Fallen Angel (9781101578810)

by Patrick, Jonelle

  However, the SG added, his unusual approach and willingness to take risks had resulted in the capture of a criminal who would otherwise have gone free. The tribunal had determined there was enough evidence to close ranks and throw the book at Miho Yamaguchi rather than apologize and take a black eye in the press.

  “A reprimand will be entered in Detective Kenji Nakamura’s permanent file, deploring his lack of teamwork and failure to follow proper procedure, as well as a commendation for bringing a killer to justice. Assistant Detective Suzuki will be held blameless for following orders. Section Chief Tanaka is cautioned to oversee his subordinates more carefully in the future, but will escape official censure and receive a commendation as Detective Nakamura’s commanding officer.

  “These are the findings of this tribunal. Adjourned.”

  Kenji, Suzuki, and Tanaka bowed deeply in gratitude, maintaining their formal demeanor as they marched back out. As soon as they turned the corner, though, even the section chief couldn’t help bursting into a relieved grin. He hustled them down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, eager to put distance between them and their ordeal.

  By the time they stood outside the Headquarters grand entrance, however, he’d regained his dignity. The sky arched overhead, a cloudless, autumn blue after the stormy weekend. Tanaka reached into his pocket and handed back their badges.

  “I hope you appreciate I’m going to have to lose by several strokes to the SG every week for the next six months for this,” he grumbled, referring to the fact that the Superintendent General had managed to assemble a tribunal consisting only of brass who had benefited from Tanaka’s policy of reaping them good press in the past.

  Kenji and Suzuki bowed their thanks, and they all climbed into a cab. While Suzuki listened politely to the section chief’s hole-by-hole description of his round at Pebble Beach six years ago, Kenji sat in the front seat, staring out the window. His elation at the tribunal’s verdict faded as he thought about what the decision meant for Yumi. Half an hour later, when they pulled up in front of the Komagome Police Station, he still hadn’t found the words that would make telling her less painful.

  “Congratulations!” Oki said, as they emerged from the elevator. News apparently traveled fast. The big detective grinned at Kenji. “I don’t think I know anybody who’s gotten a commendation and a reprimand on the same day.”

  The section chief excused himself to take a call, while the rest of the squad crowded around Suzuki and Kenji, eager to hear the details. A few minutes later, Tanaka returned with several bottles of Otokoyama. He passed out cups and poured sake all around. Standing before the whiteboard, he cleared his throat. The room quieted.

  “Thank you all for your support,” he said, bowing formally. “Today we were pleased to hear from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police tribunal that Detective Nakamura and Assistant Detective Suzuki’s good work apprehending Miho Yamaguchi—the woman who caused Cherry Endo’s death—will result in a prosecution.”

  Approving murmurs broke out around the room.

  “And,” he continued, “I just spoke with the Superintendent General on the phone. He called to congratulate us on the successful conclusion of the case involving Mr. Matsuda and Mr. Kita. It seems that the prosecutor’s office reached a deal today with Mr. Kita’s lawyer, and he’s going to prison for five years for assaulting those three hostesses. Good work, detectives!”

  “Kampai!” everyone shouted, raising their cups.

  Tanaka made his way over to Kenji and Suzuki, pulling them aside. “The SG also wanted me to tell you that once the Yamaguchi family lawyer heard the voice recording of what happened in that hotel room, he was nearly as anxious as we were to avoid a trial and any more media attention. He’ll wrangle with the prosecutor about the details, but there’s no doubt Miho will go to prison.”

  Kenji felt a weight lift from his chest as the section chief’s words sunk in. There would be no trial. Yumi’s participation would be buried alongside the embarrassing details of Miho Yamaguchi’s crimes. He’d call Yumi as soon as he left the station. Now he’d just have to work on keeping the bitterness from his voice when he told her that nothing would now prevent her from marrying Ichiro Mitsuyama.

  Tanaka moved on. Kenji grabbed a sake bottle and beckoned Suzuki into interview room 2. He shut the door. “I never thanked you properly for backing me up.” He bowed deeply in gratitude.

  Suzuki waved his hand, embarrassed. “Just doing my job, sir.”

