Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  Iwata looked away.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “That would be much appreciated.”

  She returned a few moments later with a pot of coffee, two glasses, and a small jar of honey. She poured Iwata a glass and looped in a spoonful of honey.

  Honey for my honeybee.

  “Are you all right, Inspector?”

  “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Flying doesn’t agree with me, that’s all.”

  She sat on the seat across from Iwata and curled her bare feet underneath her, hugging the cardigan around her slight frame.

  “My husband is constantly flying. He’s the same.”

  “What does he do?”

  She gestured around the large house with her hands.

  “Investment banker.”

  Iwata laughed, then coughed.

  “He’s visiting his mother in Denmark at the moment. She’s not very well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s Danish?”

  She nodded.

  “And you, Inspector? Married?”

  Iwata swallowed hot coffee but tasted nothing.

  “Yes.” His smile was weak. “What is it that you do, Mrs. Ho?”

  “Lund. It’s Kelly Lund now. It’s been a couple of years, and I’m still getting used to it myself. And as for what I do?” She nodded over her shoulder. “I look after the baby. Read books. Answer the door to strange detectives.”

  They shared a polite smile, and she quietly set her glass down.

  “Inspector, on the phone you said you were investigating Mina Fong’s murder. But I have to ask, why would a policeman from Tokyo come all this way to talk to me? I never really knew her.”

  Iwata finished his coffee and set down his glass beside hers.

  “But you knew Jennifer.”

  Sadness washed over Kelly Lund’s face, and she involuntarily glanced toward the baby monitor, her sleeping child still so innocent of the world that awaited.

  “Why do you want to talk about Jennifer?”

  “Because I want to find out whether her death was an accident, a suicide, or something else.”

  She met Iwata’s eyes for a second.

  “I don’t believe she killed herself.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I knew Jennifer. The idea of Jennifer killing herself is ridiculous. It just never sat right with me, I can’t explain it.”

  “She wouldn’t do that?”

  “No, absolutely not. The idea of her dying of a drug overdose on some stranger’s boat is just as stupid. None of that feels like Jen.”

  Iwata held up the printout from the Park Residences CCTV footage of the unidentified man in the hooded jacket.

  “I don’t suppose you recognize this man. Even just his clothes?”

  “No, who could recognize that?”

  “These images were taken from Mina’s apartment complex the day of her murder.”

  Lund looked at the man in the image and then back at Iwata.

  “You think whoever killed her was also responsible for Jennifer’s death?”

  “It’s a possibility I can’t yet rule out.”

  Iwata put the photograph back in his bag and held up a newspaper clipping of the new Mesoamerican exhibition opening at the Tokyo National Museum.

  “How about him? Doctor Igarashi.”

  Kelly Lund squinted at it, then shook her head. Iwata changed tack.

  “Was Jennifer seeing anyone in the year before she died?”

  “No, I don’t think so. We’d speak on the phone sometimes, go for the occasional coffee. She never mentioned anything like that.”

  “Would she have told you, do you think?”

  “Absolutely. I mean she was a happier listener than a talker, sure, but there’s no reason for her to keep that kind of thing a secret from me.”

  “Did she have any friends with access to a boat?”

  “Several. We went to school with very wealthy people. But I couldn’t tell you one person who’d let her drown like that. Or go that far out on the open sea. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Iwata thought about this and then looked at the paper Rossetti had given him.

  “What can you tell me about Neil Markham?”

  “Sweet guy. He and Jennifer had a thing briefly, as kids, but I really can’t imagine him having anything to do with this.”

  “Did he have a boat?”

  “Not that I knew of. But he made a fortune with some sort of car exports Web site a few years ago so it’s quite possible he has one now.”

  A wave of exhaustion washed over Iwata, and he leaned back on the sofa for a moment. Above him there was an oil painting of a beautiful pink dawn. The cliffs were awash with orange, the rocks below were like a broken jaw.

  I’m happy with you.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes I’m … just a bit run down.”

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

  “Let me get you some cold water.”

  I walk and walk, swaying, like a small boat in your arms.

  Iwata shook his head.

  “No, really. I should get going.”

  He stood now, coughing. He was freezing inside, sweat streaming down his neck, forehead and thighs.

  “Thank you for your time. And the coffee.”

  Kelly Lund shrugged.

  “I don’t think I was much help. If there’s anything else you think of, I’ll be here.”

  Lund opened the front door and the sound of rain hissed in.

  “Actually, there is something. Do you have Susan Cheung’s address?”

  Lund hesitated before nodding and returning with a piece of paper.

  “She probably won’t be home until morning. And you should be careful around there.”

  “You’re no longer friends?”

  “We … move in different circles.”

  “Thank you again for all your help, Mrs. Lund.”

  “I hope you catch him, Inspector Iwata. If there is a him.”

  CHAPTER 20: A LONELY BLUFF

  IWATA PARKED HIS RENTED VOLKSWAGEN Golf outside a luxury apartment complex on a quiet bend of South Bay Road. He killed the engine, crossed the road, and pressed Neil Markham’s buzzer.

