She straightened and continued, “I watch all the detective dramas on TV, so I knew not to touch the body, even though her unmentionables were showing. I expect you’ll need me to come down to the station this morning to give you my fingerprints, and as for my alibi . . . ”
Kenji held up a hand and said, “Thank you, Manager-san, but I think that can wait. I do need to ask you a few questions, though, if you don’t mind.” He took out his notebook. “Do you know the victim?”
“Sakura Endo, apartment 201. First door at the top of the stairs. Seemed like a nice girl, always paid her rent on time, but . . . ” She pursed her lips. “Goes out dressed like that. Not surprising she got into trouble, is it?”
“What do you mean ‘trouble’?”
“If murder isn’t trouble, I don’t know what is!”
Kenji turned to look at the girl crumpled at the foot of the concrete steps. This didn’t look like a homicide; it looked like an accident. Her bleached, elaborately curled hair and short dress identified her as a kyabajo, one of the glamorous young women who spun youth into gold at a hostess bar. But despite her employment in the mizu shobai entertainment world, he’d be very surprised if someone had killed her. Murder was rare in Japan, and usually the work of a drunken family member who sobered up the next day, was smitten with remorse, and confessed.
Dark stairs plus spike heels plus the cocktails she drank while entertaining customers most likely added up to an unfortunate tumble. Her white chiffon dress had snagged on a step and hiked up on one side. She’d lost one dangling cherry earring and a pointy-toed gold shoe. Blood matted the girl’s hair and trickled down the steps, pooling in a teardrop-shaped pockmark in the pavement. Her skillful make-up gave the impression of beauty, but she’d covered up a small mole on her chin, her eyes were a little too close together, and she’d probably been in the habit of flirtatiously holding her hand up to cover her mouth when she laughed, concealing the crooked front teeth that now showed between her parted lips.
What a shame. She looked barely old enough to drink, let alone die. He turned back to the building manager. “Did you hear her fall?”
“No. My apartment is down there, on the other side of the building.” She pointed to the far corner.
Further questions were postponed by the arrival of a white van. It rolled to a stop and a lanky foreigner jumped from the passenger side, cradling a digital camera. “Nakamura-san, o-hisashiburi desu,” he greeted Kenji in perfect Japanese. Long time no see.
The old woman’s jaw dropped. Even Kenji was still startled every time he heard the red-haired Australian crime tech speak Japanese like a native. The first time he’d met Tommy Loud, all he’d known about him was that the Superintendent General had foisted him on the northwest Tokyo crime lab because the SG’s daughter had defiantly run off and married this foreigner whose very name reinforced the Aussie stereotype. Once they’d worked together, though, Kenji discovered that Loud was not only technically meticulous, he was talented at getting around regulations when “the way things are done” got in the way of getting things done.
“Rowdy-san,” he said, mispronouncing Loud’s name in typical Japanese fashion. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.”
“What have we got this time?” the crime tech asked.
“Looks like an accident to me, but why don’t you take a look.”
Loud nodded, switched on his camera, and began photographing the body as his two blue-uniformed assistants erected the screens that would protect the victim’s privacy once the street began to wake up.
Kenji badly needed that cup of tea. Where was Assistant Detective Suzuki? He’d called him nearly half an hour ago. Suzuki had transferred with Kenji to the Komagome station last November, having graduated from university two years behind him on the same fast track to a high-ranking career in police administration. As his sempai mentor, Kenji’s job was to train the assistant detective and look out for his interests as they climbed the ladder together; in return, his kohai junior was expected to give him unquestioning loyalty and support.
“Good morning, Nakamura-san. Sorry it took me so long, sir.”
Finally. Despite the early hour, Suzuki arrived in an immaculately pressed suit, not one hair out of place because his monk-like haircut was so much shorter than the dress code demanded. He bowed deferentially, but stopped short of saluting. Suzuki had learned that observing the finer points of police regulations tended to piss off his superior early in the morning. He’d also learned what his sempai’s first request of the day would be. He dug into a plastic Family Mart bag.
“Dozo,” he said, handing Kenji a bottle of hot green tea.
Kenji accepted it with thanks. Encouraged by his sempai’s civilized response, Suzuki ventured, “Looks like we finally have a real case to investigate, sir!”
“Looks like an accident,” Kenji corrected him, cracking open the seal on the tea bottle and downing a big slug.
Suzuki’s cheerfulness evaporated. It had been a slow month for crime and everyone on the squad was being given tedious busywork or loaned out to other divisions. Suzuki had been absent more than most, assigned to some project in Traffic Section, not exactly an elite career detective’s dream job.
Noting his kohai’s glum face, Kenji said, “Even accidents need to be investigated. Do you think Traffic Section can get along without you today?”
“Just today? You don’t think . . . ?”
“Let’s see what Rowdy-san says after he examines the body.”
Kenji introduced Suzuki to the apartment manager, directing him to get contact information for the victim’s next of kin, then take the young police box officer to canvass the other buildings on the block, to find out if anybody had witnessed Sakura Endo’s fall. Suzuki followed the manager toward her apartment, nodding politely as the old woman advised him how to run the investigation.
