Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  “Telemetry shows nothing. The security company has no records of access or egress by anyone other than residents. Last telemetry activity is her key card access from the outside—meaning Fong coming home.”

  “What about visitors?”

  “All logged by the concierge. She didn’t get many. Last visitor was Inspector Akashi.”

  “Akashi? He knew her?”

  “He was investigating death threats sent to her by a stalker.”

  She nodded to the small mountain of brightly colored fan mail on the table.

  “Fun week ahead.” She blew her fringe out of her face.

  Iwata shook his head.

  “So let me get this straight, the angle is: deranged fan somehow got her to open the door, then killed her?”

  Sakai held up a series of colorful death threats.

  “Yes, Iwata. That’s the angle.” She then held up CCTV stills of a man in a black-hooded jacket. “Not everybody hears hooves outside their windows and thinks zebras.”

  “Have you got any copies of those?”

  “No. Now look, on February fourteenth, at 02:12 A.M., we see him arriving by bicycle—”

  “The fourteenth? Within a day of the Kaneshiro murders.”

  “Must have been a full moon. Now listen, he arrives by bicycle in the car park, though he leaves it in a blind spot. He takes the elevator up to the top floor. By 2:31 A.M., he’s back in the car park, then he’s gone. He never looks to the camera, seems to know where they are. And even so, quality is very grainy.”

  “What about the bicycle?”

  “Dark blue or black in color. But there are seventy-two million bicycles in this country.”

  Iwata chewed his lips in thought.

  “What’s the name of the security company?”

  “Hawk Security.”

  “No signs of forced entry at all?”

  Sakai rolled her eyes.

  “Funnily enough, that was already considered. And your next question will be, if Mina Fong was getting death threats, why did she open the door of her own free will?”

  “To which you’d say…?”

  “Maybe she’d had enough and she snapped. Maybe she’d ordered a pizza. Maybe the barbiturates messed her up enough to open the door.”

  “She was a user?”

  “Oh, she was a fucking junkie; her assistant told us that the studios were threatening to fire her if she didn’t get her shit together.”

  “Beaten to death, you said?” Iwata asked.

  Sakai fished out the crime scene photographs. Mina Fong lay faceup, naked, and covered in blood. She had bunched her fists and closed her eyes tightly, like a baby screaming. Where her skin wasn’t covered in blood, it was purple and discolored. Her face was swollen, both her eyes closed by bruises. Her nose was a shiny red mushroom, her lips were thick, and her eyelids were blackened as if burnt.

  “Time of death?” Iwata passed back the photographs.

  “Coroner was actually pretty vague about it, 4 P.M. through to 8 A.M. But the unidentified male is captured on CCTV in the early hours of the fourteenth so we’re working to that time frame.”

  “Tell me about the stalker complaint.”

  “Fong contacted police some weeks back but she couldn’t say anything for sure. Maybe I’m being followed, maybe this, maybe that. Couldn’t give us any specifics until her dog was snatched. The assistant was walking it down in the park. Said a man just came up, punched her in the face, and snatched the dog—walked away before she knew what hit her. Couldn’t give a description.”

  Sakai handed Iwata another photograph. A decapitated dog had been draped over Fong’s face.

  As she sipped her coffee, Sakai wiggled her eyebrows.

  “At least the missing dog turned up, huh?”

  Iwata put down the photographs and rubbed his eyes. He felt a frustrating mix of déjà vu and helplessness.

  “Something doesn’t sit right here, Sakai.”

  “This murder is too boring for you?”

  “Just the opposite. It’s crazy. Textbook crazy.”

  “Get the fuck out of here, Iwata.”

  “Pathological attachment follows a fairly common road map. There are several stalker typologies that could apply here—a love-obsessional stalker idealizing Fong from afar. It could be a ‘domestic’ stalker—a man she had some kind of sexual contact with in the past who refuses to let go. Statistically, that’s the most likely. Or we could be talking about a simple case of erotomania. But this…”

  Sakai drained her coffee and brought the cup down to the table a little too loudly.

