“What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“About what?”
“Do you think Mishima could have been involved in the crime?”
Kusaka tilted his head to one side and began poking his chopsticks at his noodles. He didn’t want to discuss the investigation where there was a risk of being overheard. Everyone in the police station was supposed to be on the same side, but as far Kusaka was concerned, anyone who didn’t belong to the task force might as well be from Mars. He wasn’t big on sharing his opinions with other people even at the best of times.
“Shall we discuss that later?”
Satomura got the message. For the rest of the meal, he just made general chitchat.
* * *
Kusaka suggested they take a little break after lunch. The two men went back to the CID office, and Satomura stayed there while Kusaka picked up the papers and headed back up to the big room where the task force was based. He hadn’t had time to skim the five main newspapers that morning, and he wanted to see what was in the news.
By now, the mobilization of Homicide Unit 10 would definitely have reached the reporters assigned to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The real question was what they knew beyond that. Did they know that a task force had been set up here in Kamata? Had any of them got wind of a large-scale forensic investigation being conducted on the bank of the Tama River?
Kusaka couldn’t find anything in any of the morning editions. No one yet had enough to work the material up into a story.
The top brass were determined to avoid any leaks. Imaizumi hammered that point home at the end of every meeting. The reason that the higher-ups—and that included Kusaka—were so fanatical about secrecy was that it was possible that the perpetrator hadn’t yet realized he’d forgotten the left hand inside the van.
Luckily for them, the only person outside the police who knew about the hand was Kosuke Mishima. So if anyone they hauled in for questioning mentioned anything about a hand in a vehicle, it would be proof positive that they were connected to the crime. This advantage, however, would only last as long as they could keep the story out of the news.
Sharing anything with the media was often a double-edged sword: it was useful in eliciting information from the public but likely to invalidate whatever aces they had up their sleeves. It only needed one hack to get suspicious and call around all the different Tokyo precincts to find out where Unit 10 Homicide was working and learn about the task force. Kusaka wanted to delay that for as long as possible.
The top priority was to make sure Director Hashizume kept his mouth shut. The man had been promoted from Community Policing and had no background in investigation. To make things worse, he was excitable, unpredictable, and loved shooting his mouth off. Hashizume could quite easily spill the beans if he thought it would make him look good, the rest of the team be damned.
Thank God that Captain Imaizumi was heading up Unit 10. Sure, the man was a little too prone to follow his gut, but his judgment was basically sound and practical. He was a good guy to have as a boss. Provided Imaizumi kept Hashizume on a tight rein, Kusaka was confident that he could get out there and do his job without undue worry. Still, those hacks were so persistent, and it only needed one of them to get their teeth into someone on the task force, and then …
* * *
Kusaka assigned a number of sergeants from Homicide to chase up Takaoka’s work associates, while he and Satomura focused on Takaoka’s relationship with Mishima.
First thing in the afternoon, they set off for Shinagawa Mercy College, the orphanage where Mishima had spent some four and half years of his life.
They met the principal, a Ms. Noriko Shimizu. She’d been vice-principal when Mishima was at the school. She looked distraught when they explained the reason for their visit.
“Poor Kosuke. He must be quite devastated.”
Apparently, Takaoka had made quite an impression.
“I remember him,” she told them. “He was a handsome man, very well-built.”
She met with Kusaka and Satomura in a small staff room rather than an office.
“We heard that Mishima came here after losing his father, who was his only living relative, in an accident at work.”
Ms. Shimizu gave a pained frown.
“That’s right,” she sighed. “At one time the police thought it might have been a suicide.”
That was news to Kusaka.
“Did they tell you that?”
“They did. Apparently, Mishima’s father had quite significant debts. There was some question about whether or not his life insurance would pay out. The dispute didn’t drag on, so I suppose there must have been a verdict of accidental death in the end.”
Suicide dressed up as an accidental fall? Insurance fraud …
Kusaka had no idea if Mishima’s father’s death had any connection to the case they were working on, but it was certainly something worth exploring.
“You don’t happen to know roughly what scale of debts he had, do you?”
“No, the police never told me. They did ask me to let them know if Kosuke had any visitors here.”
Clearly the local police had been highly suspicious at the time.
“And did he?”
Ms. Shimizu shook her head and smiled.
“No—well, only Mr. Takaoka. He was such a lovely man. He took Kosuke out on weekends, for lunch or for little trips. He was very sweet to him.”
“Is that sort of thing common here?”
“Well, maybe not common, but it does happen. It’s not unusual for a relationship that starts like that to end up with both sides agreeing on a formal, legal adoption. Even if things don’t get officialized like that, people want to be helpful.… Did you ever read Daddy-Long-Legs? You know, the story of the orphan who has her college education paid for her by a mysterious benefactor? That sometimes happens here too.”
“Was there ever any talk of Takaoka adopting Kosuke?” inquired Kusaka.
Ms. Shimizu shook her head.
“Never. I do my best not to be pushy, but I did once ask Takaoka why he wasn’t interested in it. Because he was single, was his answer. Did he get married later?”
“No, he was still single at the time of his death.”
“Oh, I see.”
