The Last Train (Detective Hiroshi Series Book 1)

by Michael Pronko

  He followed a stone pathway through the large garden, breathing in the rich, moist air. A light mist drifted over the fountain bamboo, flowering shrubs, and dragon beard grass. Small maple trees pruned in soft, swaying layers punctuated the green with dark red leaves. At the top of the path, the wood timber frames and flat rock walls of the house emerged, as if from the soil.

  At the door, a woman in her early sixties with gray hair in a tight bun and a woman in her mid-thirties—her hair long and unbound—bowed deeply in unison. Obviously mother and daughter, both women dressed in loose, cotton clothes. When the daughter looked up she was, as Akiko warned him, stunning.

  “So sorry to bother you,” said Hiroshi, handing over his meishi with a bow. They stood in the largest genkan entryway he had ever seen—as big as his living room.

  “Please come in,” both of the women said in unison.

  “We are happy to have the chance to talk, again, about this. I’m Wakayama, and this is my daughter, Sumiko.”

  They were both tall with big shoulders, fine features and an elegant way of moving. They led him along a hallway of black stone adorned with modern woodblock prints and tea ceremony bowls on inset shelves.

  The ceiling of the living room was two stories high at the back and sloped gently down to large windows looking out on craggy rocks and spiny shrubs nestled into raked waves of white-gray pebbles. One flat rock jutted in under the glass, making the rock garden feel as if it were a part of the room.

  Wakayama’s widow settled on a sofa-chair and gestured Hiroshi to sit across from her. The daughter, Sumiko, came in with a lacquered tray holding three ceramic cups and a matching pot. Serving coffee, her motions displayed the natural elegance of tea ceremony.

  Hiroshi took a polite sip of his coffee, unsure where to begin. “I’m sure it’s painful to have to talk about your husband’s, your father’s, passing.”

  The mother asked, “Have there been any new developments?”

  Hiroshi sat forward. “I’m investigating a death similar to your husband’s that happened a few days ago. Would you mind if I asked about your relationship with your husband at the time of his death?”

  The mother took a deep breath and Sumiko looked down, pausing to consider. “The insurance company investigators asked me that, too. My husband and I were estranged, but without any animosity. My daughter’s career was in full swing and I spent more time with her. He must have felt abandoned by us.”

  “Estranged?”

  “We were not angry at each other, not even considering divorce. We talked every day. We just lived separate lives. We became friends, at last, in middle age.”

  “What was he busy with?”

  “Everything. My husband overworked. He never slowed down,” she said.

  “Did he have any special projects or—”

  “Apartment complexes in Kawasaki, advising companies, many things.”

  “Real estate mainly?”

  “Yes. Except for a hostess club, of all things.”

  “Do you know the name?”

  “I’ll find it for you. We never talked business.”

  “Does Bentley Associates sound familiar?”

  “Only because the insurance investigators told me the name was in his schedule that week.”

  “He never got a chance to enjoy his success,” Sumiko, the daughter, said. “I guess I learned ‘all work, no play’ from him.”

  “What was your father’s reaction to your career?”

  “When I ran into trouble, he was there. Maybe that’s why I ran into trouble.”

  “When Sumiko went into the hospital, he found the best doctors. He was there every day. But at home, he started buying expensive wines, high-end stereo equipment—”

  “For you?”

  “For all of us, I guess. Money was the language he spoke.”

  Sumiko said, “When I got out of the hospital, he gave me an Aston-Martin. I didn’t want to drive it. I just wanted to feel better. But it was a gesture.”

  “He suddenly wanted the best of everything. Enjoyed spending money for the first time.”

  Hiroshi cleared his throat and said, “The money came from his investments?”

  Mother and daughter looked at each other.

  Sumiko said, “We don’t really know.”

  “My husband had lots of secrets.”

  “What kind of secrets?”

  “Money and women. What other secrets could there be? He had mistresses, lovers, whatever you want to call them.”

  Sumiko stiffened. “I saw him one time with someone. In Roppongi. By accident.”

  Hiroshi asked, “What did she look like?”

  Sumiko said, “She looked like me.”

  Hiroshi took in her face and eyes.

  The mother said, “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Sumiko said. “I was in Roppongi, late at night. I was trying to go out more—part of my recovery. She was younger than me, dressed in black, with long hair. She was a woman men would desire. I followed them.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “They wandered the streets for a while,” Sumiko said.

  Hiroshi pulled out his cell phone and a map of Roppongi. “Can you tell me exactly where?”

  Sumiko leaned over the small cell phone screen. “It was about here that I saw them,” she said, pointing with her finger. The place was near the David Lounge. “They walked for a while, discussing something. And then my father put his arm around the woman and they walked off.”

  “My husband started going to hostess clubs after he built his first apartment building. He said he had to go where business was conducted.”

  “When did you see him?” Hiroshi asked Sumiko.

  “A week before he was killed,” Sumiko said.

