Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  “But it’s a classic.”

  “That’s just another way of saying you’re hanging on to the past.”

  He looked out of the window and watched the mountains recede into lacquer.

  * * *

  Kosuke is thirteen today. He sits on the bench by the driveway, wearing his best clothes. He keeps his eyes on the mountain. His mother has telephoned and she wants to take her son out for the day.

  “Are you excited to see me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t sound it.”

  “I am.”

  “It’s been a long time, I understand you might feel strange.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “We’ll talk about that. Your new father will be coming too. He’s a wonderful man. Very respected. An American.”

  “American?”

  “You must dress smartly, Kosuke. Do you hear?”

  There’s a rumbling excitement in his stomach but also a whirling fear below it.

  It is a beautiful day and pollen drifts across the fields like fairies. Up until now, Kosuke has ignored visiting days. Everyone ignores them. They always end in the same way: a wailing child and a parent rushing out, Uesugi sniveling after them. Nobody at Sakuza Orphanage likes to think about the “before.” You are here now and that’s that.

  A pebble hits the wall behind Kosuke and he looks up. Kei is balancing, arms out, as he tightropes across the orphanage wall.

  “Had to see this for myself,” he says, pointing to Kosuke’s ill-fitting suit.

  Kei teeters, regains his composure, then jumps down. He sits next to Kosuke, splits an orange, and passes half of it across.

  “How did you get out of class, then?” Kosuke garbles the words as he chews, juice spilling down his chin. Kei squints in the sunshine. He swallows, grins, and shrugs.

  “What’s your mother like?” he says.

  Kosuke sucks his fingers clean, then fiddles with the pith.

  “I would say she’s just normal. But then I suppose she left her kid in a bus station.”

  Kei smiles and tosses away the peel.

  “I would have left you too.”

  They watch the clouds roll, unfurl, and split across the blue panorama before them. Flies zip up and down from the red Ping-Pong paddles on the table across from them.

  “And yours?” Kosuke asks.

  “She’s dead. I have a few memories, but I can’t separate them out, you know? Just pictures, really. I think she was nice, though.”

  Kosuke doesn’t know what to say, so he checks his watch. His mother is an hour late.

  “What did Uesugi say, then?” Kei dangles his shoe from one toe.

  “Not much.”

  “Well, if she takes you into town, you better share any contraband, asshole.” Kei stands up.

  Kosuke nods and returns his gaze to the road. He wants to see his mother before she sees him.

  “She’ll come,” Kei calls before disappearing inside the orphanage.

  The wind blows.

  Hours later, Sister Mary Josephine calls Kosuke in, wrapping her arms around him. She keeps telling him not to worry, there’s a perfectly good reason, of course, but Kosuke shows no emotion.

  She leads him to the chapel and asks him to recite Psalm 27. He kneels and the words fall out of his mouth fluently.

  “The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and foes, came upon to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and they fell. Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear. Though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident. When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up. Teach me thy way O Lord, and lead me in a plain path because of mine enemies. Deliver me not over unto the will of mine enemies for false witnesses are risen up against me, and such as breathed out cruelty. Wait on the Lord, be of good courage and He shall strengthen thy heart. Wait, I say, on the Lord.”

  The nun places her hand on his crown.

  “Good,” she says warmly. “In the years to come, those words will see you through.”

  Kosuke feels a deep certainty that these words mean absolutely nothing.

  CHAPTER 13: BLACK SMUDGE

  IWATA STOOD BY HIS WINDOW, drinking coffee, looking down at the street. Night had fallen on Motoyoyogicho like a stumbling drunk. Israelis were selling fake designer watches. A prostitute checked her watch as though she were waiting for someone in particular. Having missed the last train home, only the most desperate businessmen hurried past now. Iwata watched their lips move, muttering excuses under their breath, trying them out for authenticity.

  The lights of the city are so pretty.

  He turned to look at the space where the cardboard boxes had been stacked, before putting his cup in the sink. He was glad they were gone. The refrigerator hummed in the dark like a monk in his sanctuary.

  I’m happy with you.

  Iwata took off the clothes that Sakai had bought him, trying not to provoke his injuries. He pictured her going through the racks of clothes, attempting to gauge his size. Was it a gesture of affection? Attraction? Practicality? He knew Sakai was a woman who would love through action, not words. If she wanted a man, he knew it would be a pragmatic and impersonal conclusion. Iwata thought about her beauty, a simple composition of soft and brutal lines. Had her good looks been an inconvenient appendage throughout her life? Or something she had learned to live with and eventually use to her advantage? Iwata wondered what had made her the way she was. There was an anger deep inside her that seemed to fuel her. It gave her conviction, a willingness to suffer and cause suffering to achieve her goals. He had seen that anger overflow, and it had scared him on some level. He would never know what made Sakai the way she was. But then he didn’t need to.

  Please let me hear. Those words of love from you.

  Iwata kicked off his shoes and took off his trousers. He threw his jacket at a chair in the corner and it just caught hold of the frame. He fell on to the futon and stretched each limb in turn. Doing crunches was out of the question, but Iwata realized his pain had become bearable—he just needed sleep.

