The Last Train (Detective Hiroshi Series Book 1)

by Michael Pronko

  “Sounds complicated,” Michiko said.

  “No one has a clue where it went,” Mark’s voice rose to where it echoed off the panes of glass. He quieted himself.

  “You need a break,” Michiko said, catching his eyes and holding them.

  “I’ll be working straight through to tomorrow morning.”

  “You need to recharge.”

  He looked at her and sighed.

  She raised her eyebrows with a question.

  He sighed again, unable to resist her, as always. “I’ll go upstairs and make some excuse to Barbara. Tell her I think I know where the money went. That’s all she cares about.”

  “Good, then,” Michiko smiled.

  “Give me 20 minutes. You going to wait here?”

  Michiko nodded yes.

  Mark went back across the lobby shaking his head. He pressed the elevator button, rocking on his heels as he looked at her back across the huge atrium.

  When he got into the elevator, Michiko texted Reiko. “We’re still on for tomorrow. Just a couple more things to do before I go. See you tomorrow, xxoo!”

  Reiko was the only person she wanted—rather than needed—to say goodbye to.

  ***

  The first time they ran away together, Michiko sent Reiko out front with the picnic bags and told her to wait under the back pylons beneath the apartment above the factory. Michiko left by the back window, clambering down the struts of the iron scaffolding in back of their apartment, dropping down next to the barrels of used oil.

  They hurried along the canal-side footpath to an abandoned factory not far from home and squeezed inside between bent strips of rusted siding. After a minute, their eyes adjusted to the dark, and they climbed up to a landing situated above what was once a workshop that hummed with well-oiled lathes and die-casting machines. If they tried to have a picnic in the open, at a park or by the river, someone would see them and tell her father.

  “This is creepy,” Reiko said. “There’s no one here.”

  “My dad said people are the only thing to be afraid of—and only some of them,” Michiko said.

  Reiko looked around, and Michiko smiled. “It is a little dark in here, but that makes it fun.”

  They settled onto empty pallets, spreading a blanket and opening a pink umbrella for atmosphere. They squirted on perfume from Michiko’s mother’s perfume bottle and ate onigiri rice balls in between sips of juice.

  They’d just begun a new card game when the front metal door rattled open and light sliced through the dusty air.

  Michiko put her arm around Reiko, pressing a finger to her lips. They rolled over onto their tummies and inched to the edge of the landing.

  Michiko saw five of her father’s employees in coveralls, sleeves rolled up and towels tied around their heads. She almost called out to them, thinking they were looking for her, but then she saw another man in a torn suit and ripped shirt. Three of the factory workers held long-handled wrenches in their hands and pushed him inside.

  The man in the suit looked like he was drunk or asleep, and he was missing one of his shoes. She knew from his punch-permed hair and clothes that he was not a worker from another factory—and he wasn’t the representative from the big company either. The five workers surrounded the man.

  The man held up one hand and shimmied to his knees. He clutched his throat as he answered the workers’ questions. Michiko could only catch some of their cut-down verb forms and harsh country dialect.

  The five men looked at each other, as the punch-permed man leaned over with one hand on the ground.

  After a long silence, one of the five men nodded.

  Then, one of the workers she liked the most kicked the man in the head. The man fell over flat on the factory floor and didn’t move.

  Michiko squeezed Reiko, who was trembling. They tucked their heads down so they couldn’t see.

  But they still heard the non-metallic sound of flesh being pummeled on the floor below.

  When it fell silent, they looked over the edge. The workers picked up the man and set him on a thick quilt used to cushion machinery. They hoisted the heavy, folded quilt in to the back of the van outside.

  They did a quick scissors-paper-stone to decide who would drive and who would ride shotgun. Two of them drove off, leaving the other three standing quietly in the shafts of dusty light.

  Reiko drew herself up to her knees, clearly terrified and confused. Her knee hit a bucket, which clonked against another bucket. Michiko snatched at her friend, her elbow hitting a crumpled box of bolts whose contents spilled out with a clatter.

  The three men started and turned toward the landing, shouting in their country dialect. One darted up the ladder with several quick pulls, wrench in hand.

  He stopped short when he saw Michiko and Reiko, and their blankets and backpacks and picnic lunch. He stared at them for a long time.

  “We were having a picnic,” Michiko said.

  The stillness filled the room, as the remaining men looked up at the worker on the ladder. He looked down at them and back at the girls.

  Finally, he said, “Get your stuff and go home.”

  At home, Michiko’s father stood by the upstairs door between the office and their rooms. His brown-gray face and stocky body filled the doorway. He didn’t say anything, wiping his face with the small, white towel hanging around the back of his neck. Michiko could smell fish cooking and rice boiling for dinner.

  Eventually, her father said, “Why don’t you two girls take a bath?”

  The two girls walked up the stairs then without another word.

  After they’d slipped into the bath together, and had soaped up, Reiko asked Michiko, “Are we in trouble?”

  “We’ll see,” Michiko said. “It’s only the first time for you, but it’s the second time for me.” They dried off and changed into soft clothes before going to the living room for dinner.

