Yumi followed her backstage, waiting while Midori chatted with the bouncer. Several band members were sitting in a circle, damp towels slung around their necks, drinking from cans of peach-flavored, alcohol-spiked chu-hai, smoking.
A girl with orange-spiked hair and a ring through her right eyebrow grinned and said, “Hey, Midori, haven’t seen you in forever!”
The musicians tossed them drinks from the cooler and pulled up a couple of chairs so they could join the circle. Midori introduced Yumi and explained about Rika, saying they were looking for information about a Goth who called himself
The bass player crushed his cigarette in a stylish personal ashtray. “I don’t know any
“Nikki?” Yumi gasped.
The violist from Ichiro’s quartet. But tonight she wasn’t wearing Vera Wang—her skin-tight black leather pants were topped with an extravagantly ragged troubadour’s shirt and black leather vest, and tucked into a pair of shiny, spike-heeled boots. A silver crucifix hung from her right ear, connected by a fine chain to a ring at the top. She stared at Yumi, trying to place her.
“I’m Yumi Hata. I met you with Ichiro . . . ?”
The violist’s eyes widened with recognition, then she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh my God. You’re Mitsu’s girlfriend. I didn’t recognize you. You didn’t bring him, did you?”
Yumi looked uncomfortable. “No.”
“Ha. Didn’t think so. I can’t imagine his parents would approve, and Mitsu-boy never does anything without their approval.” She cocked an eyebrow and looked Yumi up and down. “Does he have any idea . . . ?”
“No,” Yumi replied. “But I’m not really a Lolita. I’m here because my best friend was murdered.” Yumi explained about Rika and filled Nikki in on what she knew about
The violist lit up a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “My friend Yuka is into that cosplay scene out in Akihabara. About a year ago, a strange guy was sort of stalking her. He was kind of retro—really into Venom Vixen, quoted their lyrics all the time. Might be the same guy—he told Yuka he had some sort of disease he was going to die from. You could ask her.”
“What does Yuka look like?”
“She dresses like a character from Samurai Deeper—pink hair, black-and-white kimono, gold spear. She usually meets her friends outside Yodabashi Camera around four on Sundays. You can’t miss her.”
A man in black leathers appeared. “You ready to start loading out?” he asked.
The musicians finished their drinks, stubbed out their cigarettes, and stood.
“Thanks, Nikki.” Yumi bit her lip. “And . . . When you see Ichiro, maybe you could avoid mentioning . . . ?”
The violist leaned in close. “I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s tough to find violinists who can play a decent Schubert, and we can’t have him dropping dead of a heart attack now, can we?”
Chapter 45
Friday, April 12
10:30 P.M.
Kenji
It was time to light another cigarette. They lasted quite a while if you didn’t actually smoke them. Kenji dropped the one burning too close to his fingers and stepped on it, then picked up the end, stashing it between the vending machine and the brick wall like dozens of smokers had done before him. Pulling the pack of Mild Sevens from his jacket pocket, he put a fresh one between his lips, lit a match, and inhaled just enough to get it started. Ugh, he hated the taste of tobacco. Blowing out the smoke in a way he hoped wouldn’t reveal him as a novice smoker, he leaned against the brick wall next to the vending machine.
His quarry had been inside for over an hour. It had been irritating to discover he wouldn’t be admitted without one of the tickets that had apparently sold out weeks ago, so he’d taken up a position halfway down the alley, tucked into the shadow of a vending machine. One of the doorways would have been better, but they were all occupied by couples sharing a cigarette or making out.
It was kind of cold out tonight. He’d arrived at Shimada’s apartment just in time to see
He burned through two more cigarettes as groups of chattering Goth-Lolitas arrived. Kenji had never been attracted to girls who dressed like Bo-Peep-Meets-Lestat, but with thoughts of Yumi buzzing in his head, tonight he was finding them . . . distracting. That girl who’d just walked out, for example. She stopped and looked up at the stars, pulled the rubber bands from her hair, and shook it free. The ruffle of white lace at the top of her over-the-knee stockings glowed in the moonlight, drawing his attention to the strip of bare thigh visible between the lace and the hem of her skirt. Although her blouse was cut demurely high, her black pinafore was laced tightly enough to show off her small waist and the swell of her breasts. She looked around and glanced at him. He looked away, pretending to smoke, embarrassed he’d been caught ogling.
