EQMM, February 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I'm sorry I suspected you...."

  "No, I was using you as well. I don't have anyone I can call an acquaintance anymore. I couldn't think of anyone but you who could come to visit me."

  "What do you plan to do now?"

  "I'll start over. I'll find a job."

  "That's good...."

  Keiko left the cardboard shelter. A perpetual criminal. That was how she had pegged Yokozaki. She had concluded that he was a cold-blooded criminal. But, perhaps it had been a mistake to judge everything about him from the stalker incident.

  After she returned home, she looked once more at the newspaper Yokozaki had given her. There was the real burglar—even in the grainy photograph Officer Saito's face looked handsome.

  Her meeting with Yokozaki in the visiting room was Yokozaki's way to have Saito overhear the conversation. Yokozaki had insistently waited to speak, hoping that Saito would come into the room as guard. He used the opportunity to give false information that the real perpetrator had been found and that the evidence against him had been secretly investigated. If Itami hadn't left and called Saito in, Yokozaki would no doubt have asked for another visit and tried for another chance.

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  8.

  Awhile later, Natsuki returned home. As she put down her book pack, Keiko stretched out her hand to her daughter's forehead and traced her fingers along the spot where she had thrown the wad of paper that morning.

  "I'm sorry,” she said.

  "That's okay. Does your head still hurt?"

  "Just a little."

  "What time are we going to Grandpa's house?"

  Keiko shook her head. “We don't have to go."

  "Shucks, I was looking forward to it.” Natsuki left the living room and went into the kitchen. “You should lie down. I'll wake you up when supper's ready."

  Keiko nodded and sat down on the sofa. She pulled a blanket over her and lay down. It was shortly after she had closed her eyes that the doorbell rang.

  "Coming,” Natsuki replied, scurrying to the entryway and opening the door. Keiko followed her movements with her ears, keeping her eyes closed.

  Then she heard, “Hello, Natsuki.” It was Fusano's voice. “Is your mother here?"

  "She's lying down, but I can wake her."

  "No, don't do that. Wait, Natsuki, don't. I just made this. Please eat it."

  "Wow, thanks."

  What was it that she'd received?

  "I'm sorry I can only show my thanks with something like this.... And here, this was in the mailbox."

  "Oh, thank you."

  That must be a postcard. Natsuki must have once again written the number so that it was easy to misread. Four times in a row. She must have done it on purpose.

  On purpose ... Keiko opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Could it be...?

  "Well, Natsuki, I'll come again."

  "Thank you so much."

  When she heard the door close, Keiko sat up and waited for Natsuki. As she returned to the kitchen, Natsuki was carrying a double-handled pot with both her hands. Tucked between her fingers was a picture postcard.

  Natsuki had thought that her mother was asleep. When their eyes met, she shrugged.

  "That was Auntie Fusano, wasn't it?” Keiko asked.

  "Yeah. She brought us this,” Natsuki answered, as she lifted up the pot and took off the cover.

  Several small fish had been simmered to a golden color beneath the steam. Keiko's appetite was stirred. Fusano had made a dish of sardines simmered in soy sauce and sugar. Keiko knew how delicious it was, having tasted it before.

  "Mom, did you do something for her? She said this was to thank you."

  "He was arrested."

  Natsuki put the pot on the table. “Who?"

  "The man who stole money from her house."

  Natsuki froze for an instant.

  "It's not as if I did anything special."

  "Hmm.” Giving her usual bored answer, Natsuki turned her back and crouched over the wastebasket. Keiko could hear the sound of paper being torn. Afterward, when Natsuki stood up straight, the postcard had disappeared from her hand.

  With her empty hands, Natsuki began to put away the advertising inserts and items on the table. Among them was the newspaper that Yokozaki had given Keiko.

  "What? You don't need to read the city page? You're not interested now that the case is solved?"

  When Keiko said this meanly, on purpose, Natsuki looked up at her. She seemed a bit upset.

