Nightshade
Page 31
As the doors closed, Kenji looked to see what she had given him. A battered little Daruma figure on a cell phone string stared up at him with its white eyes.
Chapter 73
Friday, April 19
8:00 P.M.
Kenji
The girl at the yakisoba stand picked up her dish of fried noodles and turned, scanning the crowd for her friends. Kenji dropped his gaze; she only looked like Yumi from the back.
He was half-hoping, half-dreading that she’d be here, at the Komagome Shrine’s annual Spring Festival. Everyone who lived in the neighborhood was enjoying the festivities, the shrine precincts packed with traditional food stalls, old-fashioned carnival games, and neighbors exchanging gossip in the spring twilight. He’d seen everybody he knew who still lived in the area, everybody but Yumi.
He sighed. She probably didn’t go anywhere without her kon’yakusha anyway, and Kenji would bet his beloved baseball trophies that Ichiro Mitsuyama had no interest in mingling with the locals at a lowly neighborhood matsuri. That guy had been brought up in such rarefied surroundings that he probably felt no nostalgia for old-fashioned monkey shows and the man who juggled sake bottles.
Not that Kenji was here to enjoy himself—since last night, he’d been a member of Inspector Mori’s plainclothes detail, watching and waiting for the Shrine Killer to make another attempt at one of the four shrines where murder kits had been found. So far, nothing.
As time passed and no new attacks occurred, there was growing support for the idea that the suspect they already had in custody was the killer. Shimada’s timecards showed he’d been working when the Shrine Murders occurred, but not even his supervisor could say for sure it had been Shimada who’d punched them in and out. And because they hadn’t yet been able to discover the real identities of the women he met online, it was still possible their names would match the Shrine Killer’s victims. Suzuki and a phalanx of support staff borrowed from other sections were now combing the death records around the times Shimada and the other users disappeared from the suicide websites, identifying women in the right age range who died of “heart failure.” So far, they’d discovered two who might be
The profilers insisted the killer would be feeling nearly unbearable pressure to claim another victim. It was now two days past his longest murder interval, but even if he chose tonight for his next attempt, Kenji was sure he wouldn’t strike at the Komagome Shrine. Not with all these people around.
He got in line for squid-on-a-stick; no need to starve while keeping an eye out for men fitting their suspect’s description. Pocketing his change, he bit off a grilled tentacle. Time to make the rounds of the vendors again, looking for short men who had priestly haircuts.
As he strolled toward the amusement booths, he passed one of the female officer decoys. Although it was possible the killer met his victims by prearrangement, Noguchi hoped that he chose them spontaneously and would attack one of the female detectives wandering alone, dressed to resemble the previous victims. If the stakeout detail spotted him with an unsuspecting civilian, they had orders to arrest him before he attempted to harm her. But if he were caught in the act attacking one of the decoys, there would be no question of his guilt.
Kenji wandered slowly among the stalls. His father was here somewhere, helping one of his cronies run a takoyaki stand, probably sharing a bottle of sake as they grilled octopus balls. To his left, a shriek of joy turned to tears and a young mother bent down to console her son, who’d captured the goldfish of his dreams for a split second before his little paper net tore and the fish plopped back into the tank.
Returning to the squid stand to deposit his skewer in the discards cup, Kenji debated whether to buy another. Was he hungry, or just bored? What he really wanted was a cold drink. He ordered a bottle of green tea.
The man behind the counter fished around in the cooler slush, but came up empty-handed. “Sorry,” he said. “All out.”
Taking that as a sign that the kami-sama wouldn’t mind if he indulged in a five-minute break from the festival crowds, Kenji sauntered across the street to grab a bottle from the vending machine at the subway station. He drained half the o-cha in front of the Namboku Line entrance and gazed at the people wandering in and out under the torii gate. None of them looked like Yumi. A man dressed in white stepped into the intersection and dashed across, trying to beat the changing light.