Kusaka straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat as the prelude to his next, important question.
“This is something I’m very keen to know. You don’t happen to remember which precinct the policeman who asked you to keep an eye on Kosuke’s visitors came from, do you?”
Since he had no idea that there had been anything suspicious about Mishima’s father’s death, he hadn’t bothered to touch on the topic at all during his interview of Mishima that morning.
“Let me see … Kosuke used to live in … I think it was Mitaka. Of course, I’ve no way of knowing if his father had his accident near there or not.”
“Of course not.”
Kusaka would just have to wait and see about that one.
“You’ve been most helpful.”
The interview enabled Kusaka to verify what he already knew about Mishima and Takaoka’s relationship, and about Takaoka’s character. The speculation about Mishima’s father’s death had come completely out of left field. Since he’d gone in with low expectations, the result was more than satisfactory.
They said their good-byes and left the school.
As they went out of the gate, two little boys with satchels on their backs skipped past them. Was school out already? Kusaka checked his watch. It was just after half past two.
* * *
Their next stop was Gotanda, where they visited the offices of Nakabayashi Construction, the general contractor where Takaoka had worked before going into business for himself.
The company’s seven-story head office building was right on the main road. At the reception desk, Kusaka asked for the head of the company’s general affairs division. He and Satomura were led up to a meeting room on the sec
ond floor.
A couple minutes later, the division director, a Mr. Kurihara, came in. He was short and plump.
“You’re from the Metropolitan Police? Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
Kusaka wasn’t the sort of person who knew or cared about designer labels, and he couldn’t identify Kurihara’s suit. All he knew was that it looked expensive; the same was true of the gold watch—was it a Rolex?—on the man’s wrist.
Kurihara threw himself into an armchair, leaned back, and crossed his stumpy little legs.
“Why are you here?”
His tone was hardly friendly, but then few people welcome a visit from the police. Kusaka knew better than to attach much importance to his manner.
“Do you remember a man by the name of Tadaharu Mishima who worked for Kinoshita Construction? He died nine years ago in an accident at one of your building sites.”
Kurihara shrugged and stuck out his lower lip.
“I only joined the firm four years ago. I’m afraid it’s before my time.”
“Can we meet with someone who’s been here longer?”
“Off the top of my head, I have no idea who might remember that particular incident. Give me some time and I’ll make inquiries. If it’s someone who’s out on site today, they won’t be back till six-thirty or seven at the earliest.”
Kurihara clearly wanted nothing to do with them. A tactical withdrawal seemed in order.
“That’s very helpful. When you find someone, give me a call at this number.”
Kusaka wrote his cell phone number on his name card and passed it across. Kurihara examined it briefly before putting it into his card case. He handed one of his own cards to Kusaka.
“I’m looking forward to your call,” said Kusaka, giving a little bow. Kurihara stayed in his seat and didn’t see them to the elevator.
* * *
They parked themselves in a coffee shop from which they could keep an eye on the lobby of the Nakabayashi office. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, just men with briefcases bustling in and out.
“There’s something not quite right about that Kurihara guy,” murmured Satomura.
Kusaka gave a barking laugh. There was certainly something a bit dodgy about Kurihara.
“Will you keep an eye on things here, Sergeant? I’m going to go and check a few things on the computer. If anything happens, call my cell.”
“Sure.”
Kusaka picked up the check, paid, and left. Through the glass, he could see Satomura lighting a cigarette as he watched the building on the far side of the street.
Kusaka turned and walked off. The wind was cold, and he crammed his hands into his pockets.
When Kusaka reached the plaza outside the station, he stopped and looked around. He spotted signs for three Internet cafés. He wanted the quietest place with the smallest number of kids in it. One of the three advertised “private rooms,” a “no-smoking zone,” and a “chilled-out atmosphere.” That sounded like what he wanted.
He ducked into the doorway beneath the sign and marched up the stairs to the second floor.
The sign-up procedure was a matter of seconds. Opting for the ninety-minute package, Kusaka settled down in the numbered booth assigned to him. Once upon a time, he used to lug his laptop around with him all day, but now, with Internet cafés everywhere, that was no longer necessary. He could carry his own office with him on a single memory stick smaller than a tube of lip balm. The downside was all the membership cards that he ended up with, but that was nothing compared to the weight of a computer.
Kusaka put his glasses on, launched the browser, and went to the home page of a business database. When the search page opened, he typed “Nakabayashi Construction” and pressed enter. The key data of the company appeared on the screen, including a list of the board of directors. Kusaka opened another window and Googled all the names. He then repeated the process for the company founder, the main investors, the group companies, consolidated subsidiaries, and affiliated companies. Kinoshita Industries was one of the affiliates.
Kusaka then widened his search to affiliates and consolidated subsidiaries of Nakabayashi’s affiliates; any other companies that the founder had established; companies Nakabayashi had acquired; and companies Nakabayashi had restructured and revived by sending in its own staff.
After nearly an hour, a shadowy pattern was beginning to form. A little later, he encountered a name that made sense of it all: Toshikatsu Tajima.
Now I get it.
