Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Inspector, there was one more thing. I don’t even know whether to mention it, actually. But the father did have a six-inch laceration on his left forearm that doesn’t fit. It was on its way to healing at the time of his death.”

  “I think I can answer that. I spoke to a colleague of Tsunemasa Kaneshiro’s who said that a young girl had a grudge against him. Apparently there was some kind of altercation a few weeks ago and when he came back to the office, he had a gash on his arm.”

  “Well now, that does fit. The wound is two to three weeks old and clearly applied with nowhere near the level of raw force in the actual murders. But that niggles. Who gets stabbed and doesn’t report it to the police? Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you, Inspector?”

  “Not if the police treat you like the shit on their shoe.”

  “Hm. Anyway, that’s about the shape of it, Inspector.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, thank you.”

  “Aha.” Her voice had a jolly lilt to it. “Good luck.”

  Iwata hung up and grabbed his keys. The Toyota was in a spare bay behind the apartment complex. As he turned the ignition, he dialed Sakai.

  “Iwata. You’re still alive, then.”

  “And what a lovely morning it is.”

  “Oh, every day on the TMPD is a glory.”

  Iwata filled Sakai in on the incense, the turkey blood, and the charcoal.

  “Okay,” she huffed. “It’s official. Picasso is a weirdo.”

  “That’s not all, Sakai. The father had a stab wound on his arm that was three weeks old.”

  “Shit. You think that’s our guy? Has to be, right?”

  “Eguchi doesn’t see it that way. Nor do I. A colleague mentioned a young girl with a grudge against Mr. Kaneshiro, maybe against Koreans in general. Apparently she attacked him a few weeks back. Something we’ll have to look into.”

  Sakai laughed bitterly.

  “A giant and a little girl. What a fucking case. Listen, the registration plates from the parking lot near the family home came back. Nothing particularly interesting, all nice people with nice alibis. But you’ll like this more—the bank got back to me this morning with someone slightly more competent. Told me that Tsunemasa Kaneshiro asked for quotes from various law firms. Not only that, he’d actually been billed by one of the best real estate–dispute lawyers in Tokyo.”

  “So Kaneshiro was in the money.”

  “I called the lawyer this morning, and he made it clear that he had no inclination to talk to us. But he did throw me a bone.”

  “Tsunemasa wasn’t of a mind to sell to VIVUS?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Good work, Sakai. I’m on my way.”

  The automated gripe of the windshield wipers hurt Iwata’s head and he swore at the frequent red lights that caught him. The drive to Shibuya HQ took much longer than it should have.

  In the underground car park, Iwata showed his temporary pass. The man in the booth signed him off and buzzed open the security doors. They opened to a narrow corridor with Arctic blue walls and countless faded papers with mug shots, descriptions, and warnings. Iwata walked this thin ventricle deeper into the station. He passed more elevators, toilets, and changing rooms. He ignored the bawdy laughter spilling out of the changing rooms, and followed the sound of Beethoven. At the end of the corridor, Iwata came to an armory. Behind the bulletproof glass, an old man with white hair and a weathered face looked up from his newspaper.

  “You’re Iwata?”

  “That’s right. Symphony No. 7?”

  A slow smile spread across the old man’s face.

  “A man of culture. I’m Nakata. One moment please.”

  The old cop went into a back room and returned a while later. He opened the slider and pushed through a black leather techou, some handcuffs, a shoulder holster, and a small, black SIG Sauer P232. Iwata put on the holster and felt the weight of the gun in his palm.

  “Seven rounds,” Nakata said. “And she’s a good size.”

  “Next time someone attacks me with a trowel, I’m ready.”

  “A trowel?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  Iwata slid the gun into the holster under his blazer. It was the voice of God at his side, yet he felt nothing but a pleasant weight.

  “You ever shot one before?”

  “Only in training.”

  “Say, Inspector. Where’s that accent from? You from Kyoto too?”

  “I’m from Miyama. Small village not far from Kyoto.”

  “Good walking? Fishing?”

