Hoping for clues but no signs of foul play, Tatsuyama nodded.
11
“This feels peculiar,” Tatsuyama said as Kobayashi pulled up to the curb in front of Naoko’s six-story apartment building.
“Why peculiar?”
“Every other time I’ve come here, I’ve either arrived with Naoko, or I’ve known for sure—before getting to the door—that she was here.”
“Did you and Naoko spend much time together at her place?”
“Until the last couple of weeks, not a whole lot.”
“Do her neighbors know you?”
“Some do,” Tatsuyama said.
“Let’s try the apartments of people who know you, then.”
Tatsuyama knocked on a few neighbors’ doors and asked whether anyone had seen or heard Naoko come or go that day or the night before. None had. With that done, the two men went to the landlord’s apartment downstairs. Kobayashi showed the middle-aged landlord his police identification and asked the man to let them look around inside Naoko’s place.
“Naoko-san can’t be guilty of any crime, can she?” the apartment owner asked. “Has something happened to her that I should know about?”
“Well, she’s missing, and we’re concerned.”
The landlord took off his glasses, grabbed a large ring of keys from a hook near the door, and eagerly led them to Naoko’s place.
Just before he unlocked Naoko’s door, Kobayashi asked him, “By the way, do you mind telling me how long Naoko-san has been renting from you?”
The landlord scratched his head and said, “Let’s see…I think Naoko-san moved in around January…Hai, I’m sure of it—January.”
“And who lived here before her?”
“Before her, it was vacant two or three months.”
“Arigatou gozaimasu.”
Kobayashi turned to Tatsuyama and gave a slight tilt of the head. “Which grand tournament was it when she came to you in the arena asking for a photo?”
Begrudgingly, Tatsuyama admitted, “January.”
The landlord opened Naoko’s door, reached in, and pressed the light switch. Then abruptly, he stopped. He turned to Kobayashi, his jaw gaping.
“She didn’t tell me she was moving out,” he said.
Tatsuyama gently pushed his way past the landlord into the apartment. He looked back and forth. “I don’t believe it.” He wouldn’t have been any more astonished if he had showed up at Shibuya station only to be told that Japan had banned all travel by rail.
Everything was gone. Two sofas, a coffee table, an entertainment center, a desk—the works. No pictures on the walls. No rice cooker or microwave on the kitchen counters. The apartment was bare.
Kobayashi followed Tatsuyama in. He opened the closets. Checked the bathroom. Kitchen cabinets. All were empty.
Tatsuyama stood rubbing his finger under his bottom lip, visualizing the apartment the way it had been with Naoko there. “Lately we started coming here more often to eat and talk. Sat at a table right there. We watched movies together right here. A couple of times she had friends from the university over to hang out with us. We listened to some music with them and had a few drinks. It was nice. That was just days ago.”
He walked to a wall and put his hand there. “There were shelves right here, loaded with marketing, statistics, and business textbooks.”
Kobayashi faced Tatsuyama grimly. “A relatively inexpensive collection of props to draw you into trusting her, I’d say.”
Tatsuyama glared at the detective.
Kobayashi crossed the room and opened the sliding glass door to Naoko’s balcony. There on the concrete floor was a scrap of paper. He picked it up, glanced across the otherwise spotless balcony, and turned back toward Tatsuyama and the landlord. Tatsuyama could now see that the scrap was an envelope. Kobayashi ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair as he read it. He tucked the envelope into his coat pocket.
“What’s that?” Tatsuyama asked.
“Nothing.”
“Why’d you keep it then?”
“It’s nothing.”
Kobayashi turned again to the landlord. “You didn’t see or hear anyone moving stuff last night or today?”
The landlord stuck out his lower lip, shrugged, and shook his head. “Not at all.”
Tatsuyama exhaled slowly. “How do you empty an entire apartment without anyone seeing you do it?”