Kenji’s tea bottle froze halfway to his mouth. It was a priest. A small priest, wearing white robes and a traditional black mesh headdress. The man leaped onto the curb just as cars surged across the crosswalk behind him. He produced a train pass and headed for the stairs leading down to the subway platform. As he rounded the corner to start down the steps, his robe swirled, revealing that instead of a kannushi’s traditional, black, wooden clogs, he was wearing black Nikes.
Kenji’s heart pounded. He tossed his unfinished tea into the recycle bin and followed.
Trotting down the steps after the priest, he called Inspector Mori. “I’m heading down to the Namboku Line. I just spotted a guy who hits all our buttons. Short, dressed as a priest, except he’s wearing black sneakers instead of asagutsu.”
“Good. Stay with him. I just got a panicked call from our team at the Kanda Myojin Shrine—one of their officers was following a man dressed exactly like that. He was about to pass the tail off to us at Komagome, when he lost sight of the suspect in the festival crowd. It looks like this guy is making the rounds of his drop sites, scouting a victim. Stay on him and I’ll call Inspector Kobayashi so he can alert his Yasukuni Shrine team to pick up the tail when you arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kenji dug out his police ID and badged his way through the attendant’s gate, following the priest down the escalator. His quarry walked halfway down the platform, then stood and peered into the dark tunnel on the Kudanshita-bound side. Kenji took up a position that would put him on the suspect’s train, one car behind. He kept an eye on the priest while pretending to check his phone messages.
As the next train eased to a stop, Kenji stepped on and grabbed a seat that allowed him a clear view through the connecting door.
The suspect sat next to a dozing grandmother, staring straight ahead. Between Hon-Komagome and Todaimae, the woman seated opposite uneasily moved out of his line of sight, shifting further down the car as exiting passengers left empty seats. Motionless except for his left hand, the Shinto priest was fingering the beads of a . . . Buddhist rosary?
Kenji set his mouth in a determined line. He intended to prevent any of the gods from answering this priest’s prayers.
Chapter 74
Friday, April 19
9:00 P.M.
Kenji
One of Inspector Kobayashi’s men casually fell in behind the small, Nike-wearing priest as he passed under the iron torii gate looming over the entrance to the Yasukuni Shrine.
Kenji stopped and sat at a picnic table by the shuttered ramen stand, his job done. He watched the assistant inspector from headquarters meander after the priest, who had paused to purify his hands and mouth at the stone cistern. They continued toward the main building, dwarfed by the massive Divine Gate as they passed beneath.
The long promenade leading into the most controversial shrine in Japan was dotted with fallen cherry petals, ironed flat by the feet of hundreds of visitors who arrived daily to pay their respects to Japan’s war dead. The monument’s gilt-edged cedar eaves enshrined the generations of souls who’d died serving their country, not discriminating against those who’d been called war criminals by Japan’s enemies.
The shrine was nearly deserted tonight. The tables faithfully
manned by T-shirt-selling right-wing groups during the day were stowed away, the photographer who took souvenir portraits at the entrance was at home, soaking in his bath. As Kenji sat in the quiet grounds before returning to his post at the Komagome Shrine, a breeze stirred the branches above, sifting pale petals onto his shoulders like fresh snow.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Oki’s familiar voice hailed him from the shadows as he approached and dropped onto the bench next to Kenji. “Inspector Kobayashi asked me to take you to the sumo ring, to relieve the guy patrolling that zone.”
“What? I’m on Mori’s team. I should be getting back to Komagome.”
“Not as of five minutes ago. Kobayashi cleared it with Superintendent Noguchi. The sumo ring is really out of the way and he wants to use the guy who’s covering it to nab the perp if he makes a move.” Oki paused, then explained, “Ikeda-san is Inspector Kobayashi’s kohai.”
No further explanation was needed. Any decent sempai mentor would look out for the career interests of his kohai junior. Bringing in the Shrine Killer would mean a promotion for them both.
Kenji hoisted himself to his feet, feeling more than ever like an insignificant pawn. Silently, they walked through the massive, dark wood gate, cutting to the right near the Noh stage. A woman with chin-length hair strolled past, chiffon scarf around her neck. Police decoy?
