Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  Iwata gestured for the manager to leave them.

  “Mr. Ezawa.”

  “Who are you?” His voice was soft but strained.

  Iwata took out his badge in reply and Ezawa immediately looked down at the flowers.

  “Oh.”

  Three paces from him, Iwata looked down to put his ID away. As he looked up, he caught only a snatch of Ezawa’s hand in his pocket.

  “Hey, come on—”

  A muddy rock hit Iwata’s face. Staggering back, he tried to claw soil from his eyes. Snarling, Ezawa crashed down his trowel on Iwata’s skull.

  “Fuck!”

  Ezawa was already running, running as fast as he was able but something was wrong. His stride was pathetic, his ankles at odds. Iwata was on his feet now—swearing and bleeding but closing on Ezawa’s weak, limping stride.

  “Stop!”

  Ezawa glanced over his shoulder, his face desperate.

  Iwata’s body tackle was hard.

  Seven for a secret, never to be told.

  * * *

  On the seventh floor of Setagaya Police Station, Iwata sat across from the interview rooms pressing a bandage to his scalp. Through the two-way mirror, he watched Ezawa, who was sitting alone at a metallic table.

  “You need to change that bandage.” Sakai sat next to Iwata and handed him a vending machine coffee.

  “I’m fine. This coffee is more dangerous than he is.”

  “An arrest and a beating from a midget on your first day—that has to be a record.”

  “Go home, Sakai.”

  She laughed softly into her coffee.

  “I’ve got some news that will cheer you up, though.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Iwata rested his head on the wall behind him, closing his eyes.

  “Occupational hazard. Did you pick up Kiyota?”

  “No, but that note from Kaneshiro’s calendar? Well, it turns out we might have an ‘I.’ Guy by the name of Ijiri—moneylender in the local area.”

  “He lent to Mr. Kaneshiro?”

  “Well, the guy won’t speak to us. So I brought him in for refusing to cooperate.”

  Sakai gestured to the second interview room with her plastic cup. A large man with a beard and a red suit was pacing the room, smoking impatiently.

  “He looks like a real charmer.”

  “I like a man with panache. Shall we?”

  Iwata groaned. Sakai slung her coffee in the wastebasket and stood. She nodded to the guard and the door opened. Iwata watched as she sailed in, her white blouse the only clean thing in there. He saw Ijiri’s face twist into a smile as he registered the woman before him.

  “You’re in for a real surprise,” Iwata whispered.

  He closed his eyes and tried to wait out the throbbing pain screaming inside his skull. Iwata looked into his cup of coffee and saw his face in the black circle.

  “Fuck it.”

  He threw the cup and the yellow-red bandage into the wastebasket, then nodded to the guard outside Ezawa’s interview room. The door clunked open and heat hit Iwata in the face. Ezawa did not look up. He was hugging his own shoulders, a sad mime in a cell. He rocked slightly back and forth in his chair.

  Iwata turned on the tape, reeled off his name, the date, and the name of the interview subject. He sat down before Ezawa and spread his hands on the table. He said nothing for a while, the only noise in the room the fleshy sound of Ezawa chewing his lips.

  “Coffee?”

  Ezawa shook his head.

  “Smoke?”

  Another shake.

  “Okay, Mr. Ezawa, I need to ask you some questions and I need you to be honest with me. It’s very important, do you understand?”

  Ezawa kept his eyes on the table.

  “I understand.”

  Iwata nodded.

  “All right, good. Now, I’d like you to help me understand why you ran from me earlier. Did you just panic?”

  Ezawa looked up.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “You saw my badge.”

  “Not properly. I was scared.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Iwata sat back in his seat now and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “You’ve been in trouble in the past, haven’t you?”

  Ezawa flinched, breathing hard through his nose—the face of a scolded boy.

  “Yesss. But that isn’t—”

  “Ezawa, you ran because you thought I was coming to arrest you.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Iwata’s head throbbed.

