Fallen Angel (9781101578810)

by Patrick, Jonelle

  Dr. Fujimoto was asking Matsuda’s assistant if he were also a weaponry specialist.

  “Oh, no,” Kita demurred. “I guess you could call me more of a…retainer. My sixteen-times-great-grandfather served under Matsuda-san’s sixteen-times-great-grandfather at the Battle of Sekigahara.”

  So the samurai aura wasn’t just a pose. Kita’s ancestors had fought under the Matsuda lord in the epic seventeenth-century battle that had given the Tokugawa shogun power over all of Japan. Kenji noticed that the retainer walked like someone trained in martial arts—maybe kendo, the sport based on Japanese sword fighting. He wondered how Kita-san would interpret the Bushido code if Nobu Matsuda were threatened.

  They stopped before a sliding door and Kita opened it, introducing Dr. Fujimoto and Kenji to the man kneeling behind a low, polished rosewood desk, surrounded by stacks of paperwork and academic journals. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed neatly with scholarly texts, museum catalogs, and scrolls in kiri-wood boxes. Nobu Matsuda wore a masculine divided skirt hakama and a heavy silk haori jacket with a four-petaled flower crest worked into the front of each shoulder.

  He stood to greet them and was indeed a few centimeters taller then Kenji. His eyes tilted down at the outside corners, making him look like he was on the verge of weeping, and the lines beginning to carve themselves around his mouth told them he seldom smiled. He was probably closer to forty than thirty, the splatter of pockmarks on his face visible from across the room.

  “I’m N-N-Nobu Matsuda,” he said, bowing.

  He gestured toward the cushions that had been set out on the other side of his desk. “P-p-please.”

  Kita reappeared and poured tea from a red Tokoname teapot into matching cups. The fine, smooth clay wore the patina of age, its original matte surface now glossy with use. The fragrance of gyōkuro, made from the choicest tips of green tea, perfumed the room. Accepting his teacup, Kenji noticed that most of Matsuda’s right hand was shiny, scarred so badly that he’d lost the use of his little finger.

  No wonder he didn’t talk much at the hostess clubs. Between his stutter, his maimed hand, and his lost battle with teenage acne, Nobu Matsuda was no ladies’ man. Was that why he satisfied his urges at places where he merely had to pay for what he wanted?

  The professor launched into the predictable pleasantries. Lifting his cup appreciatively, he said, “I’ve never seen a house quite like this before.”

  “M-m-my three-times-great-grandfather built it in 1906, when foreign trade opened up after the Me-me-me-me…” Matsuda’s face collapsed in frustration and he waved a hand impatiently at Kita.

  “…the Meiji Restoration,” supplied the retainer. “Matsuda-san’s great-great-great-grandfather took advantage of the lifting of the overseas trade ban to expand the family business by importing exotic hardwoods. Half the house was designed Western style to promote the new building materials.”

  Their host recovered his composure and asked what brought Dr. Fujimoto to his door. He sipped his tea as the professor described his research, which was currently focused on how Japanese sword makers changed the way battles were fought in pre-modern Japan. Before long, they were joined in a lively discussion on the merits of various legendary swordsmiths, Kita filling in seamlessly when Matsuda stumbled.

  Kenji noticed that their host’s stutter diminished as he relaxed, his enthusiasm about weaponry loosening his tongue. No wonder he liked to bore the Club Heaven hostesses with his favorite subject. Erika had described him as a heavy drinker; maybe alcohol loosened his tongue—and his inhibitions—even further.

  As he warmed to his subject, their host occasionally pulled a catalog from the stack on his desk and turned it to show Dr. Fujimoto an example of the point he was making. He kept his damaged right hand mostly hidden, using his left to turn pages. His movements were slightly awkward; Kenji wondered what other things he’d taught himself to do left-handed.

  “I’ve never seen an example of his work,” Dr. Fujimoto was saying wistfully. “I know he forged some of the sharpest blades ever made.”

  Matsuda regarded the professor thoughtfully. “W-would you like to see one? There are a few p-p-pieces I never loan out. One of them is our K-Kanemoto II katana.”

