The Devotion Of Suspect X (6 page)

“You come in your own car today?” Mamiya asked when he saw Kusanagi walk in.

“Sure did. Train station’s too far away.”

“You familiar with this part of town, then?”

“I wouldn’t say familiar, but I’ve been here a few times.”

“So you don’t need a guide. Good. Take Kishitani with you and go—here.” He held out a piece of paper.

It was a memo with an address in Shinozaki, Edogawa Ward, beneath which was written a woman’s name: Yoko Yamabe.

“Who’s this?” Kusanagi asked.

“You tell him about the bicycle?” Mamiya asked Kishitani.

“Yes, sir.”

“You mean the bicycle they found near the body?” Kusanagi inquired, peering into the chief’s rugged face.

“That’s the one. We checked it out, and found a stolen bicycle report. The registration numbers match. That Ms. Yamabe’s the owner. I had someone give her a ring to make sure she’s home. I want you to go over there, get her to identify the bike and hear what she has to say.”

“You get any fingerprints from the bicycle?”

“Don’t you worry about that for now. Just get going,” Mamiya growled, his voice pushing them out the door.

“Great, the bike was stolen. I figured it was something like that.” Kusanagi clicked his tongue as he guided his car out into the street. He was driving a black Skyline, the same car he’d had for almost eight years now.

“You think the killer took the bicycle and left it there?”

“Maybe. But asking the owner’s not going to do us much good. It’s not like she knows who stole her bike. Though we might get a glimpse of the path the killer took that day, which is something.”

Following the memo and a map, Kusanagi drove around Shinozaki, the two detectives hunting for the address. Finally they found it: a modern-looking place with white walls. A nameplate by the door read “Yamabe.”

Yoko Yamabe was a housewife in her mid-forties. Her makeup looked newly applied; she’d probably put it on when she heard that detectives would be coming.

“No doubt about it, that’s my bicycle,” she announced crisply when Kusanagi showed her a photograph he’d gotten from forensics.

“I was hoping you could come down to the station and identify it in person.”

“I’d be happy to—I’m getting it back, right?”

“Of course. However, our colleagues at the station are still looking into a few things, so you might have to wait until they’re done.”

“Oh, but I need it back right now! It’s almost impossible going shopping without it,” she said, her brow furrowing with disappointment. The tone of her voice made it sound as if she blamed the police for her bicycle having been stolen in the first place.

Kusanagi sighed inwardly. He knew the type. He could just see her down at the station, demanding that they pay to fix her punctured tires. For a fleeting moment he considered telling her that the bicycle had been used in connection with a murder, just to see how quickly she lost interest in ever riding the thing again.

According to her, the bike had been stolen the day before—in other words, on March tenth—sometime between eleven A.M. and ten P.M. She had gone out to meet a friend in Ginza, gone shopping and had dinner, and by the time she’d returned to Shinozaki Station, it was already past ten o’clock at night. She had taken the bus home.

“Did you leave the bicycle in the lot?”

“No, along the sidewalk.”

“And it was locked?”

“Of course. I attached it to the guardrail with a chain.”

Kusanagi hadn’t heard anyone mention finding a chain lock at the scene.

He gave Ms. Yamabe a ride down to Shinozaki Station to see the spot where the bicycle had been stolen.

“It was right around here,” she said, indicating a section of sidewalk about twenty yards from the small supermarket in front of the station. There were a few bicycles lined up there now.

Kusanagi looked around. There was a bank branch office nearby, and a bookstore. There probably would have been quite a bit of pedestrian traffic during the day and early evening. Someone crafty enough could have cut the chain quickly during that time and taken the bike as though it were their own, but it was far more likely that the deed had been done later, after the streets had cleared somewhat.

Next, the detectives brought Ms. Yamabe down to the Edogawa police station to identify the bicycle.

“I think I’m just unlucky, you know,” Kusanagi heard her saying from the backseat. “I only bought that bicycle last month. I was so mad when I realized it had been stolen that I went and filed a report at the police box by the station before I even got on the bus.”