  “You knew Takako Kaneshiro, didn’t you?”

  Ezawa looked away now, as though Iwata had placed a rotten fruit on the table before him by mentioning her name.

  “Everyone knew her.”

  “You know what happened to her.”

  He nodded.

  “But despite this, you saw a policeman and you assumed I was coming to arrest you.”

  There was no reply.

  “Ezawa, you realize that doesn’t look good.”

  A shrug.

  “Tell me, does your manager know about your past?”

  Ezawa chewed his lips furiously now, shaking his head.

  “Okay, so tell me something else. Did you know the Iranian woman, Saman Gilani?”

  “… Not really.”

  “She has a child, you know.”

  Ezawa looked away.

  “She lost her job. Without work, she was deported. Her child is still here, in care. Think of what growing up without a mother does to a child. Do you understand?”

  Ezawa was rocking again, harder now.

  Iwata smacked the table hard with his palm.

  “Answer me, Ezawa. Do you understand what you’ve done to this child? Tell me why the Iranian woman lost her job.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me. Not to me. Now you tell me why she lost her job.”

  “For stealing,” he whispered.

  “Yes.” Iwata leaned back in his chair again and watched the blades of the fan above them stir the heat like an empty merry-go-round. He had ahold of his anger now. “For stealing.”

  “Please can I go?”

  “Ezawa, you ran from me because it was you who stole from Takako’s locker. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You have her panties, don’t you? That’s why you ran from me. Tell me the truth.”

  Ezawa’s eyes were closed, his lips wet, his body trembling.

  “Tell me, Masaharu, so that we can clear your name of suspicion. Take responsibility for what you have done to the Iranian woman—to her small child. Tell me that you took Takako’s clothes. You took them, didn’t you?”

  There came a small, childlike nod.

  “Now tell me why you did that. Why did you steal her panties? Was it because you wanted to jerk off on them?”

  Ezawa looked up now, face pink, the same hidden snarl from earlier.

  “No!”

  “Then why?”

  “I … I just wanted to have something that belonged to her. But she was never careless, she never left things behind, not like the others.”

  “The other what, crushes?”

  “No!”

  “She was more than a crush, wasn’t she? Masaharu, be honest with me. You loved her, didn’t you? You loved Takako.”

  He looked away, his expression screwing into pain.

  “That’s why you killed her, isn’t it? Sniffing her panties was no longer enough for you. The fantasy of Takako had to become reality. Only it didn’t happen, did it? She rejected you because you’re a small, ugly cripple and the rejection obliterated you. So you sought to wreak vengeance on her and her family. That’s why you reserved such special attention for her husband, isn’t it?”

  Ezawa was on his feet, in tears.

  “No!” he shrieked. “No!”

  “Sit down.”

  Ezawa obey
ed, his face twisted with revulsion.

  “Where were you on the night of the fourteenth of February?”

  “At work, at home … I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember where you were a few days ago? Masaharu, we have a witness saying they saw a man with a limp like yours leave the crime scene. You have a motive, you have no alibi, and we know that if we search your house we will find evidence of prior criminality against one of the victims. I can walk out of this room right now and wash my hands of you. How do you think things will turn out for you?”

  Iwata clutched his tie and pulled it taut above his head in a mock hanging. Ezawa looked at him with trembling loathing.

  “I would never hurt her. I would never hurt anyone…”

  “Like you would never hurt me?” Iwata leaned forward to show his lacerated crown. Ezawa was quietly crying now, his limbs sagging like parched petals in the heat.

  Iwata sat up straight, his palms flat on the table. “You attacked a cop, kid. You ran from the police. You have the possessions of a dead woman in your house.”

  “… I didn’t touch her.”

  “If you didn’t kill her, what did you do?” Iwata leaned forward again and stroked Ezawa’s sweat-soaked head. The young man’s eyes closed in disgust or gratitude.

  “Masaharu,” Iwata whispered. “Just tell me what you did. What did you do?”

