Ota smiled at their invitation to yakitori, but he decided to keep watching Miyuki, even though other detectives would stay. Miyuki insisted they all watch from outside the apartment.
After parking in Ikebukuro, Takamatsu led them across a wide street into a warren of pedestrian lanes that led away from the station. “I hope you like sake and yakitori.” He spoke to Ishii more than Hiroshi.
“My two favorite food groups,” Ishii replied.
“And I hope you don’t mind standing?”
Ishii smiled. “That way you won’t fall asleep if you drink too much.”
Takamatsu turned to Hiroshi. “See, she went to America, but remained a real Japanese.”
The buildings sloped to four or five stories punctuated by rickety one-story shops. At the end of one lane, Takamatsu headed up the stairs of a brand-new building of exposed concrete and hanging kokedama moss balls spilling ivy. Takamatsu pulled back an artsy steel door into the sleek interior of a modern yakitori place.
Savory aromas gushed from the glassed-in grill. Jazz played from wall-mount speakers. A long row of refrigerated cases held sake bottles in careful rows. Wooden plaques with hand-painted yakitori choices hung along the wall, a few turned over, sold out for the day. It was the kind of place that didn’t advertise because it didn’t need to.
A young man in a thick blue apron with moussed hair led them to one of the concrete tables jutting from the wall. Takamatsu ordered beer and a set plate of yakitori.
“I haven’t eaten all day.” Ishii hung her jacket up and handed a hanger to Hiroshi.
Takamatsu hung his camel hair coat on two hangers and brushed it neat and straight. He lit a cigarette before he even sat down.
The beer came and they hoisted their glasses and mumbled, “O-tsukare-sama desu,” for a toast before downing the cooling, foamy relief. Small dishes arrived, a slice of tofu topped with teensy mushrooms, a plate of grilled iwashi sardines, and a little blue bowl of potato salad.
A waiter brought over three fist-sized white cups with blue circles in the bottom, and two bottles of sake, a daiginjo from a traditional kura brewery and a shinshu labeled with a single Western number instead of the usual poetic phrase. The waiter poured the cups right to the brim.
“Kanpai!” They let the sake settle in and their humanity return.
Assorted chicken skewers on a brown, glazed plate arrived, and they eyed the yakitori for a moment, deciding what they wanted before plucking one of their favorites.
Takamatsu slid his empty stick into the bamboo container. “You think the wife was screwing the babysitter?”
Ishii dropped her skewer in the container. “I had an odd impression when I asked her about him. She knows more than she lets on.”
“So who sent her the photos and why?” Hiroshi pointed with his empty skewer.
“She said she didn’t know.” Ishii cocked her head. “I believe her.”
“Was that why she filed for divorce?”
Ishii finished chewing. “Can’t be the only reason. Even with a big settlement.”
“More yakitori?” Takamatsu asked.
“I’d like more hearts and gizzards,” Ishii said. “And some liver.”
The waiter wrote down the order and hurried off.
“You’re not like this spoiled kid,” Takamatsu pointed at Hiroshi. “He only likes breast meat or tsukune.”
Hiroshi pulled the soft, white sasami skewers onto his plate and let the sake dissolve the fatigue and frustration of the day.
The door of the restaurant opened and Sakaguchi ducked inside. He sprayed disinfectant on his hands from the bottle by the door and ambled across the room, limping on his injured knee.
Takamatsu waved the waiter over and ordered for Sakaguchi. Ishii took Sakaguchi’s overcoat, weighing the heavy black wool in her hands as she hung it up for him.
Sakaguchi pulled over a stool and set it next to the wall so he could lean back. His beer arrived, and he hoisted the large mug in one hand.
“Kanpai!”
“Not your usual kind of place, is it?” Sakaguchi asked Takamatsu.
Takamatsu lit a cigarette. “The chef’s father ran a place in Shinbashi. It’s a nice change, this place.”
“Women can feel comfortable here.” Ishii looked around. There were quite a few groups of women.
“Another reason to like it.” Takamatsu laughed.
“So, tell me you found something.” Sakaguchi drained this mug and held it up for another.
Another set plate of yakitori arrived. In front of Sakaguchi, the skewers seemed as small as tooth picks.
Hiroshi slid another tsukune onto his own small plate and shook his head. “The abducted girls, the parents, the CEO of Nine Dragons, the babysitter, the husband’s friend, the hosts, Nozaki, none of it connects.”
“Don’t forget the dead grandmother.” Takamatsu raised his glass. “To the elderly.”
“At least they didn’t smash her nose,” Ishii said. “After the conversation with Miyuki, I felt she’s protecting her husband.”
Hiroshi sighed. “You think she’s in on this with him?”
“Not in on it but on his side. She said she had always trusted him, and always would.”
Takamatsu sighed. “Interrogating men is a hundred times easier.”
Ishii was about to argue with him, but a waiter reached up to turn over two of the wooden boards on the wall, the yakitori choices sold out.
Hiroshi sipped his sake, wishing he could spread the case across the two monitors in his office and have it all come together with the press of a button. “You think Nozaki was fronting other investors?”
“He was always fronting something.” Takamatsu finished his cup but, unusually, didn’t order another.
When the plates were emptied, Takamatsu flipped his lighter. “So, nijikai?”
Sakaguchi drained the last of his sake. “I have something to announce. So let’s all go.”
They paid and reassembled in the lane downstairs. A short walk away, Takamatsu stopped at the frosted glass door of a dilapidated wood-frame, tin-walled shop. He slid open the door and Sakaguchi stooped sideways to get in. Hiroshi and Ishii followed.
The small square room was lined with narrow plywood shelves holding tin cans and small packets of snacks next to handwritten prices. Rows of one-cup sake, more brands than Hiroshi thought possible, were arranged by prefecture. A refrigerated cabinet with bottles of beer was jammed to the side. A large bottle of shochu rested on top.
