other side. Are you Goth? #1433 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:51 PM) I used to be, when I could get around better. I get tired so easily now. I can’t believe you’re a Goth too. Are you from Tokyo? Did you hang out in Akihabara? #1434 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:52 PM) Actually, I’m a Goth-Lolita. But I was never part of the Akiba scene. I doubt we ever met in this life. #1435 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:58 PM) But maybe in a past one? “In the next world Shivering, alone, Will you know the stranger Who shelters you from the rain?”
#1436 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (6:00 PM) Maybe it’s not too late to meet in this life. #1437 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (6:01 PM) No. For me, it’s time to go. #1438 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (6:06 PM) Maybe our first meeting will also be our last . . .
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“Don’t slip away Before I can follow Don’t leave me alone To search for you forever” Email me, . Let’s talk. After that, <sweetmama>, , and disappeared and the conversation was taken over by other users. Had they moved to another forum? He clicked on the one called Advice & Answers, where <sweetmama> had been sent to ask about sleeping pills. Kenji picked her up at post #643. advised <sweetmama> to back up the pills with a charcoal burner. He said that if you took too many pills, they made you sick before they killed you, so most people used both drugs and a carbon-monoxide-producing burner in an enclosed space like a car. said she’d been thinking of that herself, but she didn’t have a car. <deathmerchant> made several suggestions about other ways that could kill herself, all of them gruesome. swatted him down. <sweetmama> invited and to join her and her husband if they were ready to do it soon. ’s next post was deleted by , reminding him that certain kinds of arrangements were not allowed on Whitelight public forums, and to please continue the conversation via e-mail. Apparently had seen whatever had offered before his comment was removed, and replied that thanks, she’d bring her own. After that, , <sweetmama>, and disappeared from the topic. Kenji suspected that they’d done exactly as suggested and taken their planning to e-mail. It all fit. Rika had identified three subjects who would make great copy—a couple embroiled in a scandal, committing the modern version of ritual suicide, and a young man with an incurable disease. As
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a bonus, she’d sniffed out a second sensational story—had she tried to convince Mrs. Hamada to confide about the wrongdoing at their company before she died? Yumi’s friend had cleverly weaseled herself into their group. All she had to do was show up, pretend to die, and she’d walk away with one sensational tabloid article and one that would have landed her a byline in a respectable newspaper if it had been true. It was all pretty callous. No wonder Yumi had begged him not to tell anyone. This guy —it sounded like he’d planned to die with them, but only Rika and the Hamadas had been found in the car. Why? Had he chickened out once the planning got down to when and where? It seemed unlikely that a guy with a serious degenerative disease would be able to suffocate a healthy young woman against her will, though, no matter how wacko he was. But what about that loser <deathmerchant>? Kenji returned to the Introductions forum. #37 of 116 <deathmerchant> Fri 11 May (9:40 PM) Everyone is so mean to me, I feel so alone. Unless someone gives me a reason to keep on living, I think I’ll kill myself. Nobody will miss me. It read more like a “call for help” than a real intention to die, especially since he was still posting ten months later. But <deathmerchant> was following and the others around the Whitelight forums. Was he an online stalker, or just a pathetic, lonely guy who didn’t know how to connect with other people face to face? He could be a suicide looky-loo, someone who didn’t actually intend to do the deed, but liked to egg people on. How far did his voyeurism go? Did he confine himself to goading people online, or had he moved up to spying on them when they did it? Maybe he even . . . helped. How hard would it have been to find out where the Hamadas and Rika were planning to meet? Kenji scrolled to the bottom of the page and clicked Home. Contact Us produced an e-mail
