Nightshade An Only in Tokyo Mystery (InterMix)

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THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. NIGHTSHADE An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / August 2012 Copyright © 2012 by Jonelle Patrick. Excerpt from Fallen Angel copyright © 2012 by Jonelle Patrick. All images copyright © 2012 by Jonelle Patrick. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. ISBN: 978-1-101-57880-3 INTERMIX InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

A LWAY S L E A R N I N G

PEARSON

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To my faithful readers—Marcia Pillon, Paula Span, Mary Mackey, Darlis Wood, Claire Abila, Elizabeth Soffer, and Shannon Manso—thank you from the bottom of my heart. You not only read the not-ready-to-be-pushed-outof-the-nest manuscript, you also told me the unvarnished truth about what needed to be fixed and managed to do it without making me want to commit seppuku.

Bottomless thanks to Noriko Raffauf and Shiho Nishida, who shall be held blameless for their student’s incorrect Japanese, but thanked profusely for helping me gather tons of useful information from kanji-infested websites.

Eternal gratitude to Yuki Iwanaga, Ayumi Shirao, and Hiroyuki Ootomo, who endured strange costumed gatherings, introduced me to all the best people, and graciously fixed my rude Japanese.

To Hugh Patrick, for convincing me I’d regret never having written this book more than I’d regret having brontosauran dustballs lurking under my bed.

Sandy Harding, Queen of Editors, and Elizabeth Bistrow, Editorial Assistant Extraordinaire, every single piece of direction you gave me made the manuscript sing. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am so lucky to be working with you.

To my beloved agent, April Eberhardt: Thank you for making dreams come true.

To my family, for not rolling your eyes every time I mentioned the J-word and for Absence of Persecution, thank you forever and ever and ever.

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Nightshade And to all the openhearted Japanese friends who took a chance and invited this foreigner into their hearts and

minds and opened doors to the odder corners of Japanese society: This book and my life would not be the same without you. Kokoro kara, arigatō gozaimasu.

Chapter 1 Friday, April 5 9:00 P.M.

The girl walked toward him across the moon-silvered parking lot, the long ribbons on her tiny black top hat fluttering behind. As she passed through the shadow of the looming Komagome Shrine, all he could see was the glow of white lace on the stiff petticoat peeking out from under her flouncy black frock. She just wanted someone to hold her hand, so she didn’t have to be alone anymore. He smiled. Holding girls’ hands for the very last time was his specialty.

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Chapter 2 Saturday, April 6 8:00 A.M.

Yumi

“Yumi, it’s time to get up! You’ll be late!” Pulling her pillow over her head, Yumi groaned. She was never going to drink again. Never. At least not at the Mad Hatter with Rika’s Goth-Lolita friends. The ones she’d been with last night looked like little girls in their Bo-Peep frocks, but they could put away cocktails like sumo wrestlers. Yumi wasn’t a Lolita herself, but her best friend had been dragging her along for so many years she’d become an honorary member of their Circle. If Rika hadn’t left so early for her mysterious date last night, they’d have gone home together as usual at a reasonable hour and Yumi wouldn’t have this pounding— “Yumi, please,” her mother persisted, now standing over the bed. “You know that Ito-san is coming in early just for you. Don’t be late.” Crap. Now she remembered. Her haircutter was booked solid, but he’d offered to come in at the ungodly hour of 9:00 A.M. as a favor. Tonight she had Date Number Five with Ichiro Mitsuyama. Actually, Date Number Four if she didn’t count their o-miai, the formal matchmaking introduction lunch with both sets of parents making stiff conversation at the other end of the table. After tonight it would no longer be too soon for Ichiro to raise the subject of marriage. She burrowed deeper. “In twenty minutes you need to be on the train to Harajuku,” her mother insisted mercilessly.

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Wincing, Yumi threw off the covers and struggled to her feet, making her way to what used to be the room’s bedding cupboard. Hugging herself against the cold, she pushed aside hangers until she found her green pants. A light touch was required; the clothes bar had been improvised when they’d retrofitted the eight-mat parlor as Yumi’s bedroom, and sometimes the entire thing collapsed. The Hata family had moved in with big plans, but over time, as the money needed to modernize failed to materialize, temporary fixes had settled into permanence. As she picked out a sweater, her mother couldn’t resist adding, “If you hadn’t stayed out so late with Rika and her Freeter friends . . .” Yumi grabbed some underwear and quickly shuffled to the bathroom to avoid the familiar lecture. It wasn’t unusual for grown children to live at home until they married, but after being pushed and prodded through school, a growing number of Japanese graduates just stepped off the treadmill. If they didn’t land a job in their chosen fields, they refused to get married or launch any kind of career. Freeters lived at home, worked part-time day jobs, and cruised the clubs at night. At least I’ve got a real job, thought Yumi, shutting the bathroom door. Sort of. Interpreting lectures on penile dysfunction for convention-going urologists, and professorial ramblings on “The Splendor of Longing in The Tale of Genji,” wasn’t exactly something to brag about to her former English Lit professors at Boston College, but at least she wasn’t working at a tea ceremony sweetshop like her friend Coco. She sighed, regretting for the thousandth time that she hadn’t been able to land a job in America with a permanent resident visa attached. Glancing in the mirror, she hoped her haircutter had made a big donation at his local shrine this year. Today it would take some divine intervention to transform her into anything remotely resembling a potential Mrs. Mitsuyama. Pulling her shoulder-length hair into a spiky ponytail, she splashed water on her face. Better. Did the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled made up for her sickly pallor? Better not answer that before chugging a bottle of Ukon no Chikara hangover cure on the way to the subway station. Nose nearly

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touching the glass, she inspected the dark circles under her eyes and prodded the slightly painful spot next to her nose, hoping it wouldn’t turn into something red and hideous by tonight. Fortunately, Itosan—makeup wizard as well as haircutter—used industrial-strength foundation that had proven effective before at fixing the ravages of the Mad Hatter. In the kitchen she found her mother settling a pickled plum into the middle of a bowl of breakfast rice. She handed it to Yumi and poured her a cup of green tea. Yumi noticed a large empty sake bottle sitting by the back door next to the nonburnable trash. Uh-oh, it hadn’t been there yesterday when she’d come home from her interpreting job. “Did Dad come home early yesterday?” she asked, picking the plum off her rice and squinching up her face at its salty sourness. “Yes,” her mother sighed. “Remember that professorship that’s going to be vacant next year? His interview was yesterday at three.” “How did it go?” Yumi asked, dreading the answer. “He says it went well.” The worry line between her mother’s brows deepened. “But he’s already predicting they’ll give it to the retiring professor’s protégé.” “The skinny guy with the terrible teeth?” Yumi frowned. “Isn’t he a lot younger than Dad?” “Yes, but apparently he won a prize recently. And his area of specialization is popular right now. He’s already written three books.” They contemplated that fact in silence. After twelve years, Yumi’s father’s magnum opus still wasn’t quite done. His angry outbursts on the “publish or perish” dictum he blamed for his series of temporary professorships were never mentioned within the family. Every time he’d been passed over for a permanent position during their years in America, he’d spend the first week nursing his disappointment with liberal doses of sake, then he’d dig in for several weeks of feverish writing and research on After the Black Ships: Japanese-American Trade as an Instrument of Change. Eventually he would run out of energy and put the project aside until inspiration returned—usually when another

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coveted chair was awarded to a rival. Then his mother died, leaving them this house in Tokyo. Yumi was transplanted from the third grade class at Boston Elementary to Komagome Shōgakko, and Dr. Hata took a lecturing position in the history department at Toda University. They’d all hoped that moving back to Japan would bring a change in his fortunes, that perhaps at Toda he’d be judged by the quality of his scholarship, not by his failure to publish. But as the years slipped by and he continued to be passed over for promotion, the plans for renovating the drafty old house grew outdated and Yumi learned to make herself scarce when she saw her mother’s lips set in a thin line and empty sake bottles by the back door. Yumi rinsed out her bowl, detoured to her room to toss her phone into her purse, then scuffed on some shoes by the front door, calling a hasty “Itte kimasu” as she escaped the dim, cramped house. A handful of cherry blossom petals fluttered by in the fresh spring wind, and Yumi began to feel better. At the Family Mart on the way to the station, she ducked in to buy a can of hangover elixir and downed it right outside the store, tossing the empty can into the recycle bin. Crossing the bridge near the subway station, she discovered that a few of the trees lining the tracks had turned into princesses overnight. It still thrilled her each spring when, among the regiments of bare, brown trees, a few suddenly revealed themselves as blossom-crowned royalty. Even the hoary old cherry tree at the Komagome Shrine was beginning to flower, changing from a crusty old man to a dowager queen. A gust of wind swayed the heavy, rice-straw rope on the torii gate as she crossed the intersection to the subway station. Waving her train pass over the turnstile sensor, she didn’t even slow as it beeped her through. A train was still paused at the platform, but the doors closed with a sigh just as she came within range. The train pulled away. Four minutes until the next one would arrive. Time to call Rika. Pulling out her mobile, Yumi flipped it open and was surprised by a picture of the scary, rooster-haired band Moi dix Mois on the display.

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She groaned. This wasn’t her phone. She and Rika had gone to the Docomo store together to buy new phones a few weeks ago. As usual, they’d decided on the same model, and, after a brief argument, the same color. There’d never been any danger of a mix-up before, because Rika always transferred her collection of phone ornaments. The thick tassel of little figures on their strings was a living record of Rika’s enthusiasms and travels since first grade, but she hadn’t switched her collection to this phone yet. Rika must have scooped up the wrong one when she left the Mad Hatter. Yumi would have to remember not to answer any calls today, unless the display showed they came from her own number. Scrolling through Rika’s address book, she found her own name and hit Send. The call went immediately to voicemail. She asked herself to leave a message. That was strange—Rika always picked up, even when she was sound asleep. Was she . . . with someone? Rika had been awfully closemouthed about where she was going last night and whom she was meeting. The only thing she’d admitted was that she’d seen a new editor that afternoon, some guy interested in a freelance piece she was pitching. That was why she’d been dressed so strangely. Well, strangely for Rika, anyway. Ever since middle school, Yumi had rarely seen her in anything but thigh-high, lace-edged stockings, frilly pink dresses, and eccentric little French-maid mobcaps. Rika was the queen of the Sweet Lolitas, girls who demonstrated their commitment to each other by dressing in variations on Little Bo Peep. Outsiders often made the mistake of thinking the Lolitas were trying to appeal to men with weird fetishes, but that was before they saw the scorn Rika and her friends heaped on salarymen who looked at them the wrong way. All the Lolitas—Sweet, Goth, Elegant, Punk—put on confidence and style when they tied the ribbons of their frothy hats beneath their chins, no matter how shy or awkward they’d been before. One end of the spectrum was defined by petticoats, Mary Janes, and bonnets, the other by artfully tattered dresses, black-buckled boots, and top hats.

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That’s why all Rika’s parasol-toting friends at the Mad Hatter had turned to stare when she’d appeared last night in a navy blue suit and high heels. Clearly the new editor she’d been meeting didn’t work at GothXLoli magazine, where Rika was a staff writer. And whoever she’d had a date with last night hadn’t been a member of her Circle, either. Yumi heard the train approaching as the phone’s low-battery icon glowed red. She texted, dying to hear about last night CALL ME, and pushed Send.

Chapter 3 Saturday, April 6 8:00 A.M.

Kenji

Tokyo Metropolitan Police Detective Kenji Nakamura leaned his tall frame against the side of the squad car and watched as Assistant Detective Suzuki arranged roadblocks across the entrance to the Komagome Shrine’s parking lot. A slight breeze lifted the wings of his thick, nearly-black hair, reminding him he ought to get it cut on the way to judo practice tomorrow. Once a would-be girlfriend had embarrassed him by saying it drew attention to his dreamy eyes, but Kenji found it annoying to have his hair in his face all the time. He squinted as the sun began to break through the trees. It was a good thing Shinto priests started work early—one of them had noticed the lone Lexus shortly after 7:30 A.M. and had called the police as soon as he saw what was inside. Kenji had been a detective for nearly a year, but these were the first suspicious deaths he’d been called to investigate. Crime in Tokyo tended toward burglary and assault; murder was rare, usually the work of drunken family members who dutifully turned themselves in afterward and confessed. Not that these deaths would require much investigation—it looked like a garden-variety suicide pact, the kind that had become all too common. Now that the Internet made it so convenient, the despairing could plan their final deadly get-togethers as easily as cherry blossom viewing picnics. A

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flurry of spent petals whirled past him like a small blizzard, the classic Japanese reminder that life is fleeting. Kenji sighed and pulled on his police-issue white cotton gloves. He bent to peer through the window at the three bodies inside. A middle-aged man and woman in front, a young woman in back. The twenty-something girl was obviously a Goth-Lolita, one of the doll-like eccentrics who dressed exclusively in black and white, right down to the Buddhist rosary she’d chosen to clasp while saying her final prayers. She wore thigh-high, black stockings and platform Mary Janes under lace-edged, white petticoats and a short, ruffled, black dress. A tiny top hat, jauntily canted over one ear, tied under her chin with ribbons that trailed to her waist. In her fingerless, black velvet gloves and studded-leather choker with dangling crucifixes, she must have made an arresting mixture of innocence and decay. Her heavy makeup gave her an artificial appearance, yet there was something familiar about her. Kenji frowned. What was a twenty-something Goth-Lolita doing in a car with a couple old enough to be her parents? He opened the front door on the passenger side and unlatched the glove box. Inside, registration papers listed the owner’s name: Mr. Tatsuo Hamada, with a Shirogane address. “Excuse me, sir?” Suzuki stood at attention on the other side of the car, having secured the shrine entrance with multiple barriers against incursion by worshippers, tourists, and passing imperial armies. Kenji wasn’t quite used to having a kōhai to mentor yet. Being called “sir”—as all kōhais properly called their sempais—still made him look around to see whom Suzuki was addressing. His new assistant’s attention to the finer points of the regulations was impeccable, if a little hard to take first thing in the morning. Suzuki had graduated from university two years behind Kenji and was on the same National Public Servant Career Group fast track, but he was so new to the Komagome detective detail that his suit hadn’t even been to the cleaners yet. And his haircut would have to grow out

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for months to even slightly threaten the dress code. “What shall I tell the priests, sir? There’s apparently a wedding scheduled later and they’re becoming anxious.” Kenji glanced at the knot of men muttering to each other under the cherry trees. Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples divided the business of life and death neatly down the middle: Everything to do with life and the living fell to the Shinto priests, while the Buddhists took care of death and the afterlife. It was such bad luck to have a death at a Shinto shrine that the priests would have to do some serious parking-lot purifying before the wedding party arrived. “I’ll talk to them in a minute. I doubt this is anything but suicide, but we should cover ourselves. Could you give the crime tech unit a call? And arrange transport for the bodies?” “Which hospital, sir?” Kenji thought for a moment. Komagome Hospital was closest, but if it turned out there was anything suspicious about the deaths, the bodies would be transferred to the Tokyo University School of Legal Medicine. “Let’s decide after the tech team finishes. Call them first.” “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Suzuki walked away, pulling out his phone. Kenji called after him, “Suzuki-san? Could you fetch some tea? If the priests don’t have any, try the Family Mart across the street.” Being a sempai did have its advantages. He returned his attention to the bodies. The man in the driver’s seat had died holding hands with the woman next to him. Two unlabeled prescription bottles sat near the gearshift, and a half-empty bottle of good sake lay on its side by the driver’s foot. Matching cups sat on the dashboard, the one on the passenger side stained with pale pink lipstick. They were conservatively—but expensively—dressed. The woman’s hair was glossy black, but

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would have been peppered with gray if she hadn’t colored it. Lines on her face were beginning to show through her careful makeup. She was close enough to the man in age that Kenji suspected she was his wife, not his mistress. A thick, business-size envelope sat propped behind the steering wheel. Given the empty pill bottles and the old-fashioned charcoal burner he’d spied squatting on the floor in the back seat, Kenji bet he’d find a suicide note inside. He’d read it after photos were taken. He pulled open the back door. The girl still puzzled him. How did she fit in? The small handbag on her lap most likely contained her ID, but he didn’t want to disturb anything until the tech team was finished examining the scene. Unfolding himself from the Lexus, Kenji turned in a circle, surveying the surroundings. What a beautiful place to die. Kenji had grown up in the neighborhood, but had seldom stopped to appreciate the serenity of the shrine while cutting through it on his way home from school. The sugi trees lining the parking lot cast long shadows over the asphalt. Their subtle cedar fragrance perfumed the breeze, a scent evoking the very soul of Japan. A red lacquer torii gate stood solemnly over the entrance to the shrine path, which passed beneath it into a frothy pink tunnel of blooming cherry trees. Beyond, the shrine stretched its red and gold wings above the awakening gardens. It would have been a fine day for a wedding. “The crime technicians are here, sir,” said Suzuki, appearing at his elbow with a steaming cup of hot green tea. He leaned in to whisper, “Just to warn you, we got the foreigner.” Kenji accepted the tea and information with thanks and watched as his assistant jogged over to move the roadblock. He’d never met Crime Technician Tommy Loud, but that name had frequently been the subject of Australian stereotype jokes in both English and Japanese, as had his employment in the notoriously clubby National Police Administration. According to the gossip, Loud’s appointment had nothing to do with his degree in Legal Sciences from Jikei University. Everybody knew he’d been hired because of his wife.

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The daughter of the Superintendent General of the Metropolitan Police had inexplicably and defiantly eloped with this gangly red-haired foreigner who shared her passion for the novels of Yasunari Kawabata. Only the news of an imminent grandchild and a job offer in Sydney had finally convinced the Superintendent General to abandon his hopes for a speedy divorce and pull strings instead. A van rolled to a stop just inside the entrance and the Australian jumped out, toting a digital camera. He jogged toward them, stopping a few feet away to bow at the proper angle for greeting a Detective-grade officer. “Good morning, I’m Tommy Loud, from the crime lab. Sorry it took me so long to get here,” he said in impeccable Japanese. Kenji’s mouth dropped open. It was like hearing a dog speak. He stammered his own name in reply. “Ah, Nakamura-san, a pleasure to meet you. Nice day for some suspicious deaths, ne?” “Not so suspicious, Rowdy-san,” Kenji replied, recovering from his shock but mispronouncing Loud’s name in the typical Japanese fashion. “Group suicide. Looks pretty open and shut.” Suicide wasn’t a crime, but they had to go through the motions, just in case. Unless compelling evidence emerged to the contrary, the file would be inscribed “jisatsu,” the case closed, and the bodies released for cremation within a day or two. Loud nodded, already fiddling with his camera. “Shall we start with the car?” Kenji nodded. “I’ll be over there, talking to the priests if you need me. If we need a wider perimeter, I’ll let you know.” Loud directed his three blue-jumpsuited assistants to fetch evidence bags and begin searching a grid around the Lexus while he photographed the victims. Grabbing his cooling tea and still marveling at hearing fluent Japanese from such an unlikely source, Kenji approached the priests. Bowing respectfully, he said, “Good morning, kannushi-san. I’m Detective Kenji Nakamura. Who discovered the bodies?” A thin, nervous man in white robes and the traditional, black, oven-mitt-like headdress stepped

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forward. “I was the one who called 110. When I came out shortly after sunrise to make sure there was nothing inappropriate in the parking lot before the wedding today, I found . . . this.” His eyes flicked unwillingly to the silver car, then back to Kenji. “What do you mean by ‘inappropriate,’ kannushi-san?” The priest exchanged glances with an elderly priest, robed in green, with a long, thin beard. “The parking lot is surrounded by trees,” he explained. “It’s one of the few places in Tokyo that can’t be seen from neighboring buildings. Sometimes young people come here for . . . privacy.” “Ah. Couples that can’t afford a love hotel?” “Sometimes. And sometimes it’s kids, raiding the Suntory vending machine behind the pachinko parlor and bringing their cans of chū-hai here to get drunk.” “Foreign kids,” interrupted the older priest. “Well, not always,” said the young one. “But when I saw the mess by the path, I was pretty sure it was just young people sleeping it off in their parents’ car before driving home. I was hoping they spoke some Japanese because my English isn’t so good. I went over to roust them, but when I looked in the window . . .” He shuddered. “Where is this ‘mess by the path’ you mentioned?” The priest stood aside and pointed to a splat of vomit in the bushes next to a sign pointing the way to the shrine. Kenji stepped over to look, then bent down to peer into the thicket of azaleas surrounding the cherry trees. “When can we start cleaning up?” asked the old priest. “I don’t know if your colleague mentioned it, but . . .” “Yes, I know, the wedding.” Kenji looked back at the car. Loud was bent awkwardly into the back seat, his camera flash bouncing around inside like caged lightning. “Let me get our crime scene specialists over here to collect any evidence that might relate to our investigation, then we’ll let you do whatever you need to do.”

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Kenji began to walk back toward the Lexus, then turned and asked, “What will you tell the wedding party?” “Nothing they’ll be happy to hear.” The young priest sighed. Kenji returned to the car as Loud was putting away his camera. “Okay if I look in her purse now?” he asked. “Go ahead,” said the tech. “But put everything back when you’re done. Let me know when you’re finished so I can bag it up properly.” “While you’re waiting, there’s a white mobile phone in the bushes over by the path to the shrine. Collect that and anything else that looks like it was dropped since the last rain, including a sample of the vomit by the phone.” “Will do.” Loud grabbed two of his assistants and steered them toward the torii gate. Kenji leaned into the car and gently pulled the handbag from the girl’s hands. He unsnapped it and peered inside. Cheap gel pen, a piece of paper smeared with something that was the same color as the vomit by the path, and a thin, spiral-bound notebook. No phone, no ID. A ¥5,000 note was tucked into a side pocket. As he replaced the bag on the girl’s lap, he noticed the corner of a rumpled, white envelope poking from her skirt pocket. Kenji teased it out and read the front. Clearly it wasn’t intended for the “Mother and Father” in the front seat, who wouldn’t be around to read it. Maybe there was a name on the note inside. Careful not to tear the envelope, Kenji lifted the flap and drew out a sheet of folded stationery. It was blank.

Chapter 4 Saturday, April 6 3:10 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi’s session with Ito-san was a distant memory by the time she was forking up a bite of cream puff and steeling herself for Coco’s reaction to the juicy information she’d been unforgivably tardy in sharing. “You’re going out with Ichiro Mitsuyama?” her best friend gasped, leaning across the table at the Tea Four Two café. “As in Mitsuyama department stores? Mitsuyama Bank? The Mitsuyama subway line? That Mitsuyama?” Yumi nodded, amazed that her best friend’s eyes could get any rounder than they usually were. Every morning Coco used eyelid glue to give her the “Western” look dictated by the Princess Gal style she’d adopted in middle school. Her father was a respectable post office bureaucrat, but Coco bleached her luxurious curled hair to the color of milk tea, wore short babydoll-style dresses, and had fingernails so long and embellished they required workarounds just to dial her phone. Back in seventh grade, they’d been drawn to each other by a shared love of red bean buns and a stubborn refusal to kowtow to the popular girls. Even though Yumi had been back in Tokyo since third grade, she would always be “the foreigner” and Coco’s Princess Gal look had made her far too popular with the boys for most girls to have anything nice to say about her.

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“Sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Yumi apologized, poking at her cream puff. “It’s just—” “How’d you meet him?” her friend persisted, lighting one of the cigarettes that were the reason they were sitting out in the chilly courtyard instead of in one of the Tea Four Two’s cushy booths. Coco took a puff and held it out to the side so smoke wouldn’t drift onto the uniform she was required to wear at the Akebono tea ceremony sweets store. She’d already been cautioned once. “He went to graduate school at Boston College,” Yumi said. “So . . . you met him when you were at BC?” “Sort of. His quartet performed at an event I helped organize my senior year.” Not that Yumi had noticed him back then. When they met again at the o-miai lunch and their parents finally began chatting amongst themselves about the lateness of cherry blossom season, Ichiro had gazed at Yumi through his trendy glasses and said in English, “I don’t know if you remember me, but . . .” She’d remembered the occasion, but everyone there had been forgettable except her then-boyfriend Andrew, who’d spent the evening sulking near the drinks table, punishing her for dragging him to yet another Japanese cultural event. “I guess Ichiro remembered meeting me,” she continued, “so when he turned thirty and his parents began pressuring him to get married, he asked them to put me on the o-miai list.” “You met through an o-miai?” Coco shrieked. “You’re having an arranged marriage?” A pair of Goth-Lolitas at the neighboring table turned to stare. “Shh! No!” Yumi yelped, embarrassed. “It’s only our fourth date. My mother filled out the questionnaire they sent, so when the invitation came, we sort of had to go.” “She did it without asking you?” “No, it was right after I broke up with Ben. The third time.” Ben Samuels was her high school boyfriend, the first (and third and sixth) relationship to be doomed from the start. Like all her other boyfriends, Ben was boyishly handsome, thoroughly American, and incapable of understanding that the

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girl with one foot in America and one foot in Japan often had to bow to family obligation instead of putting her relationship with him first. She’d met him when they were fifteen, both of them earning pocket money tutoring English at the Number One Elite Cram School. “I didn’t think the Mitsuyamas would actually call,” Yumi said. “I mean, my father’s a lecturer at a perfectly respectable university, but the Mitsuyamas are kind of out of our league.” “I’ll say. What’s he like? A guy from that kind of family—isn’t he hopelessly Japanese?” “Well, yeah . . .” Yumi admitted. She and Coco had spent many hours dissecting the failings of Japanese boyfriends. Never opened the door for you, never helped you with your coat. Always said, “I like you,” never “I love you.” Ichiro was 100 percent Nippon danshi in public, but Yumi felt he’d demonstrated some potential in private. Clearly, he hadn’t been studying business on Saturday nights at BC. “He’s nice,” Yumi admitted. “I kind of like him.” Coco narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and stubbed out her cigarette. “So tonight’s Date Number Four. Where are you going?” “Roppongi Hills Club. To his Toda University class reunion.” “Yow. He must be serious about you if he’s planning to introduce you to all his friends. I can’t believe you met him through an o-miai,” Coco said, shaking her head. “It’s so . . . medieval.” “Come on, it’s no different than if we met at a party. Just because our parents pre-approve doesn’t mean we have to get married.” “But that’s the idea, isn’t it? To get married? How many times can you go out before you have to decide?” Yumi shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Oh I don’t know, five? Maybe six?” “Is he cute?” Yumi thought a moment. “Sort of. I mean, he’s nice-looking, but you wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd. Short hair. Glasses. He has good taste in clothes, though.” She smiled. “Really good taste in

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clothes.” “Tall?” “About as tall as me,” she admitted. Back in high school, she and Coco had agreed that tallness in a boyfriend was key. That was back when trading character for looks was unlikely to turn into a lifelong mistake. Coco took a sip of tea. “All I can say is, you work fast. A month ago you were sitting at this same table, telling me how you hated that it shocked people if you gave your opinion when they asked for it, how you’re always being treated like an outsider, how you’d never fit in here. Now you’re marrying—” “Thinking about marrying. Considering thinking about marrying.” “—a guy from one of the oldest and richest families in the country!” Coco shook her head in disbelief. “Does he have any brothers? The first bars of Ayumi Hamasaki’s “Sparkle” chimed from Coco’s handbag. She dug out her phone and frowned at the display. “Hey, what do you know? It’s you,” she said to Yumi. “Moshi-moshi. Rika, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” She listened for a moment, confused. “Oh! Sorry, officer. What?” She listened. “Oh. I guess that explains why Rika hasn’t been answering.” Silence. “No, Rika Ozawa is the one who dropped it but the phone you have belongs to Yumi Hata. Rika picked it up by accident on Friday night.” She listened again. “Ozawa . . . That’s right, the characters are the ones for ‘big marsh.’” She juggled the phone to her left hand. “Yes, I have that information, but Yumi’s right here—do you want to talk to her?” She listened again. “Okay, I’ll tell her. What kind of incident? Was Rika involved?” Silence. “Ah, I understand . . . So, you just need their contact info, right?” Rooting through her purse, Coco pulled out a dog-eared address book plastered three-deep with photo stickers and read off Rika’s and Yumi’s addresses, along with their families’ home phone numbers. “When can Yumi get her phone back?” She listened. “Okay, thanks.” Coco dropped her phone back in her bag. “Now we know why Rika hasn’t been picking up. She

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dropped your phone at the Komagome Shrine. The police are investigating some kind of incident there and your keitai got swept up with the evidence. He said you can probably get it back in a few days.” A few days? Yumi groaned. She didn’t want to be confronted by Moi dix Mois every time she made a call, but she certainly didn’t want to give Rika her phone back and be cut off from all communication while the police took their sweet time investigating this “incident.” “What happened?” she asked, peeved. “He didn’t say. Apparently it doesn’t have anything to do with Rika, though, because he said he just wanted her contact info so they could return the phone. If she was involved, he’d probably have wanted to confiscate the one you have, too.” Yumi forked up her last bite of cream puff. “Good thing you didn’t tell him I had it.”

Chapter 5 Saturday, April 6 3:30 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji pushed aside the report he’d been working on since noon and rubbed his face. The protection racket investigation was going to put away some small-time gangsters, but Kenji had no illusions that it would make much difference. More petty criminals would pop up overnight like poisonous mushrooms. Maybe he should take a break, get a cup of tea. He stood up to stretch and looked around the halfdeserted squad room. It was a slow day for interrogations—the interview room doors surrounding the common space all stood open. Rows of desks, assigned according to rank, marched from lowliest next to the elevator up to the section chief’s near the windows. Kenji had been assigned to a desk halfway between the elevators and the section chief’s, which overlooked the room from beneath the only window. Although everybody received the same nondescript, government-issue equipment, it was easy to tell who sat at each desk by the personal items on top. The golf trophy Section Chief Tanaka had won last spring as one of the Superintendent General’s foursome attested to his years of climbing the ladder, both on and off duty. Next to Kenji, framed photos of Detective Oki’s family, going back to when his teenage son was a baby, jostled with a large collection of snapshots showing his judo students triumphantly holding trophies. Kenji’s desk remained almost bare. No wife, no kids, no commendations, no trophies. The only

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personal items in evidence were the three ornaments dangling from the cell phone he’d tossed on top of his paperwork: a success-in-exams charm he’d bought before he landed a coveted spot at Tokyo University, a small wooden gourd that had belonged to his mother, and a slightly grubby Year of the Dragon dangler he’d swiped in fifth grade, hoping the girl who still owned a little piece of his heart would discover his crime and ask for it back. He wondered where Yumi was now. Was she was married yet? His desk was clear of clutter, except for the evidence bags pushed into one corner. He set aside the protection racket report and pulled them over. One held a white envelope and a blank sheet of stationery; the other, a business envelope, a suicide note, and two passports. The note from the business envelope left few doubts about the intentions of the two people found dead in the Lexus’ front seats. He reread the bold calligraphy: To The People Of Japan, Our Loyal Customers, Employees, Family And Friends: By offering up our humble lives, we assume all responsibility for actions taken during our stewardship of the Hamada Sweets Corporation. Please accept our deepest apologies for any harm we have done, not only in the past, but any result of those actions in the future. We entrust to our son the duty of putting the company back on the right path. It would be most regrettable if innocent people were harmed as a result of the mistakes made under our imperfect management. Please accept our sincere sacrifice as a pledge that the wrongs done were ours and ours alone. Our son and the management of the Hamada Sweets Corporation are blameless and did not participate in the practices that precipitated this act. We, the undersigned, attest that we took our own lives without coercion or assistance.

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It was signed by Masayo and Tatsuo Hamada and sealed with two vermilion hanko stamps. “Nakamura-san.” His neighbor, Detective Oki, had just returned from investigating a burglary at the Fujimoto Corporation headquarters. Loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt as he dropped into his swivel chair, Oki cracked his neck left and right, looking exactly like the fifth-degree black belt in judo that he was. Even taller than Kenji and twice as broad, the big detective’s graying brush-cut hair and good-natured face routinely made suspects mistake him for someone whose brawn exceeded his brains. They never guessed he’d been within a year of getting a psychology degree before transferring to the police academy, until he trapped them into admitting something they later regretted. “I was just down at the lab talking to Rowdy-san,” the big detective said, dumping a couple of file folders on his desk. “He said they’ve started on your suicides. The dead girl’s fingerprints were all over that phone.” “Thanks, Oki-san.” Kenji held up the note he had just been reading. “Take a look at this and tell me what you think.” Oki took the bag and read the suicide note through the plastic. “Huh. Looks like another chicken farmer case.” Kenji nodded. During the most recent bird flu panic, dozens of poultry farms had faced bankruptcy when entire flocks were slaughtered to keep the epidemic from spreading. To avoid certain ruin, one family-owned business near Kyoto quickly butchered and shipped birds that were known to have been infected. Although nobody died as a result, the owner and his wife hanged themselves, leaving a note apologizing to the Japanese people for causing so much “inconvenience.” Oki handed the evidence bag back to Kenji. “What do you think is going on at their company? Sounds like it might be worth investigating. Do you know anything about their business? Or their son?” “Not yet.” Oki picked up the bag with the white envelope addressed to “Mother and Father” in it. “This one

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belongs to the third victim?” Kenji nodded. Oki flipped the clear bag over and saw that the piece of paper was blank on both sides. “No note?” “That’s it.” “Sir?” Suzuki appeared, a file folder in hand. “Ah, Suzuki-san. What have you got?” “That phone you found in the bushes, sir. It turns out that the person who owns it is different from the person who lost it.” “How did the phone company know that?” Suzuki reddened. “Well, sir, I . . . I hope I didn’t break any regulations, sir. I, uh . . .” He glanced nervously at Oki. “Remember what I told you—there’s breaking, and there’s bending,” the older detective said with a grin. He looked at Kenji. “I mentioned that there was an easier way to get that information than beating his head against phone company bureaucracy.” “He suggested I return the most recent received call and ask whose number came up on their caller ID, sir,” Suzuki explained. He glanced down at his notes. “Coco—the woman who answered—told me the phone we have belongs to someone named Yumi, but Yumi’s friend is the one who actually dropped it at the shrine. Apparently, they have the same model and the friend picked up the wrong one by accident. The friend’s name is . . .” He consulted his notes. “Rika Ozawa.” Rika Ozawa. A Rika Ozawa had been in his high school class, although he hadn’t known her personally. He hoped that wasn’t why she looked familiar. “Did you get an address?” Suzuki extracted a piece of paper from the folder. Kenji glanced at it and frowned. “4-14-21 Hon-Komagome.” She was local. Kenji hadn’t hung around with the Goth-Lolitas in high school, but this Rika might have. He wondered if the victim’s

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missing cell phone had messages on it that would explain why the dead couple had joined her to commit suicide. He’d track it down after he did the next-of-kin notifications. “Good work, Suzuki-san. What about the couple in the front seats?” Suzuki shuffled his papers. “According to Minato Ward family records, the Hamadas have one adult son, who lives with them at the address on the car registration.” He pushed another piece of paper across Kenji’s desk. “Did you find anything on the family business?” “I haven’t had time to check yet, sir.” “Do an online search. I’d like to know as much as possible before we notify the son. The suicide note suggests that the company is involved in something that warrants investigation, and we may need to ask him some questions before he has a chance to hide whatever it is.” “Yes, sir. I’ll do that right away, sir.” Suzuki bowed deferentially and left. Oki sat down at his desk and pulled out a form to start his burglary report. Kenji hesitated, then said, “Oki-san? Um, I could use some advice.” The older detective looked up. Kenji lowered his voice. “Have you ever had to request an autopsy?” Oki frowned. “A few times. Why? Suicide isn’t a crime. It’s even considered honorable, in some circumstances.” “I know. But . . . I’m not completely convinced it was suicide.” Oki looked around and saw that the section chief was sitting at his desk within earshot, muttering to himself as he stamped a thick stack of forms with his hanko. The big detective jerked his head toward one of the interview rooms; Kenji followed. Inside, Oki closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded. “Why don’t you think it was suicide?” Kenji perched on the edge of the interview table. “First of all, even though there was a charcoal

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burner in the car, the doctor on morgue rotation told me none of the victims had the reddened skin associated with carbon monoxide poisoning. He was sure they must have died from something else first.” “Such as . . . ?” “We found empty prescription pill bottles, so they might have taken enough to do the job. But the doctor said most people don’t trust meds alone—if you take too many, you throw up before they kill you. If you take too few, you don’t die. That’s why they usually back up the sleeping pills with a charcoal burner. The pills knock you out quickly and the fumes finish the job.” “Didn’t you say that someone did toss their cookies near the scene?” Kenji nodded. “We think it was the girl. The examining doctor found traces in her mouth and there was a piece of notebook paper in her purse that looked as if she’d wiped her mouth with it. But if she threw up the pills before they killed her and she didn’t show signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, what did she die of?” “The doc didn’t find anything else out of the ordinary?” “No. She had recent scrapes on her knees and hands, but he said she could have gotten those any time on the day of her death.” Kenji hesitated, then said, “The doc on morgue rotation was young. I don’t think he’s done many exams like this, and he didn’t seem to like it much. I could tell he hated even touching the dead bodies. He suggested I wait and see whether the lab finds drugs in the vomit or not, and whether it matches the swab from the girl’s mouth. If Rowdy-san finds she threw up before taking any pills, it would be safe to assume she died of overdose, same as the others.” He shifted in his chair. “But there’s something else, too. The note. Or rather, the lack of one. Why would she address an envelope to her parents, then forget to put in a note?” Oki shook his head. “It’s hard to believe anybody would be that distracted. Or that cruel.” “Do you think I ought to wait before asking the family for permission? For a post-mortem?” Oki thought a moment. “Without more evidence, they’d be well within their rights to refuse. Wait

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and see what the lab says. You don’t have to ask the family at the same time you do the notification, you know. Nobody will think it’s strange if you don’t release the body for a day or two. Besides,” he added, “If you get permission and the autopsy indicates it wasn’t suicide, you know what will happen. They’ll send in the elite murder squad from headquarters.” “Wouldn’t that be a good thing? We’d have access to all their resources, get to work with the experienced investigators from downtown.” “Yeah,” said Oki with a cynical laugh. “We’d get to work with them, all right: Driving the superintendent to his interviews, hauling their equipment around for them, making copies. It’d be a real education, I guarantee it.” “Oh.” Kenji’s face fell. “Thanks. I guess I’ll wait and see what Rowdy-san comes up with.” Oki turned to go. “Oki-san . . . ?” The big detective stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “Have you ever done a next-of-kin notification?” “Yeah,” he replied, without enthusiasm. “Is this your first?” Kenji nodded. “So . . . what do you say? When they come to the door, how do you tell them that someone in their family is dead?” Oki sighed. “There’s no good way. If you dress it up, it just delays that awful moment when they figure out you’ve brought them the worst news they’ll ever hear.” “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Chapter 6 Saturday, April 6 7:00 P.M.

Yumi

Sitting in a taxi that was creeping along in Tokyo traffic, Yumi pulled out her phone. 6:54. Oh no, she was going to be late. In America, she’d have been on time, but in Japan, 7:00 really meant 6:55. Why had her supervisor at the International Interpreting Company picked today to lecture her about using the honorific form when addressing clients, correct her bowing style, and remind her that even if the client was an idiot, he was paying for interpretion, not correction of his so-called facts? She slipped her heels back into her shoes, wincing. The new flats were cute, but she’d had to buy a 24.5—the largest size most stores carried—and they were a half-centimeter too short. When she went out with Ichiro she didn’t want to be taller than him, so she’d stopped wearing heels. In America, her 170-centimeter height had been unremarkable; but in Japan, she towered over nearly all the women and half the men. Finding shoes that fit and pants that were long enough was a perpetual irritation. Almost there. She glanced at the meter and pulled two ¥1,000 notes from her wallet. As the cab pulled up to the curb, she spotted Ichiro waiting just where he said he’d be, checking his phone for messages. He looked good tonight. Had he gotten a new haircut? It suited his glasses. He was so confident of his place in the world, few women noticed he wasn’t tall or especially good-looking. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, running the few steps from the curb.

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His face brightened as he saw her, and they bowed to each other, even though they’d parted after their third date far more intimately. Trading small talk about her interpreting job and his day at the office, they ascended to his reunion in the soaring steel and glass Roppongi Hills tower. Yumi was reminded of the first time she walked through the swanky development with her parents, past the precious little restaurants tucked between handbag shops and minimalist florists. Even the tonkatsu joint had been tarted up, the menu offerings reduced to premium bites of deep-fried pork, portions halved and prices doubled. Her mother had looked around with a melancholy smile, wondering whether the neighborhood residents who’d traded the land under their wooden houses for luxury apartments ever wandered sadly through the halls, longing for the roasted sweet potato man and his cart. But the echoes of that old neighborhood faded long before reaching the Roppongi Hills Club on the fifty-first floor. Without slowing down, Ichiro gave a friendly bow to the woman at the members’ checkin desk and led Yumi up the wide granite stairs. Plush carpet and fine wood paneling made an opulent backdrop for the lively conversations multiplying as members of Ichiro’s Toda University class arrived for their annual get-together. Subdued lighting gleamed off the polished bottles behind the bar, as a steady stream of well-dressed thirty-yearolds and their guests surveyed the room, then made a beeline for the cocktails that would ease them into the evening. Yumi and Ichiro waded slowly into the crowd. They stopped a few times as Ichiro introduced Yumi to old friends, then drifted with the tide toward the drinks. Ichiro ordered a Kirin Ichiban and a glass of white wine, then turned and nearly bumped into a willowy woman in a red Alberta Ferretti suit. She beamed him a wide smile. “Hey, when are you going to pay me that five hundred yen you owe me from our bet back in freshman year? I think it’s up to about ten thousand yen now, with interest.” Ichiro handed the wine to Yumi and said with a grin, “Momo-chan! When did you get back? I thought you were living in Manila.”

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“Just transferred to Hong Kong. I flew in last night, had a meeting, have to go back early tomorrow morning.” She turned to Yumi and introduced herself. “Oh, sorry,” Ichiro said to Momo. “This is—” “Yumi Hata. Hajimemashite.” Ichiro pointed his beer bottle at his classmate. “And you actually owe me. You bet the Giants would win, so the fact that they tied . . .” The bartender passed Momo a gin and tonic. “And what about you?” she asked Ichiro, taking a sip. “Still slaving away at ye olde family store? How’s your golf game?” Ichiro grimaced. “Ma-ma.” Momo leaned toward Yumi and whispered, “Don’t let him fool you—the last time I checked, he had a two handicap. He’s got plenty of time to practice until his father retires, and I think his grandfather still shows up at the office every day.” A short man with a Rotary Club pin already in his lapel arrived. “Long time no see, Princess Peach!” “They’ve opened the buffet,” Ichiro said to Yumi. “Shall we get something to eat?” As they excused themselves, Momo laid a manicured hand on Ichiro’s sleeve and leaned in to murmur, “Before I forget, Ami says hi.” A look of consternation flashed across his face. He muttered something noncommittal as he and Yumi moved away. They helped themselves from platters heaped with creamy, tofu-sauced vegetables, chicken glazed with ginger, and assorted sushi, discovering they both liked anago eel better than unagi, and agreed that wagyu beef was unpleasantly fatty. With plates finally filled with enough appetizers to make a meal, they surveyed the crowded room for somewhere to sit. “How about over there in the corner, by the windows?” Ichiro suggested. He pulled out Yumi’s chair for her, then busied himself pushing the candle to the far corner of the

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table and fetching chopsticks. When they’d finally settled in and both had full cups of sake, Yumi asked, “Who’s Ami?” Ichiro sighed. “She was my girlfriend in business school.” “Were you . . . serious?” “Yeah.” He frowned. “Or at least, I was. She was pretty heavily recruited by the Asian Development Bank’s main office in Manila, but she was talking to the Tokyo branch, too. I was hoping we’d be together here after graduation, but something happened and the Tokyo offer just dried up. She took the Manila job and didn’t tell me until after she’d signed. Later, I heard the head of the Tokyo branch had owed my father a favor.” “Why didn’t you try to get a job in Manila?” Ichiro answered with a short, dismissive laugh. “The Mitsuyama Corporation paid for me to go to business school. Even if I weren’t a Mitsuyama, I’d still owe them five years of indentured servitude after graduation. And the Mitsuyama Corporation definitely didn’t need me in Manila. In fact, they needed me anywhere but Manila.” He tossed back his sake and refilled his cup before Yumi had a chance to do it for him. “Besides,” he said, “Ami Watanabe never really wanted to work in Tokyo.” Yumi didn’t understand. Her name sounded Japanese. Why wouldn’t she want to come home? And why had Ichiro’s family been so against her? “Her parents are third-generation Americans,” he continued, as if reading her mind. “She grew up in Los Angeles. Even her parents barely speak enough Japanese to order sushi.” “Oh.” Yumi tried to imagine the conservative, relentlessly proper Mitsuyama parents struggling to carry on a dinner conversation in their rusty textbook English. “So . . . Your family didn’t really feel comfortable with her?” “You could say that.” The bitterness in his voice brought her up short. Maybe she’d been wrong about the way he’d been pursuing her—was he still in love with his old girlfriend? Maybe he wasn’t as

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eager to get married as she thought. “Ichiro,” she said hesitantly. “Are you . . . just going through this arranged marriage thing to make your parents happy?” He looked at her with an apologetic smile. “Oh no, Yumi-san, of course not. I’m completely serious. How else am I going to find someone to marry who I actually like? And,” he added with a sigh, “someone my parents like. They want a daughter-in-law who’s comfortable in Japan, and I want someone who’s comfortable in the rest of the world. It’s not easy to please everybody.” Yumi relaxed back into her chair. Someone who couldn’t speak Japanese would never be able to mix in Tokyo society with the ease required by Ichiro’s family obligations. More than once, she’d sparred late into the night with her college roommates on this very subject. Her American friends never quite understood that love was only part of a happy marriage. Seeing that Yumi’s sake cup was still full, Ichiro dribbled the last drops from the flask into his own. “The night I first met you was the day Ami told me she’d decided to go to Manila. I was still in shock, but I remember seeing you across the room and thinking that at least I wasn’t the only one hurting that night.” Yumi looked at him in surprise. “Your boyfriend? The blond guy downing one beer after another by the drinks table?” Ichiro picked up his cup. “For some reason it cheered me up to imagine that maybe someday in the future you and I would meet in Tokyo and be able to laugh about that night.” “And here we are.” Yumi smiled and picked up her cup. “To our exes.” Ichiro returned her smile. “No. To us.”

Chapter 7 Sunday, April 7 11:00 A.M.

Yumi

The next morning, Ueno Park was paved with people. Drunken people. It was only eleven in the morning, but the partiers had been up and toasting the cherry blossoms for hours. Barricades kept the main walkway clear, but bright blue waterproof tarps had been laid right up to the edges. By nine o’clock every square centimeter was already occupied, and bottles had begun to be emptied. Salarymen in coat and tie vied with office ladies in spring suits to keep each other’s sake cups brimming, reveling in the one day each year when they were not only allowed but actually encouraged to publicly cut loose. Yumi walked down the main promenade under the arch of blooming trees, searching among the extended families and groups of friends for the Mitsuyama Corporation encampment. Ichiro had invited her to stop by their annual o-hanami party, and he’d looked so eager for her to say yes that she couldn’t refuse. So this morning she’d dug through her closet and pulled out a pale green Chanel-ish suit that had just enough pink in the weave to qualify it as a cherry-blossom viewing outfit. She’d left the house feeling more obligation than anticipation. Her mother was becoming a little too excited that the match with the extremely eligible Ichiro Mitsuyama hadn’t yet derailed. Although Yumi hadn’t mentioned where she was going, it was clear when she appeared in the kitchen wearing last

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year’s o-hanami suit that she wasn’t off to interpreting gig. Mrs. Hata had scrutinized Yumi’s outfit, fretting that the skirt might be too short, that it might make a bad impression on Ichiro’s father. Yumi finally had to flee without breakfast, stopping on the way to the train station for a red bean bun. She’d felt slightly cross getting on the train, irritated at her mother’s eagerness to nudge her toward a marriage that would be a huge step up the social ladder for their family, but was a little lacking in the fireworks department for her. Ichiro was a nice guy, well-educated, polite, accomplished. But that didn’t feel like quite enough. She was comparing him to Ben as she crossed the street to Ueno Park. There had always been fireworks with Ben, but in the end she was the one who got burned. As she made her way up the stairs, pale petals dancing around her in the chilly breeze, she thought about how Ichiro had gazed at her in the flickering candlelight over that final toast last night, And how later, in the back seat of the cab, he’d made it clear that it wasn’t just her résumé he liked. What he lacked in skill, he’d more than made up for in enthusiasm. She sighed. In time, would she feel the same way about him? “Oh! Sorry!” A disheveled young man bumped into her, pushed by a roughhousing colleague. His eyes went wide with undisguised appreciation. “Hey babe, why don’t you join us?” He yelled into the crowd, “Oi! Bring the sake over here!” “No, that’s okay, thanks anyway,” Yumi said, stepping back with a smile. “Actually, I’m looking for the Mitsuyama Corporation party . . . ?” “Really? Too bad.” Her admirer pointed down the pathway. “They’re next to the big fountain, near the National Museum.” “Thanks,” Yumi said, continuing on her way. “Come back later!” he called after her, before the crowd swallowed him again. Yumi spied Ichiro amid a group of laughing young men and women standing in their stocking feet on a crowded expanse of blue tarp, dozens of shoes lined up at the edges. As she drew closer, she

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noticed that even though the two men with him were taller and more attractive, all the office ladies were elbowing each other aside to top up Ichiro’s cup. “But what about me?” one of the salarymen wheedled at a pixie-ish young woman in a pink blouse and very short skirt. He held out the small cup with an exaggerated sad panda face. The young woman gave him a saucy look and whipped her flask away. “Sorry, I fetched this specially for Mitsuyama-san.” “That’s okay,” Ichiro said. “I still have some. See?” He held out his half-full cup, but to his dismay, she took the opportunity to pour in more. The thimble-sized cup overflowed, sake running down his hand onto his sleeve. “Oops!” She giggled and rushed in close to blot at his sleeve with her scarf. “Ichiro?” Yumi called to him from the edge of the group. He looked up and grinned with relief. “Yumi! You came!” Leaving her shoes behind, Yumi stepped over the cord that marked the reserved Mitsuyama area and caught the irritation flitting across the office lady’s face as she pulled back with her damp scarf. Heads turned, curious about the newcomer. “Do you have any more sake?” Ichiro asked the office lady, flicking drops off his fingers. “Wait, we need another cup.” He boldly grabbed Yumi’s hand and pulled her into the crowd. Ichiro’s face was slightly flushed, his usually perfect hair mussed. He’d loosened his Ferragamo tie. Even though his Armani suit was unbuttoned, Yumi noted how well it fit. “Wait here a minute.” He pushed his way through the crowd surrounding a table where sake was being dispensed and came back with a clear glass flask and an extra cup. As he reached her, a smile lit up his face and Yumi felt an unexpected burst of affection—it was spring and the air was filled with the scent of cherry blossoms, and the heir to the Mitsuyama Corporation had abandoned his admirers to be with her. He led the way to the less-crowded fringe. Ichiro poured for her, then allowed her to fill his cup.

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“To spring,” he said, and they both drank. “It’s o-hanami,” he pointed out with mock severity. “You’re supposed to drink the whole thing, not just a little sip.” “I have to stop by the Komagome Police Station later to try to get my phone back,” Yumi explained. “They won’t arrest you unless you’ve had about sixty of these,” he insisted. “My father knows how many toasts everybody has to drink today, so the company cups are extra-small.” She gave in and emptied her cup, then they poured for each other again. “Why do the police have your phone?” Ichiro asked, after he’d cajoled her into finishing the second drink. Yumi explained about the mix-up and how Rika had dropped it at the Komagome Shrine. “Oh.” His cheeks flamed. “Do you think that the police will be, uh, listening to your messages? Because last night after I got home I tried to call you, and when it switched over to voicemail I left kind of a . . . a private message. I guess I shouldn’t have had quite so much sake at the reunion.” Yumi opened her mouth to reply but spotted Ichiro’s father striding toward them, trailed by a retinue of subordinates and a scurrying geisha in full makeup. A casting agency couldn’t have sent anybody who looked more like the head of a multibillion-yen empire. With his thick silver hair and hand-stitched Savile Row suit, he wore power like a pair of custom-made shoes. “Hata-san, how nice you could join us today,” he boomed, red-faced and beaming. “Thank you for inviting me,” Yumi replied, bowing politely. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Mitsuyama.” The shocked looks of the executives behind Ichiro’s father told her immediately that she’d made a horrible mistake. She’d forgotten to use the honorific form. Again. The special verbs and conjugations didn’t come naturally to her because she hadn’t used them at home in America. She often forgot them at crucial times, and unfortunately she’d just publicly addressed the head of the Mitsuyama Corporation in an insultingly familiar way, as if he were a family member.

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But Mr. Mitsuyama only grinned more widely in his slightly inebriated state and beckoned to the geisha. “Here, shall we drink to the coming of spring?” They held out their cups, and the courtesan drew back her long silk sleeve to pour for them. Mr. Mitsuyama clearly knew how to make good use of his extravagant cultural accessory. “Kampai!” they toasted in unison. Mr. Mitsuyama turned to his son. “Have you asked Hata-san about Monday yet?” Ichiro rubbed his forehead as if he felt a migraine coming on. “Father, I really don’t think that she’s interested in coming to a charity concert.” “Well, how will you know unless you ask?” he replied, as one of the senior executives-in-waiting murmured that the president of the Itoh Trading Company had just arrived to exchange toasts. Before he was ushered away, Mr. Mitsuyama leaned toward Yumi and said, “You’re a pretty little thing.” “Thank you, sir,” Yumi stammered, bowing farewell. Ichiro breathed a minimally polite good-bye and made a sketchy bow. When his father was gone, he sighed. “Sorry about that. Sometimes he’s just so . . . old school.” He grimaced apologetically. “Don’t worry, I understand.” She smiled, glancing over at the clique Ichiro had been drinking with when she arrived. A few eye daggers were still being flicked in her direction. “I think you’d better get back to your subjects.” He followed her gaze and groaned. She handed him her empty cup. “I should be going, anyway. My mother is expecting me to do some errands for her this afternoon, and I hoped to have time afterward to give Rika her phone back.” “Okay,” Ichiro said. He looked down at his shoes. “Uh, about the concert, shall I just tell my dad that . . .” “No, I’d be happy to come.” She smiled, stepping close enough to fuel Monday’s office gossip. She noticed that he flushed a little but didn’t move away. “What kind of concert?” “Classical.”

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“I like classical.” He looked up quickly, saw she was serious, and broke into a smile. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, then he stepped back, remembering they were in public, and saluted her with the sake flask. “Great. Thank you. So, I guess I’ll . . . see you Monday night.” “Mata ne.” She walked away, turning around once to wave. It was noon. Surely Rika would be awake by now. Pulling out her friend’s phone, Yumi scrolled through the stored numbers as the crowd carried her along. Since Rika no longer had any phone at all, maybe she could be reached through her mother’s mobile. Yumi found the entry next to the character for “mom” and dialed. It rang four times, then a voice Yumi barely recognized whispered, “Moshi-moshi?” “Mrs. Ozawa? It’s Yumi Hata.” She waited for a reply, but none came. Hesitating, she remembered she ought to inquire after Mrs. Ozawa’s health or comment on the season before getting to the point of the call. “How are you? Enjoying the cherry blossoms?” Silence. “Ozawa-san? Are you there?” The person on the other end of the phone took a sharp breath, then hung up. Yumi frowned. She checked to see if she’d dialed the right number. It was Mrs. Ozawa’s number all right. The phone in her hand vibrated, startling her. “Moshi-moshi?” she answered. “Yumi-san, this is . . . this is Keiko Ozawa. I’m so sorry. I . . . when I heard Rika’s ringtone I . . .” She gave a few gasps, then broke down sobbing. “Ozawa-san! What’s wrong?” Yumi stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of the crowd. A few shaky breaths came over the phone as Rika’s mother struggled to master herself. “They found her yesterday morning, in a car with two people. Two people who . . . the police say they

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committed suicide.” “What? Rika was in a car with two dead people? Is she all right?” Mrs. Ozawa fell silent, then continued in a barely audible voice, “No, Yumi-san. She’s . . . she’s dead, too.” All the blood drained from Yumi’s face and the walkway tilted. Staggering, she gasped, “No. That’s not possible. It’s a mistake.” Partiers fell silent nearby. Mrs. Ozawa stifled a sob. “A detective came last night and took me to the hospital. I saw her. I identified her. There’s no mistake.” She broke down again. Yumi sank to her knees. She tried to choke out some words, but none came. “I’m sorry, Yumi-san,” whispered Mrs. Ozawa. She hung up. Rika couldn’t be dead. They’d been laughing together at the Mad Hatter on Friday night. She couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be. “Yumi, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” She looked up to find Ichiro bending over her. She glimpsed the concern on his face before everything dissolved in the first wave of tears. He took her elbow and said, “My father’s car and driver are parked just on the other side of those trees. Let me take you home.”

Chapter 8 Sunday, April 7 8:00 P.M.

