Rules of the Hunt (34 page)
"Take care of
yourself
, my friend,"
said Fitzduane.
He felt suddenly
concerned.
It was a feeling, no
more.
"You were with me when the
Hangman was killed.
Get some security.
Take some precautions."
de
Guevain laughed.
"I'm only in danger when I visit you,
Hugo," he said.
"But do you
know anything?"
"No," said Fitzduane.
"Nothing.
But I
just have a sense of unease."
"Two attempts on your life.
You're entitled to some paranoia," said de Guevain.
He hung up the phone and thought for a while.
Everything was fine except for the break-in at his apartment two nights
earlier.
Fortunately, nothing had been
stolen.
The security system was being
upgraded, and he resolved to have a word with the bank's security people.
*
*
*
*
*
March 2
Two months into the Hodama murder investigation, it was clear to Adachi
that he was in for an endurance test.
Results were not coming either easily or quickly.
Murder investigations typically developed
strong leads in the first day or so, resulting in a quick arrest, or else
turned into a matter of stamina.
After the first couple of weeks, he realized he faced the prospect of
months or even years on the affair.
He
might be transferred off the case to let some new blood have a go, but, pending
that, he was in for the duration.
Hodama
had been too big a fish for the case to be put quietly on the back burner.
This was the killing of an insider, one of
the most powerful members of the political establishment.
If someone of Hodama's status could be killed
and the assassins left undetected, then no one was safe.
A steady stream of government members, senior civil servants, and
politicians expressed their decidedly personal concern about the progress of
the investigation.
There were regular
calls from the Prime Minister's office.
The Minister of Justice had asked for special briefings on two
occasions.
The brunt of the pressure was
fielded by the senior prosecutor and the Deputy Superintendent-General, so
Adachi was left relatively free to operate, but the extent of the concern was
made well-known to him, together with regular statements of confidence in his
abilities.
Adachi was not naïve.
He was
uncomfortable being supported in this way.
It put him neatly in the firing line as the fall guy, if such was
required.
Secondly, it was his
experience that public praise normally came before private termination.
The best eulogies, now he thought about it,
were delivered at weddings, retirements, firings, and funerals.
It was a depressing observation about the
human condition.
And did weddings really
belong in this group of essentially negative transitional occasions?
He thought they probably did — although
undoubtedly most participants regarded themselves as exceptions.
Inspector Fujiwara came into the squad room looking pleased with
himself
.
Immediately
behind him, two sweating detectives appeared, struggling with a very large,
heavy object neatly wrapped in the material used by the Forensics
Department.
The parcel was labeled and
sealed with an eye for presentation.
Whoever had wrapped the damn thing had obviously aspired to the high
aesthetic packaging standards of the Mitsukoshi Department Store.
Adachi did not know whether to be proud of
this Japanese obsession with doing everything correctly — even when it was not
necessary — or to regard his fellow countrymen as being slightly nuts.
It was heresy, but it was a thought worth
taking further, he considered.
He glanced at the wall clock.
It
was nearly eight o'clock in the evening and most of the desks were still manned
or their occupants supposedly doing something policelike in the field.
We are nuts, he decided.
We Japanese are a completely nutty nation.
We should be out enjoying ourselves instead
of working ourselves even nuttier.
I
should be in bed with Chifune enjoying long slow sex — perhaps something
slightly kinky — instead of being impaled on a swivel chair in my office with
my eyes gritty and my clothing sweaty and rumpled, waiting for my Inspector-
san
to pull a huge rabbit — or maybe
something more interesting — out of his parcel.
The parcel was rectangular and vaguely coffinlike in shape, though
taller.
"I assume, Inspector-
san
," said Adachi, "that there
is a woman inside that container and that you will shortly cut her in
half.
You have that showman's look.
Well, proceed:
given the pace of progress around here, we
are all in sore need of entertainment."
Inspector Fujiwara took the cue.
He stretched his arms out like a magician winding up a crowd, then
turned and tipped the wrapping material off the object.
A nineteenth-century
kurama nagamochi
stood revealed.
The heavy wooden chest, reinforced with iron corner pieces, was
customarily used for storing bedding and kimono.
"Nice piece," said Adachi.
"It has wheels, by the way — little round things at the
bottom."
He looked at the sweating
detectives.
"Why didn't you — Tokyo
MPD's finest — push the bloody chest?"
"Forensics wrapped the wheels too, boss," said Fujiwara.
"They do that kind of thing.
They thought it would look neater.
Anyway, we wanted to make it a surprise.
You've been looking gloomy recently."
"Oh," said Adachi.
He
did not quite know whether to feel flattered or deflated.
He did feel curious.
"Miwako Chiba," said Inspector Fujiwara.
"A damned attractive
woman in her early fifties.
Slim figure, distinguished face, great eyes, lots of sex appeal.
Looks great — could be twenty years
younger."
"Is she in the box?" said Adachi.
"Not that I want to pry."