  Iwata saw bunk beds, dead fields, and crows perched on power lines. And somewhere deep in a forest, a whispering whirlpool.

  “I … haven’t been there in a long time.”

  Nakata smiled politely and nodded at the gun under Iwata’s blazer.

  “Well, let me know if she misbehaves for whatever reason.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

  “One more thing. Don’t let these Kantō assholes get you down.”

  He smiled and bowed. Nakata went back to his paper and his Beethoven. Iwata returned to the elevators and pressed the call button. As he waited, he opened the leather pocketbook. On one side, his name, rank, and photograph. On the other, a gleaming badge with a gold-wreathed silver emblem and two gold bars. The symbol of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The mark of justice.

  As the elevator pinged, Iwata heard shouting from the changing rooms behind him.

  The lights of the city are so pretty.

  Amid the noise, he heard Sakai’s voice. Instinctively, Iwata hurried down the hallway and ripped open the changing-room door. The smell of sweat and piss hissed out. Horibe and the rest of Moroto’s goons encircled Sakai. Moroto himself held Sakai’s sports bag high over his head. Sakai’s face was red with fury.

  Iwata stepped forward. “Give the bag back.”

  “And what the fuck do you care, Mickey Mouse?” Moroto smiled, his rubbery, smacking voice ricocheting around the cramped changing room.

  Iwata took another step forward. “Give the bag back.”

  Moroto glanced around his cohorts in mock offense. “Ms. Sakai is just goofing around with her colleagues, buddy. Why don’t you go arrest someone?”

  “Iwata, forget him.” Sakai’s voice was pleading.

  Iwata was now nose-to-chin with Moroto. “Give her back the bag. Last time I say it.”

  Moroto smirked and the others passed around smiles. “‘Last time he says it.’ And with that fucking polite Kyoto accent too. You know what I like about you, yankee?”

  Iwata punched him in the gut. Moroto doubled over, eyes bulging, the air in his lungs imploding. Iwata snatched away the bag and pushed Moroto hard to the floor in the same motion. Three men were around Iwata now: Tatsuno, Yoshida, and Horibe, static in their confusion. The latter, first to defend his leader, stepped forward. Iwata looked him in the eye and shook his head.

  Horibe stalled. Passing the bag over to Sakai, Iwata knelt down by a wheezing Moroto.

  “Listen to me, Moroto.” The words contained no pageantry. “Don’t ever come near her again. I hope you understand me.”

  Moroto coughed incredulously, still holding his stomach. “… You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

  Iwata tapped Moroto on the side of the head, the little spikes of black growth stabbing his finger.

  “But I do, Moroto. I’m fucking with you.”

  Iwata stood, now eyeing each of Moroto’s men. He left the room with Sakai close behind. The elevator was quick. The ascent to the twelfth floor passed in silence. The elevator doors slid open to an identical scene from yesterday morning. The loud phone calls, the sickly light, the commingling of cigarette smoke across the low ceiling. Sakai stopped at the door of the toilet.

  “Iwata?”

  “Yes?”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Is that your version of thank you?”

  She sighed a
nd let go of the door. Iwata crossed the office, knocked on Shindo’s door and went in. Shindo was staring at the gray blur of his window, a fixed grimace on his face.

  “Inspector, come in.”

  Iwata shifted a fresh pile of papers from the chair and sat down.

  “Kid, I just got off the phone with Setagaya’s chief. He says the moneylender is being cut loose, but they’re keeping this Ezawa character. What’s your view?”

  “I don’t think Ijiri has any kind of connection to this. Ezawa, however, is definitely guilty of a variety of offenses. No real alibi, probably a vague motive in there too, and plenty of stink about him—yes. But he didn’t kill this family, I’m certain.”

  “What about the witness who saw a man with a limp?”

  “A limp doesn’t really prove anything. What does is the fact that Ezawa simply wouldn’t have the strength to kill an entire family like this. And even if he did, to be honest, he doesn’t have the brains to do it without leaving behind a single clue.”

