Kobayashi exited the freeway.
This news of Ikeda—this was hardball. Yamada had most definitely taken his game to the next level—a potentially lethal level. And the outlook was not good for Ikeda or Tatsuyama.
27
“Let’s take a break for lunch,” Tatsuyama said to Shiori.
“Wonderful. Where would you like to eat?”
“There’s a great Italian restaurant just up the street—Rosmarino. You’ll love it. What do you think?”
“Perfect.” She smiled. “Let me change.”
Minutes later Shiori returned from her room wearing a simple contemporary dress and flats. Meanwhile, Tatsuyama had put on jeans and a button-up shirt. They stepped out of the picturesque old inn and into bright sunshine.
Before setting off toward the restaurant, Tatsuyama scanned the streets and sidewalks visible from the ryokan. He half expected to see the young straggler from Shiori’s train, but he saw nothing that troubled him.
“Looking for something?” Shiori asked.
He smiled reassuringly. “Just getting my bearings.”
As they strolled, Tatsuyama spotted a convenience store ahead. “Do you mind if we delay lunch just long enough to buy a newspaper at the kombini right there?”
“Sure. With no television in the rooms, I’m curious to know if Yamada has done anything else that would affect us.”
“That’s what I was thinking”
The pair passed from natural shade on the sidewalk into bright fluorescent light inside the convenience store and headed straight for the newspaper rack.
“What do you think?” Shiori asked. “The Yomiuri Shimbun or the Tokyo Shimbun?”
“Let’s get the Tokyo paper. It’ll cover sumo, plus any important local news in Tokyo.”
Shiori reached for a copy but stopped in her tracks.
Seeing her jaw drop, Tatsuyama drew close to her side and honed in on the headline that had obviously stunned her. His blood ran cold.
“Coach Ikeda Kenji Claims Innocence: Stab Victim Remains Unconscious.”
Tatsuyama snatched a copy from the stack of newspapers. He peered around the store as though some gangster lackey should have already been there, just waiting to report to a delighted Yamada Hideyoshi the shocked reaction of the two of them. The store was empty except for one employee at the cash register and another stocking a beverage cooler.
“Change of plans,” Tatsuyama said under his breath. “Let’s grab some seafood rice balls and bottled tea and go somewhere where we can read and talk freely about this.”
They grabbed a few lunch items and two more newspapers, paid, and exited.
Although Kyoto’s lovely Shosei-en Park was only two blocks away, and the weather was ideal for eating lunch in the open air, Tatsuyama rejected the notion as soon as it entered his mind. He felt they would be too vulnerable sitting out in public, even in Kyoto.
He despised this paranoia that had begun to descend on him lately. By nature he wasn’t paranoid. And hand in hand with the paranoia came this new habit of sizing up people on the street. Beyond the context of the dohyo, he had never been one to compare his own strength with that of others. But now that he had been targeted twice by mobsters, and Coach Ikeda had fallen victim to them too, he found himself assessing his odds against half the men he saw in public.
“Shiori, would you feel too much like a bird in a cage if we returned to the room and ate there?”
She glanced over her shoulders. “Not at all.”
He nodded. “We’ll have to catch Rosmarino another time. I owe it to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Back in the room, they sat on the floor. Tatsuyama summarized as he read. “It says here that Tokyo police arrested Coach Ikeda last night around eleven o’clock and charged him with attempted murder. Ikeda, it says, was found semiconscious lying next to the victim behind the Ryogoku Kokugikan sumo arena.” Tatsuyama shook his head. “Let’s see. The victim, a male estimated to be about forty-five years old, was found unconscious. He had no identification on him. Police officers found the victim lying on his back on the pavement with a tanto -style knife embedded in his chest. It says that the victim lost a large amount of blood and has not regained consciousness. According to a police spokesman, Coach Ikeda’s fingerprints were found on the knife.” He read on. “And some of the victim’s blood was on Coach Ikeda’s clothing.”
The walls in the ryokan were far from soundproof. Even with the fountain trickling in the garden, Tatsuyama was concerned about being overheard. Furious at Yamada and frustrated with the police, it took conscious effort to keep his voice down.
