In the elevator down from Pacific Investments, Akiko sent a message that the tech guys had got a hit on a car outside the Azabu apartment. She sent the name and address of a foreigner living in Mejiro to whom the license plate was registered. Hiroshi read out the address, and Ishii inputted it to the car’s navigation.
Hiroshi settled into the back seat. “An American. A different one than the father who took the girls.”
“We don’t know that yet, do we?” Ishii sped north to Mejiro Station.
Takamatsu rolled down his window and lit a cigarette. He seemed lost in thought and unusually quiet.
A few minutes west of the station, Ishii turned down on a narrow lane lined by two-story homes and unit apartments built right to the curb. Ishii slowed to avoid utility poles, community bulletin boards, and trash pick-up spots along the curb. At every corner, mirrors set on orange poles allowed a view of the cross street.
Hiroshi pointed at an apartment building with an overgrown hedge and Ishii pulled into a jigsaw puzzle of a parking lot across the street. Hiroshi looked for the car they found on the surveillance footage, a matte black Toyota Harrier, but the lot only held off-duty taxis, subcontracting delivery vans, late-model sedans, and gravel.
Hiroshi got out and surveyed the nine-unit, tile-covered building for exit routes, a practice Takamatsu drilled into him. The apartments had balconies wide enough to hang laundry and squeeze in a patio stool, but not much more. No back exits.
Takamatsu put his hands on the car and pushed back to loosen his hamstrings. He pulled his arms behind him and stretched his back.
“You running the Tokyo Marathon?” Hiroshi asked.
“Without Sugamo and Osaki here, I want to be ready.” Takamatsu rotated his neck. “My doctor recommended stretching a bit.”
“You go to a doctor?”
“Wife dragged me.”
“Doctor didn’t say anything about the smoking, I guess.”
“No, he said a lot. I just didn’t listen.”
Hiroshi walked to the side of the apartment building looking for the entrance. Ishii and Takamatsu followed.
The entry was down a half-flight of stairs. A superintendent in a stiff uniform jacket greeted Hiroshi with a pleasant smile. It was a little strange to have a superintendent for such a small apartment. The building must have been ultramodern in the 1960s, and it was still well maintained.
“I’m looking for a foreigner, Tim Branson. Is he here?” Hiroshi asked.
“Ah, Tim-san? He’s out now, but he said he had a package coming today.” The guard looked at the stack of deliveries.
“Which floor is his apartment on?”
“Third floor. Can I help you with something?”
“Hiroshi?” Ishii called from the top of the stairs.
Hiroshi turned to see a heavy-set foreign guy ambling down, loose-limbed like all Americans, in a sweatshirt, wool overshirt, and baseball cap. He stopped next to Takamatsu.
Tim was as big as a linebacker. Sugamo and Osaki would have been welcome.
Hiroshi spoke in English. “Are you Tim Branson?”
Takamatsu made the mistake of reaching for Tim’s arm.
In a flash, Tim grabbed Takamatsu’s hand, bent it sharply at the wrist and shoved him against the wall. Takamatsu groaned and clutched his wrist.
Ishii pulled out her friction-lock baton, whipped it to full extension, and held it out in both hands to block him.
Tim shoved the baton with his forearm and ducked to the side.
Ishii swung and landed a sharp blow to his ankle.
Tim stumbled and yelped but kept going.
Hiroshi took the stairs two at a time.
Tim got to the top and sprinted down the street.
Hiroshi kept after him with Ishii behind.
Up ahead, Tim turned down a side street blocked by a row of tall hedges. Hiroshi raced to the turn, but Tim was gone. He could see straight to the end of the empty lane, so he hurried to the next turn. Still, nothing. The streets zigzagged through a maze of odd-angled lots.
Ishii caught up and they picked different directions. Soon they were lost in the dogleg tangle of neighborhood lanes. The houses and apartment buildings were close to the street, so it was impossible to see more than a short dash ahead.
Hiroshi lost sight of Ishii, and couldn’t hear her running, either. He pulled out his phone and saw calls from Takamatsu.
Out of breath, Hiroshi called back, looking down each of the lanes as he jogged forward.
“Where are you?” Takamatsu asked.
“Can you see Shiinamachi Station? Higashi Nagasaki?”
“Is he heading that way?”
“I lost sight of him. And Ishii too. Maybe he turned south. Can you angle south?”
“Yes.”
Hiroshi could hear Takamatsu breathing hard through the phone. “He must be staying on small streets.”
“Smart guy. Where are you now exactly? On my app, the whole area is called Higashi Nagasaki?”