  He closed his eyes and heard a small, muffled thud.

  On the outskirts of his senses he realized what had caused the noise. Iwata forced himself to stand. His jacket had fallen to the floor. He searched the pockets and plucked out the amber stone. Collapsing back on to his bed, he held it up, turning it between his thumb and forefinger. In the darkness, he could not see what color it was. Iwata pictured the black sun on the wall, shifting and gurgling. He thought of the car in the fog, its red lights hazing into nothing. His fingers closed around the amber.

  “I’m coming for you.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Iwata examined his injuries. His cuts were puffy, his nose was swollen, and a green bruise had formed under his left eye. Everything was sore but he was in working condition.

  He did a passable job of changing his bandages and cleaning away dried blood. Iwata saw his gray hair more clearly than before. He noticed his knuckles were also cut and raw, though he could not remember why.

  As he brushed his teeth, there was a knock at the door. A muffled voice outside.

  “Inspector?”

  Iwata waited for a few moments. Then the phone rang, which he let go to voice mail.

  “Inspector Iwata, are you there?… This is Inspector Yoji Yamada from the Cults and Religious Groups Division … I’m outside your door.”

  Despite a jolly voice, there was a clear unease to the man’s words.

  “Well, the reason I’m calling is that I happened to get my hands on a copy of your Black Sun Killer case file…” He sighed. “I’d like to offer my help on any possible cult or ritualistic angles to the case. I think I can offer you some insights here. You’ll find me in the TMPD basement or you can reach me on this number. Good day.”

  A card was slipped under the door.
The message ended and Iwata heard soft footsteps lead away.

  “Help,” Iwata echoed. “Sure.”

  He deleted the message, threw away the card, and called his partner.

  “Sakai, it’s me. I just got some guy called Yamada at my door claiming to be from the Cults Division. You know him?”

  “Sure, he’s like the resident black sheep.”

  “Think he could be connected to Moroto and the others?”

  “Unlikely, he’s harmless. To be honest, I’ve always kind of had a soft spot for him.”

  “I didn’t think you had those, Sakai.”

  “There aren’t many people worth having them for.”

  “Touché. Anyway, I want you to continue to look for any links between the Ohbas and the Kaneshiro family.”

  “Suppose this means you’re not buying my Kiyota revenge angle?”

  “Terai Ohba sentenced thousands of men in his time—I just don’t see Kiyota as the one to seek revenge. He committed a crime, served out his sentence, and started a new life on the other side of it. What would be the point of revenge after all this time? Plus, there’s the small matter of not having a single crumb of evidence against him.”

  “Then the exciting world of Public Records awaits.” She sighed. “Where are you going?”

  He held up the amber stone to the weak morning light and sniffed it gently.

  “To follow my nose.”

  Iwata dressed in jeans, a gray sweater, and a suede jacket. In the kitchen, he rifled through a drawer and fished out an old address book.

  “There you are.”

  He found the right page and tapped on Cleo’s small, slanted handwriting.

  JUNZABURO HYUGA—INCENSE

  Iwata tore out the address, grabbed his keys, and left the apartment. At the wheel of the Isuzu, he tried out his ankle on the pedals. The pain was tolerable.

  It was only a ten-minute drive to Aoyama, but the morning traffic was ponderous. The low cloud that hugged the cityscape had split in places, showing snatches of blue sky for what seemed like the first time in a long time.

  At 9:10 A.M., Iwata parked in a small lot on the corner. Hyuga Incense had an understated wooden sign over a small doorway. The roof of the building was the traditional blue-glazed clay tiling of which little remained in Tokyo. Inside, every wooden shelf contained trinkets or plants. The glass counter was packed with brightly colored boxes of incense. Framed calligraphy and traditional Japanese watercolor landscapes adorned the walls. A grinning fortune cat waved rhythmically. Iwata smelled a delicate, leafy perfume in the air.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Iwata held up his badge to the young woman behind the counter. Iwata had known cops who enjoyed causing the stir—the sudden manifestation of greater purpose in the little people’s lives. He was not one of them.

  “Police. Is Mr. Hyuga here?”

  “Just one moment.”

  She picked up the phone and announced his arrival.

  “Please go through.”

  Iwata walked into a surprisingly large office, a zoo of fragrances hanging in the air. Behind a desk, an elderly, birdlike man with bright eyes looked up. An uneven white mustache curled up into a smile. Iwata held up his ID again, and took the seat across from Hyuga at his request.

  “Mr. Hyuga, I’m Inspector Iwata of Shibuya Homicide. I need your help.”

  “I’ll certainly do my best.”

  Iwata took out the little amber glob and slid it across the desk like a chess piece.

  “May I?”

  Hyuga perched some old spectacles on his nose, turned on his lamp, and narrowed his eyes as the light soaked through the specimen’s resinous innards. He peered at the stone for a few seconds then nodded.

  “I presume this is connected to an investigation?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well well. More than fifty years in this business, but this is a first.”

  “Is it amber?”

