Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  The ice clinked, shifting in his glass.

  He’d put up with everything so far. And all for his family . . .

  No. That wasn’t it. He’d used them as a shield. He’d been selfish. He’d made sacrifices each time his place in the force had come under threat, and he’d always blamed his family. The truth was clear enough. He could keep going without a family, but he’d fall apart if he lost his place in the force. Unless he first recognized that, accepted that was who he was, he’d never be able to find his true place in the world.

  Mikami’s phone was vibrating in his jacket pocket. It might have been doing so the whole time.

  A number of faces came forward, but the call was from none of them. It was Assistant Chief Itokawa of Second Division, sounding harried. Forgoing preamble, he launched straight into talking about the bid-rigging charges. He told Mikami that they had substantiated the charges against the CEO of Hakkaku Construction – who had been in for voluntary questioning – and issued a warrant for his arrest, but that the CEO had started coughing up blood before they could process the arrest and had been checked into hospital. At first Mikami wondered why Itokawa was volunteering inside information, but the reason was coming next. The Yomiuri and the Sankei had somehow managed to get word of the warrant and had called in to notify their intention of covering the story. Itokawa had begged them to wait, but they hadn’t listened.

  ‘Anyway, thought I’d give you some advance warning. It’s going to be chaos tomorrow morning.’

  An image of Arakida flashed before his eyes. Mikami checked his watch, then put a call through to Suwa’s mobile. It was eight forty-five. Suwa was in the Wan Wan Tei, a transvestite-run bar he’d recently unearthed. Having failed to get anything from the press in the headquarters, he’d improvised with a ‘social studies meeting’ led by Mikumo. He sounded tense at first, Mikami having left the office without explaining the reason for his bandage, but his tone reverted to normal when Mikami told him about the warrant.

  ‘That explains it,’ he said. ‘Ushiyama from the Yomiuri and Sudou from the Sankei, they’re both missing.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Another scoop. I hope that this isn’t going to mess up our chances of stopping the boycott.’

  ‘I want a report, first thing in the morning,’ Mikami instructed.

  He palmed the phone shut. The clamour on the line was replaced with the racket of karaoke. A group of ten or so men and women of various ages – by the look of things, work colleagues – were gathered around the carpeted zashiki area. A slightly premature end-of-year party, according to the barkeeper.

  Mikami felt restless. Suwa, Mikumo, even Kuramae – they would all be the same. They were focusing every resource on averting the boycott. And no wonder. The commissioner was due to visit in only three days. It was their job to manage the press. What else would they be doing?

  An image of Yoshio Amamiya came unexpectedly into his thoughts. The appearance had been sudden enough to feel like a revelation, the insight he needed to break through the wall of his dilemma. Mikami felt the colour drain from his face.

  The commissioner general is our highest-ranked official. I’m confident the media coverage will be significant. It will be broadcast on TV. The news will reach a great number of people.

  His own words. He’d tried to build up Amamiya’s expectations, with a view to getting him to agree to the commissioner’s visit. But it hadn’t worked. Amamiya had long ago given up expecting anything from the police. He felt bitter towards them, having learned of the cover-up of the kidnapper’s call. He’d seen the visit for what it was, a PR exercise. That was why he hadn’t even considered Mikami’s entreaty. He hadn’t given in to any new expectations. He hadn’t changed his mind because of anything Mikami had said. He’d been shocked, moved even, when he’d broken into tears – but that was all.

  Even so . . .

  He’d said the words.

  . . . there is a real chance of this bringing in new leads.

  Mikami emptied his glass.

  It had been a revelation, after all. Stuck in a local skirmish, he’d looked up at the sky and caught sight of a shooting star. A promise. One he’d made in the outside world, away from any consideration of Criminal Investigations or Administrative Affairs.

  He felt a shift, a weight tipping the scales. The commissioner would never forgive a boycott. Whatever happened, Mikami had to ensure his voice made the papers and the airwaves. For Amamiya. And in order to take responsibility for what he’d said.

  He realized his mind was made up. There had never been any real ‘promise’. And if the only way of stopping the boycott was lying to the reporters, that wouldn’t even constitute finding a third path as press director. All he’d done was find another extreme, following the polar opposites of Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs. It doesn’t matter. It’s enough. He would use the excuse of Amamiya to force a change in direction.

  A very Mikami way of settling the dispute.

  ‘Look, he’s got a smirk on him,’ the mama-san teased.

  ‘Leave him be. Probably felt good to land one on his asshole boss,’ the barkeeper said next to her. ‘He just wants to drink by himself. Can’t you see that?’

  They were gearing up to start again. Mikami turned his chair so his back was facing the counter. The uproar coming from the zashiki was at its peak. The apparent leader of the group, a man in his fifties, was howling out an off-tune ballad. The rest were clapping in time; from the looks on their faces, it was clear they were still half at work. The women were already fidgeting, ready to leave.

  Mikami was counting on Suwa. On Mikumo. Even on Kuramae. Everything would turn out fine if the Press Club held a GM to overturn the boycott. His made-up assurances would become real. Media Relations would survive.

