The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) (19 page)

After the excitement of my recovered memory, it took a while for Lieutenant Hata to get me down to earth, and I landed with a thud. He reminded me that many people wear sunglasses, and there was no guarantee that I’d encountered the same man twice. He also pointed out that a stocky woman with short hair or a short wig could be mistaken for a man.

“Will you please come in and make a formal report?” Lieutenant Hata asked. “We have a special unit on gang-related crime. I think they’d be most interested in your story.”

“What makes you so sure this is a gang-related death?” I asked, remembering how Chiyo argued that paying protection money to the
yakuza
didn’t make her one of them.

“The markings on the victim’s forehead.”

“Interesting. If you wanted to find a gangster, where would you go?”

“I’d have one of our informants suggest a meeting place. Why?”

“Oh, just curious.”

“Shimura-san, if you have any intention of going to the corporate headquarters of someone in the crime field, let me warn you that it is a terrible idea. You don’t know what you’re getting involved in at all.”

“So you’re saying that it’s better to meet on neutral territory?”

“No! It’s best not to meet at all. Now, when can I count on you to come to the station?”

I didn’t want to go in. It was one thing to get him concerned about the attack on me, but it was quite another to have him looking through all the data I’d gathered for the
Gaijin Times
article. I wanted him to find the killer, but I had to finish the article in the next few days. I’d give him as much information as possible without relinquishing my files. And I would make photocopies of the written sources, just in case.

“I’ll come tomorrow,” I said, thinking about the copies. “First I’ve got a business appointment.”

After he hung up, I packed up all my notes and trotted around the corner to Family Mart, the convenience store my friend Mr. Waka owned. He wasn’t there; the store was being handled by a sullen young man who told me the photocopier was out of order and made no further offers of help.

I went out on the street, thinking that photocopying would be a valid reason to go to Hattori Copy Shop. However, even though Seiko had been helpful to me, it was too risky to let her see how much information I’d gathered. I wouldn’t go there. Instead, I decided to do my photocopying at a 7-Eleven. There, I made two sets of copies: one to keep hidden under the false bottom of the
tansu
chest in my apartment, and another to use for my work. The originals I put on my bookshelf, ready for the police if they demanded them.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself by the time I made it back to the apartment. It was after 10 a.m., so Hattori Copy Shop would be open. I dialed the number, and Seiko picked up on the first ring.

“I still want to ask you some things,” I said by way of greeting. “Also, I’ve got a copy of
Showa Story
that you left in the bar the first time we talked. Do you want it back?”

“No, I have plenty of copies,” she said in a whisper. “How are you feeling? Did you get home safely from the hospital?”

“I’m out and doing fine. I’d like to talk to you again. I was asking you about Rika Fuchida right before they took me away to the hospital, wasn’t I?”

Instead of answering my question, she said, “Um, that’s going to be difficult. I have to work a lot of extra hours here because of Comiko this weekend.”

“Oh, you’re going to the convention?”

“Yes. Will I see you there?”

“Definitely. Bye, then.” I hung up, thinking. Then I telephoned Takeo at the country house.

“Oh, hello, Rei.” He sounded out of breath. “I’m halfway into installing the new bath. How are you?”

“Fine.” I didn’t want to worry him with the story about the train station, although I knew I’d have to tell him when he saw my face and body. “I don’t want to keep you at a time like this, but I’m going to make a slightly brazen request. I was wondering if I could come visit you. I know you’re busy, but I promise not to get in your way.”

“Of course. I’ll pick you up at the train station when you get in—I’m not going to allow a miscommunication to happen this time, all right?”

“Okay. I figured your home would be the perfect base for going to the
manga
convention. It might mean long days there, but I found out Seiko Hattori’s going.”

“I thought she wouldn’t talk to you,” Takeo said. “Didn’t she run out on you at the bar?”

“Since then we’ve met once, and we spoke on the phone just before I called you. She’s turning out to be a good source. I can follow up on her and also the gangster angle.”

“What gangster angle?” There was an edge to Takeo’s voice.

“I would like to have a serious conversation with someone in the organized crime field about Nicky’s death. Was the mark on Nicky’s forehead a gang tattoo? I’d like the opinion of an expert.”

