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  “We weren’t sure how bad the situation was,” Nakata said, unruffled. “We’ve revamped our personnel and grievance policies since then.”

  Chizu had stopped writing everything down and stared at her tablet.

  Nakata said, “The simple answer to your question is a lot of employees cannot handle the pressure. We have a unique, high-performance culture at Senden. We respect, and reward, hard work. The most driven section in our company was Onizuka’s. Not everyone works well under pressure from their superiors, especially women.”

  “It’s clear many don’t,” Hiroshi said, pushing back the chair to get up. “So, was Mayu Yamase one of the weak ones, in your scheme of things, or one of the strong ones who spoke up?”

  Takamatsu tapped the connectivity panel which sprung open with a loud click. He stood up and cleared his throat, straightening his cuffs ready to leave.

  Hiroshi let out a discouraged hum as he stood and stared at Nakata, who didn’t move to get up. Chizu was frozen in place.

  Hiroshi looked at the top of her head as he spoke. “We’ll be waiting for those files. And if those don’t help, we’ll ask for more files, until something does help. Think of this as the start of our media campaign. We’re reinforcing sentiments, presenting information, and increasing awareness. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll switch platforms. But I don’t think you’ll like the other platforms.”

  Without waiting for any response, Hiroshi and Takamatsu thanked them in sterile polite phrases and walked out.

  Chapter 11

  The jazz club was a square room with wood chairs facing the stage and narrow tables offering just enough space to set a drink. The place was half full and the band was cooking. Hiroshi took a seat in the back next to a huge photo of John Coltrane watching over the proceedings like a jazz saint.

  After Senden’s stonewalling, he and Akiko had dug through the company’s details in his office. They’d set up appointments for the next day but made little headway. Takamatsu and Osaki had been called to sort out a suicide. Hiroshi had left his office in frustration and taxied to the club.

  The quintet had an electric violinist, trumpeter and sax player on the front line, and a bassist and drummer whipping up thick rhythms. Hiroshi followed the trumpeter’s solo, long, spare, and unhurried. The violinist took over, bursting with energy, with a pizzicato passage that sped to a dizzying pace before passing the soloing baton to Steve Titus, Mayu’s American former boyfriend.

  Steve took off mimicking the violin with nimble honks on his alto sax before sliding down the register for long, lean bebop lines. He kept dipping into the melody line for touch points while reeling off strong, fluid lines of his own. The ensemble wrapped it tighter and tighter before coming to an abrupt, breathless stop.

  The audience demanded an encore.

  Steve called for a rollicking Charles Mingus number and the evening romped to an end.

  When the club started to clear out, Hiroshi walked up to the stage to talk with Steve. He was handsome, with dimples and a thin-trimmed beard. His dark hair was thick and tousled, as relaxed as his playing.

  “Are you Steve Titus?” Hiroshi said in English.

  “I am.” He stopped cleaning the sax and swung a hand out to shake. “Did you like the show?”

  “It was both exploratory and satisfying. The perfect balance, in my opinion.”

  “Thanks, man, that’s nice. Are you a musician?” Steve started wiping off the sax, working along all the parts carefully with the cloth.

  “Just a fan. Who wrote that tune before the encore? Blues in a tricky time signature.”

  Steve smiled. “Except for the Mingus number, they were all mine.” Steve eyed his reeds, wiping them with a cloth and filing them away. “I like to break out of four-beat.”

  “Have you recorded any of them?”

  “Working on it. Hey, why is your English so good?” He ran the cloth over all of the keys, worrying over one pad that was sticky.

  “I lived in Boston for a few years.”

  “I played there a few times. What do you do now?” Steve leaned over to nestle his saxophone into the velvet case and fold the cleaning cloth on top.

  “I’m a forensic accountant in the homicide department. A detective.” He let that hang in the air.

  Steve put his reed case and neck strap away before he turned to face Hiroshi. “Are you taking me in? I want to tell someone before I disappear for three weeks again without even a phone call.”