“Uso,” he said. [It’s a lie.] “Coach Ikeda could never do something like this—ever. Not even to Yamada himself. I’ve known the man for fourteen years.”
Shiori rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. “But Yamada’s yakuza could have done it very easily,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Tatsuyama pounded the woven straw tatami mat. “He was framed. How could the police believe this? Coach Ikeda’s fellow coaches, the sumo association officials—they all know his integrity and honor.”
Shiori leaned in to scan the news story. “Does it say whether there were any signs of a struggle?”
Tatsuyama picked up a different paper, the Tokyo Chunichi Sports. “This one reports that Coach Ikeda had to be taken to a medical facility for X-rays, but it doesn’t give any details.”
“Do you know what this sounds like to me? A final message to everyone else in sumo: go along with Yamada, or find your life destroyed.”
“Or ended,” Tatsuyama said. “So the stabbed man hasn’t been identified, and he still hasn’t regained consciousness. He can’t tell the police that it wasn’t Coach Ikeda who stabbed him. I’m surprised the Yamada clan didn’t make sure they’d killed the victim before leaving the scene.”
“Unless Yamada’s men had to leave the scene quickly themselves.”
Tatsuyama wondered whether Detective Kobayashi could do anything on Coach Ikeda’s behalf.
Just then Tatsuyama’s cell phone rang. It wasn’t a number he recognized.
28
He looked at Shiori, trying to get her vote on whether to answer the unexpected call.
“It could be about Coach Ikeda,” he said. “He or someone else from the stable may need my help.”
Just as he reached for the phone, Shiori grabbed it instead. “Moshimoshi,” she chimed. Her cheerful voice masked her anxiety, but her shaking hands were a dead giveaway.
There was a momentary pause before a young woman’s voice said soberly, “I need to speak to Tatsuyama.”
Shiori put a hand to her stomach. “Oh, I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number. I’ve had this number for months, and I don’t know that person.”
The woman on the other end sniffed and then replied in a hushed tone, “If you have that phone, you do know Tatsuyama. I know this is his number. I’ve called it more times than I can count. He is in great danger. He needs me.” The woman on the other end sniffed again. She was either sick or had been crying. “Give the phone to Tatsuyama please.”
Shiori hesitated. In the quiet room, Tatsuyama could only faintly hear the voice on the other end, but faintly was enough. He knew it was Naoko. Yamada Naoko.
With at least some of the police participating in Yamada’s plan, it was possible the call was being triangulated to determine Tatsuyama and Shiori’s location. Tatsuyama only had a few seconds to determine whether to take the call or to hang up and get rid of the phone altogether.
He held out his hand. Shiori handed him the phone and scooted closer, her head inclined toward his in order to hear what Naoko would say.
“Naoko, it’s me,” Tatsuyama said flatly.
“I have to hurry,” Naoko said in a low, rushed voice. “I don’t know how long I can talk before Haruta gets back. I want to help you out of this mess. I think I can meet you for a few minutes at Kitanomaru Park without Haruta or Yamashita
knowing I’ve left. They’ve been going with my father to the grand tournament every day, leaving in the early afternoon. Will you come?”
Kitanomaru Park is near the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. Tatsuyama wondered whether Naoko was fishing to find out whether he had left Tokyo. Even if she were asking innocently, her father or Haruta could be monitoring her every move.
“Not today,” Tatsuyama answered dryly. “You go there tomorrow. I’ll find you if you’re there. Four forty-five.”
“I’ll be there,” Naoko sobbed, “unless—”
Tatsuyama hit the END button. He looked into Shiori’s worried eyes. “We were on that call just a little too long, I’m afraid. She may not have even considered that her father expected her to call me. He may have had someone just waiting, ready to run a trace as soon as she tried to call.”
“Or her father could have been standing right beside her while she dialed,” Shiori speculated. “You’re not going to Kitanomaru Park, are you? I can go for you.”
“It’s far, far too risky for me to let you go in my place.”
