Tokyo Enigma

by Sam Waite

  "Wonder what?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know. It's not there yet."

  "I'm going to call Morimoto to set up our agenda for tomorrow." When Yuri hung up, she said Morimoto told her the travel poster Maho had done for Foxx Starr had been located. There was one other girl in it. Another investigator from Protect Agency had called Foxx Starr, described the poster and set up a private photo session with the other model. Morimoto had also set up an interview with Maho's brother in her hometown of Morioka. It was the third day after her death and the day of her funeral. We would have to meet him there. He said family obligations prevented him from meeting us elsewhere. Her parents had refused to talk to us.

  "I'll check out Foxx Starr and follow up on anything the investigator finds out from the other model. Morimoto will go with you to her hometown," Yuri said.

  Progress. We were becoming a team.

  I wasn't sure how much Yuri and I had learned from our role-play experiment that would be useful in building a case, but I was even more certain that things hadn't happened the way police described.

  My hotel was in the Maronouchi district close to the Imperial Palace grounds and Shimbashi station. Traffic flowed smoothly on streets laid out in a grid. No wonder central Tokyo was so expensive. It was surrounded by Gordian knots of suburban pathways. Gingko trees planted at regular intervals on broad walkways were in yellow splendor under streetlights. Their leaves dotted streets and walkways like petals on a nuptial aisle.

  An American academic once wrote a book on the superiority of Japanese cities. Paris might be beautiful, but it was static. Tokyo, for the large part, might be a study in functional disorder, but it could evolve. It was organic. So was a bucket of earthworms.

  There was space against the curb about a half block from the hotel. Yuri pulled over and I got out. I stepped onto the sidewalk and turned to wave goodbye.

  She lowered her window, held her fists together and said, "Symmetry."

  I cupped my hand behind my ear. I'd heard, but I didn't understand.

  "Just came to me. The bruises on Dorian's hands, they were symmetrical, perfectly symmetrical. Bye." She grinned and drove into the traffic.

  Chapter 3

  "Symmetry" meant we could change the rating on our scenario of Dorian strangling Maho in the manner described by prosecutors from improbable to impossible. Yuri's idea of role-play at the love hotel had been useful after all. It had made it clear that there was no way he could have exerted identical pressure on both hands. I fired up my computer to study Dorian's photos again. Something else was not right. Not only were the bruises symmetrical, they were even across each hand. You'd expect a deeper bruise on one spot that absorbed the most pressure, probably the outside edge of the hand just below the little finger. I took a lace out of my shoe and used it to try to strangle my ankle in a way that left even marks on my hands. It wasn't possible.

  I realized that I was attacking the wrong body part. I put one end of the shoelace on the floor and stepped on it. Next, I wrapped it around my left hand and pulled with my right. The result was a mark on my left hand that was a close match to the bruises on Dorian. Someone else had done a job on both him and Maho Hosoi. It wasn't evidence that we could take to court, but at least I was fully convinced. Yuri had some creative ideas. I went to sleep with the happy thought that I would enjoy working with her.

  Next morning, though, it was Morimoto who was waiting for me when I got to the lobby. He said we had an early Shinkansen train to catch from Tokyo station to Maho's hometown, but to get there we had to take a local a couple of stops. He told me it was rush hour, but that was poor warning for what was about to happen. Trains came every few minutes.

  Still, there was a crowd on the platform. People ahead of us crammed themselves in. I figured it was a lost cause, but Morimoto shoved his shoulder into a wall of business suits and jerked his head for me to follow. I pushed. There was no give until a half dozen people behind shoved me and themselves into the car. I reached for a strap and exposed my diaphragm to a man's elbow. I'd seen cattle on their way to slaughter get better accommodations. At least beef shippers made sure the stock didn't get gored.

  The train moved forward and people shifted. I escaped the elbow and wedged myself backbone to belly button between two men. A situation I didn't like, but it turned out I was lucky. A woman a couple of bodies away was crushed against a bar by the door. She groaned softly. Despite the chill outside, a trickle of sweat ran down the neck of the man in front of me. He smelled of pickled radish.

