IWATA STOOD BY HIS WINDOW, drinking coffee, looking down at the street. Night had fallen on Motoyoyogicho like a stumbling drunk. Israelis were selling fake designer watches. A prostitute checked her watch as though she were waiting for someone in particular. Having missed the last train home, only the most desperate businessmen hurried past now. Iwata watched their lips move, muttering excuses under their breath, trying them out for authenticity.
The lights of the city are so pretty.
He turned to look at the space where the cardboard boxes had been stacked, before putting his cup in the sink. He was glad they were gone. The refrigerator hummed in the dark like a monk in his sanctuary.
I’m happy with you.
Iwata took off the clothes that Sakai had bought him, trying not to provoke his injuries. He pictured her going through the racks of clothes, attempting to gauge his size. Was it a gesture of affection? Attraction? Practicality? He knew Sakai was a woman who would love through action, not words. If she wanted a man, he knew it would be a pragmatic and impersonal conclusion. Iwata thought about her beauty, a simple composition of soft and brutal lines. Had her good looks been an inconvenient appendage throughout her life? Or something she had learned to live with and eventually use to her advantage? Iwata wondered what had made her the way she was. There was an anger deep inside her that seemed to fuel her. It gave her conviction, a willingness to suffer and cause suffering to achieve her goals. He had seen that anger overflow, and it had scared him on some level. He would never know what made Sakai the way she was. But then he didn’t need to.
Please let me hear. Those words of love from you.
Iwata kicked off his shoes and took off his trousers. He threw his jacket at a chair in the corner and it just caught hold of the frame. He fell on to the futon and stretched each limb in turn. Doing crunches was out of the question, but Iwata realized his pain had become bearable—he just needed sleep.
He closed his eyes and heard a small, muffled thud.
On the outskirts of his senses he realized what had caused the noise. Iwata forced himself to stand. His jacket had fallen to the floor. He searched the pockets and plucked out the amber stone. Collapsing back on to his bed, he held it up, turning it between his thumb and forefinger. In the darkness, he could not see what color it was. Iwata pictured the black sun on the wall, shifting and gurgling. He thought of the car in the fog, its red lights hazing into nothing. His fingers closed around the amber.
“I’m coming for you.”
* * *
The next morning, Iwata examined his injuries. His cuts were puffy, his nose was swollen, and a green bruise had formed under his left eye. Everything was sore but he was in working condition.
He did a passable job of changing his bandages and cleaning away dried blood. Iwata saw his gray hair more clearly than before. He noticed his knuckles were also cut and raw, though he could not remember why.
As he brushed his teeth, there was a knock at the door. A muffled voice outside.
“Inspector?”
Iwata waited for a few moments. Then the phone rang, which he let go to voice mail.
“Inspector Iwata, are you there?… This is Inspector Yoji Yamada from the Cults and Religious Groups Division … I’m outside your door.”
Despite a jolly voice, there was a clear unease to the man’s words.
“Well, the reason I’m calling is that I happened to get my hands on a copy of your Black Sun Killer case file…” He sighed. “I’d like to offer my help on any possible cult or ritualistic angles to the case. I think I can offer you some insights here. You’ll find me in the TMPD basement or you can reach me on this number. Good day.”
A card was slipped under the door. The message ended and Iwata heard soft footsteps lead away.
“Help,” Iwata echoed. “Sure.”
He deleted the message, threw away the card, and called his partner.
“Sakai, it’s me. I just got some guy called Yamada at my door claiming to be from the Cults Division. You know him?”
“Sure, he’s like the resident black sheep.”
“Think he could be connected to Moroto and the others?”
“Unlikely, he’s harmless. To be honest, I’ve always kind of had a soft spot for him.”
“I didn’t think you had those, Sakai.”
“There aren’t many people worth having them for.”
“Touché. Anyway, I want you to continue to look for any links between the Ohbas and the Kaneshiro family.”
“Suppose this means you’re not buying my Kiyota revenge angle?”
“Terai Ohba sentenced thousands of men in his time—I just don’t see Kiyota as the one to seek revenge. He committed a crime, served out his sentence, and started a new life on the other side of it. What would be the point of revenge after all this time? Plus, there’s the small matter of not having a single crumb of evidence against him.”
