.
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.
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 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 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 suici
de.”
“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
“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?”
“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:
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 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 alcoho
l, some shreds of lettuce, and about three 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.
“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?”
Nightshade Page 8