  Kenji filled both their cups. “I also want to say thanks for helping me keep Yumi’s name out of it.”

  They drank companionably.

  Presently Suzuki asked, “So…is she your old girlfriend, or what?”

  Kenji shook his head. “Never has been, never will be. And now that there won’t be a trial, by the end of next month she’ll be married. To someone else.”

  Suzuki smiled sympathetically and raised his glass. “Better luck next time.”

  He drank to that.

  Back in the squad room, Kenji returned to his desk. The little rhinestone-covered teddy bear dangler sat next to the Daruma saint with one eye still blank. He finally understood why Yumi couldn’t back out of her upcoming marriage. But there was still time before the wedding next month, and Ichiro’s ex-girlfriend looked like a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. A miracle could still happen.

  Raising his cup to the rotund red saint he said, “You’re not off the hook yet, buddy.”

  Chapter 83

  Thursday, November 28

  12:30 P.M.

  Yumi

  “You’re going to be living with his parents?” Coco gasped, her cigarette freezing halfway to her lips. She leaned toward Yumi. “You have to tell him no!”

  Yumi sighed. “It’s too late. They ‘surprised’ me by giving me a tour of the renovations.”

  And it hadn’t been easy to be gracious. Last night she’d been invited for dinner at the Mitsuyamas’ family home for the first time, and as soon as she had her glass of oolong tea in hand—Ichiro’s parents believed blushing brides didn’t prefer alcohol—Mr. Mitsuyama had raised his glass of whiskey and proposed a toast to them living together in happy harmony.

  She’d intended to talk to Ichiro about their future living arrangements, but had never found the time once they’d been swept up in the whirlwind of wedding preparations: ballroom, invitations, guest list, tasting menu. And now it was too late. The “apartment” his family had promised them turned out to be the rooms that had previously been Ichiro’s, renovated into a suite with a kitchenette.

  The Mitsuyamas had all been beaming at her, genuinely believing she’d be delighted to move from backwater Komagome to swanky Hiroo, where even the supermarket displayed meat like it was the crown jewels and offered perfect bundles of identical onions with prices one didn’t usually associate with produce.

  “Ichiro’s mother picked everything out,” Yumi said gloomily, pushing the remnants of her cream puff around on her plate. “It’s all top of the line, oozing with good taste.”

  “But…?”

  “My favorite color, beige.” She grimaced. “Except for the ‘sitting room’ next to our bedroom. For some reason that’s not too hard to guess, that one’s done up in baby blue.”

  Coco forked up her last bite. “Maybe once you get your own stuff moved in, it’ll seem more like home.”

  Yumi gave a snort of laughter, picturing her poster of the much-tattooed musician Flame hanging next to one of the Degas prints from the family collection Ichiro’s father had proudly showed them, generously offering to let them choose whatever they wanted to hang in their own quarters.

  “Look, you don’t have to live there forever,” Coco said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Once you pop out a kid or two, it’ll be easy to convince him you need to move to your own house.”

  She handed Yumi a ¥1,000 note. “Sorry, I have to run. Before I get back to selling sweets to hungry society dragons, I’d better pick up my dresses at the d
ry cleaner or I won’t have anything to wear to the Q-of-H tonight.” She hoisted her capacious pink bag onto her shoulder. “I have to work every night this week because Erika asked me to take care of a couple of her biggest clients until she gets out of the hospital.”

  She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Yumi. “And guess what? You know that really rich guy who supposedly stabbed her, but it turned out he didn’t do it? Apparently he came to the hospital yesterday after they cut him loose, bowed like he was apologizing to the emperor, and told her he felt responsible for her being scarred. Then he begged her to tell him how he could make it up to her. She told me she might be able to open her own club now, and asked me if I wanted to come with her.”

  “Coco! You can’t seriously be considering…!”

  “We can’t all marry Mitsuyamas, missy.” Coco stood. “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself. You just concentrate on getting a bun in the oven as quickly as possible so you can get out from under your future mother-in-law’s thumb. And if it’s a girl, you’d better name her after me!” With a see-you-later grin and a flutter of her sparkly nails, she was gone.

