The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) (16 page)

“Japanese make love in the bathroom occasionally. Now you’re not such an alien, my darling.”

“I don’t know,” I said, leading him into my small bedroom, where the windows were closed and the air conditioner was blasting. I threw a towel at him. “Did we really make love? It seemed wilder, somehow. Is there a different Japanese word for that kind of thing? Just like there are so many different words for rain.”

“There is a word, but it’s not something I want you to learn. It doesn’t reflect you.”

“How so?”

“As you said the other day, you’re more the type who likes air-conditioning and fresh sheets. And gentle kisses, I think.”

“Do you really have to go?” I had a prickling sense of unease at being alone.

“I’m rising at the break of dawn to work with the painters,” he said. “Hey, why don’t you come with me?”

“Can’t. I’ve got a
Gaijin Times
meeting in the morning. So we’re both tied up.”

“You know, plenty of people live in Hayama and commute to Tokyo for work. It’s an ideal situation,” Takeo said, buttoning up his jeans.

“Don’t tempt me,” I said, trying to decide whether Takeo was just talking about the fact I could get in quickly the next morning or was suggesting a more permanent arrangement.

“I wish I could.” He smiled tenderly, not making the decision any easier for me. “Rei, I’ll be thinking about you during my drive. And though I know people say this all the time, I really mean it. Be careful.”

“I promise,” I said, closing the door after him and using all three bolts.

I walked into the conference room at the
Gaijin Times
the next morning and saw immediately that the power had shifted. Mr. Sanno was still at the table’s head, but Rika was on his right. There was an empty place for me on the other side of Rika, near enough that I had to inhale the Egoiste cologne Mr. Sanno had spread liberally over himself. I wondered if the scent was overpowering Rika, because she looked ill. All the bluster and aggressive behavior of the past two days were gone, and she was slumped low in her chair. A wacky Pebbles-style topknot and a shrunken pink T-shirt decorated with Belldandy from the
Ah! My Goddess
cartoon series added to her childlike aura.

That morning, I dressed to steel myself for conflict. I was wearing a black, slim-fitting sheath from my mother’s late-1960s collection that made me look as slim as Rika, for once. The dress had a genius design: very stripped-down and elegant, almost Michael Kors. That’s what Karen, my friend who was the fashion editor, had told me when I arrived a few minutes early.

“You look like an office lady,” she teased. “Shouldn’t you have worn something more rough-and-ready? The expectation now is that you’re leading a murder investigation.”

“So what’s the right outfit? Dark glasses and one of those windbreakers that says POLICE across the back?” I didn’t hide my irritation, especially since my dress was so tight that I could barely sit down.

Unfortunately Mr. Sanno caught me in mid-scowl. “Hello, Miss Shimura. Your art story has turned into a murder mystery! You have an aptitude for making news.”

“Oh, no. I’m afraid it was a matter of unlucky events taking place,” I answered. It wasn’t polite to take credit for anything.

“Congratulations. I hear you talked to Nicky Larsen. That will be a real coup, the story from the victim a few hours before his murder.”

“I didn’t write down anything that he said,” I admitted. “When we spoke at length, I believed he was an unimportant neighbor to the artist Kunio.”

“Still sounds like an interview to me.” Alec Tampole, who was sitting close to the end of the table toying with an unlit Mild Seven, put down his cigarette and looked at me with an unpleasant expression.

“I cannot accurately report what he said if I don’t have a record of it.”

“Don’t you have a memory?” Alec asked patronizingly.

“I could summarize things, sure, but that doesn’t seem very honest. Not without notes,” I hemmed.

“The subject is not alive to contradict what you write,” Mr. Sanno said callously. “Therefore, you don’t have much of a problem.”

“Write it up dialog-style,” Alec said. “Summary doesn’t read very well.”

I nudged Rika. She was a journalism student; she surely could quote some manual to tell them that they were suggesting unethical behavior. But then again, Rika was still technically an intern. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she kept quiet.

“Rika took notes at the morgue,” I said, trying to nudge her into taking part. “She did a fine job of getting some evidence of her own on her Palm Pilot.”

“It is Rika-chan’s duty to answer the telephone,” Mr. Sanno said, surprising me with his coolness. He had fairly twinkled at Rika when he admired her animation knowledge the week before.

“There’s, um, a bit of interviewing to do in areas that I don’t have much expertise with,” I said. “Somebody needs to interview management at Dayo about
Showa Story.
After all,
Showa Story
was ripping off their mainstream publication.” I looked directly at Norton, who was the business reporter.

Norton shook his head. “Ordinarily I could help, but I’m on deadline to finish a story on the economics of
manga.
I don’t think that I could help you girls. Sorry.”

“Since you’re busy, Norton-san, Rei-chan will follow up on that angle.” Mr. Sanno glanced around the table, picking out Karen. “How about the costume aspect of the death? Could there be a fashion feature?”

I could see Karen flinch. “I worry that people would think it might be… tasteless,” she said at last.

“Nonsense. And call up a few of our advertisers, tell them you’ll try to mention their shops in the story. It will be good for revenue.”

