The Moving Blade Page 3

  “As for Boston, the last-minute cancellation fees you’ve wasted would have bought several tickets. All any woman wants is someone to make an effort.”

  “An effort.” Hiroshi sighed. “That’s what I—”

  “You can’t do this forever.”

  “I know. I can’t send this email either.” He deleted it, as he had so many others recently. He stood up to stretch, noticed the espresso, took a few sips and stretched some more, wincing a bit as he did.

  “Still hurts?” Akiko asked.

  “Before with the bone bruises, I couldn’t move. Now, I can’t sit in one place for too long.”

  “That means they’re healing.”

  The injury had become an excuse to hole up in front of his computer. He drank too much coffee, ate from the convenience store, and slept in the office on a foldout futon chair. He knew all that was not healthy as his face turned pasty, his eyes puffy and his shoulders stiff. For days at a stretch, he talked only to Akiko or overseas investigators, but consoled himself with having cracked six big cases, about one a month, a record of sorts.

  But none of the prosecutions took place in Japan, so everything he did felt done at a distance. He never saw anything more of the criminals than their financial records, just like he never saw anymore of Sanae than her face on the screen. Without Akiko, without her energy and the stream of espresso, he would be totally isolated. He’d even quit going to meetings, always coming up with an excuse to stay in his office.

  Akiko got out of her chair, which she did when she could no longer stand either the monotony of work or Hiroshi’s inertia, and went back to the espresso machine. When she got really exasperated, she found some excuse to go gossip with the staff in the main building. Hiroshi heard her shake the bag of coffee beans like a maraca.

  “Yes, but just a single,” Hiroshi said. “And I’m still not going to Boston.” He didn’t want to say that the best four years of his life had been spent there studying, and in love. He worried that if he went, he would never leave again, never come back to Tokyo.

  Akiko refilled the coffee bean chute and pressed the button for another espresso. After the loud grind and quick brew, she took a cup to Hiroshi and then made another for herself. She took her cup back to her desk and flopped down into her chair, shrugging. She pulled her cellphone from her purse to see if any of her friends had called or texted.

  “I need a new keyboard,” Hiroshi said.

  Akiko made a note.

  “And a new mouse pad.”

  Akiko bounced her head sarcastically and wrote that down too.

  “And more of that air freshener. The smell of cleaning fluids really lingers.”

  Akiko wrote that down.

  Without Akiko, Hiroshi also knew he couldn’t have gotten even the simplest of things done. Akiko didn’t seem to mind the chipped veneer desks with stubborn drawers or the rust-edged file cabinets, but she knew just how to use department funds to acquire anything they needed new—ergonomic chair, LED lights, a trashcan. She had told Hiroshi she was relieved to have been transferred from the main detective offices to help Hiroshi with investment scams, embezzlements and accounting fraud cases. It was better than being in the constant chaos of the main office, with all the desks pushed together, heaped with teetering mountains of folders. She spoke English almost as well as he did, which helped with the investigative reports they sent overseas.

  When the phone rang, Akiko looked at Hiroshi. He had promised to answer every other phone call, but he ignored the ringing until Akiko gave in—again—and picked up. After a minute, she held the phone up in the air and announced, “It’s Sakaguchi. Important. He says your cellphone is off.”

  Hiroshi looked at his cellphone to make sure it was off and plunged back into his screen. “I’m not here,” he said.

  “He can hear you,” Akiko wiggled the phone at him.

  “I told you no calls.”

  Akiko went back to the phone, “As you just heard, he won’t take calls.”

  Hiroshi went back to his screen, trying to shut out her continued conversation with Sakaguchi.

  Akiko held the phone out. “He says he’ll call the chief if he has to.”

  Hiroshi disliked the chief, and avoided him scrupulously, but he liked Sakaguchi. More than that, he trusted him. Sakaguchi had wrestled his way out of a working-class section of Osaka to reach sumo’s makushita ranking, the third highest division, one of the youngest wrestlers to do so ever. When a knee injury wouldn’t heal, he became a policeman in Osaka and started the path to detective, which was as long and steep and grueling as for sumo. When Sakaguchi was promoted—against his will—to Head of Homicide after last summer’s case when Hiroshi got injured and Takamatsu suspended, most of the department felt it was neither entirely deserved nor entirely undeserved.