“And where do you you’ll find such an expert gangster?”

“As you once told me, on the beach. I’m sure that if I handle the situation respectfully, I’ll be fine.”

“Listen, I’m trying to help you in every way I can, but there is no way I can arrange such an introduction! My family is not friendly with the
yakuza.
We’ve suffered in the past from them.”

I was suddenly interested to know more about that, but I didn’t want to get him off track. I tried again. “Look, I’m going to have to find one of these fellows. I have the theory that chatting with one when he’s relaxing with a beer and in the mood to talk to girls would be more efficient than knocking on an office door in some sleazy building.”

“It’s still dangerous. If you try to interview a criminal, will you at least promise to conduct the interviews within my line of vision? I just want to make sure that you’re all right.”

I nodded. “Why don’t you sit at a table nearby? Just don’t stare at us.”

“We can do it tomorrow.” Takeo sounded resigned. “Today I must finish up some things in the house. And when you’re not doing your interviews, you can use my house to do your writing.”

It sounded like a good plan. The only hindrance was Hayama’s distance from the
Gaijin Times.
But then again, distance offered some protection. Considering Rika’s possible role in my recent accident, perhaps it was smarter to be out of touch.

Putting together my luggage for the short stay in Hayama was more trouble than I expected. First, I needed all my notes, my laptop computer, and plenty of other odds and ends relating to the animation story.  By the end that was done it was time to think about clothes. I wasn’t in the mood to pack my bikini, but I needed to wear one, if my goal was to approach gangsters on the beach. And when I’d taken my morning shower, I had discovered that my bikini line was already growing back. So much for Miss Kumiko’s painful and expensive waxing. I experimented with a tube of mysterious Japanese depilatory cream that had been lingering in my bathroom cabinet for about a year, and was able to wipe it off just in time to dash out and make the subway connection that would take me to Tokyo Station, where I would pick up the last JR train of the hour to Zushi Station. I moved so fast through the stations that I didn’t have time to dwell on the memory of my last time in a train station, when I’d been pushed.

During the hour-long ride, I realized that I hadn’t done a very good job wiping off the cream. It was supposed to smell like ‘sugar lemon,’ but the odor was fairly noxious. People sitting nearby kept casting evil glances at me, even after I opened the window. I had a sinus headache by the time I’d gotten off the train and saw Takeo waiting in his Range Rover.

“What happened to you?” he asked from the rolled-down window.

The bruises were so bad I’d have to tell him. Reluctantly I said, “Someone hit me in the train station yesterday. That’s part of the reason I wanted to spend some time here.” The other part—wanting to avoid Lieutenant Hata’s inquiry into my journalism project—I left unsaid.

Takeo jumped out of the car and ran around to open my door. “Take it easy, please! And tell me everything.”

I did, and when I was through, he shook his head. “I’m glad you called me. But I would have picked you up in Tokyo if I’d known about this train station attack. How do you know someone didn’t follow you from the station out here?”

“I don’t.” I sighed heavily. “But I like to think that attack was supposed to be a one-time warning.”

“Oops, let’s roll up the windows. There’s a strange chemical smell,” Takeo said, shifting into drive. “Probably some work being done in the neighborhood.”

Was I stupid or what to worry about my bikini line when there was a bruise marring my face? What was the whole point of beauty rituals at a time like this?

It helps me calm down,
I reminded myself. I looked out the window, trying to relax and observe. Zushi Station was surrounded by narrow streets lined with small shops selling household and beach goods. There were a few signs welcoming
manga
convention-goers, too. Young people with spiked hair received curious glances, as well as smiles, from apron-clad ladies sweeping the pavement.

“Why don’t you roll down the windows again? I think we’re away from the fumes,” I said to Takeo after a few blocks. “It’s really nice of you to take me to your place. I hope that I’ll be able to finish my story. I did some writing on the train, and that only made me realize how far I have to go.”

“The further you go, the more dangerous your situation gets. The only comfort to me is that whoever looks at your notes won’t be able to understand a thing. Your handwriting is impossible!” We were at another of the interminable stops, and Takeo had taken a quick glance at the notebook I’d carried off the train. The road was narrow, and there was a truck ahead trying to make a right turn against a flood of oncoming traffic.

