This week’s issue was stacked around the room in twine-bound bundles. Apparently, the whole operation was run out of this tiny office. Shelves completely covered the walls, bulging with back issues, reference books, and assorted souvenirs: an Ultraman mask, a pennant from the last time the Yomuri Giants won a baseball championship, a rotund, papier-mâché Daruma figure with both eyes blacked in. She wondered what Kodama had wished for.
The assistant editor finished typing, rolled his chair back and stood, then leaned over and added a few words. His eyes still glued to the screen, he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and put it on. Then he tore himself away and picked up two stacks of FlashMob.
“I have to hit the streets and start distributing these,” he said to Yumi. “Kodama-san should be back any minute. If you leave before he comes, lock the door, okay?” With that, he was gone.
Yumi stood and looked around the room. Wedged between some tilting stacks of books on the nearest shelf was a framed diploma. Mino Kodama, MA Journalism, Sophia University.
“Excuse me, who are you?”
Yumi spun around to face the man standing in the doorway. He was thirty-ish, wearing skinny black pants and a long-sleeved, black-and-red-striped pullover. A black porkpie hat perched on his wavy, shoulder-length hair over retro, black-rimmed glasses.
“My name is Yumi Tanaka. I’m a friend of Rika Ozawa.”
He grimaced and detoured around her, dropping a laptop case on the other desk and tossing his hat onto the shelf behind. He shuffled through his message slips and sat down. Yumi scooted her chair over to face him.
“If you have better luck getting hold of her than I did, you can tell her anybody who misses a deadline with me doesn’t get a second chance,” he said. “I saved fifty inches for her, front page, and she really screwed me. I left about ten messages last Saturday, then scrambled to fill the space. Is she always this much of a flake?”
“No,” said Yumi. “She’s dead.”
Kodama’s mouth dropped open. “Dead?”
Yumi didn’t say anything.
“What the hell happened?”
Yumi explained about the Komagome Shrine, how Rika had gone there to work on the story she was writing for him, and someone had killed her.
“Fuck. This is not possible. This is not happening.” He tore at his hair and leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. He rocked forward. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”
“No. Do you?”
“No! Shit, she was just meeting some suicide wannabes. She felt sorry for them. I had to talk her into going.”
“What do you mean?”
“I met her in Shibuya a week ago Friday. She was getting cold feet. The problem was, her story was nothing special without that first-person crap. Everybody knows there are sites on the Internet where you can meet to plan a group suicide. It certainly wasn’t front-page material.”
“So you talked her into doing it? Even though she didn’t want to?”
“Hey,” he said, “It wasn’t my idea. She’s the one who came to me; she’s the one who pitched the concept. I took a chance on her—she didn’t have any experience except that Lolita shit but I gave her a chance for a byline on the front page. I broke one of my own rules, giving a assignment like that to someone I’d never worked with before, and look where it got me.”
“Look where it got her,” Yumi retorted.
“God. Sorry.” He buried his head in his hands. “This is awful.”
Yumi couldn’t tell if he meant awful for Rika or awful for FlashMob.
He sighed and looked at her. “How can I help?”
“What do you know about the people she was meeting? Anything that wasn’t in her article?”
“All I know is she was meeting a cripple and a middle-aged couple. I swear, none of them sounded dangerous.”
“The middle-aged man and his wife were found in the car with Rika. What do you know about the other guy?”
“He’s the one who volunteered to bring the sleeping pills. She said he had some sort of degenerative disease. He wanted to end it all before he got so sick he was helpless. If you ask me, he had the right idea—I sure wouldn’t want to die like that. But Friday she wanted to change direction, rethink the whole story. She thought she could talk the sick guy into holding on a while longer.” He threw up his hands. “Suddenly she was Miss Bleeding Heart—what was she going to do, hover by his bedside, feeding him soup until he died?”
“Then how come he didn’t die with the rest of them?”
“He didn’t show?” Kodama’s interest suddenly sharpened. “Now that might make a good story.”
“Don’t you dare!” Yumi cried. Her friend had realized what she was doing was wrong; Yumi was sure Rika had gone to the shrine that night intending to try and save
And as of that Friday afternoon, she still believed
Chapter 37
Friday, April 12
10:30 A.M.
