Prefecture D: Four Novellas Page 9
Yet Sone was different.
He seemed determined to give Shindo the respect appropriate for a superintendent. His tone remained formal and self-effacing throughout their conversation. This was what convinced Shindo of the man’s innocence. He had not changed. His decency, his passion for the job—they were both as Shindo remembered.
Shindo pulled away from the station.
He imagined he could hear the sighs of relief, but he knew the officers would be busy calling the nearby stations. He’s coming. The next station in line would be scrambling to get everything in order.
It was close to eleven when he finally got back to the Prefectural HQ. A weak light seeped through the curtains of the room on the corner of the first floor of the north building.
As expected.
The officers from Administration were holed up in the cubbyhole that was Personnel. He’d been right—they’d already started work on the spring transfers. Shindo returned to Internal Affairs and sat at his desk to write up the evening’s report.
There was a knock at the door.
“Do you have a moment?” Shinji Futawatari from Administration tipped his head into the room. “How was the raid?”
“Good. Not that they’re ever bad,” Shindo answered, choosing his words carefully.
Futawatari would have been there in Personnel. He would have come across after seeing the lights come on in Internal Affairs. Given the fact that it was after eleven, it was unlikely he’d come to chat. It was more likely that he’d been waiting for a chance to catch Shindo alone, when Takegami and Katsumata were out. That would be it.
People liked to refer to him as the “ace.” He’d made superintendent three years ago, at the young age of forty. Such things had been known to happen, perhaps once every few generations, but Futawatari had another talent that separated him from the pack. In his case, the word “ace” was also a reference to the trump card he held.
Personnel.
More than anything, it was the transfer he had masterminded two years previously that had propelled his name to the forefront.
Katsumata had gambled money during a game of mah-jongg with an acquaintance who owned a pachinko parlor. At the time, he’d been a division chief in Transport Guidance. One of his junior officers had been outraged and lodged an official complaint, which had led to Katsumata’s eventual transfer.
The choice of destination had stunned the force.
Rather than face the scrutiny of Internal Affairs, Katsumata had been transferred there. It was inspired. The press, who had already caught wind of the scandal, had not known how to react. They’d never move him there. Not if the rumors were true. Futawatari had forced them to draw that conclusion.
Shirota doesn’t have the gall to pull a stunt like that. I’m telling you, it was Futawatari. The whispers had spread like lightning through the force, the tone gradually shifting from one of shock to one of fear.
Even Shindo had to admit it was impressive. At the same time, he had to wonder whether such extreme measures had been necessary to safeguard the reputation of the force. There were scum wherever you went. Squeeze them out. That was surely the proper way to defend an organization. However he looked at it, Shindo couldn’t bring himself to fully agree with the man’s way of thinking.
And yet, face-to-face with him now, this man who was seven years his junior, he couldn’t help feeling intimidated.
It was second nature, after fifty, to think about how many years and how many posts you had left. While he couldn’t quite match Futawatari’s meteoric rise, Shindo was himself a career officer and one who had made superintendent at the age of forty-four. It had hurt to miss out on the promotion to district captain that spring, but he still considered his stint in Internal Affairs to be temporary. It would last a year, at most, allowing him to recuperate. There was still time. He could still make director before his retirement.
Even so, another couple of years in some out-of-the-way post …
Shindo understood that the captain and the director of Administrative Affairs both held Futawatari in high regard. A single word from their “ace” might be all it took to seal a man’s fate, be the difference between making director and getting stuck at division chief.
“That reminds me,” Futawatari said, lowering his voice. “Is something happening with Inspector Sone in Station Q?”
The words were like a slap in the face.
“No. I mean…” Shindo stumbled to find his response. “We did have a letter, but I think it’s one we can dismiss. He doesn’t seem to be involved in anything untoward.”
“I see.”
Futawatari got smoothly to his feet. His footsteps grew distant and the room returned to silence. Shindo couldn’t move from the couch.
Who told him?
He reviewed a selection of faces.
Takegami? Mizutani? No. Yanagi? Never. Morishima from Forensics? Not necessarily. Shindo had been to the Mutual Funds Association. And there was always the chance that Katsumata had somehow gotten wind of the letter. There was also the possibility that Futawatari had used some means of his own, although Shindo wouldn’t usually expect a man who had spent his career in Administration to have too many “assets” at his disposal. That said, people liked to back a winner, and it wouldn’t be long until Futawatari secured dominion over the Prefectural HQ. There would be plenty of people who wanted to win his favor. He wondered just how far the man’s reach spread.
Whatever the source of the leak, the fact that Sone was now in Futawatari’s sights meant that there were people outside Internal Affairs watching to see how Shindo handled the case. And work had already started on the transfers.
Shindo’s stomach groaned, alerting him to an emotion that was a long way from anger.
8
“Toshio Saga doesn’t own a word processor.”
Yanagi reported in a few days later. The troublemaker was off the list, then, leaving only the misfit Atsushi Mitsui. Shindo left Yanagi with instructions to continue looking into it, but he felt more anxious than ever when he hung up.