  “I took pictures … Oh God. I took pictures of her…”

  “Where? Where, Masaharu?”

  “At the university … sometimes at her gym … sometimes outside her house.”

  Iwata sat back and checked his watch.

  “You didn’t kill her? You didn’t hurt the Kaneshiro family?”

  Ezawa was on his knees now, snot streaming down his chin.

  “Never, never, never. I’d never hurt Takako.”

  Iwata reached forward and turned off the tape.

  “All right, Masaharu. You still have more questions to answer and you will face consequences for what you have done. But we’ll call this a free pass.” Iwata pointed to his head. Still on his knees, Ezawa was just repeating Takako’s name under his breath as he wept.

  “Must be your lucky night,” Iwata said as he stood.

  CHAPTER 5: A MILLION CITIES

  SAKAI WAS OUTSIDE THE POLICE station, smoking as she squinted at the darkening skyline. Iwata emerged from the main doors and followed her purple trail. She spied him sidelong then returned her gaze to the moon.

  “You look like shit, boss.”

  “You’ve got a good eye, Inspector Sakai.”

  “So you keep saying. Did the kid sing?”

  “From the rooftops. But he’s no killer. How about Ijiri?”

  “It wasn’t his first time in a police station, that’s for sure. But I grilled him pretty hard.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt. I’m sure he wasn’t banking on your soft skills.”

  She curled up a smile with a puff of smoke and offered Iwata her packet. Iwata took one and lit it from hers. Their smoke mingled up into the cold night.

  “He says he knew of the family, the father even made a few inquiries some years back, but he never lent them a single yen.”

  “And you buy it?”

  “I think so. He keeps detailed records, which we can look at if we get the permissions. However, I did get access to Mr. Kaneshiro’s bank account a little while ago. Turns out he deposited over one-and-a-half million yen into his account on January fifth.”

  “The day after meeting I. Interesting.”

  “It’s a lot of money. Car sale?”

  “Could be.”

  “Certainly enough to keep the construction firm from their gates for a while.”

  “One-and-a-half million yen. Enough to kill an entire family for?”

  Sakai shrugged and stubbed out her cigarette.

  “Come on.” Iwata threw his down too. “I’ll take you home.”

  “You’re all right to drive?”

  “I won’t win at Suzuka, but I’ll get you there.”

  “Then shoot for Nishi-Azabu.”

  Iwata got into the driver’s seat and set off at a slow speed eastward, following the signs for Metropolitan Expressway Number 3.

  “Oh, by the way.” Sakai reclined her seat. “I spoke to Shindo earlier. He wanted a report, as he was getting static from Setagaya Station about us. He sounded pleased with what I told him.”

  “Shindo sounded ‘pleased’?”

  “Well, more like he didn’t sound pissed off with us yet. Said you should collect your permanent techou and gun tomorrow. Looks like he doesn’t want to get rid of you just yet.”

  “Hey, I bled for that badge.”

  Sakai laughed a tired laugh.

  “You got hit by a shrimp with a small gardening tool.”

  She closed her eyes and Iwata turned on the radio, both of them done with any further conversation.

  “Almost one week after the death of young actress Mina Fong, and mystery continues to shroud the incident. Few details have been released at this point, though it’s understood her talent agency has requested privacy for her family at this time. Gossip columns leading up to Fong’s death were rife with rumors of drug abuse and possible breach of contract with her production company relating to her role in the popular soap opera Cherry Generation. Estranged boyfriend and idol, Riki Noda, described Fong’s death as ‘a shocking tragedy.’ Her remains are due to be cremated and buried in Fuchu Catholic Cemetery on Friday.”

  The news shifted to the increasing likelihood of the prime minister resigning, and then to the unseasonably cold weather.

  “Hey Sakai, who has that Mina Fong case?”

  “Moroto is leading it.”

  “Is he top dog, then?”

  “Something like that. Akashi’s heir apparent. Upstairs love him.”