Yumi

The next night, a full moon cast a deep shadow over the Mad Hatter’s entrance. It looked like all the other unremarkable doorways along the narrow alley, except for the small, hand-lettered card taped at eye-level: CLOSED PRIVAT PATI. Yumi knocked, and the door opened a crack, revealing the reddened eyes of Rika’s friend Midori. She stepped back and let Yumi into the grotto-like café-bar, lit only by tabletop candles and spotlights trained on a wall of clear boxes displaying nearly a hundred Alice in Wonderland action figures. The owner’s collection of Alices ranged in size from cell phone ornament to “25th Anniversary 1/6th Scale,” but over the years they’d been joined by custom models crafted by the owner’s eccentric friends. Among the contributions were Sailor Moons, Innocent Venuses, and even a Gundam robot and a Godzilla, all meticulously painted with Alice’s trademark golden locks, blue dress, and white pinafore. The Mad Hatter himself was behind the bar tonight. He’d traded Friday’s Rasta beanie for a somber black trilby from a collection of headgear on the long shelf above the liquor bottles. Small and forgettable-looking except for his hats, the Hatter had never been seen without one. Some claimed they’d even spotted him in the local sento public bath, with a folded washcloth balanced atop a straw porkpie as he soaked, up to his neck in steamy water. Everyone called him Boshi-san, as if Hatter were

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his last name. He nodded at Yumi. She stood out from the rest of the crowd because she was the only mourner in the bar wearing regular street clothes. Tonight every flavor of Lolita-hood was represented: Sweet, Gothic, Elegant, Punk. They affected different interpretations of the Bo Peep look but were united in their commitment to a sisterhood more mannerly and chivalrous than the one inhabited by girls in jeans and T-shirts. Everyone in the bar tonight was a friend of Rika’s, assembled by the text messages that had wildfired from phone to phone since yesterday. At the center of the Circle were the GothXLoli magazine staff, where Rika had started as a fifteen-year-old cover model but graduated to writing music reviews, fashion tips, and helping style the photos that defined hot and not. Rika’s mentors Mei and Kei—never apart, one always dressed in white and the other in black— detached themselves from a knot of Gothic Lolitas near the bar. Bearing a length of wide, black ribbon, Mei solemnly tied it around Yumi’s left arm, carefully fluffing the bow as if preparing for a GothXLoli photo shoot. Even the most relentlessly pastel Sweet Lolitas wore black armbands for Rika tonight. The crowd parted as Yumi made her way toward the bar. Everybody knew she’d been Rika’s best friend outside the Circle. “Thank you, Boshi-san,” Yumi whispered, reaching for her pocketbook as he slid her usual White Rabbit across the polished glass. The owner shook his head and pushed her ¥1,000 note back across the bar. “On me tonight, Yumi-san.” She thanked him and carried her drink to one of the tiny tables. The Lolitas gathered around, led by Midori, whose tall figure and waist-length, perfectly-ironed black hair were often featured in GothXLoli fashion spreads. Her feet were laced into calf-high boots, her tight black jacket nipped in at the waist, over a full skirt of striped cotton and netting. Tonight her eyes were an improbable turquoise, fringed with thick lashes and outlined in black. Midori set her drink on the table and pulled up a chair. “I don’t know what to say, Yumi. We’re all just devastated.” She waited for the murmurs of

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sympathy from the rest of the Lolitas to die down. “I heard you talked to Rika’s mother. Did she tell you what happened?” Yumi shook her head and blinked hard to keep the tears from spilling again. “She told me Rika was found yesterday morning in a car with two other people. The police said they committed jisatsu.” “A suicide pact?” Midori’s voice rang with disbelief. The plastic Alices looked on as the Lolitas buzzed at the news. “I wonder if they met on one of those suicide websites,” ventured a Goth-Lolita wearing black-andwhite-striped tights under her ruffled skirt. “Rika wouldn’t do that,” Midori insisted. “I’ve known her since she was fifteen. She’s not the type to go spilling her heart to strangers on the Internet. If Rika was thinking of ending it all, wouldn’t she have talked to us first?” The Lolitas murmured and nodded in agreement. “Maybe she never got over that singer from Stacked Rubbish,” a Punk Lolita in a miniature pirate hat and eye patch suggested. “Never got over being mad, you mean?” Midori’s ice rattled as she stirred her drink moodily with her straw. “She did mention a few inventive ways she’d like to kill him.” “What about . . . that new editor?” Yumi said, remembering what Coco had told her. “What editor?” Midori asked. “My friend saw her in Shinjuku at the Tea Four Two with some thirty-ish guy on Friday afternoon. Rika told her she was doing a story for him, but Coco said it looked like Rika kind of, you know, liked him.” Midori shifted her gaze to the GothXLoli contingent. Mei and Kei exchanged glances. “He doesn’t work with us,” said Mei. “I think Rika was writing something for another magazine.” Kei added, “Our boss doesn’t mind if we freelance as long as long as we don’t work for a competitor. Usually Rika just did little pieces for Kera and Egg, but about three weeks ago she got really

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secretive about what she was working on. She assured Editor-san it had nothing to do with fashion, but all she’d tell us was that it was ‘real journalism,’ not ‘Hair Bow Do’s and Don’ts.’ She was staying late every night and started getting so many phone messages she was even texting under the table at the Friday staff meeting. Then she left early, and about ten minutes later I saw her coming out of the ladies’ room. I didn’t recognize her at first, because she was wearing such a strange outfit.” She shook her curls in disbelief. “A blue business suit. Like she was going to a costume party or something.” “She met with that editor, then came here,” Yumi said. “She ordered a salad, but barely ate any of it. Kept checking the time, as if she was worried about being late for something.” Yumi blinked as her eyes brimmed. “I can’t believe she was worried about being late to her own death.” Midori pushed back her chair and stood. “I don’t believe she committed suicide. I think the police are wrong.” Yumi wiped her eyes. “Why would they tell her family it was suicide if it wasn’t?” “Because it’s easier. Did they even investigate other possibilities? Maybe it just looked like suicide. Maybe someone killed them.” “Why would someone do that?” asked Mei. “I don’t know, but who did Rika know who owns a car?” Midori argued. “Did the police even ask how she met the people who died with her? Who were they, anyway?” “I don’t know.” Yumi wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue handed to her by the Punk Lolita. “Mrs. Ozawa didn’t say. She was pretty broken up when I talked to her.” “Do you think it was anyone we know?” “I’m sure Rika’s mother would have said something if she thought I knew them.” Midori frowned into her drink. “Maybe it wasn’t a suicide pact at all. Maybe those people had something to do with the story she was writing. What if they were sources and the story was about the kind of thing someone would kill to keep hidden?” “I could look on her computer tomorrow at work,” Mei offered. “Maybe there’s a draft.”

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“We could check her browser history, too,” suggested Kei. “She probably did all her research in the staff room because her family doesn’t have Wi-Fi at home.” “Tomorrow I’m going to try to get my phone back from the police,” Yumi said. “Maybe they’ll tell me who the other victims were. I’ll ask why they’re so sure it was suicide.”

Chapter 9 Monday, April 8 9:00 A.M.

Yumi

The next morning, Yumi sat on the hard, vinyl-upholstered couches in the lobby of the Komagome Police Station, handbag clutched firmly on her lap. Wanted posters scowled down from the bulletin board, a few accompanied by helpful diagrams showing which fingers the fugitive gangsters were missing. Policemen arriving for work crossed to the elevator and lapsed into shoptalk while they waited for the lift. Yumi checked her watch. 9:00. Where was the detective in charge of Rika’s case? “Suzuki-san?” called the uniformed officer behind the front desk. The serious-looking young officer who’d just arrived detoured to the counter and listened, then glanced at Yumi and came over to introduce himself. “I am Assistant Detective Suzuki,” he said with a formal bow. “How may I assist you?” Yumi returned the bow. “Hajimemashite. I’m Yumi Hata.” “Ah.” His face brightened as he made the connection. “We have your phone.” “Are you in charge of Rika Ozawa’s case?” “I, er, yes, I’m working on it.” He paused, uncertain about how to proceed. “I’m not sure we can release your phone yet, though. I’ll have to check with my superior officer. We’re not treating her case

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as a suspicious death, but . . .” “You should be.” Yumi’s face assumed a stony expression. Surprised by her directness, he drew back and said, “I know it’s difficult to accept, Miss Hata. But people don’t always tell their friends . . .” “She didn’t kill herself.” He sighed. “Perhaps you should speak with my boss.” He turned to the desk officer. “Is Detective Nakamura in yet?” “He is,” said the tall man who’d just breezed through the front door. He stopped, staring at Yumi. Relief flooded Suzuki’s face. “Ah. Good morning, Nakamura-san. This honorable citizen—” “Yu-chan?” Yumi looked up at him, startled, because he’d used a familiar form of address only allowed between childhood friends. Then recognition dawned. “Ken-kun?” She knew instantly why she hadn’t recognized him. He’d had The Mole removed. In childhood, it had been easy to identify Kenji Nakamura even from a distance, because of the huge mole right next to his nose. Plus, he was always the tallest kid in the class. Now he’d lost that beanpole look and no longer had a schoolboy buzz cut. In fact, without The Mole, he’d grown up to be surprisingly . . . “What are you doing here?” he asked, pushing his hand through his hair. Yumi smiled at the familiar habit; he’d done that every time he had to speak in front of the class, even when his hair was so short it couldn’t possibly have been in his eyes. “I’m here about Rika Ozawa.” He regarded her with a puzzled frown. “Was she a friend of yours?” Suddenly aware that Suzuki was still standing there, listening to every word, Kenji cleared his throat and suggested, “Why don’t we go somewhere a little more comfortable than the lobby.” His assistant snapped to attention. “Would you like me to see if an interview room is available,

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sir?” “No, that’s okay, Suzuki-san.” He checked his watch. “The staff meeting isn’t until ten. We’ll be back by then.” Suzuki bowed and headed toward the elevator. “Let’s go to Matsumoto’s,” Kenji suggested. “It’s never too early for o-hagi.” They both smiled; a love of o-hagi, the homely, pounded rice balls covered with sweet red bean paste, was a passion they’d shared as kids, and Matsumoto’s was less than a ten-minute walk from the police station. Yumi and Kenji had known each other since she’d abruptly appeared midyear in his third grade class. They’d been assigned to work together on their Japanese Culture project, building a scale model of the main building of the Ise Shrine. Irritated at being paired with a big, clumsy-looking boy, Yumi figured she would end up doing all the work, but she soon discovered that Kenji was much better at model-making than she was. One day when they were working at his house, he’d shown her his collection of Gundam robots, each tiny piece meticulously glued. Though he was only nine, he’d already built one of the big Perfect Grade kits, something most kids didn’t tackle before high school. They’d remained casual friends through middle school, sometimes hanging out with the same crowd, sometimes not. Then in high school, Kenji’s mother had died suddenly, and even the friendship of his schoolmates and his baseball team wasn’t enough to keep him from falling into a black well of grief. He left school for a while and went to live with relatives in Osaka; when he returned, he and Yumi never quite reconnected. Their friendship didn’t end, exactly—it just faded as they left childhood behind. Walking to Matsumoto’s, Yumi was amazed at how easy it was to pick up where they’d left off, slipping into the comfortable familiarity that went with years of shared experience. Some things never changed. But others had. Sneaking a look at Kenji as he reminisced about the time he and his friends had cut

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school to go to a Seibu Giants game, Yumi was uncomfortably aware of how attractive she found him now, just because that mole was gone and he’d let his hair grow. Ashamed to discover she was so shallow, she resolved not to make the same mistake with Ichiro.

Chapter 10 Monday, April 8 9:30 A.M.

Kenji

The bell jangled its welcome as Kenji pushed open the heavy glass door and held it for Yumi. Matusmoto’s coffee shop was unchanged, except for new prices pasted onto the hand-lettered menu that had been there since they were in elementary school. The shop’s name was spelled out in flaking gold letters across the big plate-glass window; Kenji could still read it backwards, even though one leg of the second “M” was now missing. The clock with plastic sushi instead of numbers still kept perfect time over the cash register, and Mrs. Matsumoto still wore the same faded apron and indigo-dyed kerchief. Only the Formica tables had aged, their shiny pink tops now dulled by countless scrubbings. “I hope you both still like o-hagi,” she said, setting a plate of egg-shaped red bean sweets and two cups of tea on the table. Kenji and Yumi both smiled. O-hagi had been the first link in their friendship, back in third grade. They’d always played rock-paper-scissors over who got the fifth one, too gooey to split. “Dōzo,” Kenji said, pushing the plate toward Yumi. Now that they were grown-ups, he ought to let her choose first. They ate their first ones in silence, transported back to childhood as the sweet starchiness of the red bean jam mingled with the chewiness of the sticky rice. While Kenji ate his second one, Yumi sipped her

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tea and asked, “How long have you been working in our old neighborhood? I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other before.” “Not so strange, really,” he replied. “I was just transferred in last November. They keep me pretty busy, and since I assume you haven’t been committing any crimes—” He grinned. “—it’s not surprising our paths haven’t crossed. What about you? Still living with your folks?” Yumi filled him in—the college years in America, the interpreting job. So she wasn’t married yet. Kenji hesitated, then asked the question he’d been dying to know the answer to since he saw her standing in the lobby. “You still going out with that foreign guy, the American?” “Ben? No. How about you?” “Me?” His face reddened. “No, I’m still, uh, single.” He excused himself, muttering about more tea. Damn, how could she still do this to him? Yumi had sunk a little hook into his heart the first day she walked into third grade. In all their years together at school, sitting three seats apart, she’d never guessed, never gave him a second look. Not that any girls did, back then. That hadn’t changed until the day he went back for winter term his second year in college, having spent his Coming-of-Age money at the mole doctor. He’d just switched to the law department and was mystified when girls in his new classes started asking if they could come to his room for help with their term papers. It didn’t take him long to figure out they had a rather different activity in mind. He spent a year making up for lost time, but by the time he graduated, he was long past worrying he’d never find a girlfriend. He abandoned the party circuit in favor of launching his career, and although he still got calls from girls inviting him to group dates, he wasn’t tempted. None of them were the least bit like Yumi Hata. He took a calming breath and returned to the table with his refill. Be professional, he told himself. Businesslike. “What brought you to the station this morning?” he asked. “Something about Rika Ozawa?”

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“I don’t think she killed herself.” “Yu-chan, I know it’s painful to think that . . .” “She didn’t kill herself,” Yumi insisted. “Why? What makes you think she didn’t commit jisatsu?” Yumi leaned toward him. “Well, for one thing, I was with her earlier that night. She kept looking at her watch, like she didn’t want to be late for something. She wouldn’t tell me or anybody else where she was going. Her friends at GothXLoli magazine told me she was really excited about something she was writing. She’d had a meeting that afternoon with an editor she hoped to sell a freelance article to—a man—and I thought maybe she was meeting him again later. That’s why she was wearing a business suit. I barely recognized her.” “She wasn’t dressed in a business suit when we found her the next morning.” “She wasn’t?” “No. To be honest, I wondered why a Goth-Lolita chose to commit suicide with a couple old enough to be her parents.” “Goth-Lolita?” Yumi’s head snapped up. “She was wearing black?” “Yeah—frilly black dress? Little black hat? Or is that regular Goth? I get them mixed up.” “It doesn’t matter, it’s wrong, the whole thing’s wrong. Rika never wore black. Never.” “People change.” “Not Rika.” “Then why was she was wearing a blue business suit when you saw her earlier that evening?” “There was a reason for the blue suit. She’d had an interview with someone outside her Circle. She probably borrowed it.” Yumi leaned toward him. “Rika was a Lolita. A Sweet Lolita. If you looked through her closet, you’d see. I’ve never seen her in anything but pink and white since she was thirteen years old, unless there was a really good reason for it.” “Maybe there was a really good reason for the black dress.”

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Yumi glared. “Maybe you should try to find out what it was.” “Yu-chan, I can’t. My chief has me finishing up an organized crime investigation. And all the evidence . . .” He hesitated, remembering the blank suicide note. “What? There was something, wasn’t there? Something made you wonder.” “Not enough to ask for an autopsy. The lab is supposed to get back to me today and then I’ll know more. But don’t get your hopes up—my superiors would need a very solid reason to ask a bereaved family to endure the trauma of a post-mortem. Even if the lab results raise some questions, it might not be enough.” “What are you looking for?” Kenji shifted his gaze to the sushi clock above the register, trying to decide how much he could say. He pushed his hand through his hair, taking in the middle-aged couple paying for their coffee. The clock read . . . 9:55? “Shit!” He snatched up the little bill curled in the silver stand on the table and stood abruptly. “Yuchan, sorry, I’m going to be late for the staff meeting and I’m supposed to be giving a report on the Kurosawa-gumi case. I’ve got a full plate today, but I’ll go over the file again and talk to the lab.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s my number. Call me later today and I’ll tell you if there’s enough evidence to request an autopsy.” He stopped at the counter to pay, pushed his way out through the glass door, and ran.

Chapter 11 Monday, April 8 12:30 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi emerged from Harajuku Station, still trying to map the shy, gawky Kenji she remembered onto the handsome, confident man she’d met that morning at Matsumoto’s. The eyes of every woman in the restaurant had followed him when he crossed to the counter to refill his tea. The light changed and she crossed to Takeshita Street, already thronged with fashion-cult shoppers and the gawkers who came to snap their photos. Yumi pushed past a raft of uniformed schoolgirls visiting from some rural prefecture, aiming their cell phone cameras at a pair of Goths dripping zippers, buckles, and silver chains. She swam upstream in the general direction of the MaccuDonarudo golden arches. Mei and Kei would already be settled at a table by now; there had been a delay on the Yamanote Line and Yumi was late. Spotting them in the back corner, she waved and squeezed between the other diners, not stopping to order. They moved their parasols off the chair they’d been saving for her. “Sorry,” she said, dropping into the seat. “I could have walked here faster.” “Don’t worry,” Kei said. “Sorry we had to eat without you—we have to be back by one, so we thought we’d better order.” She pushed an untouched ginger ale across the table. “Dōzo. We saved this for you.”

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“Thanks, Kei-chan.” Yumi took a grateful sip. “Did you get your phone back?” asked Mei. “Not yet, but I talked to the police.” Yumi recounted her meeting with Kenji. Both Lolitas were properly shocked that Rika had died wearing black. “Now I don’t know what to think,” said Mei. “What do you mean?” “There was nothing on her computer. No files except GothXLoli assignments and a few pieces she sold to Kera and Egg.” “That story has to be somewhere. Could she have been using someone else’s computer?” Mei and Kei’s disapproving faces told her how Not Done that was. “Maybe she still had her old college laptop,” Mei suggested. “You could ask her mother. It would be pretty old, but it probably still works.” “Okay. I’ll call Mrs. Ozawa and see if I can drop by. What about her browser history? Was she researching anything that might tell us what she was writing?” Kei dropped her eyes and her voice. “The only addresses in her history log that weren’t workrelated were . . . suicide websites.” “Oh.” Yumi set down her iced tea, dismayed. “Was there . . . any site in particular?” “At first she went to three or four, then she chose one and went there . . . a lot.” “Do you remember the name?” “I think it was called Whitelight. I’ll look when I get back to the office and send you the address.” Okay, good. Remember to send it to Rika’s phone, though. Our phones got switched on Friday night, and the police have mine.” She took a sip of ginger ale. “What about e-mail?” “Oh. We didn’t think to check. Who would use a computer for e-mail when they have a perfectly good cell phone?” Yumi watched a pair of Goths stroll by wearing skull-printed skirts, coffin-shaped purses, morbidly

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pale makeup. Death had become all too real for her in the past two days, and she felt a wave of revulsion at their shallow fascination. Turning back to Mei and Kei, she persisted, “The suicide website Rika visited. Did you look at it? Did she write anything about killing herself?” Mei picked at her half-finished hamburger bun. “No. Those sites are so creepy. Besides . . .” She paused. “What if she did kill herself? How could we have missed the warning signs? What if there’s something we could have done?” Yumi sighed. “Yeah. I know.” They all stared at the table. Kei checked the time on her cell phone. “Sumimasen,” she apologized. “We’ve got a photo shoot this afternoon.” Yumi picked up her empty cup and stood. Outside, Mei and Kei popped open their parasols, bowed good-bye, and swept past a foreign tourist, deftly blocking him from taking their pictures as they threaded their way through the slow-moving crowd toward the GothXLoli offices on the next block. Yumi let the river of teenagers push her back toward the train station. Why hadn’t Mei and Kei found any trace of this article Rika claimed to be writing? No drafts, no Internet research. Why had she been so secretive? Feeling a slight pang of guilt that she hadn’t thought to tell Kenji she had Rika’s phone when she saw him that morning, she pulled it out and called Kei to ask for the suicide website addresses. Kei insisted she’d already sent them. Yumi checked. No e-mails. Kei said she’d try again. Yumi waited. Nothing came through, although she was nearly back at the station. What was wrong? She opened Rika’s Inbox and stopped so suddenly that several people trainwrecked behind her. On the day she died, Rika had received three messages from someone Yumi had never heard of. Someone calling herself <sweetmama>.

Chapter 12 Monday, April 8 12:30 P.M.

Kenji

The noonday sun pooled their shadows around their feet as Kenji and Suzuki rang the bell next to the locked glass door at the Hamada Sweets Corporation. Section Chief Tanaka had given Kenji the go-ahead to investigate what was going on at the suicide victims’ company without informing the higher-ups. Tanaka never wasted his superiors’ time with matters beneath their attention; he invited their participation only when it would burnish reputations all around. And he certainly didn’t want a First Investigative Division team camping at his station for anything short of murder. A stark hand-lettered sign on the front door informed visitors that the company had closed for the day out of respect for the death of its president, Mr. Tatsuo Hamada, and his wife, Mrs. Masayo Hamada. A buzzer sounded and Suzuki held the door. Glossy promotional photos of candy spilling from bags lined the reception area’s chalk-white walls, and dog-eared back issues of Japan Confectionery were arranged neatly on a glass-and-chrome coffee table. A “good luck” cat figure with a raised right paw peeked out from behind a bushy green plant that occasionally fooled visitors into thinking it was real. They crossed to the reception desk and Kenji said, “Sumimasen. I called earlier. I’m Detective

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Nakamura and this is Assistant Detective Suzuki.” He bowed to the woman, who was loyally on duty even though the other employees had been given a day of mourning. “I’m sorry for your recent loss.” “Thank you,” she said, crossing her hands palms-down on the desktop and bowing from the waist. Her bony frame failed to fill out her beige suit, and she wore no accessories apart from a limp floral scarf that drooped dispiritedly around her neck. She’d pinned her thin hair back severely with a goldtoned clip; no strands dared escape to soften her features. Plastic-framed tortoiseshell glasses magnified her eyes, doing nothing to disguise the fact she’d been crying. “I’m afraid I couldn’t reach the Hamadas’ son,” she apologized. “I called several times, but he must be too upset to answer his phone. I did manage to reach General Manager Fukuda, and he came in to answer any questions you might have.” Kenji gave her a reassuring smile and a slight bow. “Thank you. The sooner we gather our information, the sooner we’ll be able to close this case and allow arrangements to be made for the funerals. Before we speak with Fukuda-san, perhaps you can help us with the basics.” She sat up straighter and self-consciously adjusted her scarf. “I’m not important enough to know anything useful, but of course I’ll do my best.” “Let’s start with who works here at the plant.” She reached for a scuffed company directory. “Do you want to know about the factory workers or the management?” “Let’s start with management.” “Well Mr. Hamada is . . . was . . .” Her eyes glittered with tears, but she quickly blinked them away before they could spill down her cheeks. “Mr. Hamada was the president.” She swallowed, clutching a tissue. “Below him was Mr. Fukuda, the general manager, and Mr. Hamada’s son, Hiro, the head of purchasing.” “Head of purchasing? I got the impression that he was next in line to take over the company.” “He will, eventually. But his father believed he should learn every part of the business first. Right

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after college, Hiro-san worked in the warehouse, then in the kitchens where the products are made, then he moved up to foreman and plant manager. He just took over the purchasing job a few weeks ago, when Mr. Arita was . . . when he resigned.” “Ah,” Kenji said. “This Mr. Arita, had he been here a long time?” “Twenty-six years.” “Did he retire?” “No, he resigned.” “Any idea why he left?” The receptionist straightened the message slips on her desk, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know. One day I came in to work and he was gone. His office was cleared out. We were told he resigned, but not why.” She picked up a pen and put it down again. Kenji leaned on the desk and smiled at her. “I bet you’re pretty central to the running of the office, though. Surely you have some idea.” “Well,” she said reluctantly, “I heard that . . . there were some irregularities.” “Embezzling? Taking kickbacks?” “I don’t know. I couldn’t believe it. Arita-san seemed so honest and hardworking.” She clasped her hands in front of her on the desk. “And I shouldn’t gossip. I’m sure it had nothing to do with . . . what happened to Mr. Hamada.” “Of course.” Kenji straightened. “You’ve been very helpful. Perhaps you could ask Fukuda-san if he can see us now?” “Certainly.” She picked up the phone. A few moments later, a heavyset man with a Lions Club pin in his lapel appeared. He looked exactly like the descendant of shrewd Edo-era merchants that he was. His hair was combed straight back from a receding hairline and gravity was getting the better of his jowls. He looked prosperous, his full lips suggesting an appreciation for the finer things in life.

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After condolences and introductions, the general manager ushered them into his office and closed the door. White boards with scrawled details of shipment dates and quarterly product targets lined the room. On the wall behind Fukuda’s desk hung a framed piece of calligraphy with the characters “Purity. Quality. Value.” Fukuda seated himself behind his desk. “How may I be of service?” Kenji opened the file folder he’d brought. He hoped to discover enough to get a search warrant without alarming the management so thoroughly that they destroyed evidence before the warrant could be executed. “Mr. Fukuda, as you’re aware, Tatsuo Hamada and his wife Masayo were found dead in their car at the Komagome Shrine on Saturday morning.” The manager nodded gravely. “It looks like they committed suicide, but there are a few questions we still need to ask.” He looked across the polished wood at Fukuda. “The note left by Mr. Hamada and his wife suggested that they took their own lives because they were distressed about something that had happened—or was going to happen—at the company. Do you have any idea what they meant?” Fukuda considered the question. “No. There’s nothing I can think of.” He hesitated. “Not at work.” “Did they have a problem outside of the office?” Fukuda pursed his lips. “You’d better ask Hiro-san about that.” “That would be their son, Hiro Hamada? Was there friction between them?” “You mean at work? Not really. Just the sort of things common to family-owned businesses. The father is always reluctant to hand over responsibility to the son, and the son has a hard time waiting his turn. I guess Hamada-san wanted to enjoy having the corner office for a few more years before he turned it over to Hiro. Hamada Sr. resented the way his father-in-law made him earn every promotion, but he felt he had to uphold company tradition and make Hiro do the same.” “The company belonged to his wife’s father?”

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“Yes.” “I take it Mrs. Hamada had no brothers, so her husband was adopted as heir and changed his name when they married?” “Actually, Mrs. Hamada has a brother and a sister, both younger. Her father, the company founder, was the son of a famous confectioner in Osaka. In western Japan, old merchant families pass businesses down through the eldest daughter, so when old Mr. Hamada’s elder sister inherited the family concern, he moved to Tokyo to start his own company. He continued the tradition of inheritance through the daughter, however, since it was such a successful strategy.” Mr. Fukuda smiled at Kenji’s puzzled look. “Sons of successful businessmen may or may not turn out to be talented at business themselves. When a daughter inherits, her father can arrange for her to marry a smart, hardworking man from among his employees. The son-in-law takes on the family name and runs the company, even though it’s actually owned by his wife. That way, the business stays in the family and is assured of good leadership.” “Interesting.” Kenji consulted his notes. “But Tatsuo and Masayo Hamada had no daughters, so the company will go to their son. Did Mr. Hamada have confidence that his son would turn out to be a good manager?” Fukuda shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hiro-san is a smart boy. He’s learning that it’s not a good idea to make changes hastily.” “Ah. He wanted to modernize, but his father didn’t?” “Not modernize, exactly. He thought that we could make more profit if we cut a few corners.” “Was there friction about this lately? Between father and son?” “No more than usual. But . . .” The manager’s eyes slid away. “A couple of weeks ago, I came back to the office after closing because I’d forgotten some projections I intended to look over at home. I was about a block from the parking lot entrance when I saw Hiro speed out without stopping. I thought that everyone was gone, but Hiro had left the front door unlocked. When I passed Hamada-san’s door, it was

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closed, so I knew he was still there. As I was collecting the reports, I heard some sounds coming from his office, a sort of gasping. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t want to intrude, but I was worried he might be injured. I knocked and asked if he was all right. He said he was fine, but didn’t open the door. The next day he behaved as if nothing had happened, so I didn’t ask. I figured it was none of my business, maybe a family problem of some sort.” Kenji made a note. “Was this after your purchasing manager resigned?” Mr. Fukuda thought a moment. “No, before. It was a day or two before Arita-san was . . . before he left.” “Why did he leave?” “I believe he had some personal problems that made his further employment . . . unsuitable.” “You don’t know what those ‘problems’ might have been?” Mr. Fukuda sighed. “Hamada-san handled the entire situation himself and refused to explain what had happened, even to me. One day Arita-san was at his desk as usual, and the next day, he was gone. I heard all kinds of rumors afterward—Arita had a gambling problem, Arita owed money to gangsters— but Hamada-san never explained. I was worried he’d been caught with his hand in the till, but when I looked over the books, everything tallied. If it was some kind of financial wrongdoing, it must have been kickbacks that didn’t show in the spreadsheets.” Fukuda rubbed his jaw and added, “And even that didn’t make sense—we’ve worked with the same suppliers for years. I didn’t find any indication that Arita had bid out our contracts. There were no new suppliers who might have offered to slip him something under the table.” Kenji looked up from his notebook. “Were there any personal reasons the Hamadas might have taken their own lives? Their marriage? Health issues?” Fukuda straightened and frowned. “I wouldn’t know, Detective.” Meaning, even if he did, he was loyal to his late employer’s memory and had no intention of sharing with the police. “I understand.” Kenji said. “Perhaps his son will be able to tell us.”

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“Or you could ask his lawyer,” suggested Fukuda, compromising slightly in an attempt to shield the grieving son from questioning. “Nomura-san has represented Hamada Sweets for twenty-two years, but he’s also the family’s personal attorney.” “Thank you, I’ll do that. Do you have his contact information?” Fukuda nodded. He searched his address book, jotted an address and phone number on a company notepad, and handed it to Kenji, then pulled one of his own cards from a silver case. Kenji gave him a business card in return. “Thank you for your help, Fukuda-san. We appreciate your coming in to talk to us on a day of mourning.” They bowed and took their leave. As they walked back toward the train station, Kenji stopped and said, “Wait here a minute, Suzukisan. I’ll be right back.” He returned to the Hamada Sweets building to ask for the fired purchasing manager’s address.

Chapter 13 Monday, April 8 1:30 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi stared, unseeing, at the tight pink buds covering the azalea bushes across the tracks from the Harajuku Station platform. The e-mails on Rika’s phone left little doubt that <sweetmama> was the dead woman in the car. Even more depressing, her message had been sent from a whitelight.co.jp address, the suicide website Kei had mentioned. <sweetmama> appeared to have been the organizer. Where and when. Directions from the nearest subway station. The logistics of suicide. A train arrived and Yumi stepped into the near-empty car. There were plenty of seats, but she chose to stand, hanging onto a commuter strap, watching rain speckle the windows, then run in rivulets down the glass. The train gathered speed, rumbling toward Yoyogi as umbrellas bloomed outside. People hurried past the shops across from the tracks, heading for someplace warm and dry. Café windows flashed past, filled with women who would now linger over another cup of tea, waiting for the shower to pass. Yumi envied them their small complaints, their everyday concerns. They weren’t struggling with the death of a friend. A friend who appeared to have killed herself, with no explanation. How could Rika have done that to her family? How could Rika have done that to her?

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In the midst of her grief, Yumi felt a pinprick of anger. Who was this <sweetmama>, anyway? How could her best friend have shared the intimacy of death with someone Yumi had never heard of? She pulled Rika’s phone from her bag. There had to be another explanation. What about Midori’s theory that Rika had been meeting sources for a story? Date: Fri, 27 Mar, 15:34:32 Frm: [email protected] Sub: Tonight’s meeting We decided the Komagome Shrine car park would be best. It’s more private than the other place, less likely that the car will be noticed. Look for a silver Lexus sedan. It’ll be parked in front of the sugi trees. We’ll meet you there at 8:00. Date: Fri, 27 Mar, 15:41:23 Frm: [email protected] Sub: Directions Komagome Station is closest. Take the north exit, turn right, cross the street, shrine is on the right. Date: Fri, 27 Mar, 15:57:48 Frm: [email protected] Sub: (Non title) I’ll talk to my husband and tell you tonight. That issue is weighing heavily on both of us. There’s no going back now, but you’re right, we should consider all the consequences before we go ahead. I wish we could do this without hurting people we care

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about, but that can’t influence our decision. There’s too much at stake. Too much at stake? What issue had Rika raised? There ought to be a copy of the message mentioning it in her Sent Mail. Yumi checked it. Empty. The Received box was empty too, except for the three that arrived on Friday afternoon. Why had Rika erased the record of her contacts with <sweetmama>? If all they were planning was suicide, it didn’t make sense. But if a source was feeding her sensitive information, she probably wouldn’t leave a record of it on a device that was easily lost or stolen. What kind of scandal would warrant secret meetings and concern about hurting people? Government corruption? Corporate wrongdoing? Maybe <sweetmama> had discovered something illegal where she worked and decided to become a whistleblower. She could have been worried about losing her job, concerned for her innocent co-workers, maybe even feared for her safety. That would explain the messages at least as well as suicide; if Yumi could find something— anything—to confirm that <sweetmama> and Rika were working together on an exposé, the police would have to investigate. The story had to be on that old college computer. The loudspeaker announced, “Next stop, Komagome.” As the doors parted, Yumi stepped out onto the platform and called Rika’s mother.

Chapter 14 Monday, April 8 1:30 P.M.

Kenji

“The lawyer’s office is only a few blocks away,” Kenji told Suzuki, examining the address he’d received from Mr. Fukuda. “Shall we drop by and see if he’s in?” “Would you like me to call first?” Suzuki asked. “No, let’s not give him a chance to make excuses.” A few minutes later, the receptionist at Saito, Okubo and Nomura was telling them that she expected Nomura-san to return from lunch shortly. They’d barely had time to sink into their chairs when a tall, thin man with brushed-back silver hair came through the door, talking earnestly with another lawyer. His eyes were intelligent ; a gold and silver pin identifying him as an officer of the court shone in the lapel of his expensive but understated suit. Kenji and Suzuki rose to their feet. “Nomura-san . . .” began the receptionist. The silver-haired man turned to her, but Kenji was bowing and introducing himself before she had a chance to remind the lawyer of his afternoon schedule. “We understand that you represented Tatsuo and Masayo Hamada,” Kenji explained, offering his business card formally with both hands. “If you could spare just a few minutes to fill in some blanks for

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us, we’ll be able to close their case more quickly and allow the family to begin making funeral arrangements.” The lawyer studied Kenji’s card, checked his watch, and asked the receptionist to show his next client into the conference room when he arrived. Ushering Kenji and Suzuki down the hall, he led them to a dignified yet comfortable office. Gesturing toward the two visitor’s chairs, he shut the door. Seating himself behind the walnut desk, he laid Kenji’s card in the center of his blotter and clasped his hands before him. “Mrs. Hamada’s sister called me this morning. I still can’t believe it. What a terrible loss. I worked with the Hamadas for over twenty years, and I never dreamed . . .” The lawyer pressed his lips together, choking off an unprofessional show of grief. “We extend our condolences.” Kenji bowed, then continued, “Did you know them personally as well as professionally?” “Only in the sense that I was intimately familiar with the arrangements they made with regard to their company and their son. We didn’t socialize, but I liked Hamada-san. Respected him. He was an honorable man.” “We understand he was adopted into the Hamada family when he married his wife.” The lawyer nodded. “Was Mrs. Hamada involved in the running of the company as well?” “Yes and no. She didn’t keep an office there and she had no title, but as the owner she was involved in all major decisions concerning Hamada Sweets.” “Hiring? Product development? Marketing?” “Not directly. She left operational decisions to her husband, but I know he consulted her.” “What about the recent firing of their purchasing manager, Arita?” Nomura frowned. “They were both extremely upset about that. As you know, in a traditional, family-owned business like Hamada Sweets, many employees belong to families that have worked there for generations. Mr. Hamada himself was the son of the former plant manager. He trained as an

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engineer, specializing in manufacturing automation. Before he married Mrs. Hamada, he was responsible for the retooling that doubled the plant’s capacity. The Hamadas understood the unspoken contract between a company and its employees—in the twenty years I’ve advised them, nearly all the turnover has been due to retirement. Arita’s firing was a shocking exception.” “Did they explain why Arita was shown the door?” “No. But a week ago, they updated their wills.” “What changes did they make?” “The first thing they did was add a personal bequest to Arita.” “How much?” “Sixty-five million, six hundred thousand and some-odd yen. When I asked why it wasn’t a round number, they told me it was equal to a year’s salary.” “Did they add any other bequests?” “No, but they made a change to their son’s trust.” “Changed it how?” “They named new trustees. Previously, his mother’s brother and sister shared those duties. If Hiro wanted to take money out of the trust before he was forty, he had to convince them it was a good idea. And that,” Nomura emphasized, “would not have been easy. His aunt and uncle thought Hiro had been . . . indulged. That he spent too much time and money enjoying himself rather than furthering the family fortunes. A week ago, Mr. and Mrs. Hamada named me as trustee instead. When I asked them why, they explained that their son had shown himself to have better judgment recently, and if they died, they didn’t want access to his money to be so restricted. They said he’d grown up a lot and proved that his values were in line with theirs.” Nomura shook his head sadly. “I never expected to take on my duties so soon.” A deferential knock at the door announced the receptionist, bringing tea. She deftly poured three cups, offered them with a small bow, and left the pot on the tray before letting herself out.

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Kenji sipped the fragrant brew. “Who inherits the company?” “Hiro Hamada,” Nomura answered. “Although that doesn’t change much—there are agreements in place to ensure that management will go on as before when the owner dies. Continuity has always been important at Hamada Sweets.” “What if he wanted to give himself a big promotion?” “I believe everything was set up so that nothing can be changed quickly, including hiring and firing.” The old-fashioned phone on the corner of Nomura’s desk burred. “Excuse me.” He listened for a moment and said, “I’ll be right out.” Replacing the receiver, he apologized. “My client is here. I’m afraid I don’t have time for more questions today.” “You’ve already been more than generous, Nomura-san.” Kenji bowed. “Thank you for accommodating us without notice. If I could ask one more quick question?” The lawyer nodded. “Did the purchasing manager or the Hamadas’ son know of the changes to the wills?” “Not from me.”

Chapter 15 Monday, April 8 3:30 P.M.

Yumi

Mrs. Ozawa clutched a damp, white handkerchief as she opened the door to Rika’s room. “Go ahead,” she told Yumi. “I . . . I can’t bring myself to go in quite yet.” “I understand, Ozawa-san. Thank you for letting me look.” Rika’s mother hesitated, then asked, “What are you hoping to find?” Yumi explained about the freelance article Mei and Kei believed Rika had been writing, how it might prove she hadn’t committed suicide if it turned out she was writing something that threatened powerful people. “You mean . . . maybe she didn’t kill herself? Maybe . . . ?” Mrs. Ozawa pressed the hankie to her mouth, her red-rimmed eyes widening in horror. Yumi knew there was no comforting reply. While it was painful to think Rika had committed jisatsu, it was even worse to hear her life had been cut short without the dignity of choice. In Japan, suicide was accepted as an honorable way out of impossible situations, but murder was always sordid, the family reputation forever tainted by the brush with scandal. “If Rika didn’t commit jisatsu, I’ll do everything I can to help the police catch the person who did it. Don’t you think Rika would want that?” Yumi asked gently.

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Mrs. Ogawa bowed her head and stood aside. Twin beds took up the entire room, with only a narrow space left between them. The late-afternoon sun shone through thin, flowered curtains, tinting everything pink. Yumi flicked on the lights. Like her own room at home, a piece of carpet had been fitted over the old tatami mats because it was cheaper than renewing them when they wore out. The twin beds were actually frames on which traditional futon pads and their matching thick covers were laid. They looked like Western-style beds, but were as comfortable as sleeping on the floor. Rika’s sister’s bed was bare and smooth, unchanged since she married and moved out a year ago. Centered above the headboard, a dated poster of the boy band Arashi curled against its pushpins. On Rika’s half of the room, magazine pullouts of rock bands tacked haphazardly over each other covered the plaster like a crazy quilt. Yumi knew she could peel away the layers and chart her friend’s changing tastes, all the way back to elementary school: Moi dix Mois, Venom Vixen, Dir En Grey, GLAY. A mountain of stuffed animals—mostly Monchhichi monkeys dressed in various outfits—hid the headboard and pillows. Yumi spied a familiar, grubby ear sticking out near the bottom. Sitting down, she excavated the Monchhichi she’d given Rika for her eleventh birthday. The features on its freckled plastic face had nearly worn off from being hugged under the covers on so many sleepovers. She smoothed the place where Rika had once tried to give the monkey a haircut. Clutching it to her chest, she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She couldn’t bear to look at the monkey’s hopeful and ever-smiling face, so she used its furry back to wipe her eyes and carefully placed it on top of the heap, facing the wall. As she settled it onto the pile, a cell phone slipped down from where it had been tossed on top, tethered to its charger. The thick tassel of danglers was instantly familiar—Rika’s old phone. Yumi unplugged it and flipped it open. Six missed calls, one unread text, two unread e-mails. The two e-mails were duplicates, sent by Kei this afternoon: the suicide website addresses.

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So that’s why they hadn’t come through. Rika had bought a new phone, but still used the old one for everything but . . . suicide? Or business, thought Yumi. That would fit with her friend’s yearning for a respectable writing career. It had been Rika who’d suggested it was time to upgrade their phones. And the timing fit—hadn’t Kei mentioned that she’d become secretive about what she was writing about three weeks ago? She forwarded one of Kei’s e-mails with the suicide website address to her own phone, then looked over the rest of Rika’s unread messages. The text was from her own phone, sent Saturday morning on the way to the hairdresser. The display blurred; when she’d sent that message Rika was already dead, but she didn’t know it yet. The missed calls were from Rika’s mother, increasingly urgent as Friday night turned into Saturday morning. Rika was still using her old phone, yet she hadn’t taken it to her appointment with death. If she was using the new phone exclusively for business, that made it more likely the man and woman who died with her were sources, not fellow suicide victims. Yumi checked both the Received and Sent mail. No correspondence at all with <sweetmama>. The dangling ornaments clicked against each other as she slowly closed the phone. A miniature Daruma doll brushed against her hand. The familiar rotund saint stared up at her with two blank, white eyes. Why hadn’t Rika made a wish, that long-ago New Year’s Day in eighth grade when they’d bought each other those Darumas at the Nezu Shrine? The familiar egg-shaped dolls, painted with red robes, fierce whiskers, and scowling eyebrows, were modeled after the founder of Zen Buddhism. Tradition credited Daruma figures with the power to grant wishes; for generations, optimistic Japanese had blacked in one eye with a fervent prayer to the bodhisattva, waiting to color in the other until the wish had been granted. Yumi had blackened one eye of hers immediately, hoping that the boy who sat two seats in front of her would develop as much of a crush on her as she had on him. But Rika had already become a Lolita by then; her entire social life revolved around her Circle.

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Yumi sighed. By the time Rika discovered boys, she had better ways of attracting them than wishing on a Daruma doll. Yumi searched out the place where the ornament tied onto the other phone danglers and teased the stiff string loose, pulling it from the bunch. She dropped it in her jacket pocket and settled the old phone back onto the pile of stuffed animals. Yumi stood and surveyed the room. She had a little over an hour to search for the computer before she had to go home and dress for the concert. Ichiro had called last night after she returned from the Mad Hatter to make sure she was all right. After he’d commandeered his father’s car to take her home, he’d accompanied her all the way to her doorstep instead of just telling the driver to deliver her. She’d cried all the way across town, blurting out bits and pieces about Rika, their friendship, her loss. She probably hadn’t been making much sense but he didn’t look away, embarrassed, the way so many Japanese men would have. He’d listened, and even though his efforts to comfort her were awkward, at least he’d tried. So when he’d called later, asking if she wanted to bow out of the charity event the next evening, she’d found herself saying that going to a concert with him would be a comfort, a welcome distraction from her grief. It would certainly be better than staying home with her parents in their gloomy house. There weren’t many places to store things in Rika’s room. She’d start with the closet. Edging sideways around the bed, she slid the door open. It was stuffed with clothes, all of them pink and white. On the floor, a rack displayed two tiers of platform Mary Janes and a pair of pink, lace-up, patent leather boots. Yumi pressed the clothes aside, looking behind the shoe racks. Duffel bag. Yumi hauled it out. It was navy blue, with “Aoyama Gakuin Daigaku” silk-screened on the side in white. Midori’s name was on the luggage tag. What was Rika doing with the Elegant Goth-Lolita’s college gym bag? Inside were two frilly black blouses, an unopened package of striped socks, and a little rhinestone crown with black satin ties. There was no skirt. Had Rika been wearing it when she died? Now Yumi knew where Rika had gotten the black clothing and why Midori had been so sure Rika hadn’t

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killed herself. What kind of friend would borrow your clothes, then commit suicide in them? On the shelf above, a box of grade school art projects sat next to a row of books, ranging from Prince of Tennis comics to journalism texts. Yumi closed the door and slid open the other side. Pink and white blouses and skirts continued along the pole over a rickety chest of drawers. Yumi spotted the old laptop on top of the dresser, looking dumpy and middle-aged. She opened the lid and pressed the power button, but it didn’t respond. Dead battery. She wiggled open the top drawer and found a neatly coiled power cord. By 5:00 she had skimmed only half the folders. Most contained old college journalism assignments, nothing more recent than two years ago. Yumi rubbed her tired eyes, irritated that she’d have to quit before finding anything. Usually she wouldn’t allow two hours to dress for a date, but a phone call that morning from Ichiro’s mother had forced her to change what she’d planned to wear. It had been a very delicate conversation between the two mothers. Since it would have been unseemly for Mrs. Mitsuyama to mention the suicide of someone she didn’t know—even though she’d heard the news from her own son—she first commented on the weather, then enquired after Yumi’s health. After being reassured that Yumi was fine, although she’d suffered a shock, Ichiro’s mother had murmured her condolences. Mrs. Hata assured her that Yumi was well enough to attend the concert and Mrs. Mitsuyama said she was delighted that Yumi would be accompanying them to the Empress’s refugee benefit. It was her favorite charity event, she confided, because Her Imperial Highness always attended and it provided a wonderful opportunity to wear a kimono instead of the cocktail dresses that were sadly becoming all too common at even the most formal affairs. They’d call with the car at 7:15, if that was agreeable. Yumi sighed and shut down the laptop, coiling the cord. It was time to go home and start struggling with the wraps, underslips, ties, and clips that kimono wearing required. She tucked the laptop under her arm and padded to the kitchen, where she found Rika’s mother

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staring off into space, a fist-sized bamboo shoot in one hand and a paring knife in the other. “Mrs. Ozawa?” “Oh! Yumi. Sorry. I forgot you were here.” She put down the knife and the takenoko, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Did you find what you were looking for?” “Yes and no. I found her computer, but so far I haven’t found the article she was writing. May I take it with me to continue searching and bring it back when I’m done?” “Of course.” “Thank you. I’ll tell you right away if I find anything.” She took in the dark circles under Mrs. Ozawa’s eyes. Her friend’s mother had aged more in the past few days than in all the time she’d known her. “Are you going to be all right here alone?” Rika’s mother gave her a wan smile. “My husband will be back soon. I sent him to the grocery store to get him out of the house for a while. His company doesn’t expect him to be at work at a time like this, but he doesn’t know what to do with himself at home. And her sister is coming home tonight on the train from Kobe.” Reassured, Yumi said good-bye. Passing the zori repair shop on her way home, she began thinking about which kimono to wear tonight. As she debated between the red-and-yellow-striped crepe and the purple silk with swirls, Rika’s new phone began vibrating in her purse.

Chapter 16 Monday, April 8 5:40 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji’s foot jiggled nervously as he returned the missed call from the unknown number. A streetlight glowed outside the darkening window behind the section chief’s desk. “Moshi-moshi, this is Yumi.” “Oh! Yu-chan! I wondered whose number this was. It’s Kenji Nakamura, returning your call.” “Thanks for calling me back. Anything new about Rika?” He’d learned some interesting things about the Hamadas this afternoon, but nothing about Yumi’s friend. “No,” he said, shuffling through the papers on his desk looking for the crime scene inventory. “But actually, there’s something you might be able to help me with. Do you know who Mizuki Ishii is?” “Rika’s sister. She got married last year. What does she have to do with this?” “We found an empty pill bottle in Rika’s pocket. The prescription was made out to Mizuki Ishii, dated February third of last year. We called the prescribing doctor to find out what polyethylene glycol is.” He paused. “I’ve never heard of anybody killing themselves with laxatives before.” “Laxatives?” “That’s what was in the bottle, but we won’t know if that’s what she took unless we do an autopsy. And nothing has changed on that front—we still don’t have evidence to suggest it was anything but

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suicide.” “Well,” said Yumi, “maybe now you will. I have Rika’s phone. The reason I called earlier is that I found something interesting on it. She got three e-mails from someone called <sweetmama> on the day she died. I think <sweetmama> is one of the other victims you found in the car. She may have been a source for the story I heard Rika was working on. Our friend Midori says Rika was writing some sort of exposé. It could have been the reason they were killed.” “What’s this story about?” “I don’t know,” Yumi admitted. “I’m still looking for it.” “Can you forward those e-mails to me?” “I’ll do it right now. Call me back when you get them.” Kenji ended the call and waited for the chime that told him he had unread messages. He scrolled through them, then called Yumi. “What do you think?” she said, picking up where they left off. “Is it enough to convince your boss to okay an investigation?” “Yu-chan . . . I’m not even sure that they convince me. The meeting she’s talking about could have been between a writer and a source, but it could just as easily have been a suicide pact.” Silence. “Look,” Kenji said. “Let’s not give up yet. When you checked her work computer for the story, did you look at her browser history, too? To see what she’d been researching?” “Mei and Kei did.” Yumi sighed. “But the only sites she visited that didn’t have to do with her job were suicide websites.” “I see. Do you remember which ones?” “Kei e-mailed the names to me. I’ll forward them.” “Thanks. It might explain how she met the people who died with her in the car.” “These other people . . . Who were they?”

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“A business executive and his wife.” “And you’re sure they killed themselves?” “Yes.” He couldn’t tell Yumi about the Hamadas’ suicide note and its alarming suggestions of wrongdoing, in case it blew up into a bigger investigation. But if the crime was awful enough to drive the president and his wife to kill themselves, it would have made a sensational story for a wannabe journalist like Rika Ozawa. Had they told her about it before they died? “This story Rika was supposedly writing . . . Where are you looking?” “I found her old college computer and I’m about halfway through searching it.” “Do you think you’ll finish tonight?” “I can’t. I’m . . . going out.” “Oh.” He hoped she hadn’t noticed the dismay in his voice. “Is there some way I could get that computer from you? I could finish searching it.” “Sure. Are you still at the station? I’m on my way home, about a block away.” “Good. I’ll come down to meet you.” “Mata ne.” A few minutes later, Yumi pushed through the front door. She held up a Seibu shopping bag. “Here. I’ve finished searching all the folders through ‘Misc Freelance.’” He thanked her, then groaned. “Damn. I meant to bring down your phone. I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave Rika’s phone with me, but we’re done with yours. Let me run up and get it.” Yumi looked at her watch. “I’ll be right back. I promise.” He ran for the stairs, not waiting for the elevator. A few minutes later, Kenji returned, slightly winded. Yumi was thumb-typing something on Rika’s phone, but she finished just as he arrived. They swapped, and she ran out the door with a quick wave, rushing toward her date. He watched her disappear down the block and sighed. Back at his desk, he resolutely pulled a notepad toward him. He jotted:

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Tuesday —Hamada Sweets purchasing manager? —Suicide websites? Check for Hamadas, Ozawa —Check with lab re: pills in vomit? Post-mortem? He sat back in his chair. When should he talk to the son again? Hiro Hamada had been in no shape to answer questions when Kenji broke the news of his parents’ death on Saturday night. Kenji had waited outside the victims’ Shirogane apartment from midafternoon until the son finally came home at 1:00 A.M. after a solid night of clubbing. He’d been irritated to find Kenji waiting on his doorstep and drunk enough that he shouldn’t have been driving. Hiro had grudgingly invited Kenji into the living room of the spacious flat he shared with his parents, and poured himself another drink before agreeing to sit down and listen. Despite his initial surly attitude, he’d seemed genuinely shocked and horrified at the news of his parents’ deaths. He read the copy of the suicide note with disbelief, denying any knowledge of what had driven his parents to take their own lives. Then he’d collapsed. Kenji fetched him a glass of water and offered to call a friend or relative, but he’d refused, insisting that Kenji leave immediately. Kenji was worried that, left alone, Hiro would have a serious breakdown, so on the way out he’d awakened the building manager, asking him to check on the Hamada son and make sure he was okay. He’d left the heir to grieve in peace, but now he had no choice but to probe deeper about what was going on at the company. Hiro’s name was added to his list. He’d contact Hamada Jr. tomorrow after hunting down the fired purchasing manager. Should he take Suzuki along, or ask him to start combing the suicide websites? How the Hamadas had met up with Yumi’s friend was still a mystery. Yumi. She looked exactly the same. Better, actually. Looking down at his pad, he saw that he’d been outlining a heart, over and over. Frowning, he ripped off the sheet, crumpling it into a ball. He tossed it at his wastebasket and missed. Kenji remembered the day his third grade teacher had stood Yumi in front of the chalkboard and

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introduced her, the day he’d first set eyes on the exotic creature from America who was not at all happy to be there and refused to speak to anybody. The class was split between those who were sure she didn’t speak Japanese and those who thought she was just plain dumb. Both were proved wrong at the end of the first week, when she overheard kids talking about her at lunch, and marched over to set them straight using perfectly fluent Japanese salted with the kind of words she could only have learned by watching gangster movies. After that, she’d been viewed with wary fascination. It turned out she was functionally illiterate—couldn’t read or write half the kanji characters already necessary in third grade—but could speak English better than those guys who came on TV early in the morning to explain foreign newspaper articles. Kenji had been far too shy to talk to her, but when they’d been assigned to work on that model together, he discovered she wasn’t scary at all. In fact, she was so straightforward and funny, if he made himself ignore the way her ponytail bobbed and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, he could almost pretend she was a boy. Yesterday at Matsumoto’s, however, he’d been utterly unable to ignore her laughing eyes and luxuriant hair and the funny way she frowned when she was concentrating on something. When he noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring yet and she said she wasn’t going out with that foreigner anymore, he had to instantly excuse himself to get more tea, afraid she’d see the longing that rushed back and hit him right between the eyes. In high school he’d told himself he wasn’t her type, that she only liked foreigners, but he couldn’t help hoping she’d changed as much as he had. His phone rang. Tommy Loud, from the crime lab. “I’ve got something for you,” said the tech. “Wait a sec, let me get a pen.” Kenji rummaged in his desk drawer. “Okay, go ahead.” “First of all, the vomit at the scene of your suicides matches the swab you brought me from your young female victim’s mouth.” “And what about drugs? Did she throw up before or after taking the pills?” “Before. We found traces of fruit juice and alcohol, some shreds of lettuce, and about three

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dispensers worth of Pinky.” “Pinky?” “Yeah. Those little breath mints. These were the grapefruit-flavored ones, I think; they were white. She ate about fifty of them. What’s really strange is that the Pinkys hadn’t been chewed. They were whole.” “Could those kill you?” The tech laughed. “The melon flavor might, because it’s so revolting.” “No sleeping pills?” “Nope. I also ran some tests on the dust inside the pill bottle we found in her pocket. Guess what it was?” “Laxatives?” Kenji said, hoping to stun Loud with his knowledge. “Nope. Pinky.” “Huh. Can you tell how much she had to drink before she threw up?” “Not without a blood test. But unofficially, unless she was unusually sensitive to alcohol, I’d say she didn’t drink nearly enough to make her vomit. Volume-wise it was one drink, maybe two.” “So what made her lose it?” “You’re the detective.” Kenji sighed. The tech asked, “Are you going to request a judicial autopsy?” “I don’t know. She went to a bar, had a drink or two, ate a salad, swallowed a month’s worth of breath mints, and threw up.” “Then something—or someone—killed her. That’s a pretty big loose end.” The tech paused. “Although I don’t blame you for not wanting to drag in the boys from downtown unless you absolutely have to.” Loud’s tone told Kenji that he’d experienced the three-ring circus that was unleashed once a murder was confirmed.

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“You know,” Loud continued slowly, “once you request a post-mortem, it can take a while for the official paperwork to come through. Those forensic specialists hate to have any reports out there with their hanko stamp on them until every single test has come back from the labs.” He was silent for a moment. “And that can take days.” “Days? How do any crimes get solved when the killer gets such a big head start on the investigators?” “I didn’t say the information isn’t available. I said the official report might not get to headquarters for days. Especially in a case that’s presumed to be suicide, the kind of case that wouldn’t interest the murder squad. Unless somebody requests their assistance, they won’t be assigned to move into the precinct unless there’s a major crime to investigate.” “Ah.” Kenji understood. “You don’t happen to know anybody who could get this advance information from the specialists, do you?” “As a matter of fact, just last month I attended a conference with the head of staff at Tokyo University’s School of Legal Medicine.” “In that case, I’ll talk to Section Chief Tanaka to see if he’ll authorize a post-mortem on the girl. Thanks, Rowdy-san.” Kenji sat back in his chair. He looked at his notes and reread the words he’d underlined as he talked with Loud. No drugs. Fifty Pinky tablets, swallowed whole. Swallowed whole as though they were pills. Rika Ozawa had swallowed pills that wouldn’t kill her and left a suicide note that didn’t say anything.

Chapter 17 Monday, April 8 6:00 P.M.

Yumi

“I’m not wearing that.” “But Yumi, you’d look lovely in it. It’s perfect for the season.” Mrs. Hata held up the pale pink kimono, dripping with cherry blossoms. She’d already sewn the white undercollar on, so it would be ready to wear. “No.” “But Yumi, Mrs. Mitsuyama said—” “I’m not dating Mrs. Mitsuyama.” “But the Empress—” “I’m not dating the Empress, either.” Yumi’s father called from the kitchen. “Okaa-san, do we have any more Otokoyama?” Mrs. Hata sighed. She folded the pink kimono over her arm and went to fetch a fresh bottle of sake. Yumi didn’t really intend to wear the slinky cocktail dress she’d threatened her mother with, but she’d been irritated at being pressured by Mrs. Mitsuyama, and when her own mother jumped in, trying to dress her like a 1970s tourist souvenir, it was just too much. If she had to wear a kimono, at least it could be a stylish one. Pulling open the bottom drawer in the

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wide kimono chest, she flipped through the carefully wrapped layers. Too bad she couldn’t wear her favorite—its purple morning glory design wouldn’t be in season until early September. Digging a little deeper, she pulled out a flat package wrapped in washi paper. Untying the cord, she lifted out a 1920s kimono of slithery crimson and black silk, patterned with large white flowers that looked like they were made of lace. She removed several obi sashes from another drawer, held them up one by one against the kimono, then put away all but the one woven with a lively geometric pattern of spring green, pale yellow, and red. By the time her mother returned, she’d stitched on a green-and-white-checkered undercollar and was halfway dressed, clips and ties holding the underslips in place as she tucked up the kimono so it would just skim her zori sandals. Mrs. Hata sighed in resignation and pitched in to help. “Why is Dad home so early tonight?” Yumi asked, holding her arms out to the side. Her mother adjusted the folds in back before measuring out the first wrap of the four-meter-long obi. “Today he was interviewed by the faculty panel for that professorship he’s hoping to get.” Yumi held one end of the obi while her mother wrapped the other end around her. “How did it go?” “He says it went great, but . . .” Yumi’s mother pulled the obi tight as both of them silently finished the sentence: That’s what he always said. Her mother started working on the bow in back, one of the elaborate winged knots that would identify her daughter as an unmarried women. “When will they decide?” Yumi asked. “Next week, I think.” Mrs. Hata tweaked the checkered obijime cord that held the obi in place and pulled back, eyeing it critically. “Want to go to the Nezu Shrine with me tomorrow to make a few offerings? Can’t hurt.” Yumi clipped a rosette of vintage lace to the cord, pinned on a veiled crimson hat at a jaunty angle, and pulled on her favorite black mesh gloves. She turned to look in the mirror, and her reflection confirmed she’d made the right choice. Technically traditional enough, but not boring.

