SAKAI WAS OUTSIDE THE POLICE station, smoking as she squinted at the darkening skyline. Iwata emerged from the main doors and followed her purple trail. She spied him sidelong then returned her gaze to the moon.
“You look like shit, boss.”
“You’ve got a good eye, Inspector Sakai.”
“So you keep saying. Did the kid sing?”
“From the rooftops. But he’s no killer. How about Ijiri?”
“It wasn’t his first time in a police station, that’s for sure. But I grilled him pretty hard.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. I’m sure he wasn’t banking on your soft skills.”
She curled up a smile with a puff of smoke and offered Iwata her packet. Iwata took one and lit it from hers. Their smoke mingled up into the cold night.
“He says he knew of the family, the father even made a few inquiries some years back, but he never lent them a single yen.”
“And you buy it?”
“I think so. He keeps detailed records, which we can look at if we get the permissions. However, I did get access to Mr. Kaneshiro’s bank account a little while ago. Turns out he deposited over one-and-a-half million yen into his account on January fifth.”
“The day after meeting I. Interesting.”
“It’s a lot of money. Car sale?”
“Could be.”
“Certainly enough to keep the construction firm from their gates for a while.”
“One-and-a-half million yen. Enough to kill an entire family for?”
Sakai shrugged and stubbed out her cigarette.
“Come on.” Iwata threw his down too. “I’ll take you home.”
“You’re all right to drive?”
“I won’t win at Suzuka, but I’ll get you there.”
“Then shoot for Nishi-Azabu.”
Iwata got into the driver’s seat and set off at a slow speed eastward, following the signs for Metropolitan Expressway Number 3.
“Oh, by the way.” Sakai reclined her seat. “I spoke to Shindo earlier. He wanted a report, as he was getting static from Setagaya Station about us. He sounded pleased with what I told him.”
“Shindo sounded ‘pleased’?”
“Well, more like he didn’t sound pissed off with us yet. Said you should collect your permanent techou and gun tomorrow. Looks like he doesn’t want to get rid of you just yet.”
“Hey, I bled for that badge.”
Sakai laughed a tired laugh.
“You got hit by a shrimp with a small gardening tool.”
She closed her eyes and Iwata turned on the radio, both of them done with any further conversation.
“Almost one week after the death of young actress Mina Fong, and mystery continues to shroud the incident. Few details have been released at this point, though it’s understood her talent agency has requested privacy for her family at this time. Gossip columns leading up to Fong’s death were rife with rumors of drug abuse and possible breach of contract with her production company relating to her role in the popular soap opera Cherry Generation. Estranged boyfriend and idol, Riki Noda, described Fong’s death as ‘a shocking tragedy.’ Her remains are due to be cremated and buried in Fuchu Catholic Cemetery on Friday.”
The news shifted to the increasing likelihood of the prime minister resigning, and then to the unseasonably cold weather.
“Hey Sakai, who has that Mina Fong case?”
“Moroto is leading it.”
“Is he top dog, then?”
“Something like that. Akashi’s heir apparent. Upstairs love him.”
The traffic was surprisingly sparse for 9 P.M. The car sailed along the rise and fall of the expressway. The turnoffs and junctions curved outward and inward like gray tentacles, lit up by a row of white and red lights. On either side of the expressway, waves of indistinct glass and concrete. Countless billboards, countless windows, countless fire escapes, countless Tokyo.
“You ever hear that thing people say about this city?” Sakai murmured. “That Tokyo is a million cities and one city all at once?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever wonder if maybe some of those cities are good and some of them are bad?”
“Maybe so. Sakai, can I ask you something?”
“Mm.”
“What happened to Inspector Akashi?”
Sakai opened her eyes and looked at Iwata now, her face stern.
“Akashi jumped off Rainbow Bridge. What else is there to say?”
“You were close with him?”
She looked out of the window.
“I knew him. That’s all.”
He glanced at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you looking at me?”
“I’m not.”
“Why so curious about Akashi?”
“I just have this nagging feeling that maybe he saw something early on. Something that we might have missed.”
“Anything he saw would be in the case file, surely?”
Iwata drove along the length of Gaien Nishi-Dori in silence, turning left down a side street just before the Nishi-Azabu crossing. They passed various embassies of countries home to dictators and jungles. The streets were lined with tiny bars and three-stool noodle shacks. The early lines for nightclubs had formed; prostitutes lit tentative cigarettes and tourists gathered outside a restaurant that had been featured in a Tarantino movie.