“Then the exciting world of Public Records awaits.” She sighed. “Where are you going?”
He held up the amber stone to the weak morning light and sniffed it gently.
“To follow my nose.”
Iwata dressed in jeans, a gray sweater, and a suede jacket. In the kitchen, he rifled through a drawer and fished out an old address book.
“There you are.”
He found the right page and tapped on Cleo’s small, slanted handwriting.
JUNZABURO HYUGA—INCENSE
Iwata tore out the address, grabbed his keys, and left the apartment. At the wheel of the Isuzu, he tried out his ankle on the pedals. The pain was tolerable.
It was only a ten-minute drive to Aoyama, but the morning traffic was ponderous. The low cloud that hugged the cityscape had split in places, showing snatches of blue sky for what seemed like the first time in a long time.
At 9:10 A.M., Iwata parked in a small lot on the corner. Hyuga Incense had an understated wooden sign over a small doorway. The roof of the building was the traditional blue-glazed clay tiling of which little remained in Tokyo. Inside, every wooden shelf contained trinkets or plants. The glass counter was packed with brightly colored boxes of incense. Framed calligraphy and traditional Japanese watercolor landscapes adorned the walls. A grinning fortune cat waved rhythmically. Iwata smelled a delicate, leafy perfume in the air.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Iwata held up his badge to the young woman behind the counter. Iwata had known cops who enjoyed causing the stir—the sudden manifestation of greater purpose in the little people’s lives. He was not one of them.
“Police. Is Mr. Hyuga here?”
“Just one moment.”
She picked up the phone and announced his arrival.
“Please go through.”
Iwata walked into a surprisingly large office, a zoo of fragrances hanging in the air. Behind a desk, an elderly, birdlike man with bright eyes looked up. An uneven white mustache curled up into a smile. Iwata held up his ID again, and took the seat across from Hyuga at his request.
“Mr. Hyuga, I’m Inspector Iwata of Shibuya Homicide. I need your help.”
“I’ll certainly do my best.”
Iwata took out the little amber glob and slid it across the desk like a chess piece.
“May I?”
Hyuga perched some old spectacles on his nose, turned on his lamp, and narrowed his eyes as the light soaked through the specimen’s resinous innards. He peered at the stone for a few seconds then nodded.
“I presume this is connected to an investigation?”
“That’s right.”
“Well well. More than fifty years in this business, but this is a first.”
“Is it amber?”
“No, it’s copal. The cheap variety too. The more expensive kind is a milky-white color. It’s sometimes called ‘Mexican Frankincense,’ or ‘Young Amber.’ But you can easily tell them apart thanks to amber’s lighter, citrine color. Also, its surface becomes tacky with a drop of chloroform or acetone.”
“Please continue.”
“Well, it’s a tree resin used by pre-Colombian and Mesoamerican cultures. Later on, it was used as an effective varnish—Western train carriages, expensive portraits, that kind of thing.”
“Where can it be found?”
“Japan for starters. But New Zealand, Central America, East Africa, South America … I’m sure there are other places.”
“Mr. Hyuga, there was an acrid, earthy smell at my crime scenes. In your opinion, could that be the result of burning copal?”
“Inspector, if you have smelled copal, you would be unlikely to confuse it with anything else. What you have described does indeed sound like copal. I could give you a demonstration? Though you will lose it in the flame.”
“That would be helpful, please go ahead.”
Hyuga placed the copal in a stone burner, laying it on charcoal tablets mixed with sand. Under the flame, the little globule softened, then gelled, then turned into a translucent golden spittle. Within moments, he recognized the Black Sun Killer’s scent.
“Thank you, Mr. Hyuga. In your opinion, how many places in Japan would sell copal?”
The old man put out the flame and shrugged.
“A handful, no more than three or four at a guess. Of course, there’s also the Internet. But I can tell you that it’s not a common purchase in this country. The smell is too strong for Japanese noses.”
He chuckled.
“Did you ever sell copal here?”
“I believe so. Years ago.”
