Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller

by GP Hutchinson

  “I think your future in sumo depends a great deal on how this investigation plays out,” Kobayashi said. “I can use your help and your knowledge of the sumotori life to get to the bottom of what’s really going on. It would have to be unofficial, of course, but together we have a far better chance of securing both your career and the bright future of the entire national sport of Japan.”

  “What about Naoko?” Tatsuyama asked.

  “We’ll have to find her first.”

  “So you don’t know where she is either.”

  Kobayashi shook his head. “I have a guess or two. But no, I’m sorry to say I don’t know where she is.”

  Tatsuyama nodded. “You need to fill me in on everything you know about her and how you know it.”

  “Agreed.”

  Feeling a small but very real shift in his instincts, Tatsuyama said, “I’ll work with you, but I still hope you’re wrong…I hope whatever we find out together just doesn’t add up to the conclusions you’re drawing right now.”

  “In all sincerity, I hope for the same thing,” the detective admitted. “But if I’m off at all, I’m afraid it’s not going to be by very much. Now, if you’re willing to work with me on this, I’d like to get started right away, Yokozuna-san.”

  His stomach stirred as he considered the unpleasant truths he might uncover. Yet words tumbled out even faster than his thoughts. “Let’s go get some answers, Detective.”

  8

  Haruta Shin’ichi entered his employer’s spacious living room and waited silently near the doorway. Since he spent practically every waking hour at Yamada Hideyoshi’s elbow, he understood the man as well as anyone did. He would refrain from approaching until his boss summoned him. Even for Yamada’s personal assistant, it wasn’t wise to disturb the man.

  The boss sat on a long, modern, sage-green leather couch in a contemporary, stylized version of a conventional Japanese room. Eyes closed, he listened. A high-fidelity digital recording of traditional koto music filled the room. Every note resonated whole and true to the place and time when the rich sound of the thirteen-stringed instrument had been recorded. Only the very best custom-designed and professionally installed sound systems could deliver that sense of actually being there in the concert hall with the artist.

  Rays of golden, late-afternoon sunlight pierced the room from a picture window overlooking Tokyo Bay.

  Haruta’s gaze settled on the glassed museum cases and the complete suits of samurai armor they contained. These were period pieces, not mere replicas. Haruta mused, Translate what Yamada’s accomplished to a few hundred years ago, and he would have been a daimyo with a castle of his own. And I would have served as his samurai commander. Times have changed, but then again, not so very much.

  The haunting melody ended quietly. Yamada opened his eyes. Spotting Haruta, he held out a hand toward the matching couch that faced him beyond a coffee table. “Have a seat,” he invited.

  Haruta descended to the place his boss offered him. Before he sat, he sharply tugged the cuffs of the custom-tailored shirt he wore beneath his expensive suit jacket.

  Yamada, a thin man with a band of closely cropped, silvering hair that ringed his balding head, lifted his chin. “Are there any updates?” he asked.

  “The yokozuna is out of jail. He’s been suspended from competition. The Japan Sumo Association will release a statement to the public tonight.”

  “Good,” Yamada said. “Ikeda has now had twenty-four hours to let reality sink in. Let’s see if these measures are sufficient to persuade him to accept the signs of the times.”

  “What would you like me to do next, sir?”

  Yamada, hands folded on his lap, said, “We will give him a few days to fully appreciate what it feels like to attend a grand sumo tournament without having his prize student on the dohyo.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, Haruta, you will approach him discreetly with the suggestion that he work with us in the remaking of sumo.”

  Haruta smiled slightly and nodded. “From where we stand at this point, how are you feeling about the outcome, sir?”

  Yamada tightened his lips. “Ikeda will not stand in my way much longer, whether this step is sufficient or we have to proceed to the next.”

  In light of Yamada-sama’s record, Haruta thought, it’s true—Ikeda won’t remain an obstacle for long. He glanced at his Seiko and said, “I’d like to hope that both the coach and his sumotori will come to their senses and find a place in the new order of things. Their talents and popularity could serve you well.”