  Mikami’s gaze met with that of a woman in the group. She let out a snigger and whispered something in the ear of the woman next to her.

  He looked away and flipped a cigarette into his mouth. Still bickering with her husband, the mama-san held out a lighter; a flamethrower-sized lick of fire burst out. The man sitting next to him chose that moment to open a conversation. Mikami had seen him there, probably once before. He thought he remembered the man being a doctor, but it turned out that, after failing to gain entrance to medical school for three straight years, he’d ended up as head of administration in a hospital that had been in his family since his grandfather’s generation. Mikami told him the bandage was because he’d fainted, and ended up – despite his mood – having to give the man an outline of his symptoms. The man nodded gravely. ‘It could be Ménière’s disease,’ he said, before asking whether the dizziness came from the left or right ear first. You’re not even a doctor, Mikami thought ungraciously, even as his hand came unconsciously up to his left ear.

  He called a taxi.

  When he left, it was to the mama-san’s smile, the barkeeper’s look of concern, and the glances that rippled through the group of women. Inside the vehicle, he noticed his hand was still on his left ear. He recalled the cold touch of the phone. Ayumi hadn’t said a word. In her silence, she’d left nothing more than a suggestion. Was that what it was? Mikami wondered. Had she called so he’d ask the questions himself? What have you ever done as a parent? Did you ever try to understand anything about me?

  Mikami got out of the taxi to see Yamashina standing next to his front door; that was when he realized how drunk he was, and in how bad a mood.

  You bastard.

  He’d been with the others at the Wan Wan Tei but had become uneasy when he’d noticed that the chief reporters from the Yomiuri and the Sankei were missing and decided to call over. He’d probably come hoping to secure a tidbit for himself. Ayumi’s shoes . . . I can see they’re gone. He thought he’d get lucky again – it was clear from his expression. He was walking over with an obsequious smile, making a show of how cold it was. Mikami waited with his feet firmly in the ground, then reached out with his bandaged hand. He grabbed Yamashina by the scarf and pul
led him in until he was breathing down the man’s bright-red ear.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Yamashina. I didn’t feed you news on the bid-rigging because I like you. I did it out of charity. Because of the way you resemble an abandoned dog in the rain.’

  He shoved the man, now frozen and bolt upright, to the side, before striding in through the front door. Minako came straight out. She’d started to say that Yamashina was outside when she noticed his bandaged hand and broke off.

  ‘Just an accident, cut myself a little,’ Mikami said, easing off his shoes.

  Minako was obviously suspicious but refrained from asking any more questions. She composed herself again then told him that Director Odate’s wife had called, at around eight o’clock.

  Mikami’s heart stopped. He looked at his watch. It was already after ten.

  I’ll call to let you know when I’m leaving the office.

  A shiver ran through him. It was like waking from a dream. Reality flooded in, replacing the squandered time he’d spent immersed in noise and drink. He ran down the hallway and into the living room, his mind an empty space; he took hold of the phone and started to dial the director’s number. His fingers stopped. He couldn’t remember what came after the area code. He rammed his fist on to his forehead. Still unable to remember, he started to flick through his notebook.

  Sitting formally, his knees together on the tatami, he listened to the phone ring. He’d broken a promise he’d made to his benefactor, despite being the one who had instigated contact. The moment he’d learned of Tokyo’s intentions from Arakida, he’d written Odate off as no longer useful. The truth was, he’d stopped expecting anything even before that. Odate hadn’t known about Ayumi running away from home; he’d been consigned to the past. How would someone like that have access to inside information on the commissioner’s visit? Mikami had realized this but asked to meet up regardless. To keep his worry at bay. Because he’d been desperate to do something.

  The call connected.

  ‘Mikami. It’s great to hear from you.’ While the good humour in her voice was unchanged from lunchtime, Odate’s wife had lost a little of her earlier cheer.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I really don’t know how to express my—’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, we know you’re busy. Right, I’ll put my husband on then. He’s been up waiting for you.’

  Her voice petered out; the time that followed seemed to stretch on for ever. What he heard next was more breathing than a voice, almost like interference on the line. Perhaps he’d been half asleep already. Or he’d been feeling bad and forced himself to stay up.

  ‘Director . . .’

  ‘Ah . . . yes, this is Odate.’

  Mikami went through every apology he knew. He denied having had any business to discuss. ‘I just wanted to see how you were. I’ll come over soon . . . I’ll make sure of it.’ The whole time, Odate’s breathing was close in his ear. Every now and then this became a wheeze. Mikami had suggested he get some rest and was just about to hang up when Odate managed some words.

  ‘Thank . . . you for . . . the call.’

  He’d sounded genuinely grateful. Mikami pressed his fingers into his brow. Even after he’d ended the call, he didn’t leave his formal seated position. Shozo Odate, Criminal Investigations Director, Prefecture D. Was he proud of his accomplishments? Or was that all gone now, vanished like a dream? What had a life in the force given him? What had it taken away?

  The ferment inside Mikami had settled. The Prefectural HQ would lose its remit over the director of Criminal Investigations.

