Tokyo Zangyo

by Michael Pronko

  On a chair in the corner, a gray-haired security guard sat rubbing his head and staring at the floor. A young officer from the nearby police box held open the elevator door for Hiroshi and reached in to press the button for the roof.

  The roof was bathed in LED balloon lights that solarized the bare trees and small shrubs planted in containers. Together with the picnic tables, the roof felt like a small park. Hiroshi pulled his too-thin wool jacket tight and turned up his collar against the cold, wet March wind. He followed the path of small plastic markers to the outer protective fence. It had been cut open and bent back.

  His chest tightened with a shot of anxiety.

  Growing up in Tokyo, he’d never given a thought to skyscrapers, but during his years studying in Boston he became used to lower architectural vistas. Linda, his Boston girlfriend who came back with him to Tokyo, loved taking photos from high up in Tokyo’s tallest buildings, but all Hiroshi could think about was earthquakes and how to scramble back inside four solid walls close to earth. In the end, Linda scrambled back to Boston, and Hiroshi stayed in Tokyo, a city of walls close—and far—from earth.

  “Can’t help but think about it, can you?” Takamatsu asked.

  Hiroshi jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I always think about jumping.” Takamatsu smiled. His Italian leather trench coat looked a lot warmer than the jacket Hiroshi had thrown on. Whatever the weather, Takamatsu dressed with an effortless correctness that covered up the time it took, probably because he spent most of his life dressed right—and dressed well—for investigating outside. He returned to his desk in the detective’s room only when necessary. Hiroshi wore just enough to get from apartment to train, train to office, a place he preferred to crime scenes.

  Crime scene specialists were looking at a pair of tatami slippers and discussing the best way to get prints off the fence, if they even could.

  Watching them, Takamatsu said, “The fence looks like the kind they use for baseball backstops.”

  “Did he cut it open himself?” Hiroshi asked. He stared at the spot where the man had stood, making his last decision, the only one that really mattered.

  “Doesn’t seem like something a bucho department head would do himself.” Takamatsu turned to a young woman in the crime scene crew. “No wire cutters anywhere?”

  She didn’t know, but hurried off to check.

  “Of course there won’t be any wire cutters.” Takamatsu lit a cigarette and straightened his cuffs. “Whoever pushed him took them.”

  “Maybe he did it himself?”

  “Maybe. Then there’ll be wire cutters.” As Takamatsu stooped down to look at the V, the smell and smoke of his cigarette vanished in the strong breeze. “He set his sandals together neatly. What most suicides do.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t have a stronger fence?” Hiroshi shivered in the cold wind.

  “It probably takes several suicides to be worth the budget. After one of those pop musicians jumped, every high school in the country put up fencing to stop copycats.”

  “A windfall for fence companies.”

  “Roof fencing companies. A Tokyo specialty.” Takamatsu took out his portable ashtray and slipped the butt inside.

  “How did he even get up here?” Hiroshi pulled his coat tighter and stared at the dawn light falling on the thick trees around the Imperial Palace beyond the glassed-in side of the roof.

  Takamatsu said, “The guard said he hadn’t seen anything, but they’re looking at the security video now.”

  The young crime scene investigator came hurrying over, shaking her head—no, there were no wire fence cutters in evidence.

  “And the guy was a department head?” Hiroshi asked.

  “No doubt an asshole like all of them. Or an embezzler. You can’t climb the ladder that high without making enemies…and without being a little corrupt.”

  “Aren’t you jumping ahead of things?”

  “That’s our job.” Takamatsu smiled. “Sakaguchi got you out of bed to start digging into his finances, and the company’s. That’ll save us interviewing a stream of boring company employees. I’d rather look through all the video footage than talk to even one of them.”

  “I’ll remember you said that,” Hiroshi said.

