Katsumata said nothing. He got Tatsumi’s drift all right. He just didn’t want to believe it. Tatsumi plunged ahead.
“I don’t know the full story. My guess, though, is that the yakuza stood back because the organizer has some connection to the police. That’s why I warned Otsuka off. ‘There’s a devil on your tail,’ I told him. You’d better be careful too. You’ve got the same information. You don’t want to end up dead.”
Katsumata looked at the envelope in his hand, then stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket.
“What about you? You know too much as well.”
“Whatever. I can take care of myself.”
Tatsumi made to leave the booth.
Katsumata hastily reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Not so fast. Are you telling me that you knew someone was targeting Otsuka?”
Tatsumi shook off Katsumata’s grip angrily.
“Course I fucking didn’t,” he snarled, glaring at Katsumata.
Katsumata turned back to the machine.
“Just stay there one second. I need you to do another job. How much will you need to identify the people behind the show?”
Katsumata shoved his card back into the ATM.
“How much is it going to cost me?”
Tatsumi hesitated. Was he afraid to go after a cop killer? Was he unsure if he was up to the job? Or was he simply having trouble pricing his services?
“I said, how much?”
Katsumata had already entered his PIN number. Now he was waiting to input the money figure.
Tatsumi swallowed. “Two million.” His voiced trembled slightly. “Then I can do the job properly.”
Fuck! That was serious wage inflation.
Katsumata, however, didn’t intend to haggle about the price. He punched in a two followed by six zeroes.
Gonna have to shake down more than a few people down to get that back.
He pressed the “Enter” button tenderly. The flapping sound of the machine counting the ten-thousand-yen notes seemed to last forever.
7
Reiko’s former partner, Ioka, had been taken away from her and paired with Katsumata. In his place she now had Lieutenant Kitami. Reiko felt as though the people she cared for were being torn away from her, one by one.
She decided to put Shibuya on hold and go to Ikebukuro instead. She felt a physical pain in her chest at the thought that Otsuka had walked these same streets for the last three days of his life. What had he seen, heard, and thought there? Why had they killed him? Reiko had no idea, she didn’t even know what he’d been investigating when he decided to fly solo. Everything was gray and unclear.
Like the weather. The day was cloudy. The bustling pedestrians, the flashing neon signs, and the colorful billboards all seemed to be leached of color.
Otsuka …
Reiko’s heart felt like a lead weight in her chest, dragging her down. Staying upright cost her an effort; moving around was worse.
Otsuka, are you really dead?
Reiko hadn’t yet seen Otsuka’s body, but his absence alone made his death all too crushingly real. Was death always so hard to deal with? So painful?
What about all those other deaths?
It dawned on Reiko that she hadn’t been treating the dead people she encountered on the job with the respect they deserved. “I channel the victims’ rage and use it to power my investigations”—that’s what she’d always told herself. Now, however, she was forced to acknowledge that her empathy was superficial. She’d been heartless and shallow—not a recipe for a good detective.
Her sister had complained about her having changed. This was another problem altogether.
Detective Michiko Sata’s death in the line of duty was what had shaped Reiko’s whole approach to her job. Sata’s death had inspired her not just to become a detective but to try to put herself in the victim’s shoes. At least, that had been her original goal.
But Reiko had also set out to make lieutenant, the rank Sata had achieved through her posthumous promotion. She’d worked hard and achieved that rank relatively young. Had success made her arrogant? Yes, that it had. The moment she’d fulfilled her dream, she lost touch with her better self and unconsciously betrayed everything that Detective Sata stood for.
She tried to analyze the attitude with which she approached the cases she worked on. It wasn’t comfortable. Her strongest emotions, she decided, were probably excitement at being on a task force and relief at not having to go home—something she never passed up an opportunity to joke about. And where had that got her? She’d failed to notice her mother’s deteriorating health. If things had gone worse for her mother, she might have even failed to make it to her mother’s deathbed.