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Her mother nervously adjusted the bow in back, frowning. “Why do you have to wear all those strange accessories? You look like one of those girls who parade down Omotesando Boulevard!” Yumi smiled, pleased that she’d succeeded. The doorbell rang. She snatched up her sandals and looped a shimmery silver evening bag over her wrist. Shuffling to the entryway, she set down her zoris and stepped into them, putting on a smile as she opened the door. It wasn’t Ichiro. “Oh! Good evening, Mrs. Mitsuyama,” Yumi said, startled to see his mother instead. Formal greetings were exchanged and kimonos mutually admired. Ichiro’s mother presented the Hatas with a box of expensive rice crackers, apologizing that she couldn’t come in because her husband was waiting in the car. The driver bowed and opened the back door of the big Lexus. Mrs. Mitsuyama slid in first, next to Ichiro’s father. Yumi peered in, checking both back and front seats. “Isn’t Ichiro coming?” “Didn’t he tell you? He had to be there early—he’s performing.” Yumi groaned inwardly. No wonder he’d been reluctant to invite her. This wasn’t going to be a date with him, it was a date with his parents. Too late now. She arranged her face into a pleasant expression and folded herself into the car next to Mrs. Mitsuyama. But the car ride wasn’t as awkward as she’d feared. Instead of seventeen stops on the subway with a change at Ueno and a long walk from Kamiyachō Station, the big car purred smoothly through the traffic and pulled up to the curb right in front of Suntory Hall as they chatted about music. The Mitsuyamas whisked her inside. As they made their way to their seats, Yumi was caught up in a dizzying whirlwind of introductions. Smiled upon by an ex-prime minister, casually invited backstage by a legendary Kabuki actor, and complimented by the man who would be shōgun if the Meiji Restoration had never happened, by the time they reached their seats, her head was spinning. It was the first time she’d experienced what it was like to be a member of the Mitsuyamas’ inner circle.

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She’d barely finished looking over the program when everyone stood and five hundred pairs of hands began to clap. A slight woman stood at the rail of the box opposite and waved graciously. The Empress was much smaller than she looked in photographs. The first half of the program was a performance by the wife of the American ambassador, playing two-piano Rachmaninoff with her Japanese counterpart. When the curtains reopened, Ichiro stood with his quartet, looking dashing in a tuxedo, his violin gleaming in the spotlight. The four musicians bowed first toward the Empress, then to the audience, before raising their bows to begin the first movement of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden. The intensity on Ichiro’s face was something Yumi hadn’t seen before. On stage, lost in the music, he wasn’t the plain, somewhat stiff man she had met across the o-miai lunch table. And he was surprisingly good. Yumi hadn’t really noticed how well he played at the long-ago Asia Society gathering in Boston. When the musicians lifted their bows in a final flourish at the end of the “Presto,” his features lit up with an incandescent smile. Applause rose in waves from the audience. After they bowed deeply to the Empress, then the hall, the curtain closed. The audience continued to clap and when the curtain reopened, the quartet bowed again, joined by the pianists. As they straightened, Ichiro looked up at her. She smiled back and clapped harder. Afterward, she hovered at the edge of a scrum of well-wishers backstage, as Ichiro flicked glances in her direction over the shoulders of the fashionable young men and women crowding in to congratulate him. As soon as was polite, he excused himself and made his way through the crowd to Yumi, leaving no doubt in anybody’s mind whom he’d been playing for that evening. Ichiro’s parents took a taxi home, leaving them the car and driver. She followed him back to the practice room where the quartet had warmed up. Well-worn cork tiled the floor, and dark scrapes along the walls attested to the instrument cases that had been wrestled in and out by generations of performers. Ichiro’s violin case sat open on one of the stackable chairs arranged in a haphazard semicircle behind battered black music stands. Musicians and their admirers drifted past the

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door, gearing up for the afterparties. The viola player had already put away her instrument and was pulling pins from her hair. She shook it out, and Yumi was surprised to see a magenta streak that had been carefully hidden under her chignon. She was wearing a pair of conservative Mikimoto pearl earrings, but tiny piercings marched up the sides of both ears. “God, I’m glad that’s finally over,” she said, shrugging a black leather biker jacket over her gown. “Mitsu-boy, you played well tonight.” “So did you.” Ichiro grinned. Turning to Yumi, the viola player said, “Apparently you’re a good influence. I’m Nikki.” “And I’m Yumi. Pleased to meet you. Great concert.” Nikki made a face and shouldered a black leather purse dripping with silver chains and crosses. “Just don’t tell anybody you saw me here, playing Schubert and dressed like this.” She gazed down scornfully at her black Vera Wang gown. “My band would disown me.” “How’s that going?” Ichiro asked. “We’ve got a ‘live’ at a club on Friday, actually. And I’ll tell you one thing—Goths pay a lot better than Her Imperial Highness.” She grinned wickedly. “You should come. It’d be good for you.” “Uh . . .” “Mitsu, you’re hopeless. Such an incurably dutiful eldest son.” The cellist stuck his head in the door. “Nikki-chan, you coming? The cab’s waiting.” She picked up her case and whispered to Yumi, “Work on loosening up Mr. Heir Apparent here, will you?”

Chapter 17 Monday, April 8 11:30 P.M.

Yumi

A few hours later, after making an appearance at the sponsors’ gala, Ichiro and Yumi sank onto a leather sofa in the penthouse suite of the Grand Hyatt at one of the private afterparties. Vast windows framed a view of the twinkling boulevards far below, and reflected the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the spacious room. Nearly half the young women were wearing kimonos, exotic flowers against the stark black of their escorts’ tuxedos. Ichiro’s black tie was hanging loose, and Yumi had stopped caring if her obi bow got crushed. The son of the chairman of Suntory uncorked a bottle of Chateau de Beaucastel and poured the wine around, assuring everyone they’d be ruined for any other Bordeaux after drinking it. Yumi secretly would have preferred a lemon-flavored, canned chū-hai, but Ichiro and his friends were clearly used to moresophisticated drinks. She didn’t want to embarrass him, so she dutifully accepted a glass. It wasn’t nearly sweet enough, but she managed to sip it without making a face. She wondered if she’d ever develop a taste for French wine. It was hard to imagine preferring it to a nice, fruity cocktail that hid the taste of the alcohol, but stranger things had happened in the past few weeks. Until a month ago, her entire social life had revolved around Rika and Coco. All three of them

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chafed against the unspoken rules about everything from proper dress to proper ambitions, but her friends would never understand why she sometimes felt like such an alien in Japan. Rika and Coco had never been out of the country, didn’t even have passports. Ichiro’s friends were different. Their families had been moved across the global chessboard by diplomatic and corporate assignments, their childhoods salted with exotic foreign languages. They too had encountered inedible-looking foods like artichokes and made foreign faux pas that were as embarrassing as forgetting to take off the plastic toilet slippers when returning to a Tokyo dinner party. This was the third time she’d met Ichiro’s friends, and she was still astonished she had so much in common with the privileged scions she’d expected to find snobby and spoiled. Unlike most people she met in Tokyo, they made her feel she was already a member of their club. She no longer felt uncomfortable with their expensive clothes and casual acceptance of luxury; the only thing she envied was that they were all so at home in Japan. Ichiro’s face was glowing as his friends drifted in and out, congratulating him on his performance. Sitting on the sofa next to him, aware of the city spread at their feet, she realized with an almost electric shock that she could choose this. Not just the luxury, but the belonging. She’d been trudging along, one foot in front of the other, and suddenly found herself on the crest of a ridge, looking down into a dazzling country she hadn’t realized existed. For the first time, she let herself imagine what it would be like to be part of Ichiro’s life. A sneaking discomfort interrupted her thoughts. She was going to need a bathroom soon. The penthouse suite was so trendily Western she knew it wouldn’t have a Japanese-style squat toilet, and experience had taught her that Western toilets and kimono could be a disastrous combination. Should she venture out into the public part of the hotel in search of a Japanese-style o-tearai? Or wrestle with her clothing en suite? Urgency decided for her. She’d better seek out the closest one. Excusing herself, she walked through the sitting room next door and found a powder room down the hall.

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It took a good ten minutes to deal with her kimono, then repair her makeup. Finally satisfied with what she saw in the mirror, she retraced her steps down the hallway, but slowed at the sound of men’s voices in the sitting room she’d have to pass through on her way back to Ichiro. Their confidential tone warned that it would be an intrusion to burst in, so she hung back and waited, hoping they’d leave soon. “. . . by the time she went with the building manager to open the Hamadas’ front door, Hiro was in really bad shape. Hadn’t eaten in over a day, hadn’t called any of his relatives to tell them the news. My mother said it looked like he’d been drinking his way through everything in the house. Empties everywhere. He was pretty out of it.” “No wonder. Poor guy. Losing both parents like that.” “Yeah, what a shock.” “Was it really . . . jisatsu?” “That’s what the detective told our building manager. Found them dead, early Saturday morning, in a car at the Komagome Shrine. Hiro was out of his mind with grief, saying all kinds of crazy things. My mother was so worried she asked our doctor to come over and give him a sedative. She called his aunt and stayed with him until she arrived.” “I wonder what’ll happen to Hamada Sweets. Will Hiro take over?” “I guess, but until he gets himself promoted to president, nothing much will change except the size of his golf bets.” “When are the funerals?” “Haven’t heard.” “Well, one thing’s for sure, he won’t be playing in the tournament next Saturday.” “Damn, that’s right. The tournament.” Yumi heard a groan. “Do you think we can get Mitsuyama to make up our foursome?” “I’ll ask him. You want another drink?” “Nah, it’s getting late. I have to work tomorrow.” The leather chairs sighed as they rose to leave.

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Yumi stood in the hallway, stunned. They’d been talking about the two people who’d been found in the car with Rika! Were they really the parents of someone Ichiro knew? What would it be like, to lose both parents at once? For a moment she let herself taste that immense loss: alone, in the drafty house in Komagome, kept company only by the ghosts of her disappointed father and worried mother. She shivered, remembering the weekend her parents had been away in Hakone, how dark and silent the house had felt the night she’d broken up with Ben. Smoothing her kimono, she made her way back to the party. The crowd had thinned and quieted. Intimate conversations warmed the room, lamps illuminating the faces of Ichiro’s friends. From the doorway, she watched him laughing easily with a pair of girls in beautifully cut gowns. She joined them and Ichiro pulled her down next to him with a grin. “Where have you been all this time? I thought you’d never come back,” he whispered in her ear, and she curled up next to him, grateful for the warmth.

Chapter 19 Tuesday, April 9 12:00 P.M.

Kenji

After a morning spent tying up loose ends on the gang case, Kenji finally escaped the station with Suzuki to track down the fired Hamada Sweets purchasing manager. They fortified themselves at a convenience store near Ueno Station with rice balls and cold tea before venturing into the warren of residential streets nearby. As they searched for the address, Kenji wondered whether the forensic specialist would do Rika Ozawa’s autopsy today. Her mother had given tearful permission that morning, and the body had been transferred to Tokyo University’s Legal Medicine morgue. He’d left a message on Yumi’s phone about the post-mortem. While Suzuki walked down the street searching for the Aritas’ apartment building, Kenji spotted a grandmotherly woman sweeping her front step with a twig broom. The indigo-dyed farmer pants she wore were as old-fashioned as her house, a one-story wooden structure crouching between the tall, stuccoed apartments. Her hair was pinned back in a bun, and her worn wooden geta clopped on the pavement as she bustled back and forth. “Good afternoon, honorable auntie,” he said, bowing and showing his police ID. “I’m Detective Kenji Nakamura. I was wondering if you know which building the Arita family lives in?”

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“Yutaka Arita?” she asked, her eyes suddenly as avid as a cormorant spotting a sardine. “What’s he done?” “Nothing, ma’am. He’s a witness in a case we’re investigating and we need to talk to him.” “Is that why he lost his job?” “No, honorable auntie, nothing like that.” “It’s that building there. The one with the bikes parked in front.” She gestured down the block with a gnarled claw. Kenji thanked her and started to walk away. She called after him, “He’s not home, you know.” Kenji turned. “Not home? Where is he?” The old woman clamped her mouth shut. “Better ask his wife,” she said, propping her broom next to the front door and slipping off her geta before stepping inside and decisively sliding the door shut. Suzuki joined Kenji in front of the five-story building. After identifying themselves by intercom, they were buzzed in, climbed the stairs, and found the door to apartment 202 already open. A salt-andpepper-haired woman with a pair of flower-arranging secateurs in one hand and a branch of cherry blossoms in the other peered at them curiously from the doorway. She wore a green canvas apron over her slacks and flowered blouse, a kerchief holding her chin-length bob away from her face. They introduced themselves and she invited them in, placing two pairs of brown vinyl slippers on the carpet beyond the entryway. She took off her apron and bustled back and forth, clearing flower cuttings from the table. A half-finished arrangement arched from a pale green ikebana vase. “Please don’t go to any trouble, Mrs. Arita. We just need to ask your husband a few questions.” She stopped, a tissue-wrapped bundle of flowering branches in her arms. “My husband?” she looked at them, puzzled. “Why are you looking for him here at this hour? He’s at work.” Kenji opened his mouth, then stopped himself. “Ah. We thought he might have come home for lunch. We’ll try to catch him this afternoon, but in the meantime maybe you can help us?”

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“What’s this about?” she asked, setting down the branches and folding her arms over her chest. “We think he might have witnessed a crime we’re investigating, so first we’d like to find out if he was even in the area where the incident occurred. Do you know where your husband was last Friday evening?” Mrs. Arita relaxed. “We were both in Nagoya over the weekend, visiting our daughter. He left work early on Friday and we took the three o’clock bullet train from Tokyo Station. We didn’t return until Sunday night.” Kenji made a note, nodding with satisfaction. “Thank you, Mrs. Arita. I guess it wasn’t him after all. You saved us a trip to your husband’s office—I don’t think we’ll have to bother him now.” Bowing, he shepherded Suzuki back out the door. Outside the building, they stopped under the overhang. It had started to rain. Suzuki said, “She doesn’t know.” “Apparently not.” “But he’s been out of work for a month!” “Yeah.” Kenji looked down the street and made a decision. “Let’s see if we can find out where he goes all day.” Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he dashed down the block and knocked on the old neighbor’s door. It cracked open. “Yes?” Kenji identified himself again and explained they were investigating an incident at Hamada Sweets. She looked at him sharply. “Where Arita-san used to work?” “May we come in for a moment?” Kenji asked. The old woman slid the door aside and fetched some woven straw slippers. A calico cat slunk out as they entered, stopping where the dry pavement ended, weighing its urgent cat business against wet feet. The old woman invited them into a modest tatami-floored room, bare except for a low kotatsu table

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covered with a thick indigo-dyed quilt. Although it was April, damp chill still seeped into the unheated, thin-walled house. The purring from the table’s built-in heater fan told Kenji and Suzuki that when they pulled up a pair of floor cushions and slid their legs underneath, they’d find an oasis of comforting warmth. The old woman probably spent most of her time in this room, and when she needed to venture into the unheated parts of the house, relied on a pair of the red, woolen long johns that people of a certain age still wore under their clothes for warmth and good luck. Tea appeared in thick Mino-ware cups, frothy white glaze dripping down the sides like frosting. “Thank you,” Kenji said, politely taking a sip. He took a rice cracker from the bowl she offered and thanked her with a polite “itadakimasu” before taking a bite. Even police business required the mandatory pleasantries. “Delicious,” he said. “They’re from Niigata. My hometown is famous for them,” she replied, pleased. Then she frowned. “Why did that company fire Arita-san after he’d worked there for so many years?” “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Kenji said. “Tell me, honorable auntie—how did you know Arita-san wasn’t home?” “Saaa . . .” She shook her head. “Poor Arita-san. He still goes out every morning, dressed in his suit and carrying his briefcase.” “Then how did you know he lost his job? It doesn’t seem like he’s told anybody.” The old woman sighed. “He comes home at the regular time, but sometimes there are leaves stuck to the back of his coat. And he’s not always sober.” “Do you know where he goes during the day?” The old woman selected a rice cracker from the bowl. “Last week I was on my way to the National Museum to see the Sesshu exhibit and I saw him in Ueno Park. He was sitting on a bench, playing Go with a homeless man. I turned my face away and hurried past, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.” “Where in the park?”

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“On the main promenade, across from the o-bento restaurant. The one with the red torii gate next to it.” “Can you tell us what he looks like?” “Let’s see . . . not too tall, losing his hair, a bit thinner than he used to be. He’s the kind of man you’d never pick out of a crowd, but he’ll be easy to spot today because it’s raining. I saw him walk by this morning, carrying his daughter’s old Hello Kitty umbrella.” The rain pattered on the roof and gurgled down the copper chains hanging from the eaves outside as Kenji finished noting Mr. Arita’s description. “He’s not in any trouble, is he?” she asked anxiously. “No. Don’t worry, you haven’t added to his burdens by talking to us.” “Poor man. He’ll have to tell his wife sometime. Doesn’t he realize it won’t get any easier?”

Chapter 20 Tuesday, April 9 1:30 P.M.

Kenji

The storm had knocked down so many cherry petals that the main promenade through Ueno Park was plastered in pink. Raindrops trickled along the branches overhead, plopping randomly onto the cheap, plastic umbrellas Kenji and Suzuki had bought at a Family Mart near Arita’s apartment. Fewer jobless men than usual huddled on the benches lining the path. Those who lived in tents made from blue government-issue tarps had retreated to their relative comfort, and the few unfortunates who were truly homeless hunched in ones and twos under cast-off umbrellas, occasionally sharing a bottle. As they neared the restaurant with the red torii gate, Kenji and Suzuki slowed, scanning for Hello Kitty. “There he is, sir,” said Suzuki, nodding toward a man sharing his bench with a weathered veteran of the streets. Between them sat a cheap Go board with a game in progress. Both men looked up as the police officers stopped beside them. Kenji pulled his police ID from his pocket. “Yutaka Arita?” The man under the pink umbrella looked beaten. Lines creased his forehead and drew deep parentheses around his mouth. His cheeks sagged, as though he’d lost weight suddenly. “I’m Arita,” he said, glancing at Kenji’s ID.

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“May we ask you a few questions?” “About . . . ?” “Your former employer.” The man’s mouth froze in a thin line. “We were wondering if you knew that Tatsuo Hamada and his wife are dead.” Shock slapped across Arita’s face. “Hamada-san is dead? What happened?” “You didn’t see the news?” He shifted slightly, showing Kenji the outdated Asahi Shimbun he was sitting on to keep his pants dry. “I don’t use the papers much for reading anymore.” “We found them Saturday morning. It looks like they committed suicide.” “Suicide? Both of them?” His brow furrows grew deeper. “Why?” “We hoped you might know.” “I don’t know anything about the Hamadas. I haven’t seen either of them since I left the company.” He looked down at his wilted suit, ashamed. “How did you find me, anyway?” “We visited your wife.” “No! You didn’t tell her . . . ?” “We didn’t. Someone else pointed us in the right direction. We told your wife that you might have been a witness to something we’re investigating. Which is true—what we’d like to know is why you resigned from the job you held for twenty-six years. We heard that it was Mr. Hamada who asked you to leave.” The ex-purchasing manager looked at Kenji for a long moment, then sighed and bowed his head. “It was March twelfth, a Thursday. My model train club night. I was anxious to get home and put the finishing touches on a water tower I’d built for our HO-scale setup; I wanted to take it with me to the meeting. So when Hamada-san called me into his office, I was hoping he wouldn’t keep me long. “He shut the door and asked me why I’d ordered cut-rate sweetener and milk without consulting

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him. I didn’t know what he was talking about. We always ordered our ingredients from the same suppliers we’d used since his father was president. Then he handed me a bill of lading from a Chinese company, showing we’d received a shipment of two hundred fifty kilos of artificial sweetener and one hundred kilos of milk powder the previous week. I told him I’d never seen it before, that I’d never dealt with that company, that I’d never even heard of it. “He pointed to the hanko stamp at the bottom, and I was horrified to see it was mine. I couldn’t explain it. I asked who’d given him the document. He wouldn’t tell me. He just shook his head and told me to clean out my desk. I was so shocked I started to black out. I had to sit down. Hamada-san just sat like a wooden Buddha, then he followed me to my office and watched while I put my things in a box. He didn’t say a word, just held out his hand for my passkey at the door. I walked to the train station and put my box of stuff in a coin locker, then sat in a bar until I recovered enough to go home.” “If you didn’t stamp your hanko on it, who did?” “Anyone could have done it. Anyone who brought papers for me to sign knew I kept it in my desk drawer. None of us locked our offices.” Arita looked stricken. “We were like family.” “But there must be someone you suspect . . . ?” Arita sat wordlessly, bitter lines framing his mouth. Finally he said, “Look at who replaced me.” “Hiro Hamada?” Arita remained silent. “He was after your job?” Arita tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Not exactly. He was being groomed to take over the company, everybody knew that. But his father saw himself as caretaker of the family legacy, and took pride in running it exactly the way his wife’s father had taught him. During O-bon he was fond of saying he hoped when his father-in-law’s spirit returned every year, he liked what he saw. So Hamadasan insisted his son work his way up from the bottom, learning every part of the business. Hiro didn’t get promoted until he’d mastered every task, down to the last detail. Hamada-san actually speeded up

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his son’s promotions after his cancer treatments last year, but it wasn’t fast enough for Hiro. Hamada Jr. thought that because he graduated from Waseda, he should go straight to the top. “Hiro started suggesting improvements, trying to impress his father with tricky ways we could change things to make the company more profitable. Fiddling with the accounting, bidding out contracts to squeeze lower prices from our suppliers, tinkering with the recipes, substituting less-expensive ingredients. “His father refused to consider any of them, and I was the one who had to deliver the bad news.” They listened to the rain whisper in the trees far above. “So what do you think Hiro Hamada did?” “I think he ordered cheap ingredients from that Chinese company in my name. Maybe he thought if he secretly substituted them and no one noticed a difference in the finished products, Hamada-san would finally admit his son was right: The company could boost profits without hurting quality and maybe the old man would let Hiro skip the rest of the low-level jobs, move straight into management.” Arita frowned. “Or maybe he just wanted my job. “In any case, he got what he wanted. When Hamada-san discovered that bill of lading, Hiro let me take the fall instead of admitting what he’d done behind his father’s back.” “But why would the president of a company fire an old and trusted employee for stepping out of line only once?” “I didn’t,” Arita insisted, offended. “But even if Hamada-san thought you did, why was making that one order so terrible he fired you?” Arita sighed. “Hamada-san was a man of honor; he came from an old samurai family. Ordering from an unapproved Chinese company made him think I no longer shared his commitment to the traditions his father had handed down. After he had cancer last year, Hamada-san was afraid Hiro might have to take over before his training was complete, so he became even more rigid about making his son

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do things in the traditional way. But Hiro pushed back. Hamada-san hated clashing with his son, so he made me the middleman. The thing is, some of Hiro’s ideas weren’t that bad. I tried to talk Hamada-san into trying a few of his son’s suggestions, but he refused every time. When Hamada-san saw that Chinese bill of lading, he must have thought I’d joined the employees who’d begun currying favor with his son, thinking he might become their boss sooner rather than later. It looked like I’d sabotaged everything the company stood for. And Hamada-san was more like his ancestors than he wanted to admit: A single insult was enough to make him draw his sword.” “Was it enough to make him commit suicide?” Arita nodded. “He’s the sort of man who would kill himself for honor. But how could two hundred fifty kilos of sweetener and one hundred kilos of milk powder that were never used make him take his own life?” “How do you know they were never used?” “The line manager or test engineers would have noticed a change in the taste. We have strict controls so our candy is always the same, even though milk from the same farm can taste different at different times of year, depending on what the cows are eating. I can’t imagine that cheap ingredients from a completely new supplier in a different part of the world would go unnoticed. Someone would have told me.” Kenji nodded and shifted his umbrella to his other hand, digging in his pocket for a business card. He handed it to Arita, apologizing for not doing it properly with both hands. Arita apologized that he no longer had one to give in return. “If you think of anything else, please call me,” said Kenji. “I hope that your fortunes improve soon, Mr. Arita. Thank you for your help.”

Chapter 21 Tuesday, April 9 2:30 P.M.

Kenji

Suzuki shouldered open the door to the interview room carrying two Styrofoam cups of tea. He set one in front of Kenji, who muttered his thanks and drank a slug without looking up. Suzuki perched at attention on the edge of his chair, waiting for his superior to finish reviewing the notes taken during the day’s interviews. Kenji looked up, marking his place with a finger. “You’re making me nervous, sitting like that.” Suzuki relaxed slightly. “Your notes are very . . . comprehensive.” “Thank you, sir. I think the four-color pen makes it easier to keep things straight, don’t you?” Kenji rubbed his eyes. “Maybe this would go faster if I organize the timeline and you look back through your notes for the details.” He stood to face the blank whiteboard. Drawing a black line across it, he marked a point near the right end. “Okay, let’s work backward. The Hamadas committed suicide on Friday . . . What was the date?” Suzuki consulted his phone. “April fifth.” Kenji wrote it on the board. He stepped to the left and made another mark. “About a week before

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that, they visited their lawyer and changed their wills. And Arita-san was fired on March fourteenth.” He marked the timeline. “Hamada and his son had some sort of disagreement after work a day or two before Arita was fired.” He wrote “March 12?” then stepped back and looked at the board. “What else?” “The bill of lading, sir?” “Right. Arita didn’t give me a date, but he said the shipment had arrived about a week before.” Kenji extended the line and wrote “Shipment—March 5?” He capped the marker, fetched his tea from the table, and turned to study what he’d written. “Okay, what have we got? A shipment of cheap sugar and powdered milk is delivered. The next week, Hamada and his son have a disagreement after everyone else has gone home. We don’t know what it was about, but Hamada Sr. is too upset to open his office door to General Manager Fukuda afterward. Two days later, Hamada confronts Arita, who claims to know nothing about the order. Arita is fired, but Hamada doesn’t explain why.” “Maybe we should add that Hiro Hamada then took over Arita’s job,” suggested Suzuki. “Good point. Probably right, ne? Let’s say March fifteenth.” Kenji squeezed it in. He resumed his narrative. “A week later, the Hamadas changed their wills, leaving money to the manager they just fired and making it easier for their son to raid his trust fund.” Kenji looked at Suzuki. “Why did they do that?” “Which do you mean, sir?” “Both.” Suzuki consulted his notebook. “It says here they left Arita a year’s pay. But if it was severance, wouldn’t the company pay that?” “Not if he was forced to resign. Clearly Hamada didn’t give him much choice, but if he wasn’t actually fired, the company would owe him nothing.” Kenji tapped his lips with the pen. “So why would the Hamadas leave him a bequest?”

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He looked up to see Oki passing by outside the interview room windows and called him in. The big man looked over the timeline as Kenji outlined the puzzling will changes. Oki swung a chair around to face the board and dropped into it, rubbing his jaw as he considered the question. “Okay, here’s what I think,” he finally said. “Two possibilities. One, they felt sorry for Arita’s family. This guy worked at the company for years, right? He was probably hired by Mrs. Hamada’s dad. Hamada-san’s decision may have been made in a fit of anger, but when he cooled off, he realized he was punishing Arita’s whole family by forcing his resignation. Perhaps Hamada felt he ought to have handled it differently, so the family had something to live on while Arita looked for another job. It was too late to make a legal severance payment through the company, so he decided to do it out of his own pocket.” “If that’s true, then he knew Arita would be getting that money soon enough to make a difference during his job search,” Kenji said slowly. “That means they decided to commit jisatsu before they changed their wills.” Oki nodded. “The other possibility is that Hamada found out after firing Arita that he’d made a mistake. That somebody else was responsible for placing that order.” He frowned. “But if they fired him by mistake, why didn’t they just apologize and give him his job back?” “And we’re back to asking: If not Arita, who ordered the cut-rate products? And why do you think the Hamadas eased up on their son’s trust?” “Well, the first thing I’d ask is why they made it so tough for him to get at the money in the first place. Then I’d want to know what changed. What kind of kid is Hamada Jr.?” Kenji reported that both Fukuda and Arita had described him as smart, ambitious, and impatient with his slow advancement. And, if they believed the ex-purchasing manager, Hiro was also willing to profit from cutting corners and let others pay for his misdemeanors. “Huh,” said Oki when he’d finished. “Sounds like a typical, spoiled rich kid. If that’s the improved version, I wonder what he was like before.”

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“Sir?” said Suzuki, who’d been paging through his notebook while Kenji talked. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about. Mr. Hamada knew his son was getting tired of working his way up from the bottom, and according to Arita, he’d already vetoed several sketchy suggestions from his son. So why didn’t Mr. Hamada suspect Hiro was involved in that order for cut-rate ingredients? Why did he blame Arita?” “It was Arita’s name on the paperwork.” “His hanko,” Suzuki corrected. “Surely Hamada-san realized that someone besides Arita could have put it there.” “Parents can be awfully blind when it comes to their children,” said Oki. “Yes, but when Mr. Hamada met with his lawyer, he seemed to believe that his son had grown up recently and proved that his values were in the right place. That sounds like Hiro did something specific to change his father’s opinion.” “What happened on that date there, right before the purchasing manager was fired?” asked Oki, nodding toward the timeline. “We don’t know exactly,” Kenji admitted. “Father and son met behind closed doors after work and afterward the father was very upset.” “The timing is right for discovering that bill of lading,” mused Oki. “I wonder who delivered it to Hamada. If it was the son, that might be what convinced his dad that he’d changed.” “But wouldn’t he want to wait until the cheap ingredients had been successfully used before telling his father?” objected Suzuki. “If he wanted to prove a point?” Kenji sighed in frustration. “I wonder if any of this matters. I’m not seeing any threat to innocent victims. So far, nothing about this little soap opera seems to warrant the kind of apology made in their suicide note.” They all sat for a few minutes, turning the evidence over in their minds. Oki heaved himself up out of his chair. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the Fujimoto burglary. Hope

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you figure it out. Good luck.” Kenji thanked him. He looked over the whiteboard again; it still wasn’t providing any answers. “Shall we take a break, Suzuki-san?” “Yes, sir,” replied his assistant, neatly aligning his pen on top of his closed notebook. He picked up his empty teacup. “Would you like a refill, sir?” “Yes, thanks.” On his way back from the men’s room, Kenji realized he was hungry. The two rice balls he’d wolfed down outside the Ueno Station convenience store hadn’t been enough. He stopped at the vending machine, disappointed to see a sign taped to the glass asking him to please excuse the inconvenience, the repairman had been called. Running out to the Lawson down the street would take too long. Maybe he’d find something in his desk. Aha. At the back of his bottom drawer, a single packet of Koala biscuits. Munching the chocolatefilled snacks he’d loved since childhood, he returned to the interview room to find Suzuki poring over his notes. His assistant looked up, then leaped to his feet, crying, “Stop, sir! Where did you get those?” He was staring at the Koala packet. The assistant detective was well known for his earnest dedication to healthy eating. “Suzuki-san, not all of us think we’ll drop dead if we occasionally eat junk food.” “No, really sir, those are poison!” He snatched the half-eaten packet from Kenji’s hand. “Suzuki-san!” “These were recalled over six months ago,” Suzuki chided. He shook the bag at Kenji. “They’re made with tainted milk. Melamine. It causes kidney failure. Didn’t you see the news?” Kenji frowned. “I thought that was in China. Babies died from drinking counterfeit infant formula or something.”

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“That was the first case. But then they discovered that the same company sold tainted milk to manufacturers all over the world, who used it in all kinds of products: cookies, candy, soft drinks . . .” “Wait. Candy?” They stared at each other. “That’s it,” Kenji said. “The Hamadas were afraid someone had ordered tainted Chinese milk products and put that in their candy. When you checked their company website, was there any mention of recalls?” “None.” “Or . . . deaths?” “No.” Kenji looked back at the timeline and circled the section between Arita’s firing and the visit to the lawyer. “Mr. and Mrs. Hamada must have spent this week trying to find out what happened to that powdered milk.” “And whatever they found—or didn’t find—made them decide to commit jisatsu.” Kenji stood up. “I’ll talk to Section Chief Tanaka. I hope it’s enough for a warrant.”

Chapter 22 Tuesday, April 9 2:30 P.M.

Yumi

The subway car was packed with students. Yumi had been lucky to beat a miniskirted coed to the last seat as the train pulled away from Waseda Station. She eased her heel out of her too-tight shoe, sneaking a look at an angry red patch rapidly turning into a blister. Yesterday she’d forgotten to go to Mr. Minit to retrieve the pumps she usually wore with her translating uniform and had to dust off the only other heels that met the strict guidelines of the International Interpreting Company. She’d been stuck in a stuffy English department classroom since 10:00 that morning with a visiting professor who couldn’t understand why she needed to consult her dictionary so frequently. At first she’d been apologetic, guilty because she’d spent yesterday investigating Rika’s death instead of prepping to interpret a panel discussion called “Innocence, Shame, Ambiguity, and Desire in the Work of Henry James.” But as the day wore on, she began to take a perverse pride in the fact that she wasn’t the kind of person who used words like “indubitably.” It didn’t help that her thoughts kept straying to last night’s revelation that she could walk away from pompous professors forever just by saying “yes” when Ichiro got around to proposing. Ichiro. She was confused by the increasing intimacy she wanted to push away and embrace at the same time. His father’s driver had diplomatically excused himself to buy cigarettes at the convenience

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store last night when they pulled up outside Yumi’s house at 2:00 A.M. She’d been nearly as reluctant as Ichiro to see the evening end, and had returned his affections with more enthusiasm than before. If she hadn’t been trussed up securely in a kimono, the driver might have been exiled out on the street corner for quite some time. Later, alone on her futon, she’d fallen asleep holding her cell phone, Ichiro’s goodnight text message still glowing on the screen. That reminded her. She pulled out her phone, remembering she’d felt it vibrate during the professor’s Q & A. One missed call from Ichiro, a voicemail from Kenji, and three new e-mail messages. The train slowed as it approached Takadanobaba Station. Wincing as she shoved her foot back into her shoe, she limped to the door. As soon as she cleared the exiting crowd, aiming herself toward the Yamanote Line, she returned Ichiro’s call. He picked up on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting. Would she meet him for dinner tonight? 8:00, at Tofu-ya Ukai, near Shiba-koen. She wondered how he’d gotten a reservation on such short notice. The legendary yudofu restaurant was booked weeks in advance. Yumi promptly decided she needed a new dress. A train arrived, bound for Shibuya, the opposite direction from home. She ran, angling between the doors just as they closed. Halfway to the next station, she remembered she hadn’t listened to Kenji’s message yet. “Yu-chan, this is Kenji Nakamura. I wanted you to know that we’ve received permission to do a post-mortem on Rika Ozawa. I’ll call you after the forensic specialist’s examination. I didn’t find anything on that computer you left with me last night, but I still like the idea that she met the other victims while researching a story. How carefully did you check her computer at work? Maybe she saved her story to an online archive. We don’t have enough for a warrant, but do you think her boss would let me take a look anyway? I’ll be out of the office most of today, but I might have time to do it tomorrow. Thanks.” Harajuku Station was on the way to Shibuya. She could stop at the GothXLoli offices and let them know that Kenji wanted to come in to look at Rika’s computer. Or she’d have a look herself—she might

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spot something Rika’s co-workers had missed. Mei and Kei would be pleased to hear the police were finally giving Rika’s case the attention it deserved. She was about to close her phone when she remembered the e-mails and checked her Inbox. She frowned. They were from someone she didn’t know. Someone called . Then she remembered—last night at the police station, waiting for Kenji to run up and fetch her phone, she’d forwarded <sweetmama>’s e-mails about the Komagome Shrine meeting from Rika’s new mobile to her own phone. Although they’d originally come from <sweetmama>, they bore the stamp of the phone they’d been forwarded from. Why had Rika chosen as her e-mail user ID? She’d always used something incorporating her name before: Rikaloli, Rikadoll, Rikachan. Why suddenly conceal her identity? She should tell Kenji. And she’d let him know she was searching Rika’s computer for the article. She left a voicemail.

Chapter 23 Tuesday, April 9 3:00 P.M.

Yumi

As Yumi waited for Rika’s computer to boot, she strolled slowly around the office where her best friend had spent every workday for the past two years. The staff room was strangely quiet; Mei and Kei had left early to review an XtaSea concert at Zepp Tokyo, and the art director was upstairs in the photo studio. The J-pop that gave the room its usual heartbeat was silent. Shoulder-to-shoulder framed covers of past GothXLoli issues covered the walls. Yumi found the first one on which the fifteen-year-old Rika had appeared as a pouting Bo Peep waif. She studied the old picture sadly, remembering the day it had appeared on the newsstands. By then, the magazine had published Rika’s photo half a dozen times in its editorial pages—candid street shots, snapped by the staff photographers who roamed the trendy neighborhoods of Tokyo with spotters, looking for new, newer, newest. The cover shot had boosted Rika to a whole new level of visibility and access. She’d been allowed to roam freely through the wardrobe room at the magazine offices, grabbing a pink gingham pinafore from one fashion house’s advance samples, and a pair of white leather lace-up boots from another. The writers had followed behind her, taking notes. After that cover, wherever she and Yumi went, they’d been approached by Lolita wannabes, asking Rika to sign their autograph books. She began to sign her name “Rika-chan” in romaji letters with a

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heart instead of a hyphen. At first she reveled in the challenge of staying ahead of the pack, devising ever more inventive combinations of accessories, hungrily snatching each new issue of GothXLoli off the convenience store shelf to see how many of her innovations from the previous month had been copied. If she’d glued lace to her old Hello Kitty lunchbox and used it as a purse one month, the next issue would be filled with street shots of girls carrying lacy lunchbox handbags. When she wrapped the sprained ankle she got in gym class with pink satin ribbon, every fifth girl walking down Omotesando Boulevard sported a ribbon-bandaged leg. By the time Yumi returned to Japan during college vacation, though, Rika had tired of being adored by thirteen-year-olds. She began to hang out at backstreet cafes where she could mix with a darker crowd, and the Mad Hatter. Moi dix Mois wallpaper finally appeared on Rika’s computer screen. Yumi perched on her desk chair and wondered where to begin looking. She checked Rika’s downloads. Nothing recent, nothing that might be research for a story. What about e-mail? Nope, all from clothing companies. A dozen folders littered the electronic desktop. She opened them one by one, scanned the contents, moved on. DRAFTS contained revisions of an interview with girl band Lolita23. Another article followed pop star Miku around a ¥100 store as he bestowed instant coolness on cheap belts and hats. BEAUTY held a step-by-step piece on achieving perfect rhinestone-edged fingernails. SOURCES was stuffed with nearly a hundred subfolders, labeled with the brands featured in the magazine: Algonquin, Alice and the Pirates, Angelic Pretty . . . And then she saw it. Between Moi-même-Moitie and Peace Now was a folder labeled Nightshade. Mei and Kei had probably missed it because it sounded so much like one of the little-known Goth brands that popped up overnight, hoping to be the next Hellcatpunks. It contained one file: nightshade_draft.docx. She opened it, and a sea of unreadable kanji characters appeared. Even the morning newspaper required knowing at least two thousand basic words; it would take Yumi forever to look up the five hundred she didn’t know.

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But all was not lost. This was a job for her favorite electronic dictionary. Copying unfamiliar characters into it as she translated the headline, her heart sank. “The Dark Side of the Net: Inside the World of Suicide Websites.” This was the piece of investigative journalism Rika had been so secretive about? It wasn’t an exposé of corporate greed or dangerous practices, it was about . . . jisatsu. As Yumi made her way down the page, her hope that she’d made a translation error dimmed with every word. Japan apparently had one of the highest suicide rates in the developed world, with over thirty thousand a year. Unlike in Western countries, it carried no moral or religious stigma—in fact, the most beloved tale in Japanese history told of the forty-seven ronin, who avenged their lord and then, one by one, committed seppuku, ritual suicide. In the past few years, Rika had written, the number of suicide networking sites had skyrocketed. While many tried to talk people out of killing themselves, a growing number offered practical information, legal advice, and encouragement. “Suicide Shopping Lists” had become a common feature and some even offered ready-made “suicide packs” by mail, containing everything needed to do the job right. Nearly all had forums in which members could seek company for their final exit. Many provided e-mail services so the suicidal could make arrangements offline without putting the website operator in danger of being charged with encouraging people to kill themselves. What was so earth-shattering about this article? Everybody knew suicide websites existed; it was old news. But as she read on, with increasing horror she began to understand. The piece became personal. Rika had written about her own experiences, had posed as a suicidal girl online. Though the tone was sympathetic, there was no getting around it: Rika had obtained every example in her story by deceiving the desperate people who turned to strangers for advice and support. She hadn’t identified herself as a reporter. She hadn’t told them she intended to write an article and publish what they confided in her. But the thing that really alarmed Yumi was that the article was unfinished. The opening paragraphs

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were missing, although Rika had made several attempts at a first sentence. “How does it really feel to take your own life?” “Death often comes quietly, in a secluded grove of trees, in a quiet car.” “They came together from different backgrounds, different neighborhoods, for different reasons. They weren’t friends for life, but they became friends in death.” Had Rika been doing her final piece of research that Friday night? Had she intended to write about what it was like to watch people die? Had she planned to use Hiro Hamada’s parents the way she used the other suicidal people she met online? All for a story, so she could see her name in print? How could Rika have been so callous, so unethical? Shame welled up on behalf of her friend. Yumi had to act before Mei and Kei discovered the story—or, even worse, Kenji. She hastily closed the document and dragged the entire folder to the trash. With her cursor poised over the command that would scramble the file forever, she hesitated. The story painted a pretty awful picture of her friend, but it also suggested she hadn’t died by her own hand. What had really happened that night? Yumi dragged the file back onto the desktop. She e-mailed the file to her phone, then trashed the folder using the “Secure” command and shut down Rika’s machine. Shouldering her bag, she stepped into the hall. As she passed the editor’s door, the boss glanced up from a phone call, covered the mouthpiece, and pantomimed, “Find anything?” Yumi hesitated, then shook her head apologetically. Once she was out of the too-quiet office, she felt a little better. Yesterday’s rain had washed the city clean, and as she made her way down Takeshita Street, the sun felt warm on her back. Happy schoolgirls posed for cell phone snapshots, waving victory signs with both hands. Yumi took a deep breath of spring and her heart lifted a little. Tomorrow would be soon enough to mourn her friendship with Rika. Tonight she was going to one of the finest restaurants in Tokyo, and she needed some new clothes.

Chapter 24 Tuesday, April 9 7:45 P.M.

Yumi

Willow-green silk slithered against Yumi’s sheer stockings as she climbed the steps at Shiba-koen Station. The dress had cost an entire Henry James symposium, but tonight she would walk into the fanciest restaurant she’d ever been to and look like she belonged. Tofu-ya Ukai had been splashed all over the papers when it opened. Usually the trendiest restaurants were clad in haughty, polished granite and thick slabs of chilly glass, so when the owners opted instead for the old-fashioned elegance of a daimyo’s mansion, the novelty alone created a sensation. Beams of costly sugi cedar, planed to silky perfection, framed hand-plastered walls the color of new-mown hay. Ink scrolls from the restaurant’s private collection were changed to suit the seasons. Set on a shockingly large piece of land in one of Tokyo’s priciest neighborhoods, the restaurant was tucked into what looked like a centuries-old garden. The venerable cherry trees and contorted pines had been transplanted full-grown, so that each window framed a view as beautiful as a woodblock print. Critics debated whether it was the grounds or the chef or the impeccable service that justified the breathtaking prices, but they all agreed that an evening at Tofu-ya Ukai was unforgettable. Leaving the subway station, Yumi cut through the grounds of the Zojō-ji temple, passing under the imposing vermilion gate. She shivered a little as she hurried along the avenue of little Jizo statues

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dedicated to the souls of lost children. No bones were buried beneath the silent, stone sentinels, but it felt like a graveyard nonetheless. Rika’s ashes would soon be buried with her ancestors. Yumi wished she hadn’t stopped in Harajuku this afternoon, wished she hadn’t discovered that article. Reading it shouldn’t have changed her feelings about her friend, but it did. Rika’s family and friends would mourn her with untainted affection, but Yumi’s feelings were now confused, ambivalent. Rika must have gone along with the Hamadas and . . . faked it. Had she intended to wait until the Hamadas were dead, then walk away and write about it? And why had Rika died, even though she never meant to kill herself? Was it possible to die from an overdose of laxatives? What had gone wrong? Yumi wondered what the autopsy would reveal. The forest of pinwheels planted among the ranks of weathered Jizo statues spun slowly as Yumi passed, cheerful toys pressed into melancholy service. So many little lost souls. And now Rika was among them. Accident or murder, it was a tragedy. As she emerged from the trees, Tokyo Tower appeared, a perfect replica of the Eiffel Tower, except it was orange. Seeing the blazing landmark and the restaurant entrance down the block pushed Yumi’s troubled thoughts from her mind. She wasn’t going let anything spoil the evening ahead. The fragrance of an unseen flowering tree greeted her as she passed through the gate. Ichiro was already waiting, his starched shirt glowing in the lamplight. The look on his face as she drew near made her believe for a moment she was the most beautiful woman in Tokyo. “Welcome, Mr. Mitsuyama,” murmured the maître d’, bowing. The haunting twang of koto music drifted after them as they were led to a serene room, furnished with a low, lacquered table set for two. They exchanged their shoes for slippers and stepped through the door. The critics had all been wrong. The real reason this restaurant was among the most luxurious in Tokyo wasn’t the building or the garden or even the tantalizing dishes that had whisked by. It was the privacy.

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Spotlights illuminated a silk scroll in the tokonoma alcove above a Bizen-ware vase with a single, perfect, cherry branch. The maître d’ seated them and placed the evening’s hand-brushed menu on the table so they could read a description of each course as it arrived. No sooner had he bowed himself out than a kimono-clad server appeared with hot hand towels and a sake list. Ichiro glanced at it briefly and handed it back to her saying, “We’ll have the Kamotsuru tonight. The dai ginjo.” He smiled at Yumi. “For two.” She disappeared to fetch the drinks and Yumi said, “That was decisive.” “It’s easy to be decisive if you know what you want.” There was something about the way he said it . . . Oh, no. She suddenly knew why they were there. Her mind raced. Why hadn’t she guessed? She hadn’t spent nearly enough time thinking this through. She wasn’t ready. Picking up her hot towel, she busied herself wiping her hands. “Let’s see what the chef is making for us tonight,” Ichiro said, leaning in to inspect the menu. Relieved he wasn’t going to get down to business right away, Yumi joined him and commented that she was especially looking forward to the charcoal-grilled tofu skewers, basted with sweet-savory miso sauce. Ichiro told her the restaurant made its own tofu fresh each morning out in Hachioji, using the especially pure water found near Mount Takao. The server returned with a chilled, bamboo flask and a pair of cups. They poured for each other and toasted, then poured another to drink more slowly. As the first three courses were served, Ichiro regaled Yumi with office gossip and stories about the people she’d met at the concert afterparty. She relaxed a little. Maybe she’d been wrong about why they were here. Ichiro loosened his tie as the level in the sake flask dropped. She liked it when he looked a little tousled, admiring the way he could unbutton a bit without looking sloppy. Of course, it helped that his tie alone had probably cost more than her new dress. More than her dress and what was beneath it. After their third date, she’d been reminded of how long it had been since she’d had an occasion for new underwear.

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The fourth course was served and she entertained him with tales of recent interpreting jobs, turning the professors’ irritating demands into amusing stories. Remembering she had to be out at Waseda University first thing tomorrow to interpret a visiting Oxford historian’s lecture on barge transportation in Elizabethan England, she wondered what it would be like to never again put on her boxy uniform suit and have to look up words like “unequivocal.” She topped up Ichiro’s cup, shaking the last few drops from the flask. They were both drinking faster than usual tonight. He called the server and ordered another dai ginjo with the casual assurance of someone who didn’t have to worry about whether he could afford it. An earthenware pot of fresh tofu bathed in soymilk bubbled on the burner between them. After returning with the sake, the server knelt and ladled out two servings before bowing herself out. Yumi picked up the flask and poured for Ichiro. What would it be like to be his wife? To sit across from him in places like this, keeping his cup full? To move out of the drafty old house filled with her father’s disappointments and her mother’s unspoken worries? Ichiro wasn’t exactly undesirable—she thought of the social butterflies he’d turned his back on after his quartet’s concert, making his way through the crowd as soon as she appeared backstage. Plenty of women had been longing to trade places with her that night. He’d looked so distinguished up on stage, smiling at her as the audience applauded . . . “Yumi? Are you okay?” She snapped back to reality. “Oh. Sorry. It’s been a long day. I didn’t catch what you were saying . . . ?” “I, uh . . .” He tossed back a full cup of sake and sat up straight. Taking a deep breath, he began, “There’s something I think we should talk about.” Uh, oh. This was it. “Ichiro, I . . .” “Wait. Listen for a minute. I was wondering if you’ve been thinking about whether we have a

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future together? I mean, in this day and age, an o-miai is a pretty weird way to meet someone you’d want to spend the rest of your life with, don’t you think?” This wasn’t quite what she expected. “You know, I didn’t tell any of my friends that’s how we met,” he continued. “I let them guess we knew each other from business school, so if it didn’t work out, they wouldn’t think much of it. I mean, once you go out a few times with someone everyone knows you met through o-miai and then you break up, it’s so . . . public. And I didn’t want either of us to, you know, feel that kind of pressure.” Break up? Was he telling her he’d decided she wasn’t the one he wanted to marry after all? Had he brought her to this nice restaurant to say he didn’t want to see her anymore? He added, “I think we both know things don’t always work out the way we hope.” Yumi felt faint. He didn’t want to marry her. He was trying to let her down easy. She was shocked to discover that in the past twenty-four hours, so much of her had taken up residence in Ichiro’s world. “Look, Ichiro,” she blurted. “If you don’t want to get married, please . . . just tell me.” She bit her lip to hold back the tears that unexpectedly blurred her view of his astonished features. “What? No! I thought you might not want—I didn’t want to make it hard for you to tell me.” He peered at her. “You mean you do want to get married? You want to marry me?” “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” “Yes?” He beamed as if he’d just been given a new Ferrari and clambered to his feet. The room was so private he apparently felt no embarrassment pulling her into a giddy kiss. “Sumimasen.” Their server coughed politely and bowed apologetically from the doorway, bearing a tray of grilled ayu. They hastily broke apart and resumed their seats as she cleared their plates and set the crispy sweetfish before them, closing the door softly as she left. They looked at each other across the table. Ichiro filled both their cups and said, “To us.”

Chapter 25 Wednesday, April 10 8:00 A.M.

Kenji

“Thank you for allowing me to meet you here, Detective,” said the Hamada Sweets general manager, bowing stiffly. Kenji’s 7:30 A.M. phone call had caught Fukuda eating breakfast, still in his sleeping yukata. In his haste to arrive at the office in his own car rather than being fetched in a police cruiser, he’d put on brown shoes with his black suit. They were now standing in front of the shuttered Hamada Sweets headquarters. Kenji returned Fukuda’s bow and presented the letter from Section Chief Tanaka. It outlined the suspicion that adulterated milk products had been used at the plant, endangering public health. If the management voluntarily allowed a search of the premises, the police would refrain from involving the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare unless poisonous milk power was found. What the letter didn’t say was that Tanaka had not been at all happy to hear Kenji’s new theory. There wasn’t enough hard evidence to ask for a warrant, but he couldn’t ignore it, either. If Kenji’s suspicions proved correct, the Department of Food Safety would get involved, and Tanaka hated the prospect of a government bureaucracy taking over his investigation even more than he hated playing host to the elite murder squad. General Manager Fukuda read the letter, stone-faced. He didn’t want the police searching his plant,

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but the alternative was worse. Better the police than the bureaucrats. The Food Safety functionaries wouldn’t find anything, and they’d take weeks to do it. He looked at Kenji in consternation. “This says you want to search the warehouse, the production kitchens, the offices, and all records, including those stored electronically. I hope that doesn’t mean you want access to our computers . . . ?” “It does,” Kenji replied. “I can’t allow that. Our recipes are trade secrets. If our competitors—” “We’re not interested in how you make your candy, Fukuda-san. We’ll be sure to treat everything we discover with the utmost discretion.” “But if you’re looking for bags of powdered milk, you’re not going to find them in our computers or our file cabinets,” he argued. Kenji thought fast. Fukuda had put his finger on the weak spot in Tanaka’s attempt to find a paper trail when he didn’t have enough evidence to get a warrant for it. Reluctantly, he decided a tougher form of persuasion was called for. He pulled out his phone and said, “I’m just obeying orders—my superiors asked us to look for documentation as well as actual contraband. But if you’d prefer me to turn this over to the Department of Food Safety . . .” He pretended to scroll for the number. “No,” Fukuda said hastily. “Go ahead and search.” He scowled. “But you won’t find anything.” “Let’s hope not,” Kenji answered, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Suzuki joined them and Kenji acknowledged him with a slight bow. “Good morning Suzuki-san. You remember General Manager Fukuda?” Suzuki bowed deferentially in return. “What time does the first shift arrive?” Kenji asked the general manager. “Today, ten o’clock.” “Good, we have some time then.”

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“You aren’t going to interrupt production, are you?” “Just until we finish our search,” Kenji assured him. “How long will that take?” the manager asked, growing alarmed. “As long as it takes,” said Kenji, with a level stare. “Now if you could just open the door, Mr. Fukuda, we’ll get started.” The general manager fumbled with his keys and allowed them to precede him into the darkened reception room. Suzuki flipped on the lights. “We’ll need your keys to access other parts of the plant, Fukuda-san,” Kenji said. “I’ll be happy to take you anywhere you want to go. And I’ll tell the staff that you’re to have full access . . .” “I’m afraid I can’t let you to go with us,” said Kenji. “My superiors would be very unhappy if anyone with an interest in covering up our findings was part of the search team.” Offended, the general manager stared at him, then reluctantly detached a ring heavy with keys of various sizes. “Thank you. We’ll return them shortly. Now, is there somewhere you could wait while we conduct our search? A conference room, perhaps?” “Why not my office?” “As the other managers arrive, it would be best to have you all gathered in one place, in case we have questions.” And so they could keep an eye on the potential suspects and make sure nobody arranged for evidence to be destroyed. “I suppose we could use the conference room,” the general manager grumbled. “Would it be all right if I used my computer to get some work done while I’m waiting?” “It would be better if you caught up on the news,” suggested Kenji, handing him the Asahi Shimbun that had been lying on the doorstep. The manager sighed and started down the hall, then turned. “Nakamura-san? Do you think you could at least park the police car out back? The company’s

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reputation . . .” “I understand. Of course.” When the manager was settled in the conference room and the car had been moved behind the building, Kenji handed Suzuki the ring of keys and told him to have his team start checking every bag of powdered milk in the warehouse. Kenji paced through the offices, considering where to begin. As he returned to the lobby, a uniformed officer leaned against the doorbell, carrying two cups of tea. Kenji fumbled around, looking for the button that would buzz him in. “Suzuki-san said you might need this, sir,” he said, offering the steaming o-cha. “Thanks, but I think Mr. Fukuda needs it more. He’s down the hall in the conference room. When you come back, I’d like you to start looking through these files.” He pointed to the bank of tall cabinets lined up behind the reception desk. “What am I looking for?” “Delivery receipts. Bills of lading. Anything to do with shipments received from a Chinese supplier.” “Yes, sir.” He disappeared down the hall, and when he returned, Kenji was seated in the receptionist’s chair, scanning the receptionist’s computer in case deliveries were logged at the front desk. Fifteen minutes later, it was clear they weren’t; the only shipments she received were office supplies. Meanwhile, the uniformed officer had begun looking for a hard copy of the Chinese bill of lading the ex-purchasing manager had described. Kenji didn’t really believe they’d find something so damning filed with the regular paperwork, but it would have been negligent not to make sure. He decided to search the late Mr. Hamada’s office first. That was where the offending document had last been seen. The president’s office was slightly bigger than General Manager Fukuda’s. The original of the “Purity. Quality. Value.” calligraphy, mounted on a scroll, hung behind the desk. His two whiteboards

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had been wiped clean, as if it were somehow wrong for Mr. Hamada’s handwriting to survive him. Already a film of dust had settled on the polished desk, empty except for a blotter, a Montblanc pen, and an engraved, brass nameplate. A laptop sat to the side, as dusty as the desk. Kenji pressed its power button and looked through Hamada’s drawers while it started up. He found no papers or files, though he did come across a Polaroid of a stiff-looking Tatsuo Hamada at the Big Sight convention center, posing with Miss Sugar and Spice 1998. He shut the drawer, replacing the photo, and turned his attention to the computer. At 9:10, his phone rang. Suzuki. “We didn’t find anything in the storeroom, sir. All the milk powder is from the Hokkaido Dairy Company, their usual supplier. The bags are still sealed.” “Have you checked the manufacturing lines?” “We’ll do it now.” “Anyone assigned to the back door?” “Not yet.” “Put someone outside. The foreman and the plant manager should be arriving soon. Let’s intercept them before they have a chance to wander around.” “Of course, sir. I’ll do that right away.” Kenji returned his attention to Hamada’s computer, but half an hour later hadn’t found anything to do with shipments. As he got up and stretched, a distraught female voice was raised in the lobby. “Sumimasen! What are you doing? You can’t be back there!” He found the receptionist confronting Constable Kimura across her desk, two red spots flaming on her cheeks as she glared at the constable. She whirled to face Kenji. Recognition, then confusion. “What’s going on?” He explained about the search, and gently suggested she join Mr. Fukuda in the conference room.

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Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand, then scurried down the hall. Back in Hamada’s office, Kenji turned off the computer, shutting the door behind him before crossing the hall to the purchasing office. He’d just started a general overview of Hiro Hamada’s computer when his phone rang. Suzuki again. “I’m here in the manufacturing kitchens with the production manager and the foreman. We’ve checked the open bags of milk powder on the lines, but they all came from the usual suppliers.” “Did you ask if they were aware of Chinese milk powder being used in the past month?” “I did, and they said not.” Suzuki paused. “They seemed genuinely shocked at the suggestion. I believe both of them are second-generation Hamada employees.” “What about the test engineer? Ask him if he had any unusual-tasting batches recently. And find out if there’s anywhere else someone could have stashed that shipment. How much room would you need to store a hundred kilos of milk powder, anyway?” “I’ll find out, sir.” “Thanks, Suzuki.” “Oh, and the production workers have started to arrive. I’m having them wait outside on the loading dock with one of the constables, but they’re asking if the plant is going to open today.” “I don’t know. We haven’t found anything over here yet, either. But don’t let any of them go home. We may need to talk to them.” Kenji clicked on the SHIPMENT TRACKING folder and started examining the contents. March 4: 525 kilos of cocoa shipped from Nippon Trading Company. March 15: 300 kilos of cornflakes from JapanBrands LLP. March 26: 50 rolls of SureSeal thermal packaging film from Dai-Ichi Plastics, with rush charges. By 10:30, Kenji had searched every document in the likely folders. He sat back in Hiro’s chair, frustrated. As a long shot, he opened the one entitled PERSONAL.