“And you knew the registration number? That’s impressive.”

“Well, I’d only just bought the thing. I still had the receipt at my house. I called and had my daughter tell me the number.”

“I see. Good thinking.”

“I was wondering—just what sort of case is this? The man on the phone didn’t give any details. But I have to admit all this has me very curious.”

“Well, we’re not even sure there really is a case just yet, ma’am. I’m afraid we don’t have the details.”

“What? Really?” She snorted. “I didn’t know you police types were so tight-lipped about these things.”

In the passenger seat, Kishitani was trying to keep from laughing. Kusanagi was glad he had gone to visit the woman today and not later. If the murder had already become public knowledge, he would have had to suffer through a deluge of questions.

Ms. Yamabe took one look at the bicycle down in the evidence room at Edogawa station and ID’d it on the spot. Then she turned to Kusanagi and asked who was going to pay for repairing her tires.

The forensics team got several fingerprints off the bicycle’s handlebars, frame, and seat. They had found other evidence as well. What they thought to be the victim’s clothes had turned up, stuffed into a five-gallon oil can, several hundred yards from the place where the body was found. The clothes were partially burned. There was a jacket, a sweater, pants, socks, and underwear. Forensics guessed that the killer had set fire to the clothes and then left. But the fire had gone out before finishing the job, and they hadn’t burned as well as he had hoped.

There was nothing special about the style or manufacture of the clothes. All of them were standard designs, common throughout the country. A police artist had used the clothing and the shape of the victim’s body to draw an approximation of how he had looked before he was killed. Some policemen had already been to Shinozaki Station, illustration in hand, to ask around. However, without anything distinctive about either the person or the clothes, they had gathered no information of any worth.

A picture of the illustration went up on the nightly news that evening, and a mountain of calls came in, but none of them offered any positive link to the body from beside the Old Edogawa.

Meanwhile, the police had compared everything they knew about the victim to the missing persons list, but they were unable to find even the thinnest thread connecting anyone to their John Doe. Only a survey of hotels and hostels in the Edogawa area, checking to see if any single men had abruptly disappeared, turned up something of merit.

A customer staying at a place in Kamedo called Rental Room Ogiya had gone missing on March 11, the day the body was found. When he hadn’t shown up at the desk at checkout time, one of the staff had gone to check the room and had found it empty, save for a few of the man’s personal belongings. The manager hadn’t bothered to inform the police because the customer had already paid in advance.

Forensics descended on the place immediately, picking up every fingerprint and loose piece of hair. Finally they struck gold. One of the hairs was a perfect match with those on the body. There were also fingerprints on the walls and belongings that matched those from the stolen bicycle.

The missing man had signed his name in the rental room’s guestbook: Shinji Togashi. His address was listed as being in West Shinjuku, Shinjuku Ward.

They walked from the subway station toward Shin-Ohashi Bridge, taking a right onto the narrow road just before the river. The neighborhood they had entered was mainly residential, though there were a few small shops here and there, all of which felt like they had been around for years—real mom-and-pop establishments. Most other parts of town had long since been overrun with supermarkets and chain stores, but this area was different.
This is the old downtown district, Shitamachi,
thought Kusanagi.
Maybe that’s what makes it feel different.

It was already past eight P.M. An old woman carrying a washbasin ambled past them along the sidewalk.
There must be a public bath nearby,
Kusanagi conjectured.

“Close to the station, lots of shopping … not a bad place to live,” Kishitani remarked quietly.

“Your point?”

“Nothing, really. I was just thinking this isn’t a terrible place for a single mother to raise her daughter.”

Kusanagi grunted. The junior detective’s comment would have seemed a little odd if they weren’t now on their way to meet a single mother and her daughter. That, and Kusanagi knew that Kishitani himself had been raised by a single mom.

Kusanagi walked steadily, occasionally glancing at the small address plates on the telephone poles, comparing them to the address written on the memo in his hand. They should be arriving at the apartment building soon. The memo gave a name, too: Yasuko Hanaoka.