It was all too much. Otsuka’s death, her mother’s heart attack, the stalled investigation, the pressures of the job. So many weighty things, all crushing the heart in her chest.
“Here you go, Lieutenant.”
Reiko was sitting at a long counter by the window in the upper floor of a fast-food joint. The window overlooked Meiji Boulevard, one of Tokyo’s major thoroughfares. Kitami stood there holding two trays, one for him and one for her.
“Oh, thanks.”
Reiko left her food untouched until she noticed that Kitami was reluctant to start without her.
“Dig in. Don’t you worry about me.”
“Okay, sorry.”
Kitami began nibbling his French fries one at a time. She could see the tension in his bunched-up shoulders.
Most cops ate like vikings and could polish off a burger in two mouthfuls. Kitami, though, was a shadow of his normal self. Otsuka’s death seemed to be have shrunk him physically.
“Don’t apologize all the time,” she snapped. “And stop blaming yourself for Otsuka’s death.”
“Yes, sorry.”
“There you go again.”
Kitami mumbled something.
Reiko tried to give him an encouraging smile but was unsure that she managed one. The two of them had spent the morning wandering vaguely around Ikebukuro. Nothing that deserved to be called an investigation.
Reiko sighed softly and helped herself to a French fry.
The music venue where Otsuka had been murdered wasn’t far away. Since Otsuka’s death was being handled by the Ikebukuro precinct, showing up at the crime scene would only be a distraction for the officers working the case. Captain Imaizumi had provided a statement on behalf of the unit. Kitami had given a statement first thing this morning. Reiko didn’t know what he’d said; frankly, she was afraid to ask. Sitting right there in Ikebukuro beside Kitami, the idea of hearing about the last few days of Otsuka’s life terrified her. She was sure she would go to pieces.
“Tell me something funny.”
She wasn’t surprised when Kitami looked put out.
“I can’t just…”
She was being unreasonable, and she knew it. That didn’t change the fact that she wanted to hear him talk about anything except Otsuka and their investigation.
“Anything … You graduated from the Tokyo University law department, didn’t you?”
Reiko closed her lips around the straw in her drink. Kitami nodded stiffly.
“Suppose so.”
“You suppose so? Come on, it’s great. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Sorry.”
“There you go, apologizing again.”
“That wasn’t what I meant…”
Reiko was struck by Kitami’s good looks. He had to be wildly popular with women his own age. What did he think of someone like her?
He probably thinks I’m way past my sell-by date.
A question flashed into her mind. What had Otsuka thought of his partner? This Tokyo University law grad, young, handsome, a lieutenant from day one—classic fast-track material.
Was he jealous?
She’d never be able to ask Otsuka to his face. They wouldn’t be going to any more meetings or to any drinking sessions together—ever. She felt a shar
p tingling behind her eyes. She forced herself to speak in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone to keep control.
“You’re quite a strapping lad. Did you do sports in college?”
“Huh? Well … you know, I…”
Her crackbrained question seemed to have thrown Kitami. She went blithely on, ignoring his discomfiture.
“You’re tall. Was it basketball, maybe? Or volleyball?”
“Neither.” He sheepishly shook his head.
“Karate, then?”
“Never done martial arts in my life.”
“Tennis?”
“Nor ball sports.”
“What then? Horse riding?”
“No. Look, can’t we talk about something else? I’m not really the sporty type.”
Kitami was just being modest, thought Reiko. It was obvious that he was fit. The brisk way he’d marched around the vacant properties that morning bespoke an unusual level of athleticism.
“There’s something else, Lieutenant Himekawa.”
From his tone, she could tell he was serious about wanting to change the subject.
“When Otsuka was doing his own thing, I wandered around and came across this building nearby. The firm that built it must have gone bust just before completing it. The building’s almost finished, but it’s never been occupied, and the fence around the site is riddled with holes. It’s easy to get in. Don’t you think we should check it?”
