“As a matter of fact, I did.” She flicked her ash. “I was settling my tab and getting ready to leave when he came back to take Shinya home—that poor kid must have had quite a hangover the next day. What does Hoshi have to do with this customer’s accident, anyway?”
“There’s evidence that makes us think it wasn’t an accident, that someone might have pushed her down the stairs.”
“That’s terrible. How do you know? Did you find fingerprints or something?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Well, if they’re Hoshi’s, they weren’t put there Thursday night.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—” Miho’s cigarette tip glowed again. “—he was with me.”
Behind her, Mrs. Ono froze.
Kenji frowned. “I’m afraid that doesn’t quite agree with what he told us. He didn’t mention seeing you.”
“Of course he didn’t. In my position, I can’t afford to spend time with someone who’s not discreet.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “And Hoshi is very discreet. After he dropped Shinya off, he came to my apartment. We were there for the rest of the night.” She dropped the butt and crushed it with her Manolo Blahnik shoe. “How sweet that he’d lie to the police on my behalf, just to protect my reputation. I think he deserves a nice little present for that, don’t you?”
A cab pulled up to the curb and Mrs. Ono’s husband climbed into the backseat. His wife stood there, staring at Miho Yamaguchi’s back as if she’d been struck by lightning. The driver leaned toward the open door and said, “Madame?” and she snapped out of it, following her husband into the taxi. It pulled away.
“Want me to call him and tell him it’s all right to say where he really was that night?” Miho asked, pulling a silver phone from her handbag.
“No. But thank you for your help,” Kenji said, bowing.
Damn. His case against Hoshi was in worse shape than when he started out that evening. Miho Yamaguchi’s story muddied the waters, and the fact that the host now had too many alibis would not convince Tanaka to reopen the investigation. He hoped that Tommy Loud found some incriminating prints on that teapot.
Chapter 18
Saturday, November 9
11:30 P.M.
Yumi
Ichiro leaned forward and asked his father’s driver to take them to an address in Ikebukuro. He adjusted the backseat vents, undid his collar stud, and settled back next to Yumi. His black bow tie was undone, the ends draped unevenly around his neck. He put his arm around her and said, “Thanks for modeling that kimono tonight—we sold the one you were wearing and have orders for two more.” He sighed contentedly. “I’m ready to relax—how about you?”
“Definitely.” She leaned back, no longer caring that she was crushing her obi bow.
Ichiro looked out the window as they passed a police box and frowned. “I was a little surprised you invited that policeman tonight.”
Yumi stiffened. “I didn’t. Coco did.” Good thing it was dark in the car and Ichiro couldn’t see her suddenly flaming cheeks.
“Funny,” Ichiro mused aloud, “he’s the last guy I’d have expected someone like Kokoro to fall for.”
Yumi looked at him, surprised. “How did you know Coco’s real name? She hasn’t gone by Kokoro since seventh grade. She hates it.”
“She can’t hate it that much; she uses it professionally.”
“What do you mean, professionally?”
“I saw her at one of the hostess clubs in Kabuki-chō where my father and I entertain sometimes. I was surprised that the Kokoro from the Queen of Hearts is the Coco you’re always talking about. You never mentioned she’s a hostess.”
“She’s not a hostess! She’s a shop assistant at the Akebono store in Ginza. You must be confusing her with someone else. I know she dresses like a Princess Gal, but she comes from a good family.”
Ichiro looked unconvinced.
“I was kind of hoping to introduce her to one of your friends. Maybe arrange a group date, go for karaoke afterward…”
“You’re kidding, right?” Ichiro laughed. “That policeman’s a much better match for her than any of my friends. I mean, they like hostesses and all, but…”
“She’s not a hostess!”
Ichiro smirked. “How well do you really know this old friend of yours, Yumi?”
She folded her arms and stared ahead stonily. “Speaking of old friends…”
His face reddened and he removed his arm from behind her seat. “I didn’t know Ami was coming. Honest. It’s just like Tomoki to pull something like that, the asshole. It was uncomfortable for me, too.” He looked out the window and fell silent, restlessly fiddling with the phone in his jacket pocket.