  Hiroshi said, “I’ll take you for a drink instead. I need to ask you about Mayu.”

  The violinist came over. She had long hair and eyes that twinkled even as she took in Hiroshi in the dim light of the club. She moved easily, her violin case bouncing on her hip from the shoulder strap.

  Steve rolled his eyes at her in apology. “I’m going to go talk with this guy here. So, I’ll meet you later.”

  She checked her cellphone and looked back at Steve. “I’ll hit that jam session in Takadanobaba.”

  “I’ll catch up with you there,” Steve said.

  “I got the pay and divided it with everyone. Here’s yours.” She handed him folded bills and walked off, glancing back once from the door.

  “Girlfriend?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Friend friend. She’s a brilliant musician,” Steve said. “OK, where to?”

  “Coffee or whiskey?”

  “Both if it’s about Mayu.”

  They walked quietly out of the club and into the streets of Shinjuku. Most people were heading back to the subway or train. The late-night crowds who stayed up or worked all night had just started arriving.

  Not far from the jazz club, Hiroshi stopped at a narrow three-story building. From three flights up, electric blues cascaded down the stairway. They trudged up the tight steps, careful not to bump the record sleeves hung along the walls.

  Inside, a bar top took up most of the space and two rickety tables jutted against the far wall. Shelves of vinyl lined the back of the bar, where a bartender stood calmly wiping glasses. Two women sat at the far end of the bar deep in conversation.

  Hiroshi headed to the tables and Steve pulled a chair over for his sax case and backpack.

  Hiroshi went to the bar and ordered two shots of whiskey and two cups of coffee, then came back and sat down. “Maybe you heard, but Mayu’s boss, the one who harassed her, died.”

  Steve sat back. “He…What?…When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? That was Mayu’s birthday,” Steve said, looking confused. “That’s why you wanted to talk to me? I…”

  “Where were you early yesterday morning?”

  “I played a gig, and then met Yuna, the violinist.” Steve looked down.

  “You were with her all night?”

  “After the gig, yes. We slept in late.”

  The bartender set the coffee on the bar top. The place was too small for him to get out so Hiroshi got up to carry it over.

  Steve looked down at his coffee.

  “Any—”

  “Proof of my alibi? Just Yuna.”

  Hiroshi sipped his coffee. He could find her later to check. Her name was on the club’s webpage.

  “So, can you tell me a bit more about Mayu and yourself? You met her in America and followed her back here?”

  Steve nodded. “She came to one of my shows at the student center. We had the midnight slot, so it was mostly stoners and jazz nuts, but we could play whatever we liked.” Steve pointed at the speakers, Muddy Waters on vinyl. “I played in blues bands at first.”

  The bartender set out two shots of whiskey on the bar and Hiroshi got up to get them.

  “So…” Hiroshi prompted.

  Steve looked at the whiskey shots.

  “Kanpai,” Hiroshi said gently.

  Steve slugged down his shot in one go.

  Hiroshi downed his and shivered. It seemed to reignite the hangover that had eased by late afternoon.

  Steve said, “The slow song in the last set
, did you hear it?”

  Hiroshi nodded.

  “That was for her. I can’t find a title. I’d have to write a hundred more songs to get down all my feelings about her.”

  “What about the violinist?”

  “It’d be different songs for her.”

  Steve set the glass in front of him and looked at the record covers on the walls. Some of his tough-guy tension melted and he kept his eyes on the covers as he talked. “With Mayu, it was love at first sight. And that was weird, because I was so used to hooking up, casual, but with Mayu, it was like, well, it was enough just to look at her.”

  “You didn’t…?”

  “We did, but we also talked a lot. She came to all my gigs. We’d go to the library. I started studying. She was a serious student.”

  “And you were…”

  “A musician, or my idea of one. She changed me. And I changed her. She told me she’d never danced before, so we went dancing. And she’d never traveled, so we took a road trip to Memphis, Nashville, New Orleans, Austin, all the music cities. I’d never been that close to anyone. It was—” Steve looked at the bar. “It was the best time I ever had in my life. She was so alive.”