  “If I had just said something to him, confronted him then—” Sumiko put her fist on her forehead. Her mother rubbed her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry to upset you with all of this,” Hiroshi said. “I’m sure it’s been difficult.”

  “Mostly, it’s been strange, but then my husband was always a bit strange,” she said. “He left a huge amount of money. It was my inheritance that got him into business, but he turned it into much, much more. I found out from the accountant, he bought apartments in Paris, Hong Kong, Bali. I don’t know if it was for retirement or a savvy investment, or for that woman. He never said a word. Such a strange man.”

  “Would you have a list of his purchases from that year?”

  “The accountant would.” She paused, working over it again in her mind. “His accountant told me all this. He told me my husband left everything to Sumiko and me.”

  “There were no loans or losses or missing money?”

  “He probably left money for that woman, but the accountant spared me the details. I wouldn’t begrudge him that. Life’s so short, and my husband always had to prove himself. He was a charming man, handsome, and lively when we were young, and then, when we got older, he just wasn’t around.”

  Hiroshi paused for a minute. “Would you mind if I contacted the accountant?”

  “We don’t use him anymore. I use my own accountant.”

  “It would be good to talk with him,” Hiroshi insisted.

  “Can you get his address?” she asked her daughter. Sumiko left and quickly returned with a name card and copied the information out on a piece of paper for Hiroshi.

  “Why are you so sure your husband didn’t commit suicide?” Hiroshi asked.

  “I know he didn’t. The man from the train company came all the way here, but he refused to listen. He told me all widows refused to believe their husbands killed themselves.” She snorted in anger.

  “So, they came here to offer condolences?”

  “No, to give me a bill.”

  “A bill? For what?”

  “For expenses incurred.”

  “What expenses?”

  “For cleaning up the body and delaying the trains.”

/>   “Families are charged for the cleanup?” Hiroshi asked, his coffee cup held midair.

  “I had no proof. There were no witnesses. What could I do? It wasn’t about money, but about knowing what really happened. I hired a private detective, but he found nothing. It might have been an accident, but it wasn’t suicide.”

  Hiroshi nodded and sipped his coffee. The garden was as well-designed as the ones he and Linda had seen in Kyoto. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he said and gathered his things.

  At the genkan, Hiroshi pried on his shoes with a long, lacquered shoehorn. “I’m sorry to bring up bad memories.” Hiroshi bowed.

  As he picked up his umbrella, the mother said, “My daughter is calling a taxi for you. It will be at the gate in a few minutes. I’ll call the accountant and let him know you’re coming. We want to know the truth—whatever it is.”

  Hiroshi bowed again, umbrella overhead, and walked carefully along the stone walkway downhill through the garden. The rain kept up a constant patter on the leaves lining both sides of the stone path.

  Chapter 24

  Ryo Shibata sat at the large worktable in the middle of his photography studio examining vintage photographs of Japan. He loved the old, sepia-tinted world glowing with life and vitality. The hand-tinted kimonos, faded-pink cherry trees, and soft-red lanterns fascinated him. The old technologies—albumen, silver and collodion—kept the old world alive better than all the top-of-the-line equipment and digital gimmicks he had at his command.

  Recently, he could no longer look at his own photographs and had no interest in taking new ones. He only wanted to look at vintage photos. He bought them obsessively online and from dealers and old shops. Collecting old photos felt more meaningful than taking new ones. The bemused stares and natural poses were more intriguing, more human, than the narcissistic cell phone cameras that seemed to erase the meaning from people, places and events.

  He tucked his graying shoulder-length hair behind his ears and got up from the stool for another single malt scotch.

  Catching a reflection at the window from the corner of his eye, he squinted at the glass door of his studio to find Michiko staring in at him. He watched her as she pushed the door open and walked in.

  “I thought you left already?” he said, letting his glasses drop to his chest.

  “I haven’t told you goodbye yet,” she said, her voice husky and deep.

  “I’m honored to be on the list,” he said, brushing back his thick hair. “But it concerns me who else might be on the list.”

  “You always worry,” Michiko said, walking her fingers, slowly, toward him along the large worktable.

  “When are you leaving?” Shibata asked. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Soon and no.”

  “I figured you’d tell me where to send it once you got there.” He massaged his goatee without taking his eyes off her. The room was backlit by small spotlights aimed at the photos hanging on the concrete walls. An overhead work lamp splashed light over the worktable and onto the floor.

  “What are you working on? A new show?”

  “Vintage photos. Edo period. I’ve got quite a collection now,” Shibata said, pouring himself a drink and waving the bottle at her.

  She shook her head no. “They’re not your photos, though, are they?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “More no.”

  “When are you leaving? You didn’t answer.”

  “Tomorrow, if I can finish things. Two days later, if I can’t.”

  He took a sip of the scotch and watched her.

  “I like old photographs,” she said, gazing at them laid out in unfinished rows.

  “I’ll get what you came for,” he said, taking another sip.

  She watched as he went to a squat, green security cabinet, spun the combination wheel, and inserted the key he kept on another chain around his neck.