On his memory stick, Kusaka opened a data file he had built up of individuals associated with “antisocial forces,” as the yakuza were euphemistically referred to. Yes, he was right. Toshikatsu Tajima was the younger brother of Masayoshi Tajima. Masayoshi was the first-generation boss of the Tajima-gumi, an organized crime group that was part of the Yamato-kai Syndicate.
Kusaka worked out the linkages based on the names he’d pulled up over the last hour. Toshikatsu Tajima’s daughter Miyuki was married to a Michio Ogawa, who had set up Zell, a construction company, with his own capital. When Zell became insolvent and ceased trading, Ogawa had given his backing to Tatsuo Nakabayashi, a licensed first-class architect who was a Zell executive director. Nakabayashi had then become president of a new company, Nakabayashi Building Enterprises, which took over all of Zell’s business, and was also the parent company of Nakabayashi Construction. Kusaka noticed that although Michio Ogawa was no longer on the board of Nakabayashi Construction, three Nakabayashi directors also served on the board of a company called New Tokyo Industries, where Ogawa was president. One way or another, the link to organized crime was still in place.
What did it all mean? Kusaka thought Nakabayashi Construction was probably a front; although it might look like any other company from the outside, the Tajima-gumi could be using the firm for their own ends and helping themselves to the lion’s share of its profits.
I need to get to the bottom of this right now.
Kusaka took out his cell phone and called Captain Imaizumi. He wasn’t going to make it back to the precinct in time for tonight’s task force meeting.
* * *
It was eight o’clock before Kusaka and Satomura were finally able to talk to a Mr. Ikawa, the man in charge of Nakabayashi’s construction projects in Tokyo’s southern segment.
“You’ve some questions about an accident that happened nine years ago?”
“That’s correct. It involved a Tadaharu Mishima working for Kinoshita Construction. Do you recall the incident?”
On the surface, Ikawa was an ordinary Japanese businessman, but like the man they had spoken to that morning, he radiated hostility. Another chip off the same old corrupt block, thought Kusaka.
“Uh-huh, I remember.”
“How about the fact that Mishima had some very heavy debts?”
Ikawa jerked briskly to one side.
“No, that I didn’t know. Mishima worked for Kinoshita Construction, not for us. Why should I know anything about him?”
“I had a look at your corporate brochure. Nakabayashi has its own division that erects scaffolding and preps building sites—exactly what Kinoshita Construction does, in other words. How’s that aspect of the business organized?”
Ikawa scratched his neck.
“Yeah, we have our own in-house division that handles that line of work,” he growled. “Sometimes, though, when they’ve got a lot on their plate, they need to call in an outside contractor. The weather has a big impact in the construction business. We can draw up nice, well-organized schedules, but if the weather doesn’t cooperate, schedules get screwed up and we can end up with two big jobs to do at the same time. That’s when we call in Kinoshita. They provide general laborers to make up for temporary manpower shortfalls or to handle specific jobs like erecting or dismantling scaffolding. Does that answer your question?”
“It sounds like a very practical arrangement.” Kusaka paused a moment. “And what can you tell me about Kenichi Takaoka
?”
Ikawa repeated the name to himself once under his breath, then his face lit up with recognition. “Oh, you mean Ken Takaoka? Tall, handsome fellow with a Roman nose? Sure, I remember him.”
Takaoka’s looks seemed to make a strong impression on everyone.
“Don’t tell me something’s happened to good old Ken?”
Kusaka sidestepped the question with a meaningless grunt.
“When did Takaoka leave Nakabayashi?”
“Uhm … five, perhaps five and a half years ago.”
“Do you know why he quit?”
“Uh-huh,” replied Ikawa, in an easygoing tone. In his mind, Takaoka and the Mishima incident were obviously two quite separate things. “Here at Nakabayashi, we specialize in building quite sizable apartment and office buildings. Ken was keen to work on smaller-scale, neighborhood projects—single-family homes, basically. There was nothing we could do for him there. I mean, that’s not the business we’re in.”
“So there was no bad blood between him and Nakabayashi when he quit?”
Ikawa threw himself back in his chair, batting away the idea with an extravagant wave of his hand.
“Absolutely not. We don’t kick up a fuss every time one of our workers leaves us. In the building trade, everyone job-hops. That’s just the way it is. Ken was with us for five, maybe six years—that’s a pretty good stint. Anyway, when you’re putting up big buildings, you don’t really need skilled carpenters. As long as they can knock shit into shape, anyone one will do. Some of the guys are easier to deal with than others, but at the end of the day, it’s just a job. If someone says they’re moving on, we’re like, good-bye and good luck. The laborers seldom come to this office; people like me, we only see them when we go on site. So we don’t give them farewell parties or anything.”
“I get the picture.”
Tadaharu Mishima, who was drowning in debt, had died in a fall at one of Nakabayashi’s construction sites. It seemed likely that his life insurance payout had gone to pay off his debts.
Perhaps the majority of Nakabayashi’s employees were good, honest people. Nonetheless, Kusaka had strong grounds for believing it was a front company for the Tajima-gumi.
Soul Cage--A Mystery Page 10