Passing the garlands of origami draped on the racks of wooden prayer plaques, they made their way past the war museum, where a spit-shined Zero dreamed of faded glory, imprisoned behind a wall of glass.
The sumo ring was beyond the meeting hall, set in an outdoor amphitheater. “Wrestling with the gods” had grown out of Shinto practice, and several times a year hundreds of sumo amateurs gathered at the Yasukuni Shrine in their loincloths, praying at the main hall for victory before descending to this outdoor stage to battle it out. Ringed by a thick screen of trees, on tournament days the grassy bowl was packed with raucous, yakitori-eating fans, but tonight it was silent except for the occasional nocturnal birdcall. Moonlight illuminated the deserted pavilion with its sacred rice-straw ring, throwing the earthen stage into deep shadow. A solidly built man trudged toward them out of the darkness.
“Are you Ikeda?” Oki asked.
The man nodded and Oki passed on Inspector Mori’s orders to join the stakeout at the main worship hall. Cheered by the unexpected prospect of getting in on the action—and the credit—Ikeda hurriedly pointed out the boundaries of his patrol area, bowed, then trotted in the direction of the sanctuary.
Kenji surveyed the sumo grounds with resignation. “This place is so out of the way, it’s not even a shortcut to anywhere. I hope Mori won’t forget to call us in after he catches that priest.”
“I’d better get back to my patch.” Oki yawned and gestured toward the dark teahouse between the amphitheater and the garden. “I’m on the other side of this hill, keeping an eye on the koi pond in case our man decides to feed the fish before strangling his next victim.”
“Hey, you never know—he might decide to take a little swim after dropping by the sumo ring for a pre-murder workout,” Kenji joked.
“Why don’t we make our rounds, then meet back here for a cup of tea? I brought a thermos.”
Kenji nodded as they parted ways. Half an hour later, Oki was handing him a cup of steaming o-cha, and pouring one for himself from a stainless steel flask. They seated themselves on the steps of the teahouse and sipped contentedly. Although Oki’s brew was not the costly mattcha elegantly whipped into a froth for tea ceremony, even sipping ordinary green tea on a fine spring evening while breathing in the fragrance of the teahouse’s cedar beams was pleasant.
A scream of agony ripped the still air.
It came from the garden. They scrambled to their feet, knocking over the thermos as they hit the ground running. The sound escalated, an unholy keening reeling them toward the koi pond.
Oki was first to burst through the bushes and spot the burning man staggering out of the pondside pavilion. It was Ikeda. Fire engulfed his left side, his mouth a gaping O of terror and pain as a tongue of flame licked up into his hair. As Oki sprinted to his aid, a blur of white separated from the conflagration and disappeared into the bushes beyond. Kenji detoured to intercept the fugitive as Oki tackled the burning man, his momentum plunging them into the koi pond.
Kenji fought his way through the bushes, following the running footsteps.
“Stop! Police!” he shouted, stumbling over an unseen root as he left the garden behind.
The blur had resolved into a flurry of robes, an oven-mitt hat fluttering behind the fleeing priest like a mutant kite, tethered to his neck by its chin cord. Throwing a look over his shoulder, the fugitive saw that Kenji was almost upon him. He spun around and planted his feet, holding something in his fist. A tiny flame flickered as Kenji hit him, knocking him to the hard paving stones. Panting, Kenji pinned the smaller man with his body, but the priest flicked his lighter again and Kenji’s jacket caught fire, a line of heat racing up his back.
“Aughh!” he cried, rolling to smother the flames. The suspect scrambled to his feet, but suddenly there were shouts all around, pounding feet converging, cops grabbing the priest, slapping on handcuffs.
Kenji staggered to his feet, pain from the burns stinging like a whiplash.
Inspector Kobayashi arrived, breathless. “Where’s Ikeda?”
“Koi pond,” Kenji gasped. “He’s injured.”
The inspector ran toward the garden.
