Tokyo Zangyo Page 11

  “Here’s your toothbrush.” Ayana handed it to him. “It’s like having a child.”

  Hiroshi gargled the hot water pouring down on him, and spit and rinsed and gargled and started brushing again. “I thought you wanted a child?”

  “Less so now.”

  “He was horrible.” Hiroshi gargled and spit again.

  “Who?”

  “The dead bucho. What company did you work in?” Hiroshi asked, the toothpaste garbling his already-drunken words.

  “I already told you. Right after college. With Kumiko.”

  “Kumiko?”

  “From our seminar. You told me she was beautiful once. To make me jealous.”

  “Oh, that Kumiko. Your best friend.”

  “She was jealous of you when I started walking home with you instead of her.”

  “You both worked at the same place?”

  “Yeah, Marutobi Company. I told you.”

  “That’s a big company. They do a bit of everything, don’t they? Congratulations.”

  “We thought congratulations too, at first. We had cute little outfits, scarves, a company pin for our first year.”

  “Whatever happened to Kumiko? Are you still in touch?” Hiroshi shouted over the sound of the shower.

  “No. She killed herself.”

  Hiroshi turned off the water. “What?”

  Ayana shoved a towel at him and turned to look in the mirror.

  Hiroshi toweled off, and when he finished, he saw Ayana was weeping. “You never told me that,” he said.

  “You never asked. She took care of me after you left. I was devastated you just left without a word. But she kept me going. And I couldn’t do the same for her.”

  He felt sobered, and wrapped the towel around himself.

  Ayana pulled a hand towel from the rack to wipe her eyes.

  Hiroshi put his hand on her back and massaged her softly.

  “Everything you tell me about this case makes me think of her,” she said.

  “Why did she… she always seemed so… so grounded, so sure of herself.”

  “Lots of little things picked away at her. Harassment, stress, a shitty boyfriend, a shitty boss. She got assigned to a bad section, with boring tasks. She hated the pressure to look right all the time. To look perfect. They gave us rules on make-up, hairstyle, jewelry, high heels, polite Japanese. It was worse than a girls’ high school.”

  Hiroshi pulled Ayana to him.

  “Kumiko hated it more than me. And when things fell apart with her boyfriend and her asshole boss started criticizing her… well, she just…”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Hiroshi tried to wipe her tears, but she batted his hand away. Hiroshi wished he could magically sober up.

  “I’m sorry,” Hiroshi said and put his arms around her. She pulled away and then relented.

  “We’d been such close friends for so long and I just didn’t see it. Her boss tried to fix her up with guys in the company. As if that was why she was hired, why we women were hired, to marry one of the guys in the company.”

  “You were in a different section from Kumiko?” Hiroshi started moving them toward the bedroom with his arm around her.

  “I was in a better section, but every night we had to go drinking with our section, meet other companies for drinks, or work overtime. Kumiko was allergic to alcohol. She couldn’t drink even a little bit. But everyone kept pouring her drinks. She had to fight them off, make excuses, apologize for not drinking.”

  “That sounds… I can’t imagine.”

  “Kumiko really hated it. She should have gone to graduate school. Eto Sensei asked her to.”

  “I remember she was a great student.”

  “But she came from a poor family, a traditional one. Her family forced her to go to work. She supported them and her younger sister, who took her money and despised her for it. I was so worn out myself, I didn’t notice how bad it was with Kumiko. She was a friend from the first year of college. The first day, actually.” Ayana started crying again, harder.

  Hiroshi walked her out of the bathroom and sat her on the bed. He pulled on some shorts from the closet and hung the towel over the closet door. It was like Ayana had soaked up all the pain of Kumiko and stored it in an archive inside herself all these years.

  Hiroshi could only sit next to her and hold her close. “I’m sorry I didn’t even know about this.”

  Ayana doubled over and cried for a long time, not even bothering with a tissue or a towel, just letting the tears fall onto her sweatpants and Hiroshi’s shorts.

  Hiroshi just held her.

  When she caught her breath, Hiroshi reached for some tissues and pulled Ayana close as she dried her eyes and crumpled the tissues to shreds.