Kenji
The slanting afternoon light was not kind to the grimy stucco building where
Oki rang the bell next to the name Shimada. He waited, then rang again. When it became clear that nobody was answering, Oki rang the manager, who buzzed them in.
A guy who looked way too young to be in charge of an apartment building stepped out of a door next to the stairs. His shoulder-length hair was streaked with blond, one razored spike falling between his eyes. He wore a leopard-print T-shirt emblazoned with glittery script that read “Cowboy,” its rumpled untucked edge giving away that he’d slept in his clothes and only recently hauled himself out of bed.
“Can I help you?” he yawned.
“You’re the manager?” asked Kenji, showing his police ID.
“Yeah,” he said, then admitted, “My father owns this building. I’m just doing this until my band gets off the ground.”
“We came to talk to Jun Shimada, but he’s not answering his door. Do you know if he’s home?”
“What’s he done?”
“Why do you think he’s done something?”
“You’re the police, you’re asking questions, and he’s weird.”
“You mean, because of his disease?”
“He has a disease?”
“Doesn’t he have some sort of degenerative neurological condition? Walks with crutches?”
“What? No. Are you sure you have the right guy?”
“Then what’s so weird about him?”
“Well, he . . .” The manager stopped himself and looked uncomfortable. “You know, my dad would probably tell me not to say anything bad about our tenants.”
“It won’t get back to him, I promise.”
The young man leaned against his doorframe. “Well, you just have to look at him to know he’s a bit off. Dresses like a Goth, always in black. But he’s kind of old for that scene, if you know what I mean.”
“How old is he?”
“I dunno—twenty-six? Twenty-seven? But it’s not just the black clothes—he wears makeup, even in the daytime. I mean, okay if you’re performing or something, but what kind of guy puts on eyeliner to go to the convenience store?”
“Is he a musician?”
The building manager snorted. “
No, he’s a janitor. Works nights at Komagome Hospital.”
“Has he lived here long?”
“Longer than anyone else in the building. Longer than we’ve owned it, actually. I think he grew up here and when his parents died, he stayed on.”
“How long ago did he lose his parents?”
“I don’t know about his mom—she was gone before my family bought this place seven years ago. But his father died more recently. I never actually met him; he was a merchant seaman, had a setup with his bank to automatically send the rent every month. Last year, Shimada started paying it himself.”
“Do you know anybody who might remember the family?”
“Don’t think so. The next-oldest tenant has only been here about five years.”
“You didn’t happen to see him last Friday night, did you?” Oki asked.
“Last Friday?” The musician paused to think. “Nah, I was out of here around four that day—my band played a club out in Saitama.” He paused, then said, “Actually, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since. I thought maybe he was on vacation or something, because his mail’s been piling up. Why?”
“We’re investigating a suspicious suicide. Shimada was supposed to meet the victim last Friday so they could do it together, but he never showed.”
“What? He was planning to kill himself?” The manager’s face filled with alarm. “You don’t think he . . . ?” Snatching a ring of keys from a hook next to his door, he headed for the stairs. They stopped behind him as he rapped on the door to 204, then let himself in. Taking a cautious sniff, he said, “Wait here.”
But the apartment only smelled of mildewed shower curtain and the overripe bananas sitting in a bowl next to the Sony laptop Kenji spotted though the doorway. The computer was the only thing that looked like it had been bought since the turn of the century; Shimada was still living with his parents’ old furniture, right down to the bouquet of dusty silk peonies on the table. Kenji crossed the room to a bookcase filled with comic books so worn he could barely read the spines. Vagabond. Lone Wolf and Cub. Samurai Deeper. Complete collections, but nearly falling apart.
“He’s not here,” the manager said with obvious relief, returning to the main room. “Do you want me to call you if he turns up?”
“Please,” Kenji said, writing his number on the back of a card.
As the manager locked Shimada’s door behind them, Kenji added, “When you see him, don’t mention we were here, okay? I think it would be better if we explained in person.”
“Don’t worry.” The musician gave Kenji a conspiratorial half-smile. “I never saw you.”
As they walked toward the main street, Oki said, “Huh. Not crippled. Why do you think he lied about that?”
“And why do you think he lied about wanting to commit suicide? He’s not sick, and he’s not dead. Why didn’t he show up that night at the Komagome Shrine?”