  Detectives Osaki and Sugamo stood by the door, their bulky figures casting wide shadows across the rooftop. Hiroshi trusted them about everything. They were the earthquake-proof foundation under every case, resisting every seismic shift. They’d worked in the department longer than he had, working their way up from beat cops just like Sakaguchi had. Hiroshi had been dropped in at the top, but the two detectives never displayed the least envy that Hiroshi could detect. They didn’t have time for it. The crime scene crew, smaller than Osaki and Sugamo by half, reflexively stepped aside as they approached. They were almost as large as Sakaguchi.

  “Where’s Ueno?” Hiroshi asked.

  Sugamo replied, “We’ve been letting him sleep in. Infection from the gunshot wound still. Late mornings and desk work until it heals.”

  Osaki said, “Takamatsu, you were right. It is that guy.”

  Takamatsu pulled out another cigarette, cupping his hand to light it in the breeze.

  “What guy?” Hiroshi asked.

  “What girl,” Takamatsu corrected.

  Osaki said, “That girl who worked a hundred hours of overtime in one month.”

  Sugamo shrugged. “We’ve had overtime like that.”

  “We’re cops,” Takamatsu said. “There’s no overtime.”

  Osaki began to explain, “That girl who killed herself after posting on Twitter how she was harassed at work. It went viral and her mother sued the company.”

  “And won,” Takamatsu added.

  “Well, the boss who drove her to suicide was this guy,” Osaki said.

  “Which guy?” Hiroshi looked confused.

  Sugamo pointed to the cut-open fence. “It was the exact same spot.”

  “Same spot?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Where the girl jumped. The one who was overworked and harassed to death. Wasn’t any fencing then. They put that in after.”

  They all looked at the spot. Takamatsu pulled out another cigarette. He seemed to be smoking more than usual.

  Sakaguchi came out of the door and the crime scene crew flocked to him, pestering him with forms to sign, and pointing at the carts loaded with evidence.

  When he finished, Sakaguchi ambled toward Takamatsu and Hiroshi. Hiroshi winced at Sakaguchi’s obvious pain each time his weight fell on his injured knee.

  Before he could get to them, he was intercepted by two people, a tall, thin man in a suit and a tall young woman clutching a leather notepad and shivering in the cold. Hiroshi could not see her face well in the shadow of the lights but she kept her gaze fixed on him.

  Sakaguchi waved Hiroshi closer and said, “This is the head of Senden’s Human Resources Department, Nakata, and his assistant, Chizu, was it?”

  The tall, polite man handed his meishi business card to the detectives with a curt bow.

  Hiroshi said, “You’re head of HR? Did you notice anything about the, um, deceased?” Hiroshi realized he didn’t know the dead man’s name.

  Nakata gave a tight nod. “Onizuka. He was working as usual, getting ready to move to the London office where he would be in charge.”

  Hiroshi asked, “When was he leaving?”

  “He was going to take over on April first, the start of the corporate year,” Nakata answered. He wore a well-cut blue suit and was taller than Hiroshi, standing calmly, as if there were no wind sweeping across the rooftop.

  Hiroshi said, “For most people, being posted abroad would be a step up in their career.”

  Nakata nodded in agreement.

  “We’ll need to see his personnel file, and we’d like to talk with the others in his section. Were other employees set to go abroad with him?”

  “If you need that information now, we can go inside. Or I can me
et you later today or tomorrow if you—”

  “Tomorrow...I mean later this afternoon, would be fine,” Hiroshi said, wondering if it was.

  “Please set up an appointment with my assistant, Chizu.” He turned to the tall woman shivering in the cold. She stood as still as she could without a coat. She was tall, pretty and aloof. She handed Hiroshi her meishi. Nakata bowed before walking away, and Chizu pivoted and followed.

  Hiroshi watched them walk away and looked up at the sky. The sun was just coming up and the sky looked huge without being blocked by imposing buildings, interiorized spaces, and the distracting rush of Tokyo life.

  From the roof, it was easy to see the mixed colors of the sunrise—oranges, purples, soft yellows—brushed onto thin clouds. In the distance below, the grey buildings of the city rose up like endless stupas honoring the national religion of economics and the sub-sects of business, transportation, residence and shopping.

  Sakaguchi rolled his head and stretched his huge body in resignation. “The chief’s already called and told me he wants this quickly resolved. Senden is one of Japan’s flagship companies.”

