Yoshiko matched Hiro stride for stride, with a confident pace that belied her awkward attempts at femininity.
He noticed her stealing sidelong glances at him as they walked. He wondered—not for the first time—what he’d done to encourage her affections. Their previous interactions, shortly after her father’s murder, were not the sort that usually sparked romantic feelings.
He remembered telling Mayuri that he didn’t mind an independent woman. That was true. Hiro preferred aggressive women to wilting flowers. Even so, something about Yoshiko put him off.
He had barely finished the thought when Yoshiko asked, “Have you made any progress with your murder investigation? I would gladly offer assistance, if I may.”
Hiro expanded his earlier lie to encompass a partial truth. “I am glad you decided to see Tomiko. She and her mother need someone to guard the brewery during the evening hours, at least until Ginjiro returns from prison. I believe she intended to ask you, though I do not want to presume.”
“I’m sure she won’t mind your asking,” Yoshiko said. “I know I don’t.”
Only Hiro’s years of training kept his expression neutral.
“I know what it is like to lose a father,” she continued. “I would be honored to help Tomiko, doubly so because the work helps you as well.”
“Guarding the brewery won’t take too much time from your other duties?” Hiro asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “Last night alone I collected two debts—and made arrangements for a third—and finished them all two hours before the temple bells rang midnight.”
“How fortunate,” Hiro said. “I’m sure your mother was glad you came home early.”
As they passed by Pontocho, a ripple of feminine laughter fluttered toward them on the air. Yoshiko turned. Hiro followed her gaze.
Dozens of colorful paper lanterns lit the alley that held the entertainment district. More lights blazed in the teahouse windows, flickering gaily behind the paper panels.
Samurai thronged the street, their darker tones offsetting the brilliance of the painted entertainers whose silk kimono shimmered with every imaginable hue. Kanzashi sparkled in the ladies’ hair, but stark white makeup turned their faces into phantoms.
Fitting, the shinobi thought, an entertainer’s love has all the substance of a ghost.
“I did not go home.” Yoshiko’s voice jarred Hiro back to the moment.
He gave the samurai woman a curious look.
“When I finished collecting debts,” Yoshiko said. “I did not go home. I returned to the Sakura and guarded the teahouse until the last of the guests departed.”
Yoshiko’s story contradicted the one Mayuri told, which meant that one—or both—of the women lied.
For the moment, Hiro let the story pass. “I’ve considered taking on extra work as a debt collector. Do you find the jobs unpleasant or hard to find?”
“Not particularly.” Yoshiko glanced over her shoulder as another stream of laughter echoed out of Pontocho. “Most of my work, of course, is for the Sakura.”
“But you work for other clients too?” Hiro asked.
“On occasion.” Yoshiko seemed more comfortable with this topic than with flirting. “Once you build a reputation, work finds you.”
“Do you work for samurai, or just for merchants?” To his surprise, Hiro found himself truly interested in her answer.
“I do not call on samurai, for work or for debt collection.” Yoshiko spoke firmly, but without anger. “Samurai suffer embarrassment if a debt collector appears at their homes, and, as you know, it violates the law for samurai to engage in business.”
Hiro nodded. “A law you honor in the breach.”
Yoshiko smiled, this one genuine rather than simpering. “True enough, and, as you know, I’m not the only one. In truth, I do not think our kind would tolerate a female debt collector. Not all men share your willingness to overlook my choices.”
Hiro smiled. I wish that you would overlook me in return.
Just before the pause grew awkward, Yoshiko continued, “Collecting from merchants is easy. Take last night, for example. The men I sought are known in Pontocho. I found them quickly—”
“In Pontocho?” Hiro asked. “You collect in the pleasure district?”
“Why not?” Yoshiko asked. “Men don’t forego entertainment just because they owe a debt.”
“Why confront them in Pontocho and not at home?” the shinobi asked.
Yoshiko’s smile grew more confident and decidedly less feminine. “Men pay more quickly in public places. Wives get angry for a night. Teahouse owners have much longer memories.”
They turned onto the road that led to Ginjiro’s. People thronged the narrow street despite the evening hour. Vendors’ braziers filled the air with the scented sizzle of grilling meat.
Hiro still had not confirmed whether Yoshiko tried to collect a debt from Kaoru or Chikao the night before. He had time for one more try. “You said you collected two debts, but not a third? What happened there?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t find the debtor. Not a total failure, though. His father agreed to pay.”
“You asked the father?” Hiro feigned surprise. “Is that permitted?”
“The law holds a man responsible for the debts of every person under his roof,” Yoshiko said. “The debtor lives with his parents, so I had the legal right to approach the father.”
Ginjiro’s brewery lay two shops away.
“You asked him,” Hiro said, “or you demanded that Chikao pay?”
Yoshiko startled but recovered quickly. “Why did you use that name?”
“You know as well as I do why I used it,” Hiro said.
She stopped and stared at Hiro coldly. “You mean, did I threaten him. I didn’t have to threaten. Chikao offered to pay the debt to keep his son out of prison.” She leaned toward Hiro and spoke more slowly. “And to be clear, before you ask, I didn’t kill Chikao.”
She turned away and walked off toward Ginjiro’s.
Welcoming light streamed from the brewery storefront. Just inside, a group of merchants sat on the pale tatami. A samurai in a dark kimono huddled near the honey-colored counter. He had his back to the street, but his posture indicated tension.
Tomiko stood behind the counter. She seemed nervous, too, but her gestures looked too calm for real trouble.
Hiro didn’t trust Yoshiko’s words but couldn’t risk her anger either. Not until he knew the reason for her sudden change in attitude.
“Wait,” he called.
Yoshiko stopped and turned.
“How could you believe that I suspected you of murder?” Hiro walked to meet the female samurai.
She took a step back toward him. “How could I think it? What else should I think your accusation meant?”
“Accusation?” Hiro feigned surprise and then embarrassment. “I’m sorry … I never intended … I asked the question to clear you of suspicion. I needed to hear you say the words, to establish them as fact. You, of all people, could not commit this murder.”
“I—of all people—could not kill?” Yoshiko’s fury grew. “You don’t believe I could take a person’s life?”
Hiro hated when women asked a question that had no decent answer. But, usually, these no-win questions involved a clothing choice or beauty, not a murderous intent. He considered his answer carefully but quickly.
He knew from experience, masculine pauses only made the situation worse.