“So the inn had nothing to do with it. Which makes sense, because you’d think their first reaction if somebody got poisoned would be to call an ambulance,” one of the officers said, a section chief from prefectural homicide named Hozumi. He had a thick head of black hair, with a few white streaks through the bushy mustache beneath his hawklike nose.
Everyone was taking the autopsy report from Tokyo very seriously. Yet, while their initial assumption that Tsukahara had slipped and fallen to his death by accident had been thrown out the window, they lacked any evidence indicating murder. Without any evidence of murder, there was no official homicide task force.
“Have we entirely ruled out the possibility of this being an accident?” Hozumi asked the room.
“I think it’s safe to say there is a zero possibility he developed acute carbon monoxide poisoning on top of that seawall,” the forensics chief said. “I looked over the initial report from the team that examined the body as it was found, and there were no traces of anything having been burned, nor is it particularly easy to poison oneself by burning charcoal outside.”
“Is it possible he breathed in enough carbon monoxide to poison himself somewhere else, then went to the seawall, where he expired? I’ve heard of delayed symptoms in these cases.”
“Er, regarding that,” Isobe said, gingerly raising his hand. “I had one of my men talk to an expert yesterday.” He turned and glared at a young officer sitting in the corner of the room.
The officer stood and pulled out a notepad. “I spoke with Professor Yamada at the medical university, and apparently there have been instances where someone with light symptoms becomes confused, occasionally suffering severe mood swings and other personality changes. This can happen particularly in cases where carboxyhemoglobin concentration is above ten percent. However, the autopsy report showed a concentration so far above ten percent that it would be practically impossible for him to have moved to another location on his own. It was Professor Yamada’s opinion that he likely expired in the place where he was poisoned.”
“In other words,” Hozumi said, “he got poisoned someplace else. Anyone have any ideas on how somebody could’ve poisoned him intentionally?”
“The most orthodox method of carbon monoxide poisoning would be to situate oneself in a small, confined space, like an automobile, and burn charcoal. There was a bit of a boom in suicides using this method after an Internet post labeling it a ‘painless suicide’ gained some traction.”
“Which reminds me,” Hozumi said, his mustache twitching. “Did the autopsy report also mention sleeping pills? Is it possible that our perpetrator here forced the victim into the car, force-fed him some pills, then burned some charcoal?”
“Then, after ascertaining he was poisoned, they dropped him from the seawall,” Isobe concluded. “After which the perpetrator could simply drive off. I suppose that would make sense.”
Hozumi nodded. “It does. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence to support that. So it’s still impossible to say whether the carbon monoxide poisoning was done intentionally by a third party or was the work of the victim himself.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Isobe quickly agreed.
“And there were no records of unusual calls having been made from the victim’s phone?”
“That’s correct. We checked with the phone company too, just in case someone erased his history. There was nothing.”
This meeting is all kinds of wrong, Nishiguchi thought. So far, it seemed, the only people saying anything substantive about the case were from the prefectural police. Motoyama, Chief Okamoto, and even Hari police commissioner Tomita were sitting like obedient dogs, waiting for scraps at the table.
“What’s this about the victim taking a detour to see the house of someone he arrested?” Hozumi said suddenly, turning toward the Hari contingent. Nishiguchi stiffened in his chair.
“Ah, right,” Motoyama said. “You have a report for us, Detective Nishiguchi?”
Nishiguchi stood, opening his notebook. “The victim visited a house in East Hari, part of a summer home development. The house was purchased by one Hidetoshi Senba, and was his primary residence for some time, until he put it up for sale and moved to Tokyo for work reasons. There, he was arrested for murder by Detective Tsukahara. We’ve requested the case files from Tokyo, and they should already have been sent to Chief Isobe.”
Isobe opened the folder on the table in front of him and showed it to Hozumi.
“So a man from the countryside goes to the big city and stabs a former hostess … that’s so straightforward it’s a little sad,” Hozumi said, his lack of interest evident.
“I spoke with the widow over the phone,” Isobe added. “She said he frequently wondered about the people he’d arrested. It’s not inconceivable that he decided to drop in on Senba’s old residence while he was in the area.”
Hozumi rubbed his jaw and nodded. “He wouldn’t be the first detective like that. Nor would this Senba guy be the first perp to hold a grudge against his arresting officer. Find out where he is and what he’s up to.”
“Right away,” Isobe said, turning to one of his men and passing the order down with a nod of his head.
“Well, Commissioner?” Hozumi said, turning to the ever-taciturn Tomita. “I’ll talk to the chief back at the Shizuoka PD, but it looks like we’ve at least got a case of an abandoned body. That should be cause enough to set up an investigative task force here.”
Tomita looked like he had been daydreaming. He jerked upright in his chair and, mouth hanging half open, rapidly nodded his head. “Right, right, of course. Might be a good idea,” he said.
“Then let’s get that started today. We’ll get all of Isobe’s men over here, for starters. We can add more as needed. Sound good?”