She pleaded with her eyes. “Tatsuyama, the bait. The third time…”
“Not now, Shiori.” He got up and offered her a hand. “We need to get out of here fast, in case that call was traced. Grab your things. Meet me at the curb in front of the ryokan. I’ll get the car.”
Shiori nodded and raced to her room. Tatsuyama hurried to the ofuro near the back of the ryokan and tossed his cell phone into the piping-hot water of the Japanese bath. Returning to his room, he stuffed his clothes and toiletries quickly into his one soft-sided bag, slung the bag over his shoulder, and rushed out of the old inn.
The rental car was parked in a garage a block away. Though it didn’t take long to retrieve the vehicle and pay at the exit, Tatsuyama was worried about clearing out of the neighborhood as quickly as possible.
Due to one-way streets, Tatsuyama had to round the block in order to get back to the inn. As he caught sight of the ryokan once again, he found Shiori waiting anxiously on the sidewalk out front, her small suitcase at her feet. Racing up behind her on foot was the nemesis Tatsuyama had been dreading the entire time they’d been in Kyoto—the young, tough guy in the snug suit.
Tatsuyama tensed for action. “Gaki!” he spat out. [You punk!]
He feared that honking would inadvertently draw Shiori’s attention away from the oncoming danger. Instead, he jammed the accelerator to the floor and swung the car farther into the street, away from Shiori. The punk picked up his pace from a trot to a sprint. Tatsuyama spied Shiori’s puzzled look. As the car slid parallel to her, he achieved his first aim: she finally caught sight of the thug and broke to her right in a full run.
Meanwhile, Tatsuyama hit the brakes and yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, causing the rental car to slide. It spun almost 180 degrees and lurched onto the curb in front of the inn. The vehicle screeched to a stop in front of Shiori’s pursuer. He banged briefly against the car’s trunk but quickly recovered.
The thug attempted to slip around the car and resume the chase. Tatsuyama threw open the car door and cut him off.
From inside his dark coat, in one smooth move, the goon produced and extended a telescoping baton. He grinned arrogantly.
The dance was on.
Tatsuyama kept his eyes moving. He tracked the attacker’s footwork, the baton, a head fake. He wouldn’t be drawn in prematurely. The thug had an advantage in reach.
The attacker made a feint toward the inside and tried to zip past Tatsuyama to the outside.
Tatsuyama had speed too, especially within a dohyo-size radius. Not that way, you don’t. Tatsuyama blocked him. He took a shot from the baton to the outside of the knee. A lot of pain, but the knee didn’t buckle.
The goon danced again. Another lunge with the baton. Tatsuyama refused to yield ground. The baton connected with his shoulder. Again it hurt, but the attacker wasn’t patient enough. He made a mistake and tried to shoot the gap between Tatsuyama and the front wall of the inn.
Tatsuyama rushed him and got both hands on the guy’s baton arm. He pulled the arm, took a step, and slammed his own body into the attacker’s. He gave a twist.
The goon yelped. His baton clattered to the ground.
Tatsuyama flung the gangster into a small alley opposite the tranquil garden. He pinned the goon’s neck against the wall of the inn and leaned hard on him.
“How did you know to find us here?”
The mobster did his best to simply smile and shake his head.
Tatsuyama leaned harder. “How did you know?” he yelled.
It was clear the guy wasn’t going to give an answer. Tatsuyama pressed hard enough to cause the thug to pass out, then released the pressure. The mobster slid down the wall into a sitting position.
Shiori arrived at the mouth of the alley. She put a hand to her heart.
“I’m just making sure he’s still breathing,” Tatsuyama told her. “It looks like he is, so let’s get the car and get out of here before anyone else shows up.”
At just that moment, the elderly innkeeper and his wife were stepping through the front door of the ryokan, apparently in search of the source of the ruckus. Tatsuyama called out an apology as he and Shiori jumped into the car and sped away.
After they had gotten a few blocks away, she turned to Tatsuyama. “I saw him take some swings at you. Did he hurt you?”