  Sugamo said, “We’ll get onto the security footage.”

  “Cameras all over the building, no doubt,” Osaki said.

  Takamatsu looked at Hiroshi. “We need to tell the deceased bucho’s wife and talk with the girl’s mother. One of the two might solve it for us.”

  “I’m loaded with cases and I’ve got meetings today with overseas bureaus that can’t be rescheduled,” Hiroshi said.

  Sakaguchi dropped his bear paw of a hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder. “Sugamo, you drive Takamatsu and Hiroshi. Maybe you can get Hiroshi back in time for his all-important meetings.”

  Chapter 3

  Shigeru Onizuka’s house was in the far west Tokyo suburb of Tachikawa. The homes were dropped into the center of lots whose size showed precisely how much salary the owner had. Wide roads with roundabouts, trees and streetside parks formed a flowing grid of wealth that made up for the commute into the center of the city. Onizuka’s lot was large enough to distance the neighbors and have a spacious garden inside the enclosure, though no trees poked over the top of the solid, tile-topped wall.

  Takamatsu pressed the call button in the gate of Onizuka’s home. He had to lean halfway out the car window to reach the button, mussing his suit. Sugamo kept the car running. Hiroshi looked at his watch. “Maybe the new widow isn’t home.” But it was just past eight, when home deliveries started.

  The blank camera eye on the button stared at the detectives.

  Takamatsu held his tie back and pressed the call button again, his leather coat folded neatly on the seat beside him.

  “We can come back later, or you can.” Hiroshi drained the last of the take-out coffee he’d forced Sugamo to stop for. What he needed now was a couple shots of espresso in his office.

  Sugamo looked in the rearview mirror. A black two-door Mercedes-Benz pulled up behind them.

  “Wonder where she’s been?” Takamatsu twisted for a better look.

  The Benz pulled back and Sugamo backed into the street to let it by.

  Instead of a woman, though, a square-headed young man leaned out. “Are you police?”

  Takamatsu held up his badge.

  “Follow me in,” the young man said. The front gate slid open and the detectives followed the Benz up a short concrete drive that ended in a turnaround. The garden around the house was nothing more than smooth grass lawn, more field than garden. A single stone pagoda poked up, the only decor inside the surrounding wall of tan plaster and tiled top.

  The young man hopped out of the Benz and stood waiting in a white shirt and black slacks. When Takamatsu and Hiroshi got out, he said, “I’m the son. Onizuka’s son. Please come inside.” He locked his Benz and flipped through a ring of keys to open the thick wooden door.

  Takamatsu watched him closely as he slipped on his coat.

  Hiroshi bowed. “We’re here to let you know—”

  “About my father? I heard already,” he said, taking off his shoes in the entryway.

  “And to offer our condolences,” Hiroshi said.

  The younger Onizuka bowed in thanks, paused, and motioned the detectives inside.

  Hiroshi said, “We’d also like to talk with your mother.”

  He stopped in the hallway. “She hasn’t answered her phone.”

  Hiroshi and Takamatsu followed him down a hallway. The home was a rectangular succession of stone, glass and wood. The living room was lined on two sides with windows looking out on the flat trimmed lawn. Below the windows ran a low shelf holding a single, dark vase. The room was either highly restrained or greatly ignored, and didn’t feel lived in.

  The son’s small, sturdy frame had a quick, muscular way of moving. His sighs signaled concern. He pulled open one of the sliding windows to let in some air. The room felt overheated from direct sun. Takamatsu slipped off his leather trench coat and draped it over his arm.

  “I’m Satoshi Onizuka, the first son.” He motioned for them to sit.

  “You have a brother?” Takamatsu asked.

  “Yes, but he’s not in Japan right now.” Satoshi held out his meishi for the detectives. Takamatsu and Hiroshi handed him theirs.

  “Please sit down. I’ll get some tea.”

  “We just have a few questions,” Hiroshi said, settling onto a leather upholstered chair.