“I’ll use my laptop when at your house,” I said. “Right now, I’m trying to decide whether to keep it somewhat of an art story or turn it completely into a crime story. There’s been so much violence that it seems silly to harp on Kunio’s depictions of Showa-period decadence.”

“Could you do the art commentary in a shorter form—ask some hotshot in the art world to look at comic books and give his opinion?”

“I suppose so. The thing is, I wanted to say so myself, in my own words. I once had a dream that I’d found a great young artist to expose commercially. But it turns out that he doesn’t really need exposure. The artist who does the regular
Mars Girl
comic book wanted to hire Kunio for her team. He ignored her.”

“Do you really think Kunio’s still alive?” Takeo gave me a sideways look.

“Do you think he’s been killed?”

“Why else would he be so hard to find?” Takeo sounded impatient, and I wondered if it was because of the traffic or my own slowness to realize the obvious. Of course, I’d thought that Kunio might be dead. But I didn’t want to. From the moment I saw his exquisite drawings, I’d started building him into a fantasy figure. All the women who spoke of his gorgeous appearance and charm just added fuel to the fire. First I’d wanted to discover him; after Nicky died, I’d wanted to save him. Now Takeo was stating the obvious, and I didn’t want to believe it.

“The afternoon that I said good-bye to Nicky, I called the Show a Boy dance club,” I said to Takeo. “A man answered the telephone. When he heard my name, he asked if I was the reporter trying to locate Kunio. I said yes, and he told me that Kunio had decided he was uninterested in participating in the article. Now I believe the man speaking might have been Kunio himself.”

“Why not another one of the dancers?” Takeo asked.

I shook my head. “The dancers are all foreigners. The accent, pace, and choice of words the speaker used were quintessentially Japanese.”

“But Kunio doesn’t work there. He painted the walls, and he left. Why do you think there’s a link?”

I couldn’t come up with a good answer.

We picked up speed as we headed on the newer, wider roads to Hayama. I stretched pleasurably, almost forgetting the aches from my subway station fall. For the next day or two, I could balance research on gangsters and animation with thoughtful conversations with Takeo. I liked talking to him about my work. He asked hard questions. I also appreciated that he encouraged me to keep going with the story rather than to stop. At first, that encouragement had made me almost resentful, but now I knew that I needed it.

“You’ve stopped writing,” Takeo said when he caught me smiling at him.

“I was just thinking about how helpful you are to me,” I said.

“It’s not such a sacrifice to spend a few days with you. After all, I’m an unemployed guy.”

Was there a hint of sadness behind Takeo’s light banter? I looked at him closely, but I couldn’t see anything in his face. He looked as handsome and relaxed as ever, but his words reminded me that I wasn’t the only person who would need special tending over the next few days.

The first thing I noticed as we swung into the pebbled driveway was the new roof. Wave-shaped dark blue tiles covered the roof in neat rows. There were no more gaps on the roof with weeds shooting out of them. I congratulated Takeo on the roof, and he modestly ducked his head.

“There were three of us working on the project. And I feel a little bad that I had to get rid of so many of the old tiles. The new ones look pretty, but I just hate to create garbage.”

As I got out of the car, I saw that he had in fact stacked the old, worn tiles in a large pile behind the house.

“Can they be recycled?” I asked.

“Certainly not for use on a roof. But maybe in pieces, if someone needs weight to hold something down. The broken edges, however, are sharp. They’re not safe to touch.”

I bent to examine a jagged piece. “If you could smash these up finely, they could go to an artist for use in a mosaic.”

“That’s a clever idea.” Takeo walked around the pile. “I was thinking of redoing the wall that shields the house from the street. I can make some kind of pattern with the blue. Blue and gray.”

“A very Japanese color combination,” I said, tucking a piece of tile in a handkerchief and putting it in the outer pocket of my backpack. I would try to find a harmonious fabric and design some slipcovers for the house’s garden chairs.

An urn brimmed with pampas grass and a few sunflowers sat next to the door, giving me the feeling that a woman was home. But Takeo’s mother was deceased, and his sister, Natsumi, and I didn’t get along very well. The flowers weren’t from the house’s garden, which was even more intriguing. I’d seen them somewhere.

“Are these flowers from the side of the road? Near Animagine?”