“Right, understood. We’ll help however we can.”
Nishiguchi gave a light sigh, watching the commissioner kowtow.
His cell phone buzzed once in his jacket pocket—an incoming e-mail. Sliding it out of his pocket, he held it underneath the table and opened his mailbox, and his pulse quickened when he saw who it was from: Narumi Kawahata.
TWENTY-TWO
Kusanagi parked his beloved Nissan by the side of the road and checked the GPS screen. Houses stood on both sides of the winding single-lane road, small fields and patches of forest between them.
“It should be around here somewhere,” he muttered. The houses had been built a distance from the road, making it hard to check the names and numbers.
“I’ll get out and look,” Utsumi offered from the passenger seat.
Kusanagi pulled out the ashtray and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. He liked being in his own car, where no one could tell him not to smoke. He cracked open the window, and warm air spilled in.
The two detectives were in Hatogaya, a small city north of Tokyo, where Masatsugu Tsukahara had lived.
“There’s something there,” Tatara had announced when Kusanagi went to see him at the police station in Shinagawa. “Hidetoshi Senba’s a part of this,” he had explained after Kusanagi shot him an uncomprehending look.
“I went drinking with Tsukahara just before he retired. I remember asking him which case he remembered the most. I was just making conversation. I figured since Tsukahara had a nearly photographic memory, he’d tell me he remembered them all the same or something like that. Except, that’s not what he said.”
Tatara paused, remembering. “‘Hidetoshi Senba,’ that’s what he said after thinking about it for a little while. Of course, I had completely forgotten the name, so I had no idea what he was talking about. It was only when he mentioned the former hostess that things started to come trickling back. It was a quick case, with no trouble in court at all, so I asked him, why that one?”
But Tsukahara hadn’t answered Tatara’s question. He just shook his head and told him he was only kidding.
“There are plenty of detectives who remember every case they’ve been on, big or small. I’ll bet most of them co
uldn’t tell you why, either. So I didn’t press him on it. But now that we know he paid Senba’s old house a visit, I’m starting to think there was more to it. I need you to look into this.”
Kusanagi tried to go straight to the source and set up a meeting with Senba by himself, but his whereabouts proved hard to pin down. Utsumi had found out that when he got out of prison, an acquaintance had gotten him a job working at a recycling center in Adachi, but the company had gone out of business soon afterward. No one knew what happened to Senba after that.
Which left Tsukahara as their only lead. If he was that obsessed with Senba, it was possible they’d been in contact. Kusanagi would’ve preferred to check his notebooks or phone, but both of those were being held at the Hari Police Department.
Utsumi came jogging back to the car. “I found it, just a little up ahead. There’s a place to park.”
“Thanks,” Kusanagi said, releasing his parking brake.
Masatsugu Tsukahara’s house was a simple, wooden, two-story affair. His widow, Sanae, let them in, showing them to a room with a view out on a small rear garden. There was a small alcove for the family altar in the room, with pictures of people Kusanagi assumed were Sanae’s and her husband’s deceased parents. He wondered how soon Tsukahara’s photo would be joining them.
“The mortician will be releasing the body to me tomorrow,” Sanae said, her voice as thin as her features.
Kusanagi expressed his condolences before breaking the news that there was an increasing possibility that her husband’s death had not been a simple accident. Sanae didn’t seem surprised.
“I thought it might’ve been something like that the moment I heard he died. It just didn’t make sense, him getting drunk and falling off some rocks.…” She shook her head. “That wasn’t him.”
Though her tone was soft, it held absolute conviction.
“Do you have any idea why your late husband might’ve gone to the house of a man he once arrested, one Hidetoshi Senba?” Kusanagi asked.
She frowned and shook her head. “The local police called and asked me the same question when they found out, too. I know he often thought about his old cases, but I never heard the name Senba from him myself. To my knowledge, they never corresponded.”
“Did your husband ever keep case files around the house?”
She shook her head again. “He got rid of all of those when he retired. I remember him saying he didn’t need them anymore. Since he wasn’t a police officer anymore, keeping them would be an invasion of privacy.”
Kusanagi nodded, a picture of the old, steel-eyed detective forming in his mind.
“But there’s a chance he might’ve left something in the study. Would you like to take a look?”
“If I might, yes,” Kusanagi replied immediately.
The study was a small room on the second floor. A wooden desk sat near a window, with a bookshelf beside it. Most of the books were historical fiction. There wasn’t a single mystery in sight, let alone crime fiction or anything to do with the police. On the lowest shelf sat a thick phone book.
With Sanae’s permission, he opened the drawer on the desk, but found nothing bearing any relation to the case.
The phone rang downstairs, and Sanae excused herself to go answer it.
Kusanagi pulled the phone book off the shelf.
“Something catch your eye?” Utsumi asked.
“Well, people usually put these directories by the landline phone—but there isn’t even a cordless phone up here.”
“Good point.”
“Also, this is the phone book for Tokyo, and from last year—well after he retired. Why do you think he needed this anymore?”
