Tokyo Enigma (4 page)

I realized that I was attacking the wrong body part. I put one
end of the shoelace on the floor and stepped on it. Next, I wrapped it
around my left hand and pulled with my right. The result was a mark
on my left hand that was a close match to the bruises on Dorian.
Someone else had done a job on both him and Maho Hosoi. It wasn't
evidence that we could take to court, but at least I was fully
convinced. Yuri had some creative ideas. I went to sleep with the
happy thought that I would enjoy working with her.

Next morning, though, it was Morimoto who was waiting for
me when I got to the lobby. He said we had an early Shinkansen train
to catch from Tokyo station to Maho's hometown, but to get there we
had to take a local a couple of stops. He told me it was rush hour, but
that was poor warning for what was about to happen. Trains came
every few minutes.

Still, there was a crowd on the platform. People ahead of us
crammed themselves in. I figured it was a lost cause, but Morimoto
shoved his shoulder into a wall of business suits and jerked his head
for me to follow. I pushed. There was no give until a half dozen
people behind shoved me and themselves into the car. I reached for a
strap and exposed my diaphragm to a man's elbow. I'd seen cattle on
their way to slaughter get better accommodations. At least beef
shippers made sure the stock didn't get gored.

The train moved forward and people shifted. I escaped the
elbow and wedged myself backbone to belly button between two
men. A situation I didn't like, but it turned out I was lucky. A woman
a couple of bodies away was crushed against a bar by the door. She
groaned softly. Despite the chill outside, a trickle of sweat ran down
the neck of the man in front of me. He smelled of pickled radish.

Jostling at the next station gave brief respite until incoming
people filled the spaces vacated by those who got off. A
claustrophobic panic was building fast. I calmed myself by picturing
a pistol range with my boss, Abe Granger, in my sights. Next stop was
Tokyo station. I'd suffered once through five minutes of misery that
was routine to the people around me. I saw Morimoto in another
light. There might be a toughness I hadn't noticed earlier, but what
sort? These commuters could cope with extreme stress. So could
participants in other Asian inventions like firewalkers and fakirs
who hung themselves from hooks piercing their skin. The question
was why Japanese didn't apply their toughness to demand more
comfort.

Once we entered the Shinkansen, comfort was not an issue.
We had reserved seats that reclined. A hospitality cart that sold
Japanese and Western style breakfasts came around. The cucumber
sandwiches that Japan Railways called a Western breakfast,
however, was not one I would recognize. Of course, most of the
Western world wouldn't recognize what I considered a proper
breakfast, scrambled eggs and beans wrapped in tortillas with lots of
salsa and jalapeno and a pot of Cajun coffee.

There was not a lot to do on our trip to Morioka, in the
northeast of Honshu, the island Japanese call the mainland. It gave
me plenty of time to draw out Morimoto. He'd been a banker, a
kacho
, boss of a section that specialized in foreign bonds.
Japanese banks, however, had been pulling out of foreign markets
and foreign securities. A stampede of consolidation made Morimoto
easy pickings for boys upstairs in charge of downsizing.

His exit parachute had been more copper than gold. He had
a daughter in her first year of college. The twenty-five-year
severance package would pay off his mortgage and cover the girl's
education, but beyond that he was on his own. He'd read that
investigation was a growth industry, so he gave it a shot. Bingo, I got
a partner. The luck of the half Irish.

In any case, it explained why he was as out of place as an
altar boy in a border city Boy's Town.

Maho's brother had said to meet him at the shrine where the
funeral would be conducted. The taxi ride took us through the town.
A light rain knocked maple and gingko leaves to the ground faster
than they would fall on their own. Autumn had hit the area sooner
than it did Tokyo and many trees were nearly bare. Still, compared
to the capital it was lush with nature. Homes and buildings were
integrated into forests. The chill air was clean and rich with the
aroma of humus.

People didn't scurry; they strolled. Couples and small
groups stopped on a bridge to watch leaves float on the surface of a
pond. Morimoto said folk in the region spoke a dialect called
Tohoku-ben.

"Like Down East," I said.

"What?"