“You see the station? Turn south and keep going until it turns into Senkawa Dori. Maybe he’s heading for the train.”
“You were right, we needed Sugamo and Osaki. Where are those tracking apps we used to have?”
“Chief didn’t want to pay for them.” Hiroshi hung up before Takamatsu could curse the chief and headed to a large street with taller, commercial buildings. A short way down, Ishii was crossing a pedestrian bridge.
By the time he got to the other side, Ishii was gone down the streets on the other side. He headed after her, checking every side street, hoping that Ishii had a visual and they weren’t just wasting their time.
The first street ended in a park, and on the far side Ishii stood turning in all directions.
The park was larger than most with benches, a playground, and a public toilet. Beyond a chain link fence at the end, an urban farm spread out with fine black dirt from which poked the white tops of daikon. A greenhouse of plastic sheets and steel frames stretched along the daikon patch.
A group of elderly women in jogging outfits was fast-walking the circumference, and a trio of housewives watched their kids playing in a round sandbox.
Catching his breath, Hiroshi walked over to the housewives. Two of them stood and moved to the sandbox where the kids were shoveling and dumping sand.
Hiroshi pulled out his badge. “We’re looking for a foreign man, big, baseball cap?”
“We almost called the police,” one said. The mothers hovered over their kids and pointed at the public toilet.
Ishii jogged from the far end of the park and pulled her friction-lock baton out again. She reached under her jacket to her waistband. “Here’s my backup.”
“You carry two?”
“If you were a woman, you would too.”
Hiroshi took the baton from her, flicked it out, and weighed it in his hand like a kendo sword.
They advanced on the public toilet, which was, like most public toilets in Tokyo, doorless with windows of open, concrete lattice. You could see inside if you stood in the right place at the right angle, though no one would.
Hiroshi moved toward the men’s entrance, and Ishii circled toward the women’s.
When they got close enough, Hiroshi shouted in English. “Tim? Come on out. We just want to talk.”
Ishii started around the back. Hiroshi went into the men’s side. Above the sink, Tim was stuck halfway out a shoulder-high window above the sinks. He heard a whack and Tim’s legs kicked out.
Hiroshi heard another crack from the other side.
Tim screamed. “Goddamnit, that hurt!”
“Don’t fucking move,” Ishii shouted in English from the other side of the back wall.
Tim twisted in place. The upper window wasn’t big enough for him to get through, and he was wedged in, trapped. Hiroshi grabbed his legs and tugged. They really needed Sugamo and Osaki for this one.
Pulling on his legs, Hiroshi yanked Tim free, and got up upright. Ishii came around, set herself, and braced to hit him again, but Hiroshi held Tim’s arm tightly.
Hiroshi started to think how far away the car was and wondered where Takamatsu was. When he looked at the exit, Tim threw a punch, putting all his weight into it, but he was too slow.
Hiroshi ducked, and Tim’s fist glanced off the side of his head.
Ishii struck Tim’s hand as he raised it again and gave him another whack on his forearm.
Tim clutched his arm.
Ishii jammed the baton between his arm and back, grabbed the end, and twisted. Tim tumbled over and she dropped a knee into his back and snatched his wrist, twisting hard. She struck him on the shoulder blade with the butt of the baton. “Stop wiggling.” She hit him two more quick blows until he stopped trying to squirm free.
Hiroshi was surprised by her deft movements and by how small she looked on top of the mountainous American. He dropped down to hold Tim’s legs, while she pulled cuffs out and got both wrists secured.
Feeling better with Tim facedown and cuffed, Hiroshi realized they should have sent someone to check Tim’s room. Was this guy really trying to escape or was he just leading them astray? They might have just missed Patrick and the girls hidden in his room.
It was too far back to run there now. He called Osaki and Sugamo to tell them to hurry to the apartment and search it. He regretted racing after Tim. Why didn’t Takamatsu think of checking Tim’s place?
Takamatsu arrived, directed by the mothers. He leaned over to catch his breath, coughing. When he could speak, he patted Ishii on the back. “Not bad.”
A local police car pulled up, and two local cops pedaled over on their bicycles.
Feeling exhausted from the chase, Hiroshi took Tim’s wallet out of his back pocket. The name read “Tim Branson,” the same as the one Akiko sent. Ishii was talking with the local cops, arranging for transport.
Hiroshi pulled Tim up to a sitting position and if the local cops hadn’t been there, he would have smacked him. He was sick of this case and sick of tracking down suspects. Maybe this wouldn’t be a dead-end, though. He leaned down to Tim. “Do you want to talk here or back at the station?”
Tim spit. His face was scraped and his sweatshirt torn. “The story’s the same either place.”