The Silent Dead (28 page)

“Here's your money. Count it.”

Tatsumi took the envelope in silence, pulled out the wad of notes, and counted them. Twenty-four ten-thousand–yen notes—precisely as promised. Otsuka jammed the notes back into the envelope and set it on the edge of the bar.

“There's something I want to ask you before I hand over the data.”

Tatsumi looked at Otsuka searchingly.

Otsuka uttered a silent prayer.
Don't let Tatsumi confess that he failed to identify anyone.
Was that the reason he was being all sullen? A wave of unease roiled Otsuka's chest.

Tatsumi set his jaw. “Are you investigating this Strawberry Night murder show? Seriously, are you?”

His tone was disapproving.

That was hardly a difficult conclusion to reach. The comments posted by the contributors on the list Otsuka had provided would have made that crystal clear. Trying to lie about it would be a waste of time. Still, Otsuka didn't know
why
Tatsumi wanted to know. And the mama-san was a civilian with no involvement in the case. He had to be careful what he said in front of her.

“Maybe I am.”

That was as far as he was prepared to go.

Tatsumi leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “My advice to you is to drop it. Don't take it any further.”

Now Otsuka was more mystified than ever.

“It's not like I'm doing this for fun. It's part of an investigation. That's why I asked for your help.”

“My advice is the same—
Don't take it any further
. The devil's sitting right on your tail.”

“Dammit, you lowlife. Just tell me what you damn well found out, okay?” exploded Otsuka. “It's important.”

“You go fuck yourself,” Tatsumi retorted. He swept his beer bottle off the bar and onto the floor. It landed with a thunk but did not break. White foam dribbled out onto the floor with a gentle gurgling sound.

“Know why I hate you fucking cops? Because you're all so damn stupid. These days information is a valuable commodity, something that's bought and sold. You guys still think that flashing your badge is enough to get people to roll over and tell you whatever you want to know. You've got your heads up your asses.”

Tatsumi pulled a small envelope out of his back pocket and smacked it down on the bar. He then grabbed Otsuka's envelope of cash and headed for the door.

“Tatsumi, wait!” Otsuka yelled at the retreating figure. For some reason his body refused to move off the stool.

Tatsumi's findings were sitting on the bar in front of him. Their deal was done, over. But what was all that stuff about the devil being on his tail? One thing was obvious: getting an answer would cost him. Tatsumi had made his position very clear.

Tatsumi turned around at the door. “Listen, Otsuka. I have a conscience—and occasionally I even listen to it. I'm telling you this for your own good. Drop this case. Drop it right now. That's all I've got to say.”

“I have one last thing to ask of you,” Otsuka said. “It's clear that this Strawberry Night thing has you worried. And you believe it's dangerous. If anything happens, call my boss, Lieutenant Reiko Himekawa. You can trust her. You have to promise me. Please.”

Tatsumi stared at him with a look of annoyance and then turned away. With a jangle of the cowbell, Tatsumi disappeared without another word into the sweltering backstreets of Ikebukuro.

The mama-san looked upset as she squatted down by Tatsumi's stool and mopped the spilled beer off the floor. Otsuka noticed a small dent in the wall. The bottle must have hit it on its way down.

Otsuka resettled himself on his stool and picked Tatsumi's report up off the counter. It was in an ordinary long thin manila envelope. Inside were two sheets of paper. Otsuka wondered how many people Tatsumi had identified for his ¥240,000.

He ran his eye over the two pages of text. All eight handle names were there! Tatsumi had managed to do the whole damn lot.

Incredible! The guy actually did it!

Otsuka struggled to keep a lid on his excitement as he ran down the list. It turned out that Tatsumi had not just provided the names and addresses of the eight people, but details about their jobs and bank accounts—even domain names and passwords in some cases. The report was a treasure trove of data.

That Tatsumi's quite a guy!

Why then did he get so angry and storm out of the bar? Was it embarrassment at helping the cops? Was it that he didn't want the mama-san to see that he was a good guy at heart? For whatever reason, Tatsumi had urged him to drop the case.