"Maine in the U.S. It has hardwood forest that's ablaze in the
fall. People there also have distinctive speech."

Next time an American got mixed up in a murder in Japan,
I'd make sure it was in the countryside before I came back. I
wouldn't mind working this case from here.

By the time we got to the funeral hall, services had already
started. We slipped into seats at the back. The room was half filled
with about thirty people. A Buddhist priest and an acolyte sat facing
an altar with their backs to the family. The priest wore a brocade
kimono that was woven in a kaleidoscope of colors. He had a conical
hat with flaps on the sides. The acolyte wore basic brown and was
bare headed. They intoned a chant, together for the most part, but
separately for some passages. The priest kept a cadence on metal
gongs cast in the shape of cook pots without handles. There was also
a small wooden drum carved in the shape of a dragon's head.

During the rite, a box containing granules of incense and
small heated bricks was passed around. I was born half Hispanic and
half Irish, but all Catholic, so I understood ritual. The devil, or maybe
salvation, was in the details. I watched the box. By the time it got to
me, I had it down. Hands together in prayer formation, nod to the
box. Take a pinch of incense, raise it to your forehead briefly and
sprinkle it on a hot brick to create smoke. Repeat two more times.
Finally, hands together, nod to the box.

How about that for cutting to the cultural chase, Mr.
Morimoto? I passed him the incense.

When the chant was over, the priest gave what I suppose
was a eulogy. Considering the circumstances of Maho's death, I had a
morbid curiosity about what he said.

At the end of the rites, I tried to guide Morimoto toward her
brother, but he told me to wait. Everyone filed out, and we followed
the group to a crematorium on the premises. Family members stood
in line and performed the incense ritual again while her body was
cremated.

We stood to the side and watched as a metal slab holding
her remains was pulled from the fire. Her bones were raked onto a
tray, which was then placed on a small table. Family members
gathered around it. In pairs, they used very long chopsticks to pick
up particles of bone and drop them into a family urn. We shared the
idea of a wake, but when it came to funerals, Japanese were even
more hands-on than Catholics.

After the bone rite, the family retired to another room
where Morimoto said lunch, beer and sake would be served. No
formal ritual, so finally we had a chance to talk to her brother,
Noboru Hosoi. As strangers, Morimoto and I drew attention from the
family. I'd been in Japan going on a couple of days and was used to
being an alien presence. Morimoto wasn't doing as well. He kept his
handkerchief at the ready to dab his face.

Hosoi had an employee of the funeral home show us to a
private room. It was just big enough for four padded chairs and a low
table. The employee asked if we would like lunch. I shook my head,
and Morimoto translated unnecessarily. Hosoi, however, ordered
snacks and asked if we would prefer beer, sake or whisky.

I'd read that alcohol was a social lubricant in Japan used to
ease tension at times like this without guilt or recrimination. It
struck me as a healthy attitude, and I reckoned Grandma Fitzgerald
would agree. "Whisky's fine," I said.

I'd expected Maho's brother to be younger. He looked to be
in his mid thirties, which would make him at least ten years older
than his sister. He made small talk and asked about Morimoto's and
my backgrounds. Despite a university education and a career with a
trading company, he'd never heard of Laredo. He had, however,
heard of "the-Eagle-has-landed Houston" and
"the-president-has-been-shot Dallas." I was grateful to get off Texas topics when the
funeral home employee returned with a tray of rice crackers,
peanuts, dried squid and cheese. More importantly, he brought two
pint-sized bottles of beer and an unopened bottle of whisky
accompanied by a bucket of ice and a pitcher of water.

The volume of alcohol worried me about where it might
lead. Lubricant is good, but too much can gum up the works.

Hosoi and Morimoto made short work of the beer. I sampled
the squid, which was tasty but tough. The cheese was cut into tiny
cubes each wrapped in plastic. It was easy to chew but had neither
aroma nor flavor. I was into my second double whisky when Hosoi
set up another two glasses. He poured shots for Morimoto and
himself. Thankfully, it was a signal that he was ready to talk about
why we came.

