“We made everything in our time,” the man said, his focus shifting toward Sakaguchi. “Until the big companies cut our orders and let us rust to death.”
“My uncle went broke, too, had to let all his workers go.”
“I’m the last one left,” the man said.
“You still get orders?”
“Replacement pieces.”
“Enough to live on?”
“Not really.” The man changed his tone, “Michiko’s not in any trouble, is she?”
“We want to get her out of trouble.”
He shook his head. “She said it was all paid off.”
“If she said so, it must be. We’ll be able to help her if we can find her,” Sakaguchi said.
“If you’re police, you can look. But I don’t intend to take a beating ever again, though.”
He let the push-button box swing free on its wires and picked up the long-handled crescent wrench. Sakaguchi and Hiroshi quickly stepped out from under the buckets.
“We just want to look at her room.”
He said, “It’s upstairs.”
“Can you show me?”
The man started up the ladder to the rooms above, still clutching the wrench firmly in hand, and Hiroshi followed. His winced because his ribs still ached from when he fell chasing the photographer.
Seeing how steep the ladder was, and that the man seemed to be no threat, Sakaguchi said. “I’ll wait for you in front.”
Outside, Sakaguchi told Osaki to take a jog around the block and for Ueno to drive around the area and then come back. He then went around the side of the building bellying past metal drums filled with scrap. He whacked at the kudzu with his baton to get to a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. Below the fence was a canal that gave off the smell of toxic algae, clogging the water, mixed with the stench of used machine oil. He stopped and sniffed the air, and then sniffed again.
It was the unmistakable scent of lotus.
He looked down at the bank running beside the canal. A thick metal slab formed a footbridge over to the other bank where a set of concrete stairs led up to the street on the far side of the canal. The only way in was through a cut section of the fence. Sakaguchi pulled it back, but there was no way he could fit through. He called Hiroshi. “We’ve got to go. She was just here.”
Chapter 43
Hiroshi came running down the stairs to the front of the factory where Sakaguchi was already getting in the car with Ueno at the wheel.
“Where’s Osaki?” Hiroshi asked.
“We’ll pick him up on the way,” Sakaguchi said.
“Are you sure she was here?” Hiroshi asked.
“Smelled her perfume. She slipped out the back.”
“Perfume?”
“Lotus.”
Hiroshi turned to him. “I smelled that upstairs in her room, too, but outside means she was there. The shower floor was still wet.”
They got in the car and Ueno pulled off, asking, “Where to?”
“She has a cousin, or older sister, or someone, who runs a fruit and vegetable stand near the station,” Hiroshi said.
Around the next corner, they stopped for Osaki, whose weight tipped the entire car when he got in, but righted itself as they drove off.
Hiroshi couldn’t imagine how the room he looked through was the room of someone capable of murder. The shelves in the room held English grammar books, entrance exam study guides, a how-to book on translation and manga in English, lined up neatly above her handmade desk. Posters of girlish-looking, big-eyed boy bands and happy-end anime covered the walls. A small shelf held her ribbons, medals, and prizes in aikido. Even the hundreds of kokeshi dolls—the armless, legless bodies formed and painted by skilled craftsmen—were nothing out of the ordinary. The racks and racks of clothes were expensive designer brands—strapless one-pieces, silk blouses, satin dresses and leather skirts and pants—but plenty of Japanese women were similarly obsessed with clothes.
“Hurry up,” Hiroshi said to Ueno. “It’s a little shop at the end of the street leading to the train station, he told me.”
As Michiko’s father’s cousin had said, Suzuki Fruits and Vegetables was at the intersection of two narrow streets on the factory side of the station. The shop’s yellow awning was rolled down on one side and on the other, a soiled awning hung down with just enough space for a grown man to stoop under. Yellow light splashed out over the plywood and milk crates that served as shelves.