She took a few steps closer.
“Kenji?”
Yumi? He’d know that voice anywhere. He peered at her in the glow of the vending machine. Now he recognized her familiar features beneath the Goth-Lolita makeup, and his whole body was suddenly on fire.
“You . . . smoke?” she asked, coming closer.
“No,” he grimaced. “But I need some excuse to stand out here for hours. I followed
Her face lit up with a smile and his heart did a flip-flop. “You’re following up on what I told you after all?”
“Not officially,” he admitted. “I’m doing it on my own time. The detective from the First Investigative Division who’s now in charge gave us some information that convinced me it’s unlikely
Yumi nodded, then glanced over her shoulder at the closed door and stepped closer to whisper, “Do you think he came tonight because he heard about Rika’s Lolita memorial?”
“That’s what this is? I guess that explains why I didn’t recognize you at first.”
She looked away, embarrassed.
“Don’t get me wrong, you look good.” He grinned.
Then his smile faded as
“What are you looking at?” Yumi asked. Curious, she began to turn.
“Don’t look,” he hissed, grabbing her by the s
houlders and spinning her so her back was to the rough brick wall. He bent over her like the lovers in the doorways down the alley and said, “He suspects he was being followed and I don’t want him to recognize me and bolt. Pretend we’re, you know . . .”
She looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. And then . . . then they weren’t pretending. Her arms snaked around his waist under his jacket and her body molded to his like they’d been made for each other. She tilted her chin and he met her halfway. Her lips, her mouth . . . Back in high school if he’d had a single kiss from her he’d have died happy, but now he just wanted more. He felt her yield to his urgency, and she was kissing him back. She tasted like peach. Peach and . . . Had she been drinking? A wave of intoxication that had nothing to do with alcohol burst through his veins and his hands explored the lacing on the back of her dress, feeling the tautness of her back as she arched against him. Two hands weren’t enough; he wanted to bury them in her hair, encircle her waist, trespass in places that suddenly didn’t seem out of bounds as she slid her hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pulled him hungrily against her. She came up for air, eyes wide, then suddenly pulled away.
“Ken-kun. I’m sorry. This is wrong.”
“No it’s not,” he breathed, capturing her again.
She pushed him away, tearing herself from his arms.
“Yumi!”
“No. I can’t.”
Stumbling blindly around the vending machine, she ran.
Dazed, Kenji remembered why he was there. He turned in time to see Shimada sprint after her. Why was
Shimada followed her, but Kenji caught up and threw him against a tiled building as Yumi disappeared around the corner ahead.
Shimada struggled, looking after Yumi, then gave up and fixed Kenji with a look of pure hatred. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Kenji loosened his grip and Shimada stepped back with an injured air, brushing his sleeves as though they’d been dirtied.
“Why were you following her?” asked Kenji.
“I was . . .” He stopped short and stared. “Why were you following her?”
Kenji pulled out his police ID. “I was following you.”
Chapter 46
Friday, April 12
11:00 P.M.
Kenji
“Police?” Shimada said, alarm coloring his voice.
“Detective Kenji Nakamura from Komagome Station. I need to ask you a few questions about April fifth.”
“April fifth?”
“Where were you that night?”
“I don’t know. What day was that?”
“A week ago. Last Friday.”
“I was home. By myself.”
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason to stay home?”
“You do if you promised three people you would meet them at the Komagome Shrine to commit suicide together.”
Shimada stared at him.
“You’re
“How do you know that?”
“You agreed to meet Rika Ozawa, Masayo Hamada, and Tatsuo Hamada at the Komagome Shrine last Friday night in order to commit suicide together.”
“I never heard of them.”
“Do the names
“What are you, the suicide police? Like, if someone says they’re going to do it, you make sure they follow through?”
“No, but I want to know why. Because if you were there, I think you know who killed Rika Ozawa.”
Shimada’s eyes slid away. “I don’t know anything.”
Yes, he did. Kenji grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him up against the building.
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Tell me what you saw!” Kenji stared into Shimada’s eyes, willing the truth out of him. “You were there.”
Shimada returned his stare, then he relaxed, his lips curving into a faint smile. “You’re guessing.” He watched Kenji carefully to gauge his reaction. When Kenji didn’t contradict him he said, “Let go of me.”
Kenji backed off and Shimada shook himself, straightening his jacket.