“Would you have records for bulk buyers, frequent customers, and so on?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Iwata stood and held out his hand. Hyuga had a surprisingly firm grip.
“Inspector, have we met before? I can’t shake the feeling I know your name.”
“My wife used to have an account here.”
“Ah.” Hyuga chuckled with the satisfaction of a solved mystery. “She’s American, yes? Came down from Chōshi, if I remember correctly?”
“That’s right.”
“Her Japanese is very good. Is she well?”
“Fine, thank you. I’ll pass on your regards.”
“Her orders were always well put together. She was a delightful conversationalist too.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Hyuga.”
They shook hands again and the old man tapped himself on the head.
“I’ve just had a thought. There was a gentleman that sometimes came for copal … yes, that’s right. I would run into him at trade fairs and conventions and the like. Specialized in ancient South American cultures, he said. Something along those lines.”
“Do you have a name?”
Hyuga held up a finger and shuffled through his bureau. He surfaced with a business card.
“Keep it. My networking days are behind me.”
“Thank you.”
“A bit of advice, Inspector?” He smiled. “Always follow your nose. The nose never lies.”
Outside it was a bright, windy morning on the verge of change. Iwata got back in his car and smelled the copal on his fingers. As he did this, he glanced at the business card Hyuga had given him. His breath caught. Iwata knew the name on the card. He had heard it before.
Excitement belted through his stomach as he screeched out of the lot, dialing Sakai’s number.
“Sakai, I need you to get on to Surveillance. There is someone we need to look at.”
“Does this someone have a name?”
Iwata looked back down at the card. Its black text was simple, the font tasteful:
PROF. YOHEI IGARASHI—CURATOR / PROFESSOR OF ANCIENT CULTURES
* * *
Iwata approached Ueno Park from the south, along Chuo-Dori. Parking in an underground lot across from Shinobazu Pond, he tried to contain the instinct that told him he was closing in on the killer.
A killer who had left nothing behind. A killer who knew what police would look for. A killer who accounted for all eventualities. But no man was smart enough to account for dumb luck.
Even so, Iwata had to contain his certainty. He could not allow it to be transmitted to Igarashi. He did not want to disturb the man’s habits. It had to seem as if this were just a routine inquiry and Igarashi just another citizen to chalk off the list. But Igarashi’s routine would be Iwata’s now. Like lines from a script for an actor to learn, he would pore over this man’s existence and search for fault. If Igarashi was the killer, then all hope was lost for him—his only chance had been his anonymity. Once Iwata had tasted the scent, he would never let go.
His phone buzzed.
“Give me good news, Sakai.”
“Okay, so still nothing linking the Kaneshiros with the Ohbas but I do have plainclothes guys outside Igarashi’s house already and two men are en route to the museum. We’ve been given four days. I’ve also contacted Legal and they’re working on telephone and bank records—we should be able to get that by tonight. Without a charge or any evidence against him, I think that’s as much as we can hope for.”
“You’re a star.”
“You’re thinking about the note in Kaneshiro’s calendar, aren’t you? Meet I. Igarashi.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Need me to come down?”
“No, don’t worry.”
“Iwata, I’m not a fucking secretary. You know you could use me.”
“Look, I’m already here. I’ll call you when I get out.”
“Well, I hope you’re right about this guy. We don’t have much time left.”
He hung up and locked the Isuzu. On the northeast corner of Ueno Park, the Tokyo National Museum loomed over a fringe of trees like a great ark. Tourist coaches jostled along the street facing the museum, trawlers trying to sell their catch. Iwata skipped the line and held his badge up to the guard at the security gates. He ignored his own reflection in the gray pool outside the museum and hurried toward the entrance.
The foyer was carved out of cream marble with a large, split staircase. Off to the left, he cut another line to the information desk. The young man behind the counter began to protest but Iwata casually flashed his police credentials and asked for Professor Igarashi. He nodded and picked up the phone but Iwata halted him with a diluted smile.
“Actually, we’re old friends. I’d prefer it if I could surprise him.”
The man printed Iwata a temporary pass and directed him to the Aztec and Mayan exhibition—a temporary exhibit on the third floor.