How had Yanagi learned that Saga didn’t own a word processor? Had he paid him a visit and found a chance moment to look around? That wouldn’t be enough to support such a definitive conclusion. A frightening legal term came to mind. Trespass. Saga lived at home. Once he’d left for work, the house would be empty, apart from his bedridden mother. He could do it. He would do it. This was Yanagi.
Fuck.
Yanagi was still investigating Sone and Yaeko Kato. Shindo realized he wouldn’t put it past the man to install a bug—perhaps in the bar or Yaeko’s apartment—if it meant making progress. That would be a hassle, but Shindo had more to worry about. The case had caught Futawatari’s attention. If Shindo lost control, if he let Yanagi go too far, he might end up paying for it with his career. He picked up the phone. Don’t do anything stupid. He would spell it out for the man.
It was Yanagi’s sister who answered. She told him her brother was out and that she didn’t know where he had gone. Shindo was starting to panic.
Maybe I should go today.
His plan had been to visit Mumu in a few days, but his current state of agitation told him he should bring the reconnaissance forward. He hurried by taxi to City P and within thirty minutes was in the red-light district. He pushed his way past a collection of hawkers before he saw the bar’s bright neon sign.
It was busy despite it being only eight in the evening. There were five booths inside, all of different sizes, and six seats along a counter. Three Southeast Asian women in skimpy, bikini-like clothing were draped over a group of sweaty men. Shindo guessed there might be more than alcohol on the menu.
“My, my, a new face.”
A plumpish woman in a kimono appeared to greet him. She looked to be in her mid-forties and was oddly imposing. If he hadn’t already seen the photos of Yaeko Kato, Shindo would have pegged her as the mama-san. She led him arm in arm to one of the seats at the counter and sat him down. They cha
tted for a while and he told her he was in town for three days to sell exercise equipment.
Yaeko Kato was in a bright red dress. When she came into the room it was from under the noren that hung over the entrance to the kitchen; she was fiddling with her fringe.
“Welcome.”
She was just as beautiful in the flesh. Shindo suspected the bar had no need for the fawning girls, that men would flock in droves just to see her. The woman in the kimono gave a flick of her eye and Shindo was surrounded by dark, tanned skin. His ears were subjected to a stream of broken Japanese and hot air. The perfect time, perhaps. Yaeko was standing in front of him, mixing a glass of whiskey on the rocks. Making it look as though he’d just remembered something, Shindo took out his mobile. He dialed the number of his apartment.
“Hey, it’s me. Has Sone called yet?” Shindo kept an eye on Yaeko as he listened to the ringtone on the other side. “You know who I mean. So. Ne.”
There was no reaction. Not even a twitch. The letter had been bogus. Sone had been a customer but Yaeko did not recognize his name. The only conclusion to draw was that Sone had used an assumed identity. It followed that he’d also hidden the fact that he was police. He hadn’t played on his status as chief. Which made him the same as all the other customers—just another man here to see Yaeko. He couldn’t have seduced her, not like that. His looks, too plain to attract a woman of her caliber, would end up becoming his saving grace.
Still, I’d bet the bastard gave it a good shot.
“Here. A token of our meeting.” Yaeko handed Shindo the glass and tapped her own against it.
“Thanks.”
Shindo put the whiskey to his lips. His stomach lurched but he wanted, at least tonight, to drink a little in Sone’s honor.
9
Sone turned out neither to have fallen for nor made a pass at Yaeko Kato.
It was Monday morning, the last week of November, when irrefutable proof of this arrived on the doorstep of Internal Affairs. The intel came, surprisingly, in the form of a case report drafted for the press by Media Relations.
“Shindo, you need to see this.” Division Chief Takegami, glasses perched on his forehead, got to his feet and held out the document.
“Amazing.”
Late the previous night the Department of Public Safety in Station Q had staged a raid on Mumu. The bar had been charged with running a prostitution racket. For Shindo, the news was revelatory. Sone hadn’t been trying to get Yaeko into bed. He’d been trying to get her arrested. He’d concealed his name and identity and made himself a customer as part of an undercover investigation.
“Why all the fuss? It’s not like this kind of thing never happens.” Katsumata’s head popped up at his side; he looked unimpressed.
Shindo ignored him and walked up to Takegami. He suggested they think about awarding Sone the Captain’s Trophy. The district equivalent would have been given out the previous day. It was perhaps too late, but he wanted to try. The work on the executive transfers was almost finished. With a bit of luck, Sone might still get to hear his call from upstairs.
News continued to flow in. That afternoon Shindo received a call from Mizutani in the crime lab.
“We got the model of the word processor.” The man’s usual tone was mixed with a hint of excitement, even pride. “It’s a Brand Z. Model Thirty-six. Only released a few months back.”
“I see. Good work.”
“It was blind luck more than anything else. One of the subsidiaries came up with this new typeface, just for the Model Thirty-six.”
“Typeface?”
“It’s like a design, a blueprint for the characters. They worked out a way of keeping the hiragana nice and round, even when they’re small. That’s what gave it away.”
“This is good. I owe you a favor.”