  Akiko hung up after promising Sakaguchi that Hiroshi would call. “Sakaguchi calls. You don’t answer. Takamatsu calls. You don’t answer. Jim Washington at Interpol calls. You answer.”

  Jim Washington. He needed to call him about this Hawaii case. After last summer’s near-fatal case, Hiroshi became convinced he would be healthier and happier—and safer—working at Interpol. His contact there, Jim Washington, hinted a permanent office position might be opening. Interpol would have an international mindset, computer support, travel expenses, and an office without the leftover smell of cleaning supplies. The Hawaii scam he just broke up would be the icing on his application.

  Akiko continued. “Sakaguchi has always been on your side, and he needs your English.”

  “Well, you go then.”

  “I’d like to.”

  Hiroshi leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He turned on his phone to find his inbox jammed with calls from Sakaguchi, and from Takamatsu, who was still on disciplinary leave for misconduct. He pressed Sakaguchi’s number and tried to sip his espresso but the cup was empty.

  Akiko kept her head down and pretended not to listen.

  “Free sumo tickets?” Hiroshi joked when Sakaguchi answered.

  “My old stablemates can get you some,” Sakaguchi said. “But right now, I need you here.”

  “Last time I heard that, I almost got killed.”

  “I’m not Takamatsu,” Sakaguchi said.

  Hiroshi thought that over.

  “I really need your English. Nothing more,” Sakaguchi said.

  “Where are you exactly?”

  Chapter 4

  Hiroshi almost turned back from the narrow lanes of Golden Gai, but several young detectives guarding the police vans on the main street pointed the way to where Sakaguchi waited. He walked obediently into the maze of arms-width walkways, turning sideways to let the crime scene crew get past him. Bright police lights illuminated the dead-end, throwing sharp shadows through the back alleys and side lanes.

  Hiroshi found Sakaguchi balanced over the bisected, blood-oozing body in the small cul-de-sac. His sumo bulk was awkward against the delicate white crime scene booties stretched over his big shoes. Hiroshi stayed a few steps back, dodging the detectives and specialists hustling back and forth from the body to the evidence bags in the wider lane. Hiroshi moved closer and Sakaguchi stood up, blocking a full view of the body.

  The medical examiner looked up from where she was crouched over the body. “Except for his spine, he’s in two pieces. Short sword. Single stroke. Clean as a laser scalpel.” She stood up, her white coat gleaming in the lights, and continued. “You get sloppier cuts from a sushi chef. For now, it looks like the knife entered near the hip bone, angled up through the liver, stomach and intestines, dipped under the ribs and just nicked the heart. The cut line is—”

  “OK, OK, we got it,” Hiroshi said.

  One of the younger detectives back by the crime scene tape called for Sakaguchi. Sakaguchi, who nodded for Hiroshi to stay and listen. Hiroshi started to protest, but Sakaguchi twisted away back to where evidence was being bagged and filed. Hiroshi looked away from the body into the dark sky above
the over-bright cul-de-sac and pulled his wool coat tight with hands deep in his pockets. He needed a new winter coat.

  The medical examiner looked surprised at Hiroshi’s inattention to her and the corpse. “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t like hearing it.” Hiroshi examined the doors of the small drinking places and stared at the crisscrossing knot of wires overhead. How could that not be dangerous, all those wires in the tight warren of wood?

  “Most people are the other way; they can’t look.” The examiner dropped her blood-splattered gloves in a bag.

  “I can’t do that, either.”

  “You can read my report later.” She shrugged and walked off.

  Hiroshi looked at her and looked away, wondering why Sakaguchi had called him, regretting he’d agreed to come. What use was his English here? A photographer was working on specific angles and areas to capture. Hiroshi felt relieved when the camera flash bleached out the reality of it all for an instant.

