Monica showed Walker photos that the FBI had left behind, of Jasper’s apartment in Palo Alto, in case Monica looked again and noticed something. There were near-on a hundred digital files on her tablet.
He flicked through and saw a spartan flat. Nothing. A futon mattress on the floor, sheets rumpled. A folded blanket and pillow in a wardrobe. Diet sodas in the refrigerator. Pot noodles in the cupboard. A tin of coffee and a drip-filter machine and one mug. A tiny television on the bench. Bare white walls except for one that contained built-in bookshelves stacked with books. That was it.
Walker said, “Do you think the FBI took anything?”
“This is how he is.” Monica looked at her coffee. “He never hung on to anything of his past. Always moved forward.”
“He’s living like a college student.”
“He was hardly ever there, as far as I know. From what they said.”
“So, why keep the apartment at all?”
“Maybe he was keeping a toe in the commercial world, being near Silicon Valley.”
“He wanted out of government work?”
“That was just a guess. I don’t know. But he gets restless.”
Walker looked through the pics, back and forth. “No computer?”
“Laptop, I suppose. There’s a router in one of the pictures. Cable Internet, the FBI said.”
“No storage devices on show. The world’s smallest TV.” Walker flicked back through the pictures. “A couple of long-life meals in his pantry, no bag of clothes—no clothes hanging up.”
“The absence of something doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think it can, and I think it does.”
“How?”
“He wasn’t there to stay. Where’s his stuff, even for a short trip? If he was going there for the weekend, he’d have a carry-on bag, right? With a couple of T-shirts and a toothbrush at least, because there’s none of that there. There’s nothing there. The wardrobe’s empty.”
“You think the witness was lying, that he took his bag and went someplace?”
“Or they took his bag. Maybe it had his computer in it.”
“Maybe he’s gone all hikikomori.”
Walker looked at her, wondering if she was trying to make a joke. He remembered that face. Those eyes. Those lips. A happy time. Long past.
“It’s a thing in Japan,” she continued, matching his look with her own, taking in his blue eyes, his mouth, the lines of his jaw and neck. “People who, ah—they withdraw from the world. There’s more than a million of them in Japan who don’t leave their rooms, or apartments. Not ever.”
So, she wasn’t joking. Hikikomori. “I’ve heard of it,” he replied, “but do you really think your brother’s like that?”
“He may be. I told you, we’re not close.”
“But you’re perceptive, Monica. You’re a professional at this. You know people. You’d know if your brother was like that.”
She sighed. “I think he has the tendencies. I mean, look around, right?”
“But that’s it. He has a job and he traveled on a plane from the east coast to here, so he’s not withdrawn from the world.”
“What, then?” she countered. “He comes here to enjoy a monastic lifestyle.”
“Perhaps.” Walker looked at the FBI pictures that showed the view out the apartment’s windows. The sight lines. It was a corner apartment. There was a car park and apartment buildings opposite the bedroom side. Taller buildings in the background. A street to the other side. Apartments beyond. Nothing telling. But Jasper could have been observed, watched, by someone out there.