Tatsuyama glanced from the street ahead to Shiori and back. “I’ll have some deep bruises, but he could have done a lot more damage if he’d been truly focused on me.”
“Well, if he wasn’t focused on you, who was he focusing on?”
Tatsuyama’s gaze returned to Shiori. “You.”
She tensed. “How do you know that?”
“If this were an attack on me, they’d have sent more than one guy. Also…I saw this guy at the rail station last night. He followed you from Tokyo.”
Shiori shifted in her seat. “Tatsuyama! Why didn’t you tell me I was being followed?”
“I wasn’t sure, Shiori. This cat-and-mouse stuff is all new to me. It’s difficult to know when the danger is real and when I’m just being paranoid.”
She leaned forward to see his face while he kept his eyes on the road. “Were there others somewhere?”
“Not that I saw. I don’t know whether he was supposed to keep tabs on both of us until Yamada could send reinforcements, or whether he’s been waiting for his opportunity to catch you alone. That’s why I didn’t want to eat outside in the park. We were being watched. I felt it.”
Shiori frowned. “Please don’t leave me in the dark about things like that again, Tatsuyama,” she said. “I’d rather know.”
“I didn’t want you to be any more scared than you already might have been.”
“Arigatou. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I’ll be fine.” She folded her arms and slumped in her seat. “So next time you get that feeling, please tell me, OK? Just like I’d tell you.”
He nodded. “I will. I promise.”
The reality of what had just happened hit Tatsuyama hard. In a beautiful, safe city, in the middle of the day, someone had tried to nab Shiori. It had been a brazen act. There was no doubt Yamada was behind it. And without a doubt, he’d try again. Shiori, too, had become a Yamada target.
As Tatsuyama steered onto the Meishin Expressway to leave Kyoto behind, Shiori asked, “Do you think that guy was able to close in on us because of Naoko’s phone call?”
“I couldn’t get that answer out of him,” he said. “But even without a phone call, the guy was already close to us—too close.”
29
Detective Kobayashi stormed into the front office of the Organized Crime Control Section at Tokyo Metro Police headquarters.
“I want to see Detective Aoki, and I want to see him now,” he demanded, giving the desk officer his fiercest don’t-even-try-to-run-interference look.
Two minutes later he was in Aoki’s office. With both hands on the
surface of the man’s desk, Kobayashi leaned over and barked, “The man you questioned this morning regarding the Kokugikan stabbing—have you even inquired about his medical condition?”
“Is there a reason why I should make such an inquiry?” Aoki smirked.
“X-rays reveal that Ikeda-san has a cracked skull and a dislocated right shoulder. His right eye looks like an overripe plum. And he’s your best suspect for the stabbing of the unidentified victim?”
“He’s my only suspect. His prints were all over the weapon. The victim’s blood was on his clothes. And witnesses place him at the scene just before the crime happened.”
Kobayashi pounded the desk. “Did I not read the sign over your department’s front door correctly? Organized Crime Control Section. Ikeda Kenji has never had any association with yakuza. Not only is his record spotless, but so is his reputation.”
Aoki turned his head and chuckled. “Kobayashi, your fame as a boy wonder on one case—albeit a big one—almost a year ago has carried you a long way. But it doesn’t make you the foremost authority on organized crime in this city. And you certainly haven’t orbited the sun enough times to have learned what I’ve observed over the years about human nature. Ikeda is our man in this case.”
Kobayashi could feel the blood infusing his face. “That knife was embedded in the left side of the victim’s chest…with a great deal of force. A right-handed man committed this crime, a right-handed man whose right shoulder wasn’t dislocated like Ikeda’s is.”
“The prints are Ikeda’s.”
“Given your many years of experience, you can’t be that naïve, Detective.”
“Careful, Kobayashi. I’ve been very patient with you. I wouldn’t have even seen a detective of your pay grade this afternoon were it not for the favor you’ve gained with one or two higher-ups.”
Kobayashi hesitated. He wondered whether an apology was in order, as a matter of professional courtesy if nothing else. “I apologize, Detective Aoki,” he said. “May I ask you another question?”
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 13