‘Well, that’s interesting,’ Imaeda said, opening the wallet and checking the pocket for cards. Eri’s licence was in there, along with her member’s card for a local department store and a loyalty card for a hairdresser. He pulled it out and gave it a look. The address listed her apartment.
‘You mean someone snuck a look at my wallet?’ Eri said.
‘It’s possible. I’d give it a sixty per cent chance. Maybe more.’
‘I don’t believe it! Do people just do that kind of thing? I mean, does that mean they suspected me from the beginning?’
‘It does,’ Imaeda said. He was pretty sure Yukiho had suspected them from the moment she noticed the watch. He wouldn’t put looking at someone’s wallet past her. Those feline eyes glimmered in the back of Imaeda’s mind.
‘Then why did she have me write down my name and address before we left? Not to send me a postcard, I’m guessing?’
‘They were probably just making sure.’
‘Making sure of what?’
‘They wanted to see whether you would write your real name and address. Which, as it turns out, you didn’t.’
Eri looked sorry. ‘I changed the numbers a bit, too.’
‘Which is how she knew for sure that we hadn’t just come to buy clothes.’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to be clever.’
‘It’s OK. They suspected us anyway.’ Imaeda stood and picked up his bag. ‘Be careful to lock up tight. As I’m sure you know by now, the lock on your apartment isn’t going to stop a professional who wants to get in. Keep the chain on when you’re at home.’
‘OK, got it.’
‘See you,’ Imaeda said, stepping into his sneakers.
‘Are you going to be OK, Imaeda? You sure they’re not going to attack you or anything?’
Imaeda chuckled. ‘Who do you think I am? James Bond? No, don’t worry. At worst they’ll just send some evil-looking killer with steel jaws after me.’
‘What?’ Eri gasped.
‘Goodnight,’ Imaeda said, smiling. ‘And don’t forget to lock up.’
He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. But he didn’t start walking right away. He waited until he heard the lock turn and the chain slide closed before leaving.
I wonder who will show up?
Imaeda looked up at the sky. It was still drizzling, but he didn’t mind getting a little wet.
The following day, the drizzle turned to a downpour. This at least had the effect of cooling off temperatures, making the sweltering mid-August heat slightly more bearable that morning.
Imaeda crawled out of bed a little after nine and went out dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. Holding an umbrella with one bent rib above his head, he walked to Bolero, a small café right across the street from his apartment.
The wooden door had a tiny bell on it that rang when he walked in. Bolero was a small place, just four tables and a counter. Presently, two of the tables were taken and a man was sitting at the counter. Behind the counter, the balding owner nodded in greeting when he saw Imaeda come in.
Imaeda chose a table at the back. It was late for breakfast, and in the unlikely event that a big group came in, he could always move to the counter. He didn’t have to order. In a few minutes, the owner would bring him the hot dog morning set: a hot coffee and a fat sausage on a bed of chopped cabbage that overflowed its bun.
There were a few folded newspapers in the rack next to his table. He saw the regular paper and a business paper – the man at the counter was already reading the sports pages. Imaeda sighed and fished out today’s Asahi Shimbun. He had just leaned back in his chair and was about to open the paper when he heard the jingle of the bell on the door and reflexively glanced up to see another man come in.
The man looked about sixty, with white-speckled hair parted evenly down the middle. He was a big man, with a wide chest under his white shirt and thick arms emerging from his sleeves. He was at least one metre seventy tall, and stood straight, like a samurai in the movies.
Yet more than the man’s appearance, it was his sharp gaze that went directly towards Imaeda which caught his attention. It only lasted a moment. The man looked away and walked over to take a seat at the counter. ‘Coffee, please,’ he said.
Imaeda had already gone back to reading his paper, but at those words, he looked back up again, surprised to hear an Osakan accent.
Just then the man looked back around at Imaeda and their eyes met.
There was nothing like threat or malice in the man’s look. On the contrary, his eyes looked like they had seen their share of the dark, twisted things humans were capable of and taken it all in stride. Whoever the guy was, he was one cool customer, Imaeda thought, and he actually felt a shiver travel up his spine.
Imaeda went back to reading the headlines on the society pages. There was something about an accident on the highway involving an eighteen-wheeler. Still, his attention was only half on the paper.
The owner brought over his hot dog and coffee. Imaeda applied a liberal helping of ketchup and mustard to his dog before taking a bite. He liked the feel of the skin as it broke beneath his front teeth. Not so tough that eating was a chore, but firm enough that you felt that first bite. That particular degree of resilience was, in his opinion, the mark of a good hot dog.