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jh_party_map.pdf kyoto_itinerary.doc tournament_roster.xlsx document.ai What kind of file ended in “.ai”? When he opened it, the banner for Adobe Illustrator flashed onto the screen as the application started up. A graphics program? Why did a purchasing manager need a graphics program? An expensive foreign graphics program, at that. A toolbar appeared to the left, followed by a document that looked like a bill of lading. The letterhead looked Chinese but he couldn’t read the company name—many Japanese and Chinese words used the same characters but had totally different pronunciations. He could, however, read the characters below: 250 kilos of sweetener. 100 kilos of powdered milk. Now he was really confused. Who would send a bill of lading in the form of a document that could only be opened in a graphics application used by professional designers? He heard raised voices in the lobby. “Excuse me, sir, but the company is closed for the day. Perhaps—” “Are you the policeman in charge?” “No, sir. Are you an employee?” Kenji heard a laugh with an edge of hysteria. “Yeah. I’m an employee. I need to talk to the guy in charge. Where is he?” “Sir, if you’d please just follow me to the conference room where the other managers are gathered, Detective Nakamura will speak with you as soon as—hey!” Kenji looked up as Hiro Hamada appeared in his doorway. “That’s my computer!” Kenji stood. “Yes, Mr. Hamada. Fukuda-san gave us permission to search it. I’m glad you’re here

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because I just found something I’d like you to explain to me.” Swaying slightly, Hamada Jr. took a step into the room and Kenji caught a faint whiff of whiskey. Crossing swiftly to the desk, Hiro swiveled the monitor to see what was on the screen. All color drained from his face. He slowly crumpled into the visitor’s chair and buried his head in his hands with an agonized sob. Then the dam burst. Kenji stood, not knowing what to do. He cleared his throat. “Uh, Hamada-san?” Hiro shook his head helplessly and the wrenching sounds continued. Kenji went to the door and asked someone to fetch a cup of tea, or at least some water. Kimura dashed to the staff room and returned with a company mug. Hiro drank, the cup chattering against his teeth. Tears continued to leak down his cheeks as he raised his ravaged face and croaked, “It’s all my fault. I killed them.”

Chapter 26 Wednesday, April 10 12:30 P.M.

Kenji

Hiro Hamada stared, unseeing, at the untouched bowl of ramen before him. His clothing looked clean, but his hair hadn’t been washed recently. A few lank strands hung into his eyes but he didn’t bother to brush them away. He sat across from Kenji at a narrow white table in the third floor interview room at Komagome Police Station with a uniformed constable outside the door. Since his outburst at the Hamada Sweets headquarters, he hadn’t said a word. Kenji’s phone vibrated. Suzuki reported that they’d found no trace of Chinese milk powder at the factory, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the test results for the past ninety days. If tainted milk powder had been used, the products had gone out undetected. Kenji told him to wait at the plant until they’d had a chance to talk to Hiro. Oki joined them and seated himself behind the note-taking computer in the corner. The suspect moved his now-tepid noodles aside and winced. “Do you have any aspirin?” Kenji cracked open the door and spoke to the constable outside the room. A tall glass of water and a sealed packet of Bayer appeared. After Hiro swallowed the painkillers, Kenji asked, “Are you ready, Hamada-san?” “Yes,” he said, sighing.

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Kenji stated the date, time, and names of the participants for the recording that was automatically made of any interview. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Earlier, in your office, what did you mean when you said, ‘It’s all my fault. I killed them’?” For a moment he was afraid Hiro would break down again, but the Hamada heir pressed his lips together, shaking it off. “My parents. I killed my parents.” “Can you describe how you did that?” Hiro’s expression was bleak. “All I wanted was to get Purchasing Manager Arita off my back. I thought if I could make it look like he’d gone off the rails and ordered cheap ingredients, my father would finally let me bring my ideas to him directly, maybe even fire Arita-san and move me into management.” He frowned, playing with the paper-wrapped chopsticks that had come with the ramen. “Arita-san was the most backward manager in the whole company. I think my father would have been willing to consider new ideas, but I don’t think Arita-san even asked him before he shot them down. I couldn’t get around him because my father trusted him. He trusted all those old geezers who were hired by my grandfather.” Hiro put down the chopsticks. “So I talked a friend of mine who does video production into loaning me a copy of the graphics program he uses. I spent a couple of Sundays learning how to use it, then I searched the web for Chinese companies that sold the kind of ingredients that go into our candy. I found one and copied their letterhead.” He closed his eyes as if in pain. “I can’t read Chinese, so I didn’t know it was one of the companies involved in the melamine scandal. I just picked it because it was foreign and from a country my father would be prejudiced against. I thought that would be enough to shock him into thinking Arita-san had betrayed his trust. “I waited until after work one day, then I brought the dummied-up order in and showed him. My father is . . . my father was . . .” He blinked rapidly a few times, then swallowed and continued. “My

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father was so old-fashioned. He ran the company like everybody was family. It never occurred to him that anyone but Arita could have stamped his name with that hanko. Once he saw the red seal with Arita’s name in the authorization box, I could see he believed Arita-san had placed the order. He was really upset, but for once, he was upset with Arita, not with me. “He . . . he thanked me for bringing it in.” Hiro’s face became a battleground of pain and disbelief. “Two days later, he called Arita-san in and fired him. I was promoted to purchasing manager. My father never explained to me or anyone at the company why Arita-san was gone. I thought things had worked out even better than I’d hoped.” He looked at Yamato, pleading. “I know I got ahead by getting him fired, but my father couldn’t see that it would be good for the company to get rid of deadwood like Arita. Without guys like him, we could review all those suppliers who never bid competitively for their contracts, all those old relationships that were no longer in the company’s best interests. I wanted to change all that, bring us into the twenty-first century.” “So what happened?” “Nothing,” said Hiro in an anguished voice, “until you knocked on my door that night and brought me a copy of their suicide note. I didn’t realize how hard my father was looking for that shipment in the week after Arita-san was fired. He asked me about it, but of course I told him I didn’t know anything. I suggested he ask on the production floor, knowing nobody had seen it, because it didn’t exist. I didn’t realize he thought it had been used without being detected.” Hiro hid his face in his hands. “I should have noticed how worried my parents were. But I didn’t. I didn’t see any of the signs.” His chest heaved a few times. “I just went to work and played golf and stayed out late at hostess clubs and all the while it was killing them. Thinking that children might die from eating Hamada Sweets candy . . .” “Your mother, too?” “She would never have let my father die alone and take all the blame.” Hiro’s face crumpled and he

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buried his head in his arms, his shoulders shaking, gasping between sobs. Kenji looked at Oki, who shook his head slowly. Hiro Hamada had killed his parents, but not in a way any court in the land would convict. He fetched the tissues from the window ledge and set the Kleenex in front of Hiro, who ignored them, awash in grief and remorse. Kenji beckoned Oki out and closed the door behind them. “So much for our slam-dunk murder conviction,” he said with a sigh. “Yeah, but do you think a court could hand out any punishment worse than what he’s going to suffer for the rest of his life?” “I suppose you’re right. Thanks for your help, Oki-san. I guess I’ll call off Suzuki and start on the paperwork.”

Chapter 27 Wednesday, April 10 12:30 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi stood on one foot, waiting for the train at Waseda Station. Yesterday’s red spot had turned into a full-fledged blister. Her comfortable shoes were still at Mr. Minit. She’d done a dreadful job of interpreting the visiting Oxford historian’s lecture on barge transportation in Elizabethan England. Fortunately, the doddering professor who was her client knew no English whatever, so it didn’t seem strange to him that her translations were considerably shorter than the speaker’s meanderings. She’d missed whole swaths of the lecture because her mind kept veering off, trying to come to terms with her new future. She was getting married. She was going to marry Ichiro Mitsuyama. It astonished her. Had she really said yes? It didn’t seem quite real. Her parents had been thrilled when she woke them up to tell them. It wouldn’t be official until Ichiro formally asked her parents for permission, but Ichiro had already texted to say the Mitsuyamas would be pleased if the Hata family would be their guests on Friday night at the Tokyo City Club for a formal engagement ceremony. She took out her phone and checked for missed calls. One from Rika’s friend Midori. She returned it. “Moshi-moshi? Yumi-san? Thanks for letting me know you got your phone back. How are you

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feeling? Anything new about Rika?” Yumi told her that the police had finally decided there was enough evidence to do a post-mortem. Midori was pleased to hear they were finally questioning the suicide theory. “Is it all right to let the rest of our Circle know?” she asked. “Of course.” “Or maybe you can tell them yourself. There’s an event Friday night at Club Nyx and the girls and I were wondering if you can come? We’re going to set up a little tribute table for Rika, and I’ve got an extra ticket.” “I . . . sure. Where’s Club Nyx?” “It’s a little hard to find. Why don’t you meet me at my house? Doors open at six—come around five and we can go together.” A Lolita Circle tribute. Yumi couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. By Friday she hoped she could put her disillusionment aside and mourn Rika without reservation. The train arrived and she took a seat near the door, clicking through the stored pictures on her phone. The first one: Delete. Ichiro’s eyes were half closed. The next one: good, though they both looked more than a little drunk. They’d tipped their heads together and held their phones at arm’s length in the taxi on the way home, the brightly lit street glittering behind them through the rear window. Ichiro had wanted to e-mail everybody immediately with the photo and the news, but she’d talked him into waiting at least until after they’d told their families. She hadn’t told anybody except her parents, hadn’t even whispered the secret to Coco. Why was she so reluctant? She looked at the picture again. Everyone would tell her they looked cute together, would congratulate her on making such a good match. And it was a good match. Remembering how she’d reacted in that split second she’d feared Ichiro wanted to stop seeing her, it was clear she just hadn’t been aware of her true feelings. Her mind needed time to catch up with her heart, that’s all. There would be plenty of time after the engagement ceremony to let everybody know.

Chapter 28 Wednesday, April 10 4:00 P.M.

Kenji

Late-afternoon sun was slanting into the squad room through the big glass window over the section chief’s desk as Kenji started on the last page of paperwork closing their investigation of Hiro Hamada. The landline on his desk buzzed. It was the front desk, calling to say that Kenji had a visitor in the lobby, a Miss Hata. Grateful for the interruption, he found her in front of the bulletin board, studying the wanted posters. “Yu-chan?” She turned. “See anybody you know?” He grinned. She gave him a half-smile. “No, I was just thinking that this pair of criminals have the same last name, but they don’t look like brother and sister. Do you think they’re married? I wonder if their friends told them they looked cute together, once upon a time.” “Uh . . . ?” She must have mistaken his confusion for irritation because she quickly apologized, “Sorry, how rude of me. I’m interrupting you in the middle of work. I stopped by because Rika’s mother asked me to call people to tell them when the funeral will be. I already have most of her friends’ numbers, but I

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wanted to check the phone you have, in case there are some contacts that aren’t on her old phone. Would it be all right if I took a look at it?” She added, “I’ll be quick. You must be busy.” “Actually, you rescued me from writing a particularly depressing report.” He smiled. “Come on up. I’ll call the evidence room.” He took her to the third floor and led her to his desk. “Dōzo. Have a seat,” he said, nodding toward the visitor chair. He lifted the receiver of the landline and asked the evidence room to send up Rika’s phone. Yumi was digging in her purse, not trying to look like the girl of his dreams but succeeding all the same. The squad room suddenly seemed way too warm. Kenji removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, then rolled up his sleeves. Pen and notepad retrieved, Yumi glanced at his arms, corded with the muscles from his mandatory police judo training. “You still playing baseball?” she asked. “Nah, they tried to recruit me for the police league but I don’t have time. I have to do judo now— we’re all required to maintain at least a first-degree black belt, but because I never learned it as a kid, I’m still playing catch-up. I work out twice as often as the rest of the guys, but any one of them can have me on the mat in about thirty seconds.” He laughed. “Some even faster. The detective who usually sits next to me is a fifth-degree. He can flatten me just by looking in my direction.” Tommy Loud arrived with Rika’s phone. Kenji thanked him and signed for it. “I’ve got something else for you, too,” the crime tech said. “Call me when you’re done here.” “Thank you, Rowdy-san. Give me a few minutes.” Kenji extracted Rika’s phone from the evidence bag, handing it to Yumi. “Do you need the charger?” he asked. She chimed it on and checked the battery icon. “No, looks fine. Is there somewhere you’d like me to . . . ?” “No, go ahead and use my desk.” Kenji excused himself and took his phone to an empty interview room, pulling the door shut behind

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him. He called Tommy Loud. The crime tech picked up and said without preamble, “We were right. Your victim didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.” “How?” Kenji asked. “She died of asphyxiation. There was severe congestion in her lungs.” “But . . . the examining doctor didn’t find any marks around her neck or petechial hemorrhaging in her eyes.” “That’s because she wasn’t strangled. Whoever did it used a pillow. Or a plastic bag.” Kenji thought about the crime scene: no pillows in the car, no plastic bags. “Did you find anything like that at the scene?” “No, I’d have mentioned it,” the crime tech answered, slightly offended. “Of course. Sorry.” Kenji paused. “I guess that rules out murder-suicide.” “And suggests premeditation. Whoever killed her brought a bag or pillow to the scene, then took it away again.” Kenji ended the call. The section chief had given approval for the autopsy very reluctantly and he wasn’t going to like these results one bit. Plus, he was going to think Kenji was a prize idiot—not only had he sent everybody on a massive wild goose chase after the wrong suspect, he’d even been concentrating on the wrong victim. Leaning back in the hard interview room chair, he rubbed his face. It had been a long day. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the tension that had settled there. He wasn’t looking forward to judo practice, but a little punishing was probably just what he needed. Oki would give him a thorough smackdown, but afterward he’d be a sympathetic listener over their customary post-workout beer. Kenji sighed and pushed back his chair. Time to go out and tell Yumi she’d been right about her friend.

Chapter 29 Thursday, April 11 10:30 A.M.

Kenji

The next morning dawned bright and clear, but no sunshine penetrated the windowless interrogation room where Kenji and Suzuki were waiting to present their progress—or rather, lack of it—to Section Chief Tanaka. Detective Oki poked his head in. “I just ran into the chief in the staff room. He says he’ll be here as soon as his tea’s finished brewing. What’s the news on your suicide case?” Kenji asked him to shut the door and told him it was now a homicide, but the section chief didn’t know that yet. Oki pulled up a chair as Kenji told him what he’d learned from Tommy Loud. When he finished, the big detective leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “You want to know what I’d do if I were you?” Oki rocked forward. “First thing, I wouldn’t receive that call about the autopsy results from Tommy Loud until, say, one this afternoon. Tanaka’s calendar says he has an intra-agency communications meeting at noon today with the chief superintendent, but that’s actually a tee time. So even if I diligently put my memo about the Ozawa post-mortem on his desk at one thirty, he won’t see it until tomorrow at the earliest. Then I’d bust my butt finding something to make him think I’ll be able hand the main office a suspect before they get involved.” “You think that’s possible?” asked Kenji.

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“Probably not. But it doesn’t matter. All you want to do is survive the explosion when Tanaka-san finds out our unsolved homicide rate just doubled, and make it look like you’re close to moving it into the other column.” As Oki left, the section chief arrived, his mug from last year’s National Police Chiefs Convention in hand. By the time Kenji finished reporting that there was no evidence that Chinese milk powder had ever been used by Hamada Sweets and it looked like Hiro Hamada was telling the truth, the tea in Tanaka’s cup was half gone. The section chief asked pointedly, “You’ll be releasing Mr. and Mrs. Hamada’s remains to the family now, I hope?” Mrs. Hamada’s sister—wife of the chairman of Ichiki Electric—had been telephoning daily, asking when funeral arrangements could be made. The section chief had been the unfortunate one who’d had to call her yesterday and break the news that, due to certain statements her nephew had made, there would be a further delay in releasing the bodies. She’d insisted that was ridiculous—Hiro was totally devastated by his parents’ deaths, and Tanaka should know better than to listen to self-accusations from a grief-stricken young man, especially one from such an old and upstanding family. Now Tanaka would have to admit she’d been right, and apologize profusely. He was not pleased to be in that position, and Kenji knew it. “I’ll do the necessary paperwork right away, sir.” Tanaka scowled and finished his tea. “What’s happening with Rika Ozawa? I suppose it’s too early for the post-mortem report?” “I haven’t seen it yet, sir,” said Kenji. He glanced at Suzuki, whose head was bent over his notes. Suzuki knew that Loud had called with the results, but Kenji was relieved to see that the Assistant Detective apparently agreed that a kohai’s duty to support his sempai trumped the truth in this case. He wasn’t volunteering the information that Kenji hadn’t seen the results, he’d merely heard them.

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But the section chief had good reason not to be happy that an open-and-shut suicide might turn into a major crime. Suicides didn’t contribute to the station’s solve rate, but failing to catch a killer would. Plus, if Rika’s death was reclassified as a homicide, the elite murder squad from the downtown Chiyoda Ward headquarters would certainly descend on the Komagome Police Station. If the killer were caught, the elite squad would take the credit; if not, the local station’s initial investigation would be blamed. “We’re completing a thorough analysis of the crime scene evidence while we wait for the postmortem results, sir. Rowdy-san is working overtime to get the testing done,” Kenji assured him. Tanaka frowned. “That foreigner is the tech on this case? I’ll try to get it reassigned.” A short knock at the door interrupted him and Tommy Loud himself entered, carrying a folder. He bowed and said, “Please excuse my rudeness, I’m sorry to be late,” in perfect honorific-form Japanese. His pale, freckled face was flushed as though he’d been running, and his tie was askew. Noting the section chief’s disapproval, he self-consciously corrected it. Kenji explained, “When we spoke this morning, I asked Rowdy-san to join us to share his latest findings.” Tanaka grimaced, looked at his watch and briskly pushed his chair back. “I’ll leave you to your work, then. Keep me informed.” He looked at Kenji. “I’m going to consult with the chief superintendent this afternoon about how best to allocate resources to this case. If I decide to make any personnel changes, I’ll let you know.” Kenji and Suzuki stood and bowed as their superior left the room. “What was that all about?” Loud asked, dropping into the section chief’s empty seat. “He’s not thinking of replacing you as lead investigator, is he?” Kenji thought the section chief had been talking about getting rid of Tommy Loud, but now he realized he could be the one who was reassigned. “Let’s not give him any excuse to do that. Please tell me you have good news.” Loud grinned. “I stopped by the lab to see the technician doing Rika Ozawa’s tox screen. While he

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was explaining at great length why he would never do something so irregular as to give me results before circulating them through official channels, I noticed that the report was actually sitting right there on his desk. So, as he pontificated away, I read all the important bits upside down.” “You what?” “I can read Japanese, you know,” Loud said, slightly offended. “Sorry Rowdy-san, that’s not what I meant.” Kenji glanced at Suzuki, who was clearly scandalized at the crime tech’s craftiness. “Sometimes ‘the way things are done’ gets in the way of actually getting things done. I’m happy to be working with someone who knows the difference.” Loud smiled, good humor restored. “So . . . ?” Kenji prompted. “Rika Ozawa was nearly sober when she died. Blood alcohol 0.02, and no trace of drugs in her system.” Kenji sat back in his chair. “Huh. So our victim goes to the Mad Hatter, eats a salad, and has a drink with her friend. Then she dresses up like Bo Peep’s evil twin, puts a blank piece of paper into an envelope addressed to her parents, meets two suicidal people at a deserted parking lot, eats fifty breath mints, throws up, drops her phone, and is attacked and suffocated by an unknown assailant.” “There’s more,” said Loud. “We discovered why none of your victims had signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. Remember the charcoal burner we found in the back seat of the car? The only thing that went up in smoke that night was incense. There were four chunks of charcoal in the grate but they weren’t even singed. The only ash was from the sticks of Kojurin that someone lit instead of torching the sumi.” He let Kenji puzzle over this for a moment before adding, “You want to know what I think? I think your victim never intended to commit suicide. I think she wanted the Hamadas to believe that they would all die together, but she made pretty meticulous plans to avoid following them to nirvana.” “But why would she do that?” blurted Suzuki, whose by-the-book sensibilities had been shocked

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too many times that morning. “As they say in my country,” said the crime tech, “cui bono?” He rose. “I’ve got to get back to the lab. Good luck, and I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.” Kenji thanked him and Loud sketched a wave as he disappeared through the door. Kenji uncapped his pen and opened his notebook. Why was killer at shrine? —Kill Rika or other reason? —Planned or opportunistic? Who knew Rika would be at shrine parking lot? —Someone who followed her from a bar? Which bar? Ask Yumi —Was she working on a story? —What was it about? —Who would be hurt? —Who was she working for? He sat back in his chair, thinking, then looked up at Suzuki and said, “If you get lunch, I’ll start searching those suicide websites.”

Chapter 30 Thursday, April 11 12:30 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji picked up a juicy tempura-fried prawn with his chopsticks and tapped it on the side of his noodle bowl so it wouldn’t drip. Pulling out his phone with his other hand, he searched for the e-mail Yumi had forwarded with the suicide websites and wondered what she was doing right now. She’d know what Rowdy-san had meant when he tossed off that weird foreign word at the end of the meeting. Setting down his chopsticks, he paged through his notes, looking for it. Pulling his computer over next to his noodles, he used the phonetic alphabet reserved for foreign words to type “ku-i-bo-no” into the search field. A dictionary definition appeared. It was Latin, not English. “Cui bono? Who benefits?” He slurped up a big bite of noodles. Who did benefit from killing Rika Ozawa? She worked as a staff writer at a magazine with a small circulation and didn’t come from a wealthy family, so she probably hadn’t been murdered over money. More likely it was because of something she knew. Had Yumi continued to search for that article Rika was writing? He called her. “Moshi-moshi?” In the background, he heard a muffled thank you, then a request for an extra napkin. “Yumi, it’s Kenji. Did I get you at a bad time?” “No, just a minute.” Offline, she asked for chopsticks. “Sorry, I’m at a convenience store, grabbing

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some lunch. What’s up?” “Did you ever find that article Rika Ozawa was writing?” A brief silence. “No.” “Really?” More silence. “You found it, didn’t you? Or at least you discovered what it was about.” “Why do you think that?” “Because in tenth grade I heard you tell our history teacher that you had no idea who pulled the fire alarm before that big test.” “That was you? I thought it was Coco’s boyfriend.” “Neither of us had studied.” “Oh.” “Yu-chan, you’re a terrible liar,” he said. “The article?” Long silence. Finally, she sighed and said, “I found it on her work computer. It was about suicide websites.” “Suicide websites? I thought you said this was going to be her big break. Suicide websites are hardly cutting-edge news.” “Yeah, but . . .” Yumi paused, then continued reluctantly, “The piece she was writing was full of first-person stuff. She’d been using the name and posing as a suicidal person online.” Tommy Loud had guessed right. Rika had gone to the shrine intending to mislead the Hamadas. Had she planned to watch them die, then write about it for the suicide article? That was cold. It ruled out the theory someone had killed her to prevent an exposé becoming public, though. So what were the alternatives? A thrill killer? A stranger who’d followed her and murdered for the fun of it? “Yu-chan, what bar did you and Rika go to that night?” “The Mad Hatter.”

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“Did you see anybody there who might have followed her?” “And killed her? Someone from the Hatter?” She thought a moment. “No. But I wasn’t really paying attention. Boshi-san—the bartender—you could ask him.” “Can you tell me how to get there?” She hesitated. “I think I’d better go with you. He might be more helpful if I introduce you.” “I need an introduction to a bartender?” “Look, I’ve got to be somewhere at eight, but I could meet you after work. Say, six o’clock?” He’d miss judo practice, but he didn’t even hesitate. “Okay, thanks. Where would you like to meet?” “In front of the convenience store outside the Omotesando exit, Harajuku JR station?” “I’ll be there,” he said. “And e-mail me that article, will you?” He hung up and grinned. He was having a drink with Yumi Hata tonight. “Sir?” Suzuki appeared at his desk. “What would you like me to work on this afternoon?” Kenji reviewed his notes. A bar wasn’t the only place a thrill killer might have met Rika. Those suicide websites Yumi had sent him were probably filled with crazies. Grabbing his phone, he looked up her message and copied the first three addresses onto a notepad for Suzuki. He’d investigate the one she used most often himself. “I’d like you to check these sites and see what Rika posted there. Hata-san told me she was using the name . Find out who she engaged with and note their user IDs—we’ll hunt down their real names. Maybe one of them will turn out to be our killer.” Kenji looked at the remaining address: whitelight.co.jp. He typed it into his browser.

Chapter 31 Thursday, April 11 12:30 P.M.

Kenji

His screen went black, then a tiny, white glow appeared in the center and spread to fill the screen. The words, “Surrender To The Light” slowly rippled to the surface in gothic lettering, both English and Japanese. Apparently, one had to register in order to gain access. He clicked on Create New Account. What user name should he adopt? Nothing that would reveal his actual identity, of course. He fell back on <southpaw> and entered his password as era262, his senior year Earned Run Average. A new page appeared, welcoming him to the community of those ready to face the great beyond and explaining that he could read and post in any topic. All entries were subject to monitoring by the site administrators, who took no responsibility for the content or users’ actions. He was automatically assigned the e-mail address [email protected]. Under “Etiquette Tips for New Users,” Kenji discovered that sharing or asking for personal contact information in public forums was frowned upon; e-mail was the way to make private arrangements. Users were urged not to make negative comments. The purpose of the site was to support people in their personal decisions and provide helpful information, not encourage them to end their lives. Before posting in any topic, users should introduce themselves.

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He moved on to the discussion forums. • Introductions • Resources • Making Arrangements: Legal & Otherwise • Advice & Answers • Share Your Story The last thing he wanted to do was introduce himself on a suicide website, so he skipped the first forum and clicked on Resources. The threads ranged from a comparison of various suicide methods to practical advice about getting the equipment and drugs needed to kill yourself. Links to articles and videos made by so-called experts were helpfully provided. Kenji shuddered and skipped to Share Your Story, looking for and <sweetmama>. Scrolling quickly through the posts, he slowed down when he hit the ones made since the middle of September and sifted through them until he found what he was looking for. #1401 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (8:05 PM) Can anybody point me to information about modern methods of committing suppuku? My husband and I want to die with honor, and it has to be foolproof. We don’t want to end up in the hospital— that would just make everything worse, maybe even attract publicity. We want to do the honorable thing, but quietly. #1402 of 1455 Wed 27 Mar (8:48 PM) You’re really dying for honor? Why? #1403 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (9:02 PM)

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We have to take responsibility for something that was done by our family’s company. #1404 of 1455 Wed 27 Mar (9:12 PM) A public apology isn’t enough? #1405 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (9:21 PM) That would only create panic. If we take the blame, our son can move forward with a clean slate and set things right. There’s no need for the problem to become public if we act quickly. #1406 of 1455 Wed 27 Mar (6:15 PM) Perhaps we can help each other. I need to act quickly too. Have you decided how you’re going to do it yet? #1407 of 1455 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (7:22 PM) No, but I understand most people take painkillers. Or is it sleeping pills? I don’t actually know how to get either one. Have you thought about it? #1408 of 1455 <deathmerchant> Wed 27 Mar (11:19 PM) Hey, there’s an ***awesome*** chart at offyourself.com that not only compares different ways to do it, it rates them. Check it out! #1409 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (9:32 AM) That site is really offensive, <deathmerchant>. How could you suggest it to someone who’s trying to do the honorable thing? You

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are such a dick. #1410 of 1455 <deathmerchant> Thurs 28 Mar (10:36 AM) Well fuck you . #1411 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (11:00 AM) <deathmerchant> may I remind you *again* that this site is intended to be supportive. This is your second warning. , please no insults. <sweetmama> and , there are links to articles in Resources you might find helpful. You can also visit the Advice & Answers forum, where Whitelight users and guest experts answer specific questions like the ones you pose above. #1412 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (11:12 AM) The links in the Resources section are fine, but I’ve noticed there’s some important information missing. #1413 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:21 PM) Like . . . ? #1414 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:24 PM) Well, for example, you’ll want to consider how you’ll look when you’re discovered. Some methods have unpleasant side effects and are shocking to survivors. #1415 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (4:32 PM) I hadn’t even considered that. Do you have any recommendations?

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#1416 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (11:34 PM) How old is your son? #1417 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (4:45 PM) 26 #1418 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:46 PM) Does he still live at home? #1419 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (4:47 PM) Yes. #1420 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (4:55 PM) So you can’t do it there. You don’t want him to be the one who discovers you. And you’ll want to make sure you look as natural as possible, as if you’re asleep, so when he comes to identify you at the hospital, it won’t be so painful. #1421 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (5:03 PM) That’s really good advice. How do you know so much about this? #1422 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:09 PM) I’ve been thinking about it my whole life. When I was five years old, they discovered I had a degenerative neurological disease. I decided a long time ago to end my life before it becomes unbearable. #1423 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:12 PM)

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I remember you from the Introductions topic, . You seem like a very brave person. I can’t imagine what it would be like, having death shadow you your whole life. Is your condition painful? Condition? Kenji returned to the homepage and clicked on Introductions. He found ’s at the beginning of March. #105 of 116 Sat 2 Mar (10:58 PM) “I gaze into the empty twilight sky, My breath, a wraith, ascending to the stars I cannot see, My heart, it whispers, praying for a miracle…” Alas, my time for miracles is past. I’m ready to start thinking about my final exit. I’ve been planning it my whole life. The doctors told me I had a rare neurological disease when I was five, predicted I’d die before I was ten. But here I am, 12 years later, still breathing, still ALIVE. Really beat the odds. But now it’s finally catching up with me, and there’s still no cure. I can’t walk without crutches anymore. Soon I’ll need a wheelchair. I don’t want to wait too long, until I’m at the mercy of the nurses and machines, helpless and alone. I want to do it while I’m still able to choose when and where and how. So here I am, looking for someone to join me for the grand finale. A few posts later, and <sweetmama> appeared. #109 of 116 Fri 22 Mar (5:10 PM)

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I don’t really know how to begin. I guess I should say hi. Or maybe goodbye. I’m 20. Six months ago I’d have said you were crazy if you told me I’d be introducing myself in a place like this. But that’s before I lost everything that was important to me. Now all I want to do is rest. Forever. #110 of 116 <sweetmama> Wed 27 Mar (9:40 PM) I’m here because I want to protect my family from scandal. I don’t need help deciding what to do, only how. Kenji sat back in his chair. was suffering from some terrible degenerative disease. <sweetmama> definitely sounded like Mrs. Hamada. And if was Yumi’s friend Rika, she’d lied about her age. But her introduction was exactly the sort of vague bait someone fishing for a good story might use. Pathetic enough to get sympathy, general enough so she could make up the details once she figured out what would really hook them. Kenji returned to the Share Your Story forum. #1423 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:12 PM) I remember you from the Introductions topic, . You seem like a very brave person. I can’t imagine what it would be like, having death shadow you your whole life. Is your condition painful? #1424 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:18 PM) No, not really. In fact, to look at me, you wouldn’t know I was dying, bit by bit, piece by piece. But I’ve read all the studies. I know that every day I’ll lose a little more function until I

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can’t move at all. I don’t want to live like that. #1425 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (5:21 PM) What do your parents say? Do they know you’re intending to do this? #1427 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:23 PM) Sadly, they both passed away. #1428 of 1455 <sweetmama> Thurs 28 Mar (5:25 PM) So you’re all alone in the world? #1429 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:31 PM) That’s why I’m here. Because even though I’ve lived alone for so long, I don’t want to die alone. #1430 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:44 PM) “Looking toward darkness, Our fingers entwined In our next lives Will we meet again?” #1431 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:48 PM) Yes, yes exactly! How did you know “Again and Again” is my favorite song? #1432 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:50 PM) It’s mine too. I saw the Venom Vixen tribute in your introduction.

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I too dream of holding hands with someone as we cross to the other side. Are you Goth? #1433 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:51 PM) I used to be, when I could get around better. I get tired so easily now. I can’t believe you’re a Goth too. Are you from Tokyo? Did you hang out in Akihabara? #1434 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:52 PM) Actually, I’m a Goth-Lolita. But I was never part of the Akiba scene. I doubt we ever met in this life. #1435 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (5:58 PM) But maybe in a past one? “In the next world Shivering, alone, Will you know the stranger Who shelters you from the rain?”

#1436 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (6:00 PM) Maybe it’s not too late to meet in this life. #1437 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (6:01 PM) No. For me, it’s time to go. #1438 of 1455 Thurs 28 Mar (6:06 PM) Maybe our first meeting will also be our last . . .

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“Don’t slip away Before I can follow Don’t leave me alone To search for you forever” Email me, . Let’s talk. After that, <sweetmama>, , and disappeared and the conversation was taken over by other users. Had they moved to another forum? He clicked on the one called Advice & Answers, where <sweetmama> had been sent to ask about sleeping pills. Kenji picked her up at post #643. advised <sweetmama> to back up the pills with a charcoal burner. He said that if you took too many pills, they made you sick before they killed you, so most people used both drugs and a carbon-monoxide-producing burner in an enclosed space like a car. said she’d been thinking of that herself, but she didn’t have a car. <deathmerchant> made several suggestions about other ways that could kill herself, all of them gruesome. swatted him down. <sweetmama> invited and to join her and her husband if they were ready to do it soon. ’s next post was deleted by , reminding him that certain kinds of arrangements were not allowed on Whitelight public forums, and to please continue the conversation via e-mail. Apparently had seen whatever had offered before his comment was removed, and replied that thanks, she’d bring her own. After that, , <sweetmama>, and disappeared from the topic. Kenji suspected that they’d done exactly as suggested and taken their planning to e-mail. It all fit. Rika had identified three subjects who would make great copy—a couple embroiled in a scandal, committing the modern version of ritual suicide, and a young man with an incurable disease. As

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a bonus, she’d sniffed out a second sensational story—had she tried to convince Mrs. Hamada to confide about the wrongdoing at their company before she died? Yumi’s friend had cleverly weaseled herself into their group. All she had to do was show up, pretend to die, and she’d walk away with one sensational tabloid article and one that would have landed her a byline in a respectable newspaper if it had been true. It was all pretty callous. No wonder Yumi had begged him not to tell anyone. This guy —it sounded like he’d planned to die with them, but only Rika and the Hamadas had been found in the car. Why? Had he chickened out once the planning got down to when and where? It seemed unlikely that a guy with a serious degenerative disease would be able to suffocate a healthy young woman against her will, though, no matter how wacko he was. But what about that loser <deathmerchant>? Kenji returned to the Introductions forum. #37 of 116 <deathmerchant> Fri 11 May (9:40 PM) Everyone is so mean to me, I feel so alone. Unless someone gives me a reason to keep on living, I think I’ll kill myself. Nobody will miss me. It read more like a “call for help” than a real intention to die, especially since he was still posting ten months later. But <deathmerchant> was following and the others around the Whitelight forums. Was he an online stalker, or just a pathetic, lonely guy who didn’t know how to connect with other people face to face? He could be a suicide looky-loo, someone who didn’t actually intend to do the deed, but liked to egg people on. How far did his voyeurism go? Did he confine himself to goading people online, or had he moved up to spying on them when they did it? Maybe he even . . . helped. How hard would it have been to find out where the Hamadas and Rika were planning to meet? Kenji scrolled to the bottom of the page and clicked Home. Contact Us produced an e-mail

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window. Kenji identified himself as a Tokyo Metropolitan Police officer investigating a murder and explained that he needed the actual names of four Whitelight users. He gave their login IDs and clicked Send. He stood up and stretched, checked the time. How could it already be 4:00? He hoped the Whitelight sysadmin got back to him with names soon, so he could write up a report to put on Section Chief Tanaka’s desk before he left to meet Yumi. He’d say they’d identified two potential suspects— Tanaka didn’t have to know that was an unlikely murderer due to his physical condition— and all they had to do was hunt down their addresses to bring them in. Now that he had two good leads, it seemed unlikely that Rika’s murderer had picked her up at the Mad Hatter, but that was no reason to cancel a perfectly legit date with Yumi. A half hour later, he wasn’t in such an upbeat mood. Suzuki had spotted on the other suicide websites, but nobody had taken her bait. She’d dropped off almost immediately. Then a reply had arrived from claiming that Whitelight bore no responsibility for what its users said or did, and didn’t have the users’ real names anyway. If Kenji had thought it through, it would have occurred to him that he hadn’t provided his real name on the registration screen, either. He trudged to the staff room and dribbled bitter dregs of green tea from the communal pot into his cup. It was too close to quitting time to make another, so he rinsed out the teapot and left it upside down on the drainer to dry. He returned to his desk to find Oki standing there with a sullen-looking teenage boy whose shirttail was hanging out over the uniform of a famous private school. “Detective Nakamura! You’re just the person we’ve been looking for. I think I’ve found someone who might be able to help you with the real names of those people on the suicide websites. This is Hornet.” The big detective turned to the boy. “I’m only going to make this offer once. You can make that introduction, or I can call some people about the video card that walked out of Bic Camera in your backpack with the price tag still on it.” The boy scowled, but finally said, “I know a guy who can probably hack that site. He goes by the

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name Ghost.” Kenji and Oki waited. “We never met face to face, but we team up in online games pretty often. He knows all the back doors. He’s good.” “You think he’ll help us?” Kenji asked. Silence. “Mom and Dad are going to be a little disappointed,” said Oki, “when the headmaster of your fancy school calls to explain that kids with sticky fingers won’t be graduating if . . .” “Okay, okay! Get me a computer.” Kenji offered the boy his chair and swiveled his police-issue laptop around for him to use. “What a piece of crap,” the kid muttered, opening a new window, his fingers flying over the keys. He paused and looked up at Kenji. “Ghost might want something in exchange. For getting the names.” “Like what?” “Dunno. Maybe a comic book. He collects. But I already spent my allowance this month so . . .” “I’ll cover it,” Kenji said. The boy’s fingers began racing over the keys. He logged into a chat forum and conversation scrolled by almost faster than Kenji could read it. Hornet typed, yo, ghost, want unlimited lives for level 36? does godzilla want to destroy tokyo? trade? what for? need some names for you? friend what kinda job?

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have user IDs from a website, need real names “I need to read their e-mail too,” Kenji added. and access to email archive, Hornet added. There was a pause in the scrolling. user IDs are easy but email’s usually got decent encryption. i’ll do it for a first edition appleseed Hornet looked at Kenji. “The comic he wants is Appleseed, the series drawn by Shirō-sama before he became famous for Ghost in the Shell.” The scrolling started up again. seven samurai comix in akiba has a signed one for ¥3500 will trade Hornet looked at Kenji. He nodded. The boy typed, now? no still at work. tonight after 8? done. where? café jaunty 1-6-4 kanda-sakamacho 2nd floor my friend will be there at 8. thx what’s his name? Hornet raised his eyebrows at Kenji. “Nakamura.” Hornet typed it in. Ghost replied, ok. tonite me & nakamura: goin’ fishin’ Hornet closed the chat window and flipped the laptop shut. “Okay, I did it. We’re square, right?” “You really think he can do it?” Kenji asked. Shouldering his backpack, Hornet snorted. “In the time it takes you to walk to the comic book store, he’ll get their names, addresses, and phone numbers, and tell you whether they drink their coffee

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black, sweet, or white.”

Chapter 32 Thursday, April 11 6:00 P.M.

Yumi

It took a moment for Yumi’s s eyes to adjust to the Mad Hatter’s perpetual twilight. Boshi-san nodded, then returned his attention to the quarter-scale Ikki Tōsen Battle Vixen figure standing on the bar, custom-painted in a blue Alice dress and pinafore. Two weedy-looking young men grinned as the bartender appreciated their gift. Kenji came through the door behind her and crossed the room to examine the Alices on the far wall more closely, stopping before the Gundam robot in its golden curls. Turning to Yumi with an amused smile, he said, “I can’t say I ever built one quite like this.” Few customers were there this early, none of them regulars. The Lolitas would arrive in force around 8:00, although some might stop in after work while they waited for the commuter crush on the trains to subside. A pair of twenty-something girls wearing outfits that had a bad case of rural fashion lag sat in the far corner, nursing their pink cocktails and their disappointment that there were no costumed patrons to ogle. They shot Yumi and Kenji a cursory glance before returning to their study of Top Secret Tokyo Hot Spots. Boshi’s otaku friends accepted draft nama-beers as a down payment on his gratitude and meandered over to inspect the Alice collection. Yumi led Kenji to the bar, watching the bartender hold

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up his new action figure, admiring her from various angles. Tonight he was wearing a silk top hat, wisps of his extra-black hair falling into his eyes. “Irasshaimase, Yumi-san.” “Nice Vixen Alice,” she said. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” He set the new figure behind the register. “Boshi-san, this is Kenji Nakamura.” Before she could explain he was the policeman in charge of Rika’s case, Kenji said, “I was admiring your Master Grade 102 Unicorn over there.” He nodded toward the Gundam robot in the wall display. “Did you build it yourself?” “Nah, a friend gave that to me. Never got into Gundam, myself—I was always better at painting than gluing. Started with DragonballZ but switched to classic Alice figures in high school. You?” “I was better at gluing. Too hard to paint by flashlight when I was supposed to be in bed.” The bartender nodded with a knowing smile. Kenji turned to Yumi. “Can I buy you a drink?” “Well . . .” She looked at her watch. An hour and a half before she met Ichiro. Would she have to drink more of that awful French wine at dinner? Suddenly she craved a White Rabbit. It wouldn’t hurt to have just one. She smiled. “Thanks Ken-kun.” As the bartender mixed her drink, he looked at Kenji. “And you?” “Nama-biru,” he said, glancing over at the taps. “Asahi Super Dry.” The bartender pulled his beer, expertly shutting it off just as a modest head of foam pillowed slightly above the rim of the glass. He set the drinks in front of them, then busied himself at the register. As Kenji placed a ¥5,000 note on the tray with the bill, he said, “Hata-san and I are friends from way back, but I’m also in charge of investigating Rika Ozawa’s murder.” The bartender froze. He turned slowly to face Kenji. “You’re a police officer?”

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“Detective, actually. I know Yumi was here with Rika-san on Friday evening and I was wondering if you remembered anybody who took a special interest in her that night. Someone who might have followed her when she left.” The bartender picked up the tray and frowned as he made change. “A man?” “We think so.” Boshi picked up a glass to polish. “Not many men in here that night. Midori’s boyfriend came in looking for her, but he didn’t stay. A couple of salarymen wandered in and sat at that corner table, but they were here until around eleven, when they talked a couple of Princess Gals into leaving with them. Other than that . . . just one other guy. Never saw him before.” He turned to Yumi. “Do you remember him? Sitting at the end of the bar, near the door.” Yumi shook her head. “Looked like he was waiting for someone. Sat there alone, drank two draft beers, then left.” “Did he leave before or after Rika-san?” “After, I’m pretty sure. She said good-bye to me on her way out, then I got busy with table orders. When I had a chance to attend to the counter again, there was money on the bar and the guy was gone.” Kenji took out his notebook. “Can you describe him?” “Not really. It was busy, so I was juggling drink orders. I didn’t really talk to him.” “Tall? Short?” “Couldn’t tell, he was sitting. Sorry, that’s all I remember.” “Thanks. Everything helps. If we need to get hold of you to look at some pictures, how can I reach you?” The bartender recited a number with a 03 prefix. A landline, not a cell phone. “Who should I ask for?” The little man looked up in alarm. “Unless, of course, your real name is Hatter,” Kenji joked.

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The bartender’s eyes shuttered. “Boshi is fine. That’s what everyone calls me.” He bowed and headed toward the other end of the bar, where three office ladies were waiting to order. They picked up their drinks and sat down at a table near the Gundam Alice. Kenji took a swallow of beer. “Does Boshi-san’s memory of that evening jibe with yours?” “He remembers more than I do. I was so busy trying to make Rika tell me who she was meeting that night . . .” She looked down at the table. “Don’t worry about it, Yu-chan. Who else was here?” She took a sip and thought for a moment. “It was early. The only girl I recognized was an Elegant Gothic Lolita who hangs around with Rika’s friend Midori.” She brightened. “I could ask her tomorrow night. I’m sure she’ll be at the Circle event.” She explained about the Lolita gathering she’d been invited to. “Oh, and Coco came in just before Rika had to leave, with a bunch of her friends. I’ll ask her, too. You remember Coco Kawaguchi, don’t you?” She was interrupted by a familiar shriek. “Yumi! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming tonight?” It was Coco herself, wearing a pink miniskirt with glittery high-heel sandals, in the company of two fellow Princess Gals. She swiveled her attention to Kenji, putting two and two together. “Oh, Yumi told me about you! You must be—” “Coco,” Yumi quickly interrupted her, “you remember Kenji Nakamura . . . ?” Coco snapped her mouth shut, recalculating. Confusion that he wasn’t the Mitsuyama heir gave way to astonishment as she recognized Yumi’s companion. Obviously she had never looked beyond The Mole, either. “Kenji Nakamura?” Coco repeated, dazed. “Kenji Nakamura from Koshikawa High School?” As he bowed over the table in her direction, Coco raised her eyebrows at Yumi, then gave Kenji a dazzling smile. “O-hisashiburi. I hardly recognized you. What are you doing here?” “I’m the head investigator on Rika Ozawa’s murder,” he explained. “Yumi’s been helping me with

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a few details about the night Rika died.” “Really? You’re a policeman now? And you’re working on Rika’s case? You know,” she said, her carefully mascaraed eyes wide with helpful innocence, “I was here that night, too. Maybe I can help you.” “Yumi mentioned you came in just before Rika left. Do you remember a man sitting alone at the end of the bar, near the door?” Coco sipped her tall drink, showing off lips freshly glossed in the latest shade of pink “You mean the guy Boshi-san was arguing with? I saw him when I came in.” “Arguing?” “Well, maybe not arguing, exactly. Boshi-san was giving him what-for like they’d known each other a long time. I got the impression that the guy had asked for something but wasn’t getting what he wanted. He sort of shoved back his chair and grabbed his bag and stomped out.” “What did he look like?” “Hm.” She shifted her weight to her other hip. “He was really short. Shorter even than Boshi-san. Trying to grow a goatee, not very successfully. Wearing those balloon-y pants like a construction worker, but—” Coco wrinkled her nose, puzzled. “—he didn’t really seem like one.” “How do you mean?” “No muscles. Skinny. Like my brother when he was in middle school.” “Coco,” one of her friends called from a nearby table, where they’d been joined by several young men with extravagant bleached hair. They were waving her over. “Okay, okay, just a minute,” she said, then returned her attention to Kenji. “Does that help?” “Yes, thank you,” he said with a smile. “Can I get your phone number, in case I have any more questions or need you to look at some mug shots?” “Sure,” she said, fishing around in her purse and coming up with a phone paved in pink rhinestones. After reciting her number to Kenji, she asked him to call so she’d have his too. Mission

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accomplished, Coco gave him a coquettish smile and said, “We didn’t know each other nearly well enough in high school, Nakamura-san. Even if you don’t have more questions, let’s get together sometime, ne?” Turning to Yumi, she added, “We need to catch up, too, missy.” A pointed little stare said she hadn’t been kept nearly up to date enough on the Mitsuyama o-miai situation, and that being spotted having a drink with an attractive man who wasn’t her potential fiancé called for a much more complete explanation. With a final flutter of her bejeweled nails, she left to join her friends. Over Kenji’s shoulder, Yumi watched their heads tilt toward Coco’s, listening avidly. One sneaked a glance at their table and Yumi’s face burned. She hoped nobody would tell Ichiro and give him the wrong . . . No, that was ridiculous. Nobody at the Hatter knew Ichiro. She hadn’t even told Coco about her engagement yet. She hadn’t told anyone. Kenji was looking at her strangely, so she took a gulp of her cocktail and said, “You remember Coco from high school, don’t you?” She launched into a funny story about their high school days, and only later realized she’d told one that wasn’t particularly flattering to her friend.

Chapter 33 Thursday, April 11 8:00 P.M.

Kenji

An hour later, Kenji stood outside a tall, skinny building in the Akihabara electronics district. Light spilled from the open front of the camera emporium on the ground floor. Young men on a mission flowed around him as he checked the address. The guy at the curry shop on the corner had been right—it was the building with a life-size, cardboard cutout of a miniskirted girl standing outside, advertising low, low prices on digital SLRs. To the right of the electronics store, a dim hallway led to an elevator. Kenji approached it warily. He’d heard about maid cafés but never visited one. They’d sprung up as a safe place for the shy engineers who shopped in Akihabara to talk to the scary half of the human race without fear of rejection. The waitresses dressed like French maids from comic books. They walked, talked, and acted like they’d just stepped from the pages of their customers’ favorite series. A sign next to the lift confirmed that the Maid Café Jaunty was on the second floor. Below a manga-style drawing of a big-eyed, long-legged girl in a short black frock with a frilly white apron, it read, “Welcome home, Master of the House!” Below were listed boy-friendly menu offerings like pizza, spaghetti, and rice omelets. Kenji’s stomach growled. He really needed to eat something. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the

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up button. Just as he realized he had no idea how to recognize the guy he was meeting, the doors opened onto a cheery interior, filled with small white Formica tables and bustling waitresses dressed like the drawings on the sign. “Irasshaimase, go-shujin-sama!” sang a beaming young woman in a fluffy maid costume. “Welcome, Master of the House!” “Uh . . .” “How may we serve you, Honorable Master?” “I’m, uh, supposed to be meeting someone here,” he said, scanning the room and wondering which of the guys glued to their laptops was Ghost. “Oh, are you Nakamura-sama?” she chirped, referring to him as if he were a ranking dignitary. He nodded and she said, “This way please, Honorable Master. Ghost-sama called to say he’d be a few minutes late tonight and to seat you at his usual table.” Bewildered, Kenji followed her bobbing ponytail to a small table in the corner of the room. After handing him a menu, she produced what looked like a votive candle from her pocket and blew gently on it. An electronic flame flickered to life. She set it before him with a bow. “When this goes out, your first hour will be up. Please enjoy, go-shujin-sama!” Kenji looked around curiously. The Jaunty’s walls were papered in faux stone. Across the room, a “window” framing a view of idealized European countryside was surrounded by pink-checked curtains tied back with bows. The backlit photo didn’t actually fool anybody, but it suggested that the café’s theme was “fairy-tale castle” rather than “dungeon.” Photos of the Jaunty waitresses lined the walls, each posed in her uniform, smiling and saluting. According to a poster tacked up behind a small raised dais, it was day four of Nyan-Nyan Week. Sure enough, all the maids were sporting furry cat-ear headbands and greeting their customers with the Japanese word for “meow.” Kenji opened the menu. In this particular fantasy world, no mother hovered, reminding patrons to eat their vegetables. In

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fact, no vegetable ever darkened the door of the Maid Café Jaunty. For a fixed price, customers could choose between rice omelets, spaghetti, curry rice or pizza, a variety of soft drinks, and the maid service of their choice. The cheapest combo included a signed Polaroid of the customer with his maid; the next offered five minutes of conversation while Master ate. For the top price, a maid would play rock-paperscissors with go-shujin-sama, although the menu didn’t promise she’d let him win. Kenji hastily flipped past the combos, drink list, and desserts, and to his great relief, the final page offered à la carte food without any attention from the maids. A pixyish ingenue with short pigtails appeared at his table. Her black skirt and starched white apron stood out like a doll’s over white bloomers and thigh-high black stockings. She lifted her hand like a paw and made a cat-meow, then piped in a little-girl voice, “How may I serve Honorable Master tonight?” “I’d like a melon soda and . . .” He scanned the menu. “. . . curry rice, please.” “Certainly, go-shujin-sama.” Kenji looked around at the tables of young men dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with characters from comic books and animé movies. Their universally pale skin and unstyled hair suggested they lived their lives online, represented by avatars that looked nothing like their real selves. There was at least one computer on every table. Across the room, a maid fed soup to a customer, blowing on each bite before offering it. Then an order was delivered to the otaku at the next table, who took a break from slaying zombies to watch his maid draw a bewhiskered cat on his rice omelet with a squeeze bottle of ketchup. Before digging in, he joined her in singing the maid café’s theme song, a look of adoration on his face, his hands mirroring hers as she held them in a heart shape and rocked them back and forth. Kenji hoped his neighbor was paying extra for that service, because he certainly wasn’t going to . . . His curry rice arrived, and after trying to get him to sing along with her and failing, his waitress bowed and left him alone to eat. Kenji spooned up his curry, ravenous. It wasn’t anything special, but at

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least there was a lot of it. “Welcome back, go-shujin-sama!” piped the hostess as the elevator doors opened for someone who was clearly a regular. Kenji’s eyes widened as he stepped into the café. He didn’t need an introduction to know that Ghost had arrived. The newcomer’s skin, his hair, his eyebrows, everything about him was white, except his eyes, which were an improbable golden color, with cat-eye pupils. Obviously, they were contacts, the kind worn by cosplayers who dressed like alien characters. But Ghost’s appearance was no costume. Under the contacts, were his eyes . . . pink? Kenji quickly looked away, trying not to stare. He’d seen an albino rabbit before—they’d had one in his second grade class—but he’d never seen an albino person. “There are actually quite a few of us in Japan.” Kenji’s head snapped up. Ghost was standing next to his table, a half-smile on his face as he observed Kenji’s discomfort. “Are you Hornet’s friend, Nakamura?” he asked. Kenji said he was, forcing himself to make eye contact, trying hard to give the impression he met albino people every day and it was no big deal. Ghost set his laptop on the table and dropped into the other chair. Up close, he was actually sort of handsome, in a weird manga-like way. His hair was cut in the spiky style favored by DragonballZ characters, and the arm that rested on his laptop case was strung with ropy muscles. “I do judo,” he said, as if reading Kenji’s mind. “For people like me, the bullying doesn’t stop with middle school. There’s a gym where a lot of cosplayers go, over near the Laox building. Most of them choose to look even weirder than I do, and none of us like to get beaten up by morons.” Their maid arrived promptly to take Ghost’s coffee order, squealing over the cat-eye contacts he’d worn in honor of Nyan-Nyan Week. She whisked away Kenji’s scraped-clean plate. The hacker unzipped his laptop case to draw out the latest top-of-the-line Sony VAIO. He sat back in his chair and looked at Kenji. “Did Hornet mention . . . ?”

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“Yeah. The comic book.” Kenji offered the brown paper bag formally with both hands. Ghost took it eagerly and broke the seal. He pulled the manga from the bag and his face brightened with delight as he saw the artist’s name scrawled across the front in thick black pen. “I’ve always wanted a signed one!” His coffee arrived, and he gave the maid his full attention while she doctored it with three sugars and stirred until he cued her to stop by meowing a single “nyan” with an ironic half-smile. After downing a slug of coffee, he took a last loving look at the cellophane-wrapped comic, slipped it back in the bag, and opened his laptop. “I understand you need some names,” he said, typing in a complicated password with lightning-fast fingers. “What’s the website address?” Kenji pulled out his phone and showed him the e-mail with the Whitelight URL and the four user names. Ghost navigated to whitelight.co.jp site with a few keystrokes, bypassed the entry screens with a few more, and froze. “Uh, this is a . . . suicide website.” He studied the four user IDs, then looked at Kenji, his face troubled. “Are you afraid one of these is a friend of yours?” “Yeah. I’m pretty sure is a friend of a friend.” “And you’re afraid she’s going to commit jisatsu?” “She already did.” Ghost stared at him. “Yes. But we think that she and <sweetmama> might actually have been killed by one of the other two.” “You mean . . . murdered?” “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” “Huh.” Ghost nodded. Then his mouth twisted into a grim smile and he cracked his knuckles. “Yosh’. Let’s play Detective Conan.”

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Even Kenji had read that comic book. Ghost navigated around Whitelight and examined a site map. “Ah.” Satisfied smile. “E-mail forwarding.” His fingers blurred over the keys and a new window opened up, filled with code. He paused, added another half window of nonsense, then tapped a couple of keys. A long a list of names raced down the screen. Kenji pulled his chair around. “This is everybody with whitelight.co.jp e-mail accounts,” Ghost explained. “See, most people who have more than one e-mail address don’t want to check all of them every day, so they forward their messages to one main account. Usually, that’s their phone. That way, they can send e-mail from their Whitelight address without using their real names, but still conveniently receive the replies at their main Inbox. All someone like me has to do is run a little piece of code that backtracks the forwarded mail to their cell phones.” The list had seventy-three user IDs on it. Near the bottom, Kenji spotted:



[email protected]



[email protected]

<sweetmama>

[email protected]

<deathmerchant>

[email protected]

Ghost scrolled further down the page. “Now I’ll just match their phone IDs to the names on their billing addresses.” He opened another window filled with numbers and symbols, typing so fast the lines appeared to be scrolling. Finally, he hit Return, then copied and pasted the list of user IDs. Their real names and addresses appeared. [email protected]

Jun Shimada 2-32-12 Sendagi

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[email protected] Rika Ozawa 4-14-21 Hon-Komagome [email protected]

Masayo Hamada 1-11-2 Shirogane

[email protected]

Daisuke Takahara 5-11-6 Tabata

“Whoa, how did you do that?” Kenji asked. Ghost frowned. “Sorry,” Kenji said, “Forget I asked.” “You want the whole list, or just the four you gave me?” “As long as you have it, the whole list, please.” “Give me your e-mail address and I’ll copy it to you.” Kenji jotted it on a napkin and handed it to Ghost, who flicked his fingers over the keyboard, sat back, and said, “Done.” Kenji’s phone vibrated, signaling the message had arrived. He checked to make sure. “Got it. Thanks.” “Now for the e-mail.” Ghost’s fingers flew over the keys again, then he stared at the blinking cursor as the scrolling came to a dead stop. He opened another window and tried something else, typing furiously until he reached another dead end. He flopped back in his chair and frowned, then looked at Kenji. “Did someone warn the site administrator you were interested in e-mail from Whitelight users?” “Uh, maybe,” Kenji said, remembering that had ducked behind the site’s privacy policy when he’d ask for the information that afternoon. “It looks like someone went in at 17:03:23 today and wiped the entire archive. Not only wiped it, scrambled it.” “There’s nothing left?” Ghost shook his head. “Whoever did it knew what he was doing.” “Well, at least we know they had something to hide. Thanks for trying.”

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“Anytime. Sorry you had to buy me that Appleseed just to get a few names.” As Kenji stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, Ghost added, “Let me know what you find out. If you need anything else, e-mail me. I’ll give you a freebie.” He grinned. “This is a lot more interesting than fighting Elder Dragons.”

Chapter 34 Friday, April 12 8:00 A.M.

Kenji

“Thanks for coming in early, Suzuki-san,” Kenji said, as the night guard relocked the front door of the Komagome Police Station behind them. While they ascended to the third floor, he filled Suzuki in on what he’d learned at the Mad Hatter and from Ghost. A sealed manila envelope stamped “Tokyo University School of Legal Medicine” had been left on his chair. A sticky note attached to the front read, “I delayed this as long as I could so you could get a head start on finding your perp, but since a copy will arrive downtown sometime this morning, I thought you ought to have a few hours to look it over before your section chief gets a call about it. Good luck.” It was signed with the initials TL. Kenji slit open the envelope. Rika Ozawa’s post-mortem. Suzuki pulled up a chair and watched his superior frown over the difficult document. The forms were filled with unusually complex kanji characters. Kenji began with an easy one: “Cause of Death.” It read, “Heart Failure,” like most Japanese death certificates. It was an unassailable, if unenlightening, verdict; no matter what caused someone’s heart to stop, nobody lived beyond that event. He was slowly wading through the first section of findings when Suzuki cleared his throat. “Sir?”

