The Dame Did It (15 page)

“If possible, I’d like to have a look around
his apartment,” said Kyoko.

Maeda sucked in her breath. “I don’t
know…”

“Please, Ms. Maeda,” said Kyoko. “Shinji’s
sister is extremely worried about him.”

Maeda tapped the business card against her
hand. Kyoko kept her head bowed slightly, eyes focused on the
ground, hands folded at her waist. “Do you think something’s
happened to him?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. And for
that, I’ll need your cooperation.”

Maeda smiled with a grandmotherly grin and
patted Kyoko’s arm. “Wait right here. I’ll get the key.” She
trotted down the steps and Kyoko stepped up to the edge of the
terrace. Like most buildings in this style, the corridor was
open-air. Kyoko leaned against the guard and cast her gaze over
Shinsekai. During the day, it seemed like a ghost town. But come
nightfall, the bars, clubs, restaurants, and pachinko parlors would
light up the neighborhood.

“I’ve got it,” said Maeda upon reaching the
top step. She walked to the apartment and unlocked the door, then
stepped to the side and offered a bow and a hand gesture for Kyoko
to enter.

In the tiny foyer, Kyoko stepped carefully
to find a spot that wasn’t covered by one of Shinji’s many shoes:
numerous dress shoes, sandals, and a pair of gym shoes. All
scattered randomly in the foyer. Kyoko removed her own footwear and
entered the small corridor of the apartment, with Maeda following.
There was a bathroom and washing machine to her right, but she
passed by these.

The kitchen was small, basically consisting
just of the sink, small refrigerator, and a tiny stove with one
burner. A microwave also sat atop the refrigerator. Used instant
noodle cups and
bento
boxes were piled in the sink, tiny
flies buzzing around them. Empty beer cans were scattered on the
floor. Just past the
shoji
paper door was a room with
tatami
straw-mat flooring. A six-mat room, decent enough
size, with a mattress lying in the center of the room. Clothes
littered the floor, and a small TV sat in the corner of the room on
a tiny stand.

“Single men are the worst tenants,” said
Maeda. “They don’t know a thing about cleaning. Men need a good
woman to keep the house in order and manage their money. Otherwise
they have no self-control.”

Kyoko ignored the comment, but she couldn’t
deny one element of truth: she couldn’t tell if the mess was the
result of a struggle or if Shinji simply lived like a slob. The
clothes on the floor seemed to be a mix of clean and dirty,
including a fair number of dress shirts, slacks, and blazers. She
stepped out of the bedroom and went back into the corridor, pushing
open the bathroom door. Above the sink was a mirror and the shelves
contained numerous hair care products for men, an electric razor,
and a fair bit of cologne and deodorant.

“Do you know where he worked?” asked Kyoko
on her return to the kitchen.

“He never said.”

Kyoko nodded and went back into the bedroom.
She dug through the piles of clothing, and found a cell phone. When
she tried to turn it on, nothing happened. Dead battery. Kyoko
slipped it into her purse;, once she returned to her office, she’d
charge it and see if anything useful could be found.

“Did you find anything?” asked Maeda,
peering into the room. She didn’t look at Kyoko when she asked the
question, rather stared at the discarded clothes with
disapproval.

“Nothing useful,” said Kyoko. “Thank you for
your help, Maeda-san. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.” She
bowed deep and Maeda offered a bow of less depth.

Kyoko began the walk back to her office from
Shinji’s apartment. She could hear the sound of someone walking
behind her and she stopped at a vending machine, lingering at it.
While pretending to examine the drink choices, she actually focused
on her reflection in the glass and saw the reflection of someone
pass behind her. From the corner of her eye, she watched the young
man in a baseball cap and track suit turn down the next street.
Kyoko moved away from the vending machine and passed through the
small intersection.

She stopped at a 7-11 on the corner of the
next block. Examining the shop’s collection of
onigiri
—triangular rice balls usually with a filling of a
sort and sometimes wrapped in seaweed—she listened carefully and
the bell signaling the entrance of a new customer rang. The chime
was accompanied by the greeting of “
irasshaimase
” from the
shop clerks. Kyoko selected an
onigiri
with tuna and
mayonnaise, and turned, moving to the register. Standing by the
magazine rack and flipping through the pages of a comic book was
the same guy in a track suit. Kyoko paid for the snack and left.
She could feel the man’s eyes on her and not long after she left
the store, she picked up on the sound of footsteps once more.