“I’d like you to come into the station for voluntary questioning.”
Shimada paused. “And if I don’t?”
Kenji was silent.
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“Not tonight, but . . .” Feeling his chance slipping away, Kenji pleaded, “I’m not saying you had anything to do with Rika’s death, just tell me what happened.”
Shimada began to back away, then a mocking smile spread across his face and he began singing softly in a cracked voice:
“Hope flowers, a dark rose
Hold my hand,
Hold my hand,
Let’s touch eternity together . . . ”
Then he ducked around the corner and was gone.
Kenji let him go. He wasn’t even supposed to be pursuing this suspect. He had no grounds to arrest him, even though he knew Shimada was lying about the night Rika died.
He slumped against the tile building. He should have thought it through more carefully before grabbing him. Damn. He turned around and pounded the wall with his fist. First Yumi, then Shimada.
Yumi. What did she mean, “I can’t”?
Boyfriend. Had to be. He leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes, remembering the feel of her, her hands in his pockets, her mouth on his. It hadn’t been all him. He was sure she’d met him halfway. Whoever this phantom boyfriend was, she hadn’t been with him tonight. And she definitely hadn’t been thinking of him for those few heart-stopping minutes in the shadow of that vending machine.
Why had
Chapter 47
Saturday, April 16
9:00 A.M.
Yumi
The phone in her hand vibrated and Yumi awoke with a start. Her window shade was outlined in brilliant sunlight. Morning already? She checked to see who was texting her.
Kenji.
She quickly switched it off, shame pulling her under the covers, cringing. Kenji had surprised her, but she couldn’t deny it—she hadn’t even tried to resist. He had grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the wall, and the next thing she knew, she was cheating on her boyfriend. No, even worse, her kon’yakusha. Cheating on him heart and body and soul.
And tonight they were having the official engagement ceremony at the Tokyo City Club. Guiltily, she pulled out her phone and navigated to Ichiro’s unanswered message from last night. After keying in her apologies for not answering his good-night text, she sent the message, but the guilt remained.
Kenji was tall and strong and he’d tasted of tobacco, and . . . Stop. Stop. It had only happened because she was engaged and he was forbidden; that was the attraction, pure and simple. Ben, Jack, Andrew—they’d all been foreigners, all off-limits in the eyes of her family, and they’d all left her with nothing but heartache. She’d made her decision, and it was the right decision. Last night she’d been caught off guard, and she couldn’t let it happen again.
She opened her phone. Text message from Kenji. Delete. Two more unread messages from Kenji: Delete, delete. She studied the photo of herself and Ichiro in the cab the night they’d decided to get married, recalling how devastated she’d been when she t
hought he wanted to break up.
A fresh wave of remorse washed over her as she realized she still hadn’t e-mailed the news to her friends. It was time to take the plunge. A public commitment would remove temptations like Kenji Nakamura. Taking a deep breath, she composed a short message and attached the photo. Scrolling through her address book, she checked every name, preparing to send it out en masse. Her thumb hovered over the Send button, then she went back to her address book and unchecked a few. Work associates. Parents of friends. And Kenji. After last night she really ought to explain face to face—later, when she could do so with composure.
She hit Send.
Pulling the covers up around her ears, she turned her thoughts toward a more pressing issue: what to wear to Rika’s wake tomorrow. Would it be okay merely to dress in black, or should she go out today and buy something specifically designed for funeral wear, constructed of twice-dyed black fabric without a single stitch of lighter thread? She definitely had to get some dark stockings. And she had to pick up those pumps from Mr. Minit. Throwing off the covers, she pulled on her dressing gown and went to the kitchen.
“Ohayo gozaimasu.” Yumi’s father greeted her with a smile, setting down his teacup.
Why was he up and dressed so early on a Saturday? He was wearing a brown tweed jacket and polka-dotted bow tie, a look she associated with an especially optimistic career period in Boston. Instead of the morning newspaper, the Journal of Japanese History was opened mid-article to something about seventeenth-century trade.
“Ohayo gozaimasu, Father,” she ventured warily.
“Notice anything different?”
Yumi bit her lip. Did he want her to comment on his clothing? Or on the sudden appearance of the journals that had been stacking up for months, unread, next to his unfinished manuscript?
“Don’t I look like a professor of history at Toda University this morning?” He beamed.
“What? They decided? They gave you the professorship?”
Her father nodded proudly.
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