Nightshade

by Jonelle Patrick

  Then what she’d said sank in. Maybe had been there. He hadn’t killed Rika Ozawa, but maybe he saw who did.

  Chapter 42

  Friday, April 12

  7:00 P.M.

  Kenji

  “Tadaima.” Kenji called out the traditional greeting as he closed the front door and kicked off his shoes.

  “O-kaeri-nasai,” his father answered from the kitchen.

  Kenji scuffed on his slippers and left his computer bag propped against the umbrella bucket. Loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt, he breathed a sigh of relief and wondered if his father had started dinner yet.

  Kenji walked into the old, familiar kitchen and pulled open the scarred refrigerator door.

  “Already opened one,” said his father. A solid man with brush-cut gray hair, he was seated at the low table in the corner with a large bottle of Ichiban Shibori lager and a small glass, reading the newspaper. Kenji pulled a matching glass from the cupboard and dropped onto a cushion across from his father, who poured him some beer. They raised their glasses in a silent toast, then took satisfying gulps. Kenji’s father topped up their glasses, grabbed a handful of seaweed-wrapped rice crackers from a bowl on the table, and tossed them into his mouth.

  The elder Nakamura’s workday had ended promptly at 5:00. He’d been the ranking officer at the neighborhood police box in nearby Hon-Komagome for almost five years now. Before that, he’d been stationed in Sendagi. He didn’t have the education to become a detective or rise into management, but commanding the koban was a respectable conclusion to his long career.

  Kenji’s father was already wearing a bathrobe-like, cotton yukata, a sign that he’d enjoyed a long soak in their deep, wooden tub earlier. He snorted at an article he was reading and muttered, “Idiots.”

  “How’s Aunt Ayako?” Kenji asked, remembering his father had planned to stop by on the way home from work to deal with her leaky faucet.

  “She still won’t call the doctor about those headaches.”

  “You’re one to talk. You never go to the doctor, either.”

  His father grunted and rattled his paper as he turned the page.

  When Kenji’s mother died, Aunt Ayako had stepped in and helped her brother and his family survive. For two months, she came every day and cooked the meals, washed the clothes, and cleaned the house, even though she had a home and family of her own. Japanese men just weren’t taught how to do those things—many didn’t even know how to switch on a rice cooker—and Kenji’s mother had died so unexpectedly that without Aunt Ayako, Kenji’s family would not only have struggled with their grief, they’d have struggled to stay fed and clothed.

  After the forty-nine-day memorial service, Aunt Ayako took her brother aside and told him that he would either have to remarry or to learn to take care of his family’s domestic needs. He wouldn’t consider the first option, so she taught him to do laundry, clean the house, and cook some basic dishes. Even the boys learned household chores that traditionally fell to women. Kenji’s brother Yoshi became the best cook of the three, so he usually took care of the food. Kenji’s job was keeping the clothes and bedding washed. Their father cleaned and repaired the house. Nothing was fancy, but everything was fairly clean and they didn’t starve.

  Now that Kenji’s brother was married, however, Kenji and his father were back to more basic fare, like instant miso soup and vacuum-packed, barbequed eel from the supermarket.

  “Did you start the rice?” Kenji asked.

  His father grunted affirmatively, turning another page.

  Kenji looked in the refrigerator: two packages of barbequed unagi eel left, and enough eggs and cooked chicken to make the dish called mother-and-child because it featured both chicken and eggs.

  “Do you want una-ju or oyako-don?”

  “Una-ju.”

  Kenji took a blackened frying pan from the shelf and lit the single gas burner sitting on the worn Formica counter. Cutting open the package of eel, he waited until the pan was hot, flipped in the long fillets, and turned down the flame as they started to sizzle. From the refrigerator he took a package of takuan radish pickles and dumped them into a dish, which he set on the table. He opened the single cupboard, took out two large, well-used, lacquer boxes, and set them next to the rice cooker, which had finished its cooking cycle and was on “Keep Warm” status.