  “What about Mayu’s friend, Suzuna? She was there in America, too, right?”

  “Does she know about this? Is she all right?”

  “I spoke with her and she seemed fine. Mayu’s mother, too.”

  “Mayu’s mother always blamed me somehow. But I was the one telling Mayu to quit, trying to protect her.” He tried to drain one more drop of whiskey, gave up and wrapped his hands around the coffee cup.

  “So, when did you come to Japan?”

  “I was behind in my credits, so we spent a year apart, nine months actually, until I could graduate. Mayu had to find a job. She paid for my ticket with her first paycheck. She had an English teaching job lined up for me, an apartment, and everything organized when I got here. In fact, she got me all my jazz gigs, printing handouts for my gigs, and translating everything for me. She was a detail person. The exact opposite of me.”

  “Did you see her often?”

  “I wanted to move in together, but she wouldn’t leave her mother. Plus, she was always working. I was getting more gigs, so she’d come before the last song. We’d go out to eat at midnight, to a love hotel, and then she’d catch the last train home or call her mother to say she had an all-nighter at work. Which she often did. And we’d do it all again the next day.” Steve picked up his whiskey glass. “I need another. Let me get a round.”

  “I got it.” Hiroshi took the glasses to the bar and waited while the bartender filled them up.

  Hiroshi set the shot glasses down on the table and they both sipped slowly, the coffee getting cold.

  “Can you tell me what happened at Mayu’s funeral? You were arrested.”

  Steve looked at Hiroshi like he knew that question was coming. “Not my best moment. These guys came from the company, the company that killed Mayu. They had no right to be there.” Steve finished his shot in a swallow. “Mayu’s father showed up, drunk, and he just lunged at them. I never hit anyone in my life, always worried about my hands. All of a sudden, I was handcuffed and in the police car. Suzuna walked over and spit in the face of one of the company guys. I remember that. And then three long weeks in jail.”

  “They kept you for the maximum?”

  “I’d gotten in a few punches myself. My hand was swollen, but they wouldn’t give me ice or a bandage or anything. They barely interrogated me. I thought, well, all the greats in jazz history got busted, why shouldn’t I?”

  “Mayu’s mother bailed you out.”

  “She did.”

  “And you had never met her father before?”

  Steve shook his head.

  “Did Mayu talk about her boss?”

  “She talked about him constantly. It was like an illness, an addiction. She’d just get hysterical at times. Running away from me or curling up in a ball and weeping uncontrollably. I told her to talk to the company about the bastard. She did and it seemed like it was better, but then it got worse again right away. I kept telling her we could go back to the States. She’d say yes one day and then no the next. She was crying all the time. It was like she was alive like in America, and then she’d die again when she went to work.”

  “Why didn’t she just leave with you?”

  Steven leaned back in his chair. “I…well…one night, she came to my place but I wasn’t there.”

  “Where were you?”

  Steven looked at the wall over Hiroshi’s shoulder. “I told her I was jamming all night. I did go to a lot of jam sessions, but I always told her. I…met…this woman. She came up to me after a gig. She was gorgeous.” He shook his head. “Mayu came to my place and sent a text message asking where I was.”

  “Did she suspect you’d been with another woman?”

  “If she did, she never let on. But I think she knew. I never did that after meeting Mayu, but this woman…well, anyway, I wasn’t there for her.”

  “Did she change after that?”

  Steve shut his eyes and continued. “I felt guilty as hell. But she started to leave work, spend more time with her mother, go out with Suzuna and her friends. That was cool. We’d been spending a lot of time together. Then, on her birthday, she sent me a message she was quitting. I was thrilled. At last, I thought. I kept texting her all night, waiting. I thought she was explaining it to her mother, or sleeping for once.”

  “That was the night she killed herself?” Hiroshi prompted.