  Jostling at the next station gave brief respite until incoming people filled the spaces vacated by those who got off. A claustrophobic panic was building fast. I calmed myself by picturing a pistol range with my boss, Abe Granger, in my sights. Next stop was Tokyo station. I'd suffered once through five minutes of misery that was routine to the people around me. I saw Morimoto in another light. There might be a toughness I hadn't noticed earlier, but what sort? These commuters could cope with extreme stress. So could participants in other Asian inventions like firewalkers and fakirs who hung themselves from hooks piercing their skin. The question was why Japanese didn't apply their toughness to demand more comfort.

  Once we entered the Shinkansen, comfort was not an issue. We had reserved seats that reclined. A hospitality cart that sold Japanese and Western style breakfasts came around. The cucumber sandwiches that Japan Railways called a Western breakfast, however, was not one I would recognize. Of course, most of the Western world wouldn't recognize what I considered a proper breakfast, scrambled eggs and beans wrapped in tortillas with lots of salsa and jalapeno and a pot of Cajun coffee.

  There was not a lot to do on our trip to Morioka, in the northeast of Honshu, the island Japanese call the mainland. It gave me plenty of time to draw out Morimoto. He'd been a banker, a kacho, boss of a section that specialized in foreign bonds. Japanese banks, however, had been pulling out of foreign markets and foreign securities. A stampede of consolidation made Morimoto easy pickings for boys upstairs in charge of downsizing.

  His exit parachute had been more copper than gold. He had a daughter in her first year of college. The twenty-five-year severance package would pay off his mortgage and cover the girl's education, but beyond that he was on his own. He'd read that investigation was a growth industry, so he gave it a shot. Bingo, I got a partner. The luck of the half Irish.

  In any case, it explained why he was as out of place as an altar boy in a border city Boy's Town.

  Maho's brother had said to meet him at the shrine where the funeral would be conducted. The taxi ride took us through the town. A light rain knocked maple and gingko leaves to the ground faster than they would fall on their own. Autumn had hit the area sooner than it did Tokyo and many trees were nearly bare. Still, compared to the capital it was lush with nature. Homes and buildings were integrated into forests. The chill air was clean and rich with the aroma of humus.

  People didn't scurry; they strolled. Couples and small groups stopped on a bridge to watch leaves float on the surface of a pond. Morimoto said folk in the region spoke a dialect called Tohoku-ben.

  "Like Down East," I said.

  "What?"

  "Maine in the U.S. It has hardwood forest that's ablaze in the fall. People there also have distinctive speech."

  Next time an American got mixed up in a murder in Japan, I'd make sure it was in the countryside before I came back. I wouldn't mind working this case from here.

  By the time we got to the funeral hall, services had already started. We slipped into seats at the back. The room was half filled with about thirty people. A Buddhist priest and an acolyte sat facing an altar with their backs to the family. The priest wore a brocade kimono that was woven in a kaleidoscope of colors. He had a conical hat with flaps on the sides. The acolyte wore basic brown and was bare headed. They intoned a chant, together for the most part, but separately for some passages. The priest kept a cadence on metal gongs cast in the shape of cook pots without handle
s. There was also a small wooden drum carved in the shape of a dragon's head.

  During the rite, a box containing granules of incense and small heated bricks was passed around. I was born half Hispanic and half Irish, but all Catholic, so I understood ritual. The devil, or maybe salvation, was in the details. I watched the box. By the time it got to me, I had it down. Hands together in prayer formation, nod to the box. Take a pinch of incense, raise it to your forehead briefly and sprinkle it on a hot brick to create smoke. Repeat two more times. Finally, hands together, nod to the box.

  How about that for cutting to the cultural chase, Mr. Morimoto? I passed him the incense.

  When the chant was over, the priest gave what I suppose was a eulogy. Considering the circumstances of Maho's death, I had a morbid curiosity about what he said.

  At the end of the rites, I tried to guide Morimoto toward her brother, but he told me to wait. Everyone filed out, and we followed the group to a crematorium on the premises. Family members stood in line and performed the incense ritual again while her body was cremated.

