IN THE TAXI, IWATA ACCEPTED roaming charges and looked up the school Web site. North Point International School was approaching its thirtieth year with a fifteen hundred–strong student body and a teacher-to-student ratio of 1:9. Annual fees for reception students were fifteen thousand five hundred dollars, while years seven to eleven ran at twenty-four thousand dollars. The headmaster was a Swiss national with a Ph.D. in economics and extensive experience in educational management across Europe, the United States, and Asia.
The street leading up to the school was lined with eucalyptus trees. Chauffeurs clustered together under umbrellas, smoking and laughing. When their designated child emerged, they hastily stubbed out their cigarettes and fixed their smiles.
The taxi pulled up at the bottom of the road and Iwata watched the last of the day’s students drain out of the doors. There were no rebellious haircuts, facial piercings, or kissing couples.
Closing his eyes, Iwata saw a big building with tall windows in the middle of an empty field.
You must be very tired, Kosuke.
Feeling a nauseating twist in his gut, he shook off the memory. He paid the driver, climbed the steps, and showed his TMPD credentials to the security guard.
Inside, the empty corridors smelled faintly of feet and linoleum. The school looked nothing like Sakuza Orphanage but the smell was a perfect echo. Iwata consulted the floor plan and took the elevator to the top floor. At the end of the corridor, he knocked on a door with a brass plaque:
DR. GUILLAUME ROSSETTI
A doughy, balding man wearing rimless spectacles opened the door. He wore a tan suit with a red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and a single gold ring. He had freckles over his nose and a curious look on his face. Iwata held up his ID once again.
“Doctor Rossetti? I’m Inspector Iwata, Tokyo Metropolitan Police. I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time.”
“Oh. Come in.”
The floor-to-ceiling window framed Hong Kong and its jade waters like a canvas. Iwata sat in an expensive brown leather chair before a Murano glass bureau.
“Well, you have come a long way. I presume you’re not here to make inquiries about enrollment?”
His chuckle was a cloying peal.
“I’m here about two former students. Mina and Jennifer Fong.”
“Ah, of course.” Rossetti’s smile faded. “We were very sorry to learn of what happened. What a terrible episode. You’re investigating?”
Iwata nodded noncommittally.
“Doctor Rossetti, do you know if Jennifer was having a relationship of any kind while she was a student here?”
“Jennifer? No, I never heard of anything like that.”
Rossetti plucked delicately at his chin as if it were a small fruit.
“Was there anything that stood out about her?”
“To be honest, Inspector…”
“Iwata.”
“Iwata, what does that mean by the way?”
“Stony rice paddy. You were saying…”
“To be honest, Jennifer always seemed the timid type. I wouldn’t put her with that sort of thing.”
“Doctor Rossetti, I’m going to need the contact details for three former students.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem but I was actually just on the way out. Would it be possible to send you the information tomorrow or—”
“I won’t be here for long, sir. I’d appreciate those details right away. The first name is Susan Cheung.”
Rossetti exhaled and went over to a large, gray cabinet. “You may be in luck, we try and keep our records up-to-date as we host various reunions and fund-raising events with old students. Now, let me see. Susan Cheung. Bit of a handful, if I remember correctly. Here she is … No, all I have is an old address for her, but our last mailing was returned undelivered, I’m afraid. Looks like she moved.”
“And what about Kelly Ho?”
“Ah yes, Kelly. Now that’s a name I know well. She worked here for a year.”
“She’s a teacher?”
“That’s right. Well, for a time.”
“Why did she leave?”
Rossetti shifted with mild embarrassment.
“Ms. Ho was a perfectly good teacher. But she met her husband and then, well, you know how these things are. Now what was that last name?”
“Neil Markham.”
Rossetti looked up from the files.
“Is this to do with what’s been in the papers?”
“I don’t know anything about Neil Markham and the papers.”
“If you say so.”
Rossetti sat back down, wrote two addresses on his notepad, and ripped off the page like a prescription.
“That first one is for Kelly Ho. The second is for Neil Markham. When you see them, please extend my regards.”
Iwata stood and gave a lackluster bow.
* * *
The taxi stopped outside a handsome gated community with high white walls and metal railings. Iwata sneezed and dabbed at his streaming eyes with a tissue as he passed palm trees and perfectly green lawns. It was as though a small, wealthy village had been constructed on top of a golf range. Kidney-shaped pools were still and dark. Statues of lions made from faux marble stood guard outside doors. Except for the distant droning of aircraft and a yapping dog, the community was silent.
Iwata glanced at his watch as he walked past identical houses; it was 7 P.M. He stopped outside number 14 and pressed the bell. A short woman with a soft but tired face answered the door. Kelly Ho was halfway through adjusting an earring and her makeup looked hastily applied. Her lips glistened and her hair was expensively styled, but there was a pink rawness beneath her eyes and the smell of baby milk about her.
“Please come in, Inspector.”
“Sorry I couldn’t give much warning.”
