Tokyo Zangyo

by Michael Pronko

  “What’s the investigator’s name?”

  “His name’s Shibutani.”

  “In Akabane?” Takamatsu asked.

  “That’s him,” Yamase said. “Office is right by the station, east exit.”

  Hiroshi turned to Takamatsu. “You know him?”

  Takamatsu smiled. “He’s old school. You didn’t waste your money with him.”

  Yamase nodded in agreement. “He can tell you everything when you talk to him. He found out a lot about Onizuka, like his mistress.”

  “Mistress?” Hiroshi was confused because he used the English word for mistress, not the common Japanese words for an affair or a paid companion.

  Takamatsu smiled. “He liked it rough?”

  Oh, that kind of mistress, Hiroshi realized.

  “Her name is Mistress Emi. She works at a place called SMQism. A full-on dominatrix. Onizuka used to visit her once a week.”

  “Is that right?” Takamatsu’s interest in the case seemed to revive itself. “What else did Shibutani find?”

  “Onizuka spends, spent, money in hostess clubs all over the city.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I don’t know. Shibutani just found that out. You’ll have to ask him. He also found out Onizuka had overseas bank accounts.”

  Hiroshi frowned. “He was going to be posted overseas.”

  Yamase smiled. “Shibutani said there was a lot more money in these accounts than what a regular salaryman would earn. A lot more.”

  Hiroshi could sense Takamatsu smiling beside him. “You’ll stay in custody until we check all this out.”

  Chapter 14

  Outside the interrogation room, Hiroshi saw the chief’s back receding down the hallway. Every other fluorescent light had been turned off to save electricity, so the chief’s retreating figure lightened and darkened until he turned at the end of the silent corridor.

  Sakaguchi stepped down from the observation room as two uniformed cops walked Yamase out of the interrogation room. Yamase bowed slightly before he turned toward the holding cells down the opposite corridor.

  “See? The more people you arrest, the more breaks you get.” Takamatsu fiddled with his cigarettes. “Shibutani is a first-rate investigator and a stand-up guy.”

  “He’ll work with us?” Sakaguchi asked.

  “Definitely. I’ll leave him a message and we’ll catch him early in the morning.”

  “Yamase’s alibi won’t check out, you think?” Sakaguchi asked.

  “What alibi?” Takamatsu said. “Drinks alone, more drinks alone, hotel? If he lied about that, he’ll lie about something else.”

  Sakaguchi bent down to pull up his knee brace. “I’ve got to get off this leg.”

  Takamatsu said, “I’ve got to get off both. Let’s get a drink.”

  Hiroshi avoided their stares by checking the time and messages on his cellphone.

  Sakaguchi said, “Ramen.”

  Takamatsu nodded. “I know a place in Shinbashi that stays open late. Their kotteri and tsukemen are the best in Tokyo. Plus, they have shochu.”

  Sakaguchi bent both knees to squat and stretch. “Is it counter only?”

  “They have big booths. I’ll call ahead,” Takamatsu said.

  Hiroshi looked up from his cellphone. “Not me.”

  Sakaguchi said, “Well, then we’ll have to go back to the detective’s room to review what we have so far.”

  Takamatsu took out his lighter and flipped it around. “If we go there, the chief will probably come down, and…”

  “All right, I got it,” Hiroshi said.

  As he followed Takamatsu and Sakaguchi out the side entrance of the station, he sent a text to Ayana apologizing for being late again. She hadn’t answered any of his messages all day.

  In the taxi, Takamatsu sat in the front and launched into a discussion with the driver who kept waving his white gloves to emphasize his points.

  Hiroshi looked over at Sakaguchi. “You all right?”

  Sakaguchi shook his head. “With this knee, everything seems to take twice the effort. The pain pills the doctor gave me aren’t working. I told him to double the dose for my size, but…”

  “Ramen and shochu will help.” Hiroshi put his phone away and resigned himself.

  Takamatsu and the driver were surprised to discover they both came from the Kiso Mountains of Nagano. They talked and laughed all the way to Shinbashi. When they got to the ramen place, the driver refused to take Takamatsu’s money, so they argued loudly, laughing at each response in their country dialect.

