Kenji bet that was news none of them wanted to hear.
Chapter 12
Saturday, November 9
11:30 A.M.
Kenji
“You must think I’m a terrible housekeeper,” Cherry’s roommate fretted as Tommy Loud’s intern brushed fingerprint powder onto the door frame, and a cloud of smudges appeared.
Kenji motioned Kiku toward the far end of the room and suggested they sit on the sofa while the tech finished. He lowered his voice. “Forgive me for asking about such an intimate subject, but this morning you gave me a packet of Cherry-san’s birth control pills. It looks like she wasn’t very good at remembering to take them every day. Is there any chance…?”
Kiku twisted the hem of her sweater. “She didn’t say anything, but I wondered why she stopped eating fermented soybeans on her breakfast rice and started buying pickled plums instead. I thought she hated them.”
“Could a baby have been the good news she was going to tell you about this weekend?”
Kiku shook her head. “I don’t think so. Her boyfriend…I thought she was trying to keep him a secret because he’s married or something.”
Or he’s a host, who would lose his job if anybody knew he had a pregnant girlfriend.
“And,” Kiku said, “she went to see her astrologer again last week.”
Kenji remembered the 2:30 A.M. argument the next-door neighbor had mentioned. Had the astrologer advised her to do something that precipitated her death?
“Do you know what she consulted this fortune-teller about?”
“No. But I know who it is. She’s near Komagome Station, on the second floor, above a ladies’ clothing store. Madame Lily.”
Chapter 13
Saturday, November 9
7:00 P.M.
Hoshi
The Club Nova stylist was nearly finished ironing Shinya’s hair when Hoshi arrived in the locker room. By the time he changed into one of the trim, black suits hanging in his locker, the hair-make specialist had worked styling wax through his kohai’s streaked mane, and half of Shinya’s hair was already teased into an artfully tousled meringue.
“Oi, Shinya-kun,” Hoshi said, meeting his kohai’s slightly bloodshot eyes in the mirror.
“Oi.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Better than when I woke up.”
Hoshi grimaced in sympathy and passed him a bottle of eyedrops. He disappeared to put in his colored contacts, then returned to the mirror, holding up a scarf and a tie, considering which would look better with his now-tawny eyes.
“Thanks for leaving those cans of Pocari Sweat in the fridge,” Shinya said. “If I hadn’t downed them when I got home last night, I’d probably still be worshipping the porcelain kami-sama right now.”
“I’ve made offerings at that shrine myself,” Hoshi admitted with a crooked smile. Deciding on the leopard-print scarf, he looped it around his neck and returned to his locker.
“Hey, Hosh’, if you’re not wearing my Hermes tie tonight, can I borrow it back?” asked Yūta, plucking it from his hand as he passed on his way to the mirror. Hoshi’s sempai stopped in front of his reflection and expertly knotted the tie. He’d been a host since he was nineteen, but now that he was in his early thirties, his main job was to recruit and train new hosts. He was still handsome and charming—a handpicked group of free-spending clients refused to let him completely retire—but these days he spent most of his time teaching new hosts the tips and tricks he’d learned on his way to becoming a top-earning superstar in his midtwenties.
Tonight, however, Yūta was dressed to entertain, wearing the Cartier watch the owner of the Sugar Club had given him on his thirtieth birthday. He drew a small black notebook from his breast pocket and riffled through the pages, refreshing his memory on her likes, dislikes and personal stats. He was renowned for “remembering” not only his patrons’ birthdays, but also their favorite ice cream flavors, parents’ names, and how they got those scars on their knees when they were six.
Slapping his book shut and securing it with a rubber band, the veteran host moved over behind Shinya and asked, “How’re you doing? Did you remember to take three aspirin before you went to bed like I told you?”
“Yeah. I think it helped.”
Yūta slapped him on the shoulder and disappeared toward the lockers, greeting two recent recruits who were putting the finishing touches on their looks before heading out to the streets for “catching” duty.
Hoshi noticed they were taking their time fine-tuning their hair and outfits. He’d done the same when he first started out.