Since we were all drinking whisky and were pals now, I put
my hand on Hosoi's arm and said that the man who had been
arrested might not have killed his sister. Morimoto translated, and
Hosoi pulled his arm back as though I had sprouted scales and
fangs.

"Yaa," he said and reached inside his coat.

I looked to Morimoto for a translation. He said, "Unn." I
closed my eyes and saw Abe Granger dabbing sweat from his
forehead. He and I would have a lot to talk about when I wrapped
this up and went home.

Hosoi pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket, laid it on
the table and broke into a soliloquy. Morimoto translated.

"His little sister was a good person. She was too stubborn,
too willful, but she was good. Tokyo is no place for a girl from
Morioka. The language is different. The people are too busy. They are
proud."

Hosoi ground his teeth, knocked back his drink and poured
himself another. "
Maho wa
amaeko datta
."

Morimoto stumbled for a translation. Hosoi seemed to sense
the problem and chose other words. "She was indulged in a way that
made her too trusting. She expected people to forgive her
improprieties. They usually did. She was cute and charming. Some
people are born old. I think my parents were. When I was young,
every day they looked as though they faced a struggle. They doted on
Maho, but still it was a dark life, cold and quiet."

Hosoi stared directly at me for several seconds. When he
spoke, his voice was tight with emotion. "
Gaijin wa wakaranai,
daroo
?"

Morimoto looked as though he and Hosoi had found
common ground for self-pity. "He doesn't believe a foreigner can
understand."

Somehow the ball had landed in my court. Time for a
backhand. "We foreigners come in lots of varieties. I'm not here to be
understanding. I just want the facts."

I wasn't sure how directly Morimoto translated, but when
he finished, Hosoi took a sheet of paper out of an envelope and
unfolded it. He spoke at some length.

When he fell silent, Morimoto translated: "The man police
arrested must be guilty. He's been charged. You know how he and
my sister were found. I have no doubt about his guilt, but I don't
think it is as simple as the police say. I think the man who killed her
was keeping her as a mistress."

"Dorian said he had never met your sister before that
night."

Alcohol had tinted Hosoi's face pink. It turned crimson.
Purple veins stood out in his temples. Spittle flew from his mouth.
"
Aitsu, usotsuki
!" A lot of aspirant syllables in Japanese.
"
Koroshiya
!
Yurusanai
!" More spittle. He spoke as
though I were the object of his rage.

Hesitantly Morimoto said, "That's a lie. Dorian is a
murderer. He cannot be forgiven."

We wouldn't do well, if I was the adversary. "You were
there." I turned to Morimoto. "Tell him what I said to Dorian. If he's
guilty, I'll help convict him." That might have overstated what I told
Dorian, but it was true.

"
Attarimae
!" Hosoi spoke as though I was a
kindergarten boy who had wet his pants and then asked the teacher
if he should have gone to the restroom instead.

I didn't need Morimoto's translation to hear the loathsome
condescension in Hosoi's voice. After a while he calmed down and
poured me another double.

"Why do you think Dorian was keeping your sister?"

Hosoi turned the paper he'd taken from the envelope so
Morimoto could read it. "These are bank account numbers. She gave
them to me a few months ago. She wanted someone else to have
access. I checked the deposits. There was three and a half million yen
in a local bank and nearly eight million yen in a Tokyo bank."

Let's call it eleven million. At current exchange rates, that
was almost a hundred thousand dollars.

Hosoi stabbed the paper with his finger. "
Kono okane wa
okashii!
"

"It's strange for her to have so much money," Morimoto
translated.

"I agree." Unlike Hosoi though, I didn't think it came from
Dorian. He must be well paid, but I doubted he could or would throw
away that amount on a girlfriend. Not unless he considered it an
investment in a trophy bride that someday would pay
dividends.

Hosoi let Morimoto keep the bank numbers and said we
could call him if we needed any more help convicting Dorian.
"
Annyaro!
"

On the way back to Tokyo, I asked Morimoto what
"
annyaro
" meant.

"That guy," he said.

"Hosoi looked pretty angry to be calling Dorian 'that
guy.'"

"It's not a nice way to say 'that guy.'"