  We stood to the side and watched as a metal slab holding her remains was pulled from the fire. Her bones were raked onto a tray, which was then placed on a small table. Family members gathered around it. In pairs, they used very long chopsticks to pick up particles of bone and drop them into a family urn. We shared the idea of a wake, but when it came to funerals, Japanese were even more hands-on than Catholics.

  After the bone rite, the family retired to another room where Morimoto said lunch, beer and sake would be served. No formal ritual, so finally we had a chance to talk to her brother, Noboru Hosoi. As strangers, Morimoto and I drew attention from the family. I'd been in Japan going on a couple of days and was used to being an alien presence. Morimoto wasn't doing as well. He kept his handkerchief at the ready to dab his face.

  Hosoi had an employee of the funeral home show us to a private room. It was just big enough for four padded chairs and a low table. The employee asked if we would like lunch. I shook my head, and Morimoto translated unnecessarily. Hosoi, however, ordered snacks and asked if we would prefer beer, sake or whisky.

  I'd read that alcohol was a social lubricant in Japan used to ease tension at times like this without guilt or recrimination. It struck me as a healthy attitude, and I reckoned Grandma Fitzgerald would agree. "Whisky's fine," I said.

  I'd expected Maho's brother to be younger. He looked to be in his mid thirties, which would make him at least ten years older than his sister. He made small talk and asked about Morimoto's and my backgrounds. Despite a university education and a career with a trading company, he'd never heard of Laredo. He had, however, heard of "the-Eagle-has-landed Houston" and "the-president-has-been-shot Dallas." I was grateful to get off Texas topics when the funeral home employee returned with a tray of rice crackers, peanuts, dried squid and cheese. More importantly, he brought two pint-sized bottles of beer and an unopened bottle of whisky accompanied by a bucket of ice and a pitcher of water.

  The volume of alcohol worried me about where it might lead. Lubricant is good, but too much can gum up the works.

  Hosoi and Morimoto made short work of the beer. I sampled the squid, which was tasty but tough. The cheese was cut into tiny cubes each wrapped in plastic. It was easy to chew but had neither aroma nor flavor. I was into my second double whisky when Hosoi set up another two glasses. He poured shots for Morimoto and himself. Thankfully, it was a signal that he was ready to talk about why we came.

  Since we were all drinking whisky and were pals now, I put my hand on Hosoi's arm and said that the man who had been arrested might not have killed his sister. Morimoto translated, and Hosoi pulled his arm back as though I had sprouted scales and fangs.

  "Yaa," he said and reached inside his coat.

  I looked to Morimoto for a translation. He said, "Unn." I closed my eyes and saw Abe Granger dabbing sweat from his forehead. He and I would have a lot to talk about when I wrapped this up and went home.

  Hosoi pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket, laid it on the table and broke into a soliloquy. Morimoto translated.

  "His little sister was a good person. She was too stubborn, too willful, but she was good. Tokyo is no place for a girl from Morioka. The language is different. The people are too busy. They are proud."

  Hosoi ground his teeth, knocked back his drink and poured himself another. "Maho wa amaeko datta."

  Morimoto stumbled for a translation. Hosoi seemed to sense the problem and chose other words. "She was indulged in a way that made her too trusting. She expected people to forgive her improprieties. They usually did. She was cute and charming. Some people are born old. I think my parents were. When I was young, every day they looked as though they faced a struggle. They doted on Maho, but still it was a dark life, cold and quiet."

  Hosoi stared directly at me for several seconds. When he spoke, his voice was tight with emotion. "Gaijin wa wakaranai, daroo?"

  Morimoto looked as though he and Hosoi had found common ground for self-pity. "He doesn't believe a foreigner can understand."

  Somehow the ball had landed in my court. Time for a backhand. "We foreigners come in lots of varieties. I'm not here to be understanding. I just want the facts."

  I wasn't sure how directly Morimoto translated, but when he finished, Hosoi took a sheet of paper out of an envelope and unfolded it. He spoke at some length.

