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.”
“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, Suzuki-san. 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
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?
In the midst of her grief, Yumi felt a pinprick of anger. Who was this
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 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
What kind of scandal would warrant secret meetings and concern about hurting people? Government corruption? Corporate wrongdoing? Maybe
That would explain the messages at least as well as suicide; if Yumi could find something—anything—to confirm that
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 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, an
d 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 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.
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.
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 phon
e 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.
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
Nightshade Page 7