Iwata stopped in front a of six-story white apartment complex. It looked more like a cheap beachfront hotel than anywhere Sakai would live. But then picturing where Sakai would live was like meeting an extraterrestrial and picturing their home planet based on the address alone. She stepped out of the car, and hunched down to look at him. The rain hissed around them, illuminated by the headlights. It felt like a relieved good-bye after an underwhelming date.
“Well,” she said, “get some sleep, Inspector.”
And then she was gone. Clicking away, her heels still dirty with mud.
I’m happy with you. Please let me hear.
Those words of love from you.
* * *
Iwata woke from another falling dream. He had left the window open during the night and rain had blown in. Today’s gray sky threatened yet more. The pain in his head was no longer a blaring horn, but he still bared his teeth when he stood up. He went to the mirror and parted his hair to see a dark, deep gash. In doing so, Iwata noticed his first grays.
Cleo invaded his thoughts, making him stumble and grip the sink.
She runs her fingers through his hair, lightly grazing his scalp with her nails.
“Your hair is so dark.”
Iwata slapped himself in the face, spat in the sink, and controlled his breathing. From a sparse wardrobe, he took out a white shirt and a gray suit. He dressed, made himself a cup of black coffee, and went over the morning newspaper, looking for the Kaneshiro family murders. The front page was dominated by two stories: the prime minister’s defiant comments regarding his position and the death of Mina Fong. Iwata found a brief article in the crime section that spoke in broad terms about the Kaneshiro murders. Only Tsunemasa’s name was used and the ages of the children were incorrect. There was no outrage or urgency to the piece, just a perfunctory listing of facts as if the writer were dealing with an upturn in tuna prices instead of a murdered family. Iwata closed the paper as his phone began to ring.
“Inspector, this is Doctor Eguchi.”
He checked his watch. 8:32 A.M.
“Ah yes, Doctor. Thank you for calling.”
“The tests on blood, urine, and gastric contents all came back completely normal. No traces of anything in their systems that shouldn’t have been there. However, some of the blood on the father’s body? Turkey blood.”
“Turkey blood?”
“That’s right!”
“You sound almost excited, Doctor.”
“Well, it’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. All of the victims had inhaled some kind of smoke or incense.”
“Interesting.”
“Oh and that soot I mentioned on the father’s fingers? It’s just plain old charcoal. You’d have to check with your forensics division, but I would assume it’s the same substance on the ceiling of the crime scene.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Inspector, there was one more thing. I don’t even know whether to mention it, actually. But the father did have a six-inch laceration on his left forearm that doesn’t fit. It was on its way to healing at the time of his death.”
“I think I can answer that. I spoke to a colleague of Tsunemasa Kaneshiro’s who said that a young girl had a grudge against him. Apparently there was some kind of altercation a few weeks ago and when he came back to the office, he had a gash on his arm.”
“Well now, that does fit. The wound is two to three weeks old and clearly applied with nowhere near the level of raw force in the actual murders. But that niggles. Who gets stabbed and doesn’t report it to the police? Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you, Inspector?”
“Not if the police treat you like the shit on their shoe.”
“Hm. Anyway, that’s about the shape of it, Inspector.”
“You’ve been very helpful, thank you.”
“Aha.” Her voice had a jolly lilt to it. “Good luck.”
Iwata hung up and grabbed his keys. The Toyota was in a spare bay behind the apartment complex. As he turned the ignition, he dialed Sakai.
“Iwata. You’re still alive, then.”
“And what a lovely morning it is.”
“Oh, every day on the TMPD is a glory.”
Iwata filled Sakai in on the incense, the turkey blood, and the charcoal.
“Okay,” she huffed. “It’s official. Picasso is a weirdo.”
“That’s not all, Sakai. The father had a stab wound on his arm that was three weeks old.”
“Shit. You think that’s our guy? Has to be, right?”
“Eguchi doesn’t see it that way. Nor do I. A colleague mentioned a young girl with a grudge against Mr. Kaneshiro, maybe against Koreans in general. Apparently she attacked him a few weeks back. Something we’ll have to look into.”
Sakai laughed bitterly.
“A giant and a little girl. What a fucking case. Listen, the registration plates from the parking lot near the family home came back. Nothing particularly interesting, all nice people with nice alibis. But you’ll like this more—the bank got back to me this morning with someone slightly more competent. Told me that Tsunemasa Kaneshiro asked for quotes from various law firms. Not only that, he’d actually been billed by one of the best real estate–dispute lawyers in Tokyo.”
“So Kaneshiro was in the money.”
“I called the lawyer this morning, and he made it clear that he had no inclination to talk to us. But he did throw me a bone.”
