Returning to the elevator, he rode it back down to three, but by the time he’d pushed aside the tumble of miscellany in his bottom drawer and wedged in the awkward framed certificate, Oki and Suzuki were arriving in the squad room with three cups and a half-empty bottle.
The big detective grinned. “Let’s see it!”
“I, uh, dropped it off at home,” Kenji lied, kicking the drawer shut as Suzuki handed him the sake cup. Oki poured all around and proposed a toast to Kenji’s career-enhancing afternoon.
“It’s almost time for the press conference,” Kenji said, uncomfortable that he’d been singled out for the honors because Noguchi wanted to advance the career of a fellow Tokyo University graduate. “Shouldn’t we go back upstairs?”
“And let you get out of telling us everything you overheard this afternoon that they’ll certainly leave out of the official version?” Oki refilled their cups and fixed Kenji with his most severe judo sensei look. “We’re waiting.”
“Okay, okay, just let me take another pain pill first.” He laughed, awkwardly reaching into his jacket pocket, trying not to stretch the burn on his back the wrong way. When he’d dry-swallowed the pill and chased it with a dose of sake, he gingerly settled his bandaged back against the chair and began. “The Shrine Killer’s real name is Sojiro Kudo. His family has run the Kosaka Shrine in Akita prefecture forever. Apparently, Kudo hung an ema prayer plaque with a serpent design on the rack at the Yasukuni Shrine before he attacked the police decoy. Mori sent a team of crime techs to search the other murder sites and they found identical plaques buried in the racks of ema at all three. They came from a shipment that Kudo’s father reported stolen when his son was twenty-six, right before Sojiro disappeared.”
Kenji took a sip of sake. “His parents aren’t saying anything except that they haven’t heard from him in four years, but a woman who used to be a shrine maiden there told local police that in the months before Kudo left home, his father called her in several times to help with purification ceremonies on the shrine grounds. One of the Kosaka beat officers said he was pretty sure he knew the reason—that summer, there was a rash of pet disappearances from neighboring houses that stopped after the son disappeared.”
“You mean he was practicing on animals before he started attacking women?” Suzuki drew back in horror.
“Looks like it,” Kenji said. “One of Mori’s assistant inspectors told me the family kept it hushed up because not only did Sojiro kill the pets on the shrine grounds, he laid them out as if for a Buddhist funeral, with rosaries. Kind of a slap in the face to his father and his ancestors, since they’ve been Shinto priests for generations.”
“Some headshrinker is going to have a long, happy career analyzing this one.” Oki laughed, topping up their cups.
“They haven’t yet pinned down what he was doing for the first three years after he left Kosaka, but for the past nine months he’s been in the Tokyo area, working as a groundskeeper and handyman. Last summer, he was dividing his time between a couple of small shrines in Adachi-ku, including the one where the first victim was discovered. Then he moved to Yokohama, where the next two victims were found.”
Oki refilled their cups.
Kenji continued, “Since the murders in Yokohama, Kudo’s been doing odd jobs at the Nezu Shrine. The head priest turned over the address listed on his employment application, and Tommy Loud’s crew found Kojurin incense, a box of surgical gloves, and a spool of yellow binding twine under his kitchen sink. The twine matches the evidence from the second crime scene. Last night Kudo tried to choke the police decoy with a length of dry-cleaning bag he dropped when Ikeda surprised him.”
“Why didn’t he use the Taser on Ikeda last night?”
“Apparently he hadn’t realized the batteries had run low. It worked fine on the decoy, and he had the dry-cleaning bag round her neck before Ikeda saw what was happening and came running. But when Kudo tried to use it on the assistant inspector, it fired for less than two seconds before fizzling. Ikeda was incapacitated long enough for Kudo to dig the lighter from his backpack, but he wasn’t knocked out, just disoriented. He tried to rush Kudo, and got burned.”
“Did Noguchi get a confession?”