  Her father’s cousin, Uncle Ono, was setting the fish, rice, pickles, and miso soup onto the table. To Michiko, Uncle Ono’s short height made it seem as if he understood things from a child’s height. When Michiko asked her father why Uncle Ono was so short, he only said, “Size doesn’t matter when someone like Uncle Ono explodes.”

  After a first bite of rice, Michiko asked her father, “Why did they beat up that man? Did they take him to a hospital?”

  Her father finished chewing, but kept his chopsticks in his hand. He wiped himself with his white neck towel and considered her. “He was a bad businessman.”

  Reiko, as always, watched wordlessly as Michiko and her father spoke.

  “He wanted us to give him money.”

  “I thought the other businesses gave you money and you gave them the cranks and gears and casings?” Michiko knew the words for machine parts because she played with them before her mother got sick and couldn’t pack them anymore.

  “That’s how it usually works, yes. But this man—with his friends—was a different kind of businessman,” he said, putting fish in his mouth with his chopsticks, then carefully pulling out the small bones one by one.

  “It was like you said to do if boys tried to bully me at school? Don’t listen.”

  “Yes, it’s like that. Only sometimes, not listening isn’t enough. You can’t give people something for nothing.” He eyed Michiko. “Do you understand?”

  “I think I do,” she said, but it took a long time for her to fully understand what he meant.

  ***

  Mark came out of the elevators, his hands tucking his cell phone into the inner pocket of his light blue summer jacket. He swept her with an outstretched arm toward the revolving doors.

  As they left, Michiko thought she saw the same man who appeared at Steve’s funeral. She couldn’t see him through the rain and the dusk that day, but too much coincidence was not good. He stared at her then and was staring at her now. She quickly put her sunglasses over her eyes and let her hair fall around her face. She thought about stopping to take a photo of him, but l
et it go.

  Outside on the wide sidewalk leading toward Shinjuku Station, Mark put his arm around Michiko, until they got to the other, northeast, side, where the streets got quieter. On the other side of a thick stone wall that shielded the entrance for privacy, a small fountain trickled water into a basin with a potted lotus beneath a palm tree that crowded the entry.

  Mark fumbled for his money as Michiko surveyed the pictures of the rooms. He slipped a 10,000-yen note into the machine, and she leaned forward to press the button for a two-hour rental of the best room whose photo showed an ornate, red satin and gold-lined interior called, “Bedroom from Versailles.”

  He placed his arm around her shoulders when they got into the elevator, kissing her as the doors shut. He laughed when she slipped her arm around his waist and she pressed him against her hip, reminding herself of his weight.

  Chapter 16

  At the 60-story NS Building where Bentley Associates had its office, the downstairs receptionist found Hiroshi’s name on the appointment list and, with her white gloves, pointed him toward the elevators. She bowed until her white pillbox hat was pointing right at him.

  Takamatsu talked Hiroshi into going to Bentley because Hiroshi’s English was so good, and because the first detective who went found nothing to help the case. Hiroshi complained his own cases were being postponed while he worked on Takamatsu’s. Takamatsu said all cases were shared.

  Hiroshi got out on the fortieth floor at Bentley Associates, and two women stood up from behind the reception desk. One of them led Hiroshi along a hallway lined by polished wood doors and floor-to-ceiling glass walls. As they approached each office, the tinted smart glass frosted over to keep each office private. After they passed by, the privacy glass automatically returned to its transparent state. The thick carpet whispered underfoot.

  This is where I should have been employed, Hiroshi thought to himself. Every international company in the world needs accountants. Huge office, great view, high salary, less work, safer work—he might have been able to keep Linda with him in Japan. Straight accountancy was so much easier than illegal books. Investment scams made for exhausting work. You had to really think—and think differently.

  Several hallways led to another reception area with another desk identical to the one in front. The first receptionist bowed deeply and returned the way she had come. The new receptionist stood up and smiled. She was in her twenties, with full, round cheeks that fit well with her bobbed hair and earthy blouse.

  “Please come this way,” said the young woman in English. She was warmer than the formal receptionist from the front desk, and acted corporate enough, but radiated the carefree energy of someone whose real life was outside of work.

  “Oh, you speak English?” Hiroshi asked.

  “The official language of Bentley is English and Mr. Deveaux speaks, I mean, spoke almost no Japanese,” she said, looking straight into Hiroshi’s eyes. “I was told you would speak English.”

  “Who said that?” asked Hiroshi.

  “Our director, Mrs. Barbara Harris-Mitford.”

  “Steve’s boss?”

  “Everyone’s boss.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look at Mr. Deveaux’s things?”

  “Mrs. Harris-Mitford said to let you do as you liked. The company has been through them already.”

  The earthy secretary pushed open the door to Steve’s office and leaned back to let Hiroshi by, before allowing the door to shut behind them.

  Hiroshi sat down at Steve’s desk. Its leather top had a computer but not much else. Shelves along the wall held potted plants, a couple of thick file folders, and a few knick-knacks from different Asian countries. The office was large, with huge windows overlooking Tokyo’s sprawl. It felt as if someone had once worked there long ago.

