Tokyo Vice (27 page)

That was what he’d done—allegedly more than a hundred times.
^2*

After October 16, with each passing day, more and more evidence surfaced proving that Obara was a serial rapist and also connecting him to Lucie’s disappearance. After Lucie vanished, Obara showed up at an apartment in Miura that he had not used for years. He was spotted with his hands covered in concrete. He refused to let the caretaker of the apartment into his room. He was caught trying to change the lock of the caretaker’s apartment; he had mistaken it for his own. He was seen at a nearby beach with a shovel.

The caretaker was suspicious and reported him to the police. When they showed up, Obara would not let them in. Traces of concrete were found in his apartment.

Of course, a lot of people wondered why the police hadn’t searched his apartment then. There were no good answers.

In October, before his arrest, Obara purchased an expensive motorboat without even bothering to look at it. The TMPD believed that he was planning to use the boat to destroy evidence linking him to the crime.

The police analyzed the drugs taken from Obara’s homes and found several different kinds of sleeping pills, which were probably used in sexually assaulting not only foreign women but Japanese women too.

Once it leaked out that the victims had included Japanese women, the media frenzy increased.

The most damning evidence was the videotapes. The police were able to confirm more than a hundred videotapes of Obara sexually assaulting mostly Caucasian women. The tapes were recorded on 8 mm and VHS cartridges. The police had collected the tapes from his
former home in Setagaya Ward as well as his second home, a condominium in the Zushi area of Kanagawa Prefecture. All of the women appeared to be unconscious and unable to resist Obara’s assaults.

Lucie was not on any of the tapes. The tapes were in semichronological order, but no tapes had been made around the period when Lucie had vanished. At the end of October, the Tokyo District Public Prosecutor’s Office officially indicted Obara on the first of many charges.

Unfortunately, Obara was still not talking. No one should have been surprised. The man had graduated from the law department of Keio University. He knew the law, and he knew how the police worked.

The cops tried the standard ploy: “If you don’t tell us where Lucie is buried, her spirit will never rest in peace.”

It didn’t work. Not only did Obara initially refuse to admit knowing Lucie at all, he claimed that all the victims had been paid prostitutes who had willingly consented to having sex with him.

The big question was still this: had anyone seen Obara and Lucie together?

I was supposed to find out. If we could find a witness to that, not only would we have a scoop but we’d have something to trade with the cops, information they wanted. It would be the equivalent of two scoops.

Yamamoto had high hopes that I would get something.

“Adelstein,” he said, patting me on the back while we sat at the counter of Propaganda in Roppongi, “do you know the saying
‘ja no michi wa hebi’?”

“Yes. I think in English that would be translated as ‘the snake knows the way of the serpent.’”

“Exactly. You’re a gaijin, the victim is a gaijin, the victim’s family are gaijin, the witnesses are probably gaijin. Obara himself is probably Korean-Japanese, making him also a gaijin, so you’re the perfect reporter to follow the story from the nonpolice side. Bring me back something good.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t do your best. Use your brain. Get results. Effort doesn’t count for shit. I appreciate it, but it’s the results that count.”

“All right, I’ll do a half-assed job, but I’ll bring back something interesting.”

“Exactly.”

He bought me another drink and then headed off to try to catch one of the detectives at his home.

I had now spent several weeks going to hostess bars and strip bars in Roppongi. At first it was kind of exciting and fun. Enough alcohol and pheromones could make you forget that ultimately what you were researching was something tragic and sinister. Nudity, sexy dances, flirtation, alcohol, the scent of sweat and perfume, being fondled by women clearly above my pay grade, having my shoulders rubbed and having the
Yomiuri
pay for it all—it was not unpleasant.

After a week, though, the appeal faded. You notice the lines under the women’s eyes, you get to know their backgrounds, you see the bruises on their arms. You can hear the Japanese managers discussing the women like so many cattle. If you’re approachable, which I am, the girls will began to tell you how the system really works. They’re not enjoying themselves and many of the girls working there see you as an enemy to be crushed, a con to be milked. Not fun anymore.