Kenji set down his cup. “No, but it doesn’t really matter. They’ve got so much evidence, the prosecutor says it’ll be a slam dunk.”
Oki topped up all their cups and they toasted to that.
“What about Shimada, sir?” Suzuki asked. “We still haven’t found out the name of that third woman he said he ‘helped.’”
Oki said, “The other two families finally came across with info that matched his story, though, right?”
Suzuki nodded.
“Along with Rika Ozawa, that should be enough to put him away for a good long while,” Oki said, draining his cup. He set it down and excused himself to the men’s room.
Suzuki checked his watch and said, “Shouldn’t we be going back upstairs to watch the press conference, sir?”
“Go ahead,” Kenji said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
Suzuki bowed a final “congratulations” to his sempai and disappeared up the stairs. Kenji sighed and felt the silence of the deserted squad room gather around him.
The Daruma cell phone ornament Yumi had pressed into his hand stared at him from the far edge of his desk. Its red robe was scuffed down to the plastic in places, and if its eyes had ever been blacked in, they weren’t now. He picked it up and thought of how she’d run to him that night at the Nezu Shrine, how for a few minutes she’d been all his, even though she was engaged to Ichiro Mitsuyama. Opening his middle drawer, he fished around for a pen. He uncapped it and filled in one eye, then set the little figure back in its place.
Oki came up behind him and poured the dregs of the bottle into his sake cup. “Let me guess what you wished for, Nakamura-san. I predict you’ll be filling in that other eye at a desk in Chiyoda Ward headquarters this time next year.”
Kenji shook his head and smiled. “Oki-san, it cheers me up to discover you aren’t always right.”
Kenji raised his cup to the little Daruma. The bodhisattva had until September. Yumi wasn’t married . . . yet.
Chapter 76
Saturday, April 20
10:00 P.M.
Yumi
The cool night air made Yumi pull her wrap up over her bare arms as she slipped out to the balcony adjoining the ballroom where the Mitsuyama-sponsored film festival gala was in full swing.
In the four days since she’d pressed Rika’s Daruma ornament into Kenji’s hand, Ichiro and his family had swept her up in a whirlwind of wedding preparations. Hotel banquet-room tours, menu tasting, a visit to the shrine where the three cups of ceremonial sake would be drunk, and a slightly worrying discussion about where they would live once they were married. When Mrs. Mitsuyama had suggested renovating a wing of the family house in Hiroo, Ichiro hadn’t opposed it.
They’d have to have a little discussion about that, but it could wait until their most recent differences had blown over. After Ichiro had handed down his family’s injunction against being involved in Rika’s case, she’d been waiting for his parents to follow up with a politely couched lecture on her obligations as a future Mitsuyama wife. When she asked Ichiro why they hadn’t mentioned anything, he admitted he hadn’t actually told them. He’d been the one to decide that she shouldn’t be involved. Why alarm his family unnecessarily? he’d said. She was furious, but this time she hadn’t stormed out. The auspicious date had been chosen, the hall had been reserved, her mother had attended the first meeting of the select ladies’ club Mrs. Mitsuyama had invited her to join, her father’s book was at the editor. It was too late to call things off.
Stop dwelling on the imperfections, she told herself, looking out over the glittering city at her feet. Most girls would still switch places with her in a heartbeat
.
Tonight was the first time she’d appeared socially as Ichiro’s fiancée, and she was dressed head to toe in Mitsuyama finery. Her entire outfit, down to the stockings, had been selected two days ago under the watchful but indulgent eye of Mrs. Mitsuyama at their flagship department store. As she stood in her underwear in a dressing room bigger than her bedroom, deferential saleswomen offered sheaves of cocktail dresses for her consideration. Mrs. Mitsuyama subtly steered her toward designs she felt would be most appropriate for the occasion. Since Yumi would soon be a married woman, didn’t she agree dark blue might be a better choice than orange? Her long legs looked lovely in the Miu Miu, but perhaps it was a trifle short? The Junya Watanabe, on the other hand, she’d be able to wear for years to come. Finally they’d compromised on a Prada that was blue, but a little shorter than Mrs. Mitsuyama’s ideal.