  Dr. Fujimoto accepted with unfeigned delight. Matsuda rose and invited them to follow him, stopping on the way to scoop up a pair of deerskin gloves. His retainer fell in behind them as they penetrated deeper into the house, stopping short of a doorway near the end of the hall. Matsuda nodded to Kita to precede them.

  “Please wait here a moment while K-Kita-san unlocks the door to the family m-museum.”

  A moment later, they were beckoned into what looked like a turn-of-the-twentieth-century dining room. Past the burnished-walnut table surrounded by ladderback chairs in the style of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Matsuda’s retainer waited before a tall cabinet displaying Hamada Shōji plates and vases. As they approached, he swung the entire piece of furniture away from the wall like a door on well-oiled hinges. Dark rooms waited beyond.

  Matsuda said, “M-m-my three-times-great-grandfather loved wooden p-p-puzzle b-b-b-b…” He blinked rapidly in frustration and Kita took over.

  “Matsuda-san’s three-times-great-grandfather had a passion for wooden puzzle boxes as well as swords. He invited a master boxmaker from Hakone to construct the keyless lock on this entrance and all the cases housing the family collection. Everyone who’s seen it knows the entrance is behind this cabinet, but only Matsuda-san and I know the trick of opening it.” He stepped through the doorway, flipping on the lights.

  Kenji’s heart sped up. They were in the first of three rooms furnished with spotlit display cases. Swords of all sizes gleamed behind glass, supported on stands draped with dark silk. Some were fitted out with elaborate hilts and scabbards; others were bare blades, impressing with their elegant, deadly beauty. Just like the place where Anna was attacked.

  Woodwork pieced in intricate geometric patterns framed the swords like pictures at an exhibition, but instead of the typical light and dark harlequin patterns, the nearly matching dark woods gave the impression of shifting shadows. Matsuda crossed to a display in the first room and slid his good hand down the case’s corner. Stopping at a nearly invisible indentation, he pressed with his thumb, then used the rest of his fingers to push and slide several sections of the parquet veneer. The front window swung open with a sigh.

  “Is each display case different?” Dr. Fujimoto asked, looking around the room.

  Matsuda nodded. “They’re all b-built without nails, and there are no written instructions or diagrams. My father m-made me figure them all out, as did his father b-before him. He said I’d n-never forget if I did it m-myself.” He shifted uncomfortably and winced, looking at his retainer.

  Kita checked the time, then drew a prescription bottle from his jacket pocket and shook a tablet into Matsuda’s hand. Their host dry-swallowed it as Kita took over the narrative. “That’s how his three-times-great-grandfather made sure that only those who cared enough about the collection to know its secrets would control it. Matsuda-san and I spent hours in here as children, working out how to open all the displays. If anything happens to him, I’m his backup.” He turned to his boss and murmured, “Do you need to rest? How’s the pain?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Matsuda opened the sword cases one by one, and Kenji followed Dr. Fujimoto, murmuring appreciatively. As Matsuda pointed out the distinctive pattern on a Kanesada blade’s sharpened edge, Kenji asked Kita if he might take a look at the suit of armor he’d seen through the doorway.

  “Go right ahead,” Kita answered. “I’m sorry there’s not much else on display. Matsuda-san has been too busy to replace the swords we loaned to the National Museum.”

  “Thanks,” Kenji replied.

  A suit of black lacquered armor intricately laced with gold silk cord stood in the center of the second room, surrounded by displays with empty sword stands. Circling the armor, pretending to inspect it, Ken
ji noted that the room had no windows, and cases lined the walls without a break. The plinth on which the armor stood wasn’t large enough to lay out a human victim the way Anna had described, so he moved on to the third room.

  Damn. The display in the middle of the next room was too small, too. Where had Anna been attacked? She’d mentioned she had to climb a ladder to get out—maybe there were more rooms like these below. A hidden room within a hidden room; that was the kind of trick someone who loved puzzle boxes would relish. The way into the place Anna had described might be as well concealed as the museum itself.