  Ayana started beating her fist on Hiroshi’s chest. “Can you not get drunk every day?”

  Hiroshi took her hands. “OK, I won’t.”

  “My father was a salaryman who came home drunk every night after work. Sundays he watched TV and drank beer. I don’t want that for us.”

  “I don’t want that either.”

  “You’re going to feel terrible tomorrow.” Ayana rubbed his chest, then hit him again.

  “I feel bad just thinking about how bad I’m going to feel,” Hiroshi said.

  Ayana smiled finally. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying so much.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Ayana took another wet breath and wiggled to the side to slip the covers down and bend herself inside. Hiroshi climbed under the futon cover and slipped one arm under her head and wrapped the other around her, pulling her close and realizing that somehow her tears were his own. She was crying for them both.

  Chapter 16

  When he woke up, Hiroshi found a pot of coffee, a bottle of ibuprofen and a huge omelette set out on the kitchen island. It was bit too neatly presented, so Hiroshi took it for the scolding it was. His head felt like his brain had been removed, worked over with a wood file, and plopped back inside his skull. He looked for his cellphone, but turning his head made his eyeballs feel yanked on their stems.

  Ayana had, thankfully, turned it off and left it by the sofa, to further reprove him or let him sleep, he couldn’t guess. Cooking an omelette and turning off his phone so he could sleep were a bit different than the little signs of affection during their first months living together, but he would have to think about that later when his brain worked better.

  His cellphone messages told him Takamatsu and Sugamo were on their way to pick him up. Hiroshi texted back for them to wait outside his apartment. He cut the omelette in half, forked in a big bite, and let the coffee ease down the back of his throat. He went to the shower, turning it as hot as he could stand. He opened a window as he dressed to cool himself down, and went back to the kitchen to finish the rest of the omelette and the coffee.

  When Hiroshi emerged from the front door of his apartment building, he held up his hand and squinted against the morning sun.

  Takamatsu was leaning on the car, smoking. Seeing Hiroshi, he stubbed out his cigarette, gestured at the car in irritation, and plopped into the front seat. Sugamo nodded good morning, twisted around to check they were all in, and pulled off.

  Hiroshi closed his eyes for the ride to Akabane and was glad no one spoke. At a crime scene once, a member of the forensic crew told Hiroshi the brain itself has no pain receptors, but if that was true, where did the pain come from? It came from last night’s shochu.

  ***

  Shibutani’s private investigator’s office was on the fifth floor of a small building with a Family Mart convenience store on the first floor across from the taxi and bus circle outside Akabane Station. Sugamo waited outside by the car while Hiroshi got into the small elevator with Takamatsu.

  “You know this guy Shibutani?” Hiroshi asked.

  “He tossed some work my way when I was on suspension. Divorce cases mostly,” Takamatsu said. “I only met him one time, then talked on the phone. Everyone who qu
its the department, or is fired, goes to him for work.”

  The elevator bumped to a stop on the fifth floor. The narrow building housed only one office on each floor, and the one small sign said simply, “Shibutani.”

  Takamatsu knocked.

  Hiroshi stood to the side by the fire exit, the only other door.

  Takamatsu knocked again and tried the door, but it was locked.

  “Call him?” Hiroshi asked.

  “I did when I was waiting for you. No answer.” Takamatsu kneeled down to look at the doorknob.

  The fire door clicked behind them. Hiroshi gave it a light push and it swung open onto the fire escape. He stepped out and looked down, feeling nauseous, and dizzy at the height.

  Still kneeling, Takamatsu pulled out his folding knife and slid it into the gap by the doorknob. He fiddled it up and down for a minute, to no effect. He could get a warrant in an hour but never one to wait, Takamatsu pulled out his folding baton and smashed in the window. He cleared out enough glass to reach in and twist the handle from inside.

  The office was a chaotic jumble of paper and folders. File cabinet drawers gaped, crumpled paper littered the floor, folders were tossed everywhere, and cups and glasses had been smashed in the sink. The office fridge, tipped on its side, dribbled water.

  Then they saw Shibutani, behind the large desk, tied to an upended chair, not moving.