  “Iwata, nobody gives a shit about your FBI encyclopedia here. You’re not even police anymore.”

  “Maybe so, but tell me this isn’t all a little too neatly packaged.”

  “You’re going to tell me there’s no link between getting a death threat and being beaten to death a week later?”

  Iwata shook his head.

  “That’s the problem. Of course there is a link. But it’s too perfect. The guy who writes letters, decapitates dogs, and carves names into his arm? That guy leaves behind traces, Sakai.”

  He tapped the hooded figure in the grainy photograph.

  “Yet this guy has left behind nothing. You’ve an entire forensic unit who can’t find a crumb. That’s a disconnect right there.”

  Sakai rubbed her temples.

  “So we haven’t found anything yet. But a pair of gloves and a hood doesn’t make him a genius. We’ll get him.”

  Iwata turned down his lips.

  “Fair enough.”

  “But you didn’t come here to give me tips. What are you doing here?”

  He chewed his bottom lip absently and shook his head.

  “Look, Iwata, whatever it is, you better just say it.”

  He spread his hands on the table.

  “Ezawa is dead and Fujimura closed our case.”

  “Your case.”

  “As far as TMPD is concerned, the Black Sun is dead and they’ve got me with one foot out of the door. But we both know he’s still out there.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need your help.”

  She snorted.

  “Help?”

  “We worked well together.”

  “No, Iwata. I ran errands for you—that’s different. Anyway, what can I help you with now? It’s already over.”

  Iwata swept back his fine, messy hair and traced his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger.

  “You know Moroto has lodged an official complaint against me? The disciplinary meeting is next week.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I’m asking you to put in a counterclaim against him. You don’t have to make anything up, just tell the truth. That would at least show that there was a reason for my hitting him.”

  Sakai smiled bitterly.

  “You never fully trusted me, Iwata. And now you’re asking me to go out on a limb for you. Why would I do that? Have you even asked yourself? What, because I appreciate what you did to Moroto? For the old times? Or because that’s what women do?”

  Iwata pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m just asking you to tell the truth. That’s all.”

  She glared at him and went over to the makeshift coffee station. Iwata glanced down at the Mina Fong case file and then followed her.

  “Sakai, without your help, the case is fucked.”

  “No, you’re fucked.”

  “And when the Black Sun kills again, so will you be.”

  Sakai took her coffee out to the corridor and stood in the many gazes of Mina Fong.

  “All right, look, I don’t think Ezawa committed those murders either. But fuck, it wasn’t like we were getting anywhere with that case. What’s done is done.”

  “And the killer? You think he’s done?”

  “What you’re asking isn’t simple. You’re asking me to stand against Moroto. What about my career?”

  “Is this about your care
er? Or is it about Moroto?”

  Sakai stabbed a finger into his chest.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, I just—”

  “You think calling me chicken will get you anywhere? Stop acting like you did me a favor. You wanted to swing dicks with him and you did. That was never for me.”

  “We work well together, you know it’s true. I’ve never had that before, I’m betting you haven’t either. We can get him.”

  “You and I were there for the Black Sun murders. Nothing else held us together.”

  “Please, Sakai. I need your help.”

  She bit her tongue and then lowered her voice.

  “Fujimura won’t live forever. Who do you think the crown will fall to once he’s gone? You think it will be Shindo just because he’s the oldest? Wake up. Okay, Moroto is a prick. But show me three guys in the TMPD that aren’t.” She shook her head, breathing hard through her nose. “I saw him this morning talking to the public prosecutor. I know I don’t have to spell it out for you, Iwata. He has friends both in the staff room and out in the playground.”

  “You’re saying no to me, then.”

  “What’s my word worth, anyway? Your outcome was fixed the moment you stepped through the doors of Division One. But this is my path, Iwata. This is my career. I won’t risk it. Not for anyone. And not for you. Take some responsibility for your actions.”