  Steve tried to get one last taste of whiskey from his empty glass and turned to his coffee. “I should have gone to her mother’s house to check. Or to the company. I could’ve—”

  Hiroshi waited.

  Steve drank his coffee, staring at the wall, back to the past. “Mayu wanted to leave, but it was like she was trapped by everything—her mother, her idea of success, her job, the whole system in Japan. She was trapped by her own need to have order. The more she struggled, the more she sank into it. She could organize everything except her own escape.”

  Hiroshi’s phone buzzed.

  Steve looked away and shook his head, slugged down the rest of his coffee.

  Hiroshi took the call and listened closely, stood up and waved at the bartender for the bill. “How do I get in touch with you? We need to talk more.”

  Steve held up his phone and Hiroshi snapped a photo of his phone number.

  “I’ll call you.”

  Steve nodded OK in tight, tense motions.

  Hiroshi paid quickly and hurried out, leaving Steve staring at the empty record covers on the wall.

  Chapter 12

  Hiroshi grabbed a taxi outside the club and called Sakaguchi back.

  “How did you find him?” Hiroshi asked.

  “When will you get here?” Sakaguchi asked.

  “Fifteen minutes, if we can get past the traffic around the station.” He showed the driver his badge and told him to hurry.

  He regretted the whiskey, but it was too late now. He called Ayana to tell her he would be late. He leaned back and watched the bright lights of Shinjuku turn to crustier, darker streets toward Nakano, trying to imagine what Mayu went through and what her family and friends and colleagues must have felt. Everyone struggles to go on after a death, but not everyone struggles for revenge. When he lost his parents during college, he learned the world can’t be reset, but that didn’t stop him thinking about it.

  Everything about this case reminded Hiroshi of why he hated big Japanese companies—the vicious competition, the strict hierarchy, the indifference. You were either in, under control, or you were out, and ignored. Fear of scandal and maintaining the status quo determined most decisions, with profit determining the rest. The Japanese corporate system rewarded people like Onizuka, and used him to use other people. A workaholic culture kept big companies thriving. One small blip like Mayu, or even Onizuka, was not going to slow them down.

  Nearly dro
wning in Tokyo Bay rescuing Takamatsu last winter had pushed him to rethink a lot of things. He decided to ask his uncle about going to work with him at a nice safe spot far from death and danger. He wrote and rewrote the email but never sent it. His uncle, Hiroshi’s guardian after his parents died, had always expected his nephew to work for him at his firm, but that had always felt too easy. He’d hated the idea of a prefab job and a preset life—his uncle was always so certain about everything—so he ended up in the homicide department. The corporate world was turning out to be dangerous and erratic in its own strange ways, too.

  ***

  The taxi pulled up to Nakano Station and Hiroshi directed the driver a few hundred meters down Nakano Dori where the Chuo Line sliced through towering rows of twenty-story buildings crammed with convenience stores, udon shops, eyeglass outlets, and cram schools. Their brightly lit interiors were the happy face of huge corporations, spilling colored light and offers of convenience onto the passersby outside.

  Hiroshi followed the GPS on his phone until he was close to the hotel and started looking for the car. Osaki stepped out and waved him over.

  He got in beside Sakaguchi. “I thought you were staying in headquarters because of your knee.”

  Sakaguchi shifted his brace around his leg. “Sitting in the car is about the same as sitting at my desk. At least I can be an extra pair of eyes. And avoid the chief. He’s texting me every fifteen minutes about this.”

  “Where’s Takamatsu and Sugamo?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Other side of the hotel. Another entrance.”

  “How did you find out the guy’s back in Tokyo?”

  “Akiko figured it out. She kept calling his company in the Philippines, kept getting the runaround,” Sakaguchi explained. “Finally, she got travel dates and a phone number. His photo was on file.”

  Sakaguchi sent it to Hiroshi’s phone. He looked a bit like Mayu, and Hiroshi could see where she got her good looks from—both parents. Mayu’s father had brushed-back hair, a strong jaw, wide shoulders and a serious stare. “How long ago was this photo?”