  “I got his taxi number. I’ll send him the fare tomorrow,” Takamatsu said. “He’ll probably send it back.”

  The streets of Shinbashi were alive with a steady flow of human traffic, most of it toward the station for the last train. Hiroshi felt Sakaguchi’s huge, heavy hand drop on his shoulder, and Hiroshi pushed closer to help take the weight off his knee.

  Takamatsu led them down a street lined with drinking places, mahjong parlors, and hostess bars. A few Thai, Chinese and Indian joints sprouted up in between the Japanese tachinomi and izakaya. The lights and signs pulsed and flashed from sidewalk to roof, spilling flickering colors onto everyone and everything below. Touts stood cockily outside clubs trying hard to ease in a few more late-night customers.

  At the end of the street, Takamatsu stubbed out his cigarette and pulled back a sliding door into the one place without a bright sign. He ducked under the dark-wood overhang and stepped inside. Sakaguchi had to turn sideways and bend down to get in.

  Inside, the rich flavor of boiling ramen and meaty broth enfolded them. It was calming and mouth-watering, like entering a kitchen and a steamy bath at the same time.

  Takamatsu talked to the master, a stocky man with a serious face. A neatly rolled towel was wrapped tight around his bald head and his white chef’s apron was spotless, though he must have dished out hundreds of bowls of ramen that day.

  Sakaguchi eased onto the bench of a large booth and Hiroshi slipped in opposite. The menu was affixed to the wall above a neat arrangement of oils, sauces, and spices in small metal containers.

  Takamatsu passed on Hiroshi and Sakaguchi’s orders to the chef, who hopped into action, setting beer out and dropping the noodles into basket strainers nestled in the waist-high boiling pot.

  Takamatsu brought over two bottles of beer and sat down. He poured for everyone and they held their small toasting glasses up for a tired kanpai.

  Sakaguchi downed his in one gulp and pulled one bottle over for himself to refill his glass. “So…?”

  Hiroshi drained his beer and poured again for himself and Takamatsu. “The company was singularly unhelpful.”

  “Are they hiding something?” Sakaguchi asked.

  Takamatsu nodded.

  Hiroshi sighed. “But I wasn’t sure what until I heard what Yamase said about Onizuka’s overseas accounts.”

  Sakaguchi loosened his knee brace under the table. “So, this is an embezzlement and murder case now?”

  “Those often go together,” Hiroshi said. “We’ve got to get into the company records, but we’ll need help to do that.”

  “Pressure that the chief can bring to bear,” Takamatsu said. “If he so chooses.”

  The master put three glasses of iced shochu on the shelf by the prep area. Takamatsu got up to get them.

  “You’d make a good waiter,” Hiroshi said, finishing his beer.

  “One of the hardest jobs there is,” Takamatsu said, setting the glasses on the thick wood table.

  All three sipped the ice-cold shochu and leaned back in the booth. There were only two other people in the place, one at either end of the counter, reading their cellphones while slurping noodles.

  Sakaguchi said, “Hiroshi, are you sure you can find what we need if you get into the records? You keep telling me the real estate scams and money fraud cases take a long time to untangle and a company like that must have vast records.”

  Hiroshi hummed. “If Onizuka
embezzled the money, they might have found it already and hidden the tracks.”

  “That puts us back to the human side, I guess.” Takamatsu drained his shochu and rattled the ice cubes.

  Hiroshi finished his glass and Takamatsu gathered them all for a refill. The master saw what he was doing and set the large brown bottle of shochu on the counter, waved with chopsticks for Takamatsu to take it.

  Takamatsu smiled and carried it back to the table, pouring for everyone. The master rattled a bucket of square-cut ice cubes, and Takamatsu went back for it and a pair of ice tongs.

  “And the mother?” Sakaguchi asked.

  “Maybe she’s a great actress, but her grief seemed real enough,” Hiroshi said.

  “Grief doesn’t make her innocent,” Sakaguchi said. “If anything—”

  “A woman wouldn’t set up this whole thing on the roof,” Takamatsu said.