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Kenji looked up, marking his place with a finger. “Would you like me to do that while you attend to something more important?” “I don’t know, it’s pretty rough going. I think these kanji were invented just to confuse anyone who doesn’t have an M.D.” “I could give it a try, sir. I was the All-Kanto Kanji Champion for two years in high school.” “All-Kanto?” That was a region bigger than Tokyo. Suzuki dipped his head modestly. Kenji pushed the report over to him without another word. He shouldn’t have been surprised—Suzuki was exactly the sort who would never confuse the fourteenstroke character for “currency” with the extremely similar fourteen-stroke character for “evil practice.” Kenji went to brew a pot of tea and when he returned, Suzuki had reached the last page. He handed the report back to Kenji and confirmed what Loud had leaked earlier: no drugs, negligible alcohol, subject died of asphyxiation. Estimated time of death: between 7:00 P.M. and midnight on Friday, April 5. “Thank you, Suzuki-san,” Kenji said, slipping the report back into its envelope. He regarded it with a frown. “When Section Chief Tanaka arrives, I’m going to have to show him. It’s probably only a matter of time before the murder squad arrives from the main office to take over the case.” Kenji checked the time. “But we still have an hour before anybody shows up. While I write up what we’ve got so far, could you push ahead with the information I got last night? The more solid leads we have to serve up to the big boys, the better we’ll look.” “Of course, sir. What would you like me to start with?” “Our killer is most likely someone Ozawa-san met online or someone who followed her from the bar. While I write up our findings to date, can you find out the real name of the proprietor of the Mad Hatter in Jingu-mae? Then run him, see if anything pops up. There must be a reason he didn’t want me to think he knew the man who was in the bar at the same time as Rika Ozawa.” “Of course, sir. Right away.”

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Kenji opened a new document and began writing up everything they’d discovered to date, finishing with an outline of the next steps he planned to take. He printed out two copies and stapled the corners, then laid one squarely on Tanaka’s desk. At 9:45, the chief walked in and hung up his coat. Kenji put his jacket back on and straightened his tie. Twenty minutes later, Tanaka had agreed to allow Oki to help investigate the Hamada-Ozawa case until the First Investigative Division arrived in force to take over. The big detective angled his chair toward Kenji’s, his hand dwarfing his teacup. He set up his laptop and turned it on. “Thanks for rescuing me from the Fujimoto burglary. We’ve run out of leads and unless something breaks, we’re going to have to shelve it. I wasn’t looking forward to having that conversation with Tanaka-san.” Kenji gave him an update, pulling up the Whitelight website and pointing out the topics he wanted the older detective to read. While Oki worked his way through the site, Kenji went to check on Suzuki’s progress. As he approached the assistant detective’s seat, Suzuki held out a folder. “Here’s the Mad Hatter information, sir.” Kenji read the top sheet. “Huh. His name really is Boshi. Burglary?” Suzuki nodded. “Five years ago, Taro Yamaboshi was tried for a series of thefts. He got off, but his brother Jiro went to prison. He’s been out since the end of June. But that’s not the interesting part. Look here. The brother’s rap sheet says he’s one hundred fifty-three centimeters, forty-seven kilos. Sounds sort of like the guy who was arguing with Boshi-san at the Mad Hatter.” “Huh.” Kenji flipped to the mug shots under the report. He held up the photo of the younger brother. “I agree with our witness—he’d look better without the goatee.” Kenji put everything back in the folder. “Good work, Suzuki-san. Thank you. Can you get me five or six other pictures so we can ask our witness if she can identify our Mad Hatter mystery man?” “No problem, sir.”

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When he returned to his desk, Oki was still reading. Kenji took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. After four rings, a groggy-sounding Coco answered. “Good morning, this is Kenji Nakamura.” He explained that he had some pictures for her to look at and asked when it would be convenient to show them to her. She suggested 11:00 at Matsumoto’s in a way that was so flirtatious he immediately decided to send Suzuki. Oki was sitting back in his chair with steepled fingers, thinking. He looked up at Kenji and said, “I think we should pay a visit to and <deathmerchant>.”

Chapter 35 Friday, April 12 10:30 A.M.

Yumi

“Moshi-moshi,” Yumi muttered, fumbling with her phone. She squinted at her bedside clock. Had she really slept until 10:30? “Ohayo!” It was Coco. “You’ll never guess who just called and asked me to meet him this morning!” Yumi shut her eyes against the cruel morning light. Her head hurt. Why did people drink red wine? “Maybe you could just tell me.” “Ken-ji Na-ka-mu-ra,” sang her friend. Yumi sat up. “What? Why?” “Well, he said it was to look at some mug shots, but . . . What do you think I should wear?” Yumi flopped back on her bed. “I don’t know, Coco. You woke me up and I’ve got a wicked hangover.” “Late night, huh? Were you out on another date with Mr. Son-of-the-Zaibatsu? How was the party at the Roppongi Hills Club? Did he ask you to marry him yet?” Yumi groaned. She was in no shape to have that conversation. “Ask me later when I’m feeling human.”

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“Okay, go back to sleep if you must. He’s not married, is he?” “Who? Ichiro?” “No! Kenji.” “No.” It came out more annoyed than she’d intended. “Girlfriend?” Coco persisted. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” “Okay, I will. Call you later. Mata ne!” Blessed silence. But now she was awake. Yumi dragged herself to the bathroom. She had to make those calls about Rika’s funeral today. And tonight was the Lolita event. She dressed and padded to the kitchen; her mother had left some rice for her on the rice cooker’s “Keep Warm” setting. She packed a dollop into her favorite bowl and shot a stream of near-boiling water from the hot water pot into a bowl of instant miso soup. Settling herself at the table, she picked up the newspaper, but didn’t feel up to struggling through the kanji this morning. “Ohayo gozaimasu,” her mother said, nudging the door open with her foot as she carried in two bulging string bags filled with the morning’s shopping. She set them on the counter and asked, “Did you have a nice time last night?” Yumi described the Shinjuku restaurant where she and Ichiro had been joined by six of his friends, then asked, “Is Dad at work?” Mrs. Hata’s face clouded. She lowered her voice and said, “He’s going in later for a meeting. I think he’s in the other room, working on his book.” “Oh no,” Yumi whispered. “Did they decide?” Her mother shook her head and whispered, “Not yet.” In her regular voice she said, “Have you called people about Rika’s funeral yet?” “No, I’m going to do that this morning as soon as I finish my breakfast.” “Would you like me to help?”

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“No, that’s okay. There aren’t many who don’t know yet.” Yumi finished her soup, made herself a pot of tea, and carried it back to her room. She straightened her futon cover and lay back against the pillows with her phone. Half an hour later, she was down to one name. Kodama, with a 080 cell phone prefix. She punched it in. It rang twice and a male voice answered, “Flash mob.” Flash mob? Oh. FlashMob. Stacks of the underground freebie sat on café counters all over Harajuku and Shibuya. “May I speak with Kodama-san?” “He’s out right now, but he should be back in a half hour or so. Would you like to leave a message?” “No, I’ll try later. Thank you.” She hung up. FlashMob had started as a guerilla guide to street-corner concerts and fringe-y events but had expanded to include edgy news items. Yumi rummaged through her bag and found the issue she’d picked up at the Tea Four Two. Kodama was the editor. Had Rika been writing the suicide article for him? FlashMob wasn’t the International Herald Tribune, but it was a step up from GothXLoli for someone who wanted to be a real journalist. Yumi typed FlashMob’s address into her phone’s GPS and went to her closet to pick out something appropriate for meeting the man who’d paid Rika to make a date with death. He was going to have to talk to her face to face.

Chapter 36 Friday, April 12 10:30 A.M.

Yumi

Forty minutes after changing into her most businesslike skirt and blouse, Yumi was sitting in a cramped room on the third floor of a building in Harajuku while the assistant editor of FlashMob hammered away at his keyboard less than a meter away. Kodama had not yet arrived. This week’s issue was stacked around the room in twine-bound bundles. Apparently, the whole operation was run out of this tiny office. Shelves completely covered the walls, bulging with back issues, reference books, and assorted souvenirs: an Ultraman mask, a pennant from the last time the Yomuri Giants won a baseball championship, a rotund, papier-mâché Daruma figure with both eyes blacked in. She wondered what Kodama had wished for. The assistant editor finished typing, rolled his chair back and stood, then leaned over and added a few words. His eyes still glued to the screen, he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and put it on. Then he tore himself away and picked up two stacks of FlashMob. “I have to hit the streets and start distributing these,” he said to Yumi. “Kodama-san should be back any minute. If you leave before he comes, lock the door, okay?” With that, he was gone. Yumi stood and looked around the room. Wedged between some tilting stacks of books on the nearest shelf was a framed diploma. Mino Kodama, MA Journalism, Sophia University.

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“Excuse me, who are you?” Yumi spun around to face the man standing in the doorway. He was thirty-ish, wearing skinny black pants and a long-sleeved, black-and-red-striped pullover. A black porkpie hat perched on his wavy, shoulder-length hair over retro, black-rimmed glasses. “My name is Yumi Tanaka. I’m a friend of Rika Ozawa.” He grimaced and detoured around her, dropping a laptop case on the other desk and tossing his hat onto the shelf behind. He shuffled through his message slips and sat down. Yumi scooted her chair over to face him. “If you have better luck getting hold of her than I did, you can tell her anybody who misses a deadline with me doesn’t get a second chance,” he said. “I saved fifty inches for her, front page, and she really screwed me. I left about ten messages last Saturday, then scrambled to fill the space. Is she always this much of a flake?” “No,” said Yumi. “She’s dead.” Kodama’s mouth dropped open. “Dead?” Yumi didn’t say anything. “What the hell happened?” Yumi explained about the Komagome Shrine, how Rika had gone there to work on the story she was writing for him, and someone had killed her. “Fuck. This is not possible. This is not happening.” He tore at his hair and leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. He rocked forward. “Do the police have any idea who did it?” “No. Do you?” “No! Shit, she was just meeting some suicide wannabes. She felt sorry for them. I had to talk her into going.” “What do you mean?” “I met her in Shibuya a week ago Friday. She was getting cold feet. The problem was, her story

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was nothing special without that first-person crap. Everybody knows there are sites on the Internet where you can meet to plan a group suicide. It certainly wasn’t front-page material.” “So you talked her into doing it? Even though she didn’t want to?” “Hey,” he said, “It wasn’t my idea. She’s the one who came to me; she’s the one who pitched the concept. I took a chance on her—she didn’t have any experience except that Lolita shit but I gave her a chance for a byline on the front page. I broke one of my own rules, giving a assignment like that to someone I’d never worked with before, and look where it got me.” “Look where it got her,” Yumi retorted. “God. Sorry.” He buried his head in his hands. “This is awful.” Yumi couldn’t tell if he meant awful for Rika or awful for FlashMob. He sighed and looked at her. “How can I help?” “What do you know about the people she was meeting? Anything that wasn’t in her article?” “All I know is she was meeting a cripple and a middle-aged couple. I swear, none of them sounded dangerous.” “The middle-aged man and his wife were found in the car with Rika. What do you know about the other guy?” “He’s the one who volunteered to bring the sleeping pills. She said he had some sort of degenerative disease. He wanted to end it all before he got so sick he was helpless. If you ask me, he had the right idea—I sure wouldn’t want to die like that. But Friday she wanted to change direction, rethink the whole story. She thought she could talk the sick guy into holding on a while longer.” He threw up his hands. “Suddenly she was Miss Bleeding Heart—what was she going to do, hover by his bedside, feeding him soup until he died?” “Then how come he didn’t die with the rest of them?” “He didn’t show?” Kodama’s interest suddenly sharpened. “Now that might make a good story.” “Don’t you dare!” Yumi cried. Her friend had realized what she was doing was wrong; Yumi was

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sure Rika had gone to the shrine that night intending to try and save , to make amends for her shameful behavior. And as of that Friday afternoon, she still believed would be there, bringing the pills for the party. So how come she was dead and he wasn’t? There was only one person besides the killer who knew the answer. If didn’t kill Rika, maybe he saw who did.

Chapter 37 Friday, April 12 10:30 A.M.

Kenji

The slanting afternoon light was not kind to the grimy stucco building where lived. It had been built right after the war and hadn’t aged gracefully. Dirt grayed the white exterior and darker streaks wept from the corners of the window frames. Clots of dust lodged inside the boxy airconditioning units that had not yet coughed into service this year. Kenji peered through the glass door into a dim, terrazzo-floored lobby. Oki rang the bell next to the name Shimada. He waited, then rang again. When it became clear that nobody was answering, Oki rang the manager, who buzzed them in. A guy who looked way too young to be in charge of an apartment building stepped out of a door next to the stairs. His shoulder-length hair was streaked with blond, one razored spike falling between his eyes. He wore a leopard-print T-shirt emblazoned with glittery script that read “Cowboy,” its rumpled untucked edge giving away that he’d slept in his clothes and only recently hauled himself out of bed. “Can I help you?” he yawned. “You’re the manager?” asked Kenji, showing his police ID. “Yeah,” he said, then admitted, “My father owns this building. I’m just doing this until my band

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gets off the ground.” “We came to talk to Jun Shimada, but he’s not answering his door. Do you know if he’s home?” “What’s he done?” “Why do you think he’s done something?” “You’re the police, you’re asking questions, and he’s weird.” “You mean, because of his disease?” “He has a disease?” “Doesn’t he have some sort of degenerative neurological condition? Walks with crutches?” “What? No. Are you sure you have the right guy?” “Then what’s so weird about him?” “Well, he . . .” The manager stopped himself and looked uncomfortable. “You know, my dad would probably tell me not to say anything bad about our tenants.” “It won’t get back to him, I promise.” The young man leaned against his doorframe. “Well, you just have to look at him to know he’s a bit off. Dresses like a Goth, always in black. But he’s kind of old for that scene, if you know what I mean.” “How old is he?” “I dunno—twenty-six? Twenty-seven? But it’s not just the black clothes—he wears makeup, even in the daytime. I mean, okay if you’re performing or something, but what kind of guy puts on eyeliner to go to the convenience store?” “Is he a musician?” The building manager snorted. “No, he’s a janitor. Works nights at Komagome Hospital.” “Has he lived here long?” “Longer than anyone else in the building. Longer than we’ve owned it, actually. I think he grew up here and when his parents died, he stayed on.” “How long ago did he lose his parents?”

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“I don’t know about his mom—she was gone before my family bought this place seven years ago. But his father died more recently. I never actually met him; he was a merchant seaman, had a setup with his bank to automatically send the rent every month. Last year, Shimada started paying it himself.” “Do you know anybody who might remember the family?” “Don’t think so. The next-oldest tenant has only been here about five years.” “You didn’t happen to see him last Friday night, did you?” Oki asked. “Last Friday?” The musician paused to think. “Nah, I was out of here around four that day—my band played a club out in Saitama.” He paused, then said, “Actually, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since. I thought maybe he was on vacation or something, because his mail’s been piling up. Why?” “We’re investigating a suspicious suicide. Shimada was supposed to meet the victim last Friday so they could do it together, but he never showed.” “What? He was planning to kill himself?” The manager’s face filled with alarm. “You don’t think he . . . ?” Snatching a ring of keys from a hook next to his door, he headed for the stairs. They stopped behind him as he rapped on the door to 204, then let himself in. Taking a cautious sniff, he said, “Wait here.” But the apartment only smelled of mildewed shower curtain and the overripe bananas sitting in a bowl next to the Sony laptop Kenji spotted though the doorway. The computer was the only thing that looked like it had been bought since the turn of the century; Shimada was still living with his parents’ old furniture, right down to the bouquet of dusty silk peonies on the table. Kenji crossed the room to a bookcase filled with comic books so worn he could barely read the spines. Vagabond. Lone Wolf and Cub. Samurai Deeper. Complete collections, but nearly falling apart. “He’s not here,” the manager said with obvious relief, returning to the main room. “Do you want me to call you if he turns up?” “Please,” Kenji said, writing his number on the back of a card.

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As the manager locked Shimada’s door behind them, Kenji added, “When you see him, don’t mention we were here, okay? I think it would be better if we explained in person.” “Don’t worry.” The musician gave Kenji a conspiratorial half-smile. “I never saw you.” As they walked toward the main street, Oki said, “Huh. Not crippled. Why do you think he lied about that?” “And why do you think he lied about wanting to commit suicide? He’s not sick, and he’s not dead. Why didn’t he show up that night at the Komagome Shrine?” “Maybe he did.” They turned that over in their minds for a moment. “Where do you want to go from here?” Oki asked. “I don’t know. Do you think it’s still worthwhile interviewing <deathmerchant>? Or should we concentrate on Shimada?” “We definitely need to find out where Shimada was last Friday night. He could be weird enough to be our killer. The thing is, anyone who’s worn out a whole series of samurai comics but makes a living pushing a mop must be pretty good at not letting reality intrude on his fantasies. I can see him quoting romantic death lyrics over the Internet to a girl he’s never met. But ambushing and killing her? I don’t know.” Oki thought a moment. “<deathmerchant>, on the other hand, is worse at picking up on social cues, then flies into a rage when he gets slapped down. Why don’t we go check him out, then decide who’s worth pursuing?” Kenji nodded. He pulled out his atlas and found the page marked with <deathmerchant>’s address. “The nearest police box is just down the street from where he lives. Shall we stop in and get some background before we knock on his door?”

Chapter 38 Friday, April 12 11:30 A.M.

Kenji

Kenji and Oki had no trouble finding the koban nearest <deathmerchant>’s address. The young officer on duty looked up the records for 5-2-6 Tabata and informed them it was a single-family house, occupied by Daisuke and Chiho Takahara and their three children, ages fourteen, ten, and eight, all of whom lived at home. Daisuke was thirty-four and worked as an installer for a big electronics store in Akihabara. “And what kind of person is Mr. Takahara?” Oki asked. “We’ve never been called there on a domestic disturbance,” the officer said. “Why is it you’re so interested in him?” “We think he might be a witness to an incident we’re investigating,” Kenji said, falling back on the most reassuring explanation. “So anything you can tell us about how reliable he is, whether he’s mixed up in anything questionable, that sort of thing, might help a lot.” The officer looked away. “Well, this isn’t official, but . . . He likes his beer, if you know what I mean. Sometimes he can get a bit familiar with women when he’s been drinking, and his advances aren’t always welcome.” They thanked him for the information and started toward the Takaharas’ address.

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“That fits with the way he behaved online,” Oki commented. Kenji nodded. “He’s not really what I expected, though. From the kind of stuff <deathmerchant> posted, I thought he’d be younger. I certainly didn’t think he’d be married.” Ten minutes later, they found the address, but nobody answered the door. A neighbor said Mrs. Takahara had left to do the morning shopping about a half hour ago, and Mr. Takahara didn’t usually return until 5:00. Kenji’s phone rang. Suzuki, reporting that Coco Kawaguchi had positively identified Boshi-san’s brother as the man at the Mad Hatter on Friday night. Kenji asked for the bartender’s home address and phone number, and scribbled it in his notebook. “Thanks, Suzuki-san.” He ripped out the page and handed it to Oki. “This address belongs to the brother of the guy who may have followed our victim from the bar on Friday night. Maybe he can tell us where his otōto is living. It’s a long shot, but I still think he’s worth checking out. Do you mind? I need to head back to the station and start figuring out what we can tell the brass and what we can’t.”

Chapter 39 Friday, April 12 11:30 A.M.

Yumi

Yumi stood in line at the net café. According to the FlashMob editor, had still been planning to meet Rika and the others at the Komagome Shrine last Friday afternoon. The only way she could contact him to ask him what happened was through the site where he and Rika had first met. She’d tried to use her phone to visit the Whitelight site, but it wasn’t optimized for mobile use and she didn’t have a computer at home anymore after her college laptop had succumbed to a final fatal tea disaster. The boy ahead of her in line was still negotiating with the clerk. His black uniform was unbuttoned at the collar and his mother was going to have to buy him new pants soon—they were several centimeters too short. Craning his neck to peer down the narrow hallway between the cubicles in the room to see which were already in use, he turned back to the clerk and said, “If I can’t have three, what about seven? Nobody’s using seven.” “That one’s reserved for businessmen on weekdays. I can give you number four.” “No! Not four! The keypad sticks. I’ll get killed right away. What about eight?” “Well . . . okay. But if the other stations fill up and I get a business customer, you’ll have to move.” The boy grumpily agreed. He hefted his book bag onto his shoulder, paid in advance for an hour,

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then added a few more coins for a cup of shrimp-flavored instant ramen noodles. He disappeared into the warren of cubicles. “May I help you?” “I need to use a computer for an hour or so,” Yumi said. He handed her a form to sign and made out a membership card. Yumi got out her pocketbook. “Should I pay now, or . . .” “Pay at the end, after I add up your time. Number twelve,” he said, handing her the timestamped bill and gesturing toward the maze. “Last one on the right.” The cubicle reminded her of a glorified bathroom stall, the walls just tall enough so curious passers-by couldn’t glance in. Yumi seated herself in front of the monitor and typed in the Whitelight address. A few moments later, she was staring at the options: Sign In or Create New Account. She tried but it was already taken. Her fallback, , was accepted. She read the introductory information, then began to scan the topics for , <sweetmama>, and . It was depressing to discover how right she’d been about Rika’s motives for joining the website. With a sinking heart, she saw how skillfully Rika had befriended <sweetmama> and ingratiated herself with . But as she read through the other topics, it looked like her friend had begun to feel genuine sympathy for the incurably sick boy she’d intended to exploit. Yumi could see how the things he’d said would appeal to Rika—he’d been part of the Goth scene, loved Rika’s favorite band, and was even more of a misfit than she was. By the time Yumi finished the last posting in the final topic, she was sure Rika had gone to the Komagome Shrine that night intending to talk out of killing himself. Had she succeeded? Yumi clicked on Mail. A window popped up and she typed in ’s Whitelight address. If he was still alive, maybe he’d respond.

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Subject: What happened? I’m a friend of Rika Ozawa, who you knew as . Please tell me what happened on the night she died. I know you were planning to meet her and the others at the Komagome Shrine. Were you there? Did you see what happened? Please contact me. Yumi clicked Send. Then she keyed in her cell phone mail address, instructing the website to forward any messages.

Chapter 40 Friday, April 12 12:30 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji set the Styrofoam container of noodles on his desk as Detective Oki emerged from the elevator. “Nobody home at Boshi-san’s residence,” he said to Kenji. Section Chief Tanaka appeared and said, “The big boys will be here at two. What have you got?” Kenji outlined what they’d found out and Tanaka asked him to write it up so he could present it to Inspector Mori, who would be taking over as lead investigator. Kenji sighed and took out his half-finished report. He’d described the scene, mentioned the charcoal burner and incense, the dropped cell phone and vomit, and outlined the lab evidence that showed Rika Ozawa had been murdered. The hard part was going to be dancing around how they’d identified the three suspects. They didn’t officially know ’s and <deathmerchant>’s real names. The brass would not look kindly on a lowly regional detective who hacked phone company records. He couldn’t tell them what he’d learned from ’s building manager, either, since he wasn’t supposed to know ’s real identity. Kenji frowned. The only suspect he could present a physical description and rap sheet for was Boshi-san’s brother. Well, shō ga nai, it couldn’t be helped. He was sure the Special Investigations Unit could get expedited warrants for phone company records—probably even over the weekend. They could be up to

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speed—legally—by the end of the day Monday. He’d pull Inspector Mori aside, suggest they get a warrant, then they could re-interview the building manager. Kenji put on his jacket and straightened his tie, hoping it would help his career to be the regional detective who steered the elite team in the right direction.

Chapter 41 Friday, April 12 2:00 P.M.

Kenji

The largest fifth-floor incident room, reserved for occasions when the Komagome Police Station was invaded by downtown teams of crime specialists, was packed with investigators. Detective inspectors from the central office—all graduates of the imperial universities and climbing the ladder on the fast track—took the first row. Behind them sat Tommy Loud and his colleagues from the crime lab. The Komagome squad had been pressed into service, setting up extra copiers, computers, phones, and tea stations. Now they found places for themselves at the tables near the back, behind their more exalted colleagues from National Police Headquarters. Superintendent Noguchi arrived, seating himself next to Section Chief Tanaka at a table facing the expanded team. Noguchi was a stocky man with already-silver hair who carried himself with the powerful air of a well-launched civil servant, even though his unlined face suggested he wasn’t much past forty. To his right, Inspector Mori frowned as he checked the connections between his laptop and the projection system. Mori was a few years ahead of Kenji on the elite career track and had the sleek, fox-like look of a man who expected to sprint to the very top. Section Chief Tanaka stood and welcomed the downtown squad, his formal plea for assistance from headquarters disguising the fact that there were few things he liked less than to have his station invaded

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by higher-ups. Noguchi turned on the microphone before him and graciously acknowledged the welcome, then turned the floor over to Inspector Mori, who would be the tactical leader of the operation. Mori called on Kenji to walk them through the investigation to date. After presenting what they’d found at the scene, Kenji was just beginning to describe how they’d identified Boshi-san’s brother, , and <deathmerchant> as viable suspects when Inspector Mori cut him off. “Thank you, Detective Nakamura. While there’s a remote possibility that one of your local criminals is responsible for this crime, I think we need to bring everybody up to speed on the findings of our task force before we decide who warrants further investigation.” Task force? How could there already be a task force? Confused, Kenji bowed and sat down. Mori called on Tommy Loud to describe the physical evidence indicating that the Hamadas were presumed to have committed suicide, but that Rika Ozawa had been asphyxiated with a plastic bag. As Loud resumed his seat, the inspector stood. He waited, his silence focusing everyone’s attention on what he was about to say. “Before we begin, I want to make it clear that everything about this investigation must be kept in strictest confidence.” He paused, meeting the eyes of the locals in the back of the room before continuing. “In order to prevent public panic, we’ve kept the information you’re about to hear from the media. If there are any leaks, we’ll know they came from someone sitting in this room. I promise you, the smallest slip will earn you reassignment to a northern Hokkaido town so remote it snows in July. Do I make myself clear?” “Hai!” the room chorused in unison. Mori made a few keystrokes on his computer and a map was projected on the screen at the front of the room. “For the past six months, my team of investigators has been working a series of crimes we’re

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calling the Shrine Murders. We believe that the Ozawa case is the fourth killing in the greater Kanto region.” Kenji and Oki looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Papers rustled as investigators hearing this for the first time began to take notes. Mori switched on a laser pointer and indicated the four red dots that had been marked on a map of the Tokyo-Yokohama area. “These are the four shrines where a single murderer has targeted his victims to date. The killings have taken place at roughly three-month intervals, starting last year on July third. All the victims have been unmarried females, ranging in age from twenty-four to thirty-six. They were all attacked after going to shrines alone at night. We don’t know if he chose them at random or if they met by arrangement. It’s possible that the killer first stalked his victims over the Internet: The first and third were members of the same online dating service, the last two belonged to the online fan club for the same rock band, and all of them were active on the Mixi social networking site.” He clicked to the next slide, a shot of two small, round burn marks on a woman’s naked back. “The killer’s pattern is to first stun his victims with a Taser, then asphyxiate them. The first victim was strangled with her own scarf.” A length of leaf-printed chiffon next to a measuring tape appeared on the screen. “The second was choked with something thin, and had traces of binding twine snagged in the muffler around her neck.” The scarf picture was replaced by a spool of the common yellow cord used to bundle newspapers for recyclable trash collection. “The third victim was asphyxiated with something that left no traces, like a plastic dry-cleaning bag. The fourth victim, Rika Ozawa, was also suffocated with a plastic bag.” Mori surveyed the room. “The killer took advantage of what the first woman was wearing and killed her with a weapon she provided herself. But perhaps that limited his choice of victims too much, so the next time he began his search for a victim, he brought along binding twine to do the job. He may have realized that the binding twine left trace evidence, though, so with the third and fourth victims, he used plastic dry-cleaning bags instead.”

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Kenji’s hand was in the air. “Yes, Detective Nakumura?” Kenji stood. “We didn’t find any Taser burns on Rika Ozawa, sir.” “That’s why we’re so eager to pull out all the stops on her case,” Mori said, with a trace of irritation at being interrupted. “She didn’t have a Taser burn, but she had scrapes on her hands and knees. We think it indicates that something didn’t go according to plan during the attack and he wasn’t able to stun her first. In his panic, it’s highly possible he left behind more evidence than usual. He may even have injuries himself, which will be damning when we catch him. Now, if I can continue?” Kenji apologized and sat. Mori clicked to the next slide. It showed a woman with chin-length hair lying on her back behind the jumbo-sized offering box common at major shrines. Her hands were clasped over her chest and encircled by a Buddhist rosary made of pink quartz beads. “All four victims were posed with rosaries,” he continued, clicking to a slide of a woman in a short plaid skirt and boots, lying on her back behind a shrine altar. The salt offering that usually sat in front of the god’s house had been dumped on the floor, the emptied dish used to burn the kind of incense bundle commonly sold at Buddhist temples. There was a murmur of shock at the desecration. Mori continued, “Although they were all killed at Shinto shrines, we found Buddhist funeral incense burned at each site.” Two more photos blinked across the screen: women sitting or lying in various dim shrine buildings, rosaries wrapped around their hands. The last was Tommy Loud’s shot of Rika sitting in the back seat of the silver Lexus, the black rosary beads in her hands, a bundle of burnt incense on the hibachi by her feet. “Another detail connecting these four crimes is that the Shrine Killer took cell phones and IDs from every victim’s purse. We don’t know if he took them as trophies or in order to delay identification of the victims.” Mori saw Kenji’s hand in the air again. “Detective Nakamura?” Paging through his file, Kenji clambered to his feet. “Actually, sir, he didn’t take Rika Ozawa’s

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phone. We found it—” “I read your report, Detective,” Mori said. His voice was icy as he continued, “After the killer made the mistake of dropping it, it’s a pity you released it from evidence before our specialists had a chance to examine it for information your initial investigation may have missed.” “Sumimasen.” Bowing deeply, his face burning, he slid back into his seat. Mori moved on to the next slide, which bore the logo of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Psychological Profiling Unit and a six-item list. “The Shrine Killer is smart. Organized. He’s left almost no evidence giving us a clue to his physical appearance, but the use of the stun gun tells us it’s possible he’s not much bigger and stronger than his victims or he’s got some sort of disability that makes it dangerous for him to count on overpowering them without help. This is an important point, since all his victims were physically small, shorter than one hundred fifty-five centimeters and weighing less than forty-five kilos. The profilers tell us he’s probably between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five, it’s likely he works at a job that’s far beneath his ability level, and is almost certainly unmarried, with few or no supportive relationships.” He shut off the computer and scanned the room. “Any questions?” There were none. Superintendent Noguchi took over. “Thank you, Inspector Mori.” Noguchi leaned into his microphone. “Judging by his previous pattern, we don’t expect the killer to be active again for another three months. Starting today, we’ll begin integrating the evidence from this new case into what we know from the previous crimes. The fact that he didn’t use the Taser on Rika Ozawa suggests that it malfunctioned or he was interrupted in some way, so he had to chase her down before killing her. We’re hoping this rattled him enough to make other mistakes that a thorough reexamining of the evidence will uncover. Over the weekend we’ll be checking and rechecking the findings, trying to match them to persons of interest Inspector Mori’s team has previously identified. Investigators will be deployed to the field starting Monday morning, to re-interview witnesses and go

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over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb.” He surveyed the room. “I’ll be meeting with Section Chief Tanaka this afternoon to assign roles to Komagome Station personnel in order to integrate local knowledge with our central resources. Thank you all for your attention. We look forward to working together to solve these crimes. Issho ni gambarō.” As notes were gathered and chairs pushed back, Oki leaned over to Kenji and snorted. “Yeah, ‘let’s all try hard together.’ How much do you want to bet that we’ll be trying hard at fetching tea and running to the electronics store for extension cords?” Kenji shook his head and gloomily detoured to the tea station with his empty cup, the reprimand from Mori still stinging. Not only had he failed to impress the higher-ups with his running of the investigation to date, he’d actually damaged their chances of finding the killer. Watching the steaming brew trickle into his cup, he regretted the time he’d wasted chasing after suicide website lurkers and petty burglars. No wonder the inspector wasn’t interested in any of their suspects. would have been in the running if he’d actually had a disability, but he was unnaturally tall, not unnaturally small. Boshi-san’s brother was small, but getting caught for burglary wasn’t the sign of a careful planner. <deathmerchant> was married, with children. A voice boomed, “Nakamura-san!” Kenji turned. Superintendent Noguchi was approaching with his own empty mug. “Yes, sir?” “Don’t mind Inspector Mori. He came down hard on you because he’s frustrated his team hasn’t made more progress. Even though the suspects you identified don’t fit the profile of our murderer, you did some solid detective work on the initial investigation.” “Thank you, sir,” Kenji said, hope for his career slightly rekindling. Maybe his slip with Rika’s phone wasn’t as bad as Mori made it sound. “You’re a Tokyo University graduate, aren’t you?” the superintendent continued, filling his cup. “I

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just attended my twentieth reunion last year.” Oh. Kenji’s hopes dimmed. Noguchi had only singled him out because he was a member of the Toda old-boy network. “Are you studying hard for this year’s inspector exam?” the superintendent asked. “Yes, sir,” Kenji lied. He’d actually been too busy to even crack the prep materials for months. “Good. We need smart young investigators like you at the head office.” He leaned toward Kenji and added in a confidential tone, “You’re lucky that this Ozawa murder has become part of such a significant investigation. Work hard and show Inspector Mori you’re a team player. It could be very good for your career to be associated with solving the Shrine Murders.” “Yes, sir,” Kenji said, bowing. If he helped make Mori look good, his blunder would be forgotten. He’d have to work extra hard to prove to the inspector that his skills would be a valuable asset to the First Investigative Division. Kenji pictured himself working side by side with Mori, slipping him the crucial lead that would break the case, then modestly refusing to share the spotlight. Maybe if he spent the weekend going over his files, looking for details that were significant in light of the new evidence . . . “I’m going to assign you to be Inspector Mori’s driver,” Noguchi was saying, “so you can benefit from observing his techniques first hand.” His driver? Kenji’s heart sank. He’d hoped Oki was joking. “Thank you, sir,” he stammered, bowing to hide his dismay. He swallowed and made himself add, “Thank you for the opportunity, sir. I look forward to working with Mori-san.” Back in the squad room, he tossed the folder containing his notes on his desk and sat down dejectedly. Oki swiveled toward him and raised his eyebrows. “I get to be Inspector Mori’s driver.” Oki snorted. “Welcome to the real world.” Kenji’s phone rang. He pulled it out. Yumi.

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“I found out who Rika was working for,” she said, telling him what she’d learned at FlashMob. “And that’s not all. There was a fourth person who was supposed to meet them at the Komagome Shrine, but you only found three people in that car the next morning. Maybe he didn’t show, but if he did, maybe he saw who killed Rika. Online he was using the name . We have to talk to him, find out if he knows anything.” Kenji started to tell her that he already knew about , but stopped himself, remembering that it didn’t matter now. “Yu-chan, thank you for telling me, but it’s not my case any longer.” He explained that the First Investigative Division had taken over. Yumi persisted. “Give me the name of the guy in charge, then. I’ll call him and tell him what I know.” “No, that’s all right. I’ll . . . pass along your information.” Yumi was silent. “You’re not going to, are you?” She waited. “Ken-kun, you’re not the only one who can tell when someone’s lying.” He sighed. “The guy in charge has a totally different theory about the crime.” “A different theory? What kind of theory?” “I can’t tell you. Police business.” “You mean they’re going to ignore everything we’ve learned so far?” Kenji was silent. “They’re wrong. You have to tell them they’re wrong.” “Yu-chan, I can’t.” “I can’t believe you’re giving up.” Click. She hung up. Kenji slowly put away his phone, defeated. He sighed and looked at Oki. “Inspector Mori has no intention of following up on , <deathmerchant>, and Boshi’s brother, does he?” “Shō ga nai,” the big detective said. It can’t be helped. “You heard the man—our suspects don’t fit his profile.”

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They didn’t. And now that Kenji had seen the bigger picture, he didn’t blame Inspector Mori for ignoring their work to date. But now Yumi was mad at him, and he wasn’t allowed explain to her why it was a waste of time following up on the “leads” she’d uncovered. The girl who’d stubbornly refused to concede she was wrong about the construction date of the Ise Shrine until he’d lugged an old encyclopedia to school and showed her, wasn’t going to give up chasing that weirdo for information about her best friend’s death unless he gave her a good reason. Then what she’d said sank in. Maybe had been there. He hadn’t killed Rika Ozawa, but maybe he saw who did.

Chapter 42 Friday, April 12 7:00 P.M.

Kenji

“Tadaima.” Kenji called out the traditional greeting as he closed the front door and kicked off his shoes. “O-kaeri-nasai,” his father answered from the kitchen. Kenji scuffed on his slippers and left his computer bag propped against the umbrella bucket. Loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt, he breathed a sigh of relief and wondered if his father had started dinner yet. Kenji walked into the old, familiar kitchen and pulled open the scarred refrigerator door. “Already opened one,” said his father. A solid man with brush-cut gray hair, he was seated at the low table in the corner with a large bottle of Ichiban Shibori lager and a small glass, reading the newspaper. Kenji pulled a matching glass from the cupboard and dropped onto a cushion across from his father, who poured him some beer. They raised their glasses in a silent toast, then took satisfying gulps. Kenji’s father topped up their glasses, grabbed a handful of seaweed-wrapped rice crackers from a bowl on the table, and tossed them into his mouth. The elder Nakamura’s workday had ended promptly at 5:00. He’d been the ranking officer at the neighborhood police box in nearby Hon-Komagome for almost five years now. Before that, he’d been stationed in Sendagi. He didn’t have the education to become a detective or rise into management, but

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commanding the koban was a respectable conclusion to his long career. Kenji’s father was already wearing a bathrobe-like, cotton yukata, a sign that he’d enjoyed a long soak in their deep, wooden tub earlier. He snorted at an article he was reading and muttered, “Idiots.” “How’s Aunt Ayako?” Kenji asked, remembering his father had planned to stop by on the way home from work to deal with her leaky faucet. “She still won’t call the doctor about those headaches.” “You’re one to talk. You never go to the doctor, either.” His father grunted and rattled his paper as he turned the page. When Kenji’s mother died, Aunt Ayako had stepped in and helped her brother and his family survive. For two months, she came every day and cooked the meals, washed the clothes, and cleaned the house, even though she had a home and family of her own. Japanese men just weren’t taught how to do those things—many didn’t even know how to switch on a rice cooker—and Kenji’s mother had died so unexpectedly that without Aunt Ayako, Kenji’s family would not only have struggled with their grief, they’d have struggled to stay fed and clothed. After the forty-nine-day memorial service, Aunt Ayako took her brother aside and told him that he would either have to remarry or to learn to take care of his family’s domestic needs. He wouldn’t consider the first option, so she taught him to do laundry, clean the house, and cook some basic dishes. Even the boys learned household chores that traditionally fell to women. Kenji’s brother Yoshi became the best cook of the three, so he usually took care of the food. Kenji’s job was keeping the clothes and bedding washed. Their father cleaned and repaired the house. Nothing was fancy, but everything was fairly clean and they didn’t starve. Now that Kenji’s brother was married, however, Kenji and his father were back to more basic fare, like instant miso soup and vacuum-packed, barbequed eel from the supermarket. “Did you start the rice?” Kenji asked. His father grunted affirmatively, turning another page.

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Kenji looked in the refrigerator: two packages of barbequed unagi eel left, and enough eggs and cooked chicken to make the dish called mother-and-child because it featured both chicken and eggs. “Do you want una-ju or oyako-don?” “Una-ju.” Kenji took a blackened frying pan from the shelf and lit the single gas burner sitting on the worn Formica counter. Cutting open the package of eel, he waited until the pan was hot, flipped in the long fillets, and turned down the flame as they started to sizzle. From the refrigerator he took a package of takuan radish pickles and dumped them into a dish, which he set on the table. He opened the single cupboard, took out two large, well-used, lacquer boxes, and set them next to the rice cooker, which had finished its cooking cycle and was on “Keep Warm” status. Kenji moved to the sink and ran the rice paddle under cold water, then dug out big helpings of steaming white rice and stuffed them into the lacquer boxes. He cut the pieces of eel in thirds, and laid them neatly atop the rice. He set one in front of his father and the other by his own empty glass. Picking up the beer bottle, he poured what little remained into his father’s glass, then went to the refrigerator and opened another. Handing his father a pair of chopsticks from the utensil drawer, he sat and dug into his meal. When the edge was off his hunger, he helped himself to some pickles. His father began telling him about the routine home visit they’d made that afternoon to the foreign family that had moved into his precinct last year. In the six months since the last time they’d checked, the wife and kids listed on the information card had disappeared and been replaced by an apartment full of empty booze bottles and a barely legal Thai girl. As he shook his head, marveling that the neighbors hadn’t complained, Kenji ventured, “Speaking of neighbors . . . Do you remember a family named Shimada from when you worked at the koban in Sendagi?” Kenji tossed another slice of pickled radish into his mouth. “They lived at 32-12 Ni-chome.” “Hmm . . . Shimada . . . Shimada . . .” Kenji’s father paused, beer bottle in hand. “We’re interested in the son. The father was a merchant seaman and wasn’t around much. The

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mother passed away over seven years ago.” “I remember now,” his father said. “But it was a lot longer ago than that. I’d say fifteen, sixteen years ago? I think she had some kind of cancer.” He filled Kenji’s glass, then topped up his own. “Sad case. By the time their neighbor heard her cries through the walls, she was in bad shape. She’d had it for a while, but kept it from her son until one morning she fell and couldn’t get up. The neighbor called the police box, and when the beat officers got there, they discovered the boy had been skipping school for a week, trying to take care of her. Empty aspirin bottles everywhere, probably the strongest thing he could get at the drugstore. The father was away at sea—the boy had no idea how to contact him. “They called an ambulance because the mother was out of her mind with pain, saying all kinds of crazy stuff. The boy rode with her to the hospital, and she died a couple weeks later. The neighbors all pitched in to help with the funeral because the dad didn’t make it ashore in time. He changed jobs after that and stayed home to take care of the boy until he was fourteen or so, then headed back to sea.” “Poor kid,” Kenji said, remembering how had preserved his family apartment just the way it had been when his mother was alive, right down to the dusty fake flowers. Those worn-out comics—was that where he took refuge from his loneliness? Or had he moved on to finding comfort among people even worse off than he was, people who had such thin ties to this world they wanted to leave it? The old wind-up clock out in the main room struck 8:00. Kenji’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Nakamura desu.” Jun Shimada’s musician landlord was calling to say that his tenant had just returned, in case the police were still interested in talking to him. Indeed they were. Kenji ended the call and rose from the table, feeling better than he had all day. He’d talk to Shimada tonight and find out what he’d seen the night Rika died. By tomorrow he’d have something to give Inspector Mori and he’d be back in Yumi’s good graces.

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“Can you do the dishes tonight?” he asked his father, cinching up his tie. “Looks like I’ve got a date with Shimada Jr.”

Chapter 43 Friday, April 12 8:00 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi pressed the doorbell, shifting the duffel bag she’d found in Rika’s closet to her other hand. The door opened to reveal Midori in full Elegant Gothic Lolita regalia, with a curling iron in one hand and a comb in the other. She took one look at Yumi and frowned. “What?” Yumi said. She had no idea how to dress for a Lolita event, so she’d just thrown on a white blouse and a black skirt. “They’ll let you into the Nyx dressed like that, but you’ll stand out like a monkey in the hot springs. Why don’t you let me do a little work on you before we go?” “Well, okay,” Yumi said warily. She held out the duffel bag. “Here. Mrs. Ozawa wanted me to return this to you.” Midori held it to her chest, stricken. “Rika told me she needed clothes for undercover work on a story. She said not to tell anybody.” Yumi nodded sympathetically and exchanged her shoes for slippers. She eyed the curling iron. “What are you planning to do to me?” An hour later, Yumi barely recognized the Goth-Lolita who stared back at her from the mirror. Midori had expertly whitened Yumi’s complexion with foundation two shades lighter than her skin and

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outlined her eyes with swashes of black eyeliner. Although Yumi had refused to let Midori use eyelid glue to get the doll-like, round-eyed look favored by the Lolitas, each eyelash had been painstakingly lengthened with Fiberwig mascara. She’d been laced into one of Midori’s black jumpers, a white petticoat pouffing the full skirt over eyelet-edged, over-the-knee stockings. She had to admit, it was kind of a thrill to be totally transformed. Like becoming a different person for a night. “You’re a doll,” Midori said approvingly, gathering Yumi’s hair into two pigtails and considering the options. She switched on the curling iron, and the smell of hot hair filled the room. When she finished, she grabbed one of Yumi’s hands and sighed. “Your nails are too short. You’ll need gloves.” She crossed to the dresser and picked out a short pair made of black lace. Midori gathered up shoes for herself and Yumi, then excavated a small shopping bag that had become buried in the clothing pile on the bed, with a small hand-lettered sign in it. “I didn’t have telephone numbers for everybody who will want to come to Rika’s wake,” she explained. “So I thought I’d put the details on the tribute table tonight.” As they left the house, Midori asked, “Any more from the police?” Yumi filled her in on the man who’d been seen at the Mad Hatter the night Rika was murdered, then told her what the FlashMob editor had said about the fourth person who’d planned to meet Rika and the Hamadas at the Komagome Shrine. “I sent an e-mail to him at the Whitelight address, but so far no reply.” “Do you think he’s still alive?” “I don’t know, but his whole reason for wanting to commit suicide was to die before his condition got so bad he was helpless. I’m betting he’s still around.” “I wonder if he’s checking that e-mail anymore, since he’s supposed to be dead and all. If I were him, I’d be a little embarrassed to show my face if I’d chickened out.” “I didn’t think of that. You’re right. He hasn’t posted on the Whitelight website since the night he was supposed to kill himself with Rika.”

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“You could ask around tonight at the event. The bands that are playing will attract a bigger Goth crowd than usual. Maybe somebody knows him.” They exited Shibuya Station with the Saturday night crush. Midori led the way across the famous five-way intersection that filled with over a thousand people every two minutes. Passing the glaringly bright phone stores and shoe emporiums, Midori finally turned into a side street that was dark except for a gothic-lettered sign that read, “Nyx.” A few vending machines glowed against the brick wall of the building opposite, and several dark doorways harbored friends who’d stopped for a smoke together. Midori pulled open Club Nyx’s black door. A young man dressed in a long Atelier Boz coat with multiple zippers was stationed inside next to a red velvet rope. “Nice coat,” Midori said. “Thanks, Mi-chan, I like your new boots.” He glanced at Yumi. “Who’s this?” “Rika’s friend Yumi.” The young man nodded and took the two tickets Midori offered, sold them each a mandatory drink token, and allowed them to slip inside.

Chapter 44 Friday, April 12 9:00 P.M.

Yumi

Bass pounded from the speakers into the neon-edged darkness. Paniq Button was dressed in full “visual kei” style—spiky multicolored hair, skinny, sparkle-studded clothing layered with black leather, enough piercings to set off the metal detectors at Narita Airport. Their eyes were extravagantly shadowed, their faces flawlessly pale as they belted out metal-influenced anthems propelled by driving guitar and frenzied drums. It was hard to tell if they were boys or girls or some of each. The crowd looked mostly Goth, with chains outnumbering Lolita hair bows three to one. Blue and magenta stage lights swept over the standing-room-only crowd, beams crisscrossing in wispy remnants of stage fog and cigarette smoke. Although Paniq Button was a local band, they had enough of a following that the crowd nearest the stage was raptly doing a synchronized fanjive with the music, hands flashing above their heads, right, left, a flock of five-fingered birds alternating with hair-whipping frenzy every time the vocalist stepped up to lead the windmilling. Yumi followed Midori back to the room with the coin lockers and the bar, where it was just as dark and crowded but slightly quieter. Against the far wall, a white-draped table was surrounded by tall bouquets of pink and white roses, sent by GothXLoli magazine and the brands Rika modeled for. A black-framed copy of her latest GothXLoli cover photo was displayed on an easel, front and center,

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topped by a formal black bow. Circle members had already left a stuffed Hello Kitty and a baby-style Monchhichi monkey propped against it. Midori set the notice with details about Rika’s wake on a folding plate stand she’d brought. A knot of Lolitas stood next to the table, comparing their tribute manicures. Painted and bejeweled with Rika’s name, some had carefully trimmed little photo stickers of their departed friend to fingernail shape and many had limited their palette to pink and white in her honor. Two Lolitas dressed head to toe in Victorian Maiden displayed large memento mori lockets with Rika’s picture inside. Midori added her hands to the circle, showing them she’d painted her fingernails black with white gothic letters that spelled out R-I-K-A-4-E-V-E-R. “Why are you so late?” asked a girl whose look was so similar to Midori’s, she had to be a follower. “I had to help Yumi get dressed,” Midori explained, pulling her into the circle and introducing her to those she hadn’t met. “Any news from the police?” asked Mei. Tonight she was dressed in white, and Kei in black. Texts had flown from phone to phone with the news that Rika’s death wasn’t suicide, but they’d heard nothing since. Yumi filled them in, concluding with what she’d discovered that morning at FlashMob. “So I want to ask this guy if he was there,” she said, looking around the circle of Rika’s friends. “He’s a Goth, quotes Venom Vixen, has some kind of disease, walks with crutches. I was wondering if any of you might know him?” They all shook their heads slowly. “Paniq Button plays a lot of Goth events—maybe someone in the band knows him,” suggested a Sweet Lolita in a floral pinafore and bonnet. “I’ll introduce you when they finish their set,” Midori murmured to Yumi. “I know the drummer.” “We’ll ask around,” said a Goth-Lolita with ringletted, ultra-black hair, and green contacts. “My boyfriend is a Goth, his friends might know this .”

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Yumi thanked them, and several of the girls moved over to the tribute table to leave a Hello Kitty doll dressed as a pink Lolita, and a hand-crocheted, stuffed Skullky. Midori and Yumi headed to the bar, exchanged their drink tokens for bottles of green tea, and surveyed the crowd. Nearly all the young men were Goths, their outfits ranging from leather jackets and chains to Edwardian frock coats. Some had whitened their faces and darkened their eyes like Viper, the lead singer of Venom Vixen. Yumi watched as a tall, thin Goth wearing a tailcoat stopped by the table on his way to join the Lolitas. His hair was so perfectly black he must have dyed it, and so straight it must be ironed. Razored severely, the shortest pieces stuck out in every direction, with the longest ones shadowing his eyes. He wore a white shirt and black vest under his tailcoat, with a silver chain looped between the pockets. His face was so thin it was almost cadaverous, but his eyes were as beautiful as a girl’s—long and narrow, fringed with thick lashes and lined in black. He stood there motionless for a long while, then finally took off one white glove and wrote something on his hand. He looked around to see if anybody was watching before pulling a pink hair bow from his pocket and leaving it on the table with the other offerings. It looked like the kind Rika used to wear. Ex-boyfriend, Yumi guessed. She’d spotted a few of those here. Yumi watched him join the fringes of the group clustered around the girl with the Goth boyfriend, who must have been asking if anybody knew , because they all turned and looked at Yumi. She smiled and gave a small wave, so they’d know who to talk to if they had any information. “It sounds like the band is done,” said Midori. “Want to ask them about ?” Yumi followed her backstage, waiting while Midori chatted with the bouncer. Several band members were sitting in a circle, damp towels slung around their necks, drinking from cans of peachflavored, alcohol-spiked chū-hai, smoking. A girl with orange-spiked hair and a ring through her right eyebrow grinned and said, “Hey, Midori, haven’t seen you in forever!” The musicians tossed them drinks from the cooler and pulled up a couple of chairs so they could

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join the circle. Midori introduced Yumi and explained about Rika, saying they were looking for information about a Goth who called himself . Yumi didn’t really like the peach flavor of chū-hai, but it would be rude not to accept the band’s offering. She took a cautious sip. At least it was better than French wine. The bass player crushed his cigarette in a stylish personal ashtray. “I don’t know any , but he sounds like this creep who used to hang around the Akihabara cosplay scene, maybe a year ago.” He spotted the fifth band member threading her way through the stage equipment, a bright blue electric violin in one hand. “Oi, Nikki! You remember that weirdo who used to bother Yūka in Akiba?” “Nikki?” Yumi gasped. The violist from Ichiro’s quartet. But tonight she wasn’t wearing Vera Wang—her skin-tight black leather pants were topped with an extravagantly ragged troubadour’s shirt and black leather vest, and tucked into a pair of shiny, spike-heeled boots. A silver crucifix hung from her right ear, connected by a fine chain to a ring at the top. She stared at Yumi, trying to place her. “I’m Yumi Hata. I met you with Ichiro . . . ?” The violist’s eyes widened with recognition, then she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh my God. You’re Mitsu’s girlfriend. I didn’t recognize you. You didn’t bring him, did you?” Yumi looked uncomfortable. “No.” “Ha. Didn’t think so. I can’t imagine his parents would approve, and Mitsu-boy never does anything without their approval.” She cocked an eyebrow and looked Yumi up and down. “Does he have any idea . . . ?” “No,” Yumi replied. “But I’m not really a Lolita. I’m here because my best friend was murdered.” Yumi explained about Rika and filled Nikki in on what she knew about . The violist lit up a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “My friend Yūka is into that cosplay scene out in Akihabara. About a year ago, a strange guy was sort of stalking her. He was kind of retro—really into Venom Vixen, quoted their lyrics all the time. Might be the same guy—he told

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Yūka he had some sort of disease he was going to die from. You could ask her.” “What does Yūka look like?” “She dresses like a character from Samurai Deeper—pink hair, black-and-white kimono, gold spear. She usually meets her friends outside Yodabashi Camera around four on Sundays. You can’t miss her.” A man in black leathers appeared. “You ready to start loading out?” he asked. The musicians finished their drinks, stubbed out their cigarettes, and stood. “Thanks, Nikki.” Yumi bit her lip. “And . . . When you see Ichiro, maybe you could avoid mentioning . . . ?” The violist leaned in close. “I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s tough to find violinists who can play a decent Schubert, and we can’t have him dropping dead of a heart attack now, can we?”

Chapter 45 Friday, April 12 10:30 P.M.

Kenji

It was time to light another cigarette. They lasted quite a while if you didn’t actually smoke them. Kenji dropped the one burning too close to his fingers and stepped on it, then picked up the end, stashing it between the vending machine and the brick wall like dozens of smokers had done before him. Pulling the pack of Mild Sevens from his jacket pocket, he put a fresh one between his lips, lit a match, and inhaled just enough to get it started. Ugh, he hated the taste of tobacco. Blowing out the smoke in a way he hoped wouldn’t reveal him as a novice smoker, he leaned against the brick wall next to the vending machine. His quarry had been inside for over an hour. It had been irritating to discover he wouldn’t be admitted without one of the tickets that had apparently sold out weeks ago, so he’d taken up a position halfway down the alley, tucked into the shadow of a vending machine. One of the doorways would have been better, but they were all occupied by couples sharing a cigarette or making out. It was kind of cold out tonight. He’d arrived at Shimada’s apartment just in time to see coming out the front door and hurrying toward the station, dressed in eccentric black clothing and makeup, exactly as his landlord had described. Kenji decided to follow him, waiting for the right moment to introduce himself and ask about the night Rika died. The train platform was too public

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for Kenji to feel comfortable asking him about something as touchy as suicide, and the train they boarded was crowded. They changed lines in Ikebukuro, and Shimada began giving him periodic glances, as if wondering why, among the thousands of passengers changing trains, the guy who’d boarded with him at the deserted Sendagi Station had followed him into the train headed to Shibuya. When the doors opened, Shimada jumped off and hurried straight to Club Nyx without looking back. Now Kenji knew why—once past the bouncer, could easily give him the slip; every guy arriving at the Nyx was dressed like the Grim Reaper’s assistant. He burned through two more cigarettes as groups of chattering Goth-Lolitas arrived. Kenji had never been attracted to girls who dressed like Bo-Peep-Meets-Lestat, but with thoughts of Yumi buzzing in his head, tonight he was finding them . . . distracting. That girl who’d just walked out, for example. She stopped and looked up at the stars, pulled the rubber bands from her hair, and shook it free. The ruffle of white lace at the top of her over-the-knee stockings glowed in the moonlight, drawing his attention to the strip of bare thigh visible between the lace and the hem of her skirt. Although her blouse was cut demurely high, her black pinafore was laced tightly enough to show off her small waist and the swell of her breasts. She looked around and glanced at him. He looked away, pretending to smoke, embarrassed he’d been caught ogling. She took a few steps closer. “Kenji?” Yumi? He’d know that voice anywhere. He peered at her in the glow of the vending machine. Now he recognized her familiar features beneath the Goth-Lolita makeup, and his whole body was suddenly on fire. “You . . . smoke?” she asked, coming closer. “No,” he grimaced. “But I need some excuse to stand out here for hours. I followed from his apartment. He’s inside that club.” Her face lit up with a smile and his heart did a flip-flop. “You’re following up on what I told you

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after all?” “Not officially,” he admitted. “I’m doing it on my own time. The detective from the First Investigative Division who’s now in charge gave us some information that convinced me it’s unlikely ’s the one who killed your friend, but I thought about what you said. Even if he didn’t die with Rika and the Hamadas, maybe he saw what happened. I’ll catch him when he comes out tonight and ask him where he was that night.” Yumi nodded, then glanced over her shoulder at the closed door and stepped closer to whisper, “Do you think he came tonight because he heard about Rika’s Lolita memorial?” “That’s what this is? I guess that explains why I didn’t recognize you at first.” She looked away, embarrassed. “Don’t get me wrong, you look good.” He grinned. Then his smile faded as came out of Club Nyx and scanned the alley, searching for someone. Over Yumi’s shoulder, he saw Shimada glance in their direction, then take a few steps closer, squinting at them in the darkness. “What are you looking at?” Yumi asked. Curious, she began to turn. “Don’t look,” he hissed, grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her so her back was to the rough brick wall. He bent over her like the lovers in the doorways down the alley and said, “He suspects he was being followed and I don’t want him to recognize me and bolt. Pretend we’re, you know . . .” She looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. And then . . . then they weren’t pretending. Her arms snaked around his waist under his jacket and her body molded to his like they’d been made for each other. She tilted her chin and he met her halfway. Her lips, her mouth . . . Back in high school if he’d had a single kiss from her he’d have died happy, but now he just wanted more. He felt her yield to his urgency, and she was kissing him back. She tasted like peach. Peach and . . . Had she been drinking? A wave of intoxication that had nothing to do with alcohol burst through his veins and his hands explored the lacing on the back of her dress, feeling the tautness of her back as she arched against him. Two hands

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weren’t enough; he wanted to bury them in her hair, encircle her waist, trespass in places that suddenly didn’t seem out of bounds as she slid her hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pulled him hungrily against her. She came up for air, eyes wide, then suddenly pulled away. “Ken-kun. I’m sorry. This is wrong.” “No it’s not,” he breathed, capturing her again. She pushed him away, tearing herself from his arms. “Yumi!” “No. I can’t.” Stumbling blindly around the vending machine, she ran. Dazed, Kenji remembered why he was there. He turned in time to see Shimada sprint after her. Why was chasing her? Kenji took off after him. Turning the corner at the end of the alley, he saw Yumi a block ahead, dodging into the next street. Shimada followed her, but Kenji caught up and threw him against a tiled building as Yumi disappeared around the corner ahead. was as tall as Kenji but not as strong. Kenji pinned him, both of them breathing hard. Shimada struggled, looking after Yumi, then gave up and fixed Kenji with a look of pure hatred. “Who are you? What do you want?” Kenji loosened his grip and Shimada stepped back with an injured air, brushing his sleeves as though they’d been dirtied. “Why were you following her?” asked Kenji. “I was . . .” He stopped short and stared. “Why were you following her?” Kenji pulled out his police ID. “I was following you.”