“Doing his own thing”?
Kitami was trying to be tactful. He was deliberately avoiding the phrase “solo investigation,” out of respect for Otsuka—or possibly out of pity for the frazzled woman lieutenant.
Normally Reiko would have bristled at being mollycoddled by this fast-track golden boy, but now her primary emotion was gratitude.
Reiko, you’re turning soft.
She broke into a self-mocking laugh. It felt good. Perhaps bottling up her feelings had been a mistake.
“Good idea. Let’s go there after we’ve visited all the other places on our list.”
“Oh, okay.”
Reiko looked at her watch. It was already past three o’clock.
8
The envelope Tatsumi gave Katsumata contained two sheets of paper and three photographs.
“These are grabs from the infrared camera in my apartment,” Tatsumi explained. “I retrieved the cameras and went to an Internet café to extract the data. You can have them. The images are a bit blurry, but they could help with Otsuka’s murder.”
The green-tinged photographs showed two people: a large, sturdy man in a dark polo shirt and jeans, and a smaller man in a black leather bodysuit. These had to be the people who killed Otsuka.
“You’ve got an infrared camera in your place? You don’t take any chances.”
“I’m no amateur. They won’t kill me so easily.”
“You went back to your place. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“B&E’s one of my specialties.”
Katsumata found the two sheets of paper even more interesting. This must have bowled Otsuka over. The list included the name of someone Otsuka had interviewed.
Tomohiko Tashiro was the one who had posted under the handle “Wicked Wizard.” He was the thirty-nine-year-old salesman for an electronics firm who’d belonged to the Haseda University hiking club with Yukio Namekawa. Tashiro had alerted Otsuka to Strawberry Night. His claim that Namekawa had told him about it was clearly an out-and-out lie. Tashiro’s postings gave the unmistakable impression that Tashiro had attended the shows himself. His comments included descriptions—almost eyewitness accounts—that matched exactly how Kanebara had been killed. Tashiro was trying to play a double game: dropping hints to nudge the investigation in the right direction while trying his best to conceal his own participation.
Scumbag! You went to the show, your own friend was butchered, and now to top it off, you’re a snitch as well.
Katsumata felt an uncharacteristic surge of moral indignation.
“This is valuable stuff, Tatsumi. Now I need you to identify the guy behind the show, pronto.”
The two men separated. Katsumata immediately put in a call to Suyama at the task force coordination desk, got Tashiro’s number from him, and called it.
“Good afternoon. Matsumoto Electronic Industries’ sales division.” A young woman answered the phone. That was enough to get Katsumata’s back up.
“Is Tomohiko Tashiro there? This is Lieutenant Katsumata of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.”
He thought he did a good job of sounding polite. Much good it did him.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Tashiro is out of the office right now.”
“I need to get in touch with him urgently. Have you got the number of his cell phone?”
“Yes, but I would need to know what this is about.”
Something inside Katsumata snapped.
“Oh no, you don’t. Your job, little lady, is to answer the phone, make the tea—and fuck all else. Tell me the number. If you don’t want to do that, then call Tashiro and get his permission to tell me. Somehow I don’t think he’s going to refuse to cooperate with the police. Okay, which is it—tell me or ask him? If the latter, I’ll call you back in five. Make sure you pick up. Okay?”
Silence.
“I asked you a question. Can’t you do anything right?”
That final shouted insult seemed to do the trick. Between sniffles, the woman gave him Tashiro’s cell number.
“So the last four digits are seven-oh-nine-two? Got it. And next time a policeman asks you to do something, jump to it. Don’t try using that thick head of yours for thinking. That’s not what it was designed for.”
He felt pleasantly refreshed after ending the call.
* * *
Tashiro was in Shinjuku when he took Katsumata’s call. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said the detective. “Make the time to see me.” Four thirty was the earliest Tashiro said he could manage. “That’s fine for me,” answered Katsumata. “But I need you to show up without fail.” Not wanting to make Tashiro nervous, Katsumata did his best to sound friendly.