“That’s right. I did a little roadside scavenging.”

“I’m glad you still are arranging flowers,” I said, relieved he hadn’t said Natsumi was around.

“I like to arrange with found materials,” he said. “It made me sick the other day when I found out that our
ikebana
school has just made a contract with a greenhouse in Singapore that uses a cocktail of chemicals to give their orchids a special sheen. I won’t touch the plants, even with gloves on, and I don’t think the laborers tending them should have to either. My father said we needed orchids, and that was the end of it. I shot off to the country after that.”

“Did you tell your father about me?” I asked.

“No. I said that I’d be working on the house.”

So he hadn’t been brave enough to mention me, most likely because his father would have said no to the idea of us spending time together under the family roof. I remembered Takeo’s fear of gossip about us after his old schoolmate had seen us in Animagine. The Kayamas were big carp swimming in a tiny pond. They had to protect their reputation.

“Let’s go inside,” Takeo said. We stepped in and he immediately switched on a new air conditioner. It started with a gentle hum—Japanese air conditioners are much quieter than their big, bulky American counterparts—and I looked around. The mold that had frosted the rough walls had been scrubbed off, along with the cob-webs and dead insects. An intense grassy smell came from the new, yellow-green
tatami
mats covering the floors. The house had been thoroughly cleaned and looked much more attractive. I could see that painting needed to be done here and there, but Takeo had made great progress.

“I’m thinking about doing away with some of the walls. There are too many useless small rooms. I want to see the garden all the way from the kitchen.” Takeo walked briskly through the house, sliding open doors here and there, showing me the walls that had been repainted in pale colors taken from nature: stone, moss, robin’s-egg blue. The feeling of openness was furthered by the fresh paper screens that slid to the side of each window, offering views of the sea and gardens.

As I made the circuit, I saw how beautifully Takeo had painted the walls. I also saw how neatly historic-looking tile had been fitted into the old bathroom floors, and how the fine old furniture gleamed from refinishing.

We were going to have to move furniture back into place, an enjoyable prospect for me, because Takeo said he wanted my ideas on how to rearrange things. The one room that was designed to stay permanently empty was a small reception room near the front of the house. Its sole furnishing was a gilded antique Buddhist altar that displayed a faded color photograph of a beautiful woman. Set on a plate in front of the picture was a small crystal goblet with a golden liquid. I could smell plums, but there were none in sight.

“Is this your mother’s altar?” I asked.

“Yes,” Takeo said. “By the way, I put your bags in the same room as last time. Do you want to rest for a few minutes while I make lunch?”

“You’re making lunch?” I asked.

“Yes. While I’ve been out here on my own, I’ve experimented a little.”

I decided to take a shower, scrubbing off the last of the depilatory, and put on my bathing suit covered by a T-shirt in preparation for my trek to the beach. I applied some cover stick over the bruise shadowing my jaw as well as the ones on my arms and legs. Then I sat on a rock in the Zen garden, letting the sun dry my hair, while Takeo prepared a meal in the kitchen. It was unusual for a Japanese man who wasn’t a chef by trade to cook for a woman. Because he seemed intent and a little bit worried in the kitchen, I’d decided not to hang around watching. I hadn’t told Takeo, but I was in pain. Not only did I have a headache, but my bruised tailbone felt worse than before.

I hoped that I’d remembered to bring ibuprofen in my backpack. Thinking about this, I went from the garden to the sliding windows that led to the moss-green bedroom where Takeo had said we would be sleeping. The new
tatami
floor was already covered by tidy stacks of home design and gardening magazines. A double bed was set up on a low, lacquered platform with a couple of folded sheets laid out on top, waiting to be made up.

To my surprise, Takeo had already unpacked my luggage, including toiletries. He’d arranged my deodorant, hairbrush, moisturizer, and makeup on top of his
tansu
chest. The ibuprofen was still in my backpack, but as I took it out a funny realization hit me: the Valium was missing. I wondered if Takeo had removed it. He wasn’t the type who took anything outside of the occasional glass of beer or sake. I wondered whether he had flushed the tablets down the toilet because he wanted me to be more holistic. Feeling spooked, I took the ibuprofen and went to the kitchen to get some answers.