Back home, Coco had given it a provisional stamp of approval, advising she shorten it another ten centimeters and wear it with silver stilettos. Yumi hadn’t, of course, but the memory made her smile. Good-old Coco.
A breeze stirred the hem of her dress as a wail of sirens drifted up from far below. She moved to the railing and looked down. Two police cars, lights flashing, raced through the parting traffic, heading toward Shibuya. What was Kenji doing tonight?
Was he sitting in a car somewhere, staking out a criminal’s apartment, working on another case? Was he at his desk, writing up a report? Was he trying not to think of her, the way she was trying not to think of him? She hadn’t heard from him since the night Rika’s killer confessed.
And what did she expect? She’d made her choice. Did she think she was such a hot property that a guy who could have any woman he wanted was going to keep pursuing her?
It was Saturday night, after all. He was probably out with some woman she’d never met, laughing with her, pouring sake for her, looking at her across the table with those lazy eyes, his lips curving into a slow smile. And that’s how it should be, she told herself, trying to shut the door on the faint but persistent voice that told her she was making a mistake. She closed her eyes, trying to let go of the ache that started up in her chest every time she told herself it was only right that Kenji find someone else who made his heart beat faster, someone else to hold, someone else to kiss . . .
Arms encircled her from behind and she took a sharp breath, startled.
“I thought I might find you out here.” Ichiro kissed her on the back of the neck, below her upswept hair.
She put on a smile before turning to her fiancé. The last thing she wanted him to guess was that, for a split second, she’d mistaken him for someone else.
* * *
Read on for a sneak peek at the next Only In Tokyo Mystery by Jonelle Patrick
FALLEN ANGEL
Available March 2013 From Intermix
* * *
Chapter 1
Late Thursday night
12:30 a.m.
CHERRY
Cherry stumbled out of the elevator and fell into Shinya’s arms. Safe.
The host club was still crowded, even though it was past midnight. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights twinkled, imitating the night sky. Mirrored walls overlaid with ornate gold script reflected the dark leather banquettes and multiplied the “stars.” Light pooled on the alabaster tables, illuminating the sparkle of bubbles rising in champagne flutes, while leaving the hosts and their adoring customers in shadowy privacy. Pop music throbbed, masking intimate conversations.
“Cherry-san? Are you all right?” Shinya asked, steadying her and peering at the smudged mascara under eyes still puffy from crying.
Stepping back, she hastily covered the bruises on her arms with her wrap. “I will be, after I freshen up. Is Hoshi . . . ?”
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
When she emerged from the ladies’ room five minutes later, broken nail filed, makeup repaired, still limping a little, Shinya was waiting patiently with a hot towel for her hands. Hoshi must still be busy. She swallowed her disappointment, knowing he’d come as soon as he was free. Meanwhile, she didn’t mind having a drink with Shinya, whose angelic features were spiced with just enough bad boy to make him almost as attractive as her favorite. He smiled and escorted her into the club, where every table was occupied by women spending lavishly on dandies so handsome and charming they could make as much in a month as a salaryman earned in a year.
“Hoshi will be here soon,” he apologized, ushering her to a table and seating himself at her side. “In the meantime . . . ?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, asking what she’d like to drink.
Cherry watched him mix her sho-chu and water, his elegant gestures making an art of the preparation. Offering it with a bow, Shinya made one for himself, then pulled out his silver lighter when he saw her digging for her Lucia Menthols. Flicking it to life near his chest, he extended it with practiced grace. Flame licked the end of her cigarette.
After her first calming puff, she began to relax. Only women were welcomed at host clubs; if her pursuer had managed to follow her, he wouldn’t make it past Taiyo, who’d taken Shinya’s place at the door. And soon Hoshi would be sitting next to her, chasing away the nightmare of the past two hours.