Quickening her pace, Kyoko turned down
several alleys. Side streets in Japanese cities were often arranged
in a chaotic, winding maze; without street signs on anything but
the major roads, getting lost was not a difficult task, even for
someone who had lived in a given area for years.

That the man in the track suit was able to
keep up with her so well showed that he knew these roads almost as
well as she. But he had one disadvantage: he expected she would
keep moving. So it came as a surprise when he turned a corner and
saw her leaning against a shuttered shop, an unlit Seven Stars
dangling from her fingertips.

“Got a light?” she asked.

He said nothing, just stared at her.

Kyoko stared back. “The quiet type, huh? Why
are you following me?”

Again, no response. Except now he started to
look nervous. Rather than interact with her further, he simply
turned and ran back the way he came. Kyoko watched him run with a
mix of curiosity and confusion. She took the cheap black lighter
from her purse and held the flame over the tip of her
cigarette.

* * *

After charging the phone in her office, Kyoko lit a
cigarette. The first thing she checked on the phone were the
photos. Most of them were taken at the club Shinji must have worked
at. And in these photos, Shinji definitely updated his appearance.
His shaggy hair was styled with sharp spikes hanging around his
face and dyed with a reddish tint. In the photos, he almost always
wore a white dress shirt loose at the collar, with a blazer or
vest. His head was cocked in practically every pose, and there was
only the slightest hint of a smile. Some pictures were of him
sitting at a table with groups of three to five young women, and a
few shots of some older women. In the background of one of the
pictures, Kyoko could see the bar’s logo: Nanpa.

Kyoko powered up her laptop and searched for
the bar. The website popped up in seconds. She took notice of the
address: right in the heart of Shinsekai, just as she had
predicted. Picking up her cell phone, she quickly dialed a number
and a perky receptionist answered.

“Thank you for calling the Osaka Police
Department. This is Tachibana speaking. How may I help you?”

“Takeshi Hashimoto, please.”

“Please hold on for a moment.”

Some light music played in the background
and Kyoko smoked her cigarette, occasionally brushing off the ash
in the small, glass tray. A gruff voice answered. “Hashimoto
speaking.”

“It’s Nakamura.”

“Ahh, Naka-chan,” said Hashimoto, his voice
picking up in tone. “How are you doing? Still exposing lewd old
bastards like me?”

Kyoko gave a clipped snicker. “It’s good to
hear your voice, too,
Kacho
.” Even though she was no longer
working under him, Kyoko still used the generic job title to
describe the head of her former section. “I’ve actually got
something different I’m working on. A woman approached me about her
missing brother. She said the police weren’t much help.”

“Did she?” Hashimoto’s tone turned a bit
critical.

“Mm. He was working at a host bar in
Shinsekai, said the police told her that he probably just moved
away. But I visited his place and if he did leave, he certainly
didn’t bother informing his landlady or even packing. Left his
cell, too.”

“Maybe he had to skip town in a huff.
Happens sometimes with these types. Not uncommon for them to get
stalkers.”

“Speaking of, I ended up with a stalker
myself.” She tapped the cigarette against the tray.

“What? Are you okay?”

“Mm. Guy ran off once I confronted him.”

“And you think it’s connected to your
case?”

She leaned back in the chair while keeping
the phone pressed against her ear. On her desk was a framed
photograph of herself in a police uniform, standing next to
Hashimoto. He was a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair
and thin-framed glasses who wore the furthest thing from a smile on
his face.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Could’ve just
been some pervert. But the fact that it happened right after I left
the kid’s apartment makes me suspicious.”

“So what can I do?”

“I was wondering if you could see if there
was a missing persons report filed. The name is Shinji
Kuroyama.”

“Might take some time. I’ve got a lot on my
plate at the moment.”

“Still busting
yakuza
heads?”

Hashimoto laughed. “As much as I can. You
know how it is. Political influence comes cheap for those tattooed
bastards.”

“Understood. You have my number, so just
call me with whatever you can do.”

“Careful out there, Naka-chan. If this case
has people following you, it could go deeper than you think. And
you don’t have me watching your back any more.”