Otsuka shrugged those thoughts off and gave his full attention to the report. He'd reached the sixth name in the list when a single word burst from his lips. “Him!”

The name was a complete shock. At the same time, seeing it there in front of his eyes, in black and white, it made perfect sense. Otsuka had screwed up—badly.

“The bastard!”

The mama-san stared at him, shocked. Otsuka was past caring what she thought.

That fucker! He was making a fool of me!

Otsuka mumbled his thanks, punched the door open, and left.

*   *   *

Otsuka was in a bind. He needed to share his new information with Himekawa as fast as possible. The problem was how. He'd started a rogue investigation without consulting her. At least there was some time before the evening meeting kicked off. That was in his favor. For now, though, he needed to keep his appointment with Kitami. He headed for the music venue where they had agreed to meet.

He went down into the underground concourse of Ikebukuro station and came out again at the east exit where he walked a short distance north, parallel to the railway tracks. The Rockman club, which had shut down two years ago, was located on the edge of a cluster of love hotels and sex clubs. The building's once white walls were caked with grime and smoke stains and laced with cracks. Back in the day, the club had boasted its own colorful neon sign; now all that remained were seven rusting brown letters and a tangle of wiring. The skeletal sign looked as spectral and tragic as a rock star fallen on hard times, thought Otsuka—or was his imagination running away with him?

There were still ten minutes until the rendezvous time, he thought—why not put the time to good use and do a quick reconnaissance?

He noticed a gap between the club and the building to its right. It was an alleyway just wide enough for him to squeeze through. He followed it about ten meters to an open space behind the club. From the smoke and the strong smell of cooking, Otsuka guessed that the building behind it was probably a bar.

There was a door in the back of the empty building. There was also a flight of stairs leading to the basement around the side, but the stairs were blocked by a fence with a locked gate. The back door looked like his best bet for breaking in.

He put his hand on the knob and was startled when it turned easily—too easily, as it turned out. It went around and around without engaging. Probably stripped, he thought. He tried pulling the door toward him. There was an earsplitting metallic grinding noise as the door opened.

That's pretty damn sloppy
.

Inside, the club was pitch black.

“Hello, anyone home?” called Otsuka, more out of habit than anything else, as he walked in.

The stale, mold-tinged atmosphere was the same as in the Cherry Strip Club. Abandoned places all seemed to share the same sour smell. How many of them were there in central Tokyo?

What with the long-drawn-out recession, the answer seemed to be: more and more all the time. Even in the bustling shopping and entertainment districts, you didn't need to venture much off the beaten track to encounter a rash of “To Let” signs. These vacant properties gave Otsuka the feeling that he was getting a backstage view of the city. He was privy to a secret that no one in the front of the house knew—that the whole gaudy, glittering metropolis was nothing more than a cheap papier-mâché façade. And out of sight, something incredible was happening—a murder show.

A sharp squeal of metal interrupted Otsuka's train of thought. Behind him, the door shut. He spun around but could see nothing. The little bit of daylight that had peeped through the half-open doorway had disappeared. Otsuka was trapped in the dark.

Suddenly he sensed that someone else was there.

Who?

Before he could ask the question aloud, he was struck on the head by something hard. He felt dazed as strange colors flashed before his eyes.

I'm screwed!

Unable to stay upright, he sagged to his knees. A powerful light was directed at him from above.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, he forced one eye open. His vision was blurred. He thought he could make out two sets of legs, one in jeans, the other in black leather pants.

“Wait.”

A young man's voice? It seemed to come from Jeans. Leather Pants then passed Jeans the flashlight. Then—a deluge of blows.

Someone was kicking him in the belly, the chest, the arms. A knee connected with his head. The assailant used his body weight to press him to the floor. Otsuka was unable offer any resistance as they went though his pockets.

Who the hell are these people?

His personal effects were tossed any which way onto the dusty concrete floor: his police badge, his wallet, his cell phone, his notebook, his handkerchief.