  “Steve, I mean, Mr. Deveaux, was going to transfer to Bangkok, so he was winding down the office here,” the secretary said.

  “Were you going with him to Bangkok?” Hiroshi pulled open the desk drawers, noting that they’d already been cleaned out.

  “They offered me the chance to go. But I have my life here.”

  “Was he a hard worker? You called him ‘Steve,’ I guess?”

  “Yes, I call Japanese by their title and foreigners by their first name. Funny, eh? Steve was hard-working. He often stayed late.”

  “Was he looking forward to Bangkok?”

  “Yes. He got back some of his old fire.”

  “He lost it?”

  “Not lost, but he had a woman problem. And a drinking problem.”

  “Related?” Hiroshi said.

  “Maybe, but he got rid of both when Bangkok came up.”

  Hiroshi thumbed through several folders on the shelves, just business plans, for Bangkok, it looked like—not even a schedule or calendar. It was good that Bentley didn’t get into his pants pockets before the detectives did, or there would have been nothing left there, either.

  “The woman problem was a wife or girlfriend or…?”

  She suppressed a giggle. “He went to hostess clubs in Roppongi.”

  “Did they call here?”

  “That wouldn’t happen with Japanese men, so I was surprised when, at first, they called the office.”

  “He was rich.”

  “And unmarried,” she said.

  Hiroshi got down on his knees to explore under the large wooden desk. He glanced up for anything that might be taped underneath. There was nothing.

  “You know…?” Hiroshi shouted from beneath the desk.

  “Yes?”

  “I really need to know the name of the hostess that called most often.”

  She paused before answering and then said, “There was one named Michiko. It’s my name, too, so I remember. Maybe it was just the name she used at the club.”

  “Did you ever see her in person?”

  “No, but I recognized her voice. She stopped calling for a long time, and then called a few times recently.”

  “Did you make reservations for him to go anywhere?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you remember where?”

  “Many places.”

  “Could you make a list for me? You can send it to me later.”

  “OK.”

  Hiroshi looked through the drawer of pens, paperclips and random office stuff. “Did Steve seem depressed?”

  “Not enough to—” She looked down at the carpet.

  Sitting back in Steve’s chair, Hiroshi looked straight at her. “What do you think happened?”

  “They said it was an accident.”

  “Was he the type to kill himself?”

  “No one is. Are they?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “He was self-centered,” she said. “But most Americans are.”

  “Too self-centered to commit suicide?”

  “He wouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t the type.”

  “I was also going to talk with one of the other employees, Mark Whitlock,” said Hiroshi.

  “Yes, he’s expecting you. Mark and Steve worked together. I’ll call him.” She dialed Mark’s line from the desk phone, but got no answer. A little surprised, she bowed before returning to her desk down the hall.

  While she was gone, the fortieth floor gave Hiroshi a view of the sky changing color as a typhoon pushed toward Tokyo, the buildings, streets, rivers, parks, and canals below, all distant as a postcard.

  The secretary named Michiko stepped back into the room and said, “It seems Mark is out of his office.”

  “I had an appointment.”

  “I’ll call Barbara,” she said.

  When she hung up after talking to Barbara, she led him down the hallway to a conference table in an empty meeting room, and bowed before leaving.

  He sat in one of the chairs that surrounded the twenty-person table. The table’s intricate inlaid pattern, polished to perfection, reflected his face back to him as a glossy silhouette. He looked outside at the greenish darkening of the
sky.

  “I’m quite sorry that Mark is out of the office. He knew you were coming, but things come up unexpectedly in our business,” Barbara Harris-Mitford said as she entered and closed the door. “I’m Barbara.”

  Hiroshi stood up and handed his meishi to her. The same secretary, Michiko, brought in two cups of coffee and left with another bow.

  Barbara was a tall, serious woman with ample hips, but a fit, quick, and formal manner. She gave the impression of being personable to expedite business, but not because it came naturally. As they sat down, she reached for her name card case in her dark-blue business suit.

  Hiroshi said, “I can meet with Mark later if you can have him contact me. If Steve’s death was not suicide and not an accident, he must be careful, too.”

  “Are you suggesting that his death is connected with the company?” Barbara asked, touching her coffee cup but not drinking.

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “I thought the police decided it was suicide.”

  “What was the reaction here at the firm?”

  “We were all just stunned, Mr. Shimizu.”

  “Please call me Hiroshi. I’m used to first names. Can you think of anything that was out of the ordinary in the days, or weeks before his death?”

  “We try not to interfere with employees’ personal lives, but he was a bit of a character.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, he lived the life.”

  “Most Japanese companies do a lot of socializing with clients. Was that part of his work here?”

  “It was, yes, but he went above and beyond that.”

  “Nightlife?”

  “He drank too much. Last year, he took time off for rehab, and came back on form. All I ask of an employee is to perform well at work. He did that—even half in the bag.”

  “But he performed badly outside work?” Hiroshi asked.

  “We have quite a large consulting section largely through his good efforts. He was quite good at what he does. Did.” She paused. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “What was he working on the week of his death?”

  “He was collecting information about purchases of unused and underused land.”