  “All right. We have another twenty-two days to hold him without charge. Let’s play it safe and keep him for the time being?”

  “No arguments from me.”

  Sakai opened the door and bowed. She was wearing a navy blue trouser suit and a light blue blouse now, but her hair was up in a hasty ponytail.

  “Sit down, Sakai. Your partner was just saying how he thinks the moneylender and Ezawa are innocent of the murders, interesting characters though they may be. You agree?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are there any other angles I should know about?”

  Iwata nodded.

  “An employee who worked with Tsunemasa Kaneshiro informed me that a young girl was harassing him at his work—shouting obscenities over a megaphone and the like. Apparently, a few weeks ago, there was some kind of confrontation and Kaneshiro returned to the office bleeding. This explains the secondary laceration. But all we have is a vague description of the girl. I would like to ask Officer Hatanaka to look into her, if possible.”

  “The kid from Setagaya you’ve got running through hoops?”

  “That’s him.”

  Shindo shrugged his okay.

  “And so I take it both of you want to pursue this Kiyota, then?”

  Sakai nodded.

  “He hasn’t yet turned up, sir. However, last night I spoke with an official at the Civil Aviation Bureau and described our suspect—tall, male, twenty-eight-centimeter shoe, likely traveling alone, possibly with a limp. They told me that in a two- or three-day window, we were looking at anywhere up to seventy-five flights to Seoul or Bangkok.”

  Shindo whistled.

  “Okay, Iwata, where do you want to go from here?”

  “Setagaya PD badges are canvassing the Kaneshiros’ neighborhood; I think that should continue. In my view, the best course of action for Division One would be to pursue Kiyota. He has links to Nippon Kumiai so we start there. If anyone knows where he is, I’m betting it’s them. From what I’ve seen, Assistant Inspector Sakai is more than capable of carrying out this task.”

  Sakai glared at him.

  “Sir—”

  Shindo silenced her with a hand.

  “And what about you, Iwata?” he asked.

  “Kyoto University. I have a contact there, an old friend with expertise in symbols.”

  The older cop made a diamond beneath his chin with his fingers.

  “Why?”

  “Sir, these murders are ritualistic. The black sun symbol the killer left at the Kaneshiro house underpins the act—I’m almost certain.”

  “This isn’t Hollywood, Inspector. I told you about resources.”

  “I spoke with the coroner this morning. One of the bodies was smeared in turkey blood, they had a strange incense in their lungs, there was a symbol left behind, the father had his heart removed—all of that points to a ritualistic killer. He may be a serial killer. The sooner we understand his motives and how he chooses victims, the faster we can narrow it down. Understanding that symbol should have been my first step, really.”

  Shindo looked out of the window and rubbed his old, broken nose.

  “Be back here by tomorrow morning, then. No travel expenses.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sakai, take two officers with you to Nippon Kumiai. Let those assholes see the blue.”

  “Sir.” There was a quiver to her voice.

  Iwata and Sakai left Shindo’s office. Moroto and his goons were nowhere to be seen. They crossed Division One and called the elevator. As soon as they stepped inside and the doors closed she wheeled around and hissed.

  “You could have sent any asshole to knock on doors. You cut me out after one day? Did I not give you everything you needed?”

  “You did. But assholes miss details, Sakai. You, on the other hand, have a good eye and a fierce tongue. That’s precisely why I want you chasing down Kiyota.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She held out her hand for the car keys and Iwata passed them over. In the car park, she headed for the Toyota without a word. Iwata took the stairs up to street level, left the station, and crossed the street to the subway.

  CHAPTER 6: LOVERS CANNOT SEE

  THE NIPPON KUMIAI OFFICE WAS located on a backstreet in Takadanobaba, a plain three-story structure that could have been a travel agency or a language school. Sakai told the police officers accompanying her to wait outside. She showed her police ID to the young man at the reception desk and ignored his protests as she made her way to the office at the back. She knocked once and opened the door to a room latticed with framed black-and-white photographs. The room smelled of cigar smoke, aftershave, and feet. A small, smiling man in his fifties with thick, black hair slicked back sat at a bureau too big for him. His spectacles were too small for his wide, coin-like face.