  “Why not?” Hiroshi asked.

  “The guy was loaded. What did you say his blood alcohol level was? Zero point three eight? Someone had to carry him up there.”

  Sakaguchi held up his glass. “This is better than those anti-inflammatory pills. My knee’s feeling better already. So, what about the American boyfriend?”

  Takamatsu said, “Arrested for assault at the funeral. No surprise, Americans—”

  “Are more violent?” Hiroshi asked.

  Takamatsu nodded. “Why don’t you call your friends at Interpol or over in America about this guy?”

  “He got in a fight at his girlfriend’s funeral. Most Japanese would do the same. Mayu’s father started the fight.” Hiroshi swirled the ice cubes in his glass.

  “He’ll have a record in the States, I promise you. You want me to call over there for you?”

  Hiroshi snickered at the thought of Takamatsu trying that in English. “All right, I’ll check on his criminal record in the States.”

  Takamatsu nodded smugly. “And who sponsored him for his visa?”

  “They have cultural visas,” Hiroshi said.

  “Requiring a sponsor. We need to check it out.” Takamatsu pinched ice cubes and stacked them to the rims before topping off everyone’s glass with more shochu.

  Sakaguchi said, “You don’t like him for this, Hiroshi?”

  Hiroshi swirled the fresh ice and shochu. “Not the type.”

  Takamatsu raised his eyebrows. “I’ve dragged in every type over the years. Musicians, too. Men get jealous, angry, and want to square accounts. It’s automatic.”

  “You look at emotions, not the evidence,” Hiroshi said.

  “Not everyone can run an investment scam, but anyone can commit murder,” Takamatsu said.

  “A few can do both.” Hiroshi added more ice to his glass.

  Sakaguchi drained his glass and thunked it on the table. “Even a man would have trouble on his own to haul him up there, take him to the edge, and deal with the cameras.”

  Takamatsu lit a cigarette, leaning back to blow the smoke high above the table. “That cut fence is what gets me. Who did that? And where are the wire cutters?”

  Sakaguchi poured another round.

  The two late-night noodle eaters left and the master went to the door, locked it and brought in the “Open” sign that hung on the outside of the door.

  “The only ones who seemed to be truly bullshitting us were the company people.”

  Takamatsu hummed agreement. “Those top companies do anything to avoid a scandal. Even the hint of a scandal. Covering up everything is a natural reflex for them.”

  Hiroshi took another slug of shochu. “The lawyer sure felt they could do anything. They derailed his career.”

  “That was child’s play. Just wait.” Takamatsu tapped his glass on the tabletop.

  Hiroshi felt a lot more drunk than he had intended to be, but the cold shochu was rice-y, smooth with little bite, and easy to swallow. He’d have one more and stop.

  Sakaguchi swirled the ice cubes in his glass. “The tech guys might still turn up something from the video, but they have to figure out how it got blanked out. The lab guys are still undecided on suicide or murder.”

  “Nothing either way?”

  “Too much both ways.”

  “How long was it out?” Takamatsu asked.

  “The security video? Forty-some minutes.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  Sakaguchi nodded. “It is, so let’s work from the assumption that they’re all lying to us.”

  Hiroshi swirled his glass and tried to count how many he’d finished. “Maybe that investigator Shibutani has what we need. But let’s still get access to the internal company files.”

  “Let’s not forget the S&M mistress, what was her name, Mistress Emi?” Takamatsu laughed. “She’s sure to know a few of Onizuka’s secrets. From the inside out.”

  “Talk to Shibutani in the morning. He’s way ahead of us with Onizuka,” Sakaguchi said.

  All three of them stopped talking when the master set the bowls of tsukemen on the counter and ducked under the counter top to carry over the small ceramic bowls with thick broth and nori splayed along the rim. He set them carefully, precisely, in front of each of them.

  The master went back for the three large bowls of noodles. Rinsed and shaken dry, they were placed in three neat folds, like someone bowing on their knees. Then, he set out three flat brown plates of glistening slices of chashu pork, cuts of menma bamboo shoots, and butterflied, flavor-boiled eggs.

