Tokyo Zangyo

by Michael Pronko

  “After Mayu’s funeral. You read the files about his arrest?”

  “He broke someone’s jaw, gave another a concussion, and was stopped from slamming another guy’s head against a car.” Hiroshi frowned. “I thought he was a company employee.”

  “And a street brawler. He ended up with a broken arm.”

  “Hit the wrong cop,” Hiroshi said.

  “Hit several, apparently.”

  “How long has he been back in Japan?”

  “About a week, but we couldn’t confirm it. The computerized immigration system at Narita and Haneda wasn’t working.”

  “So, he’s back here for Mayu’s birthday, for Onizuka.”

  “Timing’s right. Motive surely. But we don’t know where Onizuka went the night he died, much less where Mayu’s father went. Linking them up won’t be easy.” Sakaguchi took a call and massaged the muscles above his knee while he talked.

  “He’s inside?” Hiroshi asked.

  Osaki looked in the rearview mirror. “We’re waiting for him to come back. Could be a long wait.”

  “What’s the plan if he shows up?” Hiroshi asked.

  Sakaguchi hung up. “Be ready. That’s the plan.”

  Hiroshi said, “I’d prefer to avoid another brawl.”

  Osaki hummed in agreement. “Let’s hope he doesn’t bolt.”

  Sakaguchi stretched his knee back and forth. “That’s what did my knee in, chasing people lighter than me.”

  “Almost everyone weighs less than you do,” Hiroshi said.

  “That’s what I mean.” Sakaguchi pulled at his knee brace.

  Osaki twisted in the seat. “Takamatsu and Sugamo are on the other side, so we can follow each other with the GPS tracker apps the chief got us.”

  Hiroshi snorted. “Takamatsu is using an app?”

  “Sugamo uploaded it for him just now. But when you’re moving fast, there’s no time to—”

  “Is that him?” Hiroshi asked.

  Hiroshi got out and Osaki followed. They stepped over an iron railing between the street and the sidewalk. Yamase, Mayu’s father, was moving toward the entrance to the hotel with his eyes on his cellphone, texting as he walked.

  Sakaguchi must have alerted Takamatsu and Sugamo because Hiroshi saw them turn the corner and walk toward them, looking as inconspicuous as an ex-sumo wrestler and a cop in an Italian leather trench coat can look.

  When Yamase looked up, he must have noticed them bearing down on him, but he didn’t do anything different. When he got to the next turn, though, he bolted to the right down a pedestrian lane that led to the Nakano Sun Mall Broadway.

  The four detectives took off after him down the small lane, dodging around after-work shoppers.

  Yamase spun a rack of women’s blouses across the narrow passage and all four detectives slowed to high step over it.

  Takamatsu got tangled in the blouses and shoved the rack back against the front of the store. Shoppers skittered out of the way, yelling in surprise and confusion.

  Sugamo and Osaki sprinted past Takamatsu. Hiroshi held up his badge running forward and shouted, “Police. Out of the way.”

  Yamase crossed the covered mall and kept going down the small lane on the other side.

  Hiroshi slowed down on the slippery-smooth tiles underfoot and kept going down the lane ahead.

  Yamase snatched a display of girls’ necklaces and barrettes from the right and a tall display of iPhone accessories from the left. They crashed down and skittered over the pavement, blocking the path.

  Sugamo and Osaki slowed down to keep their footing over the hurdles, got around the goods and past the people, and kept running. Takamatsu caught up with Hiroshi and they ran to a T-intersection where they looked for any sign of Yamase.

  Hiroshi turned right since Sugamo and Osaki had gone left, and Takamatsu stayed straight ahead.

  Hiroshi ran to the middle of the next lane and slowed to examine the doors of the small restaurants and drinking spots he’d passed. Beside him, the tinted glass doors of a discount seafood restaurant blocked the view inside. Hiroshi ducked under the noren and looked inside, but there were no customers, only the staff putting on their blue aprons and tying towels around their heads. They looked at him curiously.

  Hiroshi backed out and went in the other direction, where Sugamo had gone.