  When he fell silent, Morimoto translated: "The man police arrested must be guilty. He's been charged. You know how he and my sister were found. I have no doubt about his guilt, but I don't think it is as simple as the police say. I think the man who killed her was keeping her as a mistress."

  "Dorian said he had never met your sister before that night."

  Alcohol had tinted Hosoi's face pink. It turned crimson. Purple veins stood out in his temples. Spittle flew from his mouth. "Aitsu, usotsuki!" A lot of aspirant syllables in Japanese. "Koroshiya! Yurusanai!" More spittle. He spoke as though I were the object of his rage.

  Hesitantly Morimoto said, "That's a lie. Dorian is a murderer. He cannot be forgiven."

  We wouldn't do well, if I was the adversary. "You were there." I turned to Morimoto. "Tell him what I said to Dorian. If he's guilty, I'll help convict him." That might have overstated what I told Dorian, but it was true.

  "Attarimae!" Hosoi spoke as though I was a kindergarten boy who had wet his pants and then asked the teacher if he should have gone to the restroom instead.

  I didn't need Morimoto's translation to hear the loathsome condescension in Hosoi's voice. After a while he calmed down and poured me another double.

  "Why do you think Dorian was keeping your sister?"

  Hosoi turned the paper he'd taken from the envelope so Morimoto could read it. "These are bank account numbers. She gave them to me a few months ago. She wanted someone else to have access. I checked the deposits. There was three and a half million yen in a local bank and nearly eight million yen in a Tokyo bank."

  Let's call it eleven million. At current exchange rates, that was almost a hundred thousand dollars.

  Hosoi stabbed the paper with his finger. "Kono okane wa okashii!"

  "It's strange for her to have so much money," Morimoto translated.

  "I agree." Unlike Hosoi though, I didn't think it came from Dorian. He must be well paid, but I doubted he could or would throw away that amount on a girlfriend. Not unless he considered it an investment in a trophy bride that someday would pay dividends.

  Hosoi let Morimoto keep the bank numbers and said we could call him if we needed any more help convicting Dorian. "Annyaro!"

  On the way back to Tokyo, I asked Morimoto what "annyaro" meant.

  "That guy," he said.

  "Hosoi looked pretty angry to be calling Dorian 'that guy.'"

  "It's not a nice way to say 'that guy.'"

  "I see."

  Maybe the U.S. could license swear words to Japanese. They obviously needed some, and it might help the trade imbalance.
r />   Chapter 4

  For a day trip, Morioka was a long haul, but the information we scored might be critical. Morimoto said he would check the bank accounts we got from Noboru Hosoi and try to trace where the money came from. Japan had not adopted a social security numbering system like the U.S., so it was possible for Hosoi to open an account under false identification, which she had in fact done. No problem. We had the numbers and the alias: Ai Yoshida. As far as I knew, the authorities did not have that information.

  "Our banking system is sometimes cloudy, but I understand it," said Morimoto. There was a spark of fire in his eyes that might have been stoked by spite at that same system that had spit him out. "I have contacts, still. If the money was transferred from another bank, I'll trace the source. If it was cash, I'll find out."

  That was the most pluck I'd seen in him since he shoved me onto the rush-hour train. I liked it.

  Later that night, I got a call from Yuri asking me if I could find my way to Shibuya station the next morning. The investigator who had rendezvoused with the model was working in that area, and he had a report for us. She said they'd wait for me at a coffee shop across the street from Hachiko.

  "What's Hachiko?"

  "Just go to Shibuya and follow the signs. You'll find it."

  I did. Hachiko was a dog that decades ago had developed a habit of waiting at the station every day to meet its master. After his master died, the dog still trotted to the station and waited. Japanese found the hound's inability to break his habit endearing. He became a symbol of war-time loyalty. They put up a statue and made a movie about him.

  Lucky dog.

  In China, Hachiko would have been soup de jour the day his master died.

  Yuri was right about Hachiko's statue being easy to find. So was the shop. She and her compadrè were having lattes when I arrived. I ordered the brew of the day. It wasn't Cajun, and they didn't have egg and bean mariachis, so I got a bagel and a banana instead. Yum.