After Hiroshi and Sakaguchi got out of the car, Hiroshi went over to the plastic nets of mikan oranges—400 yen a bag. Sakaguchi wandered to the daikon radishes—50 yen each.
A tall woman in a thick, indigo apron ducked under the awning and pulled up short and skittish at the sight of Hiroshi and Sakaguchi. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and pushed back her long ponytail. She was young and turned to shout, “Mother!”
In a second, an older woman with the same apron and same ponytail came out from under the awning and stood next to her daughter. They could have been twins: lean, calm, and attentive to whomever might be at their shop after it closed.
In a loud voice, the mother said, “We’re closed.”
Hiroshi asked, “Are you the sister of Michiko Suzuki?”
The mother whispered to her daughter with a small push to go inside, but the girl stood her ground, holding the nets of mikan like boxing gloves. The mother didn’t insist and straightened up, re-tucking the white towel around her head. The sleeves of her white T-shirt were rolled up over her shoulders exposing her arms, muscled from moving boxes and crates of fruits and vegetables. “I haven’t seen her in a long time,” the mother finally said as her daughter fidgeted.
“We just have a few questions,” Hiroshi said. The front light of the house next door to the fruit and vegetable stand clicked on and a second-story window slid open two doors down the narrow shopping street.
Hiroshi and Sakaguchi pulled out their badges and held them up without moving closer. “We’re detectives,” Sakaguchi yelled in a voice loud enough that he could be heard through the open windows.
“Is she in trouble?” The mother asked.
Hiroshi said, “We’re not sure. Can we come inside?”
“We can talk here,” the mother said. The girl set down the mikan on a stack of plastic crates.
“OK, but could you pull up that shutter? I can’t see anything,” Hiroshi said in a lighter tone. “I want to show you something.”
Neither woman said anything more, deciding what to do. A window in the next house slid open, and Hiroshi could hear whispering. Hiroshi stepped closer, holding out the photo of Michiko and Natsumi. “This is you, isn’t it? You’re Natsumi?”
The two women stepped closer to look, and in the brighter light, Hiroshi could see that they both had the same lively eyes and the same way of nodding their heads while pushing back their hair.
“Where did you get this photo?”
“From the old man at the factory. He told us where you were and said you might know.”
“He told you that only because he knows I don’t know where she is either.”
A door opened in the small, two-story house behind Hiroshi, and a man and a woman in their seventies stepped out. The woman had her cell phone open in her hand, and the man stood with his arms crossed, watching intently. Natsumi bowed to the old couple. Another older man slid his front door open and came and stood beside the old couple.
Seeing that the neighborhood was getting involved, Hiroshi spoke in a softer voice. Natsumi’s face became prettier as she lost her nervous, for-strangers mask, and started to believe they really were detectives. Hiroshi could see a resemblance to Michiko’s photos. He continued, “Actually, she might be related to a case we’re investigating, and we need to find her.”
“I haven’t seen her in a long time. I told you.”
“You had a falling out?”
“Not exactly. She’s not my real sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“Michiko’s father took me in after my father died. We’re cousins, actually. Her father was going to officially adopt me, but the paperwork never got finished. I lived there, until I had her.” She pointed at her daughter. “This is Shie.” Shie bowed and wiped her long hair out of her face.
“This is your fresh produce stand?”
“It is now. It was the only one around here, for this community. I took it over when Shie started school.”
“When was the last time you talked with Michiko?”
“In person? It’s been a while.”
“She came by here?”
“The last time, I had to go find her. She lived in Roppongi. It wasn’t easy.”
“Why did you need to find her?”
“Uncle Ono got beaten up and put in the hospital.”
“Who beat him up?”
“People who knew her father, said he owed them money.”
“Do you know who they were?” Hiroshi glanced over at Sakaguchi, who was listening closely.
Natsumi shook her head, no, and looked down at the ground. “People like them, it doesn’t matter whether you really owe them money or not. They take it either way.”
“How did you find her that time?”