  At the next corner, he looked down the long, narrow lane at Sugamo catching his breath, with his hands on his knees. He looked back at Hiroshi with a face of irritation.

  The only place to duck in was a small snacku bar with a heavy wood door. Hiroshi pulled it open. The smell of spilled whiskey met the whiskey in his system and joined with a whiff of mildew. Hiroshi gagged. An old woman sitting at the bar doing accounts turned, looking surprised, but Hiroshi didn’t stay long enough to apologize.

  He let the door shut, looked in both directions and hurried to the next crossing, looking in all four directions. Sugamo was standing at the next intersection. When he saw Hiroshi, he shrugged.

  Hiroshi backtracked to a smaller lane that ran parallel to the main shopping street, another inconspicuous little space, one of thousands of small dead ends in Tokyo, where the buildings lined up in odd patterns.

  It was home to two little bars, one on each side. Hiroshi pulled on the doors, but they were locked. He walked toward the dead end, and, as he got closer, he realized it wasn’t a dead end, but turned to the left.

  The back wall had posters taped to an old bulletin board. Below it, the kanji characters for “No parking,” “No graffiti” and, “No pissing” were written in faded white paint on the wall.

  Hiroshi walked to the end and looked left. A shoulder-width passageway held a jumble of dusty, sun-faded liquor crates, tall ones for sake and short ones for beer. It looked like an abandoned storage area for a long-gone liquor delivery service for the area’s restaurants and bars. An old wooden hand truck, one handle rotted, leaned against the wall. A single street light cover, rusted metal with no bulb, hung above a splintered signboard. Overhead, an old piece of sun-cracked plastic was wedged between the buildings as a makeshift roof.

  Hiroshi turned to go. He started back to the entrance but stopped and silently texted the others to say where he was. The tracking app had stopped working, so he texted some vague directions and hoped they’d be able to find him.

  He looked for something, anything, like a kendo practice sword. From a tangled pile of discarded cleaning stuff, he found a mop handle with a rusted metal frame at the end. He held it in both hands and sized it up. It’d probably break after one strike, but it was better than nothing. Hiroshi looked back at the entrance, hoping everyone would get there before he needed to use it.

  He turned back to the cut-off at the end of the alley and set the mop pole, balanced himself, and pictured his kendo teacher’s stance.

  He walked toward the crates, peering into the dark.

  Hiroshi reached forward to pull aside the old liquor crate from the top of the jumble. He still couldn’t see anything so he pulled out his cellphone and clicked on his flashlight app. Deep shadows webbed through the old crates and discarded junk.

  Hiroshi moved the light around the dark until he could make out a man crouched with his back against the filthy wall. There was nowhere for him to go.

  “Are you Yamase? Mayu’s father?” Hiroshi called out.

  The cornered man pushed the crates aside and stood up, brushing the dust off his jacket.

  “Yes, I am,” he said, putting up his hands.

  “Stay right there until everyone else gets here.” Hiroshi held the mop handle up and ready.

  Chapter 13

  When they got Mayu’s father, Kazuki Yamase, back to the station for interrogation, Sakaguchi sent Sugamo and Osaki home. They didn’t even pretend to argue, tired from running. Fortunately Yamase had not put up any fight. They had surrounded him in the alley and walked him back to the car without incident. Sugamo and Osaki apologized to Takamatsu and Hiroshi before heading home to t
heir families and sleep.

  As they waited outside the interrogation rooms for Yamase to get through booking, they saw the chief coming down the hallway. Takamatsu skipped away to the official smoking area, but Hiroshi was too slow to escape, and Sakaguchi’s knee gave him no hope of fleeing.

  The chief walked up and put his hands on his hips. “We have the corpse of one of the most accomplished businessmen in Japan in the middle of the business district and we’ve wasted another day. Is this the guy who did it?” The chief looked a lot shorter without his Borsalino hat.

  Hiroshi shrugged. “He didn’t try too hard to escape, so either he’s innocent or has a great alibi. Or both. Or he’s bluffing.”

  “Let’s find out.” The chief followed Sakaguchi up the three steps to the next-door observation room.