  Unconcerned, Keiko continued. “A postcard. It's not unnatural to have what you write show if it's a postcard, is it? I get it. The person who receives it automatically reads it. But wasn't it hard to keep writing the nine like a seven?"

  Natsuki's gaze locked with Keiko's. She was trying to figure out how much her mother knew.

  "And what did you write on the postcard you just ripped up? About the burglar? Did you use the police jargon you know, since you're the daughter of detectives? But the reader wouldn't be able to understand those words."

  So saying, Keiko reflected on the messages she had received so far. Had Natsuki really been angry at her mother's late return?

  "How long are you planning to pursue the burglar?"

  "Why do you like burglars who target homes when no one is there?"

  "Which is more important—a petty thief or your daughter?"

  Wasn't the true meaning in the words “burglar,” “burglars who target homes when no one is there,” and “petty thief"? Wasn't the sequence of messages communicating that the detectives were pursuing the burglar from morning till night?

  To whom? To the old woman whose money had been stolen. It was not her mother, but Fusano, that Natsuki had wanted to read those words.

  In the mass media, the spotlight had been on the random street killer. It had been announced that detectives had been shifted from the burglary section to the violent-crimes section. Fusano had no doubt seen this news. And she was no doubt worried. Would the money that had been stolen from her be returned? Most of all, she must have felt lonely. She must have thought that the world had forgotten about her.

  That was why Natsuki had sent those postcards. She had counted on misdeliveries and aimed at the effect of overhearing something. In actuality, the burglary-case investigation had become less critical, but in giving Fusano the opposite impression by having her hear it at one remove, Natsuki had tried to make Fusano think it wasn't so.

  No matter how major a case comes to the fore, your small case hasn't been forgotten, Auntie. The detectives are persisting in chasing after the burglar who stole your money. No one has forgotten you. Natsuki had kept reassuring Fusano by communicating that to her.

  Natsuki's cheeks were flushed. “Hey, Mom, what do you want me to say?"

  "Nothing. I just think that you didn't need to pretend you were so angry, just so you could send the postcards."

  Turning her flushed face away, Natsuki reached for the faucet at the sink. She stuck her hands into the flowing water and scrubbed them.

  To Keiko it seemed that her daughter had grown a bit taller compared to the day before.

  Copyright ©2009 by Nagaoka Hiroki; translation ©2009 by Beth Cary

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

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  I'll begin this time by plugging a couple of friends. Not plugging in the sense of “You plugged me, you dirty rat!” I'm plugging in the sense of giving their blogs a favorable mention in the hopes that you'll take a look. Let's begin with George Kelley. Kelley proved he was a better man than I when he gave up his huge collection of classic paperbacks. He donated the collection to the State University of New York at Buffalo, and the librarians there created a terrific webpage for it (libweb.lib.buffalo.edu/kelley). You can search the collection, and there are a lot of cover scans to look at. Kelley also has a personal blog (georgekelley.org) that features mostly reviews of books and music. He has eclectic taste, s
o you might find a review of Thomas Pynchon's Inherent Vice or one of Steve Berry's The Templar Legacy.

  Dave Lewis is a writer who's recently made a sale to this very magazine. (See p.65.) He publishes under the name “Evan Lewis,” so be looking for it. His blog is Davy Crockett's Almanack (davycrockettsalmanack.blogspot.com), which is devoted to “Mystery, Adventure, and the Wild West.” Lewis likes to show off his extensive collection of cap pistols, like his Leslie-Henry .44 Gene Autry model; his collection of playset figures; and his pulp collection, which he complements with story reviews and cover scans. He reviews lots of crime movies (older ones, like The Thin Man), and more.