“I went in the middle of the night to a club, the David, where she used to hang out. We talked in the club next door, where it was quieter.”
“Do you remember what it was called, the club?”
“Some flower’s name.”
“That was the last time you saw her?”
Natsumi frowned, trying to remember. “She came by one other time.” Natsumi turned to her daughter. “Why don’t you run upstairs and get supper ready so you can get back to studying?”
Shie looked at Natsumi to be sure everything was all right. The mother gave her a soft push, but before she went inside, she walked over to one of the old couples standing in the street and whispered with them. The couple nodded, patted her shoulder, and she scampered under the awning, out of sight inside. Natsumi nodded to the neighbors who collected in the shaded street outside the ring of light.
“Do you know this woman, too?” Hiroshi asked, holding up the photo of Reiko, Michiko and Mark.
Natsumi snorted. “This is Reiko. She’s the cause of it all.”
“All what?”
“Michiko’s going to work there, getting in trouble.”
“She was in trouble when she was young?”
“Michiko got kicked out of school. Broke her father’s heart. She was a great student, but couldn’t stand the rules.”
“So, she ran away and—”
“She came back when her father was killed. The police never found the person who ran into him. She searched a long time on her own trying to find who did it.”
“You were friends with Reiko, too?”
“Reiko’s parents both drank. They beat her. Her father worked for Michiko’s dad until he collapsed from the alcohol. She had nowhere else to go. We all three slept in the same room for years like sisters. Then things fell apart, like they always do.”
A door opened somewhere on the street and another two men, in their sixties or seventies, joined those already congregating on the street. They whispered together and the men moved closer to the stand. Hiroshi wondered why they were so suspicious, and so protective of Natsumi.
Natsumi smiled at the men and raised her voice to explain, “These men are detectives, from Tokyo.”
“We’ll wait here until they’re gone,” one of the men said.
Hiroshi bowed to them politely, and fingered his badge, wanting to use it to get some privacy with Natsumi. Sakaguchi didn’t seem bothered by the situation in the least. Hiroshi turned back to Natsumi. “So, you have no idea why they beat up Uncle Ono, that’s his name isn’t it?”
Natsumi nodded, yes, and then said. “I assume it had to do with money. I ran the office for a few years, and there were losses, but never anything amiss.”
Hiroshi nodded. “And Michiko’s mother?”
“She died when Michiko was young. She was a beauty. Everyone loved her.”
“She died from…?”
“Cancer. Michiko didn’t handle it well. It made her rebel in all the worst ways.”
“Michiko helped you with the store?” Hiroshi gestured at the store.
“She gave me enough to get started. More when she moved back all of a sudden.”
“Moved back from where?”
“I don’t know. She was just gone for a long time.”
“She disappeared?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Natsumi cocked her head, as if still confused. “It took a lot of fruits and vegetables to heal her. Once she got better, there was no reason to ask. She changed, but she insisted on paying for Shie’s private high school, set up a college fund, and paid off my business loan.”
“You have a nice setup here,” Hiroshi said. The stand was larger than most, with second-floor windows on two sides. It took up the corner building on a street that led directly to the station. Foot traffic would be big if this side of the station was ever developed like the other side.
“With a daughter, and no husband, I didn’t want to work in an office. I wasn’t going to work as a hostess. I know everyone in the neighborhood,” Natsumi pointed to the neighbors gathered in the shadows around the stand, “I don’t have to flatter anyone or listen to a boss. I’m free here. Not many women can say that.”
“You want this photo?” Hiroshi held out the photo he’d taken from Michiko’s room. Natsumi looked at the picture of Michiko standing and smiling next to Natsumi when they were still in high school. Natsumi nodded once, yes, tears welling up in her eyes. She took the photo from him, wiping her eyes, and said, “If you find her, tell her to just come home. We’ll be here.”