The car pulled to a stop in front of a building tarted up to look like a medieval Japanese castle. The stucco on the lower floor was scored and painted gray to resemble an ancient stone foundation, and upturned balcony trim suggested the traditional construction of Edo-era fortresses. A backlit sign spelled out “Himeji Castle Hotel” in gothic lettering. Oh no. Love hotel.
She’d been a little uncomfortable the first time her fiancé had taken her to one of the campy hot-sheet establishments that had separate prices for “rest” and “stay.” People like the Mitsuyamas went to the Cerulean when they wanted privacy, not the Himeji Castle. But Ichiro and his privileged friends were in a slumming phase, and she suspected the talk in his golf foursome occasionally turned to who had been to the love hotel with the most outrageous decor.
Yumi hid her dismay. She shouldn’t have been surprised they’d end up at a place like this tonight, but between what had happened with Kenji and what she’d overheard from Ami, it was going to be hard to get into a romantic mood. She took a deep breath and followed Ichiro into the tiny lobby.
A haunting theme from a popular samurai drama played softly in the background. The owner had made a heroic attempt to transform the entry into something evoking a feudal castle, starting with the short, orange-lacquered bridge that connected the lobby to the elevators. Photomurals of a moss-carpeted Japanese garden surrounded them, the illusion somewhat marred by the way the sugi trees were abruptly cut off where the walls met the sprinkler-studded ceiling.
Ichiro paid at the shuttered reception window, then scooped up his change and the key, leading the way to the room they’d picked from the grid of photos displayed by the booth.
He slid the key into the lock and stood aside so Yumi could enter first. It looked like a medieval Japanese castle crossed with a harem-themed pleasure den. True to the Edo-era aesthetic, tatami mats covered the floor and a folding shoji screen concealed the door to the modern bathroom. But apparently someone had felt that samurai austerity was a little lacking in aphrodisiac effect, so most of the room was occupied by a king-sized Western-style bed. Colorful silky pillows were heaped against a padded headboard, and the mirrored ceiling reflected a bedspread printed with an explicitly posed couple from an ukiyo-e woodblock print. A television on a swivel arm was positioned for easy viewing, and the erotic video menu glowed enticingly.
Ichiro kissed the back of her neck and murmured, “I saved this one especially for tonight, because I knew you’d be wearing a kimono. Don’t move,” he said, giving her a quick bite. “I’ll be right back.” He whipped off his tie and headed for the bathroom. The sound of running water whispered from behind the closed door as he showered.
Yumi sighed and turned off the TV, perching stiffly on the edge of the gigantic bed. She’d need help getting out of her kimono; her turn in the shower would have to wait until after all the expensive bits and pieces had been carefully removed and folded. Crossing the room, she turned down the lights and had just figured out how to use the remote control to search for some different music when the bathroom door opened and Ichiro emerged, damp towel wrapped around his waist.
She held her arms out to the side and put on a smile. “I think I
’ll need some help with this…”
He looked at her hungrily and swiftly crossed the room, plucking the remote from her hand. Tossing it to the floor, he pulled the ornament from her chignon. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders as he grabbed her and kissed her hard, his mouth and tongue insistent. Yumi pulled back with surprise.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first moment I saw you tonight,” he breathed tugging at the ends of the obijime cord that held her ensemble together. Yumi felt a sudden release as the cord gave way, the intricate folds of her obi unspooling and falling to the floor around her.
His eyes devoured her as the purple silk of her kimono parted, his hands fumbling for the next sequence of bindings and ties, undressing her with increasing urgency. Finally, her undershift and hip wrap fell away, joining the puddle of expensive silk on the floor. He pushed her back onto the bed. Leaving his towel in a heap, he left a line of bite marks down her neck to her breast, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, his need accelerating too fast for her to keep up.