  Hiroshi and Takamatsu rushed over.

  The investigator’s head was bleeding onto the worn gray carpet tiles, most of it coagulated.

  Takamatsu cut the plastic ties from his wrists, arms, and ankles and Hiroshi felt for breathing and a pulse.

  “Weak, but there,” Hiroshi said.

  Takamatsu called for an ambulance and Hiroshi called Sugamo and told him to bring the ambulance crew up as soon as they arrived.

  They stretched Shibutani out on the carpet tiles and Takamatsu put his handkerchief under the back of his bloodied head.

  “How bad is the head wound?” Hiroshi leaned over to see.

  “Every head wound looks bad. We should have come last night.”

  “He must have been tied up for a while. Look at the bruising on his wrists.” Hiroshi took a wool throw blanket from the top of a filing cabinet, the one thing in place, and spread it out over Shibutani.

  The sound of the elevator doors preceded Sugamo by a few seconds. At the sight of the mess, Sugamo pulled back, his eyes wide on his usually impassive face.

  Takamatsu said, “Sugamo, wait downstairs and bring them up as soon as you can.” It was the first time Hiroshi ever heard Takamatsu raise his voice to any of the younger detectives.

  Hiroshi looked back and forth at the mess. “I don’t know how they’re going to get him down in that elevator.”

  “I called Osaki to come right away. And I’ll call Sakaguchi, too.” Sugamo hurried off to wait downstairs.

  Even through the fog of his hangover, Hiroshi could tell Takamatsu was furious at himself. He tried to get Shibutani to say something, but got only a low moan and a phlegmy rattle.

  Takamatsu stayed kneeling. He patted Shibutani’s face and asked him questions. He gave up and turned to Hiroshi.

  “Just start looking underneath everything.”

  Hiroshi looked around the room. “Underneath?”

  “He’s old school. Anything important would be taped up under a drawer.”

  “Did he know what we were coming about?”

  “I told him. We just got here too late.”

  “It could all be gone.”

  Shibutani coughed.

  Takamatsu looked down in his face. “Shibutani, can you tell us where you hid it?”

  Shibutani cleared his throat. “Re—” he managed, before his head lolled to the side.

  Takamatsu monitored his pulse and breathing, checked the head wound again. They both watched the door, listening for the elevator.

  Finally, the gears and motor clicked, and in a minute, the elevator door opened and two ambulance crew members hurried in. Takamatsu got out of the way and watched them check Shibutani.

  After a quick discussion, one of the crew said, “We’ll have to hold him vertical to get him down the elevator. These buildings are not designed for this. Can you give us a hand?”

  Hiroshi and Takamatsu helped raise Shibutani to a sitting position. He was too weak to even keep an arm over their shoulders. The two ambulance crew pulled the chair around and they got Shibutani into it. They took a strap from the gurney to tie around his chest to hold him upright. The rollers worked, so they pushed him to the elevator. Takamatsu squeezed in to ride down with him.

  Hiroshi didn’t know what he was looking for and had no idea what “underneath” could mean in the middle of this chaos, but he started by the door. Whoever ransacked the place had probably worked through the same pattern already. He pulled on gloves.

  Hiroshi opened and checked each drawer, underneath and to the sides. He overturned every stack of papers, every folder, felt all the surfaces and into the cracks. He was looking everywhere for whatever an old-school investigator might have hidden in a place he knew better than anyone and Hiroshi didn’t know at all. It was pointless.

  Takamatsu returned to the office with Sugamo right behind him. “I told him never to work alone. When I quit and go private, one of you is coming with me.”

  “What did he say when you talked with him yesterday?” Hiroshi asked.

  “He said he had it, but he didn’t say what ‘it’ was.” Takamatsu lit a cigarette. He scratched his forehead, took off his trench coat and looked for a place to put it. He righted the coat rack and hung his coat there.

  Takamatsu pointed around the perimeter of the room for Hiroshi and Sugamo, and headed for the desk.

  Hiroshi and Sugamo worked the room from opposite directions. The cabinets were rusted at the edges and dust filled the backs of drawers. Crevices had cobwebs. But the materials were in pristine order.