  He surveyed the room. Most of the cases were empty, but two deadly, curved tachi remained in lonely splendor, their nubbly ray-skin hilts peeking through traditional crisscross silk binding. Both had scabbards of gleaming lacquered wood, set with gold and silver, emblazoned with the family crests of the warriors who had owned them. Kenji consulted the accompanying curatorial cards. The one with pale gray binding was White Cloud, the one bound with orange, Fire Phoenix. Their matching tantō were represented by dagger-shaped indentations in the silk that draped the lower notches of their stands. Why had Matsuda loaned the swords in the previous room in pairs, but offered only the short daggers from these sets? Kenji quickly checked to make sure their host was still busy showing Dr. Fujimoto the collection, then took out his cell phone and snapped pictures of each, moving in closer to capture the cards describing them. As he backed up to shoot the entire display, he bumped into the empty freestanding case in the middle of the room.

  It moved.

  Surprised, he spun around and saw it had shifted, pivoting around the far corner. He pushed it further and discovered it had been concealing a wooden trapdoor, a few centimeters smaller than the display’s footprint.

  “You lift it by sticking your thumb and middle finger into those two holes.”

  He jumped. Kita had approached as silently as a ninja. Kenji crouched and fitted his digits into the bores. He pulled. It didn’t open.

  “Of course, you have to know the secret of opening the latch first.”

  Kenji stood and smiled disarmingly. “What’s down there? A dungeon?”

  “Just the old bomb shelter, built during the war. We use it mostly for storage now.”

  Footsteps approached.

  “It’s rated saijo o wazamono, and it’s still as sharp as if it was forged yesterday,” Matsuda said, stopping next to the trapdoor. “Shall we show Dr. Fujimoto the K-Kanemoto II katana, K-Kita-san?”

  His retainer knelt and dealt the trapdoor a sharp blow on the corner. Kenji and Dr. Fujimoto jumped back in alarm. The hatch hinged up to reveal a flight of steep stairs going down into the darkness.

  “Sorry, I should have warned you,” Matsuda apologized. “This trapdoor is like the puzzles they c-call ‘hit b-boxes.’ You have to strike it in just the right place to open it. M-m-my three-times-great-grandfather had this hatch designed so n-nobody trying to sneak into the rooms b-below could do it without making n-noise.”

  The storage area at the foot of the stairs was noticeably cooler, its floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with the kind of calligraphed kiri-wood boxes that promised art treasures within. Matsuda beckoned them into a long hallway, ushering them through the first open door. He flipped on the lights. Sword displays lined the tatami-floored room, but what riveted Kenji was the waist-high, table-sized case in the center, its glass protecting a pair of scrolls that had been unrolled to display scenes from The Tale of Genji. It was the perfect size and height for carving kanji characters on hostesses.

  Matsuda pulled a glove onto his good hand and unlocked one of the cases along the wall, carefully lifting out the katana to show the visiting professor.

  “This one is c-called Wind of Change,” he said, pulling the blade partly from the scabbard and displaying the telltale Three Cypress Trees pattern in the forging. The hilt was wrapped in black cord, the five-hundred-year-old edge still razor sharp. Matsuda explained that Wind of Change had been officially rated a four-body saijo o wazamono in the early 1600s, which rendered Dr. Fujimoto gratifyingly speechless at being in the presence of a weapon able to cut through the bodies of four condemned criminals with a single blow.

  “Would you like to see a demonstration?”

  The professor looked alarmed.

  “D-don’t worry,” Matsuda said. “We never test it on g-guests.”

  He offered the sword to Kita, who bowed respectfully before drawing it from its black lacquer scabbard, then confirmed Kenji’s guess about his kendo training. Clasping both hands about the hilt, his feet automatically moved into fighting stance as he raised the blade, ready to strike. Matsuda tossed his right glove in a slow arc. Kita advanced a step, the blade flashed, and two half-gloves fluttered to the floor.

  “Thank you, Kita-san.”

  His retainer sheathed the blade, placed it back on its stand, and bowed respectfully before closing the case.

  As they returned to the storage room so Matsuda could open a few of the boxes to show Dr. Fujimoto the treasures within, Kenji asked for the bathroom. Kita escorted him back along the dark hall to a room with an exquisite blue-and-white porcelain squat toilet. Kenji heard Matsuda trying to explain something, then calling for Kita’s help. As Kita returned to the storage room, Kenji crept out and made his way back to the room where Anna may have been attacked.