  A weary female voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Markham, I need to speak to him about—”

  “Christ, it’s past ten. Don’t you people ever sleep?”

  Iwata heard a muffled male voice in the background before the woman returned.

  “You’re wasting your time, my husband won’t speak to you.”

  “But—”

  “Just piss off.”

  The line went dead and Iwata became aware of a presence to the left.

  “Haven’t seen you before.”

  A man with a smoker’s voice was sitting cross-legged in the shadow by the main door. He was wearing a Windbreaker, listening to a portable radio, and drinking coffee from a thermos.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Which paper are you from?”

  “No paper. I’m a police inspector from Japan.”

  The man pursed his lips.

  “Japan? What’s this guy to Japanese police?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  “Well, he is having a bad week, then.”

  “Why?”

  “You are from out of town. Neil Markham was something of a VIP in the local business scene—Forty Most Influential Under Forty—that sort of thing. He started up a luxury car export business a few years ago and it really took off. But in the last few days, it’s come to light that the IRD are after him.”

  “The tax authority?”

  “Yes. And my editor’s favorite thing in the world is a fallen star. Thus my picnic.” The journalist nodded to his thermos and Tupperware container.

  “Thanks.” Iwata returned to his car and spent the next two hours sneezing and shivering.


  * * *

  Just after 11 P.M., the shutters to the car park opened, and a lime-green sports car emerged. Iwata immediately recognized the driver from Jennifer’s yearbook. Neil Markham was picking up speed, heading north. Iwata started his engine.

  The narrow roads wound between slivers of forest and walls of sheer rock. Markham hugged the coastal road, easily doubling the speed limit.

  Finally, he stopped at a red light.

  Iwata pulled up alongside him and glanced over. In the blue gloom of his car, Markham looked up impatiently at the light. Iwata could see now that he had grown into a plain-looking man, his soft face winnowed by years of stress. Though he was balding, he was in need of a haircut. There was pale flab about his neck and cheeks.

  The lights turned green and Markham shot forward, arcs of amber streetlight sweeping over his windshield. He ripped on to Island Road, horns blaring at him. Then Markham took the turning for Route 1. Cranes in the distance slept like flamingos. Beyond them, silver skyscrapers hiding jagged black mountains. The road narrowed, now flanked by roadworks and flashing cones, as the city streets built up around them, and Markham reduced his speed.

  On Lyndhurst Terrace, he abruptly pulled into a narrow alleyway. Iwata stopped in a pay space a few hundred meters down the road, then hurried back to the alleyway. Turning the corner, he passed fire exits, mounds of rubbish, and air billowing out of vents. Markham’s sports car was parked in front of a stairway. Above it, red neon letters glowered.

  THE GREEN CARNATION

  Iwata descended into a cramped, smoky bar. Six narrow booths ran along the right. Black-and-white photographs of old Hong Kong lined the walls, pink fairy lights twinkling above them. A wartime ballad was playing. Markham was sitting at the farthest booth by himself, swigging from a bottle of beer as he scanned the room.

  Iwata sat at the bar, ordered a drink, and watched Markham until it was clear he wasn’t waiting for anyone. Instead, Markham glanced up hopefully each time a man passed his table.

  Iwata made his move and slid into the booth.

  “Hello,” Neil said with a smile.

  Iwata returned the smile.

  “No ice.” Markham nodded at Iwata’s whiskey. “A man that appreciates flavor.”

  “My name is Kosuke Iwata and—”

  “Relax.” Markham took a seductive swig of beer. “But if you really want to do this the old-fashioned way, I’m Neil.”

  “Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Markham. I’m an investigator with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.”

  Markham looked around the room. His smile was casual but his tone rigid.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You were friends with Jennifer Fong. I need to ask you some questions.”

  Markham traced his lips with his thumb and forefinger.

  “All right. But not here.”

  “Then where?”

  * * *

  It was after midnight when Iwata and Markham parked their cars on a lonely bluff, high up near Victoria Peak. Markham got out of his sports car and faced away from the wind to light a cigarette. Iwata stood next to him by the precipice, his eyes tearing up as he surveyed the cityscape. Between the sloping shoulders of the black hills, Hong Kong looked like a glittering diamond.

  Markham offered a cigarette, but Iwata shook his head. Instead, he bent down and picked up a pebble. It was cold and smooth in his hand.

  “Neil, I spoke to a journalist outside your apartment building.”

  “Just the one? That’s something, I suppose. It was a pack of them before. They’ve been out there all week.”

  “Does your wife know you go to gay bars?”

  “Probably. Or if she doesn’t it’s because she doesn’t want to know.”

  “I see.” Iwata tossed the pebble into the black. “I can’t judge anyone, but is that really something you should be doing right now? Given the press attention?”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound.” Markham remembered his cigarette and took a nervous drag. “You said you wanted to talk about Jennifer.”

  Iwata nodded.

  “You were school sweethearts?”

  “Not really.” He smiled distantly. “We were just friends.”