  Out in the large lane, Sakaguchi was talking with Ueno, Sugamo and Osaki. The three hard-working detectives bowed to Hiroshi, not having seen him in months, but not asking where he’d been. All three were younger than Sakaguchi, about the same size, double or triple Hiroshi’s. Ueno and Osaki had stocky rugby bodies, and still played in the police league. Ueno was taller and thinner than the others, but Osaki was small and solid, the number 8 guy at the back of the scrum. Sugamo carried his weight in his chest and gut, a former sumo wrestler, like Sakaguchi.

  “Why am I here again?” Hiroshi asked Sakaguchi, more impatiently than he intended.

  “There’s a file I need you to see,” Sakaguchi whispered.

  “You brought me here to see a file?” Everything had been so neat, clean and simple in his office. “Why not just send it to me?”

  Everyone paused. Saito the bureau chief’s yes-man and second in command, had just walked in to the crime scene.

  “I’ll take him this time,” Sugamo said.

  Saito always showed up late, ordered everyone around, and left before the work got done. Someone had to head him off at every crime scene to keep him from screwing things up. It was Sugamo’s turn to send him packing.

  “I’ll get the computer,” Osaki said.

  They both hurried off. Hiroshi had heard from them that during the interim after Takamatsu got suspended for conduct violations, Saito took over and managed to irritate everyone, except, apparently, the current chief who kept him on as assistant chief. After that, Sakaguchi’s steady hand and calm formality was a relief.

  Sakaguchi turned to Hiroshi, “Can you call Takamatsu and get him over here? He covered a sword case a few years back.”

  Hiroshi shook his head. “He’s the last person I want to talk to, and he’s not supposed to be here anyway. He’s still suspended…”

  Sakaguchi was not listening. All around them, the crew followed their meticulous routine. Hiroshi found himself the only person with nothing to do, so he called Takamatsu.

  Takamatsu picked up right away. “You’re talking to me again?”

  “I’m calling for Sakaguchi. He wants to know about another case a few years back? Sword cut?”

  “Got another one?” Takamatsu asked.

  “Sakaguchi wants you to take a look.”

  “Can’t. Stakeout. Love hotel. The girl’s something. The guy won’t take long.”

  “Send a fox to catch a fox.”

  “I might never come back to detective work. This pays better, and no paperwork.”

  “We’re in Golden Gai.”

  Takamatsu hesitated. “Is the chief there?”

  “Saito’s here.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Sugamo’s getting rid of him.”

  Takamatsu went silent for a minute, then cursed.

  “What?” Hiroshi huffed, tired of Takamatsu’s games.

  “You made me miss my shot. He’s got her inside already. Damn!”

  “So, get over here.” Hiroshi hung up and avoided the body by studying the signs over the doors of the small bars that lined the alley: Afterward, Hang 1 On, Here and Now, Pan-Pan. Even as other Tokyo neighborhoods were leveled to throw up bland humdrum buildings, Golden Gai’s retro postwar vibe, fire hazard layout and scruffy comfort never changed. The alleys and the bars—seating six or seven at most—teemed with energy. Usually. With the police there, none of the places had opened.

  Osaki walked over with an open laptop, rested it on an abandoned barstool, inserted a USB drive and clicked on a file. “I had it earlier, but it’s a big file.”

  Hiroshi drew his coat around him in the cold and glanced back at the corpse slumped over a concrete step at the edge of the cul-de-sac. He refocused on the computer screen and moved over a little when Sugamo returned to the scrum around the laptop.

  “You got rid of Saito?” Osaki asked.

  “He said it was getting late.” Sugamo gave a disgusted little snort.

  Sakaguchi walked towards them but stopped to answer his phone. As he listened he pointed at Sugamo. “Go rescue Takamatsu. They won’t let him past the perimeter.”

  Sugamo walked off and in a minute came back with Takamatsu.

  Sakaguchi nodded towards the body.

  Without a word, Takamatsu passed his hand-tailored jacket and European raincoat to one of the young detectives. He took off his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves, then slipped on booties and gloves before starting to survey the entire grid, first right-left and then up-down, then the same in reverse, using his finger to mark off areas.