My daughter, Beni, was born in September of that year, and I would have preferred to be home, hanging out with Sunao and interacting with the little rug rat, but instead I was spending every night in sleazy, poorly lit bars. Sunao knew where I was going and she understood the job, so it didn’t bother her much. She’d been a journalist herself, and she knew that when I’d become a shakaibu reporter, if we had children, she’d essentially be a single mother.

I remember sitting in Private Eyes one night, an Indian woman with gigantic breasts on my lap. As she stuffed her nipples into my face, I could think only one thing: I wonder if Beni is breast-feeding right now?

I made repeated trips to Outline.
^3*
Obara had been a frequent customer there, and the owner had a picture of him, one less than twenty years old. I made no bones about being a reporter from my first visit; I knew he could tell. But he let me talk to the women as long as I paid for their company. There were women who knew Obara and some who
knew Lucie as well. Lucie, because she was tall and friendly, had made a name for herself in a small area of Roppongi. She was well liked. I found one girl who knew Obara and Lucie, but no one who had seen them together. I kept getting that hammered into my head by my boss: find someone who can connect the two, and we’ll have a scoop.

According to the manager of Outline, when Obara had come to the club he always had a bodyguard with him, a thuggish-looking guy who also doubled as his driver. He was a short, sturdy guy. The mama-san said that Obara and his bodyguard looked a lot alike, except Obara had longer hair tinged with gray.

She added that Obara had a Korean face as well.

“What’s a Korean face look like?” I asked the mama-san.

“Someone with a face like Obara’s bodyguard.”

Obara’s face was more square than round, she added; he didn’t talk much, and he seemed kind of gloomy. This information wasn’t very helpful.

I went to Seventh Heaven, thinking maybe Lucie had made friends with some of the girls there. The foreign worker community in Roppongi at the time was very small.

The basic setup of the club was typical of most strip clubs in the area; a small round wooden stage with a pole, slightly elevated, with a curtain behind it. The room was very dark; speakers were built into the ceiling. Groups of seats and sofas were situated around the stage. On the far left was the private dance area, blocked off by a thick curtain. There were three booths in the private dance area, with armless chairs in each booth.

During a private dance, the customer sits and the girl gyrates on top of him, in dry-hump fashion, for the duration of one song—for 7,000 yen. She might tongue your ear or feel up your crotch, but no more than that. Squeezing breasts is permitted but nippling (sucking on the breasts) is acceptable only for a regular customer or someone who has paid for at least three private dances. It was just understood.

There was one girl, Mindy, who would always talk to me. Greedy Mindy. She was the only redhead in the place, short with huge breasts (maybe natural) and quite attractive in an Irish sort of way. She could milk a customer like a dairymaid with a fecund cow. I bought her some drinks, and while she sat on my lap, she whispered in my ear what was happening. She said that that evening, right before the club had opened, two detectives from the TMPD had visited the club and
shown the manager a black-and-white photo. There were two men in the photo, one with his arm around the other guy’s shoulder; the man in the center you could see clearly; the other guy’s face was cropped out of the picture.

The police asked the manager if he recognized the man, and the manager said he did. Mindy hadn’t heard the rest of the conversation. The man was Obara.

The
Yomiuri
wanted more information.

It wasn’t easy to get. The women didn’t like reporters. One very attractive potential source called me “an asshole” to my face. Ouch.

I spent the night of October 14 trying a new tactic. As a customer I wasn’t getting too far, and I decided that what I needed was a proxy, someone the girls would be less wary of. I called up Kristin, a tall, buxom, blond Montana girl, and asked her to help me out. She was married to my best friend from college. She was actually excited to play private eye and met me in Roppongi the same night after finishing her job teaching English.

Here is the cover story and the plan we’d worked out: Kristin would be looking for a job as a hostess/stripper, and I would be her boyfriend. The City News Department was running out of money, and by visiting the clubs for “job interviews” we would get in free and maybe get some valuable intelligence.

Mindy was sitting at a table by herself when we got to Seventh Heaven. The manager had us wait inside while he called his boss to set up an impromptu interview. They were always looking for new, big-breasted blond women to display, and Kristin fit the bill.