  Kenji moved to the sink and ran the rice paddle under cold water, then dug out big helpings of steaming white rice and stuffed them into the lacquer boxes. He cut the pieces of eel in thirds, and laid them neatly atop the rice. He set one in front of his father and the other by his own empty glass. Picking up the beer bottle, he poured what little remained into his father’s glass, then went to the refrigerator and opened another. Handing his father a pair of chopsticks from the utensil drawer, he sat and dug into his meal. When the edge was off his hunger, he helped himself to some pickles. His father began telling him about the routine home visit they’d made that afternoon to the foreign family that had moved into his precinct last year. In the six months since the last time they’d checked, the wife and kids listed on the information card had disappeared and been replaced by an apartment full of empty booze bottles and a barely legal Thai girl.

  As he shook his head, marveling that the neighbors hadn’t complained, Kenji ventured, “Speaking of neighbors . . . Do you remember a family named Shimada from when you worked at the koban in Sendagi?” Kenji tossed another slice of pickled radish into his mouth. “They lived at 32-12 Ni-chome.”

  “Hmm . . . Shimada . . . Shimada . . .” Kenji’s father paused, beer bottle in hand.

  “We’re interested in the son. The father was a merchant seaman and wasn’t around much. The mother passed away over seven years ago.”

  “I remember now,” his father said. “But it was a lot longer ago than that. I’d say fifteen, sixteen years ago? I think she had some kind of cancer.”

  He filled Kenji’s glass, then topped up his own. “Sad case. By the time their neighbor heard her cries through the walls, she was in bad shape. She’d had it for a while, but kept it from her son until one morning she fell and couldn’t get up. The neighbor called the police box, and when the beat officers got there, they discovered the boy had been skipping school for a week, trying to take care of her. Empty aspirin bottles everywhere, probably the strongest thing he could get at the drugstore. The father was away at sea—the boy had no idea how to contact him.

  “They called an ambulance because the mother was out of her mind with pain, saying all kinds of crazy stuff. The boy rode with her to the hospital, and she died a couple weeks later. The neighbors all pitched in to help with the funeral because the dad didn’t make it ashore in time. He changed jobs after that and stayed home to take care of the boy until he was fourteen or so, then headed back to sea.”

  “Poor kid,” Kenji said, remembering how had preserved his family apartment just the way it had been when his mother was alive, right down to the dusty fake flowers. Those worn-out comics—was that where he took refuge from his loneliness? Or had he moved on to finding comfort among people even worse off than he was, people who had such thin ties to this world they wanted to leave it?

  The old wind-up clock out in the main room struck 8:00. Kenji’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “Nakamura desu.”

  Jun Shimada’s musician landlord was calling to say that his tenant had just returned, in case the police were still interested in talking to him.

  Indeed they were. Kenji ended the call and rose from the table, feeling better than he had all day. He’d talk to Shimada tonight and find out what he’d seen the night Rika died. By tomorrow he’d have something to give Inspector Mori and he’d be back in Yumi’s good graces.

  “Can you do the dishes tonight?” he asked his father, cinching up his tie. “Looks like I�
��ve got a date with Shimada Jr.”

  Chapter 43

  Friday, April 12

  8:00 P.M.

  Yumi

  Yumi pressed the doorbell, shifting the duffel bag she’d found in Rika’s closet to her other hand. The door opened to reveal Midori in full Elegant Gothic Lolita regalia, with a curling iron in one hand and a comb in the other. She took one look at Yumi and frowned.

  “What?” Yumi said. She had no idea how to dress for a Lolita event, so she’d just thrown on a white blouse and a black skirt.

  “They’ll let you into the Nyx dressed like that, but you’ll stand out like a monkey in the hot springs. Why don’t you let me do a little work on you before we go?”

  “Well, okay,” Yumi said warily. She held out the duffel bag. “Here. Mrs. Ozawa wanted me to return this to you.”

  Midori held it to her chest, stricken. “Rika told me she needed clothes for undercover work on a story. She said not to tell anybody.”