  Hiroshi wondered who the dead man was and why he’d been killed so violently, and in such an unexpected place. He watched Takamatsu squat over the exposed corpse and get down close to the raw open viscera. Takamatsu was never fazed by anything. Hiroshi watched him walk a perimeter around the body, taking in the scene from every angle, then, he reversed the circle and did it all again. Hiroshi could barely look in the direction of the corpse, much less at the details.

  Finally, Takamatsu pulled off the gloves and booties and came over. He spoke to Hiroshi in a loud, teacher-like voice. “It’s the small things lodged in the back of your mind that often break a case. Put them in. Let your mind work on them.”

  Hiroshi pretended to ignore him, still miffed at Takamatsu after the case the summer before. Takamatsu’s indiscretion, to say the least, had set up Hiroshi for a fight that nearly killed him. No one mentioned that it was a woman who had done the damage.

  Takamatsu said, “That little stiletto wasn’t much help. Check out that splintered door.” The door had fallen in on itself, hanging from the hinges, exposing the small counter and stools inside.

  The medical examiner oversaw the transfer of the corpse with a plastic liner that slid under the body. It took four of the medical staff plus the examiner several tries to get the body, the top and bottom nearly in two, into the body bag and onto the gurney. The medical examiner turned to get Sakaguchi’s final approval to take away the body.

  Stopping their work, Sakaguchi, Takamatsu and the other detectives put their hands together and bowed in prayer to the dead man as the attendants see-sawed the gurney back and forth around the tight turn of the narrow alley.

  After he passed, Takamatsu cocked his head at Hiroshi, straightening his dark red tie and gold cufflinks. “It was two different guys, two different swords, before.”

  Hiroshi turned away but kept listening.

  Takamatsu continued, “We never solved them. Unpaid loan, right-wingers, vendetta, who knows? One was a long tanto sword and the other a short nodachi field sword. Each cut leaves its traces.”

  “Like a bullet?” Hiroshi shook his head at Takamatsu’s unending self-assurance.

  “Yes. Like that. You need a specialist.”

  Hiroshi said, “And I suppose you’re a specialist on sword cuts along with everything else?”

  “Still sulking?” Takamatsu asked Hiroshi. “I’m the one who got suspended. And two months in the hospital. What did you get? A few bruises?
”

  “I almost got killed. You got vacation.”

  Takamatsu smiled and lit another cigarette, his gold lighter clicking shut. “Being suspended is like vacation. First one I’ve ever had.”

  Sakaguchi looked at Takamatsu. “What’s your guess?”

  Takamatsu shrugged. “Runner for some yakuza group. Money, messages. Independent contractor.”

  “The USB was driven so deeply inside, the medical examiner thought at first he might have swallowed it. She said it must have been the force of the sword. The packet of cigarettes was in there too. In pieces.”

  “More proof tobacco is bad for your health.” Takamatsu looked for a place to grind out his cigarette, but seeing none, he pulled out a portable ashtray, slipped the butt inside, sealed it and put it back in his pocket.

  Osaki looked impatient with the computer, but the heavy file opened at last, conjuring images pixel by pixel. When the first one filled in completely, the detectives stared at a Japanese ukiyoe woodblock print of entangled lovers. The man’s over-large, wrinkled penis was half-in half-out of the woman’s swollen vulva. The woman’s face reeled back in open-mouth, closed-eye pleasure while the man’s eyebrows bent sharply in concentration. Around the edge of the print were Post-it notes and pencil sketches describing the details of the print in English.

  “That’s what you want me to translate?” Hiroshi pointed at the notes around the outside.

  Sakaguchi told Osaki to enlarge the image and go to the next one. The next print showed the open kimonos and swirling genitals of two lovers standing on the street with their geta sandals on. Through the window frame of the house, another couple curved together half-hidden except for their faces in ecstasy and their groins interlocked. At the bottom of the print, a dog was draped over another dog, leering while going at it. Long lines of dialogue in curved grass script filled the empty background. Even the dogs were talking dirty.

  Takamatsu laughed. “Doesn’t seem like a reason to kill anyone.”

  “There must have been another USB drive,” Sakaguchi mused.