She came up for air. “Ichiro, wait a minute, I haven’t even showered yet.”
He silenced her by renewing his attentions and she tried to meet him halfway, but it was only a matter of minutes before she had to twist away and ask if he’d remembered a condom.
Ichiro gave a throaty laugh. “Come on, we’re getting married. It doesn’t matter now.” He bent down to resume kissing her, but she evaded him.
“Seriously, Ichiro—I can’t believe pregnant brides are a Mitsuyama family tradition.”
“We could start one.” He bit at her lip and pressed on.
“Ichiro!”
He flopped onto his back. “What’s your problem? Who cares if people count on their fingers and come up a little short of ‘honeymoon baby’?”
“It’s not that, it’s just—”
Ichiro rolled on top of her and grasped both of her wrists, picking up where he’d left off. “Come on,” he breathed, pinning her to the bed. “Just this once.”
Chapter 19
Sunday, November 10
12:30 A.M.
Hoshi
Although things ought to have been winding down for the evening, Club Nova was still crowded with desperately partying customers when Masato appeared at Hoshi’s table and whispered in his ear, “You have another request.”
It was all he could do not to groan aloud. Miho Yamaguchi had been showing up close to closing time more and, more frequently, stepping up her campaign to corner him into sleeping with her.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming tonight,” he said, putting on a smile and seating himself across the table. He wanted to maintain some distance by not sitting next to her, inviting an intimacy that would be hard to escape.
“I didn’t realize you’d still be so busy,” she said.
“Sumimasen,” he apologized.
“What shall we drink tonight?” she mused, gazing toward the bar. “I feel like something special. Hennessy Richard?”
Hoshi was taken aback. She’d always been a free spender, but Miho Yamaguchi seldom ordered such flashy drinks.
“Of course,” he murmured. “A bottle of Richard!” he called to the bartender. Heads swiveled to see who’d requested the ¥1,000,000 cognac.
“Are we celebrating something?” he asked. “Another acquisition?”
She laughed and patted the banquette next to her. “Yes. Exactly. An acquisition.”
Hoshi had to show his appreciation—she’d ordered the most costly brandy in the club. He moved to her side as the waiter arrived with a distinctive curvy decanter etched with grapevines. Hoshi displayed the engraved silver label, then broke the seal with a practiced twist of his wrist. He poured a shimmering pool of amber into the snifters that had arrived with the brandy. Bowing, he offered her glass as though it were a ritual bowl of tea. Then he lifted his own and said, “Kampai.”
As they drank, she added, “To your alibi.”
Hoshi choked as her words and the fiery spirits hit him at the same time.
She sat back, cradling her snifter. “A detective came to talk to me after the event I was at tonight. He seemed to think you had something to do with an accident one of Club Nova’s customers had on Friday.”
Hoshi looked at her, aghast. “But I didn’t!”
“Of course not.” She savored another sip. “But for some reason you’re at the top of his suspect list. He says he has fingerprints from her apartment, and although he refused to say so, I’m pretty sure he thinks they’re yours.” She lowered her glass and looked him in the eye. “Are they?”
Hoshi blanched. The truth was, his fingerprints were in Cherry’s apartment. “All I did was take her home and have a cup of tea. That’s all. Then I left.”
Miho regarded him impassively, then smiled and pulled a cigarette from her bag, waiting for Hoshi to give her a light. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his gold Dunhill. She took a puff, blew the smoke toward the ceiling, and said, “That’s one I haven’t heard before. ‘We had a cup of tea.’”
“It’s the truth,” Hoshi insisted. “Look, I know how it sounds…”
“It doesn’t matter, because I told him you were with me.”
“What?” Hoshi set down his drink.
“I told him that after you dropped Shinya off, you came to my apartment and stayed all night.”
“But…why?”
Miho tapped her ash into the ashtray. “Because you told him you fell asleep at Shinya’s and that’s hardly any better than telling him you ‘had a cup of tea’ with a woman who ended up dead.”