As soon as Kristin and I sat down, Mindy sat herself between the two of us.

She turned to me.

“Well, who’s your lovely friend? I’m Mindy.”

“I’m Kristin,” my friend answered. “I’m thinking of working here. How’s the job?”

“Well,” said Mindy, now knee to knee with Kristin, “if you like men, it’s a good job. Good pay. Although, men, men, men all the time. It gets a little boring. Men are so hard, so cold.”

As Mindy was lamenting the coldness of men, her hands went to Kristin’s knees and then up to Kristin’s breasts. Gently kneading them, she leaned forward, her lips approaching Kristin’s neck—and then I
snapped the back of Mindy’s bra, hard, and she pulled back. Kristin was looking uncomfortable. She sipped from the glass of orange juice the bartender had brought her.

“Why’d you have to do that?” Mindy glared at me and puffed out her lower lip, pouting. “I know,” she said, suddenly looking happy. “You’re jealous. You don’t want to share me with your girlfriend. I’ll give you a special, long private dance just so you know you still have a special place in my heart.”

“I’m not here for a private dance tonight.”

Mindy wasn’t fazed. She slipped her arm around Kristin’s shoulder, playing with her hair, adding, “I’d be delighted to give a private dance to a woman, as well.” Kristin looked at Mindy for a second and then burst out laughing, almost shooting orange juice out her nose. I told Mindy that if she could get me Obara’s photo, I’d pay for four private dances and she could just sit there and paint her nails. Her eyes lit up.

Kristin noticed that Mindy had a diamond-studded Rolex on her wrist. Mindy explained that a customer had given it to her.

“You would not believe this asshole who gave it to me. He thinks because he gave me a fancy little watch that he owns this sweet little ass. He could not be more wrong.”

Mindy had already been drinking for some time before we’d come, and I think the part of her brain playing gatekeeper to her mouth had long since shut down. Maybe it was because Kristin was there, but for whatever reason, she went into a monologue about hostess/strippers and how they viewed their customers. It wasn’t positive.

After Seventh Heaven, Kristin and I made our way to the Sports Café. Black Jack, a Nigerian bodyguard, was at the door. He and Lucie had been buddies, and every time I passed him he would ask if there was any news. He knew I was a reporter, but he kept his mouth shut. Black Jack gave me some discount tickets for the Private Eyes club. Kristin’s friend Dorcy joined us, and we all went in and had drinks.

Dorcy went and hung out in the girls’ restroom, which was like Grand Central Station in the club—everyone passed through it. A few girls were snorting coke in the stalls. Dorcy chatted up Jesse, an Australian girl covered in tattoos who had seen two different photos of Obara that were being carried around by the police. She knew Lucie’s ex-boyfriend, Nick, and told her where to find him.

He was on the corner near a bookstore (long since out of business)
handing out flyers for a “nightclub” where they sold ecstasy behind the counter. I asked him when was the last time he’d seen Lucie.

In a thick Australian accent, he said to me, “You must be a reporter. If you want to know about Lucie, let’s see some cash.”

I gave him 5,000 yen. I showed him the sketch of Obara. It didn’t ring a bell. I told him I’d pay for a photo of Obara and walked away.

I headed back toward Seventh Heaven. Layla, a Swedish student who was studying Japanese at Sophia University, was handing out flyers for the club. I’d run into her at a Sophia alumni function, and thus she also knew I was a reporter. At about five feet eleven with long platinum blond hair, she stood out. She wasn’t working as a stripper but was waitressing and also sometimes pulling in customers. She handed me a list of the clubs the police had visited that day. She spoke Japanese and she paid attention to what the other girls were saying, so she had proven to be a useful source.

I thanked her for the list, and she motioned me to follow her into a little coffeeshop nearby.

“Jake,” she said, “a lot of people have figured out you’re a reporter now—you should be careful. People know your face. I think it’s so cool what you do. I want to be a police reporter too. Do you think you can get me into the
Yomiuri?”

“If you keep studying Japanese as hard you are doing, I might be able to help. Get you in? I’m just a plebe, a lowly soldier. I don’t have any pull.”