“I could say the same about you.” Kyoko
chuckled. “Take care,
Kacho
.”

She ended the call and turned her attention
back to the computer. Kyoko took another long drag on her cigarette
and planned her next move. The bar advertised its opening as ten,
and that would be the next place to check.

* * *

Walking through Shinsekai, Kyoko wore a tight, red
dress that reached down to her mid-thigh. The smells of
yakitori
meat skewers lingered in the air from the small
stands where people could grab a quick bite either before or after
heading into the bar. Drunken businessmen stumbled out of bars and
young women in the equivalent of prom dresses stood outside hostess
bars, trying to entice potential customers.

Each building contained a display of
brightly-lit logos. Every floor had one or two bars, sometimes
three. She slowed her pace once she saw the Nanpa logo. A
baby-faced guy with blond highlights in his spiked hair and wearing
a suit approached her. “You’re looking very beautiful tonight.”

Kyoko faked a flirty smile. “Thank you.”

“How would you like to come up and have a
drink with us? Lots of nice guys you can meet.”

“Which bar?”

“The one on the fifth floor.” He pointed at
the sign. “Nanpa.”

Kyoko faked a giggle. “Sounds great.”

The youth smiled a toothy grin. He was
likely twenty, but looked more like he was sixteen. Newer hosts
usually had the duty of standing outside to attract customers.
Working inside the bar was where the real money was made, off of
commission on drink sales. “Come on up!”

They took the elevator up to the fifth floor
and the boy pushed the door open to the bar. Music pumped through
the speakers and a girl was singing a tone-deaf rendition of
AKB48’s “Aitakatta.” He took her up to the front counter and the
man behind bowed. He was a little older than the others, maybe late
thirties.

“
Irasshaimase
!” he greeted. “The base
charge is a thousand yen for one hour of all-you-can-drink. If you
want to sing, it’s two thousand yen if you also want the
all-you-can-sing package.”

“Just drinks, thank you,” said Kyoko and
managed to fake a blush. “I’m not very confident in my singing
voice.”

“Oh, come on! I’m sure you sound lovely!”
said the boy who led her inside.

Kyoko giggled and waved a hand in front of
her face. “No, no! Impossible!”

“Okay, so just the drinking course,” said
the man behind the counter.

“Do you have a list of your hosts?” asked
Kyoko.

The man nodded and reached under the
counter. He handed her a black binder with the Nanpa logo on the
front. Kyoko began flipping through the pages, examining each of
the photographs. She compared them with the picture of Shinji she
had in her mind. Passed through a few pages before she found him.
The name under the photo was Shoki—it was common for hosts and
hostesses to use fake names. She tapped the photo.

“He looks cute. Is he working tonight?”

The clerk froze for a moment and then
responded with, “No, I’m sorry. He’s not here.”

She figured as much. But she chose to stay.
Perhaps she could get some information out of some of the other
hosts if she did. Kyoko smiled. “That’s okay, I suppose anyone will
do.”

The man nodded to the boy who led her in. He
bowed and left. The man came out from behind the counter and
gestured into the bar. “Right this way, please.”

He led her past tables of women and the
hosts laughing and drinking together. The bar was quite spacious.
She was led to an empty table in the back. Kyoko slid onto the
cushioned bench and folded her hands on the white table.

“What would you like to drink?”

“Plum wine.”

The man bowed and left. Kyoko looked around
the bar. The various hosts were busy charming the women at their
tables, encouraging them to drink more and to buy them drinks as
well, trying to get them to sing
karaoke
. All of them looked
very similar to the pictures of Shinji she found on the phone.

“Looks like tonight’s my lucky night!” The
boisterous voice drew Kyoko’s attention. A man about twenty-five
with shaggy black hair that was loaded with gel approached her
table. His hair was practically molded into the shape of spikes
that stretched from the left portion of his hairline down to just
below his right eyebrow. His eyes were a sky-blue, which meant
contacts. The black suit was perfectly tailored, with his white
shirt open at the collar. He handed her a small glass filled with
golden plum wine, the ice cubes clinking against the side. In his
other hand, he had a highball, which Kyoko suspected contained just
a few drops of whiskey and was heavily watered down with the club
soda.