“Not at all. Come through.”
The dark wood floors gleamed and practically every surface held fresh flowers. Lamps cast a mellow light. She gestured for Iwata to sit on the large white sofa laden with cushions. Donna Tartt’s The Secret History lay open on the coffee table. A baby monitor blinked in the corner.
Iwata looked away.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“That would be much appreciated.”
She returned a few moments later with a pot of coffee, two glasses, and a small jar of honey. She poured Iwata a glass and looped in a spoonful of honey.
Honey for my honeybee.
“Are you all right, Inspector?”
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Flying doesn’t agree with me, that’s all.”
She sat on the seat across from Iwata and curled her bare feet underneath her, hugging the cardigan around her slight frame.
“My husband is constantly flying. He’s the same.”
“What does he do?”
She gestured around the large house with her hands.
“Investment banker.”
Iwata laughed, then coughed.
“He’s visiting his mother in Denmark at the moment. She’s not very well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s Danish?”
She nodded.
“And you, Inspector? Married?”
Iwata swallowed hot coffee but tasted nothing.
“Yes.” His smile was weak. “What is it that you do, Mrs. Ho?”
“Lund. It’s Kelly Lund now. It’s been a couple of years, and I’m still getting used to it myself. And as for what I do?” She nodded over her shoulder. “I look after the baby. Read books. Answer the door to strange detectives.”
They shared a polite smile, and she quietly set her glass down.
“Inspector, on the phone you said you were investigating Mina Fong’s murder. But I have to ask, why would a policeman from Tokyo come all this way to talk to me? I never really knew her.”
Iwata finished his coffee and set down his glass beside hers.
“But you knew Jennifer.”
Sadness washed over Kelly Lund’s face, and she involuntarily glanced toward the baby monitor, her sleeping child still so innocent of the world that awaited.
“Why do you want to talk about Jennifer?”
“Because I want to find out whether her death was an accident, a suicide, or something else.”
She met Iwata’s eyes for a second.
“I don’t believe she killed herself.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I knew Jennifer. The idea of Jennifer killing herself is ridiculous. It just never sat right with me, I can’t explain it.”
“She wouldn’t do that?”
“No, absolutely not. The idea of her dying of a drug overdose on some stranger’s boat is just as stupid. None of that feels like Jen.”
Iwata held up the printout from the Park Residences CCTV footage of the unidentified man in the hooded jacket.
“I don’t suppose you recognize this man. Even just his clothes?”
“No, who could recognize that?”
“These images were taken from Mina’s apartment complex the day of her murder.”
Lund looked at the man in the image and then back at Iwata.
“You think whoever killed her was also responsible for Jennifer’s death?”
“It’s a possibility I can’t yet rule out.”
Iwata put the photograph back in his bag and held up a newspaper clipping of the new Mesoamerican exhibition opening at the Tokyo National Museum.
“How about him? Doctor Igarashi.”
Kelly Lund squinted at it, then shook her head. Iwata changed tack.
“Was Jennifer seeing anyone in the year before she died?”
“No, I don’t think so. We’d speak on the phone sometimes, go for the occasional coffee. She never mentioned anything like that.”
“Would she have told you, do you think?”
“Absolutely. I mean she was a happier listener than a talker, sure, but there’s no reason for her to keep that kind of thing a secret from me.”
“Did she have any friends with access to a boat?”
“Several. We went to school with very wealthy people. But I couldn’t tell you one person who’d let her drown like that. Or go that far out on the open sea. It doesn’t make sense.”
Iwata thought about this and then looked at the paper Rossetti had given him.
“What can you tell me about Neil Markham?”
“Sweet guy. He and Jennifer had a thing briefly, as kids, but I really can’t imagine him having anything to do with this.”
“Did he have a boat?”
“Not that I knew of. But he made a fortune with some sort of car exports Web site a few years ago so it’s quite possible he has one now.”
A wave of exhaustion washed over Iwata, and he leaned back on the sofa for a moment. Above him there was an oil painting of a beautiful pink dawn. The cliffs were awash with orange, the rocks below were like a broken jaw.
I’m happy with you.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes I’m … just a bit run down.”
Please let me hear. Those words of love from you.
“Let me get you some cold water.”
I walk and walk, swaying, like a small boat in your arms.
Iwata shook his head.
“No, really. I should get going.”
He stood now, coughing. He was freezing inside, sweat streaming down his neck, forehead and thighs.
“Thank you for your time. And the coffee.”
Kelly Lund shrugged.
“I don’t think I was much help. If there’s anything else you think of, I’ll be here.”
Lund opened the front door and the sound of rain hissed in.
“Actually, there is something. Do you have Susan Cheung’s address?”
Lund hesitated before nodding and returning with a piece of paper.
“She probably won’t be home until morning. And you should be careful around there.”
“You’re no longer friends?”
“We … move in different circles.”
“Thank you again for all your help, Mrs. Lund.”
“I hope you catch him, Inspector Iwata. If there is a him.”