He was the only man she’d ever met who didn’t take and take and take. Hoshi was never too preoccupied to notice she’d picked out her dress especially for him, never too tired to listen to how much it hurt when Manager-san criticized her in front of her co-workers. He’d ignore her bruises unless she mentioned them, but if she did, Hoshi would never say, “People who play with fire should expect to get burned.” He never made her lie to him, never asked questions she didn’t want to answer. From the moment Hoshi sat down with her, she’d be the center of his universe.
Cherry closed her eyes and leaned back against the banquette. Safe. At Club Nova she could shut out all her troubles, at least for a little while.
Chapter 2
Friday, November 8
5:30 a.m.
KENJI
Tokyo Metropolitan Police Detective Kenji Nakamura looked away, embarrassed. The victim’s panties were showing, an unnecessary humiliation on top of the indignity of death. Resisting the urge to twitch her dress down over her underwear, he hoped the crime techs would arrive soon. They’d prop up screens to shield her from view before taking photos and examining her.
The sun hadn’t yet climbed over the rooftops of the hodgepodge of buildings lining this narrow backstreet. Most were faced with grimy tile or graying stucco, built right after the war when cheap Western-style construction meant modern and forward-thinking. A groggy husband with pajamas poking out the bottoms of his trousers trudged by in the dim gray dawn, pulled along by a tiny terrier. It made a beeline for the body at the bottom of the stairs, but the man pulled it back without looking up as he shuffled zombie-like toward the vending machine at the end of the block, stocked with hot canned caffeine.
Light glowed behind only a handful of windows; it was too early for most residents to be up. Kenji had been awakened at 5:30 a.m. by the duty officer’s call, slumped over his Police Inspector Exam Study Guide at the kitchen table. His body still ached from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position, and even the satisfaction of wearing his new spring suit, custom-tailored to fit his tall frame, didn’t make up for the fact that he’d yet to have his own cup of tea. The lazy dark eyes that made women look twice when he walked into a room just felt tired and itchy this morning. He rubbed them and stifled a yawn.
A doghouse-sized Shinto shrine sat on a granite plinth next to the victim’s apartment building, guarded by inari foxes so ancient their crafty stone features had been worn smooth. The sasaki branches in its vases were fresh, though, and several mismatched glasses of saké had been left as offerings. Residents of this quiet neighborhood still clung to the old ways; rents were equally old-fashioned. But that alone didn’t explain why a gi
rl who looked like she worked in the red light district of Kabuki-cho had died several stops down the Yamanote Line in Komagome.
Kneeling briefly before the body, he folded his hands in a moment of respectful silence, then stood and straightened his jacket. Pushing back the wings of his thick black hair, he rescued the officer who’d been first on the scene from the talkative apartment manager who’d discovered the body.
Bowing, he showed his police ID. “I’m Detective Kenji Nakamura, from Komagome Station.” Turning to the to the beat officer, he asked, “Are you the one who called in the incident?”
“Hai.” The young man returned Kenji’s bow and stood at attention. He couldn’t be more than 19 or 20, still living at home, his uniform shirt laundered and ironed by his mother. The way he avoided looking at the girl at the bottom of the stairs told Kenji this might be the first dead body he’d ever seen.
The apartment manager was a different story. The corpse on her doorstep was clearly the most exciting thing that had happened to her since the war. Her unnaturally black hair was granny-permed, brushed back from her forehead over a lined face that had shrunk to a surprisingly accurate twin of the speak-no-evil monkey carving at the Komagome shrine.
“What time did you discover the victim?” Kenji asked.
“5:07 a.m.,” the old woman answered, stealing a glance at the girl. “She was lying just like that when I came out to sweep the steps. I try to tidy things up and freshen the offerings at the shrine before the neighborhood starts stirring, but these days . . . well, some of my tenants work very strange hours.” She leaned toward Kenji and whispered. “Every once in a while they come home just as I’m getting up, and not always sober. Even the girls.”
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