They’d agreed to meet at a diner. Katsumata got there at four twenty-five. Not knowing what Tashiro looked like, Katsumata called his cell. A man sitting on the bench for patrons waiting to be seated pulled out his phone.
Katsumata walked over to him. “Are you Mr. Tomohiko Tashiro?” he inquired mildly.
“I am. You must be Lieutenant Katsumata. I—”
Before the man could even finish his sentence, Katsumata had grabbed his tie and yanked him onto his feet.
“You sewer rat, you’re coming with me. Hey, waitress, this gent won’t be needing a table after all.”
Katsumata dragged Tashiro out of the diner and down to the parking lot. A couple getting out of their car looked at them with open-mouthed suspicion. Katsumata ignored them and hauled Tashiro right to the back.
“Wha-what’s this about?” Tashiro sputtered.
He looked ready to burst into tears. Dragged along by Katsumata, he stumbled, fell, and scrambled back to his feet repeatedly.
Katsumata only let go of his tie when they reached the back wall of the parking lot.
“Listen, buddy, I’m not here for Tomohiko Tashiro. I’ve got some questions for the Wicked Wizard of Oz—or whatever you fucking call yourself in computerland—and I need answers.”
Grabbing the lapels of Tashiro’s jacket, he threw him against the wall. The man’s face was contorted with terror, his whole body was rigid, and his eyes stared vacantly into the distance.
“Did you attend the Strawberry Night murder show?”
Tashiro’s face crumpled as he began to cry.
“Did you?”
Tashiro gulped and sputtered.
“You’re making a big mistake if you think that keeping quiet is going to make all this go away and that your life will go back to normal. You did some magnificent aiding and abetting, my friend. You’re an accessory to murder. You’re looking
at serious jail time, I can promise you that. But for now at least, I have the power to keep your name out of this. So, what’ll it be? Come clean with me here, or do the strong, silent act and go to the slammer? Your choice.”
Tashiro spasmed to his full height then collapsed in on himself and slid slowly down the wall. He curled up into a ball on the ground and promptly pissed himself.
“Goddammit. You filthy bastard.”
Katsumata took a brisk step backward to avoid the dark puddle that was spreading across the cement toward him. What the fuck was a pathetic jerk like him doing, going to see a murder show?
“Come on, talk to me. Then I’ll buy you some new underpants. I’m a nice guy, you know.”
Katsumata lit a cigarette and waited for the whimpering to stop. He’d almost smoked it to the filter when Tashiro began to speak in short bursts.
“It just kind of happened.…”
He had stumbled on the Strawberry Night homepage by accident last September and first attended the event in October. Curiosity was his main motivation. Intrigued by the online video of what looked like a real murder, he had clicked the “Yes” button that popped up with the “Do you want to see this live?” text. He hadn’t really been serious about it. When nothing happened, he’d written the whole thing off as a joke. Until …
“It was about two weeks later. This black envelope came to the house. There was no stamp or postmark. It said, ‘Confidential. Mr. Tomohiko Tashiro’ on the front in white ink. On the back there was the red Strawberry Night logo I’d seen on the Internet.
“It gave me a big shock. All I’d done was view a homepage and click a button. That was enough for them to figure out where I lived. I was terrified. I was worried they might kill me too.
“Things only got worse when I opened the envelope. There was a headshot of me—God knows where it had been taken. Then there was this page listing my birthday, my current address—they obviously knew that—my job, even the names of my wife and children! At the bottom it said, ‘Please check that all the above information is full and correct. If it is, your identity as Tomohiko Tashiro has been confirmed and the registration process is complete.’ It didn’t say anything about how to contact them if the data was incorrect. It looked like a threat to me. ‘We know everything about you. You cannot escape us.’ That was the real message.”
The Silent Dead Page 24