Six Four (48 page)

‘Is something wrong? Tell me.’

‘You should try to make more sense when you talk.’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Your plan to forge a utopia for yourself.’

Tokyo’s trust in Futawatari was absolute.

Each of the career officers from Tokyo posted to the prefecture had left with the impression that Futawatari could get things done, having recognized him as an indisputable high-flyer with regard to personnel and organizational management. That wouldn’t change just because one of those officials bore the title of Criminal Investigations Director. A bureaucrat was a bureaucrat. As someone held in high regard in Tokyo, Futawatari had guessed that his word would trump that of other officers in Criminal Investigations. So he would volunteer himself for a role in the background, settle into the position of Community Safety Director, just one rung down, invoking the power of his counsel to influence Criminal Investigations. Choose profit over fame. That interest, more than anything, was what was guiding the man’s actions. In Personnel, he’d defined the careers of so many others, but the whole time he’d been trying to think up a way to round off his own.

‘Give me an answer. Are you planning to sell us out, just so you can build your own personal paradise?’

‘You’re still not making any sense.’

‘You want to be a pantomime puppet for Tokyo, to pull the strings in the dark. Is that the long-cherished dream of the regional elite?’

‘I’m ending this call.’

‘If you really are some kind of top dog, you need to step up to it. I’m trying to tell you I think I’d rather have you in the director’s chair, if the alternative was a
suit
from the NPA.’

Futawatari made a surprised sound, then, quieter, he said, ‘You sure about that?’

Mikami focused on empty space. The man’s dark eyes felt close. The weird sensation of Futawatari passing him the towel felt suddenly real again.

‘You shouldn’t take it so seriously. It’s a symbol. It hardly matters who actually sits there.’

Mikami couldn’t follow. A symbol? Was he still talking about the director’s job? ‘Are you sure you’re one of us, Futawatari?’

‘The detectives will do their job, regardless of who’s at the top. Isn’t that right?’

‘Family’s family, whether the old man’s a slave driver or a waster. The position isn’t something an outsider on transfer can ever hope to fill.’

‘They’ll get used to it in a month. In two, they’ll have adapted completely. That’s how it works with personnel – no exceptions.’

‘So self-important. All you ever manage is to shuffle people irresponsibly between rooms.’

‘You’re a perfect example, Mikami.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You stood your own against the press. Right before the captain’s office.’

Mikami caught his breath.

‘A fine member of the Secretariat, in anyone’s eyes.’

Mikami clenched down on his back teeth. Blood seeped visibly into his bandage.

‘You say that one more time.’

‘Don’t take it the wrong way. I meant it as a compliment.’

‘Say it to my face. Come here, Akama’s office, right now.’

‘I guess that part of you never changes, Mikami.’

Had he laughed?

‘You need to face up to reality. We’re not in the
dojo
of the kendo club any more.’

Diluted, the whisky tasted like water. Even on the rocks it tasted like water. Inebriation failed to come.

The Tsukinami, a small bar built into the front of a residential building, managed by a married couple in their sixties. It was one of Mikami’s few genuine hideaways, unknown by either Criminal Investigations or Administrative Affairs. He’d come to know it after the owner had delivered a stray dog to Mikami’s
koban
. He’d been coming back for twenty-five years. The
mama-san
was as unyielding as a boar, while her husband was the kind to say whatever popped into his head. The result was that they were continually, both then and now, bickering behind the counter. For Mikami, whose habit it was to sit at the far side of the counter, their interaction was a source of both irritation and envy.

He’d forgotten who he was; he’d forgotten his family. He had taken the opportunity of Akama’s absence to force his way into the captain’s office. That alone was grounds enough for a transfer. He’d knocked Chief Ishii to the floor, broken property belonging to the Secretariat. If he hadn’t injured himself, if he hadn’t been bleeding, and if Ishii had been any less a coward, he knew he would right now be filling in a long report in some basement part of Internal Affairs. If he’d been thinking of his family at all, he should have warned Akama about Criminal Investigations’ trap. He’d even had the option of playing both sides, of pretending to take Arakida’s proposal on board. Even given that the chances of it actually happening were slim, he should have taken out the
insurance of the job at Central Station, in case Criminal Investigations ended up victorious. There, he could get by without having to move away. He could be with Minako as they waited for their daughter to come back.

