But the thing that really alarmed Yumi was that the article was unfinished. The opening paragraphs 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 Zojo-ji temple, passing under the imposing vermilion gate. She shivered a little as she hurried along the avenue of little Jizo statues 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.
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.
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 f
irst 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 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, 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.”
“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 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.
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