“Good luck tonight,” he said, coming up behind them and throwing his arms around their shoulders. “It’s Saturday night, the streets will be full of girls looking for a good time, and they’ll be longing to come into a nice warm club before they freeze their butts off in their miniskirts. I bet you’ll be back here with full tables by eight.”
“Hai,” they sighed in unison, knowing they’d just been told to get to work.
Hoshi returned to his locker to fetch a monogrammed jewelry case and dropped into the chair next to Shinya. He didn’t blame the new recruits for stalling; standing on a street corner trying to pick up women was the boot camp of the host world. Lots of guys thought that because they’d always had girls lined up around the block, as a professional host they’d be raking in the big bucks in no time. Most of them washed out the first month. Getting over the humiliation of being turned down time after time was hard enough, but because most girls wouldn’t even speak to a man who hadn’t been properly introduced by family or friends, being able to talk them into going to a club with a stranger was the real skill that separated the ones who made it from the ones who didn’t.
“Why’re you here so early?” Shinya asked.
“I told Masato-san I’d give you guys a hand tonight with the walk-ins,” replied Hoshi, his manicured fingers picking through the earrings in the top tray of his jewelry case. He selected two silver rings and began threading them into the piercings in his right ear. “All four guys in the Shinjuku 4-chome dorm have colds, so we’re shorthanded. I’ve got an easy night because a bunch of my regulars are at some Mitsuyama department store event.”
“Ow!” Shinya said, as the stylist backcombed his waxed hair a little too hard.
“Sorry,” the hairdresser apologized insincerely, and unclipped another section.
After putting matching rings in his left ear, Hoshi pawed through the tangle of jewelry beneath the earring tray. He pulled out a silver chain hung with a baroque fleur-de-lis and slipped it over his head, tucking it inside his shirt, and unbuttoning far enough to frame it perfectly. Then he snapped the links of a heavy platinum chain around his wrist and shook it to make sure it was secure.
The stylist stepped back and held up a mirror to show Shinya the back of his head, shifting it left and right.
Shinya said, “Looks good,” and the hairdresser exchanged his mirror for a plastic shield, moving it expertly to protect Shinya’s face from fumes as he liberally spritzed his confection with superhard hair spray.
“When do you want to schedule your touch-up?” the stylist asked Hoshi, packing away the tools of his trade.
Hoshi leaned toward the mirror and examined the dark roots beginning to show. “How about Thursday? I’ve got a photo shoot for new website pix at two. Could you do it before?”
“Your wish is my command.” The stylist nodded, making a note in his appointment book. “See you here at one.” He latched his big tackle box, and with a flutter of his fingers, was gone.
Shinya dosed his eyes with Hoshi’s drops and blinked rapidly. “Thanks,” he said, recapping the bottle and handing it back.
Hoshi glanced at the two remaining hosts loitering at the end of the mirror. One finished darkening his eyebrows while the other dabbed some cover-up on a forehead blemish before they strolled off to the club, discussing how to handle three customers who’d made simultaneous reservations late
r that night.
He and Shinya were alone. He could finally take care of that little piece of business that had been worrying him since yesterday. As he worked silver rings onto his left thumb and his right index finger, he casually said, “That policeman who was at the club last night didn’t call you, did he?”
Shinya frowned. “Policeman? What policeman?”
Hoshi told him about the interview in Masato’s office.
“I thought Manager-san said it was an accident,” Shinya said. “I was really shocked to hear about Cherry. Are you okay? She was your customer for a long time, huh? Why was the cop asking you about it?”
“I think he was just following up on where she was that night,” Hoshi said. “I doubt he’ll be back, but if he asks you what happened, be sure to tell him I took you home, then fell asleep and didn’t leave until the next morning.”
Shinya knit his brow. “I know I was pretty drunk but…didn’t she wait downstairs in the car while you took care of me?”
Hoshi stood and straightened his suit. “Yeah, but why get involved? What difference does it make if she took a cab or I gave her a ride?” His eyes met Shinya’s in the mirror. “I don’t know anything about her accident, I swear. I dropped her off and then came back to your place. I checked on you to make sure you were all right, then fell asleep on that extra futon in the kitchen. I left before you woke up, though.”