At the time of his death, Shinji Togashi had still been a registered occupant at the address he’d left in the guestbook at the rental room. It just wasn’t where he had actually been living.

Once they’d identified the body, the police had put out a bulletin on the television and in the newspapers, asking for anyone who knew anything about the dead man to contact their local law enforcement. That had turned up nothing. But the real estate agent who had rented Togashi the old apartment in Shinjuku knew where he used to work: a used-car place. He hadn’t been there long, though, quitting before his first year was up.

Still, the lead had been enough to give the investigation some legs. It turned out that the victim had once been an import luxury car salesman, and he’d been fired when he was caught skimming from the till. He hadn’t been charged, however. The detectives had found out about it when they went to the car dealership to do some questioning. The importer was still doing business, but no one on staff there now knew much about Togashi—or at least, no one who was willing to talk.

The investigators did learn that, at the time that he was working there, Togashi had been married. And according to someone who knew him after the divorce, he had made a habit of visiting his ex-wife, and the ex-wife had a child from a former marriage.

It wasn’t hard for the detectives to trace their movements. Pretty soon, they had an address for Yasuko and Misato Hanaoka: the apartment they were heading for now, here in the Morishita district of Eto Ward.

“Well, I sure pulled the short straw on this one,” Kishitani said, sighing.

“What? Doing footwork with me is the short straw?”

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t enjoy the idea of bothering this poor lady and her daughter.”

“If they had nothing to do with the crime, what’s the bother?”

“Well, from the sound of it, this Togashi wasn’t the best husband, or the best father. Who’d want to have to remember all that?”

“Well, if that’s the case, you’d think they’d welcome us. After all, we’re here to tell them the big bad man is dead. Just try not to look so glum, okay? You’re making me depressed just looking at you. Ah, here we are.” Kusanagi stopped in front of an old apartment building.

The building was a dirty gray color, with several marks on the walls where repairs had been made. It was two stories high with four units on each floor. Only half of the windows were lit.

“Room 204, which means we go upstairs.” Kusanagi put a hand on the concrete railing and started up. Kishitani followed.

Room 204 was the unit furthest from the stairwell. Light spilled from the apartment window, and Kusanagi breathed a quick sigh of relief. They hadn’t called in advance; if Ms. Hanaoka had been out, the detectives would have had to come back.

He rang the doorbell. Immediately, he heard someone moving inside. The door was unlocked; it swung open a crack, the door chain still attached.
Not unusual,
Kusanagi thought,
considering a single mother and her daughter live here alone. They’re right to be cautious
.

A woman looked out through the opening, peering suspiciously at the two detectives. She had a small face with strikingly dark eyes. In the dim light, she looked as if she could have been in her late twenties, but the hand on the door was not a young woman’s hand.

“Sorry for dropping in like this, but are you Ms. Yasuko Hanaoka?” Kusanagi asked as gently as he could.

“I am,” the woman replied. She seemed ill at ease.

“We’re from the police department. Actually, I have some bad news.” Kusanagi pulled out his badge, flashing his ID. Beside him, Kishitani did the same.

“The police?” Yasuko’s eyes widened. A ripple passed through the pools of black.

“Can we come inside?”

“Oh yes, please, come in.” Yasuko shut the door, undid the chain, and opened the door again. “May I ask what this is all about?”

Kusanagi stepped into the apartment. Kishitani followed behind.

“Ma’am, do you know a Mr. Shinji Togashi?”

Kusanagi noticed Yasuko’s face tighten in response, and he chalked it up to surprise.

“Yes, he’s my ex-husband … has he done something?”

So she didn’t know he’d been killed. She probably hadn’t seen it on the news or read it in the papers. The story hadn’t garnered too much attention from the press, after all.

“Actually,” Kusanagi began, and his eyes wandered back into the room behind her. The sliding doors toward the rear were closed tightly. “Is there someone else home?” he asked.

“My daughter, yes.”

“Ah, right.” He noticed the sneakers by the door. Kusanagi lowered his voice. “I’m afraid Mr. Togashi is dead.”