  Iwata leaned forward and spoke quietly in Sakai’s ear.

  “I’m the only one who can find the Black Sun. You know that, don’t you?”

  She shunted past him.

  “All the best, Iwata.”

  He was left staring at Mina Fong’s ten-year-old face, grinning with an almost identical girl as they both blew out birthday candles. She was looking to the camera, ensuring the joy of the day was conveyed. The other girl, probably her older sister, was looking at the photographer. Iwata puffed out his cheeks and headed toward the front door. But something stopped him opening it.

  Another photograph, hanging at a crooked angle, as if recently replaced. It was of Mina Fong’s sister receiving a school diploma, a little shy but clearly proud, beaming at the camera.

  She was the less pretty of the pair, taller, plumper. Her smile was less polished, though it carried more warmth. Iwata glanced up the corridor. This was the only photograph that was off-kilter. He thought it was unlikely the forensics team had left it like this.

  Who, then?

  Iwata ran a finger along the top of the photo frame. His distal phalanx came back lightly coated in dark, sooty powder. He sniffed at it gently and registered a distant burned smell.

  “Strange.”

  He checked the frames of all the other photographs but found only dust. On a whim, he returned to the dining table, made sure nobody was looking, and picked up the Mina Fong case file. As he left the apartment, he also took the disturbed photograph from the wall.

  Back inside his car, Iwata dialed the number for the Park Residences security company.

  “Hawk Security.”

  “This is Inspector Iwata from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police—”

  “This about the actress?”

  “That’s right.”

  “One second.”

  There was a click and a woman with a gruff voice answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “My name is Inspector Iwata and—”

  “Just tell me what you need.”

  “The Park Residences CCTV footage across a forty-eight-hour period—starting on the morning of the thirteenth and ending on the evening of the fourteenth of February. I need Mina Fong’s floor, all access and egress points, and I want printed stills, too. How long will that take?”

  “If you’re collecting, I could have it ready in an hour.”

  “Then I’m on my way.”

  Hanging up, Iwata picked up the Mina Fong case file he had stolen from the dining table. He leafed through until he found the right page.

  MINA FONG—NEXT OF KIN:

  Father—Shoei Nakashino. Japanese national. Deceased—natural causes.

  Mother—Mary Fong. Resident at Green Peak Psychiatric Hospital (Hong Kong).

  Siblings—Jennifer Fong. Deceased—suicide/misadventure—Cathay Pacific Medical Office (Hong Kong).

  Iwata looked down at the photograph of Jennifer Fong that he had taken from the apartment. He peered into her happy eyes.

  “What happened to you?”

  Rain began to patter on the windshield. It took him a few moments to decide. Then Iwata scrolled through his address book until he stopped at a name:

  TABA

  Iwata rocked the phone in his hand, as if testing its weight.

  “No choice.”

  He exhaled and dialed. After five rings a familiar voice answered.

  “Chōshi PD.”

  “Taba?

  “Yeah, who is this?”

  “It’s me.”

  “… Iwata?”

  “Yeah.”

  A strange silence passed before Taba spoke again. Iwata wondered if he would hang up.

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to ask you a favor.”

  Taba laughed loudly.

  “After what you’ve done? You’re actually asking me for favors?”

  “I’m sorry but I have to. I know I have no right. I also have no choice.”

  He heard Taba take a drag and exhale incredulously.

  “Nobody has balls like Kosuke Iwata.”

  “Look, Taba, I’m sorry to call you. I am. But this isn’t about you and me. I’m working a serial killer. Nothing like this has ever been seen before. So I’m asking for your help this one last time. After this, you’ll never hear from me again.”

  There was another drag and another puff of smoke. Iwata pictured Taba at his desk. If he were to swivel around, from his window he would be able to see the sun setting over the ocean.

  The lights of the city are so pretty.

  “A serial killer?”