  “No, it’s copal. The cheap variety too. The more expensive kind is a milky-white color. It’s sometimes called ‘Mexican Frankincense,’ or ‘Young Amber.’ But you can easily tell them apart thanks to amber’s lighter, citrine color. Also, its surface becomes tacky with a drop of chloroform or acetone.”

  “Please continue.”

  “Well, it’s a tree resin used by pre-Colombian and Mesoamerican cultures. Later on, it was used as an effective varnish—Western train carriages, expensive portraits, that kind of thing.”

  “Where can it be found?”

  “Japan for starters. But New Zealand, Central America, East Africa, South America … I’m sure there are other places.”

  “Mr. Hyuga, there was an acrid, earthy smell at my crime scenes. In your opinion, could that be the result of burning copal?”

  “Inspector, if you have smelled copal, you would be unlikely to confuse it with anything else. What you have described does indeed sound like copal. I could give you a demonstration? Though you will lose it in the flame.”

  “That would be helpful, please go ahead.”

  Hyuga placed the copal in a stone burner, laying it on charcoal tablets mixed with sand. Under the flame, the little globule softened, then gelled, then turned into a translucent golden spittle. Within moments, he recognized the Black Sun Killer’s scent.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hyuga. In your opinion, how many places in Japan would sell copal?”

  The old man put out the flame and shrugged.

  “A handful, no more than three or four at a guess. Of course, there’s also the Internet. But I can tell you that it’s not a common purchase in this country. The smell is too strong for Japanese noses.”

  He chuckled.

  “Did you ever sell copal here?”

  “I believe so. Years ago.”

  “Would you have records for bulk buyers, frequent customers, and so on?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Iwata stood and held out his hand. Hyuga had a surprisingly firm grip.

  “Inspector, have we met before? I can’t shake the feeling I know your name.”

  “My wife used to have an account here.”

  “Ah.” Hyuga chuckled with the satisfaction of a solved mystery. “She’s American, yes? Came down from Chōshi, if I remember correctly?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Her Japanese is very good. Is she well?”

  “Fine, thank you. I’ll pass on your regards.”

  “Her orders were always well put together. She was a delightful conversationalist too.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Hyuga.”

  They shook hands again and the old man tapped himself on the head.

  “I’ve just had a thought. There was a gentleman that sometimes came for copal … yes, that’s right. I would run into him at trade fairs and conventions and the like. Specialized in ancient South American cultures, he said. Something along those lines.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  Hyuga held up a finger and shuffled through his bureau. He surfaced with a business card.

  “Keep it. My networking days are behind me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “A bit of advice, Inspector?” He smiled. “Always follow your nose. The nose never lies.”

  Outside it was a bright, windy morning on the verge of change. Iwata got back in his car and smelled the copal on his fingers. As he did this, he glanced at the business card Hyuga had given him. His breath caught. Iwata knew the name on the card. He had heard it before.

  Excitement belted through his stomach as he screeched out of the lot, dialing Sakai’s number.

  “Sakai, I need you to get on to Surveillance. There is someone we need to look at.”

  “Does this someone have a name?”

  Iwata looked back down at the card. Its black text was simple, the font tasteful:

  PROF. YOHEI IGARASHI—CURATOR / PROFESSOR OF ANCIENT CULTURES

  * * *

  Iwata approached Ueno Park from the south,
along Chuo-Dori. Parking in an underground lot across from Shinobazu Pond, he tried to contain the instinct that told him he was closing in on the killer.

  A killer who had left nothing behind. A killer who knew what police would look for. A killer who accounted for all eventualities. But no man was smart enough to account for dumb luck.

  Even so, Iwata had to contain his certainty. He could not allow it to be transmitted to Igarashi. He did not want to disturb the man’s habits. It had to seem as if this were just a routine inquiry and Igarashi just another citizen to chalk off the list. But Igarashi’s routine would be Iwata’s now. Like lines from a script for an actor to learn, he would pore over this man’s existence and search for fault. If Igarashi was the killer, then all hope was lost for him—his only chance had been his anonymity. Once Iwata had tasted the scent, he would never let go.

  His phone buzzed.

  “Give me good news, Sakai.”

  “Okay, so still nothing linking the Kaneshiros with the Ohbas but I do have plainclothes guys outside Igarashi’s house already and two men are en route to the museum. We’ve been given four days. I’ve also contacted Legal and they’re working on telephone and bank records—we should be able to get that by tonight. Without a charge or any evidence against him, I think that’s as much as we can hope for.”

  “You’re a star.”

  “You’re thinking about the note in Kaneshiro’s calendar, aren’t you? Meet I. Igarashi.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “Need me to come down?”

  “No, don’t worry.”

  “Iwata, I’m not a fucking secretary. You know you could use me.”

  “Look, I’m already here. I’ll call you when I get out.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right about this guy. We don’t have much time left.”

  He hung up and locked the Isuzu. On the northeast corner of Ueno Park, the Tokyo National Museum loomed over a fringe of trees like a great ark. Tourist coaches jostled along the street facing the museum, trawlers trying to sell their catch. Iwata skipped the line and held his badge up to the guard at the security gates. He ignored his own reflection in the gray pool outside the museum and hurried toward the entrance.