  Yumi nodded sympathetically and exchanged her shoes for slippers. She eyed the curling iron. “What are you planning to do to me?”

  An hour later, Yumi barely recognized the Goth-Lolita who stared back at her from the mirror. Midori had expertly whitened Yumi’s complexion with foundation two shades lighter than her skin and outlined her eyes with swashes of black eyeliner. Although Yumi had refused to let Midori use eyelid glue to get the doll-like, round-eyed look favored by the Lolitas, each eyelash had been painstakingly lengthened with Fiberwig mascara. She’d been laced into one of Midori’s black jumpers, a white petticoat pouffing the full skirt over eyelet-edged, over-the-knee stockings. She had to admit, it was kind of a thrill to be totally transformed. Like becoming a different person for a night.

  “You’re a doll,” Midori said approvingly, gathering Yumi’s hair into two pigtails and considering the options. She switched on the curling iron, and the smell of hot hair filled the room.

  When she finished, she grabbed one of Yumi’s hands and sighed. “Your nails are too short. You’ll need gloves.” She crossed to the dresser and picked out a short pair made of black lace. Midori gathered up shoes for herself and Yumi, then excavated a small shopping bag that had become buried in the clothing pile on the bed, with a small hand-lettered sign in it.

  “I didn’t have telephone numbers for everybody who will want to come to Rika’s wake,” she explained. “So I thought I’d put the details on the tribute table tonight.”

  As they left the house, Midori asked, “Any more from the police?”

  Yumi filled her in on the man who’d been seen at the Mad Hatter the night Rika was murdered, then told her what the FlashMob editor had said about the fourth person who’d planned to meet Rika and the Hamadas at the Komagome Shrine.

  “I sent an e-mail to him at the Whitelight address, but so far no reply.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know, but his whole reason for wanting to commit suicide was to die before his condition got so bad he was helpless. I’m betting he’s still around.”

  “I wonder if he’s checking that e-mail anymore, since he’s supposed to be dead and all. If I were him, I’d be a little embarrassed to show my face if I’d chickened out.”

  “I didn’t think of that. You’re right. He hasn’t posted on the Whitelight website since the night he was supposed to kill himself with Rika.”

  “You could ask around tonight at the event. The bands that are playing will attract a bigger Goth crowd than usual. Maybe somebody knows him.”

  They exited Shibuya Station with the Saturday night crush. Midori led the way across the famous five-way intersection that filled with over a thousand people every two minutes. Passing the glaringly bright phone stores and shoe emporiums, Midori finally turned into a side street that was dark except for a gothic-lettered sign that read, “Nyx.” A few vending machines glowed against the brick wall of the building opposite, and several dark doorways harbored friends who’d stopped for a smoke together.

  Midori pulled open Club Nyx’s black door. A young man dressed in a long Atelier Boz coat with multiple zippers was stationed inside next to a red velvet rope.

  “Nice coat,” Midori said.

  “Thanks, Mi-chan, I like your new boots.” He glanced at Yumi. “Who’s this?”

  “Rika’s friend Yumi.”

  The young man nodded and took the two tickets Midori offered, sold them each a mandatory drink token, and allowed them to slip inside.

  Chapter 44

  Friday, April 12

  9:00 P.M.

  Yumi

  Bass pounded from the speakers into the neon-edged darkness. Paniq Button was dressed in full “visual kei” style—spiky multicolored hair, skinny, sparkle-studded clothing layered with black leather, enough piercings to set off the metal detectors at Narita Airport. Their eyes were extravagantly shadowed, their faces flawlessly pale as they belted out metal-influenced anthems propelled by driving guitar and frenzied drums. It was hard to tell if they were boys or girls or some of each.

  The crowd looked mostly Goth, with chains outnumbering Lolita hair bows three to one. Blue and magenta stage lights swept over the standing-room-only crowd, beams crisscrossing in wispy remnants of stage fog and cigarette smoke. Although Paniq Button was a local band, they had enough of a following that the crowd nearest the stage was raptly doing a synchronized fanjive with the music, hands flashing above their heads, right, left, a flock of five-fingered birds alternating with hair-whipping frenzy every time the vocalist stepped up to lead the windmilling.