“It would take a highly coordinated group of people to do it quickly and quietly,” Kobayashi said. “And they’d probably have to do it around three or four in the morning, when most people are asleep. I’ll have some people follow up, maybe question neighbors in nearby buildings.”
The investigator led Tatsuyama and the landlord to the door. The landlord stepped outside. Kobayashi grabbed Tatsuyama’s arm and spoke quietly. “Before we go, does anything here jog your memory? Make you think about where Naoko might be or why she hasn’t called you? Even if she can’t use her own cell phone?”
“No, nothing else comes to mind…” Tatsuyama felt as though Kobayashi was talking in generalities, but thinking of specifics.
Out of the landlord’s line of sight, the detective held a finger to his lips. Tatsuyama nodded.
Once the landlord locked up, Kobayashi told him, “Until further notice, no one is to enter that apartment without a Tokyo Metro Police badge. Is that understood?”
The landlord nodded.
The three descended. Tatsuyama thanked the landlord. Kobayashi and Tatsuyama continued on to the car.
Once in the car, Tatsuyama asked, “Why the silence signal just before we left the apartment?”
“It occurred to me the landlord could be complicit. We may have already said more in front of him than we should have.”
“To me, he seemed cooperative.”
Kobayashi pulled the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Tatsuyama. “I didn’t want him to see this either.”
It was a business envelope from the Hitotsubashi University Graduate School of Commerce and Management, addressed to Kusunoki Naoko.
Tatsuyama stared at the detective. “So what do you make of this?”
“Too convenient.”
“What do you mean?”
“The apartment was completely empty. They didn’t even leave a paper clip or a stray corner of toilet paper. But this envelope was there. Just too convenient.”
“But it was on the balcony, right? If they meant to leave it for somebody to find it, wouldn’t the balcony be a risky place to leave it? The wind could blow it away, and their purpose would be defeated.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. Anyway, there are plenty of people in this city powerful enough to create an alias for someone and pay university tuition in the alias’s name. The people I’m after—we’re after—are that kind of people.”
Tatsuyama held up the envelope. “Couldn’t this support my point of view—that Naoko really is a university student, and that she’s a victim of criminal activity too?”
Kobayashi shrugged. “Not if she’s who I think she is.”
Tatsuyama tapped the envelope on his fingertips. “Tell me about Yamada.”
“You’ve had enough for one day, yokozuna. You’ll be schooled on Yamada starting tomorrow. We’ll pick up where my investigations left off. That includes evidence that Naoko may be Yamada’s daughter, that she may be playing an active role in his plan to take control of sumo, and that she may even have dated you these past four months just to set you up for yesterday. You’ve got to face those possibilities.”
Tatsuyama was silent. He felt as though he had discovered a parallel world. Things felt equally real in both worlds, but they couldn’t both be real—they were contradictory. What did the envelope in his hand tell him? Which world did it come from?
“Are you still in?” Kobayashi asked.
“I’m still in…I’m definitely still in.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Kobayashi said, “what did Naoko ever tell you about her parents or wh
ere she grew up?”
“She said her mother had died when she was young, and that she and her father didn’t get along.”
“Where’d she say she was from?”
Tatsuyama hesitated. “Osaka.”
The detective started the car. “Does she have the accent?”
Again Tatsuyama paused. “Not at all.”
12
When Tatsuyama surfaced from his apartment at the training stable the next morning, he could hear the clatter of dishes and the murmur of a half dozen conversations in the kitchen down the hall. The aroma of fried croquets made his mouth water. His stomach had already been protesting its owner’s diminished appetite of late.
When he entered the kitchen, all fell silent.
“What?” he asked, scanning a dozen faces who wore the topknot.
No one spoke.
Once he realized they were gawking at the sight of him in ordinary street clothes, he explained that he wasn’t, by any means, quitting sumo. He just wanted to draw less attention to himself while working with Detective Kobayashi. That morning, however, Tatsuyama had ditched the loafers in favor of zori, the Japanese sandals to which he had grown accustomed over the past fourteen years.