Chapter 46 Friday, April 12 11:00 P.M.

Kenji

“Police?” Shimada said, alarm coloring his voice. “Detective Kenji Nakamura from Komagome Station. I need to ask you a few questions about April fifth.” “April fifth?” “Where were you that night?” “I don’t know. What day was that?” “A week ago. Last Friday.” “I was home. By myself.” “Why?” “Do I need a reason to stay home?” “You do if you promised three people you would meet them at the Komagome Shrine to commit suicide together.” Shimada stared at him. “You’re , aren’t you?” “How do you know that?”

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“You agreed to meet Rika Ozawa, Masayo Hamada, and Tatsuo Hamada at the Komagome Shrine last Friday night in order to commit suicide together.” “I never heard of them.” “Do the names and <sweetmama> ring a bell? Why didn’t you show up? How come they’re dead, but you’re not?” “What are you, the suicide police? Like, if someone says they’re going to do it, you make sure they follow through?” “No, but I want to know why. Because if you were there, I think you know who killed Rika Ozawa.” Shimada’s eyes slid away. “I don’t know anything.” Yes, he did. Kenji grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him up against the building. “I didn’t do anything!” “Tell me what you saw!” Kenji stared into Shimada’s eyes, willing the truth out of him. “You were there.” Shimada returned his stare, then he relaxed, his lips curving into a faint smile. “You’re guessing.” He watched Kenji carefully to gauge his reaction. When Kenji didn’t contradict him he said, “Let go of me.” Kenji backed off and Shimada shook himself, straightening his jacket. “I’d like you to come into the station for voluntary questioning.” Shimada paused. “And if I don’t?” Kenji was silent. “Are you going to arrest me?” “Not tonight, but . . .” Feeling his chance slipping away, Kenji pleaded, “I’m not saying you had anything to do with Rika’s death, just tell me what happened.” Shimada began to back away, then a mocking smile spread across his face and he began singing

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softly in a cracked voice: “Hope flowers, a dark rose Hold my hand, Hold my hand, Let’s touch eternity together…” Then he ducked around the corner and was gone. Kenji let him go. He wasn’t even supposed to be pursuing this suspect. He had no grounds to arrest him, even though he knew Shimada was lying about the night Rika died. He slumped against the tile building. He should have thought it through more carefully before grabbing him. Damn. He turned around and pounded the wall with his fist. First Yumi, then Shimada. Yumi. What did she mean, “I can’t”? Boyfriend. Had to be. He leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes, remembering the feel of her, her hands in his pockets, her mouth on his. It hadn’t been all him. He was sure she’d met him halfway. Whoever this phantom boyfriend was, she hadn’t been with him tonight. And she definitely hadn’t been thinking of him for those few heart-stopping minutes in the shadow of that vending machine. Why had been following her? He had to warn her about Shimada. He pulled out his phone but hesitated before calling. She was probably on the subway by now, underground and out of range. He keyed in a text instead. She’d get it at the next station.

Chapter 47 Saturday, April 16 9:00 A.M.

Yumi

The phone in her hand vibrated and Yumi awoke with a start. Her window shade was outlined in brilliant sunlight. Morning already? She checked to see who was texting her. Kenji. She quickly switched it off, shame pulling her under the covers, cringing. Kenji had surprised her, but she couldn’t deny it—she hadn’t even tried to resist. He had grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the wall, and the next thing she knew, she was cheating on her boyfriend. No, even worse, her kon’yakusha. Cheating on him heart and body and soul. And tonight they were having the official engagement ceremony at the Tokyo City Club. Guiltily, she pulled out her phone and navigated to Ichiro’s unanswered message from last night. After keying in her apologies for not answering his good-night text, she sent the message, but the guilt remained. Kenji was tall and strong and he’d tasted of tobacco, and . . . Stop. Stop. It had only happened because she was engaged and he was forbidden; that was the attraction, pure and simple. Ben, Jack, Andrew—they’d all been foreigners, all off-limits in the eyes of her family, and they’d all left her with nothing but heartache. She’d made her decision, and it was the right decision. Last night she’d been caught off guard, and she couldn’t let it happen again.

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She opened her phone. Text message from Kenji. Delete. Two more unread messages from Kenji: Delete, delete. She studied the photo of herself and Ichiro in the cab the night they’d decided to get married, recalling how devastated she’d been when she thought he wanted to break up. A fresh wave of remorse washed over her as she realized she still hadn’t e-mailed the news to her friends. It was time to take the plunge. A public commitment would remove temptations like Kenji Nakamura. Taking a deep breath, she composed a short message and attached the photo. Scrolling through her address book, she checked every name, preparing to send it out en masse. Her thumb hovered over the Send button, then she went back to her address book and unchecked a few. Work associates. Parents of friends. And Kenji. After last night she really ought to explain face to face—later, when she could do so with composure. She hit Send. Pulling the covers up around her ears, she turned her thoughts toward a more pressing issue: what to wear to Rika’s wake tomorrow. Would it be okay merely to dress in black, or should she go out today and buy something specifically designed for funeral wear, constructed of twice-dyed black fabric without a single stitch of lighter thread? She definitely had to get some dark stockings. And she had to pick up those pumps from Mr. Minit. Throwing off the covers, she pulled on her dressing gown and went to the kitchen. “Ohayo gozaimasu.” Yumi’s father greeted her with a smile, setting down his teacup. Why was he up and dressed so early on a Saturday? He was wearing a brown tweed jacket and polka-dotted bow tie, a look she associated with an especially optimistic career period in Boston. Instead of the morning newspaper, the Journal of Japanese History was opened mid-article to something about seventeenth-century trade. “Ohayo gozaimasu, Father,” she ventured warily. “Notice anything different?” Yumi bit her lip. Did he want her to comment on his clothing? Or on the sudden appearance of the

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journals that had been stacking up for months, unread, next to his unfinished manuscript? “Don’t I look like a professor of history at Toda University this morning?” He beamed. “What? They decided? They gave you the professorship?” Her father nodded proudly. “Omedetō!” she cried, swooping down to hug him. “The head of the department slipped me the news yesterday afternoon,” he said. “It won’t be announced until next week, but he assured me the professorship is mine. If I finish my book by the beginning of June, the university press will publish it in time to use in the fall.” He smiled up at her and added, “Now you can be proud of me tonight in front of your future in-laws.” Yumi felt a pang; she hadn’t realized how ashamed he’d felt about his career. “I was proud of you before,” she insisted. He patted her hand, then pushed up his reading glasses and returned to his article on seventeenthcentury trade. “Ohayo, Yumi,” said her mother, appearing with the laundry basket. “Do you need anything from the department store? Your father and I are going to Mitsuyama this morning to buy him a new suit.” “Do you think I need to get a funeral dress for Rika’s wake tomorrow?” Yumi’s mother thought for a moment. “Do you still have that nice black dress you bought in Boston? Nobody will expect someone your age to have funeral wear yet. Rika was a close friend, but she wasn’t family.” Yumi nodded, relieved she didn’t have to spend her Saturday shopping for such a dreary purchase. “I just need some dark stockings, then,” she said. “Thanks for reminding me—I need some, too. I’ll pick up two pair.” She turned to her husband. “Let me put this load in the washer, then we can go.” He grunted his agreement and returned his attention to the journal article. Yumi scooped out a bowl of rice and stirred a raw egg into it, thinking that now she didn’t have to

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go buy stockings, she’d have time to make a quick stop at the game center to ask about on the Whitelight website. And maybe on the way back from the hair salon she’d have time for a detour to Akihabara. Perhaps Nikki’s friend would remember the Goth boy who quoted Venom Vixen.

Chapter 48 Saturday, April 13 4:00 P.M.

Yumi

Her hair professionally twisted into a glossy knot for tonight’s engagement ceremony, Yumi picked up her pumps at Mr. Minit and stopped by the game center to leave a post on the Whitelight website, asking if anybody knew and could help her get in touch with him. Then she detoured to Akihabara in search of Nikki’s friend Yūka. In one of the narrow backstreets, Yumi joined the throng of computer nerds and cosplayers flowing around the islands of maids passing out flyers for their cafés, looking for Yūka. Every weekend, ordinary people transformed themselves into characters from manga comics and anime movies, dressing themselves in outfits that gave them the power to act cuter or more courageous or less shy than they really were. A girl in a slit-to-the-hip white sheath adjusted the orange hat of a fellow Soul Eater fan. On the next corner, a pair of Decora-kei gals in pink and black skirts with several dozen plastic barrettes in their hair flirted with a boy in whiteface holding a guitar. A “doctor” and “nurse” in bloodied scrubs with eye patches posed for a foreigner. Finally she picked out a group of characters from the serial comic Samurai Deeper and spotted a girl with pink hair, handing a bottle of tea to a boy with red contacts dressed as Demon Eyes Kyo. “Yūka-san?” Yumi ventured. The girl nodded, trying to place her.

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Yumi introduced herself. “Nikki from Paniq Button thought you might know someone I’m looking for. She told me that a Goth who quoted Venom Vixen was stalking you last year . . . ?” The red-eyed Kyo stepped forward protectively. “Why are you looking for that creep?” “I need to talk to him. My best friend was killed and I think he knows something about it.” They drew back in horror. Yumi explained about Rika, and how didn’t die with the others. When she finished, Yūka exchanged glances with Kyo. “What do you know?” Yumi pleaded. “Please tell me.” The girl sighed. “He could be the same guy. When he first approached me, I was surprised. He dressed Goth: hair dyed extra-black, eyeliner, really proud of this black tailcoat he had. Most of them don’t mix with cosplay groups, but he really knew Samurai Deeper—all the story arcs, all the characters. I couldn’t figure out why he dressed like a Goth when he was so into comics.” “Turns out what he was really into was death,” Kyo interjected. “What?” “Ritual suicide, actually,” Yūka explained. “The reason he’d read so many samurai comics was that he was obsessed with seppuku.” Seeing Yumi’s puzzled look, Kyo explained, “The proper way for a samurai to kill himself was to stab himself with a dagger, but to make sure there was no unnecessary suffering, he had a friend standing by to cut his head off with a sharp sword as the dagger went in.” “Huh,” Yumi said. “The guy I’m looking for said something about not wanting to die alone. Maybe the awful disease he was suffering from got worse, and he needed help to end it all.” Ryo snorted. “Disease? He’s still using that old lie?” “What do you mean?” “Leukemia, right? He told your friend he was dying of leukemia.” “No. It was something else. Something neurological.” The boy grimaced. “He’s not sick. He’s never been sick. He just says that to get attention. To get

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sympathy.” “How do you know?” Kyo looked at Yūka. “You okay talking about it?” She took a deep breath and nodded. “He started coming here every weekend, hanging around on the fringes of our group. At first we welcomed him, but after a while we noticed he wasn’t really interested in Samurai Deeper, he just wanted to talk about the death scenes, over and over. And he was always quoting Venom Vixen lyrics, even though they’re so last millennium. People were beginning to laugh at him behind his back, until he told us about the leukemia.” “He was tall, but really skinny—like a scarecrow,” Kyo explained. “He looked like he could have blood cancer. We totally believed him. Everybody felt bad about making fun of him. For a while.” “Then I made the mistake of standing up for him one time when the teasing was ramping up again,” said Yūka. “He began waiting for me after work, so I started sneaking out the back to avoid him. Then I saw him hanging around outside my apartment building. It was starting to piss me off, so one day I took off running to give him the slip. I figured that because he was so sick, he wouldn’t be able to keep up, but he caught me easily. I told him I didn’t like being followed and I didn’t think anybody who could run like that could really be dying of leukemia, and not to hang around us any more.” She hung her head. “He stopped coming here on weekends and he quit following me. I felt guilty, but relieved, too. About a month later, he showed up again, but he didn’t come near us. He was sort of lurking around on the edges of other groups but I could feel him watching me. I was trying to get up the nerve up to apologize in case I’d been wrong about the leukemia, but he disappeared.” She paused and her lip quivered. “Then when I got home, there were some photos in my mailbox.” “They were all of Yūka,” Kyo said. “Coming out the back door at work. Looking out her bedroom window. Shopping in Shibuya.” “When was this?” “Last December.”

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“Have you seen him since?” “No.” She twisted her golden spear nervously. “But sometimes . . . I wonder. I look around, trying to spot him, and even though I’ve never seen him again—” “What’s his name?” “He said it was Daigoro, but I think he was lying.” “It’s so old-fashioned,” Kyo explained. “Nobody’s named their kid Daigoro since the Meiji Restoration.” Yūka looked at Yumi anxiously and blurted, “Do you think he’s dangerous?” “Don’t worry, the police are looking for him now,” Yumi assured her. “If he had anything to do with my friend’s death, they’ll arrest him. I know one of the detectives, and I’ll tell him what you just told me.” Yumi thanked them, then made her way to the train station. She ought to tell Kenji what she’d learned from the FlashMob editor and Yūka, but she definitely wasn’t in any shape to call him after what happened in the alley last night. Four deleted text attempts later, she arrived at Komagome Station, the information unsent and the problem unsolved.

Chapter 49 Saturday, April 13 6:00 P.M.

Yumi

The doorbell rang at the Hatas’ house in Komagome. “Yumi!” called her mother from the entryway. “Someone’s here to see you.” She finished putting on her earrings as she made her way to the door, then stopped short. It was Kenji. Her mother’s puzzled face asked the question louder than words: Who was this young man calling for her daughter as they were about to leave for her engagement ceremony? “Oh. Nakamura-san. Mother, you remember Kenji Nakamura, don’t you? We made a model of the Ise Shrine together in third grade. Now he’s the detective in charge of Rika’s case.” “So desu ka,” Mrs. Hata said, giving the standard acknowledgment a worried cast. “You became a police officer? How terrible. I mean, terrible that you have to work on such a sad case. Won’t you come in?” “Thank you, Mrs. Hata,” he said, stepping inside. “Go-busatta shiteimasu,” he added politely, removing his shoes. Yumi’s mother checked her watch and began to fill a teapot in the kitchen, but Yumi stopped her. “That’s all right, Mom, he’s not going to stay long. Why don’t you finish getting ready?” She took the

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pot from her mother and watched her disappear into the back of the house. “Wow,” Kenji said, as soon as she was gone. “You look amazing in that kimono.” Yumi scowled. It had arrived that afternoon from Ichiro’s parents, so she’d been forced to wear it. “What are you doing here?” she hissed. “You didn’t answer my messages.” Yumi’s face burned. She turned away so he wouldn’t see. “Yu-chan.” He moved up behind her and she became all too aware of what had happened the last time he stood that close. “About last night . . .” he began. “Oku-san, where did you put my new tie?” Mr. Hata called from the back room. Yumi stepped away quickly, unable to face him. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time. I have to leave with my parents in a few minutes.” “Okay, I understand.” He retreated across the room, folded his arms, and leaned against the sink. “But there’s something you need to know. followed you last night.” “Me? Why?” “I don’t know. Did you do anything inside that club that might have attracted his attention? You weren’t asking about him, were you?” “What if I was?” “Yumi . . . !” She raised her chin defiantly. “I didn’t think anybody else was going to. Did you talk to him?” Kenji frowned, remembering the frustrating interrogation in the alley. “Mm.” “What did he tell you?” “Denied being there. Denied being involved. Denied knowing Rika or the others.” Yumi’s brow creased. “What does he look like?” “Tall. Thin. Hair hanging in his eyes, dyed extra-black. He was wearing one of those formal coats.

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With—what do you call it—tails.” “Like half the guys at the Nyx.” “And he lied about being sick. He’s not crippled.” “I know.” “What?” Yumi told him what she’d found out from Rika’s freelance editor and the cosplayers in Akihabara. “ told them his name was Daigoro, but Yūka thinks he was lying. If we could just find out . . . Wait, if you’re following him, that must mean you already know his real name. And where he lives . . . ?” “I do, but I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want you anywhere near him. I can’t have you in the middle of this investigation.” “I’m already in the middle of it. And clearly he doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe he’ll talk to me.” That stung. Kenji’s face clouded. “Absolutely not. Look, I appreciate what you’ve found out so far, but you have to let me take it from here. This has to be done carefully. I could get in trouble for investigating him outside my orders, and if he feels he’s being harassed . . .” “You’re worried about me harassing him?” Kenji stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. “No, I’m worried about your safety. He’s weird, maybe crazy. He was following you. If anything happened to you . . .” She wrenched her shoulders away. How dare he treat her like a helpless woman who was just going to mess things up! Hearing footsteps approach, she hastily stepped back before her parents came through the door. “Are you ready to go?” Mrs. Hata smiled, tucking a fresh handkerchief into her purse. “Yes,” Yumi said, hoping her makeup hid her flaming cheeks. “Nakamura-san was just leaving.”

Chapter 50 Saturday, April 13 9:00 P.M.

Yumi

The private room at the Tokyo City Club was paneled in dark wood, a perfect backdrop for the seven ritual engagement gifts arrayed on handcrafted cedar stands, embellished with elaborate red and gold decorations symbolizing long life, fidelity, and happiness. Most couples skipped the formal yuinō ceremony, substituting a visit from the groom to the bride’s father with a big bottle of his favorite spirits, but privileged families like the Mitsuyamas still did things the old-fashioned way. Yumi had been dismayed to discover just how many of the traditional “gifts” were actually fertility charms, and as she formally accepted the dried cuttlefish and bundle of seaweed, she made a mental note to set up an appointment at the women’s clinic to discuss birth control options. She was relieved she’d decided not to consult Ichiro about that particular subject, though, after seeing the kimono his mother had chosen to wear tonight. Mrs. Mitsuyama couldn’t have communicated her expectations for their marriage more clearly if she’d wrapped herself in a big sign that read, “I WANT GRANDSONS IMMEDIATELY, IF NOT SOONER.” Her dark blue kimono featured a border of golden carp leaping up a waterfall embroidered in silver thread. Technically, it was close enough to Boys’ Day for her choice to be seasonally appropriate, but Yumi knew that such a blatant allusion to the classic tale of the carp that climbed the waterfall to become a dragon could only mean one thing.

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As did the kimono Yumi unexpectedly found herself in, its design reeking of maidenly virtue. She’d been intending to dust off the one her family had scrimped and saved to buy for her Coming-ofAge day—a multicolored, “four seasons” design of the sort chosen by frugal families because it could be worn thereafter on any occasion, at any time of year—but this morning a courier had arrived with a package from the Mitsuyama department store. Everything in it had been chosen for her by Ichiro’s mother, from the costly kimono, hand painted with fluffy pink peonies, to the pale gold zori sandals and matching handbag. She’d had no choice but to wear it, even though she hated pink and found the conservative flowery design beyond trite. Looking in the mirror, she’d barely recognized herself. Was she really going to the most exclusive private club in Tokyo dressed like a relic from historical drama reruns? When they first arrived at the City Club, her parents had been stiff and out of their element, but fortunately, after the first few courses were served, everybody relaxed, helped along by liberal doses of dai ginjo sake. The families toasted Yumi and Ichiro, then tended to the business of becoming better acquainted as they appreciated their way through the chef’s seasonal delicacies. Mr. Mitsuyama whispered something to the server who was clearing the last of their plates, before returning his attention to Yumi’s father. Dr. Hata was enthusiastically expounding on seventeenthcentury trade, his promised professorship already making him sit taller, speak with authority, and even wear his clothes with more confidence. Tonight Yumi’s mother looked less careworn than she’d ever seen her, as she listened to Ichiro’s mother describing what it felt like to wear the wedding kimono that had been hand embroidered in Kyoto and worn by every Mitsuyama bride for six generations. The server brought a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and Mr. Mitsuyama directed him to open it right away and pour, handing the glasses around. Yumi accepted one, mystified. Hadn’t the customary engagement toasts already been made? Mr. Mitsuyama rose. “I understand we have additional cause for celebration tonight,” he said, turning to Yumi’s father. “Hata-sensei is being named to a professorship in the Faculty of Letters at Toda

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University, a very prestigious post. Congratulations, Dr. Hata. We’re proud our son has found a bride from such a scholarly family. Kampai!” Yumi’s father bowed his head modestly as they all echoed, “Kampai!” How had Ichiro’s father known about the appointment? The announcement was planned for next week and she was sure it hadn’t been mentioned at the table tonight. Mr. Mitsuyama resumed his seat and bent toward Dr. Hata, telling him he was delighted that Yumi’s father taught at Toda, where generations of his family had received their degrees. And suddenly she knew. How had it been done? Had Mr. Mitsuyama called in favors? Reminded the university of obligations going back generations? Made a donation of a certain size, a gift so removed from the Faculty of Letters that it would never be connected to the elevation of his future daughter-in-law’s father? Whatever the means, Ichiro’s father had made sure that by the time the public wedding announcement was made, the bride would be from a family that was unquestionably suitable. A professor, after all, moved in a far higher sphere than a mere lecturer. She looked at her father’s beaming face and knew he hadn’t guessed. He thought he’d received the honor on his own, a testament to his years of patient scholarship. She excused herself to find the ladies’ room. Locking herself into a stall, she took a few deep breaths to fight the sudden panic, the feeling of being trapped. There could be no going back now—her father’s career was now tied to her marriage in a way that couldn’t be undone. Her phone vibrated. Text from Kenji. Her vision blurred with tears. Suddenly she didn’t want to be the daughter who salvaged her father’s career and her mother’s dreams, the woman who was Japanese enough for Ichiro’s parents but international enough to fit in with his friends. But it was too late now. What she’d thought was a dazzling new country waiting to be explored now felt like a gilded cage with a door that had just slammed shut. Her purse vibrated. The phone display showed three unread texts, one e-mail.

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2:39 PM Kenji: Call me. Please. Delete. 4:30 PM Kenji: If you don’t answer, I’m coming to find you. Delete. 8:17 PM Kenji: You looked beautiful tonight. Can we meet tomorrow? Talk about things? Yumi hung her head. Not tomorrow. Not ever. It was no longer merely her own happiness this temptation could destroy. Delete. She navigated to the new e-mail, forwarded from [email protected]. Date: Sat, 13 Apr, 7:27 PM Frm: <emikkochan> Sub: Darkboy I read the message you posted on Whitelight about your friend . I’m sorry you’re so sad about her death, but please stop trying to contact . He wants to be left alone. Who was this <emikkochan>, and how did she know didn’t want to talk to her? She started to key in a reply, then remembered to do it from the Whitelight website in order to keep her contact information confidential. It took a few moments to make her way there using her phone, but finally the cursor on her screen blinked at the top of a blank e-mail that would go from [email protected] to <emikkochan> at the same address. To: <emikkochan> Sub: Darkboy Who are you? How do you know wants to be left alone? Do

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you know him? She pushed Send. Much to her surprise, the reply came almost immediately. Frm: <emikkochan> Sub: Re: Darkboy I’ve known him all my life. He’s suffering too. He can’t help you. So this <emikkochan> was an actual friend of ’s, not just an online acquaintance. Yumi guessed her real name was Emiko, because <emikkochan> was the kind of screen name someone might choose if the proper spelling was already being used by someone else. How could Emiko be convinced to talk into telling her what happened that night? Sympathy? No, Yumi had tried that in her previous appeal and all it got her was this refusal. She thought for a moment, then began to type. To: <emikkochan> Sub: Re: Darkboy I read what said online before died. Even though I’ve been ’s best friend since third grade, I never guessed she wanted to end it all. In the weeks before she died, it seems like was closer to her than I was. But he didn’t turn out to be very reliable, did he? Online, it seemed like he was trying to help her, like he wanted her death to be beautiful and peaceful, like he was planning to be there for her. But in the end, he stood her up! What kind of awful person does that? Unless he has a damn good reason, I’ll never forgive him.

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Maybe that would push <emikkochan>’s buttons. Send.

Chapter 51 Sunday, April 14 2:00 P.M.

Yumi

The next afternoon at Rika’s wake, Yumi knelt in front of the ceremonial urn and sprinkled a pinch of incense onto the smoldering embers, then folded her hands to pray for the repose of her friend’s soul. Tears blurred her view of the tendrils of smoke as she rose. Ichiro stepped up to the urn, briefly paying his respects as Yumi’s fiancé even though he’d never met Rika. Furniture had been cleared from the largest room in the Ozawas’ house, and Rika’s coffin sat before an elaborately carved wooden altar brought by the mortuary staff. Yumi tried not to think of Rika lying inside the plain cedar box, her body chilled by dry ice, her clothing wrapped right over left. She wondered what Rika’s parents had chosen for their daughter to wear. Was she being sent into the afterlife as she had lived—a Lolita—or dressed in a kimono for the last time in her short life? Had the money to pay for passage across the River of Three Hells been put in the worn Hello Kitty coin purse she’d carried since first grade? Was she accompanied by her beloved Monchhichi monkeys and posters of her favorite band? The priest had finished chanting his sutras, but people were still arriving at the front door, leaving condolence envelopes, then getting in line to exchange the proper formal phrases with Rika’s family, offer incense, and kneel respectfully in the room for a while, facing the altar. The ones who wanted to

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stay and catch up with friends and relations moved on to the kitchen, where food and drink were being served. The rest escaped with a sigh of relief, obligation fulfilled. People approached and knelt, approached and knelt. Yumi almost didn’t recognize Mei and Kei when it was their turn—it was the only time she’d ever seen them both wearing black at the same time. Midori followed, in a funeral suit that was a little too big; she’d probably borrowed it from her mother. Nobody Yumi’s age had proper funeral clothing of their own, unless they’d already lost a close relative. They’d all borrowed clothes from their parents and didn’t look like themselves at all. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched the parade of friends kneel and pray. They were barely old enough to be gathering for weddings, let alone this. Coco dropped a pinch of incense onto the ashes. Then a guy with a streak of pink in his hair. He rose, followed by . . . Kenji? Kenji hadn’t even known Rika—what was he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be tailing ? A chill straightened her spine—that might be exactly what he was doing. Had come to Rika’s wake? Yumi scanned the room. There were guys she didn’t know waiting to pay their respects, but nobody who fit ’s description. Kenji got up awkwardly. He glanced at her before making his way toward the front door. Yumi sighed and rose to her feet. Her knees hurt. She and Ichiro joined the crush in the kitchen helping themselves to tea and funeral fare, fielding a few whispered congratulations on their engagement as she introduced him. She spoke for a while with Rika’s sister and mother, gradually becoming aware that she’d had too much tea. Excusing herself to the bathroom, she spotted Kenji flipping through the guest book at the entrance. She hurried past before he spotted her. When she returned, he was gone. Her parents and Ichiro were waiting. They walked out of the gloomy house into a glorious April day and stood on the sidewalk for a few moments, enjoying the late-afternoon sun.

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“How about dinner later?” Ichiro asked Yumi. “Shall we put all this sad business behind us and start talking about the wedding?” She nodded and he told her he’d call with details after he made a reservation somewhere, but to plan for 7:00. “Yumi?’ said her mother, her gaze fixed over her shoulder. “There’s that nice young policeman who stopped by the other day. I think he wants to talk to you.” Yumi turned and saw Kenji looking at her from across the street. He waved. The light changed and he stepped into the crosswalk. Oh no. She did not want to make that introduction right now. “Excuse me a minute,” she said, and ran to meet him, steering him away so they wouldn’t be overheard. “Now what?” she said, trying to set the tone for a conversation that would be too short for Ichiro to become curious about. “I didn’t feel we came to an agreement yesterday,” Kenji said. “So I wanted to be sure you understood what I was trying to tell you.” “I know what you were telling me, but you’re right, we didn’t agree,” Yumi said, irritated all over again. “Why were you at the wake? You didn’t even know Rika. Are you following ? Did he come?” “If he did, he didn’t sign the guest book,” Kenji replied. “But that doesn’t mean he isn’t here.” He looked up and down the street. “If he wanted to find out who you are and where you live, he wouldn’t have to be a genius to figure out he could pick you up at Rika’s wake and tail you home.” “I thought you were keeping an eye on him.” “He hasn’t been home since I talked to him Friday night.” “So you thought he might show up here to follow me, then you’d follow him?” “Yes. But I also wanted to warn you against having anything to do with him. Don’t look for him,

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don’t try to contact him, don’t talk to him. And be careful about going anywhere alone until I either catch him or clear him.” “I can take care of myself,” Yumi said stiffly. “At Boston College they offered self-defense classes and I took full advantage.” “Don’t underestimate him, Yu-chan. He’s a lot bigger than you are. He—” “Is everything all right, Yumi?” Ichiro appeared by her side, looking concerned. “Everything’s fine,” she said, glaring at Kenji. They stood there awkwardly. She sighed. “Ichiro Mitsuyama, this is Kenji Nakamura. He’s the detective in charge of investigating Rika’s death.” “Nice to meet you,” both of them muttered, bowing none too deeply. Kenji straightened. “Well. Ki o tsukete, Yu-chan. Take care.” He strode away without looking back. “Yu-chan?” Ichiro said, picking up on the too-familiar nickname the detective had used. “We’ve known each other since grade school.” “Ah,” he said. He frowned, watching Kenji disappear around the corner.

Chapter 52 Sunday, April 14 5:00 P.M.

Kenji

Stupid. He shouldn’t have walked away. No matter how mad Yumi made him, he ought not to have let her out of his sight. When he’d circled back a few minutes later, she was gone. And there was no sign of Shimada. If had been lying in wait to follow her, he was way ahead. Kenji guessed at the route they’d take back to the Hata house but didn’t encounter them as he trotted through the streets, trying to catch up. When he arrived, he could see Mrs. Hata through the kitchen window, but there was no sign of Shimada. Maybe Yumi hadn’t been followed after all. It had been a long and frustrating day, and he wasn’t even being paid for the aggravation. Time to call it quits. On the way home, he decided to stop at the office, thinking he’d look at the file again before heading home and soaking in a hot bath. At 5:00 on a Sunday, the squad room was quiet, but Oki had come in to go over the Fujimoto burglary case one last time before he was pressed into service on the Shrine Murders investigation. “There’s a pot of tea in the staff room,” the big detective said as he turned another page in his file. “Thanks, Oki-san.” Kenji detoured and came back with two cups; His colleague looked like he could use a shot of caffeine. “Funeral?” Oki observed, taking in Kenji’s suit and black tie.

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He nodded. “Did any of your suspects show up?” “No.” Kenji took a slurp of tea and stabbed at the power button on his laptop. While it booted, he took out the Ozawa-Hamada file. “You making any progress on the Fujimoto case?” The big detective sighed. “Nope. Whoever did it was a professional. Wore gloves. No fingerprints. In and out with a key or help from an employee. What was the chairman thinking, storing Sesshu scrolls in his closet along with his shoe buffer and winter overcoat?” “Inside job?” “Had to be. But nobody admits to knowing where the paintings were kept except the boss, and I know he didn’t do it because they weren’t insured for anywhere near their real value. Unless we get lucky, everybody involved is going to get away with it.” He closed the file with a sigh. “What are you doing here on a Sunday?” Kenji told him that there was a chance may have witnessed Rika’s murder, then told him about the frustrating pursuit and questioning Friday night. Oki grunted in sympathy. “So he doesn’t have an alibi, and he’s as weird as his landlord said. What are you going to do?” “I don’t know. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be stuck behind the wheel of Inspector Mori’s car, watching him pick apart our investigation.” They considered this gloomy prospect for a few moments. Oki regarded him thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that bartender’s brother. Can I see his sheet again?” Kenji handed him Jiro Yamaboshi’s criminal CV. Oki studied it. “Take a look at his physical stats.” Kenji read to himself, “Height: 153 cm; Weight: 47 kilos,” then said, “Yeah, I noticed. Small, like his brother. Why?”

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“Well, it occurred to me after Friday’s meeting that the Shrine Murders started around the same time he was released last year.” Kenji sat back in his chair. “You’re right. But I don’t see an unsuccessful burglar being the kind of guy who could plan and execute the kind of crimes Mori described.” “Did you read Jiro Yamaboshi’s file?” “Not all of it.” “Seventeen burglaries in four years. He nabbed over twenty million yen in artwork, all from rich people’s houses with serious security. The only reason he got caught was that his ex-girlfriend ratted him out after he dumped her.” “Huh. You should point that out to Mori-san.” “Why don’t you do it while you’re driving him around tomorrow? I’ll probably be busy fetching tea.” Oki sighed and tossed the Fujimoto file into a desk drawer. Picking up his briefcase, he said, “Good luck.” “Thanks.”

Chapter 53 Sunday, April 14 9:30 P.M.

Yumi

Ichiro leaned forward and asked his father’s driver to take them to an address in Ikebukuro. He adjusted the back seat vents, loosened his tie, and settled back next to Yumi. He’d called after getting home from Rika’s wake and asked her to meet him at a restaurant famous for its nine-course traditional Japanese cuisine. Ichiro laid his arm along the seat behind her. “So was I right about the shirako at Hamada-ya being the best you’d ever tasted?” It was certainly the most expensive. “Definitely,” Yumi agreed, although secretly she didn’t particularly care for fish testicles spiced with radish, no matter how costly it was. “You know,” Ichiro said, pulling back with a small frown, “I was a little surprised today when I met your . . . childhood friend. You aren’t planning to invite that policeman to our wedding, are you?” Yumi stiffened. Good thing it was dark in the car and Ichiro couldn’t see her suddenly flaming cheeks. “No. Of course not,” she replied, a little too quickly. He peered at her, then asked, “Is he an old boyfriend or something?” “No!” It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one. Ichiro looked out the window and fell silent, restlessly fiddling with the phone in his jacket pocket.

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The car pulled to a stop in front of a building that looked like a giant wedding cake. An elaborate script sign announced it to be the Hotel Aphrodite. Oh no. Love hotel. Why hadn’t she hadn’t expected this? It seemed like she was always one step behind with Ichiro. She couldn’t very well refuse, though; they were, after all, officially engaged. And why was she even thinking of refusing? She moved closer to her fiancé, trying to leave no room between them for Kenji Nakamura. “O-tsukare-sama,” Ichiro said to the driver. “Thanks for the ride. Nine o’clock tomorrow?” “Of course, sir,” he replied, stepping out and opening the back door for them. “I hope you like this place,” Ichiro said, helping Yumi out of the back seat. “The rooms looked really nice online.” Yumi followed Ichiro into a lobby draped in enough white chiffon to make togas for an army of muses, although the three larger-than-life-sized marble nudes casually standing around with water jars seemed to have missed the fitting session. They crossed to a grid of room photos. The Aphrodite was busy tonight—only three were still available. Ichiro smiled and asked her to choose. Yumi peered at the photos. Certainly not the one with the peeing cupid fountain in the bathroom. And not the one with the pair of giant feathered wings hovering over the bed. It would have to be the one with the glowing heart-shaped bathtub. Ichiro crossed to the discreetly shuttered reception booth and handed the unseen attendant three ¥10,000 notes. Scooping up his change and the room key, he led the way to room 308. Like most unmarried Japanese, they both still lived with their parents, making privacy elusive. Love hotels were the solution to this common problem, vying with each other to attract customers with themes that put an erotic spin on everything from historical settings to cartoon characters. Ichiro slid the key into the lock and stood aside so Yumi could enter first. Oh no. No wonder they’d featured a picture of the bathroom instead of the bedroom in the lobby’s picture grid. A huge bed took up most of the room. The mirror affixed to the ceiling above it reflected

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the shaggy white fur coverlet and the glowing headboard that was slowly cycling through all the colors of the rainbow. A television on a swivel arm was positioned for easy viewing in one corner of the room, tuned to the erotic video menu. Ichiro switched it off as Yumi excused herself to the bathroom. The heart-shaped bathtub took up more than half the tiled room, inviting couples to cavort in water doctored with bath salts from a famed hot spring. Examination of the medicine cabinet revealed a bowl of complimentary condoms. Condoms. Yumi wasn’t carrying any. Was Ichiro . . . prepared? She hoped he wasn’t one of those typical Japanese boyfriends Coco had told her about, who thought that coughing up abortion money if the need arose was his only responsibility when it came to birth control. Should she choose a rubber from the love hotel’s selection and slip it under her pillow, just in case? She pawed through the bowl of brightly wrapped packets. Which brand would he prefer? Fe+Male? Love Cannon? Super Big Boy? And . . . What size? Saved from considering Small—apparently nobody made condoms in that size—she wondered if Medium would be an insult. Better to let him choose. She moved the bowl from the cabinet to the sink, hoping he’d be reminded to palm one before they needed it. Ignoring the heart-shaped tub, she quickly undressed and stepped into the shower. Yumi had always dated foreigners, but she had it on good authority that the one thing Japanese men were really repulsed by was failing to shower before making love. Quickly soaping herself, she tried not to make a mess, knowing Ichiro would use it after her. She emerged, wrapped in a towel, and self-consciously nodded to him as he took her place in the bathroom. Waiting for him to finish, she perched on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the controls on the headboard, searching for some music that would put her in a more romantic mood. By the time he came out, her damp towel had become chilly and she was relieved that soon they’d be able to crawl between the covers. Ichiro sat down beside her and for a moment, neither of them knew quite how to begin. Once he had kissed her a few times, though, he seemed to remember how it was

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done, and it wasn’t long before he outpaced her. Yumi didn’t know him well enough yet to confide that speed was not one of the things she longed for in bed, and they’d barely pulled the covers over themselves before she had to interrupt and ask if he’d remembered a condom.

Chapter 54 Sunday, April 14 11:30 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi gazed up at the mirrored ceiling. Ichiro’s mouth was slightly open as he slept, his face boyish without his glasses. They’d managed to turn off the rainbow-hued headboard, but had neglected to switch off the lights. She got up and turned them down to the lowest setting, then quickly crawled back into bed, pulling the sheets up over herself, embarrassed to be naked in this room that had seen so many couples. A torn condom wrapper curled on the bedside table. Ichiro had fetched it from the selection in the bathroom when she insisted, but Yumi had a feeling the subject was far from settled. What time was it? She checked her phone. Nearly midnight. Ichiro stirred beside her and opened his eyes. He turned to her. A sleepy smile spread across his face and he reached for her. “Ai-shiteru,” he whispered. I love you. It caught her completely off guard. Nobody had ever said that to her before. Suki, I like you, daisuki, I really like you; even married couples seldom said more. She couldn’t quite say it, not yet. “Me too,” she whispered, hoping that would satisfy him. He pulled her closer and made a contented sound. Presently he asked, “Yumi . . . ?”

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“Mm?” “Why did your policeman friend want to talk to you today outside Rika’s wake?” She sighed and rolled onto her back. “Oh, he’s mad at me.” Ichiro went still. “I didn’t realize he was still such a close friend. Close enough to be mad at you, that is.” “He’s not. I mean, we’ve known each other forever, but . . . I’ve been trying to help him find out who killed Rika, but for some reason, now he’s decided it’s all ‘police business’ and wants me to stop.” “What exactly were you ‘finding out’ for him?” Yumi thought for a moment. She couldn’t tell him about Rika’s article—she owed her friend’s memory that much. And she definitely couldn’t tell him about the night she went to Club Nyx dressed like a Goth-Lolita. Picking her way carefully through what she’d been doing since Rika died, she told him some parts and glossed over others. When she finished, Ichiro was silent. “Ichiro? Are you asleep?” He turned to her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?” Yumi was taken aback. “I didn’t think you’d be interested. I mean, you didn’t know Rika, so . . .” “Yumi, everything you do is important to me.” His frown was reflected in the dark ceiling mirror. “And now that we’re getting married, everything you do is important to my family, too. Did you stop to consider what people would think if they knew you were going around poking into police business, for heaven’s sake?” Their eyes met in the mirror above. “No,” she said coldly. “I didn’t stop to think about what the society pages would write if they found out I was trying to discover who killed my best friend.” “Well, you should have. And it’s not the society pages I’m worried about. I know you’re not used to having your every indiscretion noticed and commented upon, but the tabloids treat the Mitsuyama name

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like money in the bank. You’re going to have to be more careful about what you say and how you behave in public.” Yumi flung off the covers and jumped out of bed. “Is that so? Then I guess I’d better leave this sordid love hotel before anybody sees us. I wouldn’t want the precious Mitsuyama name dragged through the mud on my account.” She began putting her clothes back on as fast as she could. “Wait! Yumi! Stop, I didn’t mean it like that.” He got out of bed, then looked down, embarrassed. Pulling off the blanket, he wrapped his nakedness in it and hobbled over to Yumi, who was searching around for her purse. Holding the blanket closed with one hand, he reached out to her with the other, but she brushed him off. Yumi tossed her phone into her bag and snatched up her wrap. “I can’t believe you’d forbid me to ask about Rika’s death because it might embarrass your parents.” “Yumi, I—” “You’d better think about whether you really want to be married to me after all. I’m not going to change who I am just because I change my name to Mitsuyama.” She let herself out, leaving him speechless. Why did all Japanese men try to boss her around? First Kenji, now Ichiro. The dark street outside was deserted. Which way to the station? She checked her phone. 11:55. Even if she found the station, she might not be on time to catch the last train. Did she have enough money for a taxi? When did she stop worrying about that? When did she start assuming that Ichiro would pay for everything? Tears flooded her eyes and she brushed them angrily away. Even if she had to walk home, she would not go crawling back to ask him for cab fare. Fumbling in her bag, she found a ¥5,000 note tucked into a side pocket. Thank God for friends like Coco and Rika. Years ago they’d made a pact to hide taxi money in every purse, so as not to be stranded in case of bad boyfriend behavior. She started

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back toward the main street. Her phone buzzed. She looked at the display. Ichiro. She dropped it back into her bag. A cool breeze from behind lifted her hair and flung it into her eyes. A flyer tumbled along the street, advertising a band that had played at a local club the night before. It fluttered into the shadow of a shuttered yakitori joint. She pulled her sweater tighter, wishing she’d worn a jacket. Behind her, a trash can banged. She spun around as a cat raced across the street, disappearing between two buildings on the other side. She remembered Kenji’s warning about . Nobody was behind her; that was ridiculous. She resumed walking, faster. Another two blocks and she’d be at the intersection where she could see occasional traffic passing. She glanced back again. Nothing. A little spooked now, she ran the last few paces to the busier street and hailed a cab. It swung over to the curb and the back door opened. Relieved, she scooted in. Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Ichiro. She sighed and looked at the first one. Yumi-san, I’m sorry. Please come back. Next. I guess you’re gone. Can we meet tomorrow and talk about this? She relented and keyed in a reply. Can’t tomorrow. Working. How about Tuesday night? An unread e-mail was also waiting. Date: Sun, 14 Apr, 9:12 PM Frm: <emikkochan>

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Sub: Re: Darkboy didn’t let your friend down! You’re totally wrong about him! He doesn’t hurt people, he helps them. Yumi smiled grimly and poured a little more gasoline on the flames. To: <emikkochan> What do you mean? If he’d been at the shrine like he promised, they’d have found him in that car with her the next morning. He chickened out! The last thing my best friend felt before she killed herself was that nobody cared whether she lived or died. Send.

Chapter 55 Monday, April 15 7:30 A.M.

Yumi

Yumi snaked a hand out from under her covers and groped around on the nightstand for the phone that had suddenly started playing an unreasonably loud “Selfish Love.” She switched off the alarm and groggily checked her messages. Text from Ichiro, sent that morning. He had to go out with his subordinates after work on Tuesday, but suggested meeting at Ōtemachi afterward to talk about last night. OK. Ōtemachi Station, Exit B1, 9:00, see you there, she texted, sighing. She was mad at him. She’d slept with him. She’d hurt him. She was going to marry him. She checked her e-mail. One unread. Date: Mon, 15 Apr, 1:07 AM Frm: <emikkochan> Sub: Re: Darkboy No! You don’t understand. knew what was going through, better than anybody. It wasn’t his fault that things didn’t go the way she planned, but he didn’t let her down!

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Her heart beat faster. had been at the shrine that night. He’d seen what happened. And apparently, he’d confided in Emiko. Kenji had warned her against having anything to do with , and Ichiro had forbidden it. But they hadn’t said anything about meeting his girlfriend. Date: Mon, 15 Apr, 7:32 AM Frm: Sub: Re: Darkboy What do you mean? was there that night? He watched her die? That’s horrible! How could he do that? I think I’ll tell my friend Detective Nakamura. If won’t talk to me, maybe the police will make him explain. A few minutes later, her phone buzzed with a new e-mail. Date: Mon, 15 Apr, 7:37 AM Frm: <emikkochan> Sub: Re: Darkboy No! Please. The police won’t understand. They’ll just harass and he’s already suffering enough. is too sick to go out, but if he says it’s okay, I’ll meet you and tell you what happened. Please don’t talk to the police before I have a chance to ask him.

Chapter 56 Monday, April 15 10:00 A.M.

Kenji

Kenji arrived at the police station to find a crowd waiting to cram into the elevator. Headquarters staff. Special Investigations Unit support. And a phalanx of elite detective inspectors from the Chiyoda Ward central office. The fifth-floor briefing room had been transformed into a command center, with a professionally calligraphed banner hanging next to the door that announced, “Komagome Shrine Murder Special Investigation Group.” Kenji and Oki took seats at the back as Superintendent Noguchi read off the assignments. Detectives from the head office were assigned to the investigative, analytical, and profiling jobs. Kenji would become Inspector Mori’s driver. Oki would act as local guide dog to a headquarters inspector who didn’t know the area and would need help locating the backstreet addresses of witnesses. Suzuki was assigned to the support staff for the guy keeping track of all the paperwork. Kenji went to the motor pool and signed out an unmarked car, bringing it around to the front of the station and opening the door as Inspector Mori emerged, talking on his phone. He nodded to Kenji as he got in, his conversation continuing uninterrupted. “Komagome Shrine,” he said, covering the mouthpiece. “Yes, sir,” Kenji replied, pulling away from the curb.

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By quitting time, he had fetched tea twice, bought eleven lunches, and held the end of a tape measure countless times as head office investigators began going over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb. As the day wore on, his hope that he’d be asked to provide insights as the detective who’d led the initial investigation faded. All Inspector Mori seemed to need from him were a pair of hands and a driver’s license. As they packed up the car to return to the station, Kenji finally had an opportunity to mention what he and Oki had noticed about Boshi-san’s brother’s physical similarity to the Shrine Killer and how closely his release coincided with the first crime. “Is that so?” Mori said, taking out his notepad. “Do we have his address?” “No, but Detective Oki has been to his older brother’s house—I’m sure that Yamaboshi’s o-nii-san knows where to find him.” Mori pulled out his mobile phone. As they made their way through traffic, Kenji overheard him calling one of his assistants, telling him to take Detective Oki and visit Boshi-san’s home address in search of the brother. Ten minutes later, back at the station, Kenji dropped into the chair at his own desk and checked his messages. Yumi hadn’t responded to any of his calls or e-mails. He left a voicemail on Shimada’s apartment manager’s phone, asking him if his tenant was back in residence. He sighed. Unless he came up with something spectacular—like finding an eyewitness to Rika’s death—it was unlikely he’d be able to impress the inspector with anything more than being the team player who remembered that Mori liked his curry rice with extra pickles on the side. If Shimada was back in residence, how could he talk him into telling what he’d seen the night Rika was killed? The snatch of song Shimada had taunted him with was still stuck in his head. He’d sung it in answer to Kenji’s question about Rika; it had to mean something. The words had seemed familiar, like he’d heard them somewhere before. He typed the snippet into his browser, and a long list of sites devoted to the lyrics of Venom Vixen popped up. The words Shimada

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had crooned that night were apparently from a song called “Dark Rose.” He knew it wasn’t among the quotes had posted on Whitelight, but maybe he’d seen it on one of the suicide websites Rika had rejected. When he’d scanned them for ’s posts, he’d noticed that many of the writers used song lyrics to express the feelings they couldn’t find words for. He found some Venom Vixen lyrics on the first site he checked; they’d been posted by a user named who was dying of cancer. Oddly enough, although they were different from the ones Shimada had been singing last night, they were the same ones had used in his Whitelight introduction. Kenji moved on to the next site and found something even stranger: <xanadu>’s introduction describing his battle with a neurological disease was nearly identical to ’s. By the time he found the snatch of “Dark Rose,” he was sure Shimada had been visiting multiple suicide websites, using different names. Calling himself <seraph> he’d posted the song, introducing himself as an orphan, and pleaded for someone to die with him so he wouldn’t have to die alone. Just like . Kenji did a more thorough search of the three sites. Scrolling through the posts Shimada had made under his various aliases, Kenji discovered that had hooked up with a suicidal Goth schoolgirl who’d failed her college entrance exams twice. <seraph> had befriended a woman whose ovarian cancer had returned with a vengeance. And <xanadu> had planned to end it all with a recently fired office lady. Kenji pulled a pen and notepad from his desk drawer and wrote down Shimada’s user IDs next to the IDs of the women he’d befriended. He sat back in his chair, studying the list. It looked like Shimada joined a community, met up with suicidal women, then disappeared and resurfaced on another site. Had he made jisatsu pacts with them, just like he did with Rika and the Hamadas, then walked away? Why? Then he remembered Mori speculating that the Shrine Killer met his victims online. A suicide website was a brilliant place to troll for victims. Shimada had befriended three women

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who’d disappeared from their respective online communities, leaving everyone believing they’d killed themselves. Excited, he pulled out his phone, scrolling for Inspector Mori’s number. Then he hesitated. If he was wrong, Mori would think he was even more of an idiot. He should find out Shimada’s suicidal women’s real names first, check them against the briefing materials. Instead of calling Mori, he sent a message to Ghost. A moment later, his phone buzzed with a reply. See you at the Jaunty. 7:30.

Chapter 57 Monday, April 15 7:30 P.M.

Kenji

A salaryman who was about three beers past drunk pushed ahead of Kenji at Akihabara Station, pursuing an office lady through the train ticket gate, begging her to join him at his next izakaya. He was carrying a bag from the store where <deathmerchant> worked. Kenji

realized

that

in

his

excitement

about

,

he’d

forgotten

about

<deathmerchant>, the thirty-four-year-old electronics installer whose social skills wouldn’t exactly win him any prizes. Emerging onto the brightly lit sidewalk, it occurred to him that <deathmerchant> had been trying to meet women online, just like . The description they’d received from the officer at the police box didn’t fit the Shrine Killer’s profile, but that foreign guy with the brand-new Thai girlfriend his father had visited the other day had looked like a family man on paper, too. If Ghost didn’t tell him anything tonight that put in the frame, he’d go back and take a much harder look at <deathmerchant>. It was still too early for most denizens of the cyberworld to emerge from their lairs and make their way to their favorite watering holes, so five idle maids were clustered behind the Maid Café Jaunty cashier counter comparing manicures when Kenji stepped from the elevator. They turned to chime in unison, “Welcome, Master of the House!”

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This time Ghost was waiting when Kenji arrived, a half-finished game of Jenga teetering on his table. The maid who’d served him the other night was concentrating on pulling out a block near the bottom of the stack, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. “Oh no!” she squealed as the tower toppled. Ghost grinned and said, “Pay up.” She gave him a pretend pout, then scooted her chair around next to him, making peace signs with both hands and tipping her head toward his with a practiced smile as one of the other maids snapped a picture of them with a Polaroid camera. The snapshot whirred from the slot and Ghost’s maid took a fluorescent marker from her pocket to draw hearts all around the edges, enshrining the score 13-22 in a cloud over their heads. She handed it to Ghost with a, “Dōzo, Master of the House,” and looked up to find Kenji waiting for her chair. “Oh! My humblest apologies, Honored Master!” She jumped up and fetched menus. When they’d ordered, Ghost opened his laptop and asked Kenji why he’d been so anxious to meet. After filling him in on his suspicions about ’s multiple user IDs, Kenji unfolded the list he’d made. The hacker navigated to the other three websites and backtracked the ones that might belong to . A flurry of keystrokes later, he said, “Bingo. , <seraph>, <xanadu>, and all forward their mail to Jun Shimada’s phone.” “What about the women Shimada befriended on these other websites? Would it be hard to find out their names and addresses?” The hacker’s fingers blurred over his keyboard; he didn’t even look up when their maid returned with Kenji’s curry rice and stirred three sugars into Ghost’s coffee, leaving it at his elbow. Then he stopped and peered at his screen, frowning. “Gone,” he muttered. “Gone, gone, and gone.” “What do you mean?” He looked at Kenji. “Their e-mail addresses. There are no forwarding addresses for these users, so I

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can’t trace them back to their phone records.” “Erased?” “Not exactly,” Ghost said, his face grim. “More likely they disappeared when the users’ phone service was . . . discontinued.” “Discontinued?” Then Kenji realized what he was saying. “You mean . . . They’re dead?” Jisatsu? Or strangled by the Shrine Killer? “Can you check the dates of the last posts they made?” Ghost clicked through the site. “June thirtieth. October sixth. January fifth.” Kenji’s heart pounded. He was pretty sure that the Shrine Killer’s victims had died at the beginning of July, the beginning of October, and the beginning of February. He’d have to double check the dates, but even Inspector Mori would have to agree it was suspicious that these three women had disappeared around the same time as the Shrine Killer’s victims. He thanked Ghost and headed back toward the train station. If the dates checked out, he’d have something to revive his career with after all. If the dates didn’t jibe, he’d be back to chasing Shimada on his own time, trying to find out if he’d seen anything the night Rika was killed. His phone rang in his hand, startling him. Blocked ID. “Moshi-moshi?” “It’s me.” Ghost. “Are you still in the neighborhood?” “Waiting for the train. Why?” “Remember that other guy you asked about when we first met? <deathmerchant>?” “Yes, actually I was thinking about him earlier tonight. Was wondering if any of the women he pursued on those websites agreed to meet him face to face.” “Want to ask him?” “What do you mean?” “I’m on my way to meet him.” “What?”

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“It turns out I kind of know him.” “You know him?” “Online. He uses <merchantofdeath> when he plays team shooter games. I wasn’t sure it was the same guy, but after you left, I saved his butt from a bazooka attack and started up a chat, offering to give him a controller that’s a lot better than the slow piece of shit he uses. The address he gave me matches the one we got off his Whitelight user ID. Want to come with me to drop it off?”

Chapter 58 Monday, April 15 8:30 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji and Ghost looked up at <deathmerchant>’s narrow wooden house. Although dusk had nearly given way to night, a pole of laundry still hung outside on the upstairs balcony and two futons were draped over the railing to air, secured with big plastic clamps. If they weren’t brought in soon, they’d be too damp to sleep on. A thick tangle of cables converged at one corner of the eaves, then snaked inside through a hole that had been cut in the siding and sealed with duct tape. “Looks like [email protected] has twenty-four-hour access to games and suicide websites, doesn’t it?” Ghost said, eyeing the cables. They knocked. From inside the house, a voice called, “It’s okay, Mom, I’ll get it.” The door opened a crack, revealing the wary face of a boy just stumbling into adolescence. Acne peppered his cheeks, but his mouth was still full and soft like a child’s. Under tousled hair that could have used a cut and a comb, his face lit up when he spotted the Laox bag Ghost carried. “Hi!” he said. “I’m Daiki.” Kenji introduced himself and Ghost. “We’re here to see your dad.” “My . . . dad?” Confused, he looked from Ghost to Kenji and back to Ghost, his eyes widening as he registered the white hair, white skin, and eyes that were an impossible violet today. “Aren’t you . . .

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<spectre>?” Now it was Ghost’s turn to stare. “You’re <merchantofdeath>?” “Daiki?” called his mother’s voice, approaching. “Who’s at the door?” She appeared, regarding them curiously. “Oh! Are these friends of yours?” “Yeah,” the boy said quickly. “We, uh, play computer games together.” Ghost bowed, introducing himself and Kenji. She turned to her son and chided, “Don’t make them stand out there in the dark—invite them in.” “Thank you, ma’am,” Ghost said. As he stepped into the lighted entry and began to take off his shoes, Mrs. Takahara’s eyes widened. She bustled around finding the right size slippers, looking anywhere but at the strange pale visitor. “This way,” she said, scurrying down the hall and scooping up an empty soup bowl from outside a closed door. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Calpis?” As Kenji and Ghost politely declined, Daiki opened the door and loped through the messy landscape to his computer. He hastily cleared the windows on his desktop with a keystroke, but not before Kenji recognized Whitelight’s telltale gothic lettering on one of them. The boy swept a pile of clothes onto the floor so they could perch on his bed, nudging a stack of textbooks out of the way with his foot. “Dōzo,” he said, dropping into his desk chair. Then he looked around, suddenly seeing his room through visitors’ eyes. “Sorry it’s kind of messy.” “Here’s the controller I brought you,” Ghost said, handing Daiki the Laox bag. The boy peered inside and pulled out the device with a big grin, wiggling the joystick and trying out the buttons. “Wow, thanks! I’ll be able to totally kick some zombie butt with this!” “There’s something I want in return, though.” The boy looked at him, wary again. “I want to know why <deathmerchant> is surfing suicide websites.”

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“Huh?” Daiki’s mouth dropped open. “How did you . . . ?” “I’m good at picking the locks on back doors,” Ghost replied. He tipped his head to read the title of the math book on top of the textbook stack. “Looks to me like you’re supposed to be in eighth grade, Daiki. When was the last time you went to school?” The boy’s shoulders hunched defensively. “I study at home,” he muttered, looking away. “Because kids were giving you a hard time?” The boy shrugged angrily. “Look at me,” Ghost said. “You think I don’t know about getting the shit beat out of you by bullies?” Daiki flicked him a glance, then returned to staring at the controller in his hands. “How did it start? Three or four of them following you home, talking a little too loud? Then maybe they swiped your books and wrote all over them with a big black pen?” He contemplated the unhappy fourteen-year-old. “Do your parents know?” Daiki picked at an old Call of Duty sticker on arm of his chair. “One of my teachers called them the third time I came to class without my book. I told them I lost it. My dad made me buy a new one with my own money, but it happened again. Then one day my mom walked in while I was in the bath and saw the bruises. She and my dad talked to the school and the teacher gave the kids who were following me a lecture, but that just made it worse. Pretty soon, just thinking about going to school made me throw up, so my mom called me in sick. Finally . . . she just let me stay home.” “Well, that’s one way to deal with bullies. The only problem is, they don’t go away. They finish school, they graduate, they get jobs. You can’t stay in your room forever, and when you come out, they’ll be waiting for you.” Daiki’s mouth twitched into a little smirk of bravado. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s why I’ve been hanging out on Whitelight. If things get too bad: sayonara, jerks! I’ll meet a few friends in a car with a charcoal burner in back and end it all, quick and painless.”