Kusanagi rested the phone book on the desk and began leafing through the pages, noticing several had been dog-eared. He opened them to find that most were pages showing budget hotels in Tokyo’s Taito and Arakawa wards. In particular, there seemed to be a lot of them with addresses in South Senju, near the Namidabashi Bridge.
Kusanagi exchanged a glance with Utsumi, then he smoothed out the dog-eared pages and closed the book. He’d just put it back on the shelf when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“That was the Hari Police. They called to tell me someone from the prefectural police would be coming to pay me a visit tonight to ask some more things about my husband. What should I tell them?”
“Everything you told us. Just the facts should be fine,” Kusanagi said.
“Of course. So, did you find anything?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Kusanagi said, shaking his head and standing. “Sorry for the trouble. Just one more thing: I was hoping I could borrow a photograph of your husband. Something that shows his face clearly.”
* * *
“Why didn’t you tell the widow about the telephone book?” Utsumi asked shortly after they got into the car and began driving. Kusanagi was surprised she’d been able to resist the urge to ask so long.
“Because I don’t know that it has anything to do with the case. It’s never good to bring unsubstantiated evidence to the bereaved. That’s one of the golden rules of police work.”
“But you think it does have something to do with our case, don’t you?”
“Maybe. What do you think?”
“I think it does.”
Kusanagi glanced over at his passenger. “That was quick.”
“Well, you have to wonder why Tsukahara would have that phone book after retirement. If it was to look up cheap motels, then I can only think of one possible reason.”
“And that is?”
“He was looking for someone,” Utsumi said immediately. “Tsukahara was looking for someone without a permanent address. And why would this person not have a permanent address?”
“Because he was unemployed with a criminal record, which prevented him from renting?”
“Think I’m jumping to conclusions?”
“Perhaps. I can’t say whether Senba was the one staying in a budget hotel or not, but it’s very likely that Tsukahara was doing a little sleuthing in his retirement. Old habits die hard.”
If Tsukahara had been on the trail of Senba, then they could pick up where he left off, Kusanagi thought.
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Are you going to tell the local police about this? If you do, they might help us find Senba.”
“They don’t know Tokyo like we do.”
“So you’re not going to tell them about this, or what the director said about Tsukahara remembering Senba’s case?”
Kusanagi frowned. “You’re awful feisty all of a sudden. Do you have a problem with not telling them?”
“Are we under orders from the director to offer all possible assistance to the prefectural police?”
Kusanagi sighed. “Haphazardly feeding them information isn’t going to help solve this case.”
“What do you mean?”
“I called the Green Rock Inn last night to talk to Yukawa.”
“You called the inn? Why not his cell phone?”
“I tried that first, but he didn’t pick up. Apparently, his phone got busted in an experiment—something about shoddy waterproofing. Anyway, I talked to him, and of course he knew about the death, but he didn’t know any details beyond the basics. So I explained to him what happened, and how I got put on the case.”
“The professor must’ve been surprised.”
“Not really. In fact, not at all. He didn’t know that the dead man was a former detective, but he had suspected murder.”
“Really? Why was that?”
“The sandal. They found one of the sandals Tsukahara had been wearing on the rocks. But according to Yukawa, the seawall was pretty high—it would’ve been hard to climb up with sandals on. He said it had bothered him, but he trusted the local police to do their jobs, and didn’t want to be a nuisance—his words. So he said nothing.” Kusanagi rolled his eyes.
“How like him. Did he say he would help with the
investigation?”
Kusanagi put his foot on the brake and slowed down as the light ahead of them turned yellow. They pulled to a stop just before the line, and he turned to face Utsumi. “What do you think he said?”
Utsumi’s eyes drifted as she thought. “‘I’ve had enough of helping with police investigations, thank you very much.’ Something like that?”
“That’s what you’d expect, right? That’s what I expected, at least. But instead, he said he’d do what he could.”
Utsumi blinked. “Really?”
“I was surprised too. I almost wanted to ask him why, except I was afraid that might make him change his mind.”
“Good call,” Utsumi said. “But what does this have to do with not passing along our information to the prefectural police?”
The light turned green, and Kusanagi turned his eyes back to the road. “Just before he hung up, Yukawa said this might be a ‘particularly thorny’ case. I asked him what he meant, but he didn’t give me a straight answer. That’s when I knew he’d noticed something other than the sandal. Maybe he hadn’t figured it out entirely just yet, but there was definitely something that grabbed his interest about the case.”
“He does have a keen eye—maybe he saw something?”
“Something or someone. He’s got a good eye for people, too, and I’d bet his willingness to get involved is because he knows a person with the key to cracking this puzzle. Which is why I decided to bypass the prefectural police and go straight to Yukawa.” Kusanagi glanced over. “Well? Think I’m barking up the wrong tree?”
“No, I think you’re right to get Yukawa on board. His insight has helped solve more than a few cases in the past. But I think not sharing information with the prefectural police is a separate matter, no?”