Mizutani continued as though he hadn’t heard the pleasantry. “There’s another thing you might find interesting. You remember the numbers six and nine had a gap between them?”
“Sure.”
“That means whoever typed the letter didn’t know how to adjust the typeface so the numbers come out without the gap. Could be because it’s a new model. Or it could be that whoever did this isn’t very … well, very savvy with this kind of thing.” Mizutani was uncharacteristically talkative; it was clear he was in a celebratory mood.
Shindo told Takegami he was going out, then set off for home.
He was in high spirits. The claims made against Sone had turned out to be false, and he now had the model of the word processor. The case would be closed if the misfit Mitsui was discovered to own a Model 36. Now that they had the make and model, they could investigate the shops that sold them. Shindo had to make double sure that Yanagi understood he wasn’t to do anything reckless.
Time to rein him in.
A familiar voice began to relay the details of the raid on Mumu. Yamamoto played up the sense of sleazy indignation as he outlined how the five women who worked at the bar had been robbed of their passports, how they’d been forced to live cramped together in a small tatami room. He mentioned Yaeko Kato but went on to name the ringleader as Sasaki, a woman of forty-six.
Huh.
The plumpish woman in the kimono came to Shindo’s mind. It was obvious, in retrospect. Sasaki had been manipulating Yaeko from the shadows. She was the mama-san.
“But that’s…”
The mama-san. Shindo’s mind lurched. It would be only natural, on seeing Sasaki for the first time, to conclude that she was the proprietress. Yet one man had reached a different conclusion.
Shindo felt a sudden dizziness, followed by the sensation of everything falling neatly into place. The misfit was gone. In his place stood the informant, the man who had set his sights on Sone. Shindo parked his car and made his way slowly up the stairs. His stomach convulsed under the full weight of his fury.
He ran a blank sheet through the fax.
10
Shindo met Yanagi at Leisure Land in City Y, on the border of the prefecture. He’d opted to do it on a Sunday. The man appeared, right on schedule, at two o’clock in front of the big wheel. He was wearing a jacket, his pallid features seeming to float amid the throngs of families. Shindo was wrapped in a warm coat and sitting on a bench. They both resembled tired parents whose weekends had been eaten up by family outings. Yanagi set himself down on the same bench, leaving space for one person between them.
“It was you,” Shindo said, keeping his gaze forward.
“Sorry?” Yanagi, too, was looking ahead.
“You were the one who tried to frame Sone.”
“Me?”
“I can see it, you know. The scenario you came up with, acted out. You figured I’d come to you if something came up regarding Station Q. Everything was going according to plan.”
“…”
“I should have realized that something was off. You knew too much from the start. All that detail on Saga and Mitsui. You even knew the day Sone was scheduled for night watch.” In the periphery of his vision, Shindo thought he caught the Noh mask smirk. “Something amusing?”
“…”
“You told me on the phone that you hadn’t been inside the bar, that time you took the photos of Yaeko Kato.”
“Sure.”
“What made you think Yaeko was the mama-san? I seem to remember it wasn’t until the next day that you started looking into her background.”
“I’d been there before.”
Shindo turned to face him. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
Shindo looked straight ahead again. “Let me be specific. You found out that Atsushi Mitsui owned a Brand Z, Model Thirty-six word processor. You picked one up for yourself and used it to type out the letter. I asked you to look into the case, as expected, and you proceeded to give me one revelatory detail after another. It was after we learned the model of the word processor, right? That was when you’d planned to reveal that Mitsui had one.”
Shindo looked up at the sky as he answered. “My guess is … because you wanted to return to Public Safety.”
This time the Noh mask broke into an open smile.
“You were transferred out. You lost your connections with the executive. That’s why you cooked up this whole fiasco. To impress me with your talents. On the assumption that I’d be heading back there myself.”
Yanagi got to his feet and fixed Shindo with a cold stare. “Sir, let me be perfectly clear. I’ve never considered you a superior.”
11
The year drew to a close.
Shindo had cultivated a new asset in Station Q. He’d left the man, Takeshi Sato, with standing instructions to investigate the situation between Yanagi and Mitsui. They should both have a Model Thirty-six. Take your time, be thorough. Despite his words, the passing of time had left Shindo feeling increasingly agitated. Yanagi was dangerous. And Shindo could not accept the way he’d tried to use Sone, a man already standing on a cliff edge, as leverage in his plan. He needed definitive evidence to relieve the man of his badge, and soon.
He was the misfit.
The new year came amid an atmosphere of frustration. Kanako had come home for the end of December but returned to Tokyo on New Year’s Eve, claiming their daughter had cram sessions during the first few days of the year. Was that really the way to go about achieving your dreams? Shindo just didn’t get it.
He was sorting through their New Year’s cards when the fax began to buzz. He ignored it, assuming it to be Kanako’s usual update, only to discover an hour later that it had ejected a blank sheet. He rushed to dial Sato’s number. It was January 3. Sato had taken advantage of the holidays to get what he needed. That had to be it.
“Did you get something?”
“Sir, it seems neither Yanagi nor Mitsui owns a Brand Z.”