Tatsuyama pondered a few seconds. “Going back to the stable wouldn’t be any good.”
“We’ll get you a hotel room, then. This is the biggest city in the world. We can find you someplace quiet, out of the way.”
“I’ve got it. Someplace better than a hotel.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Sumo still holds to its ancient Shinto roots. Throughout the year, we sumotori are called upon to visit various shrines for symbolic ceremonies.”
“You know of a shrine where you can hide?”
Tatsuyama delicately ran his fingers over his bandaged side as he spoke. “I do. There’s one particularly obscure shrine—here in Tokyo—whose caretaker would gladly take us in. I’ve often thought that if I ever needed to get away from all the public, the press, the corporate sponsors, I’d go there. The old priest there would never divulge my presence.”
“That’s turning the tables on the yakuza,” Kobayashi said. “I’ve heard of yakuza bosses who have become Buddhist monks to avoid being targeted. Religion seemed to work for them.”
“I’m sure their faith was great—about nine millimeters wide, right?
The detective gave a dry smile. “And how big is your faith in the old priest?”
“He’s a good man—very trustworthy.”
“What about your stablemates? What about Masaru? Have they ever agreed with you that this would make a good safe haven?”
“I’ve never mentioned it to a soul. Not even to the priest. It’s just something I’ve thought about.”
“Naoko?”
He shook his head. “She doesn’t know the place exists.”
“It sounds perfect, then,” Kobayashi said. “You direct me there while we talk about this afternoon. What exactly were you up to at Kitanomaru Park?”
The magnitude of what had just happened washed back over Tatsuyama. His mind replayed the silver limousine sliding up to the curb, Shiori in Haruta’s grasp, two men dragging Naoko, and the car door slamming. His stitched and aching side was merely scratched in comparison to the hole this loss had cleaved right through the core of his being.
“They kidnapped Naoko and Shiori,” he murmured, “just when I thought we were home free.”
“Naoko…kidnapped? And who’s Shiori?”
Tatsuyama rubbed his face and swallowed a wave of guilt. “That’s right, it’s been a few days since you and I last talked. Saito Shiori warned me about a Yamada trap at a nightclub in Roppongi—”
“That’s just great,” Kobayashi interrupted. “I’m busy trying to find a way to save your hide, and you’re out clubbing in Roppongi. I thought you were laying low somewhere.”
“I was laying low. I went to the club in Roppongi because somebody dropped off a note at the stable. The note referenced a place Naoko and I used to go to. I thought she might be looking for a way out.”
“But it was a trap.”
“Hai. Four gangsters. One with a Taser.”
“So was Naoko really looking for a way out?”
“I don’t know. We had to run for our lives. Shiori—”
“Wait. Who’s Shiori again?”
“She was the assistant security director at Shibuya 109. When Yamada sent his people there to arrange to set me up, she saw it all on a camera feed.”
“She’s not at 109 anymore?”
Tatsuyama shook his head. “Her boss was in on the setup, and he knows that Shiori knows.”
“All right, now back to today.”
“Hai. Naoko called me yesterday. She said she could help me get out of the mess I’m in with her father. We agreed to meet at the park. Shiori and I put together a plan to shadow Naoko to see if she had come alone like she said she would.”
“I guess she had other shadows.”
“It didn’t look like it. Not till the very last second.”
Kobayashi rubbed his forehead. “Why didn’t you call me about Naoko’s note or Naoko’s phone call?”
Tatsuyama weighed his thoughts. “Honestly, I thought you might arrest her…or at least hold her for questioning.”
“You’re still convinced she’s a victim.”
“I’m not in the mood for arguing the point right now, Kobayashi.”
Kobayashi drove in silence until Tatsuyama pointed out the next turn toward the shrine.
“Tell me about Coach Ikeda,” Tatsuyama said.
“What do you know already?”
“Only what I read in yesterday’s newspaper.”
Kobayashi thought back to what had been reported the day before. “He’s in bad shape.”
Tatsuyama sat upright. “How bad?”