  Without another word, the three detectives started plucking up the noodles, dunking them in the rich, oily broth and slurping them down, ending the day with at least one certainty.

  Chapter 15

  In the elevator to his apartment, Hiroshi tried to re-count his drinks—two whiskeys, then one, two, hmm, four, possibly five, glasses of shochu, and a little beer. Actually, a lot of beer, as Sakaguchi had ordered more and poured for him.

  He didn’t want to pull his cellphone out to check the time. He’d already dropped it once in the taxi home. He bumped the side of the elevator as he got out on his floor.

  It was the shochu that had done him in. It was like cool water on the tongue and a sumo workout on the rest of his body. He had to remember that Takamatsu was always in control and Sakaguchi was about twice his weight. Hiroshi was the one who always got hammered.

  Ayana had decided to get back to kendo practice, so she was probably sound asleep. What time was it? She wouldn’t still be frisky this late, would she? Was he? He had no feeling in his body, and his mind bounced between hazy ideas and vague impulses.

  Hiroshi fumbled with the key at the apartment door. He tried to keep quiet as the heavy door swung shut.

  He toed the heel of his shoes, but the pair was new and the laces too tight. He sat down on the ledge of the genkan to pull them off and knocked over the umbrella stand. Umbrellas clattered to the tiles. He got his shoes off, straightened the umbrellas and heaved himself up to standing.

  When he turned, Ayana was watching him, yawning, from the end of the entry hall. Her hair was mussed and she squinted at him in the low light.

  “Are you drunk?” Ayana asked, her arms folded around herself.

  Hiroshi said, “We were discussing the case.”

  “Did you eat anything?”

  “Yes, tsukemen. Did you eat?”

  “A long time ago. It’s two in the morning,” Ayana said.

  “Well, you should get back to sleep,” Hiroshi said, his shoulder bumping the wall.

  Ayana pulled a face and came toward him, hooked her arm under his. “You can’t even walk.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “Taxi.”

  “Did you remember to pay the driver this time?”

  Hiroshi put his arm around Ayana. “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, you seem great,” Ayana said, as they shuffled down the hall together. “You smell like alcohol.”

  “Shochu.”

  She sniffed his jacket. “Did you s
pill tsukemen on yourself?”

  “Of course not,” he said, even though he had spilled some of the sauce on his pants.

  “You need a shower.”

  “Don’t we have some of that ukon no chikara? That’s the only thing that takes the edge off the hangover.”

  “Too late for that now.” Ayana let Hiroshi flop onto the sofa.

  “I’ll sleep here,” Hiroshi said, curling up with a pillow.

  “Are you going to come home drunk every night?”

  “Apparently I am,” Hiroshi said. “I don’t eat all day running around, and things come in that have to get done and Takamatsu and Sakaguchi can only talk about the case when all that’s done, and whatever I say, I still have to work the case. It’s not like working at an archive.”

  “That’s for sure.” Ayana got the small metal bottle of ukon hangover cure and set it in front of Hiroshi. She got ibuprofen and water and sat down on the coffee table holding them out in her hand. Hiroshi sat up and reached in turn for the turmeric vitamin drink, the ibuprofen, and the water, swallowing them one by one. He held the glass up for more water.

  Ayana growled and went to get more.

  “You think all that really works?” Ayana asked, setting the water down.

  “Something has to.”

  “What about drinking less?”

  “What about working less? This case is driving me crazy.”

  “The dead bucho?”

  “Yeah,” Hiroshi said, draining the water glass.

  Ayana reached for him. “Come on, let me help you into the shower.”

  “I don’t need a shower. I’ll sleep here,” Hiroshi said.

  “Come on, don’t be difficult.” Ayana stood over him.

  Hiroshi eyed her. She wasn’t going away, so he flipped his legs around and struggled up. She put an arm under his to help him to the shower. In the bathroom, he started peeling off his shirt, but she had to help him out of his shirtsleeves and pants.

  “Even your clothes stink of alcohol.” Ayana carried them to the laundry hamper. She sniffed them. “You spilled something on them.”

  He got the water turned on, and Ayana stood there to be sure he didn’t slip.