In the back, a wood counter blocked off a living room area where a TV cast its pale glow through shoji dividers. An old man looked over from where he sat under a kotatsu. He pulled his hand out from under the heated, blanket-covered table and gave a calm wave.
It was too cold inside to take off their coats. There was no place to hang them, anyway.
From the shelves, Takamatsu pulled down tinned sardines and Sakaguchi took down umeboshi pickled plums.
Hiroshi went for beer and got a bottle to share with Ishii. The opener was tied to a grimy piece of string taped to the cold cabinet door. Takamatsu and Sakaguchi poured their own plastic cups of shochu.
Sakaguchi held up his plastic cup of shochu and cleared his throat.
Hiroshi, Ishii, and Takamatsu stopped to listen.
Sakaguchi’s hand wasn’t trembling exactly, but there was a shake, of uncertainty, or fatigue, Hiroshi couldn’t tell. “I’m being promoted to chief and I need your—”
“So, it’s true?” Takamatsu’s face broke into the widest grin Hiroshi had ever seen him make.
“You’ll have our full support.” Hiroshi tapped his beer cup against Sakaguchi’s shochu glass.
“Congratulations!” Ishii held her cup of beer overhead with two hands.
Takamatsu kept smiling. “We’ll get you a Borsalino hat.”
“They don’t sell them in my size.” Sakaguchi patted his head.
They drank without another word and that was all the congratulations Sakaguchi needed.
Hiroshi broke the awkward silence. “So, the daughter-abducting father was really talented at setting up shell companies and individual trusts.”
Sakaguchi stretched his knee. “With dirty money?”
Takamatsu drained his shochu. “If it’s Nozaki’s money, it isn’t just dirty, it’s bloody.”
“Nozaki?” Sakaguchi ate sardines from a small tin.
Ishii finished her beer. “Nozaki is probably the one who broke into the apartment—”
“I thought that was the father?”
Ishii nodded. “After the father.”
“There were two break-ins?”
Ishii nodded. “The second was Nozaki. He’s the one who beat up Taiga. And then Ota followed—”
“Who called in Ota?”
“I did, chief.” Takamatsu shrugged.
Sakaguchi sighed. The chief was adamant about not using outside help. Probably why Takamatsu did it.
Hiroshi interrupted. “Nozaki was also on a list of clients for a wealth management company.”
Ishii continued. “And Ota found one of Nozaki’s men following Miyuki this afternoon.”
Sakaguchi dug into his pocket for his cellphone and scrolled up and down. “Here’s the video from outside Nine Dragons.”
Takamatsu pulled up the photos that Ota had forwarded through Shibutani. The body sizes matched, as did the black outfits, but with a mask on, it wasn’t certain.
Takamatsu put his phone away. “Nozaki was a cop. A couple years younger than me. You could tell who he brought in because their noses were always broken. There were a lot fewer restrictions in those days, but still he got fired. He started working for yakuza roughing up cheating girlfriends, making collections, or just showing up when needed. He was smart and smooth-talking, and gradually moved from muscle work to sokaiya corporate extortion.”
Ishii interrupted. “I don’t get that. Why didn’t the companies just throw out anyone who disrupted their meetings?”
Takamatsu smiled. “Nozaki owned shares in the companies, so he had the right to attend meetings. Of course, he’d pay someone to disrupt the meetings, and pretend to stop them. Then collect money from the company for stopping them. Companies would do anything to avoid the shame of disruption. A very lucrative form of theater. In the bubble years, corporate accounting was whatever you made of it, so they could always cover payoffs.”
Sakaguchi reached down to massage his knee and stretch his leg. “In my neighborhood growing up, it was easier to pay suppliers who overcharged. Especially those who overcharged. You paid for things not to happen.”
Takamatsu flipped his lighter. “Nozaki took that to another level. He started to show up to collect at the main offices. He published trade magazines and forced the companies to buy them at inflated prices. He’d threaten journalists to get puff pieces in respectable magazines, and charge for that. He was a master.”
“And don’t tell me, he’d follow the executives, find them in compromising situations, and photograph them for blackmail,” Hiroshi added.
“Another type of shame that worked well.” Takamatsu lit a cigarette and flipped his thick gold lighter.
Sakaguchi interrupted. “So you knew this guy, Nozaki?”
The old bar owner behind the counter started snoring in front of the TV.
“One year, there was a directive to stop all corporate extortion. The sokaiya were going to be stopped, at last. We were given a free hand to arrest anyone for any reason. So, when the annual meetings started, we were ready. Shibutani, his cousin, and I were assigned to the same place.”
“As expected, the sokaiya started shouting and things quickly turned into the usual tussle. But that day, the theatrics turned violent. Shareholders and company employees were slugging it out with Nozaki’s men. The police were bashing heads. In the middle of the fight, I saw Nozaki smiling at me. In his hand, he held a knife. Before I could get to him, he turned and tossed it out the window.”
“Tossed it where?” Ishii asked.
“Below the window was a canal.” Takamatsu closed his eyes. “When the fighting was brought under control, three detectives lay bleeding. One was the son of a Diet member who wanted to be a detective. He had to have part of his intestines removed. The other was Shibutani, who as you know is still kicking. The third was Shibutani’s cousin. He bled out before the ambulance arrived. Shibutani never got over it.”
“Shibutani and I looked for Nozaki for years. We’d get reports now and again from Interpol and overseas departments. Nozaki must have siphoned off enough during those years to stay hidden forever.”
Takamatsu ground out his cigarette in the leftover oil of his empty sardine can.
“But now, he’s back in Japan, out of hiding, and he won’t be hard to find.”