“He’s got a cracked skull and a dislocated shoulder.” The detective glanced at Tatsuyama. “Just so you know, I’d put money on it—with his shoulder messed up like that, Coach Ikeda didn’t stab the victim.”
“Is he in jail? In a hospital?”
“He’s under guard in a clinic…but Detective Aoki down in the Organized Crime Control Section wants him back in jail as soon as he’s well enough.”
“That’s not your department, is it?”
“Iie, and it’s not the right department to be investigating Coach Ikeda’s alleged crime either, unless the starting assumption is that he’s yakuza.”
“Coach Ikeda? Yakuza? That’s insane!”
Kobayashi nodded. “I agree, but somebody’s making sure that assumption stays afloat.”
“Is he going to be OK?
“It’s going to take a while—if they can keep him safe from Yamada till he heals.”
“How’s the stab victim doing?”
“Still unconscious.”
Tatsuyama’s anger was beginning to burn again. “What’s Yamada doing, Kobayashi?”
“He’s quickly and aggressively moving to consolidate his control over sumo. Today alone, several ranked sumotori gave statements to the press. They’re switching stables after the May Grand Sumo Tournament.”
“To Yamada-controlled stables.”
Kobayashi nodded.
Tatsuyama stared at the relentless press of urban development still ahead of them, though they were approaching the very edge of Tokyo’s northwesternmost ward. “I don’t know anything about law enforcement, Detective. I don’t know how to negotiate a hostage release, conduct a search and rescue, or raid a criminal’s lair. But I can’t sit by while three of the people most dear to me remain at the mercy of an ice-cold monster like Yamada.”
Tatsuyama pointed again, and Kobayashi steered the car onto a gravel driveway that led through a hedgerow. A beat-up, vintage, mint-green station wagon was parked at the head of the driveway.
Tatsuyama gingerly eased out of Kobayashi’s car.
A pair of stone lanterns weathered with soft, green moss marked the path that led to the shrine. Kobayashi waited between them. “How do you feel, yokozuna?” he asked. “You lost a lot of blood back there.”
“I don’t have time to worry about how I feel. We need to find out where Yamada has taken those girls and figure out how to free them.”
Kobayashi nodded. “Glad to see you’ve still got a fighting spirit. You’re going to need it.”
“Right now I feel like a wounded bear. Pity Yamada if I get him cornered. He’s messed with my cubs.”
“You do realize it’s the female bear that defends the cubs.”
Tatsuyama glared. “You get what I’m saying.”
33
It was nearly dark when Tatsuyama knocked on the back door of the old Shinto priest’s home behind the Nominosukune shrine. An octogenarian dressed in a worn, blue samue—Japanese monks’ work clothes—slid open the door. Light poured out onto the wooden porch.
“Ah, Tatsuyama,” he said with a broad smile. “I didn’t expect it would be you.”
“Komban wa, Kubo-san,” Tatsuyama said. [Good evening, Kubo-san.] “Have we come at an inconvenient time?”
“Certainly not. Come in, please.”
Introductions were made between Kubo and Kobayashi. Kubo, in
his loose trousers and hip-length version of a kimono, insisted on making tea and a simple dinner for his guests. He invited Tatsuyama and Kobayashi to sit at the table while he scurried around the kitchen.
“Tatsuyama, it’s very nice to see you again,” the priest said. “But to tell the truth—and I always do tell the truth—you don’t look so good. Your face is grim, and look at your clothes—you’re a bloody mess. Who have you gotten into trouble with?”
The priest listened intently while Tatsuyama and Kobayashi explained all that had happened during the past week. Without hesitation or fear, he gladly offered them the small room reserved for the shrine’s pilgrims.
“It’s not like the old days,” Kubo said. “Few come to the shrine anymore, and no one comes to stay.”
In very little time, Kubo prepared oyakodon, a dish of chicken and egg over rice. The smells and tastes reminded Tatsuyama of the security and comfort a young child feels in his mother’s warm kitchen when it’s cold and gray outside.
After everyone was full and dishes were cleared, Kubo wanted to have a look at Tatsuyama’s wound.