Iwata ignored the national treasures, Greco-Buddhist art, and long-dead civilizations. Today, he was looking for the living. He was searching for a tall, likely left-handed, and powerfully built man who wore a twenty-eight-centimeter shoe. The same man, Iwata felt, he had seen at Kyoto University, raining down blows on his opponent.
He came to a door bearing a single word:
CURATOR
Beneath it, Igarashi’s business card had been affixed. Iwata steeled himself and ran a succession of images through his mind—the Kaneshiro children on the metal slabs, the widow’s pale legs, the black sun in the gloomy bedrooms. They were jumbled radio waves.
They have to be coming from this room.
Iwata knocked once, then turned the handle. It did not give. He heard heavy footfalls. The door tore open, and Igarashi peered down at Iwata.
“Who are you?”
Iwata held up his badge and watched for facial twitches. Igarashi gave off surprise, perhaps even interest, but Iwata smelled no fear on him. His eyes were far apart and his nose was long, but he had a pleasant enough face. His hair was mid-length and very recently styled. His thick eyelashes gave his face a gentleness that the inspector did not trust. Iwata smelled a subtle aftershave. It contained lemons, perhaps. Zest. Spices. Wealth.
“Professor Yohei Igarashi?”
A bemused smile surfaced on the man’s lips.
“That’s right.”
“May I come in?”
Igarashi stepped aside and offered Iwata a seat on the bank of sofas in the corner. The office was spacious and light, wall-to-wall with books. The large window framed Ueno Park below. A sleek white desk held neat stacks of paper, a Spanish/Japanese dictionary, and photographs of Igarashi standing in a jungle somewhere. Beneath the desk, a small suitcase contained meticulously folded clothes and plastic folders.
“Nice office,” Iwata remarked. “Sure beats my desk in Shibuya.”
Igarashi laughed, seemingly without reaction to the mention of a police station.
“I would offer you tea, but I’m in a bit of a rush I’m afraid. Forgive me.”
He nodded toward his suitcase.
“That’s quite all right, this shouldn’t take too long.”
“Of course, I’m happy to help … Inspector, have I seen you somewhere before?”
“Kyoto University, I believe. I was there recently, visiting an old friend.”
Igarashi grinned.
“Of course, I saw you walking with David.”
“Actually, I saw you too. You were sparring. Quite a left you have on you under all that tweed, Professor.”
Igarashi batted away the compliment.
“Far weaker than my right.”
Iwata took out his notebook, though he didn’t aim to note much down. Igarashi’s eyes rested on it for a second.
“Not a natural southpaw, then?”
“No.” Igarashi laughed. “I’m surprised that wasn’t obvious.”
Iwata mirrored the laugh but noted the taut facial muscles on this man. To the casual glance there would be no hint of the power beneath the man’s English-cut suit.
“Not in the least.”
“You’re too kind. And what about you, Inspector? Do you box?”
“Not since the academy.”
“And those?”
Igarashi gestured toward the black eye and the wounds on Iwata’s knuckles.
“Work.”
The men shared a smile. Birdsong lilted through the window.
“Professor, I do have a few questions, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been blathering. What can I help you with?”
“Copal,” Iwata replied abruptly.
Igarashi met his eyes and Iwata studied them. They were large eyes, with an intelligence about them. So far, however, Iwata could only register curiosity, not deception.
“Copal?”
“That’s right, Professor. I was looking into copal and I was given your name, actually.”
“I used to burn it to give exhibitions a little authenticity. I don’t think the visitors ever cared—beyond wondering what the funny smell was, of course.”
“Let me be honest with you, I’m investigating a series of murders where copal was burned at the scene.”
Igarashi’s lips tightened. Iwata continued.
“The hearts of the victims were removed. Turkey blood was found also. The lacerations were done with an incredibly sharp blade. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on copal use.”
Igarashi looked out of the window for a moment and discomfort seemed to wash over him. His eyes were dark pools. He bared his teeth.
“Are you all right, Professor?”
After a few seconds, Igarashi nodded.