  Hiroshi was surprised by the chief’s unusually terse response. Maybe he was tired, too.

  Hiroshi waited in the hallway until Yamase was led in by two officers and seated in the interrogation room. Yamase walked slowly and steadily, glancing at Hiroshi before calmly sitting down and staring straight ahead.

  Takamatsu wandered back reeking of tobacco. “Big insights from the chief?”

  Hiroshi gave him a look of exasperation and the two of them entered the interrogation room. They sat down across from Yamase and another officer stood by the door.

  Hiroshi started. “You’re Kazuki Yamase, the father of Mayu Yamase, divorced from Mayu’s mother, Toshiko Yamase?”

  Yamase nodded and brushed back his thick hair. He was tall with wide shoulders and looked at ease with himself, maybe too at ease.

  “Could you please state your answers clearly and audibly. We’re recording this,” Takamatsu said.

  “Yes, that’s who I am. Kazuki Yamase. Divorced. Exiled. Daughter harassed to death.”

  “And you work at World Construction in Manila?” Hiroshi looked from his notes to Yamase’s eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve been residing in the Philippines for the last twenty years?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you arrive in Japan this time?”

  “A week ago. That would be March fifteenth.”

  “Narita Airport?”

  He nodded.

  “Speak up,” Takamatsu said.

  “Yes.”

  Hiroshi continued. “And what’s your purpose in coming back to Japan this time?”

  “I’m a Japanese national. I can come back anytime I want.”

  “Why did you come back this time?”

  “Things to do.”

  “Personal things or for work?”

  Yamase stared back at Hiroshi. “Personal.”

  Takamatsu leaned forward. “It’s OK to answer with more than one word. What exactly were your reasons for coming back?”

  “I wanted to visit my daughter’s grave on the third anniversary of her death,” Yamase said.

  “And did you go to her grave?”

  He nodded.

  Takamatsu gave him a look. “What did I just say?”

  “I went there the last two days. The first day, my ex-wife was there, so I waited and went back later, but it was dark, so I went the next day to replace the flowers she left.”

  Hiroshi stared at him. “You took the flowers your wife left and put your own flowers there instead?”

  Yamase nodded. “She did that to my flowers.”

  Hiroshi didn’t know what to think about that. “And why did you want to avoid seeing your ex-wife?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  Takamatsu leaned forward. “Save your sarcasm. You might need it in prison. You know what we need to know, so let’s not waste time like this.”

  Yamase leaned back in his chair. “I got here a week ago, stayed at that hotel in Nakano. I’m on vacation from my job in the Philippines.”

  “And where were you Sunday night? That would be early Monday morning,” Hiroshi asked.

  “I went drinking with friends from the main office Sunday night. I headed back to the hotel just after midnight, too tired for a nijikai, and I went to sleep.”

  Takamatsu said, “We’ll give you one chance to correct anything in that timeline before we go to confirm it.”

  “Please do confirm it. Call the main office and ask for Suzuki. Name of the izakaya was Kanda Rojin, and I’m sure the hotel has surveillance cameras in the lobby and the hallways. I had breakfast around seven in the hotel coffee shop. Need me to repeat any of that for you?” Yamase looked at Takamatsu.

  “It’s being recorded.” Takamatsu pointed at the camera on the wall behind him. “It’s when we turn it off that you need to start worrying.”

  Hiroshi leaned forward. “What were the names of your friends?”

  Yamase shook his head. “Actually, I was supposed to meet them, but they didn’t show up.”

  “They showed up or they didn’t? Can’t be both?” Takamatsu leaned back.

  “I came back to Nakano and had a few drinks at some British pub, and went to sleep. You can find that on the cameras, I’m sure.”

  “You want to correct anything else?” Takamatsu asked. “Maybe you carried your own camera with you to record where you were and when?”

  Yamase breathed out loudly. “The main office guys didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Because you get in fights when you drink?”

  “No, because I applied to return to Tokyo but they don’t want to let me back.”

  “What else have you done since you’ve been here?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Bank, shopping, that’s it. Mayu’s grave again.”

  “Why does that sound like bullshit to me?” Takamatsu said.