“I’d like to have a better look at it myself,” Tatsuyama said.
When Kubo carefully pulled away Tatsuyama’s bandages, the men observed the work of an extremely sharp blade.
The old priest whistled. “That gash is bigger than I expected. What’s that, about five inches?”
Tatsuyama nodded. “They had to stitch me inside and out.”
“I may have some medications on hand to encourage that to heal faster. Not all the best treatments are new, you know. The main thing is to keep it clean and infection free, but there are herbal treatments that can minimize the pain and hasten healing too.”
“I can’t be drowsy, Kubo-san,” Tatsuyama said. “If Detective Kobayashi and I are to come up with a successful plan, we have to think clearly and creatively.”
“All right, well, I suppose that rules out using slug mucous then.”
Tatsuyama covered the wound with his hand and glared at Kubo.
“Just joking, yokozuna.” The old priest chuckled. “Let me show you to the pilgrim’s room. It’s quite simple, but clean and comfortable.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Kobayashi said, grinning at Kubo-san and then winking at Tatsuyama.
The sparsely furnished quarters with tatami mat floor coverings had only one table surrounded by four worn, red seating cushions. A cabinet for storing bedding during the day was the only other piece of furniture, unless one counted the traditional Japanese lantern on top of the cabinet.
“Arigatou, Kubo-san. This’ll do very nicely,” Tatsuyama said.
“No one will disturb you,” Kubo said. “I’ll stop by once again before I go to sleep.”
Once the old priest had left, Kobayashi said, “I don’t mean any disrespect, but the way Kubo-san looks and moves reminds me of a monkey wearing samue. I bet he’s full of mischief.”
“He’s always joking around,” Tatsuyama said. “I didn’t want to tell him I’m not in the mood for it right now.”
“You’re preoccupied, Tatsuyama. That’s to be expected.”
“I am,” he said. “Shiori, Naoko, Coach Ikeda. I’m worried about all three of them.”
“Then let’s dig right in,” Kobayashi said. “My investigation has uncovered evidence that all the sumotori and coaches from over twenty of Japan’s forty-seven stables have pledged their cooperation to Yamada.”
“That’s unbelievable. Why have so many agreed to let him rule over them?”
“The biggest reason is money,” Kobayashi said. “Yamada promises that everyone associated with the sport—from sponsors and NHK TV to coaches and wrestlers—will enjoy increased personal income and business revenues.”
Tatsuyama threw his hands up. “Why can’t they see? No matter what they may want, he’ll run sumo like it’s his own private business. He’ll promote or demote based on his profits alone.”
“Profits and allegiance,” Kobayashi said. “He’ll expect a lucrative commission. And on top of that, he’ll demand undivided loyalty as the true chief executive of Japan’s official national sport.”
“If he’s willing to kill and kidnap to gain control over sumo to begin with, just think how much worse it’ll be once he has it. Then when someone doesn’t do what he demands—”
“He’ll make an example of them. Which is precisely why he’s dealing with you and Coach Ikeda as he is.”
Tatsuyama stretched out on the floor to take stress off his side.
Kobayashi waited till Tatsuyama made himself comfortable. “And there’s one other reason why he has a special hatred for you, Tatsuyama.”
Tatsuyama’s gaze returned to the detective. “Special hatred?”
Kobayashi nodded. “Your character. You already have money and fame, and they haven’t corrupted you. You’re the only Japanese yokozuna since 2003. You’ve carried the burden of national pride, and that hasn’t corrupted you. The fans want you to be successful, and you deliver success—through honest work and dedication to time-honored principles. You’re a role model who could motivate young, new rikishi to enter the sport and to compete for more noble reasons than money or individual glory. Young sumotori like that might also resist his control. What you inspire in people stands in stark contrast to his corruption. Yamada won’t have that.”
Tatsuyama stared at Kobayashi. Humility would ordinarily demand a gracious response to such high praise. Given the context, however, saying arigatou seemed inappropriate.
“Enough about me. And enough of the question ‘why.’ Let’s talk about ‘what’ and ‘how.’”