Coach Ikeda rose from where he had been sitting and pulled Tatsuyama aside. With a grim expression, he put a hand on Tatsuyama’s shoulder and said, “I regret to tell you…last night the association denied your appeal.”
Tatsuyama nodded. “By the end of last night, that’s what I assumed their response would be.” He went on to describe what they had found out at Shibuya 109, the garage, and Naoko’s apartment.
“And you still have no idea where Naoko is?”
“No idea. But Coach, I’ve been thinking. If they’re after me, they may be after you too—maybe the whole stable. Did the detective tell you his theory yesterday?”
“ Un, about a Yamada takeover?”
He nodded again. “What do you think? Is it plausible?”
“It certainly fits what’s already happened.”
“Is Yamada as powerful as they say?”
“I don’t know what they say, but he’s probably powerful enough to achieve a takeover of the sport…if everything goes exactly the way he plans it.”
Tatsuyama leaned in. “Then we’ll just have to make sure things don’t continue to go the way he plans them.” He patted his coach’s arm.
In one of the few outlying districts of Tokyo to have escaped the fire bombings of World War II, there stands a very old and exclusive neighborhood. The houses are all screened from the streets by beige plaster walls dating back to samurai times. Ancient pine trees reach proudly over the glazed, slate-gray roofing tiles that top the old ramparts.
Naoko waited nervously in the back room of an Edo-Period house behind one of those walls. The room’s sliding doors had been opened to catch the fragrant, mid-May breeze from gardens surrounding the estate.
Hearing the soft padding of shoeless feet approaching from the inside hallway, she stood up and waited to see whether it was the person she expected.
“Ohayou gozaimasu, Naoko,” he said from the doorway. [Good morning, Naoko.]
It was him. Somehow, surprisingly, it was almost like seeing him for the first time. But what she felt this time was completely different. His strong, square jaw and bronze complexion were just as attractive. The way he wore his trendy sports coat with the sleeves pushed up, he still exuded an air of self-confidence and sophistication. His smile was just as bright. But her heart didn’t dance in her chest the way it had when they had first been introduced nearly a year ago. Today the air wasn’t filled with stardust.
“ Ohayou gozaimasu, Hideo,” she finally said softly. She made herself smile politely.
He stepped toward her, holding out a small, wrapped box. “ Gifuto—for finally getting back together again.”
Covering her mouth, she said, “You didn’t have to…” He definitely didn’t have to. He shouldn’t have. Not yet.
“It’s just something small.” He smiled and nodded.
She opened the box to find an origami crane made from a napkin from a restaurant they used to enjoy together. Her eyes welled up, but not from sentimental recollections.
He reached out and thumbed a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Arigatou,” she said. “It’s very thoughtful of you.”
“So your father trusts your loyalty now, and he’s obviously given me permission to see you again,” he said. “What do you think?”
His eyes…they were searching hers. Not now, not yet. Maybe never again. Maybe. She didn’t know.
Turning toward the open door, she gazed into the garden. “A lot’s happened since Christmas.” Could the people in the other room hear them? If so, she didn’t want to speak her mind, much less her heart. “I think things need to move very slowly right now.”
“That’s OK,” he said. “I’m just thankful for another chance.”
She nodded. Gave another polite smile. “How’s police work been lately? Hope you haven’t run into anything too dangerous.” She recalled with suppressed anger the policeman who had hauled Tatsuyama out of the concert. That, in turn, made her think of Yamashita and then of her father. Her stomach felt unsettled.
“Just routine stuff. Mostly traffic and parking violations.”
Naoko hardly heard his response.
Hiroko came to the doorway. Today she wore a pale-green kimono with tiny yellow, pink, and blue peonies. “Haruta-san asks you both to join him for tea.” Extending her hand formally, she said, “This way, onegaishimasu.” [This way, please.]
Hideo motioned for Naoko to go first.