  “Yes?”

  His voice was inquisitive, pleasantly surprised at the young woman standing before him. When Sakai held up her police credentials, his expression did not change.

  “Assistant Inspector Sakai. Division One.”

  “My name is Gorō Onaga. Please sit.”

  Signed portraits of Jean-Marie Le Pen and Saddam Hussein sat on Onaga’s desk, facing outward toward the visitor. Another photograph showed Onaga warmly embracing the former Minister for Security. Above his chair, a huge portrait of Yukio Mishima, handsome and muscular, looked down at Sakai. Beneath the author’s folded arms ran a quote of his in severe, dark text.

  PERFECT PURITY IS POSSIBLE IF YOU TURN YOUR LIFE INTO A LINE OF POETRY WRITTEN WITH A SPLASH OF BLOOD.

  Onaga cleared his throat.

  “Division One?”

  “The Homicide Unit, Mr. Onaga.”

  The man’s eyes widened theatrically as he sat back in his chair.

  “So, what can I help you with, Assistant Inspector?”

  Sakai gestured around the room.

  “What is it you do here?”

  “Nippon Kumiai retains the fundamental character of our nation.”

  “I see.”

  Her eyes settled on a long rack in the corner that supported T-shirts and Windbreakers of all sizes. They all bore the Nippon Kumiai logo.

  “Is that why you came here, to ask me that?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Onaga. I’m just curious about your … organization, that’s all. I’ve heard certain things.”

  He leaned forward, a delighted grin on his face.

  “May I ask what things?”

  “That you seek to justify Japan’s role in World War II. That you reject its war crimes.”

  “What I reject is self-hate. I reject the self-flagellation taught in schools to our children. I reject the pacifist constitution foisted on us by America. I reject the limp-wristed lack of patriotism in our youth. And I’m not the only one to question ‘conventional wisdom’ when it comes to our history.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t sound convinced, Inspector.”

  “O
ccupational hazard.”

  Onaga laughed but his eye twitch belied his displeasure at her quip.

  “Go to any bookstore in this country and you will find all manner of freely accessible literature questioning our role in the war and supposed ‘crimes.’ In the West, this would be shocking—even unacceptable. But we’re invisible to the West. So why pander to it? Why let others define us? Forgive me, but I am free to judge my own nation’s character as I see fit.”

  Sakai leaned forward, picked up one of the framed photographs and inspected it. It showed a large group of Nippon Kumiai members smiling in front of a baseball diamond. Evidently a team-bonding exercise.

  “It’s interesting, Mr. Onaga. The constitution that you have just rejected so freely is the very thing that protects your ideology.”

  Onaga laughed an unpleasant laugh, marbles being mixed in a bag.

  “We live in a puppet state, Inspector Sakai. A puppet state from which my group demands independence. The error of postwar democracy is unforgivable.”

  “You’re a fool if you think you can ever achieve that.”

  Onaga chortled.

  “Inspector, do you realize that my group has swollen to over fifteen thousand members? In the last year alone, we’ve staged over one hundred demonstrations all over the country. Many, many more are active online. Japan is at a turning point, Inspector. And I will die seeing it return to the old way of life.”

  Sakai took out a notebook, signaling the end of the debate.

  “What you will do, Mr. Onaga, is very simple.” She turned the photograph around and pointed to Kodai Kiyota’s long face. “You will tell me where this man is.”

  For the first time since she had entered the room, Onaga’s smile dropped.

  “Why are you asking me about him?”

  “Do you think I’m paid to answer your questions? I asked you where Kodai Kiyota is. That’s all.”

  Onaga’s face darkened.

  “I don’t know where. In any case, that man is no longer part of our organization.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he left.”

  “Why?”

  Onaga mulled this over. Sakai was used to this pause, the search for the right words, the search for clean answers.