  Yumi followed Midori back to the room with the coin lockers and the bar, where it was just as dark and crowded but slightly quieter. Against the far wall, a white-draped table was surrounded by tall bouquets of pink and white roses, sent by GothXLoli magazine and the brands Rika modeled for. A black-framed copy of her latest GothXLoli cover photo was displayed on an easel, front and center, topped by a formal black bow. Circle members had already left a stuffed Hello Kitty and a baby-style Monchhichi monkey propped against it. Midori set the notice with details about Rika’s wake on a folding plate stand she’d brought.

  A knot of Lolitas stood next to the table, comparing their tribute manicures. Painted and bejeweled with Rika’s name, some had carefully trimmed little photo stickers of their departed friend to fingernail shape and many had limited their palette to pink and white in her honor. Two Lolitas dressed head to toe in Victorian Maiden displayed large memento mori lockets with Rika’s picture inside. Midori added her hands to the circle, showing them she’d painted her fingernails black with white gothic letters that spelled out R-I-K-A-4-E-V-E-R.

  “Why are you so late?” asked a girl whose look was so similar to Midori’s, she had to be a follower.

  “I had to help Yumi get dressed,” Midori explained, pulling her into the circle and introducing her to those she hadn’t met.

  “Any news from the police?” asked Mei. Tonight she was dressed in white, and Kei in black. Texts had flown from phone to phone with the news that Rika’s death wasn’t suicide, but they’d heard nothing since. Yumi filled them in, concluding with what she’d discovered that morning at FlashMob.

  “So I want to ask this guy if he was there,” she said, looking around the circle of Rika’s friends. “He’s a Goth, quotes Venom Vixen, has some kind of disease, walks with crutches. I was wondering if any of you might know him?”

  They all shook their heads slowly.

  “Paniq Button plays a lot of Goth events—maybe someone in the band knows him,” suggested a Sweet Lolita in a floral pinafore and bonnet.

  “I’ll introduce you when they finish their set,” Midori murmured to Yumi. “I know the drummer.”

  “We’ll ask around,” said a Goth-Lolita with ringletted, ultra-black hair, and green contacts. “My boyfriend is a Goth, his
friends might know this .”

  Yumi thanked them, and several of the girls moved over to the tribute table to leave a Hello Kitty doll dressed as a pink Lolita, and a hand-crocheted, stuffed Skullky. Midori and Yumi headed to the bar, exchanged their drink tokens for bottles of green tea, and surveyed the crowd.

  Nearly all the young men were Goths, their outfits ranging from leather jackets and chains to Edwardian frock coats. Some had whitened their faces and darkened their eyes like Viper, the lead singer of Venom Vixen. Yumi watched as a tall, thin Goth wearing a tailcoat stopped by the table on his way to join the Lolitas. His hair was so perfectly black he must have dyed it, and so straight it must be ironed. Razored severely, the shortest pieces stuck out in every direction, with the longest ones shadowing his eyes. He wore a white shirt and black vest under his tailcoat, with a silver chain looped between the pockets. His face was so thin it was almost cadaverous, but his eyes were as beautiful as a girl’s—long and narrow, fringed with thick lashes and lined in black. He stood there motionless for a long while, then finally took off one white glove and wrote something on his hand. He looked around to see if anybody was watching before pulling a pink hair bow from his pocket and leaving it on the table with the other offerings. It looked like the kind Rika used to wear. Ex-boyfriend, Yumi guessed. She’d spotted a few of those here.

  Yumi watched him join the fringes of the group clustered around the girl with the Goth boyfriend, who must have been asking if anybody knew , because they all turned and looked at Yumi. She smiled and gave a small wave, so they’d know who to talk to if they had any information.

  “It sounds like the band is done,” said Midori. “Want to ask them about ?”