Fallen Angel (9781101578810)
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Only in Tokyo Mysteries
Nightshade
Fallen Angel
Fallen Angel
An Only in Tokyo Mystery
Jonelle Patrick
InterMix Books, New York
INTERMIX BOOKS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
FALLEN ANGEL
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / March 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Jonelle Patrick.
Excerpt copyright © 2013 by Jonelle Patrick.
All images copyright © 2013 by Jonelle Patrick.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-57881-0
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InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group
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ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
None of us could have gotten a peek inside the fascinating world of host clubs without the help of Takeshi Tsunami and Yuki Iwanaga, who made it possible for me to step through the magic looking glass to meet the gracious and fearless hosts at the Excellent Club Zero.
And for showing me exactly why women are willing to pay large sums to be entertained by their hostly charms, special thanks to Shigure, Yuya, Sho, Tomoya, Wataru, Taiyo, Koua, Maria, and all the other hosts who answered my questions with patience, generosity and heaps of charisma. They provided the inspiration for all the admirable traits possessed by Hoshi, Shinya and Masato.
A big arigato gozaimasu to Yoko Ohbora and her Norfolk Terriers, Fuki and Sala, for giving me a grand tour of the hot spring resort for dogs. An additional arigato to Chiho Koike for accompanying me deep into the world of cat cafés.
Continuing eternal thanks to Sandy Harding–who continues to be Her Editing Highness–and Elizabeth Bistrow. They improved every word of this book with good humor and grace. And I know you will all want to join me in giving special thanks to Her Copyediting Eminence Carolyn Haley, for saving us all from hated pink sweaters and rifts in the space-time continuum.
To April Eberhardt, my agent and friend: Thank you forever and always. You are the best.
My faithful readers once again caught plot holes, refused to believe in too many coincidences and demanded (nicely) that everything make sense to people who’d never lived in Japan. Never-ending thanks to Marcia Pillon, Paula Span, Mary Mackey, Darlis Wood, and Lisa Hirsch, with an especially deep bow to Lisa for helping me work out the fighting bits.
A big arigato to Noriko Raffauf and Shiho Nishida for helping me research what occasionally turned out to be some rather sketchy Japanese websites instead of drilling me on the causative-passive form.
And last but not least, for being encouraging on the dark days, continuing to tolerate my obsession with All Things Japan, and putting up with me unfailingly, everlasting thanks to my family.
Chapter 1
Friday, November 8
12:30 A.M.
Cherry
Cherry stumbled out of the elevator into the pulsing neon beat of Club Nova. Safe.
The host club was still crowded, even though it was past midnight. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights twinkled, imitating the night sky. Mirrored walls overlaid with ornate gold script reflected the dark leather banquettes and multiplied the “stars.” Light pooled on the alabaster tables, illuminating the sparkle of bubbles rising in champagne flutes, while leaving the hosts and their adoring customers in shadowy privacy. Pop music throbbed, masking intimate conversations.
“Cherry-san? Are you all right?” the host on doorman duty asked, steadying her and peering at the smudged mascara under eyes still puffy from crying.
Stepping back, she hastily covered the bruises on her arms with her wrap. “Thanks, Shinya, I will be, after I freshen up. Is Hoshi…?”
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
When she emerged from the ladies’ room five minutes later, broken nail filed, makeup repaired, still limping a little, Shinya was waiting patiently with a hot towel for her
hands. Hoshi must still be busy. She swallowed her disappointment, knowing he’d come as soon as he was free. Meanwhile, she didn’t mind having a drink with Shinya, whose angelic features were spiced with just enough bad boy to make him almost as attractive as her favorite. He smiled and escorted her into the club, where every table was occupied by women spending lavishly on dandies so handsome and charming they could make as much in a month as a salaryman earned in a year.
“Hoshi will be here soon,” he apologized, ushering her to a table and seating himself at her side. “In the meantime…?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, asking what she’d like to drink.
Cherry watched him mix her shō-chū and water, his elegant gestures making an art of the preparation. Offering it with a bow, Shinya made one for himself, then pulled out his silver lighter when he saw her digging for her Lucia Menthols. Flicking it to life near his chest, he extended it with practiced grace. Flame licked the end of her cigarette.