“No, it’s okay, Shinya will back me up if he asks. Everything will be fine.”
“Will it?” She took another puff. “Even if it’s not true?”
Silence.
“Hoshi-kun, listen to me.” Her cigarette glowed one final time, then she snuffed it in the ashtray. “What if the police don’t let it go, really start digging?” She picked up her glass and regarded him over the rim. “The truth is, they’ll believe the CEO of Silky Smooth Skincare before they’ll believe your kohai.”
She was right. What a nightmare. The authorities would never question the honesty of someone like her. And now that she’d given them a plausible story, they’d never believe him if he insisted on sticking to his statement about staying at Shinya’s. If he parroted Miho’s lie, they might grill him about why he’d told them something different, but he’d be off the hook.
“Hoshi dear,” she whispered, shifting toward him, “it wouldn’t be any fun at all if you went to jail.”
Her breast pressed against his arm, and he knew that nothing Miho Yamaguchi did was an accident. Hoshi didn’t know how he was going to get out from under her thumb, but until he came up with a plan, he’d better play nice. Putting his arm around her, he whispered in her ear, “Thank you, Miho-san. You really saved me. I’ll never forget it.”
She turned to him, a proprietary smile on her lips.
Chapter 20
Sunday, November 10
5:00 P.M.
Yumi
Yumi stared down into her tea in its thick, homely cup. Matsumoto’s coffee shop was where she and Kenji used to meet, back in third grade when they were assigned to work on a Japanese Culture project together. The shop’s name was spelled out in flaking gold letters across the big plate-glass window and the clock with plastic sushi instead of numbers still ticked away over the cash register. Mrs. Matsumoto had become slightly more plump, but she still wore the same faded apron and remembered her old customers with the same cheerful greeting, tinged with an accent acquired during her childhood in Okinawa.
There was a finger of tealeaf floating upright in Yumi’s cup, circling slowly in a clockwise eddy. She made a wish, knowing it was unlikely to come true—Kenji would be here any minute.
She’d sneaked back into her parents’ house and crawled into bed sometime before dawn, but couldn’t get back to sleep. Her life had been tossed into the air like a pack of cards last ni
ght: Kenji. Ami. Ichiro. But by the time the sun had illuminated the ceiling crack that looked like a crooked heart, she knew only one of the choices doing battle in her head was the right one.
Family was more important than desire—more important than what she felt for Kenji, more important than what Ichiro felt for Ami. Ichiro wouldn’t have asked her to marry him if he hadn’t dealt with his feelings for his ex; she owed it to him to do the same. Even if Ami considered what they were doing “just an arranged marriage,” that didn’t mean Ichiro agreed with her. He’d explained on their first date that his parents had opposed a marriage with Ami even before she dumped him for a job in Manila. She was Japanese by ancestry, but American through and through. She spoke only English and could barely order sushi, let alone mix in Tokyo society with the ease his family obligations required.
And on Yumi’s side, too much was at stake. When she’d dragged herself out to the kitchen for breakfast that morning, her parents were already up, silently eating their bowls of rice, dressed in the ultra-black clothing that could only mean they were going to a funeral. Her father had looked especially glum.
Yumi asked who had died, and her mother hustled her out of the room, explaining in a low voice that it was one of her father’s colleagues from Toda. He’d published the results of a study funded by a big pharmaceutical company, even though it suggested that their treatment was ineffective. The company had made a public attack on his methodology and his funding had been abruptly terminated. He’d been unable to replace it. Two days ago, his wife had found him hanging from the light fixture in their garage.
“I’m so happy your father isn’t dependent on that kind of patronage,” her mother whispered.
Wasn’t he? Yumi was sure Ichiro’s father had pulled strings to elevate him to full professor; she had no doubt Mr. Mitsuyama could send him back to obscurity. Her cheeks burned as she recalled how tempted she’d been to take a sledgehammer to everything that was important. She must have spent too much time in America, where people entered into important legal contracts like marriage solely on the basis of “love.”
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