The group of elderly men, and one woman—eight or nine of them now standing in the street—watched silently. Two of the older men hobbled over and started carrying trays and cartons inside. They looked frail when they stood still, but they moved with neat, efficient motions.
Hiroshi bowed to them as he and Sakaguchi walked to the car where Ueno and Osaki were waiting.
Inside the car, Sakaguchi asked, “You think Michiko was inside the store?”
“The sister’d have to be quite an actress,” Hiroshi said. “But, Ueno, drop us off at the station, then pull around and wait with Osaki to see if Michiko comes out. We’ll take the train to Roppongi, try the David Lounge and the Tulip. That’s all we got.”
Chapter 44
The twenty-story building of clubs, offices and apartments that housed the David and Tulip was not far from Roppongi station. The dark brown tile of the building was as clean as if it had been put up the day before. Across from the building, Hiroshi unwrapped the ice pack from his handkerchief and checked his aching ribs. Sakaguchi took a call.
“Sugamo,” Sakaguchi said, holding up his cell phone. “He’s coming in a car. His son won his sumo match.” Sakaguchi and Hiroshi wiped the sweat off their faces, necks and forearms. It was humid outside, and ready to rain.
Hiroshi wrung the water from the ice pack out of his shirt and tossed it into a trash can by a vending machine. He squeezed his handkerchief as dry as he could and tucked in his shirt.
“Was it the David Lounge where Takamatsu got drugged?” Sakaguchi asked.
“We should have pushed more the first time we went,” Hiroshi said.
“Stepping to the side wins as often as heading straight ahead. Use the opponent’s momentum.”
“But pushing forward works, too?”
“If it’s hard, fast and steady.”
They got into the elevator, and Hiroshi pressed the button for the twelfth floor.
Inside the darkness of the Tulip, the quiet, empty room was exactly the same as before. The bartender’s face was sliced by shadows, the pallid skin stretched taut over his bones. He ignored Hiroshi and Sakaguchi when they entered. Soft jazz played from the speakers. No one else was in the place
.
Just like the time before, the bartender held an ice pick in one hand, and in the other, a ball of half-chipped ice, which he deftly tossed in rotation as he took off one small flake after the next. He wore a fresh, purple tulip on the lapel of his black vest. The light from below the bar gleamed on the white pleats of his shirt and reflected off the immaculate rows of bottles along the glass wall behind.
Hiroshi said, “You might remember me and one of my colleagues. We stopped in here a couple of days ago.” The bartender looked up briefly as Sakaguchi settled onto the stool and leaned forward onto the sleek black lacquer of the bar.
The bartender chunk-chunked the ice, small slivers flying off and melting quickly in the sink below.
“I need to know about that window over there,” Hiroshi said, pointing at the small opening in the backside wall.
The bartender swiveled his head to see where Hiroshi pointed, but went back to his ice ball without missing a chip.
“Answer him!” Sakaguchi bellowed, the sound echoing off the black walls. The bartender briefly stopped chipping at the ice, sighed, and then went back to work as if they weren’t there.
“Does that door go to the David?” Hiroshi asked. The bartender hoisted the ball so that he could appraise its roundness, twisting it back and forth, ignoring Hiroshi’s question. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ And you can send drinks through there, right?”
“Another ‘yes,’ sounds like,” Sakaguchi growled.
Hiroshi said, “You provide special drinks from time to time.”
The bartender rinsed the ball under the tap until it was luminous and smooth.
“Another ‘yes,’” Sakaguchi said, his voice drained of patience.
“Where do you keep the stuff?” The bartender put the ice ball in a highball glass and twirled it to be sure it fit. Then he squatted down to put it in a freezer cabinet under the counter.
“You keep it under there?”
The bartender stood up from his squat, laying a rectangular slab of ice onto a cutting board where he sliced off a cube with a serrated knife. He then filed down the corners of the cube and appraised it like a sculptor. He took up the pick and got back to work.
The Last Train (Detective Hiroshi Series Book 1) Page 26