  “If not them, then someone else. Historically it is the Yamada who have made sumo great. Not sumo the Yamada. Keep me informed, Haruta.”

  Haruta stood and bowed. “Hai, Yamada-sama.”

  9

  Coach Ikeda stood at the doorway to one of Tofuya Ukai’s several private dining rooms. His mood seesawed between hopeful and doubtful as he greeted the well-to-do patrons he had invited. These were men who had sponsored Tatsuyama when he was still a young, rising star in sumo—men who had made a good return on their investments as underwriters of the young rikishi.

  Staring down the hallway, he exhaled slowly. These are the most influential businessmen I know. If they’re unable to persuade the Japan Sumo Association to reinstate Tatsuyama for the May grand tournament, we’re out of luck.

  He bowed graciously once again. “Komban wa, Takahashi-san.” [Good evening, Mr. Takahashi.] “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  Takahashi smiled easily. Still dark haired at sixty, he looked trim as ever in his refined charcoal-gray suit. “You know I will always do whatever I can when it comes to our young friend Tatsuyama,” he said. “Have many responded to your call? I tried to reach others to persuade them to come.”

  “Hai, six have already arrived.”

  “By now you may know—some of us received threats via text and e-mail.”

  “My apologies, Takahashi-san. Neither I nor Tatsuyama would ever want to jeopardize your business or personal interests.”

  “Don’t worry, Coach. Not about me anyway.”

  As the two spoke, a hostess escorted another business-suited acquaintance to where Ikeda and Takahashi stood.

  “Hayashi-san, how kind of you to be here,” Ikeda said, striving to exude casual confidence.

  Hayashi—at forty-five, a relatively young success story—scratched his temple. “You seem to be taking this rather well, Coach Ikeda—the announcement.”

  “Announcement?”

  “Hai. On the way over I saw it on my news feed: the association has denied Tatsuyama’s appeal. They said the unresolved assault charges are insurmountable.”

  Coach Ikeda nodded heavily. He felt like someone had just walloped him with a brick. “Thank you for the update. I wasn’t aware they’d reach a decision before Sunday.”

  “Sorry, Coach,” Hayashi said, “but it looks like this is just going to be a social visit.”

  Takahashi patted Coach Ikeda’s back. “Let’s go on in, Ikeda-san, Hayashi-san. Let me buy you a sake. There are still matters to discuss.”

  Coach Ikeda paused, nodded more convincingly, and extended his hand toward the reserved room. “After you, gentlemen.” So the May tournament will proceed minus one of the sport’s three yokozuna. Time to regroup for the long trek.

  10

  Once Tatsuyama had accepted Detective Kobayashi’s request for help on the case, the two had embarked on a mission to find ordinary street clothes for the yokozuna to wear. Dressed in the traditional kimono normally worn by sumotori, people would recognize Tatsuyama just about anywhere he went. Western clothing would provide at least a shot at anonymity. Just one problem, though: size. Tokyo is not exactly the “big and tall” shopping capital of the world. Fortunately for Tatsuyama, Kobayashi knew of places in the city where gaijin, or foreigners, shopped for larger men’s clothing.

  Stepping out of one of the shops a short while later, Kobayashi assessed Tatsuyama’s transfor
mation. “You look sharp in regular street clothes.”

  “Feels strange,” Tatsuyama said, examining his sleeves, then his feet. “Especially wearing shoes instead of zori. It’s been a while.”

  He had selected dark, subtle colors—mostly grays, browns, and blacks—including a nice, gray driving cap to discreetly cover his topknot.

  “You’re already less conspicuous,” Kobayashi said. “Now, just try to look small.” He popped a wry smile.

  Tatsuyama grinned. “Right.”

  Late-afternoon commuter traffic was already bottling up in the streets. The two men were just a few blocks away from Shibuya 109.

  Kobayashi glanced at his watch. “Let’s walk,” he said. “We’ll come back for the car.”