She didn’t want tea with Haruta. But neither did she want to be alone with Hideo. Why couldn’t she spend the day spilling her thoughts and anxieties to Hiroko? Perhaps the men would get caught up in a conversation that wouldn’t require her participation.
Kobayashi—driving his own purple pearl Honda CR-Z rather than the police vehicle he had used the day before—picked up Tatsuyama from the stable around midmorning.
“Good news,” the detective said.
Tatsuyama’s heart skipped a beat. “Something about Naoko?”
“I think so.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
Kobayashi pulled away from the curb with a slight squeal of his tires. “Last night I gave Naoko’s phone to a techie friend of mine to see whether he could work his magic and retrieve any information from it. We got a hit, yokozuna. And we’ll find out before the end of the morning—it could even be a home run.”
“Give me specifics. What do you have?”
“The home address of whoever is paying Naoko’s phone bill.”
Tatsuyama did a double take. “It’s not billed to her apartment address?”
Kobayashi shook his head. “A very prestigious address in an old, rebuilt Edo-Period neighborhood. The address of someone with a very healthy income.”
“Got a name?” Tatsuyama was ready for Kobayashi to hit him with “Yamada” once again.
“Probably fake.”
“Not Kusunoki, then.”
“Suzuki.”
Tatsuyama laughed. “Right. Don’t tell me. The given name is Hiroshi?”
“You got it. Only three million Suzuki Hiroshis in Japan.”
“Probably fake, says the brilliant detective.”
A short while later, Kobayashi parked along the curb of a stone-paved street. Just beyond the narrow sidewalks on both sides, beige plaster walls hid all but the upper stories of old-style homes with glazed tile roofs. A huge pine tree cast a filigreed shadow over the car.
Tatsuyama gazed up the street. Dark wooden gates with tile roofs broke the long stretches of beige wall. Modern electric replicas of traditional candle-lit streetlights lined the narrow avenue.
“You were right when you said ‘old neighborhood.’ How do you plan to get in? Or do you just intend to walk up and knock on a door?”
Kobayashi said, “I want to get you
close enough to the house in question for you to be able to identify Naoko by voice or by sight…if she’s there, of course.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. And if you’re thinking about going over these walls, I probably can’t do it. I’m a sumo wrestler, not a rock climber.”
“I understand. Let’s take a stroll and see what we’re up against.”
The two got out and walked a block and a half up the street. Kobayashi stopped just before the next wooden gate. He peered around the corner. Tatsuyama was right behind him. Past the dark slats of wood, he could see two limousines parked near the front door of the elegant old-style Japanese house. The garden to the right appeared empty. The detective motioned for Tatsuyama to follow him stealthily into the private yard.
Kobayashi may be used to this sort of thing, but I’m certainly not. Sumo had taught him to move fast. But fast might not be enough. Yakuza thugs could be patrolling the garden. Not wanting to wind up with a pistol shoved up his nose, he thought, I’d better fly.
Surprised by his own fleet-footedness, Tatsuyama had no trouble moving his mass quickly through the wooden gate and into the garden. He seemed to have gotten in unseen.
The two took cover behind a cluster of camellia bushes. From that vantage point, Tatsuyama panned across the lush garden. Thankfully, there was no sign of any pistol-packing yakuza, as he had half anticipated. His focus shifted to the spacious open room at the back of the house. No surprise to find the place exposed to the garden on a pleasant spring day like this. But had anybody inside seen them dash from the gate to the bushes?
Tatsuyama felt the adrenaline coursing through him, felt the tension in his thighs.
You’re the master, he thought. Adrenaline’s the servant. Make it serve you. Keep your senses sharp. Keep your mind clear. Same as on the dohyo.
The sound of boisterous conversation and raucous laughter rolled out of the grand home and across the yard.
“How close do we need to get?” Tatsuyama whispered.
The detective swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear. “Only as close as necessary for you to tell me with absolute certainty that you do or do not hear Naoko’s voice.”
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 6