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window. Kenji identified himself as a Tokyo Metropolitan Police officer investigating a murder and explained that he needed the actual names of four Whitelight users. He gave their login IDs and clicked Send. He stood up and stretched, checked the time. How could it already be 4:00? He hoped the Whitelight sysadmin got back to him with names soon, so he could write up a report to put on Section Chief Tanaka’s desk before he left to meet Yumi. He’d say they’d identified two potential suspects— Tanaka didn’t have to know that was an unlikely murderer due to his physical condition— and all they had to do was hunt down their addresses to bring them in. Now that he had two good leads, it seemed unlikely that Rika’s murderer had picked her up at the Mad Hatter, but that was no reason to cancel a perfectly legit date with Yumi. A half hour later, he wasn’t in such an upbeat mood. Suzuki had spotted on the other suicide websites, but nobody had taken her bait. She’d dropped off almost immediately. Then a reply had arrived from claiming that Whitelight bore no responsibility for what its users said or did, and didn’t have the users’ real names anyway. If Kenji had thought it through, it would have occurred to him that he hadn’t provided his real name on the registration screen, either. He trudged to the staff room and dribbled bitter dregs of green tea from the communal pot into his cup. It was too close to quitting time to make another, so he rinsed out the teapot and left it upside down on the drainer to dry. He returned to his desk to find Oki standing there with a sullen-looking teenage boy whose shirttail was hanging out over the uniform of a famous private school. “Detective Nakamura! You’re just the person we’ve been looking for. I think I’ve found someone who might be able to help you with the real names of those people on the suicide websites. This is Hornet.” The big detective turned to the boy. “I’m only going to make this offer once. You can make that introduction, or I can call some people about the video card that walked out of Bic Camera in your backpack with the price tag still on it.” The boy scowled, but finally said, “I know a guy who can probably hack that site. He goes by the
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name Ghost.” Kenji and Oki waited. “We never met face to face, but we team up in online games pretty often. He knows all the back doors. He’s good.” “You think he’ll help us?” Kenji asked. Silence. “Mom and Dad are going to be a little disappointed,” said Oki, “when the headmaster of your fancy school calls to explain that kids with sticky fingers won’t be graduating if . . .” “Okay, okay! Get me a computer.” Kenji offered the boy his chair and swiveled his police-issue laptop around for him to use. “What a piece of crap,” the kid muttered, opening a new window, his fingers flying over the keys. He paused and looked up at Kenji. “Ghost might want something in exchange. For getting the names.” “Like what?” “Dunno. Maybe a comic book. He collects. But I already spent my allowance this month so . . .” “I’ll cover it,” Kenji said. The boy’s fingers began racing over the keys. He logged into a chat forum and conversation scrolled by almost faster than Kenji could read it. Hornet typed, yo, ghost, want unlimited lives for level 36? does godzilla want to destroy tokyo? trade? what for? need some names for you? friend what kinda job?
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have user IDs from a website, need real names “I need to read their e-mail too,” Kenji added. and access to email archive, Hornet added. There was a pause in the scrolling. user IDs are easy but email’s usually got decent encryption. i’ll do it for a first edition appleseed Hornet looked at Kenji. “The comic he wants is Appleseed, the series drawn by Shirō-sama before he became famous for Ghost in the Shell.” The scrolling started up again. seven samurai comix in akiba has a signed one for ¥3500 will trade Hornet looked at Kenji. He nodded. The boy typed, now? no still at work. tonight after 8? done. where? café jaunty 1-6-4 kanda-sakamacho 2nd floor my friend will be there at 8. thx what’s his name? Hornet raised his eyebrows at Kenji. “Nakamura.” Hornet typed it in. Ghost replied, ok. tonite me & nakamura: goin’ fishin’ Hornet closed the chat window and flipped the laptop shut. “Okay, I did it. We’re square, right?” “You really think he can do it?” Kenji asked. Shouldering his backpack, Hornet snorted. “In the time it takes you to walk to the comic book store, he’ll get their names, addresses, and phone numbers, and tell you whether they drink their coffee
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black, sweet, or white.”
Chapter 32 Thursday, April 11 6:00 P.M.