  “Walking’s good,” Tatsuyama agreed. Toting a couple of shopping bags, he set as brisk a pace as the busy sidewalks would allow.

  The flow and eddy of pedestrians made it difficult to hold a conversation along the way. Yet Kobayashi evidently wanted to get something settled before reaching the department store.

  “This investigation is not going to be limited to clearing your name,” he said. “I’m not your attorney.”

  “What? Are you suddenly having second thoughts about asking me to help out?”

  “No, you and I both have a lot more to gain than to lose by working together. I just want to be clear.”

  “You’ve made yourself clear.” Tatsuyama dodged a bicyclist on the jam-packed sidewalk.

  “As we work together, we’ll be looking at the same clues,” the detective said. “The thing is, this is all personal for you. That’s going to affect how you interpret what we find. My job is broader than proving that you—or Naoko—were victims. I’ve got to go where the evidence leads me.”

  “So we may come to different conclusions. What do we do then?”

  “You just need to remember that our motives for getting to the bottom of this still overlap enough. You and I are better off working together, even when I resume checking out Naoko’s story, OK?”

  Tatsuyama didn’t respond.

  At an entry to Shibuya 109, Kobayashi stopped and faced Tatsuyama.

  “I regard Naoko as a key piece in the bigger puzzle. I guess the main thing I’m trying to tell you is that you may be derailed by what we find out about her. I won’t be.”

  Tatsuyama met the detective’s gaze with equal determination. “Look, I want to find Naoko as soon as possible and know that she’s OK. And,” he added, “I want to know the truth about her. Don’t worry about that truth derailing me.”

  Kobayashi nodded. “OK, then. This is the last place you saw her, correct?”

  “Inside, hai.”

  “Then let’s start here. You said a little while ago that Naoko had a friend at 109 who was supposed to get you close to the stage for the concert in return for a photo opportunity. Did you know that friend?”

  “Unfortunately, no. A security officer ushered us to the front. At the time, I supposed we’d meet the friend and take the photo after the concert. Of course, there was no ‘after the concert’ for Naoko and me together.”

  “So there may or may not have been a friend looking for a photo opportunity.”

  It pained Tatsuyama to admit it, but objectively speaking, Kobayashi was right. “She said a friend was going to take care of us. A favor for a favor.”

  Inside the store, the concert area from the previous day had already been rearranged for normal business. The performance platform was gone. Mannequins posed on smaller platforms where Kaki-Shinju had sung the day before.

  “Wait here while I go ask a few questions,” Kobayashi said. “Try to find exactly where you stood for the concert. Try to see what you saw yesterday. Then walk around a little. Try to think outside the box. I’ll be right back.”

  Tatsuyama nodded. He was already immersed in thought. He drifted to where he and Naoko had stood.

  Looking toward the mannequins, he recalled Akiko and the rest of Kaki-Shinju. What cute girls. What great musicians. He closed his eyes and remembered their second tune. There was Naoko again, smiling and clapping.

  Kobayashi couldn’t be right about Naoko. Either she was one exceptionally talented, thoroughly heartless actress, or—

  Think through it again, he told himself.

  A few shoppers cruised by. He stepped out of the wide, central aisle. Facing the mannequins once more, he summoned back the details of yesterday’s experience—the audience, the music, the lighting, the costumes. He almost felt Yamashita brushing past him, almost smelled the sake. How had Naoko responded?

  His mind leapt to just before the concert. He recalled the security officer who had graciously brought them to the front of the crowd. He visualized the guard’s face, the prominent mole beside his nose. He knew he’d recognize the guy if he ever saw him again.

  Tatsuyama opened his eyes and strolled between racks of trendy dresses. The lone security officer had disappeared into the crowd. Where? Why hadn’t he done anything during Yamashita’s misbehavior? Complete absence of security—that had been the oddest thing.

  Before long, Kobayashi was back. “Nobody knows anything about you and Naoko.”

  “Who’d you ask?”

  “I passed through the young women’s fashion areas. I went to the accessories, jewelry, and shoe departments, quietly asking younger female employees whether they had a friend named Naoko who came to the concert with a sumotori. Came up with nothing.”