Imaeda took pains not to look in the man’s direction as he ate, just in case their eyes met again. He had just finished the last bite and was taking a sip of his coffee when he glanced towards the counter again to see the man turning his head back to his own cup of coffee.
He was looking at me.
Imaeda finished his coffee and stood. He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a thousand-yen bill and put it on the counter. The owner set out his four hundred and fifty yen’s worth of change in silence. During this time, the man hardly moved. He just drank his coffee, his back straight beneath his jacket. He moved rhythmically, like a clockwork automaton, never looking in Imaeda’s direction.
Imaeda left the café and dashed across the road without bothering to put up his umbrella. He ran up the stairs to his apartment, turning round to glance back at Bolero before going inside. The mysterious man was nowhere in sight.
Imaeda flipped the switch on the stereo system he had set up on a steel shelf against the wall, hearing the CD player whirr to life, followed shortly after by the sounds of Whitney Houston coming out of the speakers he’d mounted on the wall.
Imaeda took off his T-shirt in order take a shower – he usually showered before bed, but hadn’t got around to it the night before and his hair was a mess. He was just unzipping his jeans when the doorbell rang.
A familiar sound, but there was something different about it today. Probably because he had a pretty good idea who was at his door, and it wasn’t someone he wanted to talk to. The bell rang again.
Imaeda zipped up his jeans and put his T-shirt back on. Wondering when he ever would get the chance to shower, he went out to the entranceway, undid the lock and opened the door.
The man from the café was standing outside, a faint smile on his face. He was carrying an umbrella in his left hand, and a black travel bag in his right.
Imaeda didn’t blink. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Mr Imaeda?’ the man asked. His Osaka accent was strong. ‘Satoshi Imaeda?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I had a few questions for you, if you have the time.’ The man had a deep voice that rumbled in his chest and wrinkles that looked as though they had been carved out with a chisel across his face, meeting between his brows. Imaeda realised that one of the lines was, in fact, a scar left by a blade.
‘I’m sorry, but who are you?’
‘The name’s Sasagaki. From Osaka.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly come a long way, so I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr Sasagaki, but I was just on my way to work.’
‘I won’t take much of your time,’ the man said. ‘Just two or three questions.’
‘Can you try
another day? I’m really in a bit of a hurry here.’
‘Not so much of a hurry that you couldn’t enjoy a leisurely breakfast with the paper,’ the man said, the corner of his mouth curling upwards.
‘How I spend my time is none of your business. Goodbye,’ Imaeda said, going to close the door. The man stuck his umbrella in to stop it from closing.
‘I applaud your enthusiasm for your job. Unfortunately, I have a job to do too,’ the man said, sticking his hand into the pocket of his grey trousers and pulling out a police badge.
Imaeda sighed and relaxed his grip on the doorknob. ‘If you’re a cop, why didn’t you just say so?’
‘Some people don’t like us announcing ourselves out in the hallway where the neighbours might hear. Now, might I ask a few questions?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Imaeda, showing him to the chair he had set out for visiting clients. Imaeda went back behind his desk. He had set the height on the client’s chair a little on the low side, to give himself a height advantage when talking. He didn’t hold out much hope that such Negotiation 101 tricks would work on today’s visitor, however.
Imaeda asked for a business card, but the man said he wasn’t carrying any – almost certainly a lie, but he didn’t feel the need to dispute his claim now. Instead, he asked for him to show him his badge again.
‘If it’s a fake, I at least want to see whether or not you did a good job making it.’
‘By all means,’ the man said, offering Imaeda his badge. ‘Knock yourself out.’
Imaeda looked over the name, and the small photograph next to it.
‘I hope it passed inspection,’ Sasagaki said, putting the badge away. ‘I’m a detective in Homicide, Eastern Osaka.’
‘So this is a murder investigation?’ Imaeda asked. This did come as surprise.
‘You could say that.’
‘You could say what, exactly? I haven’t heard anything about any murders connected to me.’
‘Just because you haven’t heard anything, doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.’
‘OK.’ Imaeda held up his hands. ‘So who died?’
Sasagaki smiled, the wrinkles forming a complex pattern across his face. ‘I have some questions for you first, if you don’t mind, Mr Imaeda. Answer them, and you’ll have my gratitude.’