  Yumi sighed and picked up the little clipboard with the check. The prospect of not having an in-law-free place to live until she was buried under a mountain of diapers didn’t cheer her up as much as Coco intended.

  In fact, it didn’t cheer her up at all. Waiting for her change at the cashier, Yumi vowed to move out of the Mitsuyama family compound long before there were any kids. If there was one thing she knew without a doubt, it was that Ichiro’s mother intended to make sure all offspring were raised to be proper Mitsuyamas, and that wasn’t a job she’d entrust to the bride who’d been Ichiro’s choice, not hers. Yumi would have to put a lot more distance than a flight of stairs between herself and management before there were any Mitsuyama Juniors.

  She pushed out through the glass door. On a sunny Thursday afternoon, Omotesando Boulevard was pleasantly crowded with young couples and gaggles of girlfriends clipping along in their high heels, swinging bouquets of glossy shopping bags.

  She turned toward the subway station and nearly bumped into a tall man she momentarily mistook for Kenji. Since they’d parted at the foot of the shrine steps last Thursday, the streets had been filled with look-alikes. That tall one stooping to get into a cab. That dreamy-eyed one waiting on the platform across the tracks at the train station. The one bending toward his girlfriend with the same expression Kenji had when he looked into her eyes after he kissed her one last time, before he’d gone to face the tribunal.

  She’d gone home that day with a little lump of pain in her chest. Even after Kenji had called the next day with the news that the gods had answered both their prayers, the peach pit hadn’t gone away. She could feel it right now. Swallowing, Yumi made herself turn toward the windows she was passing, gaze at handbags she didn’t need, expensive T-shirts she didn’t like, café windows filled with people she had no desire to meet. Sipping exotic coffees, nibbling on chocolate praline cake, the fashionably dressed, young, and beautiful all looked like…Ichiro Mitsuyama.

  Yumi stopped dead in her tracks.

  He was sitting at a tiny table in the front window of Peltier, lounging back in his chair and laughing with a woman.

  And not just any woman. Ami’s shapely legs were tucked under her chair, one foot half out of a red Jimmy Choo stiletto. Sipping her cappuccino, gazing at him over the rim of her cup, Ichiro’s ex wore an expression that didn’t belong out in public. She laughed at something he said, then began to gather up the shopping bags that ringed their table. Ichiro stood and accepted a handful, then stopped to pay as she waited by the door, checking her messages.

  Yumi slipped into the doorway of the handbag shop next door, heart pounding. Ami languidly strolled to the curb and hailed a cab, then Ichiro joined her and helped pile her shopping bags into the backseat. She turned to face him, looked into his eyes, and kissed him on both cheeks. With a last flash of her long legs, she disappeared into the cab and it drove off down the street. Ichiro stood there looking after it for a long time, then turned and began trudging toward the station.

  Yumi spun around and ducked into the store behind her so she wouldn’t be seen. Why hadn’t Ichiro mentioned his old girlfriend was in town? Staring at the shelves of purses, she tried to swat down the thoughts that suddenly filled her head like a swarm of buzzing bees.

  “Irasshaimase,” said a tall salesman with thick wings of dark hair.

  She turned to look at the man who wasn’t Kenji.

  He smiled. “Is there something special you’re looking for?”

  “Oh. Sorry. No,” she said. Then something that burned as bright as a meteor burst from the cloud of anger, hurt, and confusion. If Ichiro were the one to break their engagement…

  “I just realized what I want,” she told the salesman. “But I’m afraid you can’t help me.”

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next

  Only In Tokyo mystery by Jonelle Patrick

  available from InterMix Fall 2013

  Thursday, November 14

  5:00 p.m.

  Yano

  He picked up the top photo, and disgust with his fellow man welled up inside the priest like a cold winter tide. At least it was a Polaroid, so there were no copies. But even one was too many.