After her first calming puff, she began to relax. Only women were welcome at host clubs; if her pursuer had managed to follow her, he wouldn’t make it past Taiyo, who’d taken Shinya’s place at the door. And soon Hoshi would be sitting next to her, chasing away the nightmare of the past two hours.
He was the only man she’d ever met who didn’t take and take and take. Hoshi was never too preoccupied to notice that she’d picked out her dress especially for him, never too tired to listen to how much it hurt when Manager-san criticized her in front of her co-workers. Hoshi would ignore her bruises unless she mentioned them, but if she did, Hoshi would never say, “People who play with fire should expect to get burned.” He never made her lie to him, never asked questions she didn’t want to answer. From the moment Hoshi sat down with her, she’d be the center of his universe.
Cherry closed her eyes and leaned back against the banquette. Safe. At Club Nova she could shut out all her troubles, at least for a little while.
Chapter 2
Friday, November 8
5:30 A.M.
Kenji
Tokyo Metropolitan Police Detective Kenji Nakamura looked away, embarrassed. The victim’s panties were showing, an unnecessary humiliation on top of the indignity of death. Resisting the urge to twitch her dress down over her underwear, he hoped the crime techs would arrive soon. They’d prop up screens to shield her from view before taking photos and examining her.
The sun hadn’t yet climbed over the rooftops of the hodgepodge of buildings lining this narrow backstreet. Most were faced with grimy tile or graying stucco, built right after the war when cheap Western-style construction meant modern and forward-thinking. A groggy husband with pajamas poking out the bottoms of his trousers trudged by in the dim gray dawn, pulled along by a tiny terrier. It made a beeline for the body at the bottom of the stairs, but the man pulled it back without looking up as he shuffled zombie-like toward the vending machine at the end of the block, drawn by the siren call of hot canned caffeine.
Lights glowed behind only a handful of windows; it was too early for most residents to be up. Kenji had been awakened at 4:56 A.M. by the duty officer’s call, slumped over his Police Inspector Exam Study Guide at the kitchen table. His body still ached from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position, and even the satisfaction of wearing his new spring suit, tailored to fit his tall frame, didn’t make up for the fact that he’d yet to have his own cup of tea. The lazy dark eyes that made women look twice when he walked into a room just felt tired and itchy this morning. He rubbed them and stifled a yawn.
A doghouse-sized Shinto shrine sat on a granite plinth next to the victim’s apartment building, guarded by inari foxes so ancient their crafty stone features were worn smooth. The sasaki branches in its vases were fresh, though, and several mismatched glasses of sake had been left as offerings. Residents of this quiet neighborhood still clung to the old ways; rents were equally old-fashioned. But that alone didn’t explain why a girl who looked like she worked in the red-light district of Kabuki-chō had died several stops down the Yamanote Line in Komagome.
Kneeling briefly before the body, Kenji folded his hands in a moment of respectful silence, then stood and straightened his jacket. Pushing back the wings of his thick black hair, he rescued the officer who’d been first on the scene from the talkative apartment manager who had discovered the body.
Bowing, he showed his police ID. “I’m Detective Kenji Nakamura, from Komagome Station.” Turning to the to the beat officer, he asked, “Are you the one who called in the incident?”
“Hai.” The young man returned Kenji’s bow and stood at attention. He couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, still living at home, his uniform shirt laundered and ironed by his mother. The way he avoided looking at the girl at the bottom of the stairs told Kenji this might be the first dead body he’d ever seen.
The apartment manager was a different story. The corpse on her doorstep was clearly the most exciting thing that had happened to her since the war. Her unnaturally black hair was granny-permed, brushed back from her forehead over a lined face that had shrunk to a surprisingly accurate twin of the speak-no-evil monkey carving at the Komagome Shrine.
“What time did you discover the victim?” Kenji asked.
“Five oh seven A.M.,” the old woman answered, stealing a glance at the girl. “She was lying just like that when I came out to sweep the steps. I try to tidy things up and freshen the offerings at the shrine before the neighborhood starts stirring, but these days…well, some of my tenants work very strange hours.” She leaned toward Kenji and whispered, “Every once in a while they come home just as I’m getting up, and not always sober. Even the girls.”