  He quickly pulled his penlight from his breast pocket and flashed it across the floor, under the freestanding display, illuminating the nooks and crannies where evidence of the victims might have fallen.

  A dried leaf. A paper clip.

  Disappointed, he hurried back toward the bathroom, shining his penlight toward the end of the hallway. At the end was a ladder, just as Anna had described. The murmur of voices was still coming from the storage room, so he chanced a quick foray to investigate. He played his penlight over the floor. Nothing.

  Retracing his steps, he rejoined the others and they made their way back through the house toward the genkan.

  Halfway down the hall to the front door, Matsuda stopped short and said, “Oh! I’m sorry, Fujimoto-sensei, I promised you a catalog for the upcoming exhibition.” He turned to his retainer. “K-Kita-san, could you go back down to the storage room and get one for Dr. Fujimoto?”

  Kita excused himself with a bow and Matsuda went back to arguing a point about Kamakura-era forging techniques with Dr. Fujimoto. Kenji continued toward the front door and fetched his shoes from the cupboard by the door.

  Which of the black umbrellas stuffed into the umbrella stand was his? Kenji pulled out two with similar handles and saw something glittery was caught in the folds of the one in his right hand.

  A bobby pin. Topped with a star made of red rhinestones. The last time he’d seen it, it had been in Erika’s hair the night he first met her at Club Heaven.

  He carefully slid that umbrella back into the stand, then glanced back down the hall. The sword aficionados were still discussing annealing temperatures, so he quickly took out his phone and snapped a picture.

  The evidence that put Erika in Matsuda’s house would have to be collected by the First Investigative Division when they came back with a warrant.

  Chapter 60

  Tuesday, November 19

  4:00 P.M.

  Kenji

  The news that Kenji and his team had uncovered a series of crimes worthy of the First Investigative Division’s attention was not met with good cheer by Section Chief Tanaka. Not only had he been forced to request help from downtown—which meant the elite major crimes squad would take over his station, using his detectives as unskilled labor—but he’d also had to tell them that Kenji and his team had used rather unorthodox methods to uncover the crimes.

  Kenji walked into the big fifth-floor incident room reserved for occasions when the big boys moved in, and found a seat near the back. The front table with its three microphones was unchanged from when he’d last sat here during the Shrine Killer case. Section Chief Tanaka was still graciously try
ing to hide his irritation at being invaded, Superintendent Noguchi was looking even more like a well-fed, silver-haired civil servant surrounded by a cozy network of fellow Tokyo University graduates, and Inspector Mori appeared more irritated than usual. The fox-faced career fast-tracker had been none too happy that Kenji had been so instrumental in bringing down the Shrine Killer, and was even less pleased that now he’d been given the task of cleaning up an operation that Kenji had built on such shaky ground.

  Noguchi turned on the microphone before him and graciously acknowledged Section Chief Tanaka’s welcome, then turned the floor over to Inspector Mori. Mori gave an overview of the case, then called on Kenji to walk them through the investigation to date, laying out the evidence against Matsuda.

  Mori took over, using his computer to project satellite shots of Matsuda’s house and neighborhood. He outlined the plan of attack, reading off lists of officers assigned to surround the property in case Matsuda objected when asked to accompany them to the station for voluntary questioning. He then outlined the contingency plan if their target decided to do it the hard way.

  “Yosh’!” Mori concluded. “Let’s bring him in!”

  “Hai!” the roomful of First Division detectives shouted in unison, pushing back their chairs and trotting out the door. The room emptied behind them.

  All except Kenji. Inspector Mori had no intention of sharing the glory with him again, even if they were on the same elite career track. Mori had assigned him to stay behind at the station, making arrangements to provide food and hot tea in case the coming interrogation ran late into the night.

  Chapter 61

  Tuesday, November 19

  8:30 P.M.

  Yumi

  Ptoo, ptoo, ptoo. By the sounds leaking from the earbuds of the student in the carrel next to her, Yumi could tell he was playing an online shooting game rather than making progress on the paper he was supposed to be writing on the Russo-Japanese Kuril Island Dispute.