  But enough of promoting people I know. Here's something entirely different, Women in Crime Ink (womenincrimeink.blogspot.com). This one is a group blog with something like seventeen contributors, and in the interests of truth, I have to admit that one of them (Cynthia Hunt) used to be a reporter on a Houston TV channel, and I thought she was excellent. I don't know her, though. The blog offers “...a fresh take on crime and media issues.... Women in Crime Ink brings you a lineup of best-selling true-crime authors, award-winning print and broadcast journalists, crime novelists, a CNN anchor, a producer for CBS News / 48 Hours, television personalities, and criminal justice professionals—including a forensic artist, a criminal profiler, nationally renowned prosecutors, a high-profile criminal defense attorney, a private investigator, a psychiatrist, and sex-crimes and cold-case detectives.” Their discussions of things like workplace violence, the O.J. Simpson case, and sanity issues are definitely worth your time. Copyright © 2010 Bill Crider

  Bill Crider's own peculiar blog can be found at billcrider.blogspot.com.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department of First Stories: SKYLER HOBBS AND THE RABBIT MAN by Evan Lewis

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  Evan Lewis was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest; he currently lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, three cats, and two dogs, and he's set this new story in that city. Already well known in our field as a blogger (see page 64 of this issue), he has had both a tall tale and a Western published online. The following is his first paid print publication and also his first mystery. It's an homage—though a most unusual one—to Sherlock Holmes, whose legacy we celebrate in every February issue.

  The ad in the Oregonian sounded like a gag: “Room to let. Rent negotiable. Inquire 221-B Baker St., Portland."

  No phone number. No e-mail address. No reason to pursue it further, except that I was badly in need of a room, and the prospect of a weird landlord had a certain appeal.

  The street was only a block long, if you could call it a street. It was an unpaved, rocky track snaking uphill between a fenced-in field and the backside of a three-story apartment building. And there was only one house on the block, if you could call it a block. There was no curb, no sidewalk, and the only difference between yard and street was the preponderance of weeds.

  The rickety two-story house looked like it had last been painted around the time of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. A stocky man stood on the porch with his back to the street, apparently talking with someone inside. His windmilling arms and strident tones made it clear he was less than happy.

  Parked in front of the house was a cherry-red, three-wheeled car that looked like an escapee from an amusement park ride. I pulled my PT Cruiser in behind and stepped out.

  The words echoing off the porch were both colorful and profane. After a moment the stocky man wheeled and stormed down the steps, flinging further invective behind him. He wore a scraggly beard and had wiry black hair tied in a ponytail. His faded orange T-shirt said Free Tibet. He was nearly upon me when he stopped, eyed me owlishly, and waved a folded newspaper in my face. “If you've come for the room, you're wasting your time. That wacko wouldn't even show it to me. He didn't like my initials."

  Initials? I could think of nothing to say to that, but wondered what initials could be so objectionable. FBI, IRS, PLO? HIV? The guy glowered at me and stomped on by to the tiny red car. I wrinkled my nose as he passed, wondering what he'd stepped in.

  Watching where I put my feet, I approached the house. It looked like no place I'd want to live, but I had to see what sort of specimen would reject a renter because of his initials.

  The porch steps creaked nastily. I was halfway up when I noticed the rusty metal numbers and letter tacked above the mailbox. 221-B.

  "You have recently dined at Jack in the Box, I perceive,” said a nasal voice. “Two Jumbo Tacos and a large Diet Coke.” The accent was faintly British.

  I stopped, noticed the front door was still open, and saw a shadowy figure regarding me through the screen. Was this guy some kind of mind reader? No, it had to be more than that. I glanced down at my white Trail Blazers T-shirt, brushed away shreds of lettuce and broken tortilla shells. The cola stain remained.

  "Lucky guess.” I stepped up to the screen. “I'm here about the room. Want to know my initials?"

  A tall, lean man with a decidedly pointed nose stared out at me. One eyebrow lifted. “I do indeed."

  "CSI,” I said.

  "A lie,” he said. “Intriguing.” His eyes were not directed at me, but toward the street. I glanced over my shoulder. The stocky man still stood beside his little red car, eyeing us with obvious disapproval. He looked wider than the car.

  "It was a joke,” I said. “I'm Jason Wilder. You can figure the initials for yourself. The room still available?"