  Satoshi checked his cellphone. “I need some coffee. Are you sure you won’t have some?”

  Hiroshi said, “If you’re making it for yourself.”

  Takamatsu waved his hand to say no and folded his jacket neatly over the back of the chair. Hiroshi looked out at the mowed lawn and plain wall, waiting politely.

  They heard a car pull up in the drive, its door open and slam shut. Hiroshi and Takamatsu turned at the sound of the front door banging open. Down the hallway, a woman bustled in carrying a large purse and a shopping bag. Satoshi hurried toward her from a side door and started whispering.

  Hiroshi and Takamatsu listened but couldn’t hear what they said.

  The woman dumped the bag into Satoshi’s arms and flopped her purse on a shelf in the hall. She flounced into the living room and pushed back her long, straight hair with both hands.

  Hiroshi stood up, trying to remember how old the bucho was. Sakaguchi had said he was sixty. But this woman seemed to be in her thirties. If the son was in his twenties, she must have had him quite young. Maybe it was her hoop earrings, tight skirt and stylish hair. It looked as if each single hair had been treated and trimmed separately.

  She waved them to sit down and flopped into the wide leather sofa across from them. It whuffed as if it were new. “I’m Natsuko Onizuka. And you’re the police.”

  Even across the room, Hiroshi could smell the booze. He saw Takamatsu lean back as he no doubt sniffed the same thing. Her face was flushed and she jostled herself into place, leaning back like they were all old friends. She was plastered.

  Takamatsu spoke first. “We came to inform you…”

  “I heard already. I got it out of the person who called,” she said.

  The detectives offered their condolences with a low bow. “I’m Hiroshi Shimizu and this is Detective Takamatsu. We have a few questions.”

  She crossed her legs and twisted her shoulders. Her compact face, angled chin and dimpled, padded cheeks were what most Japanese would call cute. Her eyes curved in neat brushstrokes to the far sides of her face, but inside, the whites were bloodshot and glassy.

  Satoshi came in with three cups of coffee and a glass of water. He whispered something to his mother and she took the coffee with an irritated look. He set out another cup for Hiroshi and set the water in front of Takamatsu. Satoshi sat down beside his mother.

  “You have another son?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Yes.” Natsuko turned to Satoshi. “Does he even know?”

  Satoshi set his coffee cup down. “I called and left a message. He didn’t call back yet.”r />
  Natsuko turned to the detectives. “He’s backpacking somewhere in Southeast Asia. He’s the only one who’ll be pleased at the news.”

  Satoshi shook his head. “Mother, that’s not true.”

  Hiroshi nodded. “They didn’t get along?”

  Natsuko laughed. “No one got along with my husband. This son suffered him. The other son left. Fled, I’d say.”

  “It sounds like your husband was hard to deal with,” Hiroshi prodded.

  Satoshi frowned. “He was gone most of the time working.”

  Natsuko put down her coffee. “He was gone all the time. He missed graduations, archery contests, chess matches. Barely came to the hospital for their births.”

  “So, you took care of the house?” Hiroshi prompted.

  “I managed the household. Once the boys left, I was free to do what I want.” She shook her head and drank more coffee. “Even freer now, I guess.”

  She sent Satoshi to get her purse.

  “You’ve been married for…”

  Natsuko pointed at Satoshi. “Twenty-three years. I was a young little OL office lady, naive as hell. Worked in another department. He was charming when he wanted something. When I got pregnant, I quit work and we married and moved in here.” She gestured at the house as if it were nothing of importance.

  Satoshi carried in her purse and she dug inside before taking out a pack of cigarettes and lighting a long, thin black one with gold foil around the filter.

  Hiroshi could sense Takamatsu fidgeting beside him, but he resisted joining her. “When was the last time you talked to your husband?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you have any inkling of anything wrong?”

  Natsuko pointed at Satoshi, “He talks to him more than I do.”

  Satoshi shook his head, unsure. “I talked to him, by phone, a few days ago. He sounded ready for the overseas expansion. It was just the usual conversation…how was work, did I have a girlfriend, nothing much.”