The ice clinked, shifting in his glass.

He’d put up with everything so far. And all for his family . . .

No. That wasn’t it. He’d used them as a shield. He’d been selfish. He’d made sacrifices each time his place in the force had come under threat, and he’d always blamed his family. The truth was clear enough. He could keep going without a family, but he’d fall apart if he lost his place in the force. Unless he first recognized that, accepted that was who he was, he’d never be able to find his true place in the world.

Mikami’s phone was vibrating in his jacket pocket. It might have been doing so the whole time.

A number of faces came forward, but the call was from none of them. It was Assistant Chief Itokawa of Second Division, sounding harried. Forgoing preamble, he launched straight into talking about the bid-rigging charges. He told Mikami that they had substantiated the charges against the CEO of Hakkaku Construction – who had been in for voluntary questioning – and issued a warrant for his arrest, but that the CEO had started coughing up blood before they could process the arrest and had been checked into hospital. At first Mikami wondered why Itokawa was volunteering inside information, but the reason was coming next. The
Yomiuri
and the
Sankei
had somehow managed to get word of the warrant and had called in to notify their intention of covering the story. Itokawa had begged them to wait, but they hadn’t listened.

‘Anyway, thought I’d give you some advance warning. It’s going to be chaos tomorrow morning.’

An image of Arakida flashed before his eyes. Mikami checked his watch, then put a call through to Suwa’s mobile. It was eight forty-five. Suwa was in the Wan Wan Tei, a transvestite-run bar
he’d recently unearthed. Having failed to get anything from the press in the headquarters, he’d improvised with a ‘social studies meeting’ led by Mikumo. He sounded tense at first, Mikami having left the office without explaining the reason for his bandage, but his tone reverted to normal when Mikami told him about the warrant.

‘That explains it,’ he said. ‘Ushiyama from the
Yomiuri
and Sudou from the
Sankei
, they’re both missing.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Another scoop. I hope that this isn’t going to mess up our chances of stopping the boycott.’

‘I want a report, first thing in the morning,’ Mikami instructed.

He palmed the phone shut. The clamour on the line was replaced with the racket of karaoke. A group of ten or so men and women of various ages – by the look of things, work colleagues – were gathered around the carpeted
zashiki
area. A slightly premature end-of-year party, according to the barkeeper.

Mikami felt restless. Suwa, Mikumo, even Kuramae – they would all be the same. They were focusing every resource on averting the boycott. And no wonder. The commissioner was due to visit in only three days. It was their job to manage the press. What else would they be doing?

An image of Yoshio Amamiya came unexpectedly into his thoughts. The appearance had been sudden enough to feel like a revelation, the insight he needed to break through the wall of his dilemma. Mikami felt the colour drain from his face.

The commissioner general is our highest-ranked official. I’m confident the media coverage will be significant. It will be broadcast on TV. The news will reach a great number of people.

His own words. He’d tried to build up Amamiya’s expectations, with a view to getting him to agree to the commissioner’s visit. But it hadn’t worked. Amamiya had long ago given up expecting anything from the police. He felt bitter towards them, having learned of the cover-up of the kidnapper’s call. He’d seen the visit for what it was, a PR exercise. That was why he hadn’t
even considered Mikami’s entreaty. He hadn’t given in to any new expectations. He hadn’t changed his mind because of anything Mikami had said. He’d been shocked, moved even, when he’d broken into tears – but that was all.

Even so . . .

He’d said the words.

. . . there is a real chance of this bringing in new leads.

Mikami emptied his glass.

It had been a revelation, after all. Stuck in a local skirmish, he’d looked up at the sky and caught sight of a shooting star.
A promise.
One he’d made in the outside world, away from any consideration of Criminal Investigations or Administrative Affairs.