  Tatsuyama nodded absently and said, “Why was there no security available while Yamashita was bothering Akiko? That’s what seems strange to me. And then the police showed up just as I had Yamashita in my grasp.”

  “Your instincts are right. With celebrities in the store, security should have been far more visible than normal—not entirely absent.”

  “Why don’t we go ask store management about that now?”

  “We’ll come back for that,” the detective said. “I want to look over the official incident report they filed at police headquarters this morning. I don’t want to be caught flat-footed.”

  Tatsuyama frowned slightly. “I thought you came here this morning. They didn’t give you the report then?”

  “This morning, store management and security only wanted to talk about liability issues, damage control, and otherwise not ruining opportunities for future celebrity events. They said they had already sent a courier to police headquarters with the report.” Kobayashi looked up at a large decorative clock suspended from the ceiling. “Besides, it’s almost seven o’clock on a Friday evening. I’m pretty sure the store’s security director has left for the day.”

  “What now, then?” Tatsuyama asked. “We can still continue looking for Naoko tonight, can’t we?”

  “Absolutely.” Kobayashi rubbed his forehead as he looked around. “You said she stood right here when they arrested you, correct?”

  Tatsuyama walked a little farther from the exit to the precise spot where she had been. “She was standing right here...crying.”

  “Did she try to catch up to you and the police at all?”

  Tatsuyama shook his head. “We were whisked out of the store very quickly.”

  “Then let’s go to where she parked her car before the concert. She had to go back to get the car, right?”

  Kobayashi and Tatsuyama retrieved the detective’s vehicle and drove to the second level of the parking garage where Naoko had left her car before the concert.

  Just as they rounded a concrete support wall, Tatsuyama flinched. “Stop!” he said. “That’s hers—the red Nissan.”

  He hopped out and hurried to look through the Nissan’s windows. Kobayashi was right behind him.

  “I don’t think it’s been moved since yesterday,” Tatsuyama said, not knowing what to make of it. “I really expected it to be gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Her apartment, I guess.”

  The two men circled the car looking for anything out of place.

  “Do you thin
k she might have left the car and taken the train?” Kobayashi asked.

  “Unlikely. She’s a little spoiled. She likes the freedom the car gives her.”

  Tatsuyama wondered whether she had run into trouble back at the department store. Or maybe she had been abducted right there from the garage. Where could she be? Seconds later, he motioned for Kobayashi to come over to the driver’s side of the vehicle. There, lying broken on the pavement in the shadows near the front right tire, was Naoko’s cell phone.

  “Looks stomped on,” Tatsuyama said. “Not just dropped or thrown down.”

  “I agree. Leave it.”

  Kobayashi trotted back to his car and retrieved a pair of forensic gloves and a fresh ziplock evidence bag from the glove compartment. When he returned, he picked up the biggest piece first and examined it. Even with the battery in place, it wouldn’t turn on.

  “I was going to ask whether there could be some simple reason why she might not have returned for the car,” the detective said, gathering slivers of broken plastic and dropping them into the evidence bag. “But the cell phone tells us she probably did come back for it.”

  Tatsuyama continued examining the area around the car. “I do remember she had the phone in her hand when we arrived here.”

  When Kobayashi finished picking up the pieces of the phone, he took a wider look around. If he thought anything else was noteworthy, he didn’t comment on it.

  “A smashed phone, but no other sign of struggle—good sign or bad sign, Kobayashi?”

  “She’s still missing. Let’s just leave it at that for now.”

  Tatsuyama looked out from the garage at the dancing, multicolored glow of Shibuya’s neon-, argon-, and LED-illuminated buildings. Disneyland for big girls, he thought. But not a closed world like Tokyo Disney. “Missing…and that’s all we know. Where in the world have you gone, Naoko?”

  Kobayashi finished examining the pavement, walls, and adjacent vehicles. “Do you want to take a drive to her place?” he asked. “Are you up to it?”