“Maybe he did.”
They turned that over in their minds for a moment.
“Where do you want to go from here?” Oki asked.
“I don’t know. Do you think it’s still worthwhile interviewing
“We definitely need to find out where Shimada was last Friday night. He could be weird enough to be our killer. The thing is, anyone who’s worn out a whole series of samurai comics but makes a living pushing a mop must be pretty good at not letting reality intrude on his fantasies. I can see him quoting romantic death lyrics over the Internet to a girl he’s never met. But ambushing and killing her? I don’t know.” Oki thought a moment. “
Kenji nodded. He pulled out his atlas and found the page marked with
Chapter 38
Friday, April 12
11:30 A.M.
Kenji
Kenji and Oki had no trouble finding the koban nearest
“And what kind of person is Mr. Takahara?” Oki asked.
“We’ve never been called there on a domestic disturbance,” the officer said. “Why is it you’re so interested in him?”
“We think he might be a witness to an incident we’re investigating,” Kenji said, falling back on the most reassuring explanation. “So anything you can tell us about how reliable he is, whether he’s mixed up in anything questionable, that sort of thing, might help a lot.”
The officer looked away. “Well, this isn’t official, but . . . He likes his beer, if you know what I mean. Sometimes he can get a bit familiar with women when he’s been drinking, and his advances aren’t always welcome.”
They thanked him for the information and started toward the Takaharas’ address.
“That fits with the way he behaved online,” Oki commented.
Kenji nodded.
“He’s not really what I expected, though. From the kind of stuff
Ten minutes later, they found the address, but nobody answered the door. A neighbor said Mrs. Takahara had left to do the morning shopping about a half hour ago, and Mr. Takahara didn’t usually return until 5:00.
Kenji’s phone rang. Suzuki, reporting that Coco Kawaguchi had positively identified Boshi-san’s brother as the man at the Mad Hatter on Friday night. Kenji asked for the bartender’s home address and phone number, and scribbled it in his notebook. “Thanks, Suzuki-san.”
He ripped out the page and handed it to Oki. “This address belongs to the brother of the guy who may have followed our victim from the bar on Friday night. Maybe he can tell us where his ototo is living. It’s a long shot, but I still think he’s worth checking out. Do you mind? I need to head back to the station and start figuring out what we can tell the brass and what we can’t.”
Chapter 39
Friday, April 12
11:30 A.M.
Yumi
Yumi stood in line at the net café.
According to the FlashMob editor,
The boy ahead of her in line was still negotiating with the clerk. His black uniform was unbuttoned at the collar and his mother was going to have to buy him new pants soon—they were several centimeters too short. Craning his neck to peer down the narrow hallway between the cubicles in the room to see which were already in use, he turned back to the clerk and said, “If I can’t have three, what about seven? Nobody’s using seven.”
“That one’s reserved for businessmen on weekdays. I can give you number four.”
“No! Not four! The keypad sticks. I’ll get killed right away. What about eight?”
“Well . . . okay. But if the other stations fill up and I get a business customer, you’ll have to move.”
The boy grumpily agreed. He hefted his book bag onto his shoulder, paid in advance for an hour, then added a few more co
ins for a cup of shrimp-flavored instant ramen noodles. He disappeared into the warren of cubicles.
“May I help you?”
“I need to use a computer for an hour or so,” Yumi said.
He handed her a form to sign and made out a membership card.
Yumi got out her pocketbook. “Should I pay now, or . . .”
“Pay at the end, after I add up your time. Number twelve,” he said, handing her the timestamped bill and gesturing toward the maze. “Last one on the right.”
The cubicle reminded her of a glorified bathroom stall, the walls just tall enough so curious passers-by couldn’t glance in. Yumi seated herself in front of the monitor and typed in the Whitelight address. A few moments later, she was staring at the options: Sign In or Create New Account. She tried
She read the introductory information, then began to scan the topics for
It was depressing to discover how right she’d been about Rika’s motives for joining the website. With a sinking heart, she saw how skillfully Rika had befriended
Had she succeeded? Yumi clicked on Mail. A window popped up and she typed in
Subject: What happened?
I’m a friend of Rika Ozawa, who you knew as
Nightshade Page 18