“Nakamura-san?” Tommy Loud appeared at his side.
Kenji capped his tea and followed the crime tech behind the screens, looking over Loud’s shoulder as he crouched next to the victim. He was relieved to see that the girl’s panties were no longer on view.
“She hasn’t been dead more than a few hours. Last night it got down to 62º, so I’d say she died sometime between 1:00 and 3:00 a.m.” He pointed to the faint dark splotches ringing her upper arm. “Judging by the development of these bruises, I’d guess she got them not too long before she died.” He gently brushed the milk-tea-colored ringlets away from her right cheek so Kenji could see the faint discoloration where he’d swabbed away her makeup. “This too. Looks to me like somebody slapped her around last night.”
The crime tech stood and folded his arms, considering the body. Then he looked up toward the second floor and squeezed past the sprawled figure. Slowly making his way up the stairs, he peered at each of the concrete steps.
“There’s blood here.” He pointed to a dark blotch on the scarred metal edge. “And here,” indicating another smear further up, leaving numbered tags to mark them for his assistants. He paused to look at the railing near the top, left another tag, then climbed the last few steps. The stairs ended at an outdoor hallway with three faded turquoise doors spaced along its length. Outside each apartment hung plastic frames fitted with miniature clothespins, the far one still festooned with an assortment of socks, t-shirts, and uniform pants, forgotten overnight and now damp with dew.
Loud stopped to examine something near the first apartment door. His camera flashed twice. He said something that was drowned out by the passing of a Yamanote Line train.
“Say again?” Kenji requested, when it was quiet.
“Fresh scuffs on the carpet up here,” Loud called down over the flaking metal railing. The camera flashed once more.
Kenji climbed the stairs and squatted down to look at the scrapes outside the door to apartment 201. A fight? He rang the bell at
202. No answer. He rang again. Nothing.
He moved on to 203. He was about to push the bell a second time when a bleary-eyed man with an unshaven face cracked open the door. Kenji identified himself and asked if he’d heard any noise last night, but wasn’t surprised when the man removed his earplugs and said no, he hadn’t heard a thing.
Kenji was making his way back to the stairs when a shriek from below pulled him to the railing. A schoolgirl had pushed past the police screens and stood, swaying, over the victim.
“No!” she wailed. Suzuki arrived one step behind and gently backed her away. She stood, weeping in earnest now, mascara-stained tears streaming down her plump cheeks. Kenji trotted down the stairs, carefully skirting the crime tech’s tags.
“Sorry, sir,” said Suzuki, letting go of her and stepping back. “I didn’t expect her to bolt like that. This is the victim’s roommate, Kiku Kimura.”
The hostess lived with a high school student? Then Kenji saw that although Kiku’s white sailor blouse resembled the uniforms worn by private school coeds, it was cropped short to expose a strip of smooth belly above a plaid, pleated skirt far too skimpy to pass any headmaster’s beady eye. Once-curled pigtails drooped alongside her round cheeks, tied with ribbons that matched her skirt. She was slightly pigeon-toed, a look accentuated by white knee socks that did nothing to slim her sturdy ankles. She must be in her late 20s, and there was only one reason she’d be dressed like that at her age. Fuzokujo. Sex worker.
“I’m sorry, Miss Kimura. This must be a shock for you,” Kenji said, steering her away from the body toward the crime scene van.
She climbed in and slumped in the passenger seat, hugging herself in the chilly morning air. Her weeping had subsided to sniffs and she wiped her face, leaving faint dark smears across her cheeks.
“Have you and Miss Endo known each other long?” Kenji asked.
The girl nodded, taking a shaky breath. “Since middle school. We grew up together in Chiba.”
“How long have you lived in Tokyo?”
“She came right after high school. Nine years ago. She wanted to sing in a band, but after a few months she got a job at Club Heaven to pay the rent. Pretty soon she was sending me pictures of the beautiful dresses she wore every night, telling me about the rich men who bought her drinks. I came a year later.”
“If she worked in Kabuki-cho, how did she end up living in Komagome?”
“It’s only an 20-minute train ride. A lot of hostesses live around here, because it’s cheaper and safer than the neighborhoods closer to work.”
“Do you work at Club Heaven too?”
“No.” She hung her head. “Love Train.”
Ah. Several rungs down from the hostess clubs, it was the most famous of the “train groping” bars. He’d never been to one, but he knew this particular niche of the sex trade catered to men who fantasized about molesting fellow commuters. For a price, customers could enter a room outfitted like a subway car–right down to the recorded station announcements and realistically vibrating floor–and fondle the women “passengers” to their hearts’ content. Schoolgirls were a popular fantasy.
“When was the last time you saw your roommate?”
“Last night before we both left for work. Around 6:00.”
“And you haven’t been home since?”
“No. My shift ended at 2:00 but I went out for a drink with someone afterwards.” She glanced at Kenji nervously. He wasn’t in the Public Morals section, so he ignored the fact that “drink” probably meant something kinkier and less legal.
“Your roommate, did she ever bring dates home after work? Any chance she wasn’t alone last night when she fell?”