  “Close friends?”

  “Yeah, close. We lost touch somewhat in the year before her death, but yeah. Best friends, more or less.”

  “So how did you lose touch?”

  “I was flat-out getting the business on its feet, getting married; she was preparing for university. It wasn’t a conscious thing.”

  “Did you ever know her to have boyfriends?”

  “Not really, she didn’t do all that much socializing outside of her little circle. Jen wasn’t what you’d call a particularly confident girl.”

  “Think, Neil. Anyone. Anyone at all. If not boyfriends, male friends perhaps? Anyone that stood out, anyone who could have been special for her?”

  “Well, I suppose there was one man who might fall into that category. I don’t know about boyfriend, but I saw them together a few times. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he was Japanese.”

  Iwata looked up.

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Tall. Well built. Much older than her.”

  Iwata delved into his bag and pulled out the newspaper cutting of Igarashi. He fumbled with the interior light.

  “Him?”

  “It’s not a great picture, but I’m pretty sure it’s not him.”

  “Tell me about this man.”

  “I bumped into Jen in a nightclub, and I remember that it surprised me—that wasn’t her scene at all. I asked her what she was doing there. She just said she was with a friend.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “She looked different, actually. She’d lost weight and was all dressed up, but I don’t know, she also looked spaced out. Anyway, we spoke for a few minutes, she said she’d call me soon, and then she disappeared. I didn’t think much of it, but two minutes later, I’m in the bathroom when this man corners me. I thought he was going to mug me at first.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He got me in the corner. And then he just whispered in my ear. Told me if I went near the girl again, he’d slash my face.”

  “The girl. Slash your face. He used these exact words? Are you sure?”

  Markham smiled wryly and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “It’s the sort of phrase that sticks in the mind.”

  The rain picked up and they got into Iwata’s rented car.

  “He spoke in English?”

  “Broken English, but clear enough.”

  “You definitely never heard a name?”

  “I never thought to ask. I just remember thinking this man would probably be the sort of asshole that Jen would have to learn about the hard way.”

  Iwata considered the raindrops on the windshield, turned mercury by the headlights.

  “You said ‘spaced out.’ What did you mean?”

  “I don’t know, I wouldn’t say coke. She sort of seemed … I don’t know, floaty. Like she was tripping? I mean, it didn’t seem like Jen. But that’s what was in front of me.”

  “Did you see her again after that?”

  “Yeah, a few weeks later, I think. I managed to persuade her to have a coffee with me. But she was distracted. She was due to go to university, but she admitted she didn’t have anything sorted out. I mean funding, accommodation, I’m not even sure she’d had formal acceptance. I was shocked. That didn’t seem like her either. I mean, that really was an alarm bell.”

  “Did you talk about the man at all?”

  “Yeah, she was still seeing him. I raised the issue. I said that I was concerned that whoever he was, he was distracting her from her future. She told me that I didn’t understand anything—her relationship with this man was important to her, he was a link to her Japanese heritage or something along those lines. I was shocked, I’d nev
er seen her speak so sharply to anyone. Let alone to me.”

  “And then?”

  “I said that I knew what men were like. I asked her to be honest with herself—what was he getting out of it? All right, so he was important to her, but how did she know the same held true for him? Then she got pissed off and left. That was the last time I saw her.”

  Iwata rubbed his eyes and, after a while, he nodded slightly.

  “All right, Neil. I might call you if anything else crops up.”

  Markham nodded and got out of the car.

  “I loved Jennifer. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. Good luck, Inspector.”

  Iwata started the engine and headed back toward Discovery Bay, arriving at Mary Fong’s apartment after 3 A.M. Collapsing on the sofa, Iwata fell asleep watching the ocean.

  CHAPTER 21: WORK WORK WORK

  IWATA IS ROUSED BY THE sound of life. The apartment is small, but through the open window, he can hear the Pacific Ocean exhale. Iwata rolls to Cleo’s side of the bed, and it is still warm. He hears the clatter of washing up and unselfconscious singing. When she’s finished, she waters all the plants, chatting to them as she does so.

  Iwata sees the trinkets on Cleo’s dresser, her clothes on the floor, and the morning sunlight streaming through her blinds. He realizes that this is what it is like to be in love.

  The door opens and the smell of coffee wafts in.

  “Wake up, lazy head.”

  The voice is wrong. As if heard from a great distance.

  The footsteps are wrong.

  The cups clatter to the floor and blackness seeps into the carpet.

  Iwata sees why.

  She has no balance. She can’t walk. Her legs are badly broken, shinbones piercing through skin.

  “No cream, or sugar. Just a dollop of honey for my honeybee.”

  Her words gurgle into one another. There is water in her lungs.

  Iwata screams.

  * * *

  Though Iwata woke after midday, he felt exhausted, as though he’d barely slept. He had eaten very little in the last two days but he had no appetite. Instead, he breakfasted on decongestants and tap water. Iwata looked up the address Kelly Lund had given him and ordered a taxi—he couldn’t face driving in circles on his weary bones today.