Eventually, the young man found Tatsumi's envelope in the inside pocket of Otsuka's jacket. He pulled it out. Somewhere above his head, Otsuka heard the crackle of paper.

“You'd got this far, huh?”

He heard the thud as a boot went into the back of his head. As he slid into unconsciousness, he felt his arms being twisted behind him and heard a familiar metallic click. They were handcuffing him—him, a policeman.

 

5

MONDAY, AUGUST 25

As soon as the evening meeting came to an end, Reiko summoned Lieutenant Kitami to the front of the room. He'd come back to the police station without his partner, and she needed to find out what was going on.

“Where's Otsuka? What's happening?”

Kitami's head lolled from side to side like a little boy wilting under a teacher's scolding.

He had fine, delicate features and straight black hair, which he wore slicked back. His muscular torso was at odds with this initial impression of delicacy. Kitami was far more athletic than the usual management fast-trackers, whom Reiko regarded as a bunch of wimps.

However handsome he was, right now Kitami was staring pitifully at the floor, refusing to make eye contact.

“Lieutenant Kitami, I need an answer,” she said sharply.

Out of the corner of her eye, Reiko saw the look of alarm that flashed across the faces of the station commander and the local chief of detectives. Kitami's dad was the director of the Third District, and Kitami himself was a Tokyo University grad destined for the upper echelons. However, right now Reiko didn't care even a little bit.

“Where is Officer Otsuka?”

Kitami didn't reply. With his frown and his tightly clamped lips, he seemed to be locked in a struggle with himself. Reiko was at a loss. Why was Kitami refusing to tell her anything? Behind her, Kikuta was calling Otsuka's cell phone, but Otsuka wasn't picking up.

“When did you split up?” Reiko spoke more quietly this time. Kitami still said nothing.

“Why did you come back here alone? Did you think Otsuka was already here?”

Kitami winced.

“Your silence isn't helping me get a handle on things. Stop behaving like a damn child. If you know what the fuck is going on, you need to tell me. Where did you leave Otsuka?”

Kitami set his jaw.

“Lieutenant Kitami, are you even listening?”

Kitami briefly raised his eyes off the floor, then his head lolled down again. He spoke jerkily, hesitantly.

“Officer Otsuka was flying solo.”

Reiko groaned. It was a reflexive response. The idea of Otsuka going it alone chilled her to the marrow.

“What was he investigating?”

“I don't know,” stammered Kitami. “He wouldn't tell me.”

“When did this start?”

“He went off the day before yesterday. Today was the second time. That's all I know.”

“All day?”

“No, we split up at five and arranged to meet up again at six. We were only supposed to be apart for an hour.… Today I went to a department store café to kill time. At six I went to the place where we'd agreed to meet. He wasn't there. I called his cell but couldn't get through.… I waited there until seven. Then I came back here. I couldn't think of anything else to do.… I'm sorry.”

Otsuka only worked solo for an hour. What could he do in such a short time?

“I'm assuming that Otsuka asked your permission before going off on his own?”

Kitami clammed up.

“Lieutenant Kitami, I asked you a question.”

A pause. “Yes, he did.”

“So why did you let him? It's an ironclad rule in homicide investigations: everyone works in pairs. You know that. Otsuka having experience is no excuse. You're a lieutenant. Your giving him permission undermined the whole chain of command in this investigation. Am I right?”

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“Forgetting Otsuka, wherever he is, for one minute, you're not going to get away with this. It's a serious breach of protocol.”

“I know.”

Everyone in the hushed meeting room was listening to them. The top brass were all there, along with Reiko's squad. Only the local detectives and Katsumata and his men had left already.

“I am going to stay here and wait for Otsuka. If you've got any sense of responsibility, you'll wait here with me.”

“Yes,” Kitami whispered, bowing deeply to Reiko.

*   *   *

Eventually only Himekawa and her squad, together with Ioka and Kitami, remained in the meeting room waiting. They continued calling Otsuka's cell with no luck. It was past eleven when Captain Imaizumi reappeared.