  Takamatsu got on his knees and started peering at the desk, tapping on it.

  Sugamo said, “It looks like each cabinet holds one year and is ordered by date, then by kana a, ka, sa, ta.”

  Hiroshi went over. “Let’s assume Mayu’s father hired Shibutani right after Mayu’s death. Start there and look at ya, for Yamase first, and o for Onizuka second.”

  Takamatsu looked over. “Try going backward from the last syllable. Probably why they beat him so badly. They couldn’t figure out his filing system.”

  “OK, try se for Yamase and ka for Onizuka.” Hiroshi searched back and forth for those drawers.

  Takamatsu took his pocket knife out and knelt down looking over the desk without touching it. “He’ll have a false bottom or a hollow wall in here somewhere.” He pulled open the top drawer of the desk and worked counterclockwise through the other drawers, but there was nothing.

  Hiroshi pulled open file cabinet drawers, flipped through folders, and shut them again.

  Sugamo said, “He was busy the last few years. Lot of cases in here.”

  Takamatsu got up from the floor and stared at the desk, kicked it. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, put them away, pulled out his pocket knife again, and got down on his back to slide under the desk. Something splintered and Takamatsu pulled out a panel of wood with a long, loud crackle.

  “Flashlight,” Takamatsu commanded.

  Hiroshi opened his cellphone flashlight app. Holding it under the desk, he heard the sound of more wood splintering until Takamatsu wiggled out waving a thick plastic file.

  “How did you figure that out?” Hiroshi asked.

  Takamatsu spread the contents on the desk, smiled and lit a cigarette.

  Sugamo frowned at the top page. “What are all these companies?”

  Hiroshi said, “Companies with embezzlement histories. I think.”

  Takamatsu held up another file. “And the one at the bottom says, ‘Onizuka, Senden.’”

  A local cop pushed in the door, looking nervous in his neat uniform with his baton up a
nd ready.

  “We’re all detectives,” Hiroshi said, all of them holding up their badges.

  The cop looked relieved, put down his baton, and called for backup.

  Chapter 17

  Hiroshi hurried up the stairs to the family restaurant across the bus and taxi rotary from Shibutani’s office. Sugamo had frowned at Hiroshi taking what should have been entered as evidence, Shibutani’s files on Onizuka, but Takamatsu just asked how long Hiroshi needed.

  Inside the bland comfort of the family restaurant, Hiroshi ordered corn soup and iced espresso. Just saying the words to the waitress made him nauseated. He got up to get a glass of water at the self-service counter, but the water tasted like shochu.

  Hiroshi opened the files Shibutani had compiled on Onizuka, a thick stack of account statements, transfer notices and pages of hand-drawn flow charts. He’d done his work checking Onizuka’s bank accounts, stock accounts, tax forms, salary statements, along with those of his wife and son.

  At the bottom of the pile was a running total of what Mayu’s father had paid him. Two million yen plus a list of itemized expenses for each of the past three years. Hiroshi didn’t know exactly how much Yamase made in the Philippines, but that was a chunk of cash for anyone.

  In a separate black plastic folder, there were documents from the Philippines, written in Filipino and English. They had Yamase’s name on them. He’d been arrested for two cases of assault and battery in the last two years, one in Manila and another in Cebu. Shibutani investigated his clients before taking on their cases, it seemed.

  Hiroshi returned to Onizuka’s accounts and wondered how much Mayu knew about them before she killed herself. Maybe she knew too much about her boss? Was that what Mayu’s father wanted to find out? Was that what Shibutani found?

  The waitress brought his soup and coffee and Hiroshi smiled at her, though he was really smiling in anticipation of finding out what the rest of the Excel files, spreadsheets, and flow charts might reveal. He spooned in his soup and felt the sweet, milky corn coating his stomach, making him feel slightly better. The cold espresso also helped.

  Hiroshi kept turning page after page. There were a couple of hundred pages all told. Onizuka also had extensive forex trading accounts and cryptocurrency accounts at several digital currency exchanges. Hiroshi wondered how Onizuka had time to harass his subordinates. He was too busy moving money across the globe.