“Tsunemasa wasn’t of a mind to sell to VIVUS?”
“Bingo.”
“Good work, Sakai. I’m on my way.”
The automated gripe of the windshield wipers hurt Iwata’s head and he swore at the frequent red lights that caught him. The drive to Shibuya HQ took much longer than it should have.
In the underground car park, Iwata showed his temporary pass. The man in the booth signed him off and buzzed open the security doors. They opened to a narrow corridor with Arctic blue walls and countless faded papers with mug shots, descriptions, and warnings. Iwata walked this thin ventricle deeper into the station. He passed more elevators, toilets, and changing rooms. He ignored the bawdy laughter spilling out of the changing rooms, and followed the sound of Beethoven. At the end of the corridor, Iwata came to an armory. Behind the bulletproof glass, an old man with white hair and a weathered face looked up from his newspaper.
“You’re Iwata?”
“That’s right. Symphony No. 7?”
A slow smile spread across the old man’s face.
“A man of culture. I’m Nakata. One moment please.”
The old cop went into a back room and returned a while later. He opened the slider and pushed through a black leather techou, some handcuffs, a shoulder holster, and a small, black SIG Sauer P232. Iwata put on the holster and felt the weight of the gun in his palm.
“Seven rounds,” Nakata said. “And she’s a good size.”
“Next time someone attacks me with a trowel, I’m ready.”
“A trowel?”
“Don’t ask.”
Iwata slid the gun into the holster under his blazer. It was the voice of God at his side, yet he felt nothing but a pleasant weight.
“You ever shot one before?”
“Only in training.”
“Say, Inspector. Where’s that accent from? You from Kyoto too?”
“I’m from Miyama. Small village not far from Kyoto.”
“Good walking? Fishing?”
Iwata saw bunk beds, dead fields, and crows perched on power lines. And somewhere deep in a forest, a whispering whirlpool.
“I … haven’t been there in a long time.”
Nakata smiled politely and nodded at the gun under Iwata’s blazer.
“Well, let me know if she misbehaves for whatever reason.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
“One more thing. Don’t let these Kantō assholes get you down.”
He smiled and bowed. Nakata went back to his paper and his Beethoven. Iwata returned to the elevators and pressed the call button. As he waited, he opened the leather pocketbook. On one side, his name, rank, and photograph. On the other, a gleaming badge with a gold-wreathed silver emblem and two gold bars. The symbol of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The mark of justice.
As the elevator pinged, Iwata heard shouting from the changing rooms behind him.
The lights of the city are so pretty.
Amid the noise, he heard Sakai’s voice. Instinctively, Iwata hurried down the hallway and ripped open the changing-room door. The smell of sweat and piss hissed out. Horibe and the rest of Moroto’s goons encircled Sakai. Moroto himself held Sakai’s sports bag high over his head. Sakai’s face was red with fury.
Iwata stepped forward. “Give the bag back.”
“And what the fuck do you care, Mickey Mouse?” Moroto smiled, his rubbery, smacking voice ricocheting around the cramped changing room.
Iwata took another step forward. “Give the bag back.”
Moroto glanced around his cohorts in mock offense. “Ms. Sakai is just goofing around with her colleagues, buddy. Why don’t you go arrest someone?”
“Iwata, forget him.” Sakai’s voice was pleading.
Iwata was now nose-to-chin with Moroto. “Give her back the bag. Last time I say it.”
Moroto smirked and the others passed around smiles. “‘Last time he says it.’ And with that fucking polite Kyoto accent too. You know what I like about you, yankee?”
Iwata punched him in the gut. Moroto doubled over, eyes bulging, the air in his lungs imploding. Iwata snatched away the bag and pushed Moroto hard to the floor in the same motion. Three men were around Iwata now: Tatsuno, Yoshida, and Horibe, static in their confusion. The latter, first to defend his leader, stepped forward. Iwata looked him in the eye and shook his head.
Horibe stalled. Passing the bag over to Sakai, Iwata knelt down by a wheezing Moroto.
“Listen to me, Moroto.” The words contained no pageantry. “Don’t ever come near her again. I hope you understand me.”
Moroto coughed incredulously, still holding his stomach. “… You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
Iwata tapped Moroto on the side of the head, the little spikes of black growth stabbing his finger.
“But I do, Moroto. I’m fucking with you.”
Iwata stood, now eyeing each of Moroto’s men. He left the room with Sakai close behind. The elevator was quick. The ascent to the twelfth floor passed in silence. The elevator doors slid open to an identical scene from yesterday morning. The loud phone calls, the sickly light, the commingling of cigarette smoke across the low ceiling. Sakai stopped at the door of the toilet.
