Nightshade

by Jonelle Patrick

  “What brought you to the station this morning?” he asked. “Something about Rika Ozawa?”

  “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.”

  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. “Yu-chan, 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. “Dozo. We saved this for you.”

  “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 work-related 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 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 .

  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 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 gold-toned 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 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.

  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?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it Mrs. Hamada had no brothers, so her husband was adopted as heir and changed his name when th
ey 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 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.”