  The traffic was surprisingly sparse for 9 P.M. The car sailed along the rise and fall of the expressway. The turnoffs and junctions curved outward and inward like gray tentacles, lit up by a row of white and red lights. On either side of the expressway, waves of indistinct glass and concrete. Countless billboards, countless windows, countless fire escapes, countless Tokyo.

  “You ever hear that thing people say about this city?” Sakai murmured. “That Tokyo is a million cities and one city all at once?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You ever wonder if maybe some of those cities are good and some of them are bad?”

  “Maybe so. Sakai, can I ask you something?”

  “Mm.”

  “What happened to Inspector Akashi?”

  Sakai opened her eyes and looked at Iwata now, her face stern.

  “Akashi jumped off Rainbow Bridge. What else is there to say?”

  “You were close with him?”

  She looked out of the window.

  “I knew him. That’s all.”

  He glanced at her.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you looking at me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Why so curious about Akashi?”

  “I just have this nagging feeling that maybe he saw something early on. Something that we might have missed.”

  “Anything he saw would be in the case file, surely?”

  Iwata drove along the length of Gaien Nishi-Dori in silence, turning left down a side street just before the Nishi-Azabu crossing. They passed various embassies of countries home to dictators and jungles. The streets were lined with tiny bars and three-stool noodle shacks. The early lines for nightclubs had formed; prostitutes lit tentative cigarettes and tourists gathered outside a restaurant that had been featured in a Tarantino movie.

  Iwata stopped in front a of six-story white apartment complex. It looked more like a cheap beachfront hotel than anywhere Sakai would live. But then picturing where Sakai would live was like meeting an extraterrestrial and picturing their home planet based on the address alone. She stepped out of the car, and hunched down t
o look at him. The rain hissed around them, illuminated by the headlights. It felt like a relieved good-bye after an underwhelming date.

  “Well,” she said, “get some sleep, Inspector.”

  And then she was gone. Clicking away, her heels still dirty with mud.

  I’m happy with you. Please let me hear.

  Those words of love from you.

  * * *

  Iwata woke from another falling dream. He had left the window open during the night and rain had blown in. Today’s gray sky threatened yet more. The pain in his head was no longer a blaring horn, but he still bared his teeth when he stood up. He went to the mirror and parted his hair to see a dark, deep gash. In doing so, Iwata noticed his first grays.

  Cleo invaded his thoughts, making him stumble and grip the sink.

  She runs her fingers through his hair, lightly grazing his scalp with her nails.

  “Your hair is so dark.”

  Iwata slapped himself in the face, spat in the sink, and controlled his breathing. From a sparse wardrobe, he took out a white shirt and a gray suit. He dressed, made himself a cup of black coffee, and went over the morning newspaper, looking for the Kaneshiro family murders. The front page was dominated by two stories: the prime minister’s defiant comments regarding his position and the death of Mina Fong. Iwata found a brief article in the crime section that spoke in broad terms about the Kaneshiro murders. Only Tsunemasa’s name was used and the ages of the children were incorrect. There was no outrage or urgency to the piece, just a perfunctory listing of facts as if the writer were dealing with an upturn in tuna prices instead of a murdered family. Iwata closed the paper as his phone began to ring.

  “Inspector, this is Doctor Eguchi.”

  He checked his watch. 8:32 A.M.

  “Ah yes, Doctor. Thank you for calling.”

  “The tests on blood, urine, and gastric contents all came back completely normal. No traces of anything in their systems that shouldn’t have been there. However, some of the blood on the father’s body? Turkey blood.”

  “Turkey blood?”

  “That’s right!”

  “You sound almost excited, Doctor.”

  “Well, it’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. All of the victims had inhaled some kind of smoke or incense.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh and that soot I mentioned on the father’s fingers? It’s just plain old charcoal. You’d have to check with your forensics division, but I would assume it’s the same substance on the ceiling of the crime scene.”