“Iwata?”
“Yes?”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Is that your version of thank you?”
She sighed and let go of the door. Iwata crossed the office, knocked on Shindo’s door and went in. Shindo was staring at the gray blur of his window, a fixed grimace on his face.
“Inspector, come in.”
Iwata shifted a fresh pile of papers from the chair and sat down.
“Kid, I just got off the phone with Setagaya’s chief. He says the moneylender is being cut loose, but they’re keeping this Ezawa character. What’s your view?”
“I don’t think Ijiri has any kind of connection to this. Ezawa, however, is definitely guilty of a variety of offenses. No real alibi, probably a vague motive in there too, and plenty of stink about him—yes. But he didn’t kill this family, I’m certain.”
“What about the witness who saw a man with a limp?”
“A limp doesn’t really prove anything. What does is the fact that Ezawa simply wouldn’t have the strength to kill an entire family like this. And even if he did, to be honest, he doesn’t have the brains to do it without leaving behind a single clue.”
“All right. We have another twenty-two days to hold him without charge. Let’s play it safe and keep him for the time being?”
“No arguments from me.”
Sakai opened the door and bowed. She was wearing a navy blue trouser suit and a light blue blouse now, but her hair was up in a hasty ponytail.
“Sit down, Sakai. Your partner was just saying how he thinks the moneylender and Ezawa are innocent of the murders, interesting characters though they may be. You agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are there any other angles I should know about?”
Iwata nodded.
“An employee who worked with Tsunemasa Kaneshiro informed me that a young girl was harassing him at his work—shouting obscenities over a megaphone and the like. Apparently, a few weeks ago, there was some kind of confrontation and Kaneshiro returned to the office bleeding. This explains the secondary laceration. But all we have is a vague description of the girl. I would like to ask Officer Hatanaka to look into her, if possible.”
“The kid from Setagaya you’ve got running through hoops?”
“That’s him.”
Shindo shrugged his okay.
“And so I take it both of you want to pursue this Kiyota, then?”
Sakai nodded.
“He hasn’t yet turned up, sir. However, last night I spoke with an official at the Civil Aviation Bureau and described our suspect—tall, male, twenty-eight-centimeter shoe, likely traveling alone, possibly with a limp. They told me that in a two- or three-day window, we were looking at anywhere up to seventy-five flights to Seoul or Bangkok.”
Shindo whistled.
“Okay, Iwata, where do you want to go from here?”
“Setagaya PD badges are canvassing the Kaneshiros’ neighborhood; I think that should continue. In my view, the best course of action for Division One would be to pursue Kiyota. He has links to Nippon Kumiai so we start there. If anyone knows where he is, I’m betting it’s them. From what I’ve seen, Assistant Inspector Sakai is more than capable of carrying out this task.”
Sakai glared at him.
“Sir—”
Shindo silenced her with a hand.
“And what about you, Iwata?” he asked.
“Kyoto University. I have a contact there, an old friend with expertise in symbols.”
The older cop made a diamond beneath his chin with his fingers.
“Why?”
“Sir, these murders are ritualistic. The black sun symbol the killer left at the Kaneshiro house underpins the act—I’m almost certain.”
“This isn’t Hollywood, Inspector. I told you about resources.”
“I spoke with the coroner this morning. One of the bodies was smeared in turkey blood, they had a strange incense in their lungs, there was a symbol left behind, the father had his heart removed—all of that points to a ritualistic killer. He may be a serial killer. The sooner we understand his motives and how he chooses victims, the faster we can narrow it down. Understanding that symbol should have been my first step, really.”
Shindo looked out of the window and rubbed his old, broken nose.
“Be back here by tomorrow morning, then. No travel expenses.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sakai, take two officers with you to Nippon Kumiai. Let those assholes see the blue.”
“Sir.” There was a quiver to her voice.
Iwata and Sakai left Shindo’s office. Moroto and his goons were nowhere to be seen. They crossed Division One and called the elevator. As soon as they stepped inside and the doors closed she wheeled around and hissed.
“You could have sent any asshole to knock on doors. You cut me out after one day? Did I not give you everything you needed?”
“You did. But assholes miss details, Sakai. You, on the other hand, have a good eye and a fierce tongue. That’s precisely why I want you chasing down Kiyota.”
“Bullshit.”
She held out her hand for the car keys and Iwata passed them over. In the car park, she headed for the Toyota without a word. Iwata took the stairs up to street level, left the station, and crossed the street to the subway.