  The idea of keeping his promise to Amamiya scattered like mist. He couldn’t base his decision on a make-believe story he’d come up with when he was backed into a corner. What he needed was the truth. A light that would shine right through his dilemma.

  He needed something else.

  A genuine third path.

  53

  ‘Seven out of the thirteen said they were ready to call off the boycott. Although . . .’

  Mikami had still been at the kitchen table when he’d answered Suwa’s call. Unable to sleep the previous night, he’d been camped there until the morning. Much of the time he’d spent asking himself questions. He’d been left with a single answer. But could he really pull it off? He’d been lost in thought when the unexpected call had arrived.

  ‘. . . that was last night. We’re probably back at square one, with this morning’s commotion. I don’t think we’re going to be able to convince anyone into holding a GM now.’

  He’d sounded like he’d given up.

  The storm in the morning papers had been unprecedented. As forewarned, the Yomiuri and Sankei had both run long articles detailing the arrest of the CEO of Hakkaku Construction. And it hadn’t ended there – the pages of the Asahi and Mainichi had also contained unanticipated scoops. The Asahi’s article was about a traffic official in Station S hushing up his niece’s speeding ticket. That had been enough of a blow, but the greatest surprise had been the Mainichi’s article: ‘Guard Asleep for Detainee Suicide of Two Years Ago?’

  Mikami had reached the office by 7 a.m. Suwa, Kuramae and Mikumo all arrived soon afterwards. They’d ended up arguing with the reporters when the latter had demanded a press conference. Akama hadn’t shown up in his office. Ishii had poked his head into the room at one point but had left without issuing a single order or word of advice, either spooked by the rancour of the reporters, or by seeing the bandage on Mikami’s hand. Working at his own discretion, Mikami had set about making the various preparations for a press conference. When he’d finished calling the relevant divisions, debating the content and response to each of the articles, and arranging the schedule itself – thirty minutes each, starting with Second Division, then Transport, then Administration – it was already gone eight thirty.

  He could hear Arakida’s shrill laughter. He had forced Akama into claiming a lack of negligence, then overturned it by leaking the fact that the guard had actually been dozing off. The Toyo might have fired the initial volley, but there was nothing to say they had to deliver the fatal blow themselves. Arakida would have realized that result wouldn’t change, whichever paper he used. And it was the safer way to do it. By seeding the information through different papers, he was making it harder to see through to his involvement.

  The story on the bid-rigging had most likely been a calculated leak, too. And it was easy to imagine a detective in Station S hearing about the speeding ticket. Arakida – he was the principal instigator. And judging from the fact that he’d opted to release the information about the guard having been asleep, rather than keep it in reserve together with the volley of arrows accompanying it, it seemed safe to assume that the misconducts listed in Tokyo’s ‘letter bomb’ would be both numerous and deadly in their destructive potential.

  The morning was long. The atmosphere remained feverish throughout, in both the office and the Press Club. Each of the three press conferences had ended in complete chaos. The press had asked a succession of barbed questions, cursing each time they thought the answer evasive; as the deadline for the evening edition drew closer, there were even scenes of reporters shouting each other down. It was impossible to predict what would happen next. The reporters appeared possessed as they busied themselves with calls and writing copy, and this left no room to bring up the proposal of a GM. Mikami hadn’t even been able to find out if Yamashina and Yanase had made good on their promise to Suwa.

  Mikami took a late lunch at his desk.

  The traffic of reporters coming and going had finally petered out, and, with the rest of the staff out on reconnaissance, he was alone in the room. The only sound was him sipping his tea. He realized he hadn’t taken lunch at home since the whole commotion broke out over the commissioner’s visit; not once. What was Minako eating? Was she eating at all?

  ‘Has it settled down?’

  Akama’s call came in just after 2 p.m. He told Mikami he was still in Tokyo, that he’d be there until late that nigh
t, finally giving a hint as to the gravity of the situation.

  ‘How did you deal with the issue of the guard?’

  ‘Ishii held a press conference; he stuck to his guns, maintaining that we were still looking into the matter.’

  Akama’s breathing seemed to steady. But only for a moment.

  ‘And the other matter?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The boycott. Did you manage to get it turned around?’

  His voice was low enough to be inaudible. Someone else was nearby.

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to discuss it yet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The press are still reeling after this morning.’

  ‘What about the apology?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Well? Have you told them we won’t issue any more reports anonymously?’

  ‘They’re still—’

  ‘Then get a move on and tell them, you simpleton!’

  Mikami let his eyes close. He pictured himself overlooking the cluster of skyscrapers in the Kasumigaseki part of Tokyo.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The phone went dead the moment he finished speaking. He lit a cigarette. His mind was calm. The smoke pricked at his eyes. Through it, he saw Suwa come into the room.

  ‘How are things in there?’

  ‘Calmer . . . a little, but no one’s speaking to each other.’

  ‘And the GM?’

  ‘. . . is looking difficult. Yamashina told me he’d tried raising the subject; I can’t say if he actually did or not.’

  ‘Whatever happens, I doubt they’ll be happy with an apology from me.’

  Suwa nodded silently.

  ‘Call Kuramae and Mikumo in.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve got something I want to say to all of you.’