A Dog in Water (3 page)

“Understood.”

“Besides, I wanted to see him. I missed him terribly. But I didn’t have the courage to let him into my apartment, where
that
happened.”

“But you could face him at the club?”

“Working so long in the nightlife industry makes you start to feel like an actress … I apply makeup, curl my hair and put on a dress, and it’s as though I can become a different person and stand tall. Like I can play a hostess who never stops smiling no matter what awfulness she has to face on the stage that is her club.”

“I see, I think I know what you’re saying. But as long as you keep
ignoring Katsuya’s phone calls, there’s a good chance he’ll take action sooner or later. He might show up as a customer at the club or try to ambush you on your way home.”

“I know that, but …”

“At the very least, I would prefer it if you could avoid going to the club for the one week I’ll be working for you.”

“But so soon after calling in sick, I don’t know what excuse I can make.”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh, Osaka. Do you know Kitahama?”

“I don’t detect a Kansai accent at all.”

“I’ve lived in Tokyo for ten years now … But when a customer from Kansai shows up, I sometimes slip right back into it.”

“If you cite family misfortune and tell them you need to go home to Osaka, couldn’t you take time off if it’s just a week?”

“After missing five days and working just one, another week off won’t be easy for me to request. If I give them enough notice, just one week wouldn’t be out of the question, but …”

“Does family misfortune ever come with notice?”

“I guess that’s true …”

“The most important thing for you is to avoid any further contact with Katsuya Yamamoto. Whether or not anything else goes the way you want, shouldn’t you commit to never coming face to face with Katsuya again for the rest of your life?”

“You’re right. I’ll do as you say.”

“I would also prefer that you stay in a hotel or with a friend.”

“Then I’ll book a hotel. It’s not that I don’t have friends who’ll put me up, but it’s too much trouble to think of a false excuse.”

“Well then, time to go back to your place to get your things. I’ll go with you just to be safe.”

“Can I pick a hotel near here and stay in this office during the day? I wouldn’t know what to do with myself sitting alone in a room all day long.”

“I’m often out on business.”

“Then I’ll mind the place for you.”

“Other clients might drop by unannounced.”

“Think of me as your secretary. Don’t detective agencies always have female secretaries?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so I reached for another cigarette.

Her apartment building was on a quiet street in a residential district in Shirogane. I pulled up in front of an entryway that was secured with an auto-lock system and surveyed the area. I didn’t notice any suspicious lurkers.

“Please leave your cell phone here,” I said as she got out of the car.

An odd look flickered over her face, but without a word she left her phone on the passenger’s seat and walked away. After watching her walk through the entrance and disappear inside the building, I checked the incoming calls list on her phone.

Four or five calls per day from a number not listed in her address book crowded the list. The number had to be Katsuya Yamamoto’s.

What I needed to do was learn more about this man. Without knowing what sort of person he was, I couldn’t formulate a plan for dealing with him.

My client Junko Tajima did not know his address or occupation. She had no photos of him. If I had his date of birth, I could contact an old colleague at the MPD and dig up any arrest or fingerprint records in the police database, learn of any known affiliations with criminal organizations, check with credit agencies to see if he was blacklisted with any lenders, etc. Merely knowing that he was thirty years old didn’t even allow me to pin down his birth year.

If I went to his elder brother Koichi I’d be able to milk him for all kinds of info, but since my client desired nothing more than to keep him in the dark I couldn’t risk contact and raise his suspicions.

All I had was the name Katsuya Yamamoto and his cell phone number. Ever since the Personal Information Protection Law was enacted, it was very difficult to obtain someone’s address from their cell
number. There was nothing but to wait for him to call again.

I pulled my IC recorder from my jacket pocket and plugged in my portable headphone/mic into Junko’s cell phone. According to the list, Katsuya started calling at around 3:00 p.m. and then every few hours until well into the night. It was nearly time for his first call of the day.