“Yeah, I was out cold until one of the other guys rousted me this afternoon.” Shinya laughed. “But I don’t mind saying I saw you, if the cop asks.” He stood and adjusted his belt. “What’s his name?”
Hoshi wrinkled his brow. “Nakajima? Nakamura? Something like that.” He flicked a stray hair from Shinya’s shoulder and checked his watch.
“Yosh’. Let’s get to work. The ladies are waiting.”
Chapter 14
Saturday, November 9
8:00 P.M.
Yumi
The receiving line snaked over the scroll-patterned carpet in the Mitsuyama store’s art gallery as admirers waited to greet the renowned photographer. As a string quartet wove an atmosphere of classical sophistication, prism-draped light fixtures bathed the well-kept faces of the Tokyo elite in a benevolent glow.
Yumi joined Ichiro, the other kimono models, and the guest of honor in the receiving line. The photographer, known for his edgy urban landscapes, had dressed her in deep-purple silk printed with autumn leaves cut from nighttime photos of rain-slick Tokyo streets. Her obi continued the “urban” motif, its heavy brocade woven into overlapping circles of yellow, red, and green traffic lights. The ensemble retailed for well over ¥10,000,000, so Yumi had been warned not to eat or drink anything but clear liquids all night.
Her cheeks ached from smiling. “Mr. Mitsui, Mrs. Mitsui, you’re too kind. Mr. Tanaka, yes, of course, a price list is available. Please speak with the Mitsuyama representative at the table in the corner. Mr. Ono, yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”
Yumi’s eyes widened as he introduced his wife. Mrs. Ono was the Club Nova champagne call customer she’d seen last night, trying to pull Hoshi down onto the seat next to her. Up close, she was still a beauty—older than most of the Club Nova customers, but much younger than her unusually short husband. Her cosmetic dermatology appointments probably cost as much as her plum-colored Hanae Mori suit; both were top of the line. She stood out from the other matrons because her dark hair was unusually long for a woman her age, curled and pinned artfully into a cascading style like the ones Coco favored. Yumi murmured the proper greeting and they moved on.
“Mr. Iida, Mrs. Iida, yes, I’m sure this one would look lovely on your daughter. Mr. Honda, how kind of you…”
Would it never end? Luckily, Yumi’s stiff obi was wrapped and tied around her like a medieval corset, bracing her staunchly upright no matter how wilted she actually felt. Waiting behind the couple Ichiro was now greeting, Yumi spotted two members of his string quartet. She knew Nikki, the violist who preferred playing goth clubs to concert halls, but she was drawing a complete blank on the cellist’s name. As they stepped up to congratulate her fiancé, she turned to Ichiro, hoping he’d see she was in trouble and introduce them again. But his attention was riveted on the cellist’s date.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted in English.
The woman was taller than Ichiro in her spike heels, a shimmering, tea-length silver dress showcasing her long legs. Her glossy black hair was caught up in a twist with a pearl-topped chopstick, a few spiky ends spraying out to suggest a wild streak under all the polish.
But that wasn’t what was making people turn their heads as they saw her stop in front of Ichiro. If she lost the spike heels and put on a kimono, she could have passed for Yumi’s sister.
She playfully slipped her arm around the cellist and said, “I’m here overnight on business and Tom invited me. I couldn’t resist.”
Tom? Was that the Americanized name the cellist had used when Ichiro first met him in Boston? Was the woman from Boston, too?
“Yumi-san,” Ichiro said, suddenly switching to formal Japanese. “May I introduce you to Ami Watanabe? She’s my, uh, friend from business school.”
Oh no. Ichiro’s ex-girlfriend.
“Yoroshiku onegaishimasu,” Yumi murmured automatically, bowing to hide her discomfort.
“Pleased to meet you.” Ami nodded. Her red lips curved into a smile as she leaned close to Ichiro, murmuring, “You got lucky, Number One Son. She’s adorable. And so…Japanese. Your parents must be overjoyed.”
Yumi was shocked at the rudeness. Then she realized Ami was assuming she didn’t speak English.
“Come find me after you’re done with the formalities,” the ex-girlfriend said, straightening Ichiro’s bow tie with casual familiarity. “We have so much catching up to do.”