  “The worst I’ve seen.”

  Taba sighed.

  “Whatever help you gave me when I was coming through is squared after this. You understand that? I don’t want to hear from you again. You leave me and my wife the fuck alone.”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Is your brother-in-law still in Hong Kong police?”

  CHAPTER 18: FOUND AT SEA

  THE 6:20 A.M. HONG KONG Express out of Tokyo Haneda took the better part of five hours to reach its destination.

  Iwata spent the flight studying the Mina Fong case file and the still images he had picked up from Hawk Security. By the time he landed at Hong Kong International Airport, Iwata had also picked up a cold. In the arrivals hall, he sat down with a tasteless coffee and waited. Half an hour passed before a slim man with prominent eyebrows approached, hands in his pockets.

  “You?” he asked in English. “Iwata?”

  “That’s me.”

  “The day after tomorrow at 8 A.M., the Cathay Pacific Medical Examiner’s Office. Doctor Wai will be waiting for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here. I don’t know why Taba would want to help you. But I do know what you did to him and my sister. If I were you, I wouldn’t cross paths with me again.”

  Then the man was gone. Iwata swallowed a couple of decongestants and approached the taxi kiosk.

  The taxi worked its way through the misty roads of Lantau Island, and then over the bridges toward Tuen Mun. Pulling up outside Green Peak Psychiatric Hospital at 2 P.M., Iwata stepped into the drizzle clutching his bag. He looked up at the old building. It was set high up on the green hills overlooking Butterfly Beach, an old British structure built in a time when peace and an ocean view were the only real remedies available to the mentally troubled.

  A portly man in a cream linen suit was waiting on the hospital steps. His round, neat face peeked out from beneath an expensive umbrella.

&
nbsp; “Mr. Iwata? I’m Mr. Lee, the Fong family lawyer.”

  “Mr. Lee. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Welcome to Hong Kong.” He gave a cold, soft handshake. “I must say your English is excellent. For a Japanese, I mean.”

  His laughter was a high-pitched crest. Iwata followed him into the reception and the nurse behind the counter smiled and waved them through.

  “Mrs. Fong doesn’t get visitors anymore. I’m sure she’ll be glad. Even if she doesn’t say much, she’s listening.”

  Lee led Iwata into a large room with French windows. Elderly patients read newspapers or dozed. The TV news was almost deafening. At the open doors to the garden, Lee stopped.

  “Mr. Iwata, I think it best if you see her alone. If she sees me coming, she’ll only think I’m bringing more bad news. She’s had such an awful few years, as you know.”

  Iwata thanked the portly lawyer and stepped out on to the long stretch of lawn overlooking Hong Kong’s skyscrapers. Mary Fong was seated beneath a white canvas parasol, wrapped in a blanket, her face expressionless beneath sunglasses. He saw Cleo as a withered old woman, drooling in silence, eyes still fixed on that same, never-changing horizon.

  I’m happy with you.

  Fighting the feeling he had been here before, Iwata crouched down by the old woman.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fong. I’m Kosuke.”

  She turned her head to glance at him but said nothing. Mrs. Fong went back to her view.

  “I know you’ve spoken to police many times about your daughters, but I was just wondering if I could trouble you for a few minutes. I’ve come from Tokyo.”

  I’m happy with you. Please let me hear.

  “Tokyo? Ohh.”

  “That’s right. Mrs. Fong, you know that nobody has yet been apprehended for Mina’s murder … I hope that will only be a matter of time. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  In the distance, seagulls hung suspended in the gray. They looked no different from those that flew over Sagami Bay. Above them, planes made their final glum approaches. Iwata took out the photograph he had taken from Mina’s apartment. He held it up in front of Mary Fong, who quivered for a moment, then looked away.

  “Mrs. Fong, I need you to help me.”

  “Of course.” Her English carried a subtle accent. “You’ve come all this way.”

  “From what I gather, Jennifer died some years ago in a boating accident of some sort?”