Junko reappeared from her apartment building, her designer duffle bag filled to bursting. She had changed into jeans. She slung the bag into the back seat and furrowed her brows when she saw the IC recorder plugged into her cell phone on the front passenger’s seat.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for him to make his move.”

With no further explanation, I started the engine.

Her ringtone started playing just after I turned on to Yasukuni Avenue from Gaien West Avenue. I immediately pulled onto the shoulder and picked up the phone. The LCD displayed Katsuya’s number. I hit record on the IC, pressed the answer button on the cell phone and placed it against my ear.

“Heyyy, Junko. So you finally decided to answer my calls,” a gravelly voice chided. “You never pick up, so I started to worry you’d hanged yourself or somethin’.” Each word seemed coated with a sneer. “I’m gonna head over to your place tonight so turn down any invites at the club, got it?” Clearly, he was under the impression that he’d conquered Junko Tajima. “I printed out that photo and want to show it to you …” I hadn’t heard about any photos, but it was easy to imagine what they were of. “Hey, are you listening? Say something.” Even if it was her who had picked up, he wouldn’t have gotten a response. “Whatever. I’ll be there around two, so put some beer in the fridge.” He hung up.

I turned off the recorder and pulled the mic out of the cell phone.

“What did that man say?” Junko’s lips looked dry.

“Meaningless stuff. Nothing you need to know.” I returned her cell phone to her, restarted the engine and floored the gas pedal. It was only then that I noticed just how angry I was.

The clock on the dash read 2:00 a.m. I’d been staking out the entrance of Junko’s apartment building for over an hour. Parked a short distance away in an unlit area, I held up a pair of binoculars under the cover of darkness.

I learned one thing from listening to Katsuya’s voice; he was the very definition of a brutish criminal. This wasn’t gut instinct but a conviction based on twenty years’ experience as an officer of the law.

Junko Tajima’s rape was perpetrated not by a man whose burning illicit love ended in a heinous crime but one capable of stealing, destroying and harming whatever or whomever he so desired.

Steal what you want. Go nuts at every perceived slight and resort to violence. Take pleasure in dominating others through violence and fear. Such sociopathic types have an innate ability to sniff out targets who can suit their needs. Targets who won’t kick up a fuss or fight back.

Junko must have seemed like such a victim to Katsuya.

Headlights and the rumble of an engine approached. The car passed by Junko’s apartment and stopped behind several others that were parked along the street.

The engine stopped, and a man got out of the driver’s side. I presumed it was Katsuya Yamamoto as he matched the physical description Junko had given. Keys jangling as he walked, the man entered her apartment building. I inched my car up as quietly as possible and reparked at the head of the line of cars. I adjusted my side mirror so I could see the area in front of the entrance.

I waited with the car still running. By this point he was probably growing increasingly irritated that his repeated intercom calls up to the apartment were going unanswered. He could be calling Junko’s cell with equal persistence. I had told her to keep her phone switched off.

Before long the man came back outside. He stalked back gruffly to his car in unconcealed rage and slammed his door shut with a bang. When I heard the engine growl to life, I readjusted my side mirror and
timed it so that I pulled out just as he did. I yanked up my e-brake to stop without turning on my taillights.

Slam
.

My car was thrust forward about two yards. I released the button on my e-brake, got out and walked behind my car. The right taillight was smashed to pieces.

“The fuck! Pulling right in front!” Shouting, the man jumped out onto the street. His left headlight was crushed.

He walked up to me. He had nice features. People might categorize him as handsome, but his lowness showed on his face.

“You’re the one who ran into me,” I said.

“Did you even check your six?”

“Do you even face forward when you drive?”

“The fuck you say, asshole?” He narrowed his eyes and curled back his lips, revealing his canines.

Having no intention of getting into a violent conflict then and there, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the police to report the car accident. As soon as I hung up the man stuck a fist in front of my face.

“Show me your license.”

“Show me yours,” I said as I retrieved mine from my wallet. The man clucked his tongue and pulled out his.