She moved on. Ichiro tore his gaze away and automatically bowed to the next set of luminaries as the tide of guests engulfed them again. Mr. and Mrs. Sato. Miss Yamaguchi and her parents. The Toyodas.
Familiar rhinestone-embellished fingers fluttered at Yumi from behind Mrs. Toyoda’s museum-quality kimono.
“Coco!” Yumi cried in relief as her friend stepped up to be introduced to Ichiro. She was dressed in full Princess Gal regalia: short purple dress with a peekaboo cutout that revealed her cleavage, silver platform heels that would have tripped up a less-experienced fashionista, and bleached hair piled high on her head, spilling in a curly waterfall over one shoulder. She smiled expectantly as Yumi turned to her fiancé and said, “I’d like you to meet Coco, my friend since middle school.”
Ichiro stared at Coco for a moment. Then he hastily bowed and murmured the formal words of acknowledgement. “Hajimimashite. Dōzo yoroshiku.”
Why was he being so standoffish?
And then Yumi saw her friend through her fiancé’s eyes: Girls who looked like Coco shopped at the cheap and trendy Shibuya 109, not the elegant Mitsuyama store in Nihonbashi. They drank canned chū-hai at pulsing live houses, not fine wines at the Tokyo City Club. Their boyfriends were leather-jacketed bad boys who’d barely finished high school, not elite products of the Imperial universities, climbing the corporate ladder in bespoke suits. Was her fiancé disappointed in her choice of friends?
“So this is the Ichiro you’ve told me so much about,” Coco said. She slapped Yumi playfully on the shoulder. “You’ve been holding out on me—if I’d known you could meet such good-looking guys through o-miai, I’d have been the first to sign up.” She gave Ichiro a coquettish glance, then introduced her date.
“Nakamura-san,” Ichiro said stiffly. “What a surprise to see you here tonight.”
The last time Ichiro had been face to face with Kenji Nakamura, he’d been informing the detective that his family had forbidden their future daughter-in-law to help the police with their investigation last spring.
Kenji returned Ichiro’s technically polite bow and muttered the appropriate formal phrase, then turned to Yumi. Their eyes met and a frisson of desire shot throug
h her. Then Kenji bowed, turning to follow Coco. There was no sign he remembered how their bodies fit together as if they’d been cut from one piece. Yumi watched his retreating back with a pang of loss.
“Yumi?”
She whipped her attention back to Ichiro, hoping the Mitsuyama CFO he was now introducing had been saying something diverting to her fiancé the moment before.
The CFO moved on, replaced by a wave of society matrons. But over the shoulders of Tokyo’s best and brightest, Yumi’s eyes kept finding Kenji in the crowd. She watched Coco offering him tidbits from passing waiters’ trays, whispering in his ear, smiling up into his face with her considerable charm.
What if they started dating? Yumi’s heart sank. Stop it. What was wrong with her? She should be encouraging her friend to get involved with a respectable police detective instead of chasing after a host. She should be hoping they’d fall for each other. So why did she suddenly feel trapped in a stiff column of silk and brocade and obligation?
The last guests were finally dispatched toward the bar, and Ichiro took the photographer to make the rounds of those who’d been interested in ordering one of his kimono designs. Yumi badly needed a glass of champagne. Then she needed to find the ladies’ room.
Chapter 15
Saturday, November 9
9:00 P.M.
Kenji
Coco gazed at Kenji over the rim of her champagne glass, beckoning him closer.
“You were asking me about the other customers at Club Nova last Thursday night?” she murmured. “Don’t look now, but behind you is a woman who’s a regular—chin-length hair, big diamond earrings, red dress. I see her at the club all the time. She was already there when I arrived, and was still there when I left.”
“What’s her name?”
“How would I know that, silly? I go to have fun with the hosts, not to meet other women.”
Kenji frowned, then sneaked a glance behind him to see who Coco had been talking about. The woman gave off a distinct aura of wealth, but the expensive dress she was wearing didn’t disguise the fact she’d bought it about five kilos ago. It was unfortunately the perfect length to draw attention to ankles that resembled thick daikon radishes.
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