“I’ll try my best, said Karen. “I think there are some boutiques in Harajuku that specialize in that kind of fashion.”

“I’ll take photographs of live Mars Girl wannabes,” Toshi, the photographer, added.

“You could also take pictures at Comiko, the animation convention this weekend. There are bound to be a lot of amateur artists or comic book enthusiasts there,” I explained to the group, all of whom were staring at me with flat expressions. “Maybe some of them knew Nicky and might have pictures of him from past conventions.”

“Why haven’t you interviewed Kunio Takahashi? Isn’t he a big part of the story?” Mr. Sanno asked.

“Maybe he’ll be there,” I said, not wanting to admit I hadn’t had the interview with Kunio that Rika had mentioned on Monday. “And I’ll interview an editor at Dayo about their attitude toward
Showa Story.”

“Very good. That makes work for everyone except Alec,” Mr. Sanno said.

“There is the chance Nicky’s death might have a gang connection,” I said rather wickedly. “I suppose that Alec, with his vast experience at this magazine, could interview one of his sources in the
yakuza.
”

All heads turned toward the entertainment editor who would be king. He smiled an awful phony smile. “You mean because you’re too scared to do it?”

“No, because we’re supposed to be a team!”

“I actually think of myself as operating on a higher level. Maybe I can spearhead the whole project. You know, keep an eye on everyone.”

“Fine,” Mr. Sanno said, barely looking at him. “For those of you who don’t know, the stories are due in one week’s time. By next Thursday, at the latest.”

“But what about the gangsters?” I said.

“We should include them, by all means. But please take care, Miss Shimura,” Mr. Sanno said.

I should have kept my big mouth shut. Now I was doing half a dozen things, plus one. It was amazing to me that the men on the staff—save for Toshi, the photographer—didn’t want to help put together what was potentially the most sensational feature ever to run in the
Gaijin Times.

“Why?” I asked Rika during a hurried consultation in the ladies’ room afterward.

“Those foreign journalists can’t read Japanese,” Rika answered with a hint of amusement. “When you started handing around photocopies of the
Showa Story
comic book, they looked terrified. They don’t want Mr. Sanno to know how useless they are at doing more than reviews of pizza parlors and compact discs.”

“I don’t read much Japanese, either,” I protested.

Rika looked at me pensively. “Still, you know more than anyone about this story. It belongs to you. I think you know more than you’re saying. I wonder if you kept something back at the meeting.”

“If I’d mentioned Seiko, nobody would have wanted to interview her.”

“Yes, we still need to get that interview. I will try to do it, Rei-san. To help you.”

“You?” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Rika that I’d already met Seiko and had a disastrous outcome, but I didn’t. As Rika had said before, I was holding back.

“You do that,” I said, wondering if she would put together the clues and make her way to the Hattori Copy Shop.

I left the bathroom and got into the elevator to go down to the first floor. When the doors finally opened, Alec Tampole was inside.

“Hi,” I said, squeezing into the narrow space next to him.

He moved so that his hand brushed against my hip. “Nice frock. Hey, no stockings underneath?”

“I wasn’t aware of a
Gaijin Times
dress code.”

“There is none,” he said, breathing heavily. “But there is a code of conduct.”

“Oh, really? I haven’t seen it posted.” I looked at my watch, wondering how long this elevator ride was going to take.

“It’s unwritten. But anyone who’s taken a single journalism course should know the basic rule is you pay your dues before telling experienced people what to do.”

“Oh, you sound like a Japanese manager. How funny. Especially when you can’t even speak much Japanese.”

I’d scored a direct hit, because his face flushed and he thundered, “I know what you do when you’re outside this office. Believe me, I have my sources. All I can say is you better watch your back.”

He gave me a hard little shove when the elevator door opened. I shoved him back, and then I got out.

I tried to reach Mr. Mori, the public affairs officer, before I showed my face at Dayo Publishing. However, he was tied up in interviews, and the secretary who answered my call couldn’t tell me when he’d be able to answer my phone call, let alone see me.

It reminded me of a time I wanted to buy a fantastic set of Edo-period lacquered trays. The owner hoped to sell to an internationally known museum rather than a vulgar, moneyed person. I showed up to finesse the deal with my hair combed the wrong way, wearing a borrowed pair of glasses: in short, looking as academic as possible. While there, I spoke only English and made a few vague references to a “Japanese living-arts tableau” in which the trays would be used. I was able to buy the trays for a client who, due to his extremely vulgar income, has remained nameless. The living-arts tableau was a luncheon to which I was invited. I hadn’t lied once.

The prop that I was carrying with me to Dayo that day was the prototype for the yet-unpublished
Showa Story
comic. I wasn’t sure if I’d show it to anyone at Dayo, but I had it in my backpack because I’d come straight from the
Gaijin Times
art department. Just before I left, the art director had made color photocopies that might illustrate my story—the story that was due the following Thursday. Just thinking about that made me ill.

Dayo Publishing occupied the third and fourth floors of a spacious, shiny green office tower in central Tokyo. Stepping into the hushed offices decorated with blown-up covers of their best-selling comics, I felt suddenly insecure. This was not a place where combing one’s hair