"No, that's not true."
"Oh yeah? Well, good. I figured maybe a young lady like yourself couldn't bear the thought of being around queers."
"You're wrong."
"Or else that you had a stick up your ass. You made up your mind nobody was going to look down their nose at you for being a woman." Takizawa narrowed his eyes, smiling out of a corner of his mouth. His eyes had a reptilian look that made her skin crawl.
"That's not true either."
"Good. Yours truly doesn't have to worry about the sensitivities of a little princess then."
Takako drew in her chin and bit her lip, staring at Takizawa. She could feel the color draining from her face. The hand gripping the strap of her shoulder bag clenched into a fist.
"Now we've got that settled, let me ask you one favor."
Takako smothered the impulse to turn away. At the same moment, she understood what it might be like to be interrogated by this man with his cunning gaze trained steadily on you.
"Yes?" she said.
"Could you keep your mind on the job? Walking around all day with nothing to show for it comes with the territory. If you think it's boring or stupid, then quit."
With that, Takizawa strode off. Takako chased after him, feeling her heart pound a drumbeat in her ears. Her hands and feet were shaking, and it was not from the cold. Takizawa had acted completely oblivious to her—she never dreamed he would say such a thing to her.
You old fart. How dare you?
As she walked to the station, Takako felt her blood begin to boil. Adrenaline coursed through her. She hadn't felt fury like this in a long time. From the core of her being rose stinging, wordless retorts. Struggling with the urge to shout herself hoarse, let out all she'd been feeling, Takako followed Takizawa through the wicket, showing her badge to the monitor to get in.
As they stood alongside each other on the platform, Takizawa glanced at Takako. She gazed unwaveringly back at him, waves of emotion roiling in her.
"What?" he said, looking at her expectantly.
She said nothing.
Takizawa's face, slack-skinned and reddish-brown—whether from suntan or booze, who could say—bore a cold smile: "If you have a complaint, now's the time."
You bastard. What is it with you and that look you give everybody? You're a fine one to talk. Besides, when did I ever complain about my job? Don't I spend all my time tagging along after you without a word? If it wasn't part of my job, do you think I'd ever get within ten feet of your sorry ass?
"I apologize."
On the crowded platform, Takako lowered her head in a profound bow. Just then the train came sliding into the station, riffling the hem of her coat. She kept her head down long enough to get a good look at Takizawa's grubby shoes. Then there was the sound of the train doors opening, and Takizawa's shoes began to move. Finally Takako lifted her head and followed after him, muttering under her breath as she entered the heated car:
But not because of anything you said.
Certainly there was room for reflection on her part. But right now, she wanted to savor the sensation bubbling up inside her. It felt familiar and good. She felt unaccountably happy.
To act aggressive and wild without thought of consequences, and yet to be honest and alive, crackling with energy—not so long ago Takako had experienced that kind of excitement often, whether at work, out on her motorcycle, or at home. But when her emotions burst out from deep within, it could sometimes lead to trouble. The flare-up was like a sudden storm, stirring up arguments and inflicting pain.
That's how I used to be.
When for the first time in her life she had experienced an internal storm of jealousy, that most intractable of emotions, she'd been dismayed; unable to control the storm, exhausted by the effort, she forced herself to lock the jealousy and rage away. Until then, no one had ever told her she was "incomprehensible." Inept, maybe; but only after her divorce did people began saying she was grumpy and incomprehensible.
"I hope you got the address of the maintenance company," said Takizawa all of a sudden.
Takako quickly turned and nodded at the face beside her, eye to eye. Takizawa looked as if he would have liked to say more; but then, blinking several times, he turned his cold, reptilian eyes away and faced forward again.
Maybe I should thank you. For making me remember what it's like to feel this way.
Now that she had regained her edge, she did not want to lose it again. She knew better than to let her feelings show like a child; but between this emotional swirl and a heart that was cold and quiescent there was all the difference in the world.
Newly defiant, Takako sat swaying with the motion of the train. One of these days she would knock the wind out of this man's sails. Or if not, she would dearly love to take out her frustration on whoever was behind this crime.
That afternoon, there was a break in the case. The gay beauty salon owner's memory proved accurate.
Tenant records in the building maintenance company's office contained neither the name Takuma Sugawara nor the name Teruo Hara. Even when shown the photograph, the office worker didn't recognize him. Disappointed that beauty salon owner had been mistaken, Takizawa was just about to leave when there was a telephone call from the one tenant yet to phone in since the fire.
Apparently this is what the caller said: "I've left everything for Sugawara-san to take care of." The office worker, surprised, said, "Sugawara?" And Takizawa's ears perked up.
"The office is sublet, so I didn't want to say anything," said the woman on the phone when Takizawa grabbed the receiver. She ran a bar in Kyushu, but she associated with the victim when she lived in Tokyo, she explained, and she sublet the office space to him when she moved away. The office space was originally rented out as a model agency, and Sugawara had declared the setup "perfect" for his purposes. After taking down the woman's particulars, Takizawa faxed the victim's photo to the police station in Kyushu nearest to the woman; the upshot was that, as expected, Sugawara was positively identified.
Although it was on the fourth-floor, the office he sublet had sustained no damage in the fire, and so Takizawa and Takako had not entered its premises. But Takizawa remembered the door. It bore a mysterious hand-lettered sign that read only CHERRY BOOM-BOOM. He had wondered what kind of business it was, but it made sense now: Sadako Kitayama, the woman who was going to meet the victim at the restaurant, had said he managed a model agency. Takizawa hastily contacted investigation headquarters and instructed them to prepare an application for a search warrant and submit it to a judge.
When the investigating team walked through the door of Cherry Boom-Boom, what they encountered first was a wall covered with black paper. At the top, written in large gold letters, was this: ALL BONA FIDE HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS! WE WILL BE YOUR DATES!—with a pink heart dancing at either end. Beneath the banner, about an inch and a half apart from each other, were some eighty snapshots of girls, each with a number in the lower right-hand corner. Some had large hearts drawn around them, inscribed with NUMBER ONE FOR DECEMBER and the like. This might have been no different from any whorehouse or massage parlor except for the fact that, in every case, the smiling face in the photo belonged to a girl in a high school uniform. Below each picture were notations describing the girl, like SECOND-YEAR STUDENT AT A MUNICIPAL H.S. or FIRST-YEAR STUDENT AT A PRIVATE H.S. Some of the girls appeared so young they had to be in middle school.
In response to Takizawa's call, investigators and a crime-scene unit had been dispatched from headquarters, and the group stood fixated by this wall of pictures. Takizawa searched involuntarily for the face of his younger daughter. It seemed impossible she could be there—and yet every photo showed a young girl more or less like his daughter, innocent, not tough, not brazen or showy. Had her picture been on the wall among the others, it would not have seemed out of place in the slightest.
The employee from the building maintenance office who had opened the door for them was deathly white—not just from the cold, thought Takizawa—and he kept repeating bumbling explanations: "If the previous superintendent was still around, he might have been able to answer your questions, but he got sick around two months ago and quit. . . . We only ask that tenants pay their rent promptly each month.... Actually, subletting is a breach of contract…"
After listening to the employee, Takizawa glanced at Otomichi and signaled with a jerk of his chin, then proceeded right into the office. Behind him he heard Otomichi say to the employee, "Please wait right here." She was a girl, but not so dumb after all. Before, when he came down on her harshly, she didn't cry or wail or talk back like he thought she would; she had apologized politely immediately. Maybe, even though she looked soft, she was a tougher adversary than some bungling greenhorn.
The office of Cherry Boom-Boom had a short hallway extending straight from the entrance with two doors on the left, one on the right, and another straight ahead. The first of the doors on the left had a carved wooden sign that read WC; it was exactly the sort of cute thing that appealed to young girls. The second door was fixed open, with a short curtain of plastic streamers in the doorway. What would be the combination kitchen-dining room if this were an apartment, had been converted to office space: there was a small refrigerator next to the built-in sink and on the counter were packages of instant noodles, instant coffee, and an electric kettle; but instead of cupboards and a kitchen table, there were a desk, filing cabinets, and a telephone. The investigators would concentrate their search here.
The other two doors both led into a large room that had originally been two rooms, the dividing wall removed. Apart from a pink wall-to-wall carpet and a low white table with cushions scattered around it, here the only furnishings were some boxy shelves. Takizawa's eye took in a tall stack of magazines, bags of sweets, boxes of tissue, and a CD player. A sweet, vaguely fruity or flowery scent filled the air. So, Takizawa surmised, the room must have been sealed shut since before the night of the fire; if the door been opened even once, the smell of smoke and soot would have gotten in here. The flames had come up as far as the moxibustion clinic one floor down, and the architectural design firm next door; yet this room smelled like it could have been filled with young girls only minutes ago. This was probably where they spent their after-school hours, waiting for some dimwit with a thing for young girls to choose their photo from the lineup.
So basically this was the next thing to a brothel. Get a thumbs-up or thumb through your homework while you wait your turn.
Takizawa walked around the room, picking things up and examining them. He flipped through magazines of the sort his daughter probably read. He felt sick. What a hell of a world.
Once Takizawa stepped out of this room, the building maintenance employee, who'd been waiting as instructed by Otomichi, rushed up to him.
There was a look of agitation on his face. "Um, if you like, I could leave the key with you. I really have to get back to my other work."
From the time they first met him, this guy had acted anxious; now he looked like a nervous wreck. He might be the timid type, but his reaction, for a member of the general public, was probably normal. Police investigators were no grim reapers, but neither were they lady luck.
Eventually, one of the other detectives took him back to the station. There was a good chance that the victim's occupation had run afoul of the Anti-Prostitution Law. That might have nothing to do with the case at hand, but if the maintenance company had knowingly leased space for that purpose, they would have to answer for it.
Several hours later, the detectives left, taking with them stacks of photographs of young girls, a list of customers, and a pile of receipts, as well as a large cache of what seemed to be personal possessions of the victim. Teruo Hara had stored his important papers here, not in the luxury apartment he was renting. His bankbook, passport, and other documents—things feared to have been burned on him in the fire—were all found in the safe.
On the way out of the building, Takizawa exchanged comments with another detective as they descended the stairs.
"I'm getting the idea this guy was a real nut case."
"Enough to justify a murder like that?"
"That's the thing. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing a female would do."
As they walked along, shooting the breeze, Takizawa was struck by the realization that he hadn't had such easy conversation in a while. Come to think of it, when he and Otomichi walked along she never said a peep; no wonder he felt this way. He twisted his neck around casually, looking for her, and a little ways behind them there she was, descending the stairs with her head bent down.
"So what's it like having a woman for a partner, eh?" Following the line of Takizawa's gaze, the detective leered and dug him in the ribs. While bristling at this treatment, Takizawa put on a game face and said, "Don't even ask."
"That much fun, huh?"
As the officer yukked it up, Takizawa smiled with as much irony as he could muster and shrugged his shoulders in a deliberately exaggerated way. No point in speaking too frankly and having his remarks get back to the ears of the wrong person.
"Why, it's so much fun it brings tears to my eyes."
After Takizawa delivered this pithy remark, his companion snickered with amusement. Who the hell gave him the right to laugh, thought Takizawa; he doesn't know anything about her. But Takizawa went right on smiling sardonically.
Based on the material they had retrieved from the office of the date club, the investigation now branched out in new directions. First, investigators had to pin down exactly what Cherry Boom-Boom was all about. Every girl involved with the operation, and every customer, would have to be tracked down and interviewed. Had Hara run the establishment by himself, or did he have assistants and staff? Had he had financial disagreements with any of the girls or any of the patrons? Had there been any simmering jealousies or resentments? Where had he learned the nuts and bolts of operating a date club to begin with? Hara had been renting the space for some eighteen months, it was learned; what had he done before that? Who knew anything about his private life?
With the new load of evidence, detectives scattered in all directions. One team was assigned to find out whom Hara had made payments to from his bank account, and who had deposited money into his account. Takizawa and Otomichi, along with several other teams, continued to interview the tenants of the building. The beauty salon owner's testimony had led to a huge break in the case, which was all the more reason why they needed to hear what the other tenants might have to say. It was essential to cover the same ground more than once.
"He put those girls to work and then sat back and raked in all the profits. What a low-life." Takizawa said his thoughts aloud as usual, and then, with a sideways glance at Otomichi, caught himself. Damn.
She was beside him again, being her usual glum self. Perhaps she had felt the weight of his eyes; in any case, without a change of expression, she replied flatly, "Yes, that's right."
The woman did not have a shred of likeability. She was straightforward, which was fine, and intelligent, which he appreciated; but he found her presence stifling. Still, unable to think of any pretext for lodging a protest, he walked along in silence.
They were able to interview people from the English conversation school located on the second floor alongside the beauty salon, and from the photography studio next door to it, with little difficulty. But none of them recognized the victim from his photograph, and none knew anything about the date club on the fourth floor. The language school personnel were furiously searching for a new location, yet were efficient and willing enough to comply calmly with the investigation. The photography studio, in contrast, was run not by a company but by an individual, who was beside himself at the loss of expensive photographic equipment. He appeared at the entrance of his swanky condo, on which he no doubt still owed a lot, looking worn-out, and had this to say:
"I mean, just think about it. I busted my butt from the time I was a kid, and finally opened that studio. After all I went through, then to have it go up in smoke, literally . . . I'm sorry for the guy who died, but I sure wish he hadn't been in that particular restaurant at that particular time, you know what I mean?"
"What about insurance? You didn't have any? "
"I did. Of course I did. But who knows if they'll reimburse me for everything, and even then, it's sure to take time. In the meanwhile I'm going to have to shut down the business. This is pretty devastating."
He was angry about the fire. But on learning that it was neither the fault of the restaurant, nor arson, but the byproduct of a murder, he seemed unsure who should bear the brunt of his anger.
Takizawa made himself listen attentively to the photographer's story, but found himself getting more tired than usual. Murder investigations and fire investigations were known quantities, but this case fell into a category all its own. Besides, the thought that the dead guy was far from an upstanding citizen made the suffering of the others much more unfortunate.
On hearing that the acupuncturist on the third floor could not be reached, Takizawa, eager to hear testimony from someone who wasn't in such a bad way, said to Otomichi, "What places didn't get burned?"
"On the third floor, only the astrologer's place. Also the accounting firm and the sporting goods sales office, both on the fourth floor. The floors above that are mostly intact. The closest one from here would be—"
"The astrologer. Let's start there."
"All right."
"That oughta be right up your alley. Women go in for that kinda thing."
He knew this sounded inane, but it was the best he could manage. If he ever softened up on her she'd take advantage of him, start walking all over him. Women were like that. Anyway, before you could talk to someone, you had to be interested in them.
Yeah, right. What about this female could ever interest him?
There was one thing he might be able to work up a little interest in, but what was he gonna do, ask her about the men she'd slept with? With another guy he could joke around about it, but with her it could turn into an unmitigated disaster. Still, if she was his partner, she was an important factor in the equation; he wanted to talk things over with her—to the extent necessary—but when everything he said got no reaction out of her, he couldn't help adding a few barbs.