One of the headquarters detectives pulled out his phone, dialed 119, and shouted, “Send an ambulance!” as Kenji began to shiver from the burn on his back and the adrenaline letdown.
Oki arrived, soaking wet, hair plastered to his head. “Are you all right?”
The first wave of pain had hit hard, but it was settling down to bearable. “I’ll live,” Kenji replied. “What about Ikeda?”
“Pretty bad. Kobayashi’s with him. He sent me to wait for the medics.”
Sirens approached, then shut down as an ambulance rolled to a stop in the parking lot beside the meeting hall. Two men leaped from the cab and slid a collapsible gurney from the back doors in one well-choreographed motion. Spotting Kenji’s injury, they started toward him.
“You the burn victim?”
“Help the guy by the koi pond first.” Kenji pointed toward the garden. Then he turned to look at the priest, standing silently between two detectives, face blank, hands pinned behind his back.
The woman he and Oki had passed earlier—minus her scarf, short wig stuffed into her handbag—limped up to stand before the prisoner. “Yep, that’s him,” she confirmed with satisfaction, rubbing the red mark on her neck. “I’m going to enjoy testifying against you, you slippery little prick.” The little priest looked right through her, his eyes like empty holes.
Superintendent Noguchi arrived with his entourage as the paramedics emerged from the garden, bumping Ikeda’s gurney urgently toward the waiting ambulance. Inspector Kobayashi ordered Oki to accompany Ikeda and call when there was any news. The emergency vehicle screeched off in a flash of lights and blare of sirens.
Shell-shocked, Kobayashi stared after it, then turned and began to brief Noguchi, brushing off the superintendent’s suggestion that he follow Ikeda to the hospital. He walked his superior through everything that had happened since the suspect had arrived at the Yasukuni Shrine, but when he began to explain how the priest had used his lighter to set his kohai afire, his face filled with rage. Without warning, he rounded on the handcuffed prisoner and hit him hard in the face—once, twice—before being pulled away, his fury not nearly spent.
The suspect slumped between the two detectives who flanked him, blood dripping from his damaged nose and split lip.
“Take a walk,” Noguchi barked at Kobayashi, then ordered the nearest assistant inspector to patch
up the prisoner and take him to an interview room at headquarters. As the suspect was led away to a waiting squad car, the crime tech van pulled into the parking lot. Noguchi outlined the areas where they’d need to collect evidence, and soon halogen spotlights blazed, creating islands of high noon amid the dark buildings.
After instructing the remaining investigators to burn the midnight oil tracking down the suspect’s identity and background, he turned to Kenji. “Glad you were at the right place at the right time tonight, Nakamura-san. Now, go get those burns attended to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 75
Saturday, April 20
4:30 P.M.
Kenji
Even though it was 4:00 on a Saturday afternoon, party-sized bottles of sake had been cracked open and Section Chief Tanaka had refilled everyone’s cup several times.
Today, instead of four-color maps and crime scene photos, steely-faced soap opera samurai galloped to honorable deaths on the muted overhead projector as the squad waited for Superintendent Noguchi’s press conference to interrupt the afternoon programming. In the meantime, public toasts were being drunk to the successful conclusion of the Shrine Murder case, and private ones to the absence of Inspector Mori and the First Investigative Division. The elite murder squad had returned to their offices downtown, the official case banner crumpled into a trash can, and the room returned to its usual bareness except for six bags of trash waiting to be carted downstairs for collection Monday morning.
Kenji paused in the doorway, his commendation tucked under his arm. Damn, he should have stopped in the squad room and tossed it in his desk drawer before coming to the party. He could use another pain pill, too; his back was beginning to throb. The doctor who’d wrapped it last night at Komagome Hospital told him there wouldn’t be any permanent damage, but in the meantime it hurt like hell. By the end of the long ceremony downtown, at which Superintendent Noguchi’s team and a few National Public Servant Career Group up-and-comers like Kenji had been papered with commendations, he’d been wishing he hadn’t trudged out to National Police Headquarters to watch the top brass recast themselves in all the starring roles.