  “We need a list of all the people you’ve spoken to since you’ve been back,” Hiroshi said.

  Yamase looked exasperated. He recounted his daily whereabouts in ordered detail, but there wasn’t much more than what he had just said, the names of the colleagues who didn’t show up, a visit with his brother, and that was it. Takamatsu didn’t bother interrupting to clarify or derail him, so maybe he was starting to believe Yamase, or maybe Takamatsu had already decided Yamase was the one who helped Onizuka over the edge.

  “Your wife seems to have received a good settlement from Senden for your daughter’s death. How much did you get?”

  Yamase snorted. “I got nothing.”

  “Why didn’t you get any of the settlement? You’re the father, right?” Hiroshi asked.

  “You have my records, don’t you? The arrest at Mayu’s funeral for assaulting the people who killed her.”

  “That’s hardly a reason.”

  Yamase slumped to the side. “The company said they’d pay out to Mayu’s mother, but not to me, because I’d slugged their president at the funeral. It was that simple. They were going to throw out the whole lawsuit if I was on it.”

  Takamatsu chuckled. “Maybe you shouldn’t punch people. Especially cops.”

  “The cops sided with the company stiffs, let them go, and broke my arm.” Yamase held up his right hand. “It’s still not right.”

  “Why didn’t you file your own suit separately?” Hiroshi asked.

  Yamase stared back at him. “If it was your daughter, you wouldn’t have cared much about the money.”

  “What did you care about? Revenge?”

  Yamase leaned back in his chair. “Who wouldn’t think about that?”

  “Your wife apparently.”

  Now Yamase chuckled. “She gets revenge her way. For every little thing. When I was transferred to the Philippines for a project, for a promotion, she wouldn’t go with me, and wouldn’t let Mayu go. Wouldn’t even let her visit. To punish me for all the transgressions she kept in her mental accounting. She wanted Mayu to have every advantage in Tokyo: girls’ school, cram schools, private tutors. I helped pay for everything and didn’t really contest the divorce. I got no visitation rights. Rights always go to the mother in Japan. Fathers don’t count. Her revenge. I’m not even sure revenge for w
hat exactly. For not being perfect, I guess.”

  Hiroshi said, “So, you lost contact with Mayu?”

  “No,” he said. “She kept in touch. Secretly. I sent her money secretly too. We went through a series of different messaging services, LINE, What’sApp, whatever she found to hide from her mother. She was clever, Mayu. So, I could at least send her messages, photos, advice. I saved every message from her, every photo, every emoji.”

  “How did Mayu handle her mother’s pressure?”

  “I thought when she finally made it to America, she’d become more independent. Her mother was against her going to America. She was worried it would put her out of the running for jobs at the best companies,” Yamase said, shaking his head. “My ex-wife dominated her, made all the big decisions for her, then left Mayu to organize it all. I was surprised Mayu even had a boyfriend, much less one who followed her all the way home from America. But Mayu was a beauty.” Yamase stared at the corner of the room.

  “I talked to him earlier this evening,” Hiroshi said.

  “Steve? He’s still in Japan?” Yamase asked. “I liked him.”

  “You speak English? He didn’t seem to speak much Japanese.”

  “In the Philippines almost everything I do is in English. Our company switched to English a few years ago.”

  “He said he only met you once,” Hiroshi said.

  Yamase looked surprised. “We talked many times. Maybe he was nervous talking to a cop?”

  “Maybe,” Hiroshi said. “Did you see him this time?

  “No. We aren’t in touch anymore.”

  “So, you’ll be heading back to the Philippines?”

  “If you let me out of here.”

  “And what about Onizuka? Did you see him?” Takamatsu asked, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  Yamase stared silently at the table.

  Hiroshi watched Yamase carefully. “You know he’s dead?”

  Yamase nodded. “I know that.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Yamase considered what to say, working his jaw. “I hired a private detective to follow Onizuka. For the past year.”

  Takamatsu leaned back in his chair. “You may be spending a few nights here.”

  “While you investigate.” Yamase took a big breath. “That’s OK. I want you to do the investigation right.”