Imaeda narrowed his eyes at the detective. The man was rocking slightly in his chair, but his expression was unwavering.
‘Fine, you first. What do you want to know?’
Sasagaki stood his umbrella on the floor in front of him and rested his hands on the handle. ‘I believe you were in Osaka about two weeks ago? You did some snooping around in Ōe, a neighbourhood in Ikuno ward, if I’m not mistaken.’
Imaeda felt like he’d been jabbed in the gut. From the moment he’d heard the man was from Osaka, he had been wondering if this visit had anything to do with his recent trip.
‘Well?’ Sasagaki asked again, although it was clear from his face that he’d already knew the answer.
‘I did,’ Imaeda admitted. ‘You’re well informed.’
‘When it comes to that particular neighbourhood, I can tell which of the stray cats are pregnant, and who the father was,’ Sasagaki said, his mouth opening in silent laughter. All Imaeda could hear was the wind passing between his lips.
Sasagaki smiled after a moment had passed and asked, ‘What were you there for?’
Imaeda’s mind raced, trying to figure out this guy’s angle. ‘Work.’
‘And what work is that?’
Now Imaeda smiled, if only to give the impression that he wasn’t frightened. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t already know what my job is, detective.’
‘It’s a very interesting line of work,’ Sasagaki said, his eyes straying to the shelves packed with case files. ‘A friend of mine runs a similar operation down in Osaka. Though I couldn’t tell you how business has been.’
‘That’s why I went down to Osaka. For work.’
‘So looking into Yukiho Karasawa’s upbringing was part of your job?’
Now things are starting to come into focus, Imaeda thought. He wondered how they had managed to chase him down, and remembered the wiretapping incident from the night before.
‘I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me exactly why Yukiho’s past is so important to you,’ Sasagaki said in a languid drawl, looking up at Imaeda.
‘If you have a friend in my line of work, as you say, you know I can’t reveal anything about my clients.’
‘So someone hired you to look into Yukiho, then?’
‘That’s right,’ Imaeda said, wondering why the detective referred to Yukiho Karasawa by her first name and not as ‘Ms Karasawa’, as he’d expect. Either that was just the way detectives talked, or the two were very close. Or else —
‘This have to do with marriage talks?’ Sasagaki suddenly asked.
‘Huh?’
‘I’ve heard someone proposed to her. I can imagine they’d want to look into her past a little first, given her business dealings.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Marriage.’ Sasagaki gave him a curious smile. His eyes went across the desk and he pointed towards the ashtray he saw there. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Go right ahead,’ Imaeda told him.
Sasagaki pulled a box of Hi-Lites out of his shirt pocket. The box was crumpled nearly flat, and the cigarette he pulled from it was bent in two places. He lit it with a match from a familiar looking matchbook – it was from Bolero across the street.
The detective blew a long stream of smoke into the air, as if to indicate he was in absolutely no hurry at all. The smoke rose wavering in a cloud before dissipating towards the ceiling.
Clearly, he was giving Imaeda time to think. He had shown a few of his cards; now he was waiting to see what Imaeda pulled out of his sleeve. Showing up at the café had just been a way to let Imaeda know that he was being watched, a way to suggest he was holding the better hand. The detective’s expression was blank, but there was a crafty look in his eyes as they followed the smoke.
Imaeda badly wanted to know what kind of hand the detective was holding. Why would someone in homicide be after Yukiho Karasawa? Though, Imaeda thought, he hadn’t actually said it was Yukiho he was after. The only thing he knew was that the man clearly knew quite a bit about her.
‘I’d heard the talk of marriage concerning Ms Karasawa,’ Imaeda said after thinking about it for some time. ‘But I’m not at liberty to say whether that has anything to do with my investigation.’
Sasagaki gave a satisfied nod, his cigarette dangling between his fingers. Slowly, he snubbed the butt out in the ashtray. ‘Mr Imaeda,’ he said, ‘do you remember Mario?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Super Mario Bros. A big seller several years back. One of those games for kids. Though I hear a lot of adults play them these days.’
‘Oh, the Nintendo game. Yeah, I remember that.’
‘Well, there was a man who tried to sell fake copies of the game down in Osaka. They’d made a pirate edition, see, and were on the verge of bringing it to market. They would have made a bundle if the police hadn’t caught them in the nick of time and confiscated every last one of the fake game cartridges. But they never found the man who did it.’
Journey Under the Midnight Sun Page 49