Yumi
It took a moment for Yumi’s s eyes to adjust to the Mad Hatter’s perpetual twilight. Boshi-san nodded, then returned his attention to the quarter-scale Ikki Tōsen Battle Vixen figure standing on the bar, custom-painted in a blue Alice dress and pinafore. Two weedy-looking young men grinned as the bartender appreciated their gift. Kenji came through the door behind her and crossed the room to examine the Alices on the far wall more closely, stopping before the Gundam robot in its golden curls. Turning to Yumi with an amused smile, he said, “I can’t say I ever built one quite like this.” Few customers were there this early, none of them regulars. The Lolitas would arrive in force around 8:00, although some might stop in after work while they waited for the commuter crush on the trains to subside. A pair of twenty-something girls wearing outfits that had a bad case of rural fashion lag sat in the far corner, nursing their pink cocktails and their disappointment that there were no costumed patrons to ogle. They shot Yumi and Kenji a cursory glance before returning to their study of Top Secret Tokyo Hot Spots. Boshi’s otaku friends accepted draft nama-beers as a down payment on his gratitude and meandered over to inspect the Alice collection. Yumi led Kenji to the bar, watching the bartender hold
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up his new action figure, admiring her from various angles. Tonight he was wearing a silk top hat, wisps of his extra-black hair falling into his eyes. “Irasshaimase, Yumi-san.” “Nice Vixen Alice,” she said. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” He set the new figure behind the register. “Boshi-san, this is Kenji Nakamura.” Before she could explain he was the policeman in charge of Rika’s case, Kenji said, “I was admiring your Master Grade 102 Unicorn over there.” He nodded toward the Gundam robot in the wall display. “Did you build it yourself?” “Nah, a friend gave that to me. Never got into Gundam, myself—I was always better at painting than gluing. Started with DragonballZ but switched to classic Alice figures in high school. You?” “I was better at gluing. Too hard to paint by flashlight when I was supposed to be in bed.” The bartender nodded with a knowing smile. Kenji turned to Yumi. “Can I buy you a drink?” “Well . . .” She looked at her watch. An hour and a half before she met Ichiro. Would she have to drink more of that awful French wine at dinner? Suddenly she craved a White Rabbit. It wouldn’t hurt to have just one. She smiled. “Thanks Ken-kun.” As the bartender mixed her drink, he looked at Kenji. “And you?” “Nama-biru,” he said, glancing over at the taps. “Asahi Super Dry.” The bartender pulled his beer, expertly shutting it off just as a modest head of foam pillowed slightly above the rim of the glass. He set the drinks in front of them, then busied himself at the register. As Kenji placed a ¥5,000 note on the tray with the bill, he said, “Hata-san and I are friends from way back, but I’m also in charge of investigating Rika Ozawa’s murder.” The bartender froze. He turned slowly to face Kenji. “You’re a police officer?”
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“Detective, actually. I know Yumi was here with Rika-san on Friday evening and I was wondering if you remembered anybody who took a special interest in her that night. Someone who might have followed her when she left.” The bartender picked up the tray and frowned as he made change. “A man?” “We think so.” Boshi picked up a glass to polish. “Not many men in here that night. Midori’s boyfriend came in looking for her, but he didn’t stay. A couple of salarymen wandered in and sat at that corner table, but they were here until around eleven, when they talked a couple of Princess Gals into leaving with them. Other than that . . . just one other guy. Never saw him before.” He turned to Yumi. “Do you remember him? Sitting at the end of the bar, near the door.” Yumi shook her head. “Looked like he was waiting for someone. Sat there alone, drank two draft beers, then left.” “Did he leave before or after Rika-san?” “After, I’m pretty sure. She said good-bye to me on her way out, then I got busy with table orders. When I had a chance to attend to the counter again, there was money on the bar and the guy was gone.” Kenji took out his notebook. “Can you describe him?” “Not really. It was busy, so I was juggling drink orders. I didn’t really talk to him.” “Tall? Short?” “Couldn’t tell, he was sitting. Sorry, that’s all I remember.” “Thanks. Everything helps. If we need to get hold of you to look at some pictures, how can I reach you?” The bartender recited a number with a 03 prefix. A landline, not a cell phone. “Who should I ask for?” The little man looked up in alarm. “Unless, of course, your real name is Hatter,” Kenji joked.