He felt a shift, a weight tipping the scales. The commissioner would never forgive a boycott. Whatever happened, Mikami had to ensure his voice made the papers and the airwaves. For Amamiya. And in order to take responsibility for what he’d said.

He realized his mind was made up. There had never been any real ‘promise’. And if the only way of stopping the boycott was lying to the reporters, that wouldn’t even constitute finding a third path as press director. All he’d done was find another extreme, following the polar opposites of Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs.
It doesn’t matter. It’s enough
. He would use the excuse of Amamiya to force a change in direction.

A very Mikami way of settling the dispute.

‘Look, he’s got a smirk on him,’ the
mama-san
teased.

‘Leave him be. Probably felt good to land one on his asshole boss,’ the barkeeper said next to her. ‘He just wants to drink by himself. Can’t you see that?’

They were gearing up to start again. Mikami turned his chair so his back was facing the counter. The uproar coming from the
zashiki
was at its peak. The apparent leader of the group, a man in his fifties, was howling out an off-tune ballad. The rest were clapping in time; from the looks on their faces, it was clear they
were still half at work. The women were already fidgeting, ready to leave.

Mikami was counting on Suwa. On Mikumo. Even on Kuramae. Everything would turn out fine if the Press Club held a GM to overturn the boycott. His made-up assurances would become real. Media Relations would survive.

Mikami’s gaze met with that of a woman in the group. She let out a snigger and whispered something in the ear of the woman next to her.

He looked away and flipped a cigarette into his mouth. Still bickering with her husband, the
mama-san
held out a lighter; a flamethrower-sized lick of fire burst out. The man sitting next to him chose that moment to open a conversation. Mikami had seen him there, probably once before. He thought he remembered the man being a doctor, but it turned out that, after failing to gain entrance to medical school for three straight years, he’d ended up as head of administration in a hospital that had been in his family since his grandfather’s generation. Mikami told him the bandage was because he’d fainted, and ended up – despite his mood – having to give the man an outline of his symptoms. The man nodded gravely. ‘It could be Ménière’s disease,’ he said, before asking whether the dizziness came from the left or right ear first.
You’re not even a doctor
, Mikami thought ungraciously, even as his hand came unconsciously up to his left ear.

He called a taxi.

When he left, it was to the
mama-san
’s smile, the barkeeper’s look of concern, and the glances that rippled through the group of women. Inside the vehicle, he noticed his hand was still on his left ear. He recalled the cold touch of the phone. Ayumi hadn’t said a word. In her silence, she’d left nothing more than a suggestion.
Was that what it was?
Mikami wondered. Had she called so he’d ask the questions himself?
What have you ever done as a parent? Did you ever try to understand anything about me?

Mikami got out of the taxi to see Yamashina standing next to
his front door; that was when he realized how drunk he was, and in how bad a mood.

You bastard.

He’d been with the others at the Wan Wan Tei but had become uneasy when he’d noticed that the chief reporters from the
Yomiuri
and the
Sankei
were missing and decided to call over. He’d probably come hoping to secure a tidbit for himself.
Ayumi’s shoes . . . I can see they’re gone.
He thought he’d get lucky again – it was clear from his expression. He was walking over with an obsequious smile, making a show of how cold it was. Mikami waited with his feet firmly in the ground, then reached out with his bandaged hand. He grabbed Yamashina by the scarf and pulled him in until he was breathing down the man’s bright-red ear.

‘Don’t get me wrong, Yamashina. I didn’t feed you news on the bid-rigging because I like you. I did it out of charity. Because of the way you resemble an abandoned dog in the rain.’

He shoved the man, now frozen and bolt upright, to the side, before striding in through the front door. Minako came straight out. She’d started to say that Yamashina was outside when she noticed his bandaged hand and broke off.

‘Just an accident, cut myself a little,’ Mikami said, easing off his shoes.

Minako was obviously suspicious but refrained from asking any more questions. She composed herself again then told him that Director Odate’s wife had called, at around eight o’clock.