"She lives out in Takanawa," said Fujiwara.
"Nice house, two
tatami
rooms and the rest modern.
Plenty of money there — not really big money, but
comfortable.
A
settled look to the situation."
"Is there a Mr. Chiba?" said Adachi.
He was beginning to understand.
"No," said Fujiwara.
"Little Chibas?" said Adachi.
"No," said Fujiwara.
"None recorded and none that I noticed."
"Ah!" said Adachi.
"What does she do?"
"Has a bar in Rippongi," said Fujiwara, "but someone else
manages it.
Chiba-
san
is a lady of leisure."
"Whose mistress or ex-mistress?" said
Adachi.
The pattern was predictable.
A great deal of police work was about
patterns.
"She is out of a job these days," said Fujiwara, "whatever
their relationship."
"Hodama, the old goat," said Adachi.
"Whatever he took, I'd like to have
some.
By all accounts, he was fucking
someone or something steadily until he was broiled.
Eighty-four years of age and still at
it.
He was a credit to our
culture."
"Hodama," agreed Fujiwara.
Adachi had remembered how tired he was.
He leaned forward.
"Inspector-
san
," he
said politely.
"Would you be so
kind as to tell me what is in that fucking box?"
"The kind of thing you would leave with someone you trusted,"
said Fujiwara, "if you were a prick like Hodama.
Mementos of negotiations,
secret conversations, and the like."
"Grrr..." said Adachi.
"It's too late.
I'm too
tired.
What the hell are you talking
about?"
"Tapes," said Fujiwara hastily.
"Just like President Nixon.
Tapes."
"
Banzai!
" said
Adachi.
A thought struck him.
Magnetic evidence was prone to vanish into
the ether.
It was not nice and physical,
like paper of bloodstains.
One quick
pass with a powerful magnet and tape recordings were history.
"Have you checked them?
Is there anything on them?"
"Relax, boss," said Fujiwara.
"This is really something."
*
*
*
*
*
The Chief Prosecutor always dressed well but conservatively.
He favored the unostentatious gray look, reflected Adachi; the guise of
the silver fox.
The focus tended to be
on his face and, in particular, on his eyes.
Day in, day out, for decades, those eyes read the souls of men.
When the prosecutor stared intently at you,
you just knew that it was pointless to lie.
You were aware you could not hide.
You understood immediately that he did not really need to ask.
It was not merely that he could read your
mind:
He knew
.
Smoke and mirrors, thought Adachi.
Did a trick of nature slant you in one
particular direction because you looked the part, or did the look follow the
occupation?
Either way, the success of
so much that you did was so often slanted toward how you looked when you did
it.
That evening the prosecutor was dressed for a function.
He looked different, less like a dedicated
public servant and more like a public figure; perhaps a minister or a leading
businessman.
The dark-blue silk suit was
of Italian cut.
The white shirt gleamed
like a soap-powder ad.
The tie was a
discreet hand-painted design.
The
tassled black shoes had a sheen reflecting dedication bordering on obsession.
Did Mrs. Prosecutor graft away with the polishing attachment on her
Makita drill, or did Mr. Prosecutor burnish his own shoes?
Somehow, Adachi regarded the latter scenario
as unlikely.
People's personal habits
were interesting in what they revealed.
He found the way the prosecutor was dressed that evening unsettling.
It did not seem to reflect the man he thought
he knew.
Well, he was tired.
Notions tended to introduce themselves when
blood sugar was low.
The tape came to an end.
"There were over two hundred tapes in a fireproof safe inside Chiba-
san
's blanket chest," said Adachi,
"all neatly labeled and cross-indexed.
There are some prominent names mentioned on the tapes.
The most interesting tape is the one you just
played.
The quality is not good, but the
content is compelling."
"The two speakers are Hodama himself" said the prosecutor,
"and Fumio Namaka."
Adachi nodded in agreement.
"Both names are mentioned in the course of the conversation, and we
have already obtained separate confirmation.
Hodama's reedy voice is quite distinctive.
Namaka's is also clear enough.
No one else seemed to be present."
"So here we have Hodama saying he is withdrawing support for the
Namakas," said the prosecutor, "and giving as his reasons the
financial weakness of the Namaka
keiretsu
and their links with Yaibo.
Hodama,
despite their long association, cannot afford scandal and to go down with a
sinking ship."
"That's how it sounds," said Adachi.
"It is a thirty-five minute
discussion.
The go over the points
several times, the way one does
I
that kind of
conversation.
The message is very
clear.
The Namakas are going to be
ditched by their
kuromaku
— with deep
regret and despite their long association."
"Are these tapes genuine?" asked the prosecutor.
"Our technical boys say they are," said Adachi slowly.
"But that's a judgment, not
certainty.
Tape is tricky, but they have
put twenty of the two hundred tapes through state-of-the-art equipment and the
results indicate the genuine article.
Also, they pointed out there is too much here to fake.
It would be a massive job.
So, best assessment is:
the tapes are genuine."