“No. We never brought anyone from work to our apartment.” Fresh tears spilled down Kiku’s cheeks. “How can she be dead? Last night she said she might have some good news to tell me this weekend. She was wearing her lucky earrings!”
“Lucky earrings?” Kenji pictured the victim, a bunch of red fruit tangled in her hair.
“She bought them the day she got her job at Club Heaven. Her real name was Sakura,” Kiku explained, “but everyone called her Cherry.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jonelle Patrick divides her time between Tokyo and San Francisco and speaks Japanese well enough to go everywhere from Kabuki theaters to maid cafés. In addition to writing the next book in the Only in Tokyo Mystery series, she chronicles amusing cultural oddities in her blog, Only In Japan (http://jonellepatrick.me/) and runs The Tokyo Guide I Wish I’d Had website (http://www.jonellepatrick.com/), which features photos, directions, and descriptions of off-the-beaten-path destinations that visitors don’t usually get to see unless they’re taken around by a local.
For photos and a behind-the-scenes look at the Only in Tokyo mysteries, visit Jonelle at www.jonellepatrick.com, follow her on Twitter (@jonellepatrick), or catch up with her on Facebook (http://on.fb.me/zwWzup).
YUMI'S HOUSE
This is the kind of traditional wooden house Yumi's family inherited in Komagome.
SHINTO SHRINE
The Komagome Shrine is fictional, but it might look something like this. All shrines have pi-shaped torii gates at the entrance, typically hung with rice-straw ropes. There are often lion dog or fox figures flanking the entrance.
SACRED RICE STRAW ROPE
These rice straw and paper ropes are called shimenawa. They are hung to show that the area beyond (or enclosed) is sacred. You often see them tied around trees or rocks in which Shinto gods are believed to reside.
TORII GATE
Torii gates mark the entrance to Shinto shrines. They are one of the markers that differentiate Shinto shrines from Buddhist temples. Torii gates are made of unpainted cedar or stone, with the exception of Inari shrines (dedicated to success in business), which are lacquered red.
PHONE ORNAMENTS
Mobile phone ornaments are popular souvenir items and gifts from friends.
SWEET LOLITA CLOTHING
Here are two Sweet Lolita outfits, displayed outside the Bodyline store on Takeshita Street, near where Mei and Kei work.
GOTH AND PUNK LOLITA CLOTHING
The outfit on the left is typical of Elegant Gothic Lolita style; the one on the right is Punk Lolita style. Goth-Lolitas tend to dress exclusively in black and white. Punk Lolitas often add red, and prefer design elements that connote "English Punk."Both make decorative use of crosses, chains and zippers.
SHINTO PRIESTS
Shinto priests usually wear white linen robes, lacquered black mesh hats and black clogs. For ceremonial occasions, they wear brocade robes over their usual vestments.
CHERRY BLOSSOM PARTIES
During the one week cherry blossoms bloom in the spring, every public park is swarmed with people, all eating and drinking and partying. This picture was taken in Yoyogi Park, Tokyo.
KOMAGOME POLICE STATION
This is where Kenji works.
TAKESHITA STREET
This is where Yumi meets Mei and Kei. It's the center of fashion cult shopping in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo.
MONCHHICHI MONKEY
This is the kind of stuffed animal Rika collects. They are hugely popular, and come dressed in every imaginable kind of clothing. This one is a special edition for a festival in the Asakusa neighborhood.
DARUMA
When you buy a Daruma figure, both eyes are white (like the eye on the left). This one has one eye colored in because a wish has been made, but it hasn't yet come true. When the wish comes true, the other eye will be colored in.
KIMONOS WORN BY UNMARRIED WOMEN
These girls are wearing the kind of kimonos reserved for young, unmarried women. Bright colors, extravagantly long sleeves and winged obi bows are never worn by married women.
JIZO-SAMA
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br /> These figures of Jizo-sama are at Zojo-ji Temple, where Yumi walks on the way to have dinner with Ichiro. Jizo-sama is the patron bodhisattva (Buddhist saint) of lost children and travelers.
AKIHABARA ELECTRONICS DISTRICT
This is one of the main streets in the Akihabara neighborhood, where Kenji meets Ghost. The girls in pink are maids, passing out flyers, inviting passersby into their café.
MAID CAFÉ ADS
This is an ad for one of the many maid cafés in the Akihabara neighborhood.
LIVE HOUSE' CLUB
This is the scene at a "live house" club in Tokyo. There are no seats. Fans start being admitted an hour before the show, in order of how early they bought their tickets. Most clubs accommodate 200-400 fans. Bands typically perform from 6:00 P.M. until about 9:00 P.M., giving fans time to eat afterwards and make the last train home before midnight.
LOVE HOTEL
It's easy to identify love hotels, because their exteriors are far more fanciful than regular hotels, and the signs outside advertise two rates: one for "rest" and the other for "stay." The first entitles use of the room for a few hours, the second allows an overnight stay.
ENTRANCE TO THE NEZU SHRINE
This is one of the main entrances to the Nezu Shrine.
Nightshade Page 33