“Quite all right, sorry. I just have some digestive problems, that’s all. Now, copal? Well, it was primarily used to cleanse in Mexica and pre-Colombian cultures. Sometimes it was used in a remedial way, or to make an offering suitable for sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice?”
“Well, what you’ve described sounds like a crude sacrifice, yes. The turkey blood, the hearts, the copal—all of that sounds like an imitation of human sacrifice as per ancient South American cultures.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“Today? No idea. Historically speaking, human sacrifice was widespread for a long time. Broadly, it was often a blood debt to the gods in order for ancient peoples to avoid plagues and natural disasters. They sacrificed animals too. And, of course, let their own blood.”
“So it was a form of atonement?”
“You could say that. The Aztec legend of the Five Suns says that the gods sacrificed themselves so that mankind might live. In a way, life could only exist if fed by death. There was a central belief among the Mesoamerican peoples that a great, ongoing sacrifice sustains the entire universe. Everything is tonacayotl—a sort of ‘spiritual flesh-hood’ on earth. And earth, the crops, the moon, the stars, and all people—everything—all of it sprung from these sacrificed gods. Humanity itself is macehualli—‘those deserving and brought back to life through penance.’”
“So they lived to repay their debt?”
“Put simply. It was commonly used as a metaphor for human sacrifice—a sacrificial victim was someone who ‘gave his service.’”
“And if the debt wasn’t paid?”
“Then the sun would turn black and the world would end. But I’m not sure if any of this is relevant to your murder investigation, Insp—”
“Funny thing is”—Iwata opened his bag and took out the crime scene photographs of the black sun—“it would seem it is relevant.”
Igarashi squinted at the symbols.
“Hmm, a black sun? Or some kind of eclipse, perhaps?”
“They were drawn by the perpetrator.”
“How strange.” Igarashi glanced at the clock. “Well, Inspector, I really must get going if I’m to make my flight.”
“Of course. Are you going somewhere exotic?”
“Beijing. It’s just a series of talks. I’ll only be gone for a few days. I’m sure we can meet again to discuss this further.”
“I’d appreciate that. Driving to the airport?”
“I have a taxi booked.”
“I’ll walk you.”
Igarashi finished packing his suitcase and then led Iwata out of the office. They walked side by side through the museum, weaving through school groups and tourists.
“Professor, can you tell me what kind of blade was used in these rituals?”
“Usually an obsidian blade.”
“Obsidian?”
“It cuts with incredible precision. Certain surgeons today are starting to use obsidian scalpels, in fact. The sharpness is, for want of a better word, perfect.”
Iwata mused on this.
“Sophisticated for such a primitive culture, wouldn’t you say?”
Igarashi darkened for a split second, his eyes flickering like a bad signal.
“Mesoamerican cultures were not primitive, Inspector.” He cleared his throat and regained his lightness. “In fact they were highly advanced in many aspects. Metallurgy, however, was not one of them. This is mostly down to the abundance of obsidian throughout Mexico and Guatemala. It was used in a whole range of life aspects: tools, warfare, decoration—”
“And for ripping out hearts.”
Igarashi grinned.
“And that.”
They paused at the marble stairs of the main entrance.
“Professor, do you think the killer could have fashioned himself an obsidian knife? Would that be possible?”
The professor turned up his bottom lip and started down the stairs, his large moccasins singing out.
“I suppose so. But the type of obsidian you’d need for working into a blade is restricted to deposits in Mexico, Guatemala, Armenia…”
They stepped out into rain. On the main road, the coaches spilled their contents, a tide of polo shirts, cameras, and fat. Igarashi waved at his taxi and it pulled up on to the curb, its back door opening automatically. The professor paused before getting in.
“Inspector, I have to say, I find it hard to believe there’s a psychopath running around the streets of Tokyo, ripping people’s hearts out with an obsidian blade.”
One side of Iwata’s mouth curled up.
“Safe journey, Professor.”
Igarashi offered a large hand and they shook warmly. As the taxi dwindled into the red blur of rear lights, Iwata glanced up at the sooty sky. He felt something strange on his hand. He looked down. In the middle of Iwata’s palm was a large, black smudge.