It said “Katsuya Yamamoto.” I took a photo of his license with my phone’s camera. That only served to further irritate him.

He snatched back his license from my hand and threw mine onto the ground among the shards of my ruined taillight. I sensed that if I bent down to pick up my license he’d kick me, so I took a step backwards and looked at him. He looked like a Kabukicho host just off from work. He was just under six feet in height. He was generally slim but had broad shoulders and a thick neck.

“You’re lucky to be alive, pops,” he said with an edge of violence in his voice. “I don’t have time to deal with the likes of you tonight so I’m gonna let you go, but you’d better pray you never cross my path again,” he spat before getting back into his car.

I picked up my license and got into my own car and waited for the police to arrive. I felt an aching need for violence that I hadn’t in a long while.

I woke up at 9:00 a.m. After dealing with the accident report I’d headed back to my office, poured myself a drink and fallen asleep on the sofa. I’d only slept for about four hours. There was a cramp in my neck. I took a shower to try and clear my head but to no avail.

I picked up my cell phone and opened the photo of Katsuya’s license. I felt my pulse quicken just looking at it. I flashed back to our exchange the night before.

“You’d better pray you never cross my path again.”

You’re the one who should be praying
, I thought.

From his license I had obtained his permanent residence, current address, date of birth and such. I also had a photo of his face. Finally I would be able to take action.

I contacted a colleague at the Nakano Precinct who came up the ranks behind me. I cut short the usual greetings and went straight to business.

“One comprehensive report, please. A licensee.” I gave all the necessary information for the query and hung up.

Officially, no police data could be leaked to outside persons, but aside from the most straight-laced types most cops accepted acquaintances’ requests for help without much hesitation. I got a call back almost immediately.

“Here’s the response from the database. A-list, one count of 03,
two counts of 06, 00 on everything else.”

I thanked him and hung up. “A-list” referred to a rap sheet, 03 was rape, 06 was assault, including on women. 00 meant not applicable.

Just as I had surmised, Katsuya Yamamoto was a hardened piece of human garbage. I made a few more calls and left the office.

Having pulled into a friend’s repair shop in East Nakano, I asked for him to fix my taillight and for a loaner. He gave me an older domestic compact sedan. I didn’t care what I ended up with so long as it didn’t stand out. I drove towards East Oi.

I queried Katsuya’s vehicle registration with the Tokyo Transport Bureau based on his license plate. I couldn’t tell the night before, but his car was last year’s Renault. It was registered to DeBarge, Inc. A familiar name to me, the event planning company run by Katsuya’s brother Koichi.

I ate a quick lunch and headed towards Yoyogi Uehara. The address listed on Katsuya’s license turned out to be a seven-story apartment building. Yet none of the mailboxes read “Katsuya Yamamoto.”

I walked towards the super’s office at the end of the rows of mailboxes and knocked on the frosted glass window. An aging man peered out.

“Yes?”

“What apartment does Katsuya Yamamoto live in?”

“Katsuya Yamamoto? Yamamoto … Yamamoto …” He pushed his glasses onto his forehead and eyed a list on his desk. “Oh, him. He doesn’t live here anymore.” He stared fixedly at me. “You a cop? What has he done this time?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to ask him a few questions.”

“He was in 601 but got arrested last spring, didn’t he, for assault or something. Hasn’t been back since.”

“So is someone else living there now?”

“Nope, no one. These apartments are sale only. The owner might be using the apartment as storage, though. Just yesterday or the day before a whole bunch of cardboard boxes showed up.”

“That means someone is still coming and going from that apartment, correct?”

“Sometimes. A tall man wearing glasses. You’d be better off asking the management company for particulars.”

He handed me a sheet of paper. I copied the management company’s contact info into my pocketbook, thanked the super and walked out. I also wrote down the name and address of the apartment building and the number 601 and got into my car.

I headed to the Shibuya Ward Office and used the name of a lawyer I have on retainer to access Katsuya’s certificate of residence. It did not reflect any transfer.