She straightened and continued, “I watch all the detective dramas on TV, so I knew not to touch the body, even though her unmentionables were showing. I expect you’ll need me to come down to the station this morning to give you my fingerprints, and as for my alibi…”
Kenji held up a hand and said, “Thank you, Manager-san, but I think that can wait. I do need to ask you a few questions, though, if you don’t mind.” He took out his notebook. “Do you know the victim?”
“Sakura Endo, apartment 201. First door at the top of the stairs. Seemed like a nice girl, always paid her rent on time, but…” She pursed her lips. “Goes out dressed like that. Not surprising she got into trouble, is it?”
“What do you mean ‘trouble’?”
“If murder isn’t trouble, I don’t know what is!”
Kenji turned to look at the girl crumpled at the foot of the concrete steps. This didn’t look like a homicide; it looked like an accident. Her bleached, elaborately curled hair and short dress identified her as a kyabajō, one of the glamorous young women who spun youth into gold at a hostess bar. But despite her employment in the mizu shōbai entertainment world, he’d be very surprised if someone had killed her. Murder was rare in Japan, and usually the work of a drunken family member who sobered up the next day, was smitten with remorse, and confessed.
Dark stairs plus spike heels plus the cocktails she drank while entertaining customers most likely added up to an unfortunate tumble. Her white chiffon dress had snagged on a step and hiked up on one side. She’d lost one dangling cherry earring and a pointy-toed gold shoe. Blood matted the girl’s hair and trickled down the steps, pooling in a teardrop-shaped pockmark in the pavement. Her skillful makeup gave the impression of beauty, but she’d covered up a small mole on her chin, her eyes were a little too close together, and she’d probably been in the habit of flirtatiously holding her hand up to cover her mouth when she laughed, concealing the crooked front teeth that now showed between her parted lips.
What a shame. She looked barely old enough to drink, let alone die. He turned back to the building manager. “Did you hear her fall?”
“No. My apartment is down there, on the other side of the building.” She pointed to the far corner.
Further questions were postponed by the arrival of a white van. It rolled to a stop and a lanky foreigner jumped
from the passenger side, cradling a digital camera. “Nakamura-san, o-hisashiburi desu,” he greeted Kenji in perfect Japanese. Long time no see.
The old woman’s jaw dropped. Even Kenji was still startled when he heard the red-haired Australian crime tech speak Japanese like a native. The first time he’d met Tommy Loud, all he’d known about him was that the Superintendent General had foisted him on the northwest Tokyo crime lab because the SG’s daughter had defiantly run off and married this foreigner whose very name reinforced the Aussie stereotype. Once they’d worked together, though, Kenji had discovered that Loud was not only technically meticulous, he was also talented at getting around regulations when “the way things are done” got in the way of getting things done.
“Rowdy-san,” he said, mispronouncing Loud’s name in typical Japanese fashion. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.”
“What have we got this time?” the crime tech asked.
“Looks like an accident to me, but why don’t you take a look.”
Loud nodded, switched on his camera, and began photographing the body as his two blue-uniformed assistants erected the screens that would protect the victim’s privacy once the street began to wake up.
Kenji badly needed that cup of tea. Where was Assistant Detective Suzuki? He’d called him nearly half an hour ago. Suzuki had transferred with Kenji to the Komagome station last November, having graduated from university two years behind him on the same fast track to a high-ranking career in police administration. As his sempai mentor, Kenji’s job was to train the assistant detective and look out for his interests as they climbed the ladder together; in return, his kohai junior was expected to give him unquestioning loyalty and support.
“Good morning, Nakamura-san. Sorry it took me so long, sir.”
Finally. Despite the early hour, Suzuki arrived in an immaculately pressed suit, not one hair out of place because his monk-like haircut was so much shorter than the dress code demanded. He bowed deferentially, but stopped short of saluting. Suzuki had learned that observing the finer points of police regulations tended to piss off his superior early in the morning. He’d also learned what his sempai’s first request of the day would be. He dug into a plastic Family Mart bag.