  Yano rose and surveyed the 8-mat tatami room that had served thirteen generations of head priests before him as living room, office, study, and dining room. The furnishings were spare—a floor lamp with a rice paper shade that had been mended more than once, a stack of well-worn floor cushions, bookshelves stuffed with everything from Basho’s poetry to postcards from Hokkaido. In one corner near the ceiling, an intricately pieced wooden shrine sat on a shelf, festooned with crisp zig-zag paper charms and fresh offerings of sake, salt, and sasaki leaves. A low kotatsu table draped with an indigo-dyed quilt sat before the window, the black cord from its heater snaking over the grass mats to an outlet behind the bookshelves.

  Cold tea sat in the bottom of two cups atop the table. It had been steaming half an hour earlier when Head Priest Yano had sat looking out on the serene moss garden outside while his visitor told him a terrible secret and showed him proof of something he’d have been happier not knowing about. The water in the cracked green Oribe teapot had grown cold as together they tried to peer down the many paths that led into the future.

  Yano knelt and dealt the stack of Polaroids out onto the table like a game of solitaire. Eleven pictures, eleven lives damaged. He sighed. Where should he hide the dreadful things his visitor had given him for safekeeping? It would be terrible if anyone found them, and Head Priest Yano knew the chances were good that the man they’d been stolen from would come looking.

  It would be smart not to keep them all in the same place.

  He set aside the one he’d been told would launch the biggest firestorm of scandal if it ever became public, and dropped it into the sleeve of his robe.

  He gathered up the rest of the Polaroids and slid them into the envelope that had been glued into his visitor’s photo album. The too-thick packet bulged beneath the back cover, but he pinched it shut as he carried it to the kitchen and hid it in the drawer he’d emptied, arranging a stack of dishtowels on top.

  Then he returned to the main room and opened the cupboard where his vestments were kept. Even someone going through his house with a fine tooth comb would never think to look for an unspeakable Polaroid hidden in the sleeve of the robe a priest wore only for weddings.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jonelle Patrick divides her time between Tokyo and San Francisco and speaks Japanese well enough to go everywhere from kabuki theatres to maid cafés. In addition to writing the next book in the Only in Tokyo Mystery series, she chronicles amusing cultural oddities in her blog Only In Japan (http://jonellepatrick.me/) and runs The Tokyo Guide I Wish I’d Had website (http://www.jonellepatrick.com/), which features photos, directions, and descriptions of off-the-beaten-p
ath destinations that visitors don’t usually get to see unless they’re taken around by a local. For photos and a behind-the-scenes look at the Only in Tokyo mysteries, visit Jonelle at www.jonellepatrick.com, follow her on Twitter (@jonellepatrick), or catch up with her on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/JonellePatrickAuthor).

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  Only in Tokyo Mysteries

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  Fallen Angel

  These billboards in Kabuki-chō will give you an idea of what guys who work as hosts look like. These ads feature the top earners at their clubs.

  The Komgome Police Station, where Kenji works.

  This is a Daruma figure with one eye colored in after a wish has been made. When the wish comes true, the other eye will be colored in.

  This is the entrance to the Michelin three-star Hamada-ya restaurant in Ningyo-cho.

  This is the kind of exquisite seasonal food served at Hamada-ya. “Kaiseki ryori” is a meal composed of nine to eleven small courses, each made with the freshest seasonal ingredients and prepared in a different way. The usual progression is: an assortment of raw seafood (sashimi), simmered vegetables and meat (takiawase), soup (futamono), flame-grilled meat or fish (yakimono), vinegar-seasoned appetizer (su-zakana), hot pot of seasonal meat (or fish) and vegetables (shi-izakana), rice with added seasonal ingredients (gohan), seasonal pickled vegetables (ko no mono), miso soup served with white rice (tomewan), dessert (usually a seasonal fruit). Eaten in order, the flavors and textures are chosen to pleasantly contrast with each other.

  This is a typical street in the entertainment district of Kabuki-chō. Early in the evening, hosts stand in the street and do “catching” duty, inviting women into their clubs.

  This is the front door of a more downmarket hostess club than Club Heaven. The girls in the pictures outside the door are the club’s top hostesses. The “one hour set” advertised on the sign includes one hour at a table with a fixed number of drinks and a parade of hostesses hoping to charm you into becoming a repeat customer.