“All right,” the detective said.
“I don’t know how quickly we can collapse a plan that a powerful man like Yamada Hideyoshi has been cultivating for years,” Tatsuyama said, “but can we work on a strategy for finding and freeing Shiori and Naoko, and for getting Coach Ikeda out of jail and into hiding?”
“I wish I could gain custody of your coach. But I’m up against a senior detective in a different department. And he seems determined to keep Coach Ikeda on the hot seat.”
“What’s the detective’s name?”
“Aoki.”
“Do you think Aoki is on Yamada’s payroll?”
“Payroll, blackmail…I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s pretty hard to investigate something like that, let alone prove and prosecute it.”
“You’ll look into it, though?”
“Hai, I will,” Kobayashi said. “Meanwhile, let’s draw up a fresh plan to rescue those girls, put the Yamada on the run, and get your life back for you.”
“Something unconventional, Detective. You and me with no police support against Yamada and his shadowy network of accomplices. We’ve got to think beyond the ordinary.”
34
Coach Ikeda Kenji opened his eyes. Or more precisely, his eye. The left one, swollen as it was, left him peering through a slit on that side. As he scanned the walls, bedframe, and furnishings, disorientation gave way to the recollection that he was still hospitalized. A dull headache persisted in spite of the medications the nurses had administered. That universal hospital smell permeated the air.
Someone knocked at the door. Before he could respond, the door swung open. It was Police Detective Aoki. As he approached the bed, a sardonic grin twisted his mouth.
“So, Ikeda, your work is finished after all,” he said. “You succeeded in the murder. The victim has succumbed to respiratory failure. Alas, he is no more.”
Coach Ikeda felt a pang in his chest. He had to be careful choosing his words. “You know I had nothing to do with that man’s murder.”
Aoki seemed to disregard Ikeda’s response. “So now,” he said, “the charge has been corrected—from attempted murder to murder.”
“I asked you before, and I’m asking you again, Detective, please contact my assistant coach, Kazo Junichiro. I want him to find me a proper attorney.”
“You have an attorney,” Aoki said
. “The government has secured the services of an excellent attorney for you. In exchange, all you have done is insult this highly respected professional.”
Ikeda felt isolated. The government-provided attorney had proved himself to be inept at best. Every request Ikeda had made for contact with influential friends and acquaintances had been met with excuses—this one couldn’t be contacted, that one was out of town for two weeks, another had been “impossible to reach.”
Aoki offered the clipboard he had been holding behind his back. “Ikeda-san, why don’t you go ahead and sign a confession of guilt? I’m sure we can work to minimize your prison sentence, especially considering your popularity with certain public figures.”
“I did not kill that man, and you know it!” Ikeda shouted. “I will sign nothing.”
Aoki’s expression changed. He now wore a look of mock concern. “Very well, then…you can expect to be transferred to a more secure facility very shortly. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to reconsider your plea.”
“Interesting,” Ikeda snapped back, suddenly feeling much more courageous. “The night before I was beaten and left beside your stabbed victim, Yamada Hideyoshi told me something very similar. He said that I might want to reconsider my response to him. Are you so in step with your master that you can only ape his words, you bought dog?”
Aoki glared. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” With nothing further to say, he pivoted and marched out.
Across town in Edogawa-ku, Shiori found herself having difficulty breathing. She was at Yamada Hideyoshi’s home—a palatial marvel of stylized glass, steel, and concrete located on Tokyo Bay. The house itself frightened her. It bore silent testimony to the wealth and power of its owner. She feared that no one could prevail over a man who commanded so much power. Would anyone even try to? Would they do so in time?
She was in the matoba, a permanent structure open toward the gallery, ninety feet across the lawn. Yamada stood in the gallery. As Shiori watched him, her eyes grew wide.
He notched another terrifying arrow on the string of his Japanese longbow. He had made sure she got a good look at the projectiles when Haruta had brought her through the gallery. The steel arrowhead was bifurcated, like a snake’s tongue, only much wider. If it struck her, it would bite deep.
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 16