  "Perhaps. Do you mind telling me your middle name?"

  "Yes,” I said, and meant it. No one likes a Hubert.

  "But you do have one. If you will humor me, does it perhaps begin with an H?"

  Feeling a little creeped out, I said, “Perhaps."

  He nodded as if confirming a suspicion. His eyes still roved between me and the street, probably curious to see if the stocky guy could really cram his bulk into that tiny three-wheeler. I was, too.

  "I don't suppose,” he said, “that you are in any way connected to the medical profession?"

  "Afraid not.” I hauled out my wallet and dug for a business card. Behind me, a car door slammed and an engine buzzed to life. Damn, I'd missed the cramming.

  I found my card and held it up to the screen. Jason Wilder, it said, Computer Doctor, followed by my shop address and contact info.

  Stones rattled as the car climbed the rough street.

  "The room is yours,” he said. “Now quickly, to your automobile!"

  I stared at him until the screen door banged the toe of my tennis shoe.

  "Hurry man, there is no time to lose."

  The three-wheeled car turned left at the top of the street and disappeared behind the tall apartment house.

  I stepped back, and the lean man rushed out, fairly flying down the steps. “Hey!” I said. “What the hell?” But I followed, and by the time I reached the bottom of the steps, he was tugging impatiently at the passenger door of my Cruiser.

  "Come, Doctor! Time is short."

  He was so insistent, and his manner so earnest, that I felt compelled to humor him. I clicked the doors open with the remote and slid into the driver's seat. “Where are we going?"

  "Follow that zebra,” he said. “The fate of the city is in our hands."

  I'd started the engine, but kept it in neutral. I turned away from him, examining the windows of the tall apartment building. Seeing nothing, I peered past him at the overgrown fence lining the opposite side of the street. Still nothing.

  "Haste is crucial, Doctor! What are you looking for?"

  "Cameras,” I said. “This is one of those Candid Camera wannabes, right? You put on this crazy Sherlock Holmes act to see how gullible I am. Now you want me to follow a zebra."

  I got my first clear look at his face. His nose was not just long, but sharp, as were the rest of his features, and his skin appeared tight across his bones. His hair was dark and combed straight back, leaving a widow's peak. His eyes were green and tightly wound. He rea
lly did resemble the old Strand Magazine drawings of Sherlock Holmes. But there was something else. An almost childlike innocence, pleading to be taken seriously.

  "Surely you recognized Rabbit Man's vehicle,” he said testily. “The ZAP Xebra is one of the most efficient all-electric automobiles on the market. Now go! He must not elude us!"

  Rabbit Man? This was getting crazier by the second. But I caught another flash of the man behind the mask. Please, his eyes said, you must believe me. If this guy was acting, he was doing a hell of a job.

  I pulled into the street, tires spinning, and gunned up the hill. We roared around the corner just in time to see the red car turn right onto SW Kelly.

  "If we lose him, Doctor, the results could be catastrophic."

  "Computer Doctor,” I said. “I save hard drives, not lives."

  Kelly is a busy street, and several cars passed before I was able to follow. As it was, I was lucky to see the Xebra make an illegal left turn under an overpass, and head up the entrance to the Ross Island Bridge.

  "After him!” The guy now sat on the edge of the car seat, bracing one arm on the dash and the other on the windowsill. A thin sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. He looked feverish.

  I glanced around for cops. Seeing none, I took the chance and roared up the ramp after the electric car.

  "Look,” I said, “I'm not above breaking an occasional traffic law, but I have no clue what this is about. I don't even know your name."

  We swung into the S-turns feeding onto the bridge. Coming out, I saw the three-wheeler halfway across, six or eight cars now between us.

  "Hobbs,” my passenger said. “The name is Hobbs."

  The faster I drove, the whiter his face became, and the tighter he gripped the dash.

  "You gonna upchuck in my car?"

  "Quite possibly,” he said. “But duty demands it."