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“Painless? Painless?” Ghost leaped to his feet, fists clenched at his side. “Maybe for you. Those websites, they don’t have any forums where people can post about what it’s like to be left behind, do they? They don’t mention that the ones who’ll get a double helping of pain are your mom and dad, your brother, your sister, your friends. Did you ever think of that? They’ll blame themselves for the rest of their lives. They’ll think they should have done something, said something, seen it coming, and stopped you. They’ll forgive you, but they’ll never forgive themselves.” He fell silent and took a deep breath. He looked at the boy. “I think someone better let your mom and dad know now, before it’s too late. Maybe a little pointer to what you’ve been posting on Whitelight will do the trick.” “What? No!” Daiki yelped. “They’ll cut off my Internet! I won’t even be able to play games!” “Then let’s make a deal. If you quit visiting suicide websites and—” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a card. “—start coming to the self-defense judo class my sensei teaches at this gym on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, I won’t tell your parents or your school what you’ve been up to online.” Ghost handed him the card. “The class is run by the Ward Office, so it only costs a hundred yen each time. There’s a map on the back and the schedule is on the website. In three months, I guarantee any kid who crosses you will discover he doesn’t have unlimited lives. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.” Daiki flipped the card over to study the map, then searched Ghost’s face for any sign he was bullshitting. Then he hung his head and nodded. “Good. See you Tuesday.” Ghost stopped with his hand on the doorknob and said, “By the way, I’ve got a phone app I’m going to set up to alert me if your computer lands on the homepage of a suicide site for even a nanosecond, and I promise you I’ll be on the phone to your parents faster than that.” Out on the street, Ghost closed his eyes and breathed a cloud of relief into the chilly night air, then started walking back toward the train station. Kenji laughed as he caught up with him. “There’s an app that’ll alert you if he visits a suicide website?”

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Ghost’s lips quirked into a smile. “I wish.” Kenji stared at him, then burst out laughing. He shook his head in amazement. “You had me fooled.” “Yeah, well, I hope I fooled him. Let’s see if he turns up at judo class on Tuesday.” They walked together in companionable silence until they got to the corner where they parted ways. “I guess we can cross <deathmerchant> off our suspect list,” Kenji said. “Thanks.” The hacker nodded. “Anytime.” He turned to go. “Uh, Ghost?” Kenji hesitated. “Can I ask you something? Did you . . . have a friend who committed jisatsu?” The pale figure stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets, his back to Kenji. “No. But until I was fifteen, I had a twin brother.”

Chapter 59 Tuesday, April 16 5:30 P.M.

Kenji

After another long day of tea-fetching and bag-carrying, Kenji trudged back to his desk at Komagome Station and checked his messages. Shimada was still missing. His apartment manager had left a voicemail, saying he hadn’t seen his tenant since Saturday. Maybe someone on that Whitelight website knew where was hiding. Pulling his computer toward him, he logged in to leave a post in the Share Your Story topic. Then his hands froze above the keyboard. Someone had beat him to it. #631 of 631 Sat 13 Apr (1:58 PM) I’ve deleted post #626 as inappropriate. May I remind our users that Whitelight is not to be used as a bulletin board for soliciting information about or anyone else. If you wish to ask personal questions, please do so via email. Thank you. Scrolling backward, he found the one that had been deleted. #627 of 630 Sat 13 Apr (11:28 AM) (Deleted by admin1) 272

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#628 of 630 <sarachan> Sat 13 Apr (1:04 PM) Poor —I think he’d have gone through with it if he were able to. He sure had a good reason and it sounded like time was running out. Maybe he got too sick to come. #629 of 630 <serberus> Sat 13 Apr (1:25 PM) Why can’t you understand that suicide is a perfectly honorable choice? You should accept ’s decision and move on. #630 of 630 <emikkochan> Sat 13 Oct (11:29 PM) please leave alone—he’s suffering enough. . Goddamit, had she completely ignored his warnings? He checked the date stamp. Maybe not—she hadn’t posted anything since he talked to her on Sunday. But who was this <emikkochan>? It sounded like she’d been in contact with since he disappeared from Whitelight. He scrolled back to the Introductions topic, but she hadn’t observed the site etiquette by checking in there first. Why did her user ID seem familiar? Riffling through his file, he found the list of users he’d given to Ghost. Bingo. <emikkochan> was the suicidal high school girl who’d failed her college entrance exams for the second time last March. She’d confided her despair to online, then disappeared from the site two months later. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. <emikkochan> couldn’t have posted on Whitelight last Saturday. Emiko Kohada was dead. Kenji frowned. He didn’t believe in ghosts. This <emikkochan> must be a different person altogether, her choice of user IDs a coincidence. But that didn’t make her relationship to any less important. He had to find out who she was and what she knew. Should he e-mail her at the

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Whitelight website? No, that might spook her. Better to surprise her, do it in person. He sent a message to Ghost, asking if he could find out this <emikkochan>’s real name and address. Ten minutes later, Kenji’s phone rang. Blocked call. Ghost. “Did you get that name I asked you about?” Kenji asked. “Yep. Jun Shimada.” “No, not , I’m talking about the message I left today. <emikkochan>.” “That’s what I said. <emikkochan> is Jun Shimada.” Kenji nearly dropped his phone. “Are you sure?” “Phone records don’t lie.” Why was masquerading as a woman on the Whitelight website? “Are you at your computer? Is there any way you can do a global search of the site to find out if <emikkochan> posted anywhere else since Saturday?” There was a clickety-click of keys, then Ghost said, “Nope.” There was a coffee slurp, then he asked, “Want me to check the e-mail archive again?” “I thought it was wiped.” “It was. Everything up through April fourteenth is toast, but we’re interested in messages sent by <emikkochan> since Saturday.” Tap-tap. “Let’s see, hasn’t used his Whitelight e-mail since Friday. <emikkochan>, though, she’s—or maybe I should say he’s—been busy.” More typing. “Four e-mails since Saturday. They’re all to .” “Goddamit. Did she answer them?” “Yep. All but the last one. It was sent at seven thirty-seven this morning.” “Can you read them to me?” Ghost read him the messages, alternating between <emikkochan> and , ending with <emikkochan> begging Yumi not to go to the police until she’d talked to . “No reply yet?” Kenji asked.

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“Not yet.” “Do you think you could keep an eye on it?” “I’ll call if anything pops up.” He should warn Yumi that <emikkochan> was . Kenji scrolled to her number, then hesitated. <emikkochan> was chasing Yumi, but it looked like Yumi was chasing <emikkochan>, too. Even if Yumi found out <emikkochan> was really Shimada, she might not call off the meeting. And if Kenji insisted she abandon her plan, she might just move it to a place and time he didn’t know about. It would be better to let her set it up, then he could be there to intercept Shimada when he arrived. Kenji leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Tomorrow would be another long day. Time to go home and have dinner with his father, soak away his frustrations in their fragrant, cedar ofuro tub. Detective Oki emerged from the elevator and tossed his briefcase onto his desk. He took one look at Kenji and said, “Looks like your day was about as much fun as mine.” Oki opened his bottom desk drawer to pull out a bottle of The Macallan. Grabbing Kenji’s teacup, he poured in a tot of whiskey. He slid Kenji’s cup across the desk, then poured some into his own. “Kampai,” he said. “To a speedy conclusion of this three-ring circus.” Kenji raised his glass and drank. “Wha!” he coughed, his eyes opening wide. Oki laughed. “Think of it as medicine. It’s the only thing that’ll cure the first-day-of-a-task-force blues.” Gingerly, Kenji tried another sip; this time it went down easier. In fact, a glow began to spread down his chest, and the frustrations of the past eight hours receded a bit. “How was your day with Inspector Mori?” Oki asked. “Not the kind they write about in the recruiting brochures. You?” “The same.” He drank another slug. As they sipped their whiskey, Kenji told him what he’d discovered about and Yumi’s

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plan to meet up with him. “Huh,” said the big detective when he’d finished. “You think it’ll be tonight?” “No idea.” “Well, call me if you need me.” Oki grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “Now it’s time to teach some kids to kick ass at judo class. You going home?” Kenji looked at his phone. 6:00. “Might as well. Ghost can reach me there as well as here.” He stood and stretched. “I’ll be at the Sports Center until about eight thirty,” said Oki. “Thanks.” Kenji washed the cups in the staff room, then headed for the elevator. His father wasn’t home when he arrived, so he decided to soak in the ofuro while he waited for Ghost’s call. The bathroom was tiled floor to ceiling like a shower stall, with a drain in the middle of the floor. Kenji seated himself on a small wooden stool, scrubbed and rinsed using a wooden bucket, then climbed into the deep tub made of cedar slabs, water cascading over the rim as he submerged. At first his skin prickled as he sank into the nearly scalding, chin-deep water, then he relaxed and glowed all over as the hot water worked its magic and the fragrance of the cedar soothed away the jagged edges. After the heat had penetrated to his bones, he stood to open the glass door leading to the secluded garden outside, the evening air cooling his steaming body. Leaving the door open, he climbed back in and sat facing the garden, admiring his father’s bonsai collection as a cool breeze played with the curls of vapor rising from the bath. The first stars appeared in the darkening sky. His phone rang. Hastily wiping off his wet hand on his washcloth, he stretched over to the short wooden stool to pick it up. “Nakamura desu.” “It’s Ghost,” said the now-familiar voice. “New message from <emikkochan> suggesting a meet tonight at the Komagome Shrine at nine.”

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“What time is it now?” “Six thirty.” “Thanks, Ghost. I owe you big-time.” “Nah,” the hacker laughed. “This is like beating a real life Level 36. Let me know how it all turns out, okay?” Kenji promised he would and hung up. The Komagome Shrine was a five-minute walk from his house and it wasn’t even 7:00 yet; if he asked Oki to meet him there around 8:45, they’d have time to find a good place to wait for Yumi and Shimada. Kenji stood, the water sheeting off him, and reached for his towel. He could catch a bite to eat first at the soba shop on the way to the shrine. He had plenty of time.

Chapter 60 Tuesday, April 16 7:30 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi’s phone vibrated during the afternoon session of the software meeting she was interpreting, but she didn’t have a chance to check her messages until she was on her way home at 6:30. E-mail from Emiko. Date: Tues, 16 Apr, 6:24 PM Frm: <emikkochan> Sub: Re: Darkboy says I can meet you and tell you about your friend. Tonight, Komagome Shrine, 9:00? She had to meet Ichiro near Ōtemachi, so she couldn’t be at the Komagome shrine at 9:00. But maybe Emiko would agree to switch the location to somewhere near a Chiyoda Line station and meet her earlier. Yumi stepped off the train and quickly composed a reply, then headed home for a quick dinner before changing to go out. As she hastily shoveled in a bowl of rice, her phone chimed a reply. Date: Tues, 16 Apr, 7:29 PM 278

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Frm: <emikkochan> Sub: (Non title) Nezu Shrine, 8:00? I’ll meet you under the main gate. Yumi checked the time. 7:30. She left her dishes in the sink and raced to her room. After wriggling into her dress, she rooted through her drawers for a sweater, pulling out a fluffy white cardigan. A quick mirror check, then out the door, hopping as she pulled on a pair of high-heeled sandals. It was a ten-minute walk to Komagome Station, then a fifteen-minute train ride to Nezu. Jumping off the train, she trotted as fast as she could in her heels, careful not to trip as gathering rainclouds played hide-and-seek with the moon. Finally she saw the silent torii portal to the shrine ahead. The eyes of the guardian deities flanking the main gate gleamed white as the clouds parted. Larger than life, the wooden warrior statues watched Yumi from their niches as she crossed the low bridge. The ancient structure was three meters thick, the gateway more like a wide hallway leading to the shrine beyond. Passing into its shadow, she stopped and looked around. No Emiko yet. A breeze riffled Yumi’s hair and stirred the leaves of the shrine’s tall trees. She could hear the gurgling of the stream that passed through the grounds, and the rustle of small animals hunting each other in the night. It was cool, and with rain imminent, even the dog walkers had stayed home. Shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, she pulled her sweater tighter and peered into the darkness. Shinto shrines had no graveyards, but Yumi still found them a little spooky at night. The kamisama—eight million of them, living in trees and springs and stones throughout the land—were not reliably friendly like the Buddha. Unless you bought their favor with an offering, they were more like forces of nature, destroying as well as saving, unconcerned that they might accidentally step on mere mortals as they went about their business. Gravel crunched as someone approached. A figure slipped around the corner of the gateway like a black cat, a breeze catching his tailcoat. In the moment before he passed into the shadows, Yumi

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recognized him: the tall, thin Goth who’d left the pink bow at Rika’s Circle memorial. What was he doing here? Where was Emiko? He stopped before her. Moonlight painted his gaunt face with dark hollows, but his eyes were arrestingly beautiful. “Yumi-san.” He studied her face. “You look different without your Lolita makeup.” Her breath caught in her throat as the puzzle pieces realigned. Tall. Thin. Wearing a tailcoat. “You’re . . . .” He gave her a courtly, ironic bow. “Where’s Emiko?” “Emiko?” His mouth twisted into a smile. “Emiko’s dead.” “What?” Yumi shrank back. “She died over a year ago. I couldn’t go back to the Whitelight website as and I was afraid you’d bring along your friend the detective if you thought I was meeting you tonight. So I borrowed her name. I knew she wouldn’t mind—we were very close at the end. She’s the first one I helped.” Yumi slowly edged away. “What do you mean, ‘helped’?” “The same way I helped your friend. I granted her final wish.” “Rika didn’t commit suicide.” “You’re wrong.” “The police said she was suffocated.” He nodded. “That doesn’t sound like suicide to me.” “But it was.” He closed the gap between them, his kohl-rimmed eyes holding hers like a snake charmer. “She wanted to die. Didn’t you read what she wrote? She just needed help.” The hair prickled on the back of Yumi’s neck. Slowly she slipped her hand into her purse, feeling

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for her phone. “What do you mean?” leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “I am the kaishaku-nin, the one who wields the sword at the moment the dagger goes in, before the one who’s about to die can feel the pain. The samurai’s best friend.” He drew back. “ needed a best friend. Of all of them, she needed me most. She needed someone to finish what she started, someone to end her suffering.” “What are you talking about? You weren’t her best friend. I was her best friend.” ’s lips curved into an eerie smile. “Then why weren’t you there for her?” “Because she didn’t want to die.” She felt for the keys to dial 110. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, samurai went out with the Meiji Restoration.” “People suffered then, they suffer now. There will always be a place in the world for someone like me, someone who helps end the pain.” Yumi’s phone beeped as her fingers fumbled onto the wrong key. Like a snake striking, ’s hand shot out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her hand from her bag, still clutching the phone. With his other hand he took it from her and looked at the screen. “Who were you calling, Yumi-san?” His face darkened as he saw the numbers on the display. “The police? The police don’t understand. They don’t want to understand.” He looked at her, an edge of anger creeping into his voice. “I thought you wanted to know what really happened that night. Why were you calling the police before I explained?” Gripping her wrist tighter, he pulled her closer. “We have so much to talk about.” He flipped her phone shut and threw it as hard as he could. It landed somewhere out in the darkness. Yumi felt the first stab of fear. Kenji would not be coming to help her. took a step closer. “I want you to understand what I did for your friend, Yumi-san.” A faint aroma of incense wafted from his clothes. “I didn’t hurt her, I helped her. When you understand, you can explain to your friend the detective, so he’ll leave me alone. So I can continue with my

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important work.” “Rika never intended to die that night,” Yumi blurted. “She was just writing a story. For FlashMob. She wanted to be a writer, not a suicide.” Yumi struggled to free herself. “She wouldn’t do that,” said, his voice becoming agitated. His fingers tightened. It hurt. “She wouldn’t use me like that. You weren’t there. You didn’t know her like I knew her.” He was offering her what she’d come for, but Yumi was afraid he wasn’t going to let her leave with it. She kneed him in the groin, tore her arm from his grasp, and ran. He doubled over, howling. Blindly, she headed deeper into the shrine precincts. There was a back entrance, closer than the way she came in. Past the brooding Noh stage, onto the stone pavers. The moon went behind the clouds. Hurtling through the gateway to the main courtyard, she tripped over the threshold. The fall sent her sprawling. Damn high heels! She kicked them off and scrambled to her feet, ignoring her stinging hands, her skinned knee. was coming—she could hear him. The shrine. She could hide there. She ran up the steps to the main building, pushing past the tarpcovered scaffolding that was shrouding it during renovation. She rattled the heavy wooden doors. Barred from the inside. dashed into the courtyard. She ran along the wooden veranda, her steps pounding as she rounded the corner, up the stairs toward the rear wing. The doors usually dividing the front from the back had been sent out for restoration and she had a clear shot down the side passageway. But she wasn’t fast enough. tackled her, both of them falling hard, her head whacking against the wooden walkway. The wind knocked out of her, her vision blurred, Yumi desperately gasped for breath as he pinned her with his body. She struggled, but he was bigger, stronger. Dizziness overcame her. Her vision narrowed to a tunnel, a pinprick, then winked out.

Chapter 61 Tuesday, April 16 8:30 P.M.

Kenji

From his table at the restaurant near the Komagome shrine, Kenji watched people scurry by outside, intent on getting home between rain showers. Slurping up his last bite of buckwheat noodles, he replaced the lid on the nearly empty pot of dipping sauce. It was 8:30. Still fifteen minutes to kill before meeting Oki so they could intercept Shimada. He held up his teacup, signaling to the waitress for a refill. Kenji swallowed a crispy-fried prawn in two satisfying bites and downed a swig of tea. His phone vibrated. Blocked ID. Must be Ghost. “Moshi-moshi,” Kenji said, stepping outside so he didn’t disturb the other customers. “I just checked the e-mail traffic on that website again,” the hacker’s words tumbled out. “ changed the time and place.” “What?” “She sent mail at seven twenty-six tonight, agreeing to meet <emikkochan> at the Nezu Shrine at eight.” Eight o’clock? Half an hour ago! And the Nezu Shrine was fifteen minutes away, even by taxi. Kenji began to run toward the main street, then remembered he hadn’t paid. He dashed back to the

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restaurant, left too much money on the cashier’s desk, then sprinted toward the corner where he could flag down a cab in the right direction. Breathing hard, he paused for a red light, traffic streaming by. The rain was starting to come down, so he ducked under the awning of a tea store to pull out his phone and call Oki. He didn’t pick up, must still be teaching his judo class. Kenji texted, Yumi changed the meeting to 8:00 at the Nezu Shrine. A minute later, his phone rang. Oki. Kenji explained what was going on. “I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there,” Oki replied. “What does Shimada look like? And what do you want me to do if I get there first?” Kenji described . “Don’t let him go, no matter what. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Green light.

Chapter 62 Tuesday, April 16 8:45 P.M.

Yumi

A gust of wind blew rain onto her bare arm. Yumi shivered. Where was her sweater? Someone was singing. The song faded in and out. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw kneeling beside her, looking out at the rain shimmering against the dark. Panic surged through her, but her mouth was gagged. She couldn’t move her hands and feet. She tried to look around, but her neck hurt. Her whole body felt stiff and sore, laid out on the unforgiving boards of the walkway behind of the shrine. was humming, singing snatches of a Venom Vixen song about love and death. He looked down and noticed her eyes were open. “At last, you’re awake,” he said, as if he’d had nothing to do with rendering her unconscious, as if she wasn’t bound, hand and foot. “You aren’t a very good listener, Yumi-san. You ran away before I had a chance to explain.” He brushed her hair back from her forehead; she turned her head away. “Don’t be like that.” He sighed. He was silent for a while, staring out into the glittering night, then continued, “I remember the very first time I acted as kaishaku-nin. She begged me to stop the pain, Yumi-san. And I did. I helped her when there was no one else who could.” He paused, savoring the memory. “I burned incense for her, the kind my mother liked.”

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’s hair fell over his eyes as he leaned down close to her. “When a soul leaves the body it’s a beautiful thing, Yumi-san. It’s nothing to be afraid of. The dying find out what it’s like to become truly free. They finally understand . . . everything.” They? Yumi shivered. “We all have a purpose here on Earth, Yumi-san.” He cocked his head. “Do you know what yours is? I know mine. It was my mother’s final gift to me. She taught me to help others who were in pain, taught me how to help them end it all when the pain became too great. I helped <emikkochan>. And and . I helped . I helped them all.” He regarded the falling rain, remembering. “She was so pretty, your friend.” Then he frowned. “Why did she fight it? I wanted to make it beautiful for her.” His breathing quickened. “I brought incense. I held her hand. I kissed her good-bye. She should have let me bring the pills.” His hands clenched. “She wanted to be free, but . . .” Something creaked. and Yumi both looked toward the sound and saw a boy creeping around the corner of the building, carrying a backpack. He spotted them and froze, openmouthed. Cursing, scrambled to his feet and stared, then ran in the other direction, leaving Yumi lying helpless on the walkway. She struggled to raise her head as the slight figure cautiously approached. As he drew near, she saw he wasn’t a child at all, but a very small man. A priest, dressed in the familiar white linen robes and starched black mesh headdress of a Shinto kannushi. She moaned and implored him with her eyes. The streetlight just outside the grounds illuminated his expressionless face. He stood over her for a long moment, then turned and quickly lifted a piece of plywood that had been affixed over a damaged section of shrine siding. It wasn’t nailed down; someone had hinged it at the top. He tossed the backpack inside and clambered after it without a sound. Yumi was astonished. What kind of a priest left someone lying bound and gagged? Why hadn’t he

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helped her? Another gust of rain blew in, drenching her right side. She had to free herself; would be back. Rolling onto her side, she winced at the pain. Her attacker had used his scarf and her sweater to tie her hands and feet. Her mouth was gagged with a long strip of dry-cleaning bag. She wrested her hands free first, chafed wrists burning. Pushing herself up to a sitting position, fingers clumsy, she fumbled with the knot that bound her feet, pulled the gag from her mouth. She tried to stand, but the scarf had been wrapped so tightly, her feet were numb. She stood awkwardly, pins and needles prickling, leaning on the building as she hobbled along the walkway. At the end, she cautiously peeped around the corner. stood flattened against the wall. He was looking the other direction, but began to turn toward her. She retreated as quickly as her numb feet and stiffness would allow. He hadn’t seen her yet, but he’d come around the corner before she could reach the far end and escape. Hastening toward the plywood opening the priest had used, she quickly lifted the flap and climbed through. It was pitch black inside the shrine. Feeling her way along the wall, she guessed she must be behind the altar. She stumbled over something soft on the floor, then shuffled around it and bumped into something else, something big and heavy. It fell with a dull metallic clang. She froze. Sliding down the wall, she crouched in the darkness, praying that hadn’t heard. She drew a shaky breath. Think. That strange priest—was he still inside the shrine? She listened. The silence was as absolute as the darkness. Was he enemy or ally? Maybe, like the kami-sama, neither. Like the kami-sama, a force of nature to be avoided if he couldn’t be enlisted. Remembering his unreadable stare, how unmoved he was by her plight, she shivered. Through the shrine wall, she heard heavy footsteps approach and stop. . He must be looking at the wet sweater, the twisted scarf. Her heart pounded. She heard him run to the far end of the

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building, then return, pacing along the walkway until he stood in front of the plywood-covered opening. Something banged against the panel and she jumped. She heard him wail, then fall silent. He was still there. How long before he discovered the flap wasn’t nailed shut? Scooting farther from the opening, she rose painfully to her feet. The interior of the Nezu Shrine felt vast but sentient, as though the kami-sama were watching and waiting. Not hindering, but not helping, either. Far away, a pale crack of moonlight appeared between the heavy front doors. It quickly widened, then narrowed, a small shadow slipping through the gap. A sliver of not-quite-black remained. If she could get to it, she could follow the little priest to freedom. Yumi imagined the obstacle course between herself and the doors, the noises that would draw ’s attention if she knocked over the offerings: the sake, the salt, the candlesticks. She needed light. That soft thing she’d tripped over—perhaps it contained emergency supplies. It had felt like a student’s backpack, the right size to be the shrine’s earthquake kit. There might be a flashlight inside. She crawled back toward the plywood opening until she encountered the bag again. Unzipping the flap, she felt around inside. A box. She opened it and the sweet fragrance of incense wafted out. No help, but maybe there would be matches to go with it. Her fingers encountered something soft and slithery. Two of them. Surgical gloves? Then a bundle of cloth, rolled around something hard. It was the wrong shape to be a flashlight, so she pulled it out and felt around. Jammed into the very corner, a lighter. Priests sure had a strange idea of what would be needed in case of emergency. She flicked the lighter. The flame pushed back the darkness a little. Standing, she held it aloft. Maybe it would be enough. Suddenly, the plywood hinge behind her creaked. She let go of the lighter and it winked out, dropping to the floor. ’s head was silhouetted in the moonlight as he peered into the darkness. Yumi held her breath and flattened herself against the wall. Then abruptly, he disappeared. The flap banged shut. Outside she heard a shout and footsteps

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pounding as he fled. Then, silence. What had scared him away? Had the priest returned? Yumi sank down onto the musty tatami and prayed.

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Chapter 63 Tuesday, April 16 9:15 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji slowed to a trot, breathing hard, then sped up again as another spike of anxiety hit. What if Shimada had harmed Yumi while he’d been obliviously eating soba? At least the rain had let up. He sprinted down the narrow lane toward the shadowy entrance to the Nezu Shrine, past the old wooden houses with their small, frosted-glass windows, televisions flickering inside. Gusts of wind swayed the loops of wires overhead, showering him with fat droplets. He was forced to slow as he passed under the tall torii gate, his chest heaving, a stitch in his side. Stumbling across the bridge to the gate flanked by the watchful guardian deities, he bent over and braced his hands on his knees, worry urging him on, but his lungs rebelling. Where was Oki? The shrine grounds were dark and quiet, smelling of wet leaves. He had to push on. Find Shimada. Find Yumi. Suddenly, he heard a shout, coming from the main buildings. Male? Female? He couldn’t tell. Another shout, closer. “Stop! Police!” Distant footsteps pounded on hollow wood, then stone. Someone was coming his way. Kenji flattened himself against the big gate as a figure burst through the door from the main courtyard. Tall. Thin. Something flapping behind: a long coat. Male. The man was running, glancing

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back over his shoulder. Shimada. Kenji ducked into the shadows and relaxed into judo-ready position. As soon as Shimada was too close to change course, he stepped into his path and threw him, using the fugitive’s own momentum to flip him to the ground. That move never worked against the wily Oki, but it stopped Shimada before he knew what hit him. He rolled over the gravel and wet leaves; Kenji pounced on him, but Shimada was desperate. He wriggled away and scrambled to his feet before Kenji could pin him to the ground. Kenji clutched at his tailcoat. A seam ripped as they swung around and Kenji threw him down again, but Shimada lashed out viciously with his pointy black shoes, writhing like a snake as Kenji tried to get a grip. Kenji’s hands were wet and Shimada slipped from his grasp, but Kenji stumbled to his feet and lunged onto Shimada’s back before he ran more than a few steps. They both fell hard, plowing the wet gravel. Shimada struggled, but this time Kenji had him pinned. Oki arrived at a run, slowing when he saw Shimada hadn’t escaped. The knees of Kenji’s pants soaked through as he knelt on top of his captive on the wet ground, pinning Shimada face down. The three of them slumped in a dark tableau, panting. “Just a minute,” Oki gasped, “I’ll get out my cuffs.” He fished in his pocket for plastic police-issue detention ties. Kenji held Shimada’s arms behind while Oki tightened the handcuffs around his wrists. Oki hauled him to his feet. “Where’s the girl?” Shimada hung his head, scraps of wet leaves clinging to his cheek. Kenji grabbed him by the lapels. “Where is she?” “Gone,” he breathed. “Gone? What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Kenji’s anxiety kicked up several notches. Gone, as in ran away? Or gone as in . . . “What did you do to her?” “She wouldn’t listen,” Shimada croaked. “She promised she would listen, but she—” “What did you do to her?” Kenji demanded through gritted teeth, shaking him.

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Shimada’s head flopped like a rag doll, but he didn’t reply. “I’ll call for a car to take him to the station,” Oki said. “Go find Yumi.” Kenji sprinted off toward the deserted shrine, then backtracked to the spring to hastily purify his mouth and hands before continuing. It wouldn’t do to irritate the kami-sama—he needed all the help he could get. Scattered raindrops began to tick-tick around him as he started toward the main shrine buildings. “Yumi!” he called, his jacket darkening with spring rain.

Chapter 64 Tuesday, April 16 9:30 P.M.

Yumi

The crack of moonlight widened as the ancient shrine door creaked open. “Yumi?” a voice echoed from the entrance. She shrank into a corner. “Yumi, are you in here?” A figure paused in front of the offerings, then retreated, leaving the door wide open. Enemy or friend? she wondered, cautiously creeping forward for a better view. Was it the strange priest, returning? No, the shape she’d seen silhouetted against the rectangle of moonlight had been tall. It was someone who knew her, knew her name. ? No, he knew she’d never come if he called. Yumi crept from her hiding place, edging past the elaborate wooden house where the kami-sama lived, navigating by the light from the open door. She peered around the heavy doors into the courtyard. The moon shone through a break in the clouds, throwing everything into sharp relief. The rain had stopped, but the man leaning against the granite lion-dog was drenched. His head was bowed, defeated, dark spikes of wet hair hiding his eyes. He pushed it back wearily and the familiar gesture flooded her whole body with relief.

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“Ken-kun!” His head snapped up. She stumbled down the steps and he ran to her, gathering her into his arms and wrapping his jacket around her. They stood there, holding each other heartbeat to heartbeat, until she stopped shaking. Yumi burrowed into the shelter of his arms. “ is here,” she whispered. “He was. We arrested him. Oki-san took him to the station. What happened, Yu-chan?” “He did it. He told me. And there were others. He . . .” She took a shaky breath. “Shh, we’ll need a statement from you,” he said, stroking her tangled hair, “But it can wait.” She held him tighter. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” She looked up and their eyes met. Relief turned to desire and flowed between them like an electric current as he lowered his lips to hers. Time stopped. Her hands found the warm silk of his back beneath his untucked shirt; his fingers entwined themselves in her hair as he kissed her face, her neck, her mouth. It began to rain again, but neither of them cared. Kenji brushed her streaming hair from her face. “We ought to go back to the station but I don’t want to let you go.” She closed her eyes and buried her face against his neck. “I’ll never let you go again.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head, then put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. He kissed her again, but something was wrong. “Yu-chan?” She hung her head. Kenji bent down and tried to look into her eyes, but she shied away. “What’s the matter? Is it that boyfriend of yours? Ichiro?” “He’s not my boyfriend.” “Then what’s wrong? Yu-chan? I don’t understand.”

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“Not boyfriend,” she whispered, “Kon’yakusha.” He let go of her, shocked. She stood there miserably. “We’re getting married. In September.” Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Kenji walked away, then stopped and turned to face her. “Why?” Her father’s job. Her mother’s worries. Ichiro’s face on the pillow next to her. Ai-shiteru. “He . . . loves me.” Kenji gave a short, bitter laugh. “I see. And what about you, Yu-chan? Ai-shiteru?” The patter of rain filled the silence. “Tell me you love him.” Yumi took a ragged breath. “You can’t say it, can you?” Yumi was silent. Kenji’s phone rang. Slowly he pulled it from his pocket. “Nakamura desu.” He listened. “Yes. I found her. She’s fine.” He listened again. “I understand. We’ll be there soon.” He put his phone away and looked at Yumi across the gulf between them. Slowly he returned to her, standing so close they were almost touching. “Yu-chan . . .” he whispered. She looked up at him, with the rain on her face. “I can’t.”

Chapter 65 Tuesday, April 16 11:00 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji and Yumi rode from the shrine to the station in silence, looking out opposite windows from the back seat of a taxi as rain streaked the glass. The Komagome Police Station was lit up like Sensō-ji Temple. A uniformed officer opened the door for them when they arrived, and a man sitting in the waiting area leaped to his feet. Ichiro. “Yumi!” he said, rushing past Kenji and grabbing her by the shoulders. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Yumi said in a lifeless voice, “I lost it.” “When you didn’t show up, I called your parents, but they thought you were with me. I finally came here. I’ve been so worried.” “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Where were you?” He looked up and saw it was Kenji who had brought her in. An edge of anger crept into his voice. “I’m taking you home.” Kenji stepped in. “I’m sorry, but we need to take her statement first, Mr. . . .” Kenji couldn’t remember Ichiro’s last name.

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“Mitsuyama,” he supplied. “Mitsuyama-san,” Kenji echoed. “Hata-san is a witness in an ongoing investigation. I’m afraid we need to hear what happened this evening before we can allow her to leave.” “What do you mean?” He turned to Yumi. “What’s going on?” “They caught Rika’s killer tonight,” Yumi said. “At the Nezu Shrine.” Ichiro opened his mouth to say something, then noticed her torn stockings, her dripping clothes, and stopped himself. His expression softened. “You’re all wet.” He turned to Kenji. “At least let me take her home to change first.” Kenji shook his head. “I’ll ask a policewoman to find Hata-san something dry to wear.” He paused, then offered, “If you like, I’ll have someone call you when we’re done.” “That’s okay,” Ichiro said. “I’ll wait here.” “It might take a while.” “I’ll wait.” He turned to Yumi. “However long it takes, I’ll be here.” Kenji led Yumi to the elevator; they rode up to the fifth floor in leaden silence. The doors slid open onto a beehive of activity; the entire investigative team had been called in. Yumi and Kenji were instantly surrounded and led to an interview room. Kenji asked for dry clothes, and while Yumi was changing, took Oki aside to find out what was happening with . “He’s not talking,” Oki said. “Inspector Mori sent him down to detention until he finishes interviewing Hata-san, says he’ll try again later.” “Nakamura-san.” Mori was summoning him to the interview room. Kenji outlined what had happened that evening as Yumi arrived. They seated her at the narrow white table. Her face pale, her hair combed into two wet plaits, she looked vulnerable and bone-tired in her mismatched, borrowed clothes. The inspector pulled out the chair across from Yumi and said, “Nakamura-san, please take notes.” Kenji took a seat at the computer in the corner. He listened as Mori introduced himself and began

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to ask about her ordeal, starting with the e-mails she’d received from <emikkochan>. “May we see your phone?” Noguchi asked. “I lost it. At the shrine. took it from me at the main gate and threw it. I didn’t see where it landed.” Mori dispatched one of his assistant inspectors to make sure the crime techs sent it right over when they found it. He returned his attention to Yumi and walked her through ’s attack, how Shimada had tackled her and she’d hit her head, how she’d awakened bound and gagged and he’d started to talk. “What did he tell you?” “He said his mother had given him a gift, that he’d learned that his purpose on Earth was to help people die.” Yumi bit her lip. “I think he meant that when they decide to commit jisatsu, he makes sure they . . . finish the job.” “Sick bastard,” Mori muttered, jotting in his notebook. “He said he ‘helped’ Rika.” “Rika—that would be Ozawa-san?” Yumi nodded. “He said something went wrong. That she fought it.” Her face crumpled. “Of course she did. She didn’t want to die. He killed her.” “Did he say how?” She sniffed. “No. But you know that already, don’t you? He held her down and suffocated her with a plastic bag, didn’t he?” Mori handed her a tissue. “Arigatō,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. He waited for her to recover, then asked, “And what about previous victims? Did he mention any others?” “There were three. Three women. He didn’t tell me their real names. He called them

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<emikkochan> and and .” Mori sat back and frowned. “He didn’t know their real names?” Yumi shook her head. “Uh, sir?” Kenji ventured. “I think those might be user IDs from suicide websites.” Kenji told how he’d discovered Shimada using different names on various suicide websites, where he’d met up with users using <emikkochan>, , and as their online IDs. “Kobayashi,” Mori said to the assistant inspector standing by the door. “Get warrants for the sites Detective Nakamura mentioned. Let’s get their real names and match them to our Shrine Killer victims.” Kenji bit his tongue. He couldn’t tell the inspector that avenue was a dead end without getting Ghost in trouble. Mori turned back to Yumi. “What else did Shimada say? After he told you that he ‘helped’ the others die?” “Nothing, because that’s when the priest came. When he showed up, ran.” “What priest?” “A strange priest. At first I thought he was just a boy, but when he came closer I saw that he was actually a very small man, wearing a white robe and kannushi headdress.” “So this priest scared Shimada away and untied you—” “No,” Yumi said. “He scared away but he didn’t help me.” “What?” “He just stared at me, then climbed through a panel in the back wall of the shrine.” She shuddered, remembering those unreadable eyes looking down at her without the slightest sympathy. “It was like . . . He didn’t realize I was a person, a living, breathing person who needed help. He just left me there, tied up on the walkway.” She paused. “But I saw how he got into the shrine. That’s how I escaped from . When I heard him coming back, I crawled through the opening just in time. While I was

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hiding behind the altar, the priest left through the front door. I wanted to follow him, but it was too dark. was still outside and I was worried I’d make noise. I tried searching the shrine’s earthquake kit for a flashlight but all that was inside was some incense, a lighter, some rolled-up cloth, and a pair of surgical gloves. Then pulled open the panel and I—” “What did you say?” Mori stared at her. “Incense? Surgical gloves?” “Yeah, I thought it was an odd bunch of stuff to put in an emergency kit, but—” “What did this priest look like? How tall was he? Guess. Did you see him up next to anything we could measure him by?” She closed her eyes, trying to picture him. “When he stood next to the panel that opened into the shrine, his head was at about the same level as where it was hinged at the top. That would make him shorter than me, maybe a hundred fifty-five centimeters? And skinny. Like I said, he looked like a boy.” “Hair color?” “Black. Buzzed short, but not shaved.” “Any distinguishing features? Scars? Birthmarks? Moles?” Yumi shook her head. Mori stood and called his second-in-command, ordering him to drop everything and organize a manhunt. “I want that backpack and I want that priest,” he barked, ending the call and grabbing his file. “Nakamura-san, can you see that Miss Hata gets home safely?” “Yes, sir. But what about Shimada?” “Finding that priest is our first priority now. Keep him in detention overnight—maybe some time in the cells will make him more talkative. Two suspects are always better than one.” The inspector bowed to Yumi. “Excuse me, Hata-san. Thank you for your help. We’ll need to talk to you again and have you sign a statement, but right now I need to be elsewhere. Please allow Nakamura-san to escort you out.” He left, the door closing slowly behind him. It thumped shut and there was silence.

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“I don’t understand,” Yumi said. “Didn’t kill Rika?” Kenji shut down the computer and stood. “I’m sure he did.” “So why is Mori-san looking for the priest?” “The guy he’s been hunting for six months is between one fifty and one sixty centimeters tall, and the things in that ‘earthquake kit’ you described match the evidence found with his victims. Once they catch him, they’ll figure out whether it’s him or Shimada who killed four women at shrines in the past year.” Yumi shivered, as the fact that she could have been number five sank in, but she was too tired to ask any more questions. Kenji crossed the room and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. For a moment she swayed with exhaustion. He steadied her, then opened the door. A uniformed policewoman handed her a shopping bag filled with her dried and folded clothes. They waited in front of the elevator in silence, standing in the eye of a hurricane as the team mobilized for a manhunt. The doors rolled shut. Kenji pressed the button for the ground floor and stared at the changing numbers as they descended. Four . . . three . . . When the doors opened again, Ichiro would be waiting and Yumi would walk out of his life again. He pushed the Stop button. The car lurched to a halt. He sighed and looked at her. “Yu-chan . . . This thing you’re doing . . . Is it going to make you happy?” She closed her eyes and tears appeared along her dark lashes. One spilled. Kenji hesitated, then gently wiped it away. She reached up and held his hand against her cheek for a moment, then let go and turned away. He restarted the elevator. It landed with a soft bump. Kenji held the door and watched Yumi walk across the echoing lobby to the lone figure on the orange couch. And then they were gone.

Chapter 66 Wednesday, April 17 8:00 A.M.

Kenji

Early morning sunlight streamed in through the slatted blinds of the briefing room. It was packed, abuzz with nervous energy despite the early hour. Kenji, Oki, and Suzuki found seats at the back as Inspector Mori turned on the microphone. A map of the ward was projected on the screen, with the area around the Nezu Shrine shaded in red. The surrounding neighborhoods were divided into four additional sections, blue, green, yellow, and orange. “If I can have your attention, please, let’s get started.” The room quieted. “As you know, last night two suspects were identified in the Shrine Murders case. Detective Oki?” Oki stepped forward and described how Yumi Hata had been lured to the Nezu Shrine by a man connected to the most recent victim, Rika Ozawa, and how he and Detective Kenji Nakamura had apprehended Jun Shimada. Tommy Loud stood next, and gave his opinion that the twisted length of plastic found on the back walkway of the shrine had been used as a gag, and matched the description of the dry-cleaning bag that had been used to suffocate Rika Ozawa and the third victim. “Nakamura-san?” Noguchi prompted.

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Kenji stood at attention and reporting finding Yumi at the shrine and learning that Shimada had confessed involvement in the deaths of three other women in addition to Rika and the Hamadas. Mori leaned into his own microphone and took over, adding that a team was searching for the identities of the women Shimada had described “helping” to see if they turned out to be the Shrine Killer’s victims. Then he described Yumi’s ordeal, how she’d encountered a man dressed as a Shinto priest who matched the profilers’ description. A team had been immediately dispatched to find the suspect and recover a backpack believed to contain items similar to evidence recovered from the previous murders. The inspector who’d led last night’s hunt for the priest stood next, exhaustion etched on his sagging face, his suit rumpled. He reported that his team had been unsuccessful at locating either the suspect or the backpack. Inspector Mori stood. “By now he could be anywhere, so we’ll widen the search area. It’s possible that the reason witnesses never reported seeing anyone suspicious near the crime scenes is because the killer dressed as a priest.” He flicked on his laser pointer and trained it on the map. “We’ll start from the Nezu area and work outward. Teams will interview the staff at all temples and shrines, in case the killer actually is a priest. We’ll widen the door-to-door canvas, asking if anybody saw a man matching the suspect’s description. Miss Hata has agreed to meet with a police artist to provide a composite of his face. We’ll distribute it as soon as we have it. Any questions?” The room was silent. Mori asked one of the inspectors from headquarters to continue tracking down Boshi-san’s elusive brother with Detective Oki; maybe the diminutive Jiro Yamaboshi dressed as a priest when he wasn’t arguing with his brother at the Mad Hatter. Then Mori picked up a folder and took out five duty rosters, distributing them to Special Investigations Unit detectives so they could assemble their teams. Two hours later, after delivering Team Mori’s lunch orders, Kenji sat by himself on the Komagome

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Shrine steps with his bowl of take-out ramen. He’d had a long morning of fetching tea and equipment, and welcomed the chance to sit alone and think. Something about last night bothered him. The Shrine Killer’s equipment was stashed at the Nezu Shrine, where had attacked Yumi. Shimada must have planted it there beforehand so the necessary items would be at hand when he needed them. But Kenji knew he’d originally tried to set up the meeting at the Komagome Shrine and Yumi had changed it at the last minute. Did Shimada have more than one set of killing tools, hidden at more than one shrine? Inspector Mori had described the Shrine Killer as organized, a planner, the kind of criminal who left nothing to chance. What if he’d dropped them in several places, so he could lure his victims to whichever place was most convenient, knowing his equipment would be there when he needed it? Kenji laid his chopsticks across the bowl of half-finished ramen and sprang up the steps to the Komagome Shrine. Making a hasty apology to the kami-sama and tossing a coin into the offering box, he climbed over the railing and made his way around the altar. In the space behind, he could just make out a canvas daypack slouched in the far corner. Kenji pulled on some gloves. He knelt and unzipped the bag, feeling around inside. Incense. Robe. Gloves. Lighter. He pulled out the robe and unrolled it. A plastic gun-shaped device dropped out onto the wooden floorboards. Taser. In the zippered side pocket, a glint from a folded drycleaning bag. Kenji zipped the robe and Taser back into the daypack, then ran to alert Inspector Mori. Superintendent Noguchi arrived ten minutes later. He climbed from his car, phone at his ear, instructing the other teams to search the shrines in their assigned areas for equipment drops.

Chapter 67 Wednesday, April 17 1:00 P.M.

Kenji

The map marked with colored search areas had been replaced with a large-scale plot of north-central Tokyo. Four shrines were circled in red. Kenji and Suzuki stood near the door. Where was Oki? The room dropped into silence as Superintendent Noguchi stood. “We’ve discovered backpacks filled with items identical to those used by the Shrine Killer at four shrines. Shimada is continuing to deny his involvement—if he’s telling the truth, the most recent death is unconnected to the previous crimes and the Shrine Killer’s clock is still ticking. Another attack could be imminent.” A buzz rippled through the room as Noguchi called on a slight man with tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. He stood and introduced himself as the chief profiler of the Metropolitan Police. “The previous crimes occurred within a week of three-month intervals,” he began. “The outer boundary, based on the pattern established by the previous crimes, was yesterday, Tuesday, April sixteenth.” He trained his laser pointer on the circled shrines. “We believe there’s a good chance that if the suspect currently in custody isn’t the man we’re looking for, the killer will make his next attack at one of these four places within the next few days. “So far he’s been able to choose his time, place, and victim without being caught, but now that the

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outside limit of his time period has passed, he’ll become increasingly desperate to satisfy his craving. This killer is highly organized, with patterns that are becoming more rigid over time. He’s the type that has deep inner needs which are only satisfied by killing a certain type of victim in a certain way. This kind of psychopath tends to kill at ever-decreasing intervals, the thrill of each crime satisfying his needs for shorter and shorter periods of time. Right now, if he’s still out there, we can be sure he’s already sweating.” One of the inspectors raised his hand. “How do we know that these are the only places he stashed murder kits?” Mori stood and took over. “We plan to search every shrine in Tokyo today. We’ll use neighborhood koban officers, under close supervision.” The inspector paused and looked around the room. “We can’t risk spooking the killer, and we don’t want the media involved. The koban officers will be told what to look for, but not why. Under no circumstances are they to touch anything they find. The backpacks must be left in place. I’ll be assigning some of you to supervise this sensitive task. The killer always strikes at night, so the rest of you will be assigned shifts on six P.M. to six A.M. stakeouts at the four known sites. Any questions?” He called on Kenji. “What about Jiro Yamaboshi, the suspect we identified during our initial investigation who fits the physical description of the Shrine Killer?” “He’s being questioned downstairs right now.” So that’s where Oki was. “And what about Jun Shimada?” “He’s still not talking, but we can hold him on the assault charge against Miss Hata until we catch this priest and sort out which crimes he’s responsible for.” Mori looked around the room and raised his voice. “The next forty-eight hours will be crucial to this investigation. Issho ni gambarō.” “Hai!” the detectives shouted, before breaking into teams.

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Five minutes later, Kenji was among the handful of detectives left without an assignment. Superintendent Noguchi called him up. “Nakamura-san, I’m going to put you on Inspector Mori’s team, but first I want you to get a signed statement from Miss Hata that we can take to the prosecutor. It’ll allow us to hold Shimada for another ten days so we can concentrate on finding this priest. Hata-san is downstairs with the police artist right now. You can talk to her when they’re finished.” “Yes, sir.” Noguchi smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a very promising young detective, Nakamura-san.” He pulled out a business card and held it out to Kenji. “Call me at this number when you’ve got Hata-san’s statement in hand.” Kenji and Oki had stretched the rules last night, arresting Shimada without a judge’s okay or a signed statement from Yumi about the assault they hadn’t personally witnessed. Noguchi had overlooked the irregularity, but they needed Yumi’s signed statement before asking the public prosecutor to have Shimada’s detention extended beyond forty-eight hours. Kenji made his way to the elevator, stopping in the men’s room to splash cold water on his face and straighten his tie. The elevator stopped at the third floor on the way down, and the doors parted to reveal Oki and the elite squad inspector with a younger, goateed version of Boshi-san in handcuffs. The guy from headquarters stayed behind as Oki and the bartender’s younger brother stepped in. “So . . . ?” Kenji asked, as the doors closed. “Turns out Jiro-san’s not the Shrine Killer after all.” Oki grinned. “Has an airtight alibi, in fact. Last November twenty-fifth, while the Shrine Killer was murdering his second victim, he was committing grand theft at the home of the chairman of the Sakamoto Trading Company.” The goateed prisoner scowled. “We might never have caught him, except that when we were interviewing him at his brother’s house, I noticed some kiri-wood boxes stashed behind a bookcase. I thought it was odd that a bartender

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could afford the same taste in art as the chairman of the Fujimoto Corporation.” Kenji laughed. “You are the luckiest detective in Tokyo, Oki-san.” “Either that, or Yamaboshi here is the unluckiest thief.” Kenji got off on the second floor and made his way to the interview room where the police artist was working. He looked through the glass and saw Yumi seated next to a uniformed man at a computer. Ichiro Mitsuyama was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder as the artist tweaked the composite. What was he doing here? Kenji pushed open the door. The three looked up as he bowed. “Excuse me for interrupting, but Superintendent Noguchi asked me to get Hata-san’s signature on her statement when you’re done here.” Ichiro frowned. “What statement?” “About the assault last night. We need a signed statement from Hata-san in order to prosecute the suspect.” “She’s not going to give a statement. We’ve decided not to press charges.” We? Kenji stared at him, not quite believing what he’d just heard. “With all due respect, Mitsuyama-san, I’m afraid this is a criminal matter and it’s not up to the victim to decide whether it’ll be prosecuted or not. The state has an interest in protecting citizens from violence by sending people like Jun Shimada to prison.” “She’s not going to make a statement. He didn’t actually hurt her. We just want to forget it happened.” “I’m sorry, but the victim is the only one who can decide that.” He appealed to Yumi. “Hata-san?” Ichiro strode around the table to stand between them. “She’s my kon’yakusha. My family has decided.” As Kenji began to protest, Ichiro continued, “My father is Junichiro Mitsuyama, chairman of the Mitsuyama Corporation. It would be unseemly for my future wife to be involved in something so public and unpleasant.” Like a slap across the face, Kenji realized Ichiro was one of those Mitsuyamas, the kind of

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Mitsuyamas who could get away with refusing to cooperate with the police. “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” Kenji explained, trying to outrun the surge of outrage and disappointment. “The assault is unlikely to be prosecuted—we just need to hold the suspect on the assault charge until we have enough to indict him for the murder of Rika Ozawa. It’s extremely unlikely that Hata-san will have to appear in court. She’s already told us what happened—I just need her to sign the statement.” Ichiro drew himself up to his full height. “Absolutely not. There’s no reason for her to be involved any further. Just because you don’t have enough evidence to charge him for his real crime, don’t expect my fiancée to do your job for you.” Kenji opened his mouth to tell Ichiro just where he could put his privileged demands, but stopped himself just in time. In a showdown between a lowly local detective and the son of one of the most powerful families in Japan, nobody would put money on Kenji Nakamura. He took a deep breath and said, in as calm a voice as he could muster, “Mitsuyama-san, let me explain. Because the entire station is involved in another intensive investigation, there won’t be enough detectives available to gather evidence against Shimada until that case is concluded. Without the assault charge, we’ll have to release him. If Hata-san doesn’t sign her statement, he’ll go free.” Yumi looked up at her fiancé, dismayed. “Ichiro, don’t you think . . . ?” “You agreed,” he reminded her, his lips set in a thin, disapproving line. Kenji couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After badgering him into investigating her friend’s death, Yumi was going to choose social position over justice. And she was choosing Ichiro over him. “Yu-chan,” he said, forgetting himself as frustration boiled over. “You know he did it. If we let him go, he’ll run. You’ve got to help us!” She looked at him and said in a dull voice, “I can’t.”

Chapter 68 Wednesday, April 17 3:00 P.M.

Kenji

Kenji identified himself to the officer at the detention desk and asked to see Shimada. They were seventeen hours into the forty-eight they were allowed to hold without presenting evidence to a public prosecutor. Kenji didn’t want to picture the charred wreckage his career would resemble if his relationship with the witness caused their prime Shrine Killer suspect to be released. If Yumi wouldn’t help him, he’d have to find another way to keep in jail. He signed the logbook and asked, “How is he?” “Quiet, since I’ve been on duty. But the last shift reported he was pretty agitated off and on all night; some of the other detainees complained. He seems to have a bit of claustrophobia, doesn’t like being confined in small spaces. Maybe you should tell Inspector Mori to ask for a psych workup.” “What I’m hoping for is a confession.” “Good luck.” The guard picked up the phone. “Visitor for Jun Shimada.” A few minutes later, a guard let Kenji through the armored door and ushered him into a room with a thick glass window in the wall separating the visitors’ side from Shimada. He’d curled himself into a ball on the floor, ignoring the chair near the visitors’ window. “Shimada-san?” Kenji said, speaking through the circle of holes drilled in the glass.

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The prisoner raised his head. “You!” He scrambled to his feet and pressed both hands against the glass. “What are you doing to me? Why am I here? Let me out!” “We need you to tell us about Rika Ozawa’s death.” He let his arms drop to his side. “You’ll just twist it into something it’s not, use it against me. You’ve already made up your mind.” “I can change my mind. Tell me what really happened.” “I don’t want to talk to you.” He retreated to the center of the room and dropped to the floor facing away from Kenji. “Fine,” Kenji said, “but I’m not your enemy. The guys from the elite murder squad downtown, they’re the ones who think you’re the predator who’s been strangling women at shrines for the past nine months. If they don’t find a more likely suspect soon, you’re it.’ Shimada didn’t move. “You want to know what I think? I think there’s a chance you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Tell me about Rika Ozawa and the Hamadas. I’ll go to bat for you with the brass. If you had nothing to do with the serial murders, I’ll tell them.” Shimada curled up on his side, facing away. After a long moment of looking at ’s unmoving form, Kenji sighed. “Think about it, Shimada-san. I’ll be back.” At the desk outside, Oki was presenting papers authorizing him to take Jiro Yamaboshi to the public prosecutor’s office. He took one look at Kenji and said, “You look like you need a dose of twelve-year-old Macallan.” “Shimada won’t talk. And Hata-san won’t sign a statement about the assault, so we won’t be able to hold him past nine o’clock tomorrow night unless I can convince him to incriminate himself.” “Why won’t she make a statement?” Kenji told him about Ichiro’s edict.

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“Huh,” said Oki when he was finished. “Bad luck your victim is so well-connected. What will you do now?” “I don’t know. I told Shimada that the boys from downtown are ready to hang a whole lot of crimes he didn’t commit on him if he doesn’t admit to the Ozawa death, but he refuses to talk. I guess I’ll try again later, after he’s had time to think about it.” The guard appeared with a handcuffed Jiro Yamaboshi. Oki stamped his hanko on the paperwork, then turned to Kenji. “You know, last night when Inspector Mori was questioning Shimada, he tried everything—threats, tricks, good-cop/bad-cop, and nothing worked. Mori couldn’t get him to admit what he told Hata-san—” He paused. “—and I couldn’t help but think it was because Mori didn’t know why he told Hata-san.”

Chapter 69 Wednesday, April 17 3:30 P.M.

Kenji

Upstairs, Kenji slumped at his desk, thinking about what Oki had said. He flipped open his phone and reread the e-mails Yumi and <emikkochan> had exchanged before meeting at the Nezu Shrine. Shimada had started out trying to convince her not to contact him, but ended up offering to meet. Sometime during that exchange, he’d decided to confide in her. Why? Kenji forwarded the e-mails to his computer and copied the messages into a document, alternating them in chronological order. Yumi had accused him of letting down her friend and Shimada had suddenly become frantic to convince her otherwise. Maybe she wasn’t the first person to hit that sensitive spot. Maybe he had failed someone important to him. What if he offered Shimada a chance to talk to her again? Would he do it? Would he finish telling her what he’d begun at the shrine, this time with witnesses? And if Shimada agreed, would Yumi? If he made a confession, there would be no trial. Yumi would never have to testify. Kenji shut his laptop and stood. It was worth a try. He took out his phone to call her, then remembered she hadn’t answered his calls or texts for days. He needed to see her face to face, without Ichiro Mitsuyama standing between them. Maybe her parents would help. He lifted his jacket from the back of his chair and ran for the elevator. Straightening his tie and

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squinting into the chrome trim to make sure he looked presentable, he decided he would go to her house, talk to her parents, wait for her to come home, and hope her fiancé wasn’t with her. The doors slid open and he strode across the lobby toward the front door. A figure jumped up from the orange sofa. Yumi. He stopped. “What are you doing here?” “I . . . came back after Ichiro went to work. I didn’t want to interrupt you after what happened in the interview room, but . . .” Kenji glanced over her shoulder. The desk officers looked busy, but he knew they’d had over an hour to wonder why an attractive young woman was waiting to ambush one of their detectives. He pulled her through the big glass door. “Rikugi-en?” he suggested. She nodded, and they walked in silence to the famous garden nearby. He handed her a ticket and they followed the gravel path past the famous weeping cherry tree, surrounded by amateur photographers taking shots of the cascading blossoms. The path continued around the pond, past manicured globes of azalea bushes just beginning to pop with magenta blossoms. Across a low bridge, a path branched off to the maple grove—packed during leaf-viewing season in November but deserted in springtime. Yumi sank onto a bench and Kenji seated himself beside her. Birds sang, a bee buzzed lazily between them, then soared off into the trees, but Yumi hunched into her jacket as if it were the dead of winter. “I want to apologize,” she said. “For what?” “For . . . everything. For the way Ichiro treated you. For not signing a statement. For what we did at the—” “Don’t.” Yumi looked at him.

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“Don’t apologize for that.” Yumi was silent. “If you have to apologize for something, say you’re sorry that you’ve decided to marry someone who . . .” He stopped himself. “Never mind. At least now I understand.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Even I know who Junichiro Mitsuyama is.” “That’s not it,” she protested. “That’s not why I’m marrying him. It’s—” “Stop. Don’t explain. It doesn’t matter.” Time to get off this subject before it became any more painful. “If you’re really sorry about not signing the assault statement, would you consider helping me in another way?” “I can’t go against the Mitsuyama family’s wishes.” “I won’t ask you to. But if you could help me in a way that wouldn’t require you to testify in court . . . ?” Yumi nodded cautiously, listening. “Shimada is refusing to talk to us, but at one point he wanted to talk to you so badly he tied you up to do it. If you could get him to repeat what he said to you at the Nezu Shrine—this time recorded and with witnesses—we wouldn’t have to charge him with assault. We could hold him for Rika’s murder.” “Do you really think he’d talk to me?” “It’s worth a shot.” “When?” Kenji stood. “How about now?”