  He pulled out a half dozen envelopes filled with ten thousand yen notes and set them on the worktable. He re-locked the cabinet.

  “Is that where you keep your most valuable photographs?”

  “And the most expensive scotch. I got paid in scotch for some special photos.”

  “Special?”

  He shrugged and arranged the envelopes into a stack. He tucked the edges of the envelopes around them in crisp origami folds. When he finished, he slid them toward her across the worktable and said, “Here’s one way to say goodbye.”

  “There are lots of others,” Michiko said.

  He leaned back in his tall ergonomic stool, and studied Michiko, while she riffled through the money. When she was done she did the calculations in her head as she looked around the room. Behind him, a shelf filled with large, glossy photography books ran under a row of louvered skylights.

  “Recording all this?”

  Shibata shrugged. He kept small cameras, just under the skylights, running all the time. He backed up the video files every day. “I’ll delete them later.”

  “Not too much later, I hope.” Michiko pulled out a black leather duffle bag with a wide strap and started placing the envelopes inside.

  Shibata watched her, thinking what a subject she had been, and still could be. He had taken so many photos of her, each one special. Other models had no interior to capture, but Michiko had always been unfathomable, his camera never getting close to touching what was deep inside.

  “You should have told me what you were going to do,” he said.

  “If I did that, would you have gone?”

  “No,” he said, pulling at his loose, open-necked shirt. “I wouldn’t have gone.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  They stared at each other, both dressed in black. Only their faces caught the light.

  “Did you delete them?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Keeping them as insurance?”

  “Insurance against what?” Shibata said, standing up. “And I thought we agreed to work clean.”

  “I was cleaning.”

  He looked at her.

  She looked back.

  “If you’re leaving,” Shibata said, “why did you even—”

  “I wanted you to know.”

  “I already knew,” he said.

  “That’s your photographer’s eye. You can see inside people.”

  “Everyone except you.”

  She adjusted the money in her bag and zipped it tight, running her hands over the outside. When she was done, she turned to his wall of portraits, rows of black and white photos of nude women. He made some of them famous, and made a lot of money for himself.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of nude women?” she asked, studying the photos.

  “They are beauty itself,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  “Don’t you get tired of beauty?”

  “I like all kinds of beauty, like these older photos. But that’s just a different kind of beauty. Women are—”

  “Is this one me?” Michiko pointed to one in the middle of the wall and looked back at Shibata.

  “You never look like you in the photos.”

  “Am I supposed to look like me?”

  “It’s good when you do,” he said.

  “I was so young.”

  “You’re still young.”

  In the photo, Michiko sat with her arms around her knees, her face covered by her hair and her breasts hanging full from her broad shoulders, making shadows beside shadows. Her fingers stretched down to play with her toes, pulling them apart.

  “The secret language of the body. Just like you always said,” Michiko said and ran her finger over her own photo.

  He had told her during the shoots that the most everyday gestures were the most erotic. “You never smiled in any photo I ever took. That’s the only one you even look playful.”

  “Except for the real playful ones?”

  Shibata shrugged. “I wish I had just one genuine smile.”

  “Is that your last request?
Take one now?”

  “You should go if you’re going,” he said.

  “You want me to thank you again?”

  “You’d still be in Kobe if it wasn’t for me.”

  “If it wasn’t for you, I would never have been dragged down there.”

  Shibata ran his hand through his long hair and twisted his glasses.

  “I have to finish what I started. What they started.”

  “No, you don’t. You can just walk away.”

  “I am walking away from Kobe. Instead, I’m going to Paris.”

  “Paris?”

  “They take their mistresses shopping. They don’t bring much security.”

  “That’s why you’re going abroad?”

  “Why did you think?”

  “I thought you were going to live, to change, to—”

  “I am, but first, I must get this done!”

  Shibata looked at her calmly. “There are limits to everything. I’ve reached mine.”

  “No limit to their money.”

  “You got some of that. Let the rest go. Why beg for trouble?”

  “I don’t think of it as trouble. I think of it as justice.”

  “Your anger will catch up with you.” Shibata stood up.

  She turned back to the wall of photos. She pointed at hers and said, “Can you take down this photo of me?”

  “It’s a great photo.”

  “I don’t want it up there,” she said in a firmer voice.

  “OK, I’ll take it down. Throw it out. Tear it up. Burn it. Whatever.”

  “And the other photos of me, too? I don’t want to end up like those Edo period photos, an unknown face staring at the camera from another time.”

  “I’ll get rid of them,” he said, gazing over her now matured, but still youthful hair, body and face, so full of anger and energy—so full of life—as photo-ready to him as ever.

  She picked up the bag, redistributed the weight inside. “I have to go. I have another appointment tonight.”

  “Another?” He looked at her across the worktable.

  “Are you worried about me?” she asked.

  “No, I’m worried about me. They’ll come after me, too.” He looked in her eyes and tried to read her, but failed, searched for the right thing to say, and came up with silence.

  She hoisted the heavy bag on her shoulder.