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The bartender’s eyes shuttered. “Boshi is fine. That’s what everyone calls me.” He bowed and headed toward the other end of the bar, where three office ladies were waiting to order. They picked up their drinks and sat down at a table near the Gundam Alice. Kenji took a swallow of beer. “Does Boshi-san’s memory of that evening jibe with yours?” “He remembers more than I do. I was so busy trying to make Rika tell me who she was meeting that night . . .” She looked down at the table. “Don’t worry about it, Yu-chan. Who else was here?” She took a sip and thought for a moment. “It was early. The only girl I recognized was an Elegant Gothic Lolita who hangs around with Rika’s friend Midori.” She brightened. “I could ask her tomorrow night. I’m sure she’ll be at the Circle event.” She explained about the Lolita gathering she’d been invited to. “Oh, and Coco came in just before Rika had to leave, with a bunch of her friends. I’ll ask her, too. You remember Coco Kawaguchi, don’t you?” She was interrupted by a familiar shriek. “Yumi! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming tonight?” It was Coco herself, wearing a pink miniskirt with glittery high-heel sandals, in the company of two fellow Princess Gals. She swiveled her attention to Kenji, putting two and two together. “Oh, Yumi told me about you! You must be—” “Coco,” Yumi quickly interrupted her, “you remember Kenji Nakamura . . . ?” Coco snapped her mouth shut, recalculating. Confusion that he wasn’t the Mitsuyama heir gave way to astonishment as she recognized Yumi’s companion. Obviously she had never looked beyond The Mole, either. “Kenji Nakamura?” Coco repeated, dazed. “Kenji Nakamura from Koshikawa High School?” As he bowed over the table in her direction, Coco raised her eyebrows at Yumi, then gave Kenji a dazzling smile. “O-hisashiburi. I hardly recognized you. What are you doing here?” “I’m the head investigator on Rika Ozawa’s murder,” he explained. “Yumi’s been helping me with
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a few details about the night Rika died.” “Really? You’re a policeman now? And you’re working on Rika’s case? You know,” she said, her carefully mascaraed eyes wide with helpful innocence, “I was here that night, too. Maybe I can help you.” “Yumi mentioned you came in just before Rika left. Do you remember a man sitting alone at the end of the bar, near the door?” Coco sipped her tall drink, showing off lips freshly glossed in the latest shade of pink “You mean the guy Boshi-san was arguing with? I saw him when I came in.” “Arguing?” “Well, maybe not arguing, exactly. Boshi-san was giving him what-for like they’d known each other a long time. I got the impression that the guy had asked for something but wasn’t getting what he wanted. He sort of shoved back his chair and grabbed his bag and stomped out.” “What did he look like?” “Hm.” She shifted her weight to her other hip. “He was really short. Shorter even than Boshi-san. Trying to grow a goatee, not very successfully. Wearing those balloon-y pants like a construction worker, but—” Coco wrinkled her nose, puzzled. “—he didn’t really seem like one.” “How do you mean?” “No muscles. Skinny. Like my brother when he was in middle school.” “Coco,” one of her friends called from a nearby table, where they’d been joined by several young men with extravagant bleached hair. They were waving her over. “Okay, okay, just a minute,” she said, then returned her attention to Kenji. “Does that help?” “Yes, thank you,” he said with a smile. “Can I get your phone number, in case I have any more questions or need you to look at some mug shots?” “Sure,” she said, fishing around in her purse and coming up with a phone paved in pink rhinestones. After reciting her number to Kenji, she asked him to call so she’d have his too. Mission
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accomplished, Coco gave him a coquettish smile and said, “We didn’t know each other nearly well enough in high school, Nakamura-san. Even if you don’t have more questions, let’s get together sometime, ne?” Turning to Yumi, she added, “We need to catch up, too, missy.” A pointed little stare said she hadn’t been kept nearly up to date enough on the Mitsuyama o-miai situation, and that being spotted having a drink with an attractive man who wasn’t her potential fiancé called for a much more complete explanation. With a final flutter of her bejeweled nails, she left to join her friends. Over Kenji’s shoulder, Yumi watched their heads tilt toward Coco’s, listening avidly. One sneaked a glance at their table and Yumi’s face burned. She hoped nobody would tell Ichiro and give him the wrong . . . No, that was ridiculous. Nobody at the Hatter knew Ichiro. She hadn’t even told Coco about her engagement yet. She hadn’t told anyone. Kenji was looking at her strangely, so she took a gulp of her cocktail and said, “You remember Coco from high school, don’t you?” She launched into a funny story about their high school days, and only later realized she’d told one that wasn’t particularly flattering to her friend.
Chapter 33 Thursday, April 11 8:00 P.M.
Kenji
An hour later, Kenji stood outside a tall, skinny building in the Akihabara electronics district. Light spilled from the open front of the camera emporium on the ground floor. Young men on a mission flowed around him as he checked the address. The guy at the curry shop on the corner had been right—it was the building with a life-size, cardboard cutout of a miniskirted girl standing outside, advertising low, low prices on digital SLRs. To the right of the electronics store, a dim hallway led to an elevator. Kenji approached it warily. He’d heard about maid cafés but never visited one. They’d sprung up as a safe place for the shy engineers who shopped in Akihabara to talk to the scary half of the human race without fear of rejection. The waitresses dressed like French maids from comic books. They walked, talked, and acted like they’d just stepped from the pages of their customers’ favorite series. A sign next to the lift confirmed that the Maid Café Jaunty was on the second floor. Below a manga-style drawing of a big-eyed, long-legged girl in a short black frock with a frilly white apron, it read, “Welcome home, Master of the House!” Below were listed boy-friendly menu offerings like pizza, spaghetti, and rice omelets. Kenji’s stomach growled. He really needed to eat something. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the
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up button. Just as he realized he had no idea how to recognize the guy he was meeting, the doors opened onto a cheery interior, filled with small white Formica tables and bustling waitresses dressed like the drawings on the sign. “Irasshaimase, go-shujin-sama!” sang a beaming young woman in a fluffy maid costume. “Welcome, Master of the House!” “Uh . . .” “How may we serve you, Honorable Master?” “I’m, uh, supposed to be meeting someone here,” he said, scanning the room and wondering which of the guys glued to their laptops was Ghost. “Oh, are you Nakamura-sama?” she chirped, referring to him as if he were a ranking dignitary. He nodded and she said, “This way please, Honorable Master. Ghost-sama called to say he’d be a few minutes late tonight and to seat you at his usual table.” Bewildered, Kenji followed her bobbing ponytail to a small table in the corner of the room. After handing him a menu, she produced what looked like a votive candle from her pocket and blew gently on it. An electronic flame flickered to life. She set it before him with a bow. “When this goes out, your first hour will be up. Please enjoy, go-shujin-sama!” Kenji looked around curiously. The Jaunty’s walls were papered in faux stone. Across the room, a “window” framing a view of idealized European countryside was surrounded by pink-checked curtains tied back with bows. The backlit photo didn’t actually fool anybody, but it suggested that the café’s theme was “fairy-tale castle” rather than “dungeon.” Photos of the Jaunty waitresses lined the walls, each posed in her uniform, smiling and saluting. According to a poster tacked up behind a small raised dais, it was day four of Nyan-Nyan Week. Sure enough, all the maids were sporting furry cat-ear headbands and greeting their customers with the Japanese word for “meow.” Kenji opened the menu. In this particular fantasy world, no mother hovered, reminding patrons to eat their vegetables. In
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fact, no vegetable ever darkened the door of the Maid Café Jaunty. For a fixed price, customers could choose between rice omelets, spaghetti, curry rice or pizza, a variety of soft drinks, and the maid service of their choice. The cheapest combo included a signed Polaroid of the customer with his maid; the next offered five minutes of conversation while Master ate. For the top price, a maid would play rock-paperscissors with go-shujin-sama, although the menu didn’t promise she’d let him win. Kenji hastily flipped past the combos, drink list, and desserts, and to his great relief, the final page offered à la carte food without any attention from the maids. A pixyish ingenue with short pigtails appeared at his table. Her black skirt and starched white apron stood out like a doll’s over white bloomers and thigh-high black stockings. She lifted her hand like a paw and made a cat-meow, then piped in a little-girl voice, “How may I serve Honorable Master tonight?” “I’d like a melon soda and . . .” He scanned the menu. “. . . curry rice, please.” “Certainly, go-shujin-sama.” Kenji looked around at the tables of young men dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with characters from comic books and animé movies. Their universally pale skin and unstyled hair suggested they lived their lives online, represented by avatars that looked nothing like their real selves. There was at least one computer on every table. Across the room, a maid fed soup to a customer, blowing on each bite before offering it. Then an order was delivered to the otaku at the next table, who took a break from slaying zombies to watch his maid draw a bewhiskered cat on his rice omelet with a squeeze bottle of ketchup. Before digging in, he joined her in singing the maid café’s theme song, a look of adoration on his face, his hands mirroring hers as she held them in a heart shape and rocked them back and forth. Kenji hoped his neighbor was paying extra for that service, because he certainly wasn’t going to . . . His curry rice arrived, and after trying to get him to sing along with her and failing, his waitress bowed and left him alone to eat. Kenji spooned up his curry, ravenous. It wasn’t anything special, but at
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least there was a lot of it. “Welcome back, go-shujin-sama!” piped the hostess as the elevator doors opened for someone who was clearly a regular. Kenji’s eyes widened as he stepped into the café. He didn’t need an introduction to know that Ghost had arrived. The newcomer’s skin, his hair, his eyebrows, everything about him was white, except his eyes, which were an improbable golden color, with cat-eye pupils. Obviously, they were contacts, the kind worn by cosplayers who dressed like alien characters. But Ghost’s appearance was no costume. Under the contacts, were his eyes . . . pink? Kenji quickly looked away, trying not to stare. He’d seen an albino rabbit before—they’d had one in his second grade class—but he’d never seen an albino person. “There are actually quite a few of us in Japan.” Kenji’s head snapped up. Ghost was standing next to his table, a half-smile on his face as he observed Kenji’s discomfort. “Are you Hornet’s friend, Nakamura?” he