Chapter 70 Wednesday, April 17 4:30 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi clutched her purse in front of her as Kenji signed them into the detention area and handed her a visitor badge. “When we get in there, I’ll stay with you, but out of his line of sight. He might not talk to you if he sees me—he doesn’t like police and he especially doesn’t like me.” Kenji paused. “I think the reason he decided to open up to you in the first place is that you said something that made him desperately want to defend what he’d done.” Yumi clipped the badge to her blouse. “Remember, our goal right now is just to convince him to talk to you in a room where we can monitor him and record what he says. One step at a time, okay?” Yumi swallowed and nodded. The guard opened the door and led them to the same interview room Kenji had used before. Kenji hung back by the door as Yumi seated herself in front of the glass, trying not to remember that the last time she’d seen she’d been bound and gagged, lying helpless on the hard walkway behind the Nezu Shrine. Even though he was behind bulletproof glass, it still took an act of will to call out to him, get his attention. “? It’s me, Yumi.” He raised his head at the sound of her voice and turned toward her. Scrambling to his feet, he came

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to the window, placing his hands flat against the glass. She shrank back, reminded how much bigger he was, how strong his hands had been. But his eyes were hollow, his black eyeliner smudged. The tailcoat he’d been so proud of was now rumpled and torn, and his hair hung in his eyes, unwashed. “You ran away,” he moaned, his voice filled with anguish. “Why did you run away?” “You scared me,” Yumi said. “I didn’t mean to. I only wanted you to listen.” He rested his forehead on the cold glass. A flicker of pity surprised her. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. “You didn’t finish telling me about Rika before . . . before that priest came. Before he interrupted.” Yumi made herself lean closer. “I still want to understand why you did what you did. How you . . . ‘helped’ her.” Shimada slumped back into the hard chair, sighed, and stared down at his hands. “What does it matter now?” he said, worrying a hangnail. “The cops are going to find a way to charge me with every unsolved murder they have, really clear the books. I could tell by the way that inspector talked to me, shooting questions at me faster than I could think, accusing me. They were asking me things I didn’t know anything about. The truth doesn’t matter to them.” “I think it matters to you,” she said. “And it matters to me.” He looked at her. “Tell me about Rika,” she urged. “I’ll make them listen. Rika was different from the others, wasn’t she? Something about her death bothers you. Finish telling me what happened.” “If I do . . . if I do, will you tell the police I didn’t kill anybody? Not , not the others? Tell them I was only trying to help?” “I can only do that if you talk to me.” Shimada frowned. “I’ll talk to you, but not to them.” He stood and moved closer to the glass, beseeching her with his eyes. “But I can’t talk in here. I hate small spaces. Please get me out. Please.” He put his palms against the glass and bowed his forehead against it, squeezing his eyes shut as he

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whispered. “Onegai-shimasu.” I beg you. She stood. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 71 Wednesday, April 17 5:00 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi listened as Kenji called Superintendent Noguchi. The superintendent was furious that the Mitsuyamas were preventing Yumi from signing a statement and didn’t believe Yumi could get a confession from Shimada. But eventually Kenji wore him down, convincing him it might be their only shot. Noguchi grudgingly ordered him to draft an outline of the interview questions and take care of the legalities while a police driver ferried him from the manhunt command post at headquarters to Komagome Station. Kenji collected the forms he’d need the prisoner to sign, explaining to Yumi that although Shimada had been told he had the right to an attorney when he was arrested, he hadn’t responded to anything Inspector Mori had said last night. Noguchi wanted Kenji to tell him again, and if Shimada refused counsel, to get it in writing. Japanese law also required Kenji to read him the charges on his arrest warrant, which at the moment only described his attack on Yumi at the Nezu Shrine. Kenji hoped that would work to their advantage; if Yumi could get him talking about Rika’s death, Shimada wouldn’t be reminded that what he saw as “help,” the law viewed as murder. They returned to the interview room and Yumi went in first. Shimada rose and stood on the other side of the glass as she approached.

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“They agreed to let us talk upstairs in an interview room,” Yumi said. “Just you and me?” Shimada asked, ignoring Kenji standing behind her. “No. They’ll be observing and recording, but they won’t talk to you. At least you’ll be out of your cell.” Shimada nodded. “Detective Nakamura needs to talk to you again.” She paused. “I’ll wait for you upstairs.” Shimada sat down and stared at his hands while Kenji read the warrant and advised him of his rights. He gave no sign of having heard until it was explained that he wouldn’t be allowed to talk to Yumi until he’d either called a lawyer or signed a statement saying he didn’t want one. “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Kenji gave the form and a pen to the guard, who ferried them to the other side of the glass, where scrawled his name in the space provided. Kenji took the signed papers up to the squad room. Noguchi looked at Kenji’s interview outline, made a few additions, then sat down with Yumi to go over it. She listened to his crash course on questioning suspects, but in the end the only thing she remembered was his final piece of advice: “Get him talking and keep him talking.” Noguchi picked an interview room with easy chairs arranged around a coffee table rather than the bare desk and hard seats Yumi had seen before. They put her in the chair facing the door; Kenji and Noguchi would come in quietly behind Shimada’s back after he was seated across from her and take up positions behind him. Kenji explained they wouldn’t speak, but they’d be there to witness the interview and make sure Yumi was never in danger. She sipped a glass of water as the guard arrived with the prisoner and removed his handcuffs. Shimada rubbed his wrists. “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” the guard told Yumi. “Thank you.”

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Kenji and Mori slipped in, the door closing as Shimada perched on the edge of the chair opposite Yumi. “Can I have some water?” he asked her, nodding toward the pitcher on the table. “Dōzo,” she said, pushing it toward him gingerly. With no bars between them, an edge of fear returned. She glanced past at Kenji, seated against the far wall. He mouthed, “Good luck.” She wasn’t sure how to begin. While Shimada filled his glass and drank, she nervously put her hands in her jacket pockets and discovered the Daruma cell phone ornament she’d taken from Rika’s phone. Yumi thought about the lifetime of wishes Rika would never make and her fingers tightened around the little figure. She took a deep breath and said, “Are you ready, Shimada-san?” He choked, tears coming to his eyes as water went down the wrong way. “Don’t call me that.” He coughed again. “Why?” “That was . . . that was what people called my mother.” “Oh. Did Rika and the others call you ?” “No. Daigoro. Dai for short.” “Daigoro?” “From Lone Wolf and Cub. Daigoro was the son of the Lone Wolf, his apprentice. He was the one who taught me what it meant to be a kaishaku-nin. After my mother died.” “What happened to your mother?” He studied the condensation on the pitcher. A bead of water rolled down the side. “I didn’t know how sick she was until the very end. I hadn’t noticed how thin she’d become, how tired she was all the time. She hid it from me until one day she hurt so much she couldn’t get out of bed.” He looked at Yumi. “By then it was in her bones, everywhere.” He put down his glass. “I skipped school and tried to take care of her, but the pain was so bad, I didn’t know what to do. I went to the

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drugstore every day and bought aspirin, but that didn’t help. The only time she wasn’t in pain was when she was asleep. Her doctor gave her some sleeping pills, but she stopped taking them. She didn’t tell me what she was saving them for, and because I was just a kid, I didn’t guess. At night she would hold her cries inside until I was asleep, but the pain kept getting worse. Then one morning she tried to get out of bed and fell. She couldn’t get up. Our neighbor heard her crying through the wall and knocked on our door.” His fists clenched. “I shouldn’t have answered it. The neighbor lady didn’t listen to me. She scolded me, said I ought to have asked for help. She said I should have taken my mother to the hospital.” His face pinched in pain. “But how could I? The doctors couldn’t help her anymore. She said so herself. And she was scared of hospitals. She told me the doctors would take away everything, even the right to decide about her own life.” He fell silent. “What happened?” “The neighbor called the police box. An ambulance came. They let me ride with my mother, but they didn’t let me stay with her. After that, I could only see her a little while every day, during visiting hours. They gave her morphine, and sometimes she slept the whole time I was there. But by the end of the second week, even the morphine wasn’t enough. One day she sent the nurse to get her a glass of water, then she begged me to get the sleeping pills from our apartment. She told me where they were, and asked me to bring the incense we burned in front of the butsudan, along with the matches on the shelf next to the altar. She was in so much pain, she told me to run. I went home and found what she’d asked for, but I was so hungry, I stopped at the convenience store on the way back. The new Shōnen Jump was out, and I checked to see if the latest installment of my favorite comic was in it.” Shimada hung his head in shame. “I only meant to peek, but I ended up reading the whole thing, I couldn’t help myself. By the time I got back to the hospital, my mother’s room was full of people. I could tell it was an emergency, so I went back down the hall and stayed out of the way.

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“I sat in the waiting area until the doctors and nurses began to come out. I could tell by the way they weren’t hurrying anymore that the emergency was over, so as soon as they were all gone, I went back into my mother’s room. “She was lying there, looking more peaceful than I’d ever seen her. I thought they’d finally given her something that worked, something that killed the pain, that it didn’t matter I was late getting back with the sleeping pills because she was finally getting some rest. Then a nurse came in and told me . . . told me she was dead. I should have been ready, should have known she was never going to get better, but . . .” Tears rolled down his cheeks, the lashes fringing his beautiful eyes wet and spiky. “For years, I felt guilty that I didn’t get there in time. I’d dream she was standing by my bed, asking why I didn’t come back, why I left her to die alone, why I didn’t help her.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and took a shaky breath. “Then when I was fourteen, I was reading Lone Wolf and Cub and I suddenly understood that she’d asked me to be her kaishaku-nin. She’d entrusted me with the task of bringing her the tools to make her transition to the next world easy and fast, rather than painful and slow. I failed her. Failed horribly. But I realized I could be like the Lone Wolf—I hadn’t been able to help my mother, but I could help others.” He leaned toward Yumi, his eyes holding hers. “Once I started on the path the Lone Wolf had shown me, I stopped having those dreams. My mother’s spirit was finally at peace, once I understood what she was trying to tell me.” “So you started visiting suicide websites, looking for people you could . . . help?” Shimada nodded. “They all had good reasons to kill themselves. They decided. All I did was make sure they didn’t suffer.” “Did they do it themselves or did you . . . ?” “We did it together. <emikkochan> wanted to use a charcoal burner. The websites say it’s best to do it somewhere small and airtight like a car, but since neither of us had one, we set everything up in her room at home while her parents were at work.”

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He grimaced. “There was a problem, though. The room was too big. It took too long. I had to leave for a while because the fumes were getting to me. When I came back, she was unconscious, but not gone yet. Then I heard her mother come in the front door and I panicked. I ran. “Her mother found her and rushed her to the hospital. Two months later, we tried again, and that time she asked me to make sure, to use a plastic bag once she was unconscious. I went out of the room for a while at the beginning, then returned to hold her hand while she fell asleep. I burned incense—one stick for her, one for my mother. Then I put the bag over her head, just like she’d asked. I held it there until she was free.” “And . . . the others?” “With , things went more smoothly because I’d figured out how to get sleeping pills by then. I was working at the hospital, and when I was cleaning the dispensary one night I discovered some pills kicked under the counter where the pharmacist filled prescriptions. When I asked one of the other janitors what to do with them, he told me that when pills are accidentally dropped or broken, if only a few are lost it doesn’t have to be reported. He’d been picking them up for years, but he only wanted the ones that would get him high. He showed me how to search the pharmacy’s big pill identification book, and from then on we both saved every pill we found, and traded every time our shifts overlapped. I got the better end of the deal because a lot of them were sleeping pills. Doctors don’t like to be called in at night, so they always prescribe sleeping pills for their patients to keep them quiet. By the time needed help, I had a full bottle, all different kinds. “Mixing them didn’t work very well, though. They knocked out, but she had nightmares. It wasn’t peaceful. And because the pills were all different strengths, I couldn’t figure out the right dose. At first she took too many and threw up. Then she didn’t take quite enough, and I had to breathe the charcoal fumes for so long that the next day I was sick and couldn’t go to work. “Then I figured out how to get enough pills of the same kind so I could work out the right dose. I got to know one of the nurses, and one night before she went off shift, I sneaked her dispensary cabinet

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key from her key ring and got a copy made. “After that, I took one pill from each new bottle of Amoban when it was opened. The hospital went through them like candy, so I managed to collect two or three every week. I was careful, never greedy. Nobody noticed. By the time asked me for help, I had plenty. She insisted on using the charcoal burner as backup, but this time I only pretended to light the charcoal so I wouldn’t be sick the next day. The incense made her think the burner was going, even though it wasn’t. Once she was unconscious, I used the plastic bag.” “Did you do the same with Rika and the Hamadas?” “My method worked perfectly for the Hamadas, but . . .” His face clouded. “I offered to bring enough pills for all of them, but said she had her own. That’s where it all went wrong. She must have gotten the wrong kind because they didn’t work. She should have been long gone. I kissed her good-bye and walked away, but then she got out of the car and started to run.” The hangnail he’d been worrying started to bleed. He closed his fist over his thumb and dropped it to his lap. “I could tell she was confused, She threw up in the bushes. That had never happened before. So I went after her. I . . . I helped her the only way I knew how.” “What do you mean?” “I used the plastic bag. I held it until she stopped struggling. Then I didn’t know what to do. It didn’t seem right to leave her there on the ground, in the dark, so I put her back in the car. I was kind of worried, because she’d been so confused at the end. I gave her the rosary I always wear. It was the only thing I could think of, to help her spirit find its way.” He fell silent, then looked at Yumi with a troubled expression. “I did the right thing, didn’t I? I helped her do what she wanted. Even if it didn’t go perfectly, I made it all right in the end.” A note of pleading entered his voice. “It’s what you would have done, isn’t it? If you’d been there? If you were her kaishaku-nin?” “I . . .” Yumi’s eyes filled with tears. For Rika. For the little boy whose mother died too young. And for the sad, twisted man sitting across from her, looking at her with his beautiful, devastated eyes, asking

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to be forgiven for a sin he couldn’t even admit to himself. He’d killed her best friend, but now that he’d admitted it, she just felt hollow inside. She wanted to tell him he was damaged, delusional, that nobody in his right mind would have done what he did. But in the end, all she could choke out was, “I understand.” raised his head slowly. “Do you think they’ll let me go now?” Yumi looked past him at Superintendent Noguchi, seated behind him. He shook his head and held up a piece of paper so Yumi could read it. He’d written three dates on it in large letters. “The police want me to ask you where you were on a few other dates.” “Why?” “Some other women have been killed. They want to be sure you didn’t do it. If you tell me what you were doing on those nights and everything checks out, you’ll be cleared for those. Otherwise, they’ll keep you locked up, even if they believe you about Rika and Emiko and the others.” “I’m not a killer,” he insisted, leaning forward, his leg jiggling nervously. “The first one was the night of Tuesday, July third. The second was Tuesday, October ninth. And the third was Wednesday, January ninth.” He let out a long breath and sat back, relieved. “I was at work. For three years I’ve been on the graveyard shift at Asakusa Hospital. I work every night except Fridays and Saturdays—on at ten P.M., off at six A.M. Check my timecards. I never called in sick, except that one time with .” Yumi nodded. “Can I go now?” he asked, his face brightening. Noguchi went to the door and called the guard; he appeared carrying handcuffs. Shimada leaped to his feet. “No! Not back to that cell. Don’t let them take me back there!” he implored Yumi. “Make them understand! You promised! Help me!” Shimada dodged around the guard, making a desperate break for the door. Kenji intercepted him

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and held him while the guard snapped the cuffs on his wrists. Shimada let out a howl of anguish as the guard pushed him through the door. Yumi was on her feet, staring after him, her throat aching with unspent tears.

Chapter 72 Wednesday, April 17 7:00 P.M.

Kenji

“Do you believe him?” Superintendent Noguchi asked Kenji. “If it’s a lie, it’s a pretty detailed one, sir.” “Mm.” Noguchi frowned. “If it’s not, that means the Ozawa-Hamada case isn’t connected to the Shrine Murders like Inspector Mori thought. He’s not going to be happy to hear that. Before we tell him the bad news, let’s make sure. I’m releasing you from Mori’s detail for the time being so you can chase down Shimada’s alibis and find out <emikkochan>, , and ’s real names.” “Hai,” Kenji said, bowing. “I’m going back to headquarters. We’ve got to catch that priest.” Noguchi thanked Yumi, and with a curt bow to Kenji, let himself out of the interview room. As soon as he was gone, Kenji turned to give Yumi a triumphant grin and said, “You did it!” Then he saw Yumi’s hunched shoulders, the way she was biting her lip. “What’s wrong?” “I . . . he . . .” She took a shaky breath and looked up. “I wanted him to be evil. I wanted him to pay for what he did, to suffer the way he made me suffer. I thought I’d be happy when I got him to admit he killed Rika. But . . . What will happen to him?” Kenji considered her question. “That’s for the prosecutor to decide. If Shimada’s alibis for the

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Shrine Murders check out, I’m pretty sure he’ll be diverted for treatment rather than prison. The prosecutor has a lot of discretion, and I’d be surprised if he didn’t decide that Shimada is one chopstick short of a pair.” He peered into Yumi’s face. “If he doesn’t serve jail time for Rika’s death, will you be okay with that?” The tears began to spill. “It’s all so sad.” She sniffled. “Nothing is turning out the way I thought it would.” She took a ragged breath. He touched her shoulder to steer her toward one of the chairs, but instead of sitting down, she turned and wrapped her arms around him, her tear-stained face smearing the front of his shirt. It was all he could do not to hold her, not to put his arms around her and feel that bittersweet connection again. Why was she playing with him like this? He stood there without responding and let her cry for a while, then pulled away and sat her down. What did she want from him? He walked to the window and opened the blinds, deliberately breaking the connection. “Nothing is simple anymore,” she whispered. Did she mean ? Or the shifting sands between them? A spark of anger flared. Looking out onto the street with his back to her, he put his hands in his pockets and said, “Some things are. If you want them to be.” “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean.” He turned to face her. “Why are you marrying a man you don’t love?.” Yumi pushed her chair back and stood, hands clenched by her side. “Is because he’s rich? Because his family is powerful. Because—” Yumi crossed the room and delivered a stinging slap. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him, kissing her as punishment, taking what he’d been offered one too many times but couldn’t have. She pushed him away, both of them confused and thwarted. Rubbing the place where red shadows of his fingers marked her wrist, she closed her eyes, but not before he saw the regret she was trying to hide. The silence between them grew. Finally she said, “Please try to understand. It’s not just about me.

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My father . . .” A voice from the doorway interrupted. “Nakamura-san?” It was Suzuki. Kenji reddened, hoping he hadn’t been standing there long. “Superintendent Noguchi told me you might need some help tracking down Shimada’s alibis and the names of those women he met online, sir. Which would you like me to work on first?” “Uh, I’ll be there in a minute. Get yourself some tea.” “Yes sir.” Suzuki bowed and disappeared. Kenji turned to Yumi and sighed. “I have work to do,” he said. She bowed her head and nodded. “I’ll see you out.” Without a word, she followed him to the elevator and they rode down in silence. When the doors opened onto the lobby, Yumi stepped out. As they started to close, she spun around and thrust her hand between them. The doors bounced back and she returned, pulling something from her pocket. Grabbing his hand, she laid the object in his palm, closing his fingers around it. She looked up at him and started to say something, then dropped his hand and fled from the car. As the doors closed, Kenji looked to see what she had given him. A battered little Daruma figure on a cell phone string stared up at him with its white eyes.

Chapter 73 Friday, April 19 8:00 P.M.

Kenji

The girl at the yakisoba stand picked up her dish of fried noodles and turned, scanning the crowd for her friends. Kenji dropped his gaze; she only looked like Yumi from the back. He was half-hoping, half-dreading that she’d be here, at the Komagome Shrine’s annual Spring Festival. Everyone who lived in the neighborhood was enjoying the festivities, the shrine precincts packed with traditional food stalls, old-fashioned carnival games, and neighbors exchanging gossip in the spring twilight. He’d seen everybody he knew who still lived in the area, everybody but Yumi. He sighed. She probably didn’t go anywhere without her kon’yakusha anyway, and Kenji would bet his beloved baseball trophies that Ichiro Mitsuyama had no interest in mingling with the locals at a lowly neighborhood matsuri. That guy had been brought up in such rarefied surroundings that he probably felt no nostalgia for old-fashioned monkey shows and the man who juggled sake bottles. Not that Kenji was here to enjoy himself—since last night, he’d been a member of Inspector Mori’s plainclothes detail, watching and waiting for the Shrine Killer to make another attempt at one of the four shrines where murder kits had been found. So far, nothing. As time passed and no new attacks occurred, there was growing support for the idea that the suspect they already had in custody was the killer. Shimada’s timecards showed he’d been working

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when the Shrine Murders occurred, but not even his supervisor could say for sure it had been Shimada who’d punched them in and out. And because they hadn’t yet been able to discover the real identities of the women he met online, it was still possible their names would match the Shrine Killer’s victims. Suzuki and a phalanx of support staff borrowed from other sections were now combing the death records around the times Shimada and the other users disappeared from the suicide websites, identifying women in the right age range who died of “heart failure.” So far, they’d discovered two who might be and , but the families were reluctant to confirm they’d committed suicide. Until they knew for sure, Shimada remained in detention but uncharged, and Mori’s team continued to hunt for the small, strange man Yumi had seen at the Nezu Shrine. The profilers insisted the killer would be feeling nearly unbearable pressure to claim another victim. It was now two days past his longest murder interval, but even if he chose tonight for his next attempt, Kenji was sure he wouldn’t strike at the Komagome Shrine. Not with all these people around. He got in line for squid-on-a-stick; no need to starve while keeping an eye out for men fitting their suspect’s description. Pocketing his change, he bit off a grilled tentacle. Time to make the rounds of the vendors again, looking for short men who had priestly haircuts. As he strolled toward the amusement booths, he passed one of the female officer decoys. Although it was possible the killer met his victims by prearrangement, Noguchi hoped that he chose them spontaneously and would attack one of the female detectives wandering alone, dressed to resemble the previous victims. If the stakeout detail spotted him with an unsuspecting civilian, they had orders to arrest him before he attempted to harm her. But if he were caught in the act attacking one of the decoys, there would be no question of his guilt. Kenji wandered slowly among the stalls. His father was here somewhere, helping one of his cronies run a takoyaki stand, probably sharing a bottle of sake as they grilled octopus balls. To his left, a shriek of joy turned to tears and a young mother bent down to console her son, who’d captured the goldfish of his dreams for a split second before his little paper net tore and the fish plopped back into the tank.

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Returning to the squid stand to deposit his skewer in the discards cup, Kenji debated whether to buy another. Was he hungry, or just bored? What he really wanted was a cold drink. He ordered a bottle of green tea. The man behind the counter fished around in the cooler slush, but came up empty-handed. “Sorry,” he said. “All out.” Taking that as a sign that the kami-sama wouldn’t mind if he indulged in a five-minute break from the festival crowds, Kenji sauntered across the street to grab a bottle from the vending machine at the subway station. He drained half the o-cha in front of the Namboku Line entrance and gazed at the people wandering in and out under the torii gate. None of them looked like Yumi. A man dressed in white stepped into the intersection and dashed across, trying to beat the changing light. Kenji’s tea bottle froze halfway to his mouth. It was a priest. A small priest, wearing white robes and a traditional black mesh headdress. The man leaped onto the curb just as cars surged across the crosswalk behind him. He produced a train pass and headed for the stairs leading down to the subway platform. As he rounded the corner to start down the steps, his robe swirled, revealing that instead of a kannushi’s traditional, black, wooden clogs, he was wearing black Nikes. Kenji’s heart pounded. He tossed his unfinished tea into the recycle bin and followed. Trotting down the steps after the priest, he called Inspector Mori. “I’m heading down to the Namboku Line. I just spotted a guy who hits all our buttons. Short, dressed as a priest, except he’s wearing black sneakers instead of asagutsu.” “Good. Stay with him. I just got a panicked call from our team at the Kanda Myōjin Shrine—one of their officers was following a man dressed exactly like that. He was about to pass the tail off to us at Komagome, when he lost sight of the suspect in the festival crowd. It looks like this guy is making the rounds of his drop sites, scouting a victim. Stay on him and I’ll call Inspector Kobayashi so he can alert his Yasukuni Shrine team to pick up the tail when you arrive.” “Yes, sir.”

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Kenji dug out his police ID and badged his way through the attendant’s gate, following the priest down the escalator. His quarry walked halfway down the platform, then stood and peered into the dark tunnel on the Kudanshita-bound side. Kenji took up a position that would put him on the suspect’s train, one car behind. He kept an eye on the priest while pretending to check his phone messages. As the next train eased to a stop, Kenji stepped on and grabbed a seat that allowed him a clear view through the connecting door. The suspect sat next to a dozing grandmother, staring straight ahead. Between Hon-Komagome and Todaimae, the woman seated opposite uneasily moved out of his line of sight, shifting further down the car as exiting passengers left empty seats. Motionless except for his left hand, the Shinto priest was fingering the beads of a…Buddhist rosary? Kenji set his mouth in a determined line. He intended to prevent any of the gods from answering this priest’s prayers.

Chapter 74 Friday, April 19 9:00 P.M.

Kenji

One of Inspector Kobayashi’s men casually fell in behind the small, Nike-wearing priest as he passed under the iron torii gate looming over the entrance to the Yasukuni Shrine. Kenji stopped and sat at a picnic table by the shuttered ramen stand, his job done. He watched the assistant inspector from headquarters meander after the priest, who had paused to purify his hands and mouth at the stone cistern. They continued toward the main building, dwarfed by the massive Divine Gate as they passed beneath. The long promenade leading into the most controversial shrine in Japan was dotted with fallen cherry petals, ironed flat by the feet of hundreds of visitors who arrived daily to pay their respects to Japan’s war dead. The monument’s gilt-edged cedar eaves enshrined the generations of souls who’d died serving their country, not discriminating against those who’d been called war criminals by Japan’s enemies. The shrine was nearly deserted tonight. The tables faithfully manned by T-shirt-selling right-wing groups during the day were stowed away, the photographer who took souvenir portraits at the entrance was at home, soaking in his bath. As Kenji sat in the quiet grounds before returning to his post at the Komagome Shrine, a breeze stirred the branches above, sifting pale petals onto his shoulders like fresh

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snow. “Fancy meeting you here.” Oki’s familiar voice hailed him from the shadows as he approached and dropped onto the bench next to Kenji. “Inspector Kobayashi asked me to take you to the sumo ring, to relieve the guy patrolling that zone.” “What? I’m on Mori’s team. I should be getting back to Komagome.” “Not as of five minutes ago. Kobayashi cleared it with Superintendent Noguchi. The sumo ring is really out of the way and he wants to use the guy who’s covering it to nab the perp if he makes a move.” Oki paused, then explained, “Ikeda-san is Inspector Kobayashi’s kohai.” No further explanation was needed. Any decent sempai mentor would look out for the career interests of his kohai junior. Bringing in the Shrine Killer would mean a promotion for them both. Kenji hoisted himself to his feet, feeling more than ever like an insignificant pawn. Silently, they walked through the massive, dark wood gate, cutting to the right near the Noh stage. A woman with chin-length hair strolled past, chiffon scarf around her neck. Police decoy? Passing the garlands of origami draped on the racks of wooden prayer plaques, they made their way past the war museum, where a spit-shined Zero dreamed of faded glory, imprisoned behind a wall of glass. The sumo ring was beyond the meeting hall, set in an outdoor amphitheater. “Wrestling with the gods” had grown out of Shinto practice, and several times a year hundreds of sumo amateurs gathered at the Yasukuni Shrine in their loincloths, praying at the main hall for victory before descending to this outdoor stage to battle it out. Ringed by a thick screen of trees, on tournament days the grassy bowl was packed with raucous, yakitori-eating fans, but tonight it was silent except for the occasional nocturnal birdcall. Moonlight illuminated the deserted pavilion with its sacred rice-straw ring, throwing the earthen stage into deep shadow. A solidly built man trudged toward them out of the darkness. “Are you Ikeda?” Oki asked. The man nodded and Oki passed on Inspector Mori’s orders to join the stakeout at the main

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worship hall. Cheered by the unexpected prospect of getting in on the action—and the credit—Ikeda hurriedly pointed out the boundaries of his patrol area, bowed, then trotted in the direction of the sanctuary. Kenji surveyed the sumo grounds with resignation. “This place is so out of the way, it’s not even a shortcut to anywhere. I hope Mori won’t forget to call us in after he catches that priest.” “I’d better get back to my patch.” Oki yawned and gestured toward the dark teahouse between the amphitheater and the garden. “I’m on the other side of this hill, keeping an eye on the koi pond in case our man decides to feed the fish before strangling his next victim.” “Hey, you never know—he might decide to take a little swim after dropping by the sumo ring for a pre-murder workout,” Kenji joked. “Why don’t we make our rounds, then meet back here for a cup of tea? I brought a thermos.” Kenji nodded as they parted ways. Half an hour later, Oki was handing him a cup of steaming ocha, and pouring one for himself from a stainless steel flask. They seated themselves on the steps of the teahouse and sipped contentedly. Although Oki’s brew was not the costly mattcha elegantly whipped into a froth for tea ceremony, even sipping ordinary green tea on a fine spring evening while breathing in the fragrance of the teahouse’s cedar beams was pleasant. A scream of agony ripped the still air. It came from the garden. They scrambled to their feet, knocking over the thermos as they hit the ground running. The sound escalated, an unholy keening reeling them toward the koi pond. Oki was first to burst through the bushes and spot the burning man staggering out of the pondside pavilion. It was Ikeda. Fire engulfed his left side, his mouth a gaping O of terror and pain as a tongue of flame licked up into his hair. As Oki sprinted to his aid, a blur of white separated from the conflagration and disappeared into the bushes beyond. Kenji detoured to intercept the fugitive as Oki tackled the burning man, his momentum plunging them into the koi pond. Kenji fought his way through the bushes, following the running footsteps.

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“Stop! Police!” he shouted, stumbling over an unseen root as he left the garden behind. The blur had resolved into a flurry of robes, an oven-mitt hat fluttering behind the fleeing priest like a mutant kite, tethered to his neck by its chin cord. Throwing a look over his shoulder, the fugitive saw that Kenji was almost upon him. He spun around and planted his feet, holding something in his fist. A tiny flame flickered as Kenji hit him, knocking him to the hard paving stones. Panting, Kenji pinned the smaller man with his body, but the priest flicked his lighter again and Kenji’s jacket caught fire, a line of heat racing up his back. “Aughh!” he cried, rolling to smother the flames. The suspect scrambled to his feet, but suddenly there were shouts all around, pounding feet converging, cops grabbing the priest, slapping on handcuffs. Kenji staggered to his feet, pain from the burns stinging like a whiplash. Inspector Kobayashi arrived, breathless. “Where’s Ikeda?” “Koi pond,” Kenji gasped. “He’s injured.” The inspector ran toward the garden. One of the headquarters detectives pulled out his phone, dialed 119, and shouted, “Send an ambulance!” as Kenji began to shiver from the burn on his back and the adrenaline letdown. Oki arrived, soaking wet, hair plastered to his head. “Are you all right?” The first wave of pain had hit hard, but it was settling down to bearable. “I’ll live,” Kenji replied. “What about Ikeda?” “Pretty bad. Kobayashi’s with him. He sent me to wait for the medics.” Sirens approached, then shut down as an ambulance rolled to a stop in the parking lot beside the meeting hall. Two men leaped from the cab and slid a collapsible gurney from the back doors in one well-choreographed motion. Spotting Kenji’s injury, they started toward him. “You the burn victim?” “Help the guy by the koi pond first.” Kenji pointed toward the garden. Then he turned to look at the priest, standing silently between two detectives, face blank, hands pinned behind his back.

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The woman he and Oki had passed earlier—minus her scarf, short wig stuffed into her handbag— limped up to stand before the prisoner. “Yep, that’s him,” she confirmed with satisfaction, rubbing the red mark on her neck. “I’m going to enjoy testifying against you, you slippery little prick.” The little priest looked right through her, his eyes like empty holes. Superintendent Noguchi arrived with his entourage as the paramedics emerged from the garden, bumping Ikeda’s gurney urgently toward the waiting ambulance. Inspector Kobayashi ordered Oki to accompany Ikeda and call when there was any news. The emergency vehicle screeched off in a flash of lights and blare of sirens. Shell-shocked, Kobayashi stared after it, then turned and began to brief Noguchi, brushing off the superintendent’s suggestion that he follow Ikeda to the hospital. He walked his superior through everything that had happened since the suspect had arrived at the Yasukuni Shrine, but when he began to explain how the priest had used his lighter to set his kohai afire, his face filled with rage. Without warning, he rounded on the handcuffed prisoner and hit him hard in the face—once, twice—before being pulled away, his fury not nearly spent. The suspect slumped between the two detectives who flanked him, blood dripping from his damaged nose and split lip. “Take a walk,” Noguchi barked at Kobayashi, then ordered the nearest assistant inspector to patch up the prisoner and take him to an interview room at headquarters. As the suspect was led away to a waiting squad car, the crime tech van pulled into the parking lot. Noguchi outlined the areas where they’d need to collect evidence, and soon halogen spotlights blazed, creating islands of high noon amid the dark buildings. After instructing the remaining investigators to burn the midnight oil tracking down the suspect’s identity and background, he turned to Kenji. “Glad you were at the right place at the right time tonight, Nakamura-san. Now, go get those burns attended to.” “Yes, sir.”

Chapter 75 Saturday, April 20 4:30 P.M.

Kenji

Even though it was 4:00 on a Saturday afternoon, party-sized bottles of sake had been cracked open and Section Chief Tanaka had refilled everyone’s cup several times. Today, instead of four-color maps and crime scene photos, steely-faced soap opera samurai galloped to honorable deaths on the muted overhead projector as the squad waited for Superintendent Noguchi’s press conference to interrupt the afternoon programming. In the meantime, public toasts were being drunk to the successful conclusion of the Shrine Murder case, and private ones to the absence of Inspector Mori and the First Investigative Division. The elite murder squad had returned to their offices downtown, the official case banner crumpled into a trash can, and the room returned to its usual bareness except for six bags of trash waiting to be carted downstairs for collection Monday morning. Kenji paused in the doorway, his commendation tucked under his arm. Damn, he should have stopped in the squad room and tossed it in his desk drawer before coming to the party. He could use another pain pill, too; his back was beginning to throb. The doctor who’d wrapped it last night at Komagome Hospital told him there wouldn’t be any permanent damage, but in the meantime it hurt like hell. By the end of the long ceremony downtown, at which Superintendent Noguchi’s team and a few National Public Servant Career Group up-and-comers like Kenji had been papered with commendations,

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he’d been wishing he hadn’t trudged out to National Police Headquarters to watch the top brass recast themselves in all the starring roles. Returning to the elevator, he rode it back down to three, but by the time he’d pushed aside the tumble of miscellany in his bottom drawer and wedged in the awkward framed certificate, Oki and Suzuki were arriving in the squad room with three cups and a half-empty bottle. The big detective grinned. “Let’s see it!” “I, uh, dropped it off at home,” Kenji lied, kicking the drawer shut as Suzuki handed him the sake cup. Oki poured all around and proposed a toast to Kenji’s career-enhancing afternoon. “It’s almost time for the press conference,” Kenji said, uncomfortable that he’d been singled out for the honors because Noguchi wanted to advance the career of a fellow Tokyo University graduate. “Shouldn’t we go back upstairs?” “And let you get out of telling us everything you overheard this afternoon that they’ll certainly leave out of the official version?” Oki refilled their cups and fixed Kenji with his most severe judo sensei look. “We’re waiting.” “Okay, okay, just let me take another pain pill first.” He laughed, awkwardly reaching into his jacket pocket, trying not to stretch the burn on his back the wrong way. When he’d dry-swallowed the pill and chased it with a dose of sake, he gingerly settled his bandaged back against the chair and began. “The Shrine Killer’s real name is Sōjiro Kudo. His family has run the Kosaka Shrine in Akita prefecture forever. Apparently, Kudo hung an ema prayer plaque with a serpent design on the rack at the Yasukuni Shrine before he attacked the police decoy. Mori sent a team of crime techs to search the other murder sites and they found identical plaques buried in the racks of ema at all three. They came from a shipment that Kudo’s father reported stolen when his son was twenty-six, right before Sōjiro disappeared.” Kenji took a sip of sake. “His parents aren’t saying anything except that they haven’t heard from him in four years, but a woman who used to be a shrine maiden there told local police that in the months before Kudo left home, his father called her in several times to help with purification ceremonies on the

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shrine grounds. One of the Kosaka beat officers said he was pretty sure he knew the reason—that summer, there was a rash of pet disappearances from neighboring houses that stopped after the son disappeared.” “You mean he was practicing on animals before he started attacking women?” Suzuki drew back in horror. “Looks like it,” Kenji said. “One of Mori’s assistant inspectors told me the family kept it hushed up because not only did Sōjiro kill the pets on the shrine grounds, he laid them out as if for a Buddhist funeral, with rosaries. Kind of a slap in the face to his father and his ancestors, since they’ve been Shinto priests for generations.” “Some headshrinker is going to have a long, happy career analyzing this one.” Oki laughed, topping up their cups. “They haven’t yet pinned down what he was doing for the first three years after he left Kosaka, but for the past nine months he’s been in the Tokyo area, working as a groundskeeper and handyman. Last summer, he was dividing his time between a couple of small shrines in Adachi-ku, including the one where the first victim was discovered. Then he moved to Yokohama, where the next two victims were found.” Oki refilled their cups. Kenji continued, “Since the murders in Yokohama, Kudo’s been doing odd jobs at the Nezu Shrine. The head priest turned over the address listed on his employment application, and Tommy Loud’s crew found Kojurin incense, a box of surgical gloves, and a spool of yellow binding twine under his kitchen sink. The twine matches the evidence from the second crime scene. Last night Kudo tried to choke the police decoy with a length of dry-cleaning bag he dropped when Ikeda surprised him.” “Why didn’t he use the Taser on Ikeda last night?” “Apparently he hadn’t realized the batteries had run low. It worked fine on the decoy, and he had the dry-cleaning bag round her neck before Ikeda saw what was happening and came running. But when

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Kudo tried to use it on the assistant inspector, it fired for less than two seconds before fizzling. Ikeda was incapacitated long enough for Kudo to dig the lighter from his backpack, but he wasn’t knocked out, just disoriented. He tried to rush Kudo, and got burned.” “Did Noguchi get a confession?” Kenji set down his cup. “No, but it doesn’t really matter. They’ve got so much evidence, the prosecutor says it’ll be a slam dunk.” Oki topped up all their cups and they toasted to that. “What about Shimada, sir?” Suzuki asked. “We still haven’t found out the name of that third woman he said he ‘helped.’” Oki said, “The other two families finally came across with info that matched his story, though, right?” Suzuki nodded. “Along with Rika Ozawa, that should be enough to put him away for a good long while,” Oki said, draining his cup. He set it down and excused himself to the men’s room. Suzuki checked his watch and said, “Shouldn’t we be going back upstairs to watch the press conference, sir?” “Go ahead,” Kenji said. “I’ll be up in a minute.” Suzuki bowed a final “congratulations” to his sempai and disappeared up the stairs. Kenji sighed and felt the silence of the deserted squad room gather around him. The Daruma cell phone ornament Yumi had pressed into his hand stared at him from the far edge of his desk. Its red robe was scuffed down to the plastic in places, and if its eyes had ever been blacked in, they weren’t now. He picked it up and thought of how she’d run to him that night at the Nezu Shrine, how for a few minutes she’d been all his, even though she was engaged to Ichiro Mitsuyama. Opening his middle drawer, he fished around for a pen. He uncapped it and filled in one eye, then set the little figure back in its place.

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Oki came up behind him and poured the dregs of the bottle into his sake cup. “Let me guess what you wished for, Nakamura-san. I predict you’ll be filling in that other eye at a desk in Chiyoda Ward headquarters this time next year.” Kenji shook his head and smiled. “Oki-san, it cheers me up to discover you aren’t always right.” Kenji raised his cup to the little Daruma. The bodhisattva had until September. Yumi wasn’t married . . . yet.

Chapter 76 Saturday, April 20 10:00 P.M.

Yumi

The cool night air made Yumi pull her wrap up over her bare arms as she slipped out to the balcony adjoining the ballroom where the Mitsuyama-sponsored film festival gala was in full swing. In the four days since she’d pressed Rika’s Daruma ornament into Kenji’s hand, Ichiro and his family had swept her up in a whirlwind of wedding preparations. Hotel banquet-room tours, menu tasting, a visit to the shrine where the three cups of ceremonial sake would be drunk, and a slightly worrying discussion about where they would live once they were married. When Mrs. Mitsuyama had suggested renovating a wing of the family house in Hiroo, Ichiro hadn’t opposed it. They’d have to have a little discussion about that, but it could wait until their most recent differences had blown over. After Ichiro had handed down his family’s injunction against being involved in Rika’s case, she’d been waiting for his parents to follow up with a politely couched lecture on her obligations as a future Mitsuyama wife. When she asked Ichiro why they hadn’t mentioned anything, he admitted he hadn’t actually told them. He’d been the one to decide that she shouldn’t be involved. Why alarm his family unnecessarily? he’d said. She was furious, but this time she hadn’t stormed out. The auspicious date had been chosen, the hall had been reserved, her mother had attended the first meeting of the select ladies’ club Mrs. Mitsuyama had invited her to join, her father’s book was at the editor. It

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was too late to call things off. Stop dwelling on the imperfections, she told herself, looking out over the glittering city at her feet. Most girls would still switch places with her in a heartbeat. Tonight was the first time she’d appeared socially as Ichiro’s fiancée, and she was dressed head to toe in Mitsuyama finery. Her entire outfit, down to the stockings, had been selected two days ago under the watchful but indulgent eye of Mrs. Mitsuyama at their flagship department store. As she stood in her underwear in a dressing room bigger than her bedroom, deferential saleswomen offered sheaves of cocktail dresses for her consideration. Mrs. Mitsuyama subtly steered her toward designs she felt would be most appropriate for the occasion. Since Yumi would soon be a married woman, didn’t she agree dark blue might be a better choice than orange? Her long legs looked lovely in the Miu Miu, but perhaps it was a trifle short? The Junko Watanabe, on the other hand, she’d be able to wear for years to come. Finally they’d compromised on a Prada that was blue, but a little shorter than Mrs. Mitsuyama’s ideal. Back home, Coco had given it a provisional stamp of approval, advising she shorten it another ten centimeters and wear it with silver stilettos. Yumi hadn’t, of course, but the memory made her smile. Good-old Coco. A breeze stirred the hem of her dress as a wail of sirens drifted up from far below. She moved to the railing and looked down. Two police cars, lights flashing, raced through the parting traffic, heading toward Shibuya. What was Kenji doing tonight? Was he sitting in a car somewhere, staking out a criminal’s apartment, working on another case? Was he at his desk, writing up a report? Was he trying not to think of her, the way she was trying not to think of him? She hadn’t heard from him since the night Rika’s killer confessed. And what did she expect? She’d made her choice. Did she think she was such a hot property that a guy who could have any woman he wanted was going to keep pursuing her? It was Saturday night, after all. He was probably out with some woman she’d never met, laughing with her, pouring sake for her, looking at her across the table with those lazy eyes, his lips curving into a

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slow smile. And that’s how it should be, she told herself, trying to shut the door on the faint but persistent voice that told her she was making a mistake. She closed her eyes, trying to let go of the ache that started up in her chest every time she told herself it was only right that Kenji find someone else who made his heart beat faster, someone else to hold, someone else to kiss . . . Arms encircled her from behind and she took a sharp breath, startled. “I thought I might find you out here.” Ichiro kissed her on the back of the neck, below her upswept hair. She put on a smile before turning to her fiancé. The last thing she wanted him to guess was that, for a split second, she’d mistaken him for someone else.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next Only In Tokyo Mystery by Jonelle Patrick

FALLEN ANGEL Available November 2012 From Intermix

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Chapter 1 Late Thursday night 12:30 a.m. CHERRY Cherry stumbled out of the elevator and fell into Shinya’s arms. Safe. The host club was still crowded, even though it was past midnight. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights twinkled, imitating the night sky. Mirrored walls overlaid with ornate gold script reflected the dark leather banquettes and multiplied the “stars.” Light pooled on the alabaster tables, illuminating the sparkle of bubbles rising in champagne flutes, while leaving the hosts and their adoring customers in shadowy privacy. Pop music throbbed, masking intimate conversations. “Cherry-san? Are you all right?” Shinya asked, steadying her and peering at the smudged mascara under eyes still puffy from crying. Stepping back, she hastily covered the bruises on her arms with her wrap. “I will be, after I freshen up. Is Hoshi…?” “I’ll tell him you’re here.” When she emerged from the ladies’ room five minutes later, broken nail filed, makeup repaired, still limping a little, Shinya was waiting patiently with a hot towel for her hands. Hoshi must still be busy. She swallowed her disappointment, knowing he’d come as soon as he was free. Meanwhile, she didn’t mind having a drink with Shinya, whose angelic features were spiced with just enough bad boy to make him almost as attractive as her favorite. He smiled and escorted her into the club, where every table was occupied by women spending lavishly on dandies so handsome and charming they could make as much in a month as a salaryman earned in a year. “Hoshi will be here soon,” he apologized, ushering her to a table and seating himself at her side. “In the meantime…?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, asking what she’d like to drink. Cherry watched him mix her shō-chū and water, his elegant gestures making an art of the preparation. Offering it with a bow, Shinya made one for himself, then pulled out his silver lighter when he saw her digging for her Lucia Menthols. Flicking it to life near his chest, he extended it with practiced grace. Flame licked the end of

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her cigarette. After her first calming puff, she began to relax. Only women were welcomed at host clubs; if her pursuer had managed to follow her, he wouldn’t make it past Taiyo, who’d taken Shinya’s place at the door. And soon Hoshi would be sitting next to her, chasing away the nightmare of the past two hours. He was the only man she’d ever met who didn’t take and take and take. Hoshi was never too preoccupied to notice she’d picked out her dress especially for him, never too tired to listen to how much it hurt when Managersan criticized her in front of her co-workers. He’d ignore her bruises unless she mentioned them, but if she did, Hoshi would never say, “People who play with fire should expect to get burned.” He never made her lie to him, never asked questions she didn’t want to answer. From the moment Hoshi sat down with her, she’d be the center of his universe. Cherry closed her eyes and leaned back against the banquette. Safe. At Club Nova she could shut out all her troubles, at least for a little while.

Chapter 2 Friday, November 8 5:30 a.m. KENJI Tokyo Metropolitan Police Detective Kenji Nakamura looked away, embarrassed. The victim’s panties were showing, an unnecessary humiliation on top of the indignity of death. Resisting the urge to twitch her dress down over her underwear, he hoped the crime techs would arrive soon. They’d prop up screens to shield her from view before taking photos and examining her. The sun hadn’t yet climbed over the rooftops of the hodgepodge of buildings lining this narrow backstreet. Most were faced with grimy tile or graying stucco, built right after the war when cheap Western-style construction meant modern and forward-thinking. A groggy husband with pajamas poking out the bottoms of his trousers trudged by in the dim gray dawn, pulled along by a tiny terrier. It made a beeline for the body at the bottom of the stairs, but the man pulled it back without looking up as he shuffled zombie-like toward the vending machine at the end of the block, stocked with hot canned caffeine. Light glowed behind only a handful of windows; it was too early for most residents to be up. Kenji had been awakened at 5:30 a.m. by the duty officer’s call, slumped over his Police Inspector Exam Study Guide at the kitchen table. His body still ached from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position, and even the satisfaction of wearing his new spring suit, custom-tailored to fit his tall frame, didn’t make up for the fact that he’d yet to have his own cup of tea. The lazy dark eyes that made women look twice when he walked into a room just felt tired and itchy this morning. He rubbed them and stifled a yawn. A doghouse-sized Shinto shrine sat on a granite plinth next to the victim’s apartment building, guarded by inari foxes so ancient their crafty stone features had been worn smooth. The sasaki branches in its vases were fresh, though, and several mismatched glasses of saké had been left as offerings. Residents of this quiet neighborhood still clung to the old ways; rents were equally old-fashioned. But that alone didn’t explain why a girl who looked like she worked in the red light district of Kabuki-chō had died several stops down the Yamanote Line in Komagome.

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Nightshade Kneeling briefly before the body, he folded his hands in a moment of respectful silence, then stood and

straightened his jacket. Pushing back the wings of his thick black hair, he rescued the officer who’d been first on the scene from the talkative apartment manager who’d discovered the body. Bowing, he showed his police ID. “I’m Detective Kenji Nakamura, from Komagome Station.” Turning to the to the beat officer, he asked, “Are you the one who called in the incident?” “Hai.” The young man returned Kenji’s bow and stood at attention. He couldn’t be more than 19 or 20, still living at home, his uniform shirt laundered and ironed by his mother. The way he avoided looking at the girl at the bottom of the stairs told Kenji this might be the first dead body he’d ever seen. The apartment manager was a different story. The corpse on her doorstep was clearly the most exciting thing that had happened to her since the war. Her unnaturally black hair was granny-permed, brushed back from her forehead over a lined face that had shrunk to a surprisingly accurate twin of the speak-no-evil monkey carving at the Komagome shrine. “What time did you discover the victim?” Kenji asked. “5:07 a.m.,” the old woman answered, stealing a glance at the girl. “She was lying just like that when I came out to sweep the steps. I try to tidy things up and freshen the offerings at the shrine before the neighborhood starts stirring, but these days…well, some of my tenants work very strange hours.” She leaned toward Kenji and whispered. “Every once in a while they come home just as I’m getting up, and not always sober. Even the girls.” She straightened and continued, “I watch all the detective dramas on TV, so I knew not to touch the body, even though her unmentionables were showing. I expect you’ll need me to come down to the station this morning to give you my fingerprints, and as for my alibi…” Kenji held up a hand and said, “Thank you, Manager-san, but I think that can wait. I do need to ask you a few questions, though, if you don’t mind.” He took out his notebook. “Do you know the victim?” “Sakura Endo, apartment 201. First door at the top of the stairs. Seemed like a nice girl, always paid her rent on time, but…” She pursed her lips. “Goes out dressed like that. Not surprising she got into trouble, is it?” “What do you mean ‘trouble’?” “If murder isn’t trouble, I don’t know what is!” Kenji turned to look at the girl crumpled at the foot of the concrete steps. This didn’t look like a

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homicide; it looked like an accident. Her bleached, elaborately curled hair and short dress identified her as a kyabajō, one of the glamorous young women who spun youth into gold at a hostess bar. But despite her employment in the mizu shōbai entertainment world, he’d be very surprised if someone had killed her. Murder was rare in Japan, and usually the work of a drunken family member who sobered up the next day, was smitten with remorse, and confessed. Dark stairs plus spike heels plus the cocktails she drank while entertaining customers most likely added up to an unfortunate tumble. Her white chiffon dress had snagged on a step and hiked up on one side. She’d lost one dangling cherry earring and a pointy-toed gold shoe. Blood matted the girl’s hair and trickled down the steps, pooling in a teardrop-shaped pockmark in the pavement. Her skillful make-up gave the impression of beauty, but she’d covered up a small mole on her chin, her eyes were a little too close together, and she’d probably been in the habit of flirtatiously holding her hand up to cover her mouth when she laughed, concealing the crooked front teeth that now showed between her parted lips. What a shame. She looked barely old enough to drink, let alone die. He turned back to the building manager. “Did you hear her fall?” “No. My apartment is down there, on the other side of the building.” She pointed to the far corner. Further questions were postponed by the arrival of a white van. It rolled to a stop and a lanky foreigner jumped from the passenger side, cradling a digital camera. “Nakamura-san, o-hisashiburi desu,” he greeted Kenji in perfect Japanese. Long time no see. The old woman’s jaw dropped. Even Kenji was still startled every time he heard the red-haired Australian crime tech speak Japanese like a native. The first time he’d met Tommy Loud, all he’d known about him was that the Superintendent General had foisted him on the northwest Tokyo crime lab because the SG’s daughter had defiantly run off and married this foreigner whose very name reinforced the Aussie stereotype. Once they’d worked together, though, Kenji discovered that Loud was not only technically meticulous, he was talented at getting around regulations when “the way things are done” got in the way of getting things done. “Rowdy-san,” he said, mispronouncing Loud’s name in typical Japanese fashion. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.” “What have we got this time?” the crime tech asked.

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Nightshade “Looks like an accident to me, but why don’t you take a look.” Loud nodded, switched on his camera, and began photographing the body as his two blue-uniformed

assistants erected the screens that would protect the victim’s privacy once the street began to wake up. Kenji badly needed that cup of tea. Where was Assistant Detective Suzuki? He’d called him nearly half an hour ago. Suzuki had transferred with Kenji to the Komagome station last November, having graduated from university two years behind him on the same fast track to a high-ranking career in police administration. As his sempai mentor, Kenji’s job was to train the assistant detective and look out for his interests as they climbed the ladder together; in return, his kohai junior was expected to give him unquestioning loyalty and support. “Good morning, Nakamura-san. Sorry it took me so long, sir.” Finally. Despite the early hour, Suzuki arrived in an immaculately pressed suit, not one hair out of place because his monk-like haircut was so much shorter than the dress code demanded. He bowed deferentially, but stopped short of saluting. Suzuki had learned that observing the finer points of police regulations tended to piss off his superior early in the morning. He’d also learned what his sempai’s first request of the day would be. He dug into a plastic Family Mart bag. “Dōzo,” he said, handing Kenji a bottle of hot green tea. Kenji accepted it with thanks. Encouraged by his sempai’s civilized response, Suzuki ventured, “Looks like we finally have a real case to investigate, sir!” “Looks like an accident,” Kenji corrected him, cracking open the seal on the tea bottle and downing a big slug. Suzuki’s cheerfulness evaporated. It had been a slow month for crime and everyone on the squad was being given tedious busywork or loaned out to other divisions. Suzuki had been absent more than most, assigned to some project in Traffic Section, not exactly an elite career detective’s dream job. Noting his kohai’s glum face, Kenji said, “Even accidents need to be investigated. Do you think Traffic Section can get along without you today?” “Just today? You don’t think…?” “Let’s see what Rowdy-san says after he examines the body.” Kenji introduced Suzuki to the apartment manager, directing him to get contact information for the

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victim’s next of kin, then take the young police box officer to canvass the other buildings on the block, to find out if anybody had witnessed Sakura Endo’s fall. Suzuki followed the manager toward her apartment, nodding politely as the old woman advised him how to run the investigation. “Nakamura-san?” Tommy Loud appeared at his side. Kenji capped his tea and followed the crime tech behind the screens, looking over Loud’s shoulder as he crouched next to the victim. He was relieved to see that the girl’s panties were no longer on view. “She hasn’t been dead more than a few hours. Last night it got down to 62º, so I’d say she died sometime between 1:00 and 3:00 a.m.” He pointed to the faint dark splotches ringing her upper arm. “Judging by the development of these bruises, I’d guess she got them not too long before she died.” He gently brushed the milktea-colored ringlets away from her right cheek so Kenji could see the faint discoloration where he’d swabbed away her makeup. “This too. Looks to me like somebody slapped her around last night.” The crime tech stood and folded his arms, considering the body. Then he looked up toward the second floor and squeezed past the sprawled figure. Slowly making his way up the stairs, he peered at each of the concrete steps. “There’s blood here.” He pointed to a dark blotch on the scarred metal edge. “And here,” indicating another smear further up, leaving numbered tags to mark them for his assistants. He paused to look at the railing near the top, left another tag, then climbed the last few steps. The stairs ended at an outdoor hallway with three faded turquoise doors spaced along its length. Outside each apartment hung plastic frames fitted with miniature clothespins, the far one still festooned with an assortment of socks, t-shirts, and uniform pants, forgotten overnight and now damp with dew. Loud stopped to examine something near the first apartment door. His camera flashed twice. He said something that was drowned out by the passing of a Yamanote Line train. “Say again?” Kenji requested, when it was quiet. “Fresh scuffs on the carpet up here,” Loud called down over the flaking metal railing. The camera flashed once more. Kenji climbed the stairs and squatted down to look at the scrapes outside the door to apartment 201. A fight? He rang the bell at 202. No answer. He rang again. Nothing.

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Nightshade He moved on to 203. He was about to push the bell a second time when a bleary-eyed man with an

unshaven face cracked open the door. Kenji identified himself and asked if he’d heard any noise last night, but wasn’t surprised when the man removed his earplugs and said no, he hadn’t heard a thing. Kenji was making his way back to the stairs when a shriek from below pulled him to the railing. A schoolgirl had pushed past the police screens and stood, swaying, over the victim. “No!” she wailed. Suzuki arrived one step behind and gently backed her away. She stood, weeping in earnest now, mascara-stained tears streaming down her plump cheeks. Kenji trotted down the stairs, carefully skirting the crime tech’s tags. “Sorry, sir,” said Suzuki, letting go of her and stepping back. “I didn’t expect her to bolt like that. This is the victim’s roommate, Kiku Kimura.” The hostess lived with a high school student? Then Kenji saw that although Kiku’s white sailor blouse resembled the uniforms worn by private school coeds, it was cropped short to expose a strip of smooth belly above a plaid, pleated skirt far too skimpy to pass any headmaster’s beady eye. Once-curled pigtails drooped alongside her round cheeks, tied with ribbons that matched her skirt. She was slightly pigeon-toed, a look accentuated by white knee socks that did nothing to slim her sturdy ankles. She must be in her late 20s, and there was only one reason she’d be dressed like that at her age. Fūzokujō. Sex worker. “I’m sorry, Miss Kimura. This must be a shock for you,” Kenji said, steering her away from the body toward the crime scene van. She climbed in and slumped in the passenger seat, hugging herself in the chilly morning air. Her weeping had subsided to sniffs and she wiped her face, leaving faint dark smears across her cheeks. “Have you and Miss Endo known each other long?” Kenji asked. The girl nodded, taking a shaky breath. “Since middle school. We grew up together in Chiba.” “How long have you lived in Tokyo?” “She came right after high school. Nine years ago. She wanted to sing in a band, but after a few months she got a job at Club Heaven to pay the rent. Pretty soon she was sending me pictures of the beautiful dresses she wore every night, telling me about the rich men who bought her drinks. I came a year later.” “If she worked in Kabuki-chō, how did she end up living in Komagome?”

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“It’s only an 20-minute train ride. A lot of hostesses live around here, because it’s cheaper and safer than the neighborhoods closer to work.” “Do you work at Club Heaven too?” “No.” She hung her head. “Love Train.” Ah. Several rungs down from the hostess clubs, it was the most famous of the “train groping” bars. He’d never been to one, but he knew this particular niche of the sex trade catered to men who fantasized about molesting fellow commuters. For a price, customers could enter a room outfitted like a subway car – right down to the recorded station announcements and realistically vibrating floor – and fondle the women “passengers” to their hearts’ content. Schoolgirls were a popular fantasy. “When was the last time you saw your roommate?” “Last night before we both left for work. Around 6:00.” “And you haven’t been home since?” “No. My shift ended at 2:00 but I went out for a drink with someone afterwards.” She glanced at Kenji nervously. He wasn’t in the Public Morals section, so he ignored the fact that “drink” probably meant something kinkier and less legal. “Your roommate, did she ever bring dates home after work? Any chance she wasn’t alone last night when she fell?” “No. We never brought anyone from work to our apartment.” Fresh tears spilled down Kiku’s cheeks. “How can she be dead? Last night she said she might have some good news to tell me this weekend. She was wearing her lucky earrings!” “Lucky earrings?” Kenji pictured the victim, a bunch of red fruit tangled in her hair. “She bought them the day she got her job at Club Heaven. Her real name was Sakura,” Kiku explained, “but everyone called her Cherry.”

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ABOUT

THE

AUTHOR

Jonelle Patrick divides her time between Tokyo and San Francisco and speaks Japanese well enough to go everywhere from Kabuki theaters to maid cafés. In addition to writing the next book in the Only in Tokyo Mystery series, she chronicles amusing cultural oddities in her blog, Only In Japan (http://jonellepatrick.me/)

and

runs

The

Tokyo

Guide

I

Wish

I’d

Had

website

(http://www.jonellepatrick.com/), which features photos, directions, and descriptions of off-the-beatenpath destinations that visitors don’t usually get to see unless they’re taken around by a local. For photos and a behind-the-scenes look at the Only in Tokyo mysteries, visit Jonelle at www.jonellepatrick.com, follow her on Twitter (@jonellepatrick), or catch up with her on Facebook (http://on.fb.me/zwWzup).