Prefecture D: Four Novellas Page 10
“Seems?”
“Not that I could see, at least.”
Shindo ended the call. This was, he supposed, the limit of what they could realistically do. If the machines were hidden, it would be next to impossible to find them. There was also the chance that they had been sent for scrap. Only when you were writing your own scenario, as Yanagi had, was it possible to categorically state that someone had or did not have something in their possession.
Except that …
The same logic didn’t apply in the case of Mitsui. The latter would have no knowledge of the fact that he’d been set up. He would have no reason to hide anything. Which meant Sato should have found something when he’d searched the man’s home.
He doesn’t have one?
It didn’t make sense. Yanagi’s plan would fall apart if Mitsui wasn’t in possession of a Model 36. He had to have one for the conclusion to play out.
Which means…?
Shindo couldn’t sleep that night. It was almost sunrise when the first ripples of an idea disturbed the quiet of his mind. These grew into tall, overpowering waves, which eventually drove him from his bed. A scene from his raid on Station Q was stuck on repeat, cast in a blinding light. Accompanying this was the beating pulse of Mizutani’s voice. Shindo was almost in despair by the time the sun finally came up.
He’d realized the truth.
12
Shindo made his move during the first few weeks of the year.
It was nighttime. He pushed the buzzer on the door of the police-issued apartment. The man’s wife answered without makeup, her hair pulled up into a bun. Looking a little startled, she scampered back indoors when Shindo introduced himself. He saw her palming a cardboard box from one room to another. Judging by the markings, it contained components for an indicator light. A nearby factory had started subcontracting for a bike manufacturer, and a number of the residents in the nearby apartments had opted to take up a lucrative sideline in assembling parts. Her husband appeared shortly, looking worried. Following his invitation, Shindo entered the apartment.
Shindo took a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and slid it across the tatami so it rested in front of the man’s knees.
“I believe this is yours.”
Division Chief of Public Safety, Station Q
Seeing Proprietress of Mumu
Hotel 6 9
Shindo watched Yoshio Sone’s red face turn crimson. It was difficult to look him in the eye.
He’d been behind it all. He’d typed the letter, framing himself and pushing Internal Affairs to launch an investigation. He’d cast a spotlight on his disgrace only to reveal a twist at the end, in his unmasking of the prostitution racket.
He had thought: I’ll be promoted. I’ll make damn sure of it.
His desperation must have been overwhelming. Somewhere along the line it had taken the shape of this all-or-nothing gamble.
Seventeen years had been too long.
Back when Shindo had conducted his raid on Station Q, Sone’s had been the only desk not to have a word processor. Mizutani had suspected the letter to be the work of someone who lacked experience with such machines. If Shindo had put the two facts together, they would have led him to Sone.
But he hadn’t. He couldn’t have.
The shame burned.
He’d been convinced that the claims were fabricated. That was why he’d cast his suspicion on Yanagi. He’d made it that far. Why, then, had he not seen the possibility that the very same idea might arise in the mind of the prefecture’s longest-serving inspector?
Shindo was one of those who had made superintendent and left Sone behind. He’d never spared a thought for the man. His focus had always been on chasing those still battling ahead of him. That was why he’d been unable to see it, the heartbreakingly flawed scheme of this man who’d contrived to betray his own decency.
Sone was trembling. From his hands and knees all the way to the back of his bowed-down head, the man’s body depressingly betrayed his emotions. A uniform, freshly starched, hung on the lintel of the wall. There was a dull glint on the badge that denoted his rank as inspector. There was a water stain on the wardrobe door. Open that, and it would all be over.
The Model 36.
“Sone.”
“Sir, this isn’t…” He collapsed forward, his shaking fingers threading protectively around the letter. He buried his head in the tatami. “Sir, this isn’t what you…”
His voice seemed to well up from the ground.
Unheeded by the heavens for seventeen years, it was the cry of the earth.
13
The details of transfers for officers ranked inspector and above were released two weeks later.
Shindo was in Internal Affairs when he picked up a copy of the document. He flicked to the last page. It was the first time he’d started with a name other than his own. Promotions: Superintendent. There were seven names on the page. Yoshio Sone wasn’t among them.
Guess it wasn’t enough.
Shindo took a moment to compose himself, then turned back to the front. What? He flicked to the next page, then the next, and again. His hands were shaking. It wasn’t there. His name was nowhere to be seen.
One more year.
His stomach growled at the idea.
“Looks like we’ll be together a bit longer,” Katsumata said, not smiling. He was still paying the price for his game of mah-jongg. No doubt having expected as much, he didn’t seem particularly dejected.
Shindo gave notice that he was leaving early, then went out into the corridor. His gut was burning with indignation. The door to Administration was open. Futawatari was sitting at his desk at the back of the room. He gave a brief tip of his head to acknowledge Shindo’s presence.
Futawatari.
Shindo was hit by a realization.
Sone would have sent a copy of his letter to Administration. Maybe not even a copy. It was possible Administration had been his primary target. Send a single letter to Internal Affairs and you risked Administration—the section in charge of transfers—never finding out. That would have reduced the impact of Sone’s unveiling of the prostitution racket. The pieces were falling into place. The copy had been sent to Internal Affairs, and only to raise the stakes.
Futawatari had, of course, seen through the man’s subterfuge. He’d seen the truth behind the one-man show. And he’d known that Shindo had allowed it to go unpunished.
His chance of making director felt further away than ever. He knew he hadn’t joined the force with the express purpose of making it to the top. And he realized it was his own core beliefs that had compelled him to turn a blind eye to Sone’s actions.
And yet.
He suspected it would stay with him until the day he retired. The grudge he now held against the decent, hardworking, red-faced inspector.
It was this part of himself that became the final target of his anger.
With no destination in mind, Shindo pulled out of the parking area. He saw Yanagi’s Noh mask. He saw Kanako and Akiko, standing together, the former frowning and anxious, the latter deep in concentration. They seemed far away. Out of reach.
Yamamoto was the only one who remained close by, declaring, with unwavering confidence, that they would see snow by evening.
Shindo hammered his fist into the radio, then reached instinctively for his gut.
Half gone and you still hurt like fucking hell.
A motorbike shot down the prefectural highway. Shindo knew, without checking the time, that it was three in the afternoon.
BLACK LINES
1
“Officer Hirano hasn’t come in?”
Prefecture D Police Headquarters, Administration. Section Chief Tomoko Nanao, in charge of the female officers in the prefecture, found herself parroting the words.
“That’s right. Maybe the fame’s gone to her head?”
The glum voice belonged to Division Chief Mitsuo Morishima of Forensics. He was claiming that Sergeant Hirano,
part of the Mobile Forensics Team, had not shown up at work. That they’d heard nothing all morning. Tomoko glanced at the clock on the wall.
Already ten-thirty.
“Maybe she’s ill? Did you get in touch with the dorm?”
“I did. The caretaker said she left as usual this morning. In her car, at seven-thirty.”
“Okay. Leave it to me.”
“Thanks, Sniffer.”
Fifteen years ago, Tomoko had also worked at Mobile Forensics. Her heightened sense of smell had led to her nickname of “Sniffer,” a reference to the abilities of the police dogs. Morishima, her team leader at the time, had coined it himself. Now she was forty and he was the last member of the force to persist in using it.
She hung up the phone, finding the fact a little hard to process.
Mizuho Hirano.
At twenty-two, she was in her fifth year as police sergeant. She was pretty, with the kind of dainty features that were always in vogue. At the same time, her brownish hair and eyes, combined with a generally light complexion, formed an impression that was somewhat lacking in impact. This belied a strong will, however, and the girl had worked tirelessly to achieve her dream of becoming an officer of the law. She was conscientious and had a genuine wish to help. Questions of gender aside, she was exactly the type of officer the force needed.
It was hard to imagine someone like her taking a day off without notice. She valued her work and had become an integral part of her team. More to the point, today should have been her special day. Morishima had alluded to it on the phone: the morning newspapers were all running articles on her latest achievement.
“Officer Nanao. Do you have a moment?”
The voice came from the desk behind her. Inspector Futawatari was skimming one of the articles covering the previous day’s events. He had no doubt overheard her conversation with Morishima. She’d noticed when the tang of his hair wax had returned, but had decided to ignore him, still irked at his earlier rejection of her draft plans to reassign the female officers in the prefecture.
She guessed she no longer had that luxury.
One of the morning papers lay open on his desk. A collection of upbeat headlines jumped up from the middle section of the local pages:
“Female Officer’s Triumph. Spitting Image. Bag Snatcher Arrested.”
Tomoko already knew the gist of the article.
A 70-year-old woman had her bag snatched yesterday on the pavement outside Train Station M. Police Sergeant Mizuho Hirano arrived to question her and drew a likeness of her assailant. Police used the drawing in their investigation. Upon seeing it, a local store owner proclaimed it the spitting image of a man he knew. The arrest of the 20-year-old male, living behind the station, was made within the hour.
The coverage was impressive, even considering the lack of newsworthy events the previous day, and especially so in light of the favorable tone. The likeness Mizuho had drawn was reproduced next to a mug shot of the assailant, as though to emphasize its incredible accuracy. A small photo of Mizuho had been included at the bottom, the one Morishima had attached to the drawing and the other documents he’d handed to the press during the previous day’s briefing at the Press Club.
Yesterday, Tomoko had rushed over to Forensics during her lunch break. When she’d congratulated Mizuho, the officer had responded with all the bubbly giddiness of a girl in high school. Tomoko had even promised to take her out for the celebratory dessert anmitsu, over the weekend. What reason could Mizuho possibly have for not coming in?
Futawatari raised his eyes from the article.
“Has anything like this happened before?”
“No, never. She’s not the type to take time off without letting her team know.”
“Okay. So what does this mean?” Futawatari looked straight at her. With his thin profile silhouetted against the light of the window, all Tomoko could see was the keen glint in his eyes.
“It’s hard to say, sir.”
Even as she spoke, a string of unpleasant words unfolded in her mind. Trouble. Accident. Crime. Futawatari was silent, sitting with his arms folded. His eyes were skimming back over the article. It was possible he feared the same thing.
There was one particular detail that had caught her attention when she’d read one of the articles earlier that day. The assailant had previously led a biker gang. She’d told herself it would be fine. That there wasn’t a gang out there with the gall to launch a direct attack on the police. And yet, she knew that certain types of scum refused to consider women real officers of the law. There was also the fact that the press had distributed tens of thousands of copies of their articles, each mentioning that Mizuho’s drawing had been directly responsible for the arrest and each printing her name and photograph.
Whatever the cause of her absence, the fact remained that Mizuho had not come in on what would be a special day for her. Tomoko felt increasingly concerned that something had happened.
“I’ll go and check at the dorm.”
“Leave me the model and registration of her car before you go.”
Tomoko grimaced at the request. Futawatari was planning to send a bulletin to the other stations. Maybe it was the right move. It was important to cover all bases. Tomoko handed him the details on a memo, then hurried out.
He called after her.
“Phone if you find out anything.”
He looked uneasy. Tomoko took this as confirmation that he, too, was considering a number of unwelcome outcomes. She knew that the high-flying superintendent, who was two years her senior and the implicit authority behind all things related to personnel, would be unlikely to do anything that would draw attention to himself. Yet she also knew that his delicate appearance belied an incredible tenacity, that he was one of the most committed individuals in the force when it came to averting a crisis.
In the locker room Tomoko changed back into her civilian clothes. There was the possibility of more legwork after the dorm, and her uniform would only slow her down. A middle-aged woman gazed back from the small mirror on the inside of the locker door. She didn’t even flinch. There was still beauty there, she thought, in the narrow eyes, in the curved line of her mouth. The mirror had been with her since she was eighteen. It had witnessed her tears, her laughter, everything there was to see. She could face it with confidence, knowing she needn’t conceal the sagging of her skin or the wrinkles forming around her eyes.
Tomoko was the only female officer in the Prefectural HQ who was ranked inspector. She was elder sister and mother to forty-eight women, a number that was greater than the total head count of some of the smaller stations in the district.
She didn’t have time for makeup.
She left the main building and set off quickly toward the parking area. She’ll be fine. It’ll turn out to be nothing. This was her habit. Her first step was always to banish any fears or worries that were festering inside her. For twenty-five years she’d steeped herself in a world that was dominated by men. She knew only too well that fragility was the single greatest threat you could face as a female officer.
2
Tomoko kept her foot on the accelerator and in fifteen minutes was pulling on the hand brake in the parking area of the female officers’ dorm.
Designed with the primary consideration of blending in with its surroundings, the building looked like any other block of apartments. Like their male counterparts, the prefecture’s female officers were required to spend five years in a dorm after their graduation from police school. Men were off-limits. Curfew was at ten. The force was perhaps famous for enforcing draconian policies such as these, but Welfare was happy enough to relinquish its control should a decent suitor be found—as had been the case for Tomoko—during this period.
The dorm’s caretaker, Toshie Hatsuda, bustled out the moment Tomoko called from the entranceway.
“Nanao, have you heard anything from Mizuho?”
“Not yet.”
“I see. Oh … what should we do?”
It was this history that caused Tomoko’s heart to ache every time she set eyes on the woman. She, too, had been married to an officer. Despite a bright future in Security, he had passed away three years earlier. He hadn’t died in the line of duty, not specifically. But Tomoko could not help wondering, every now and then, whether he hadn’t suffered something close to karoshi, the now-infamous death from overwork.
Toshie led her to the canteen, where vegetables for the evening meal were already laid out in neat groups on the tables.
“She left without breakfast this morning.”
“Sorry, I’m not hungry,” Mizuho had said before she left. That had been at 7:30. It was the time she usually left for work. She’d been wearing a cream dress. It was one of a few she generally wore for her commute. She’d had a little makeup on, but nothing drastic. The only thing that was slightly different, according to Toshie, was that she’d seemed a little down.
“How about the night before?”
“She was late back. I mean, she gets these early and late calls for work, so that’s not necessarily anything to…”
Tomoko nodded.
Whenever a serious crime took place within the prefecture, Mobile Forensics would be called to the scene. Their job was to collect footprints, fingerprints, and all other trace forms of evidence. Mizuho would join her team in the minivan as it raced to its destination. Drawing likenesses was only a side job.
Toshie went on to say that Mizuho had not arrived back until after the ten o’clock curfew. She’d called into the caretaker’s office from the corridor, apologized for being late, and said good night. She’d been out of sight by the time Toshie had emerged from the room; she’d heard only the sound of her footsteps in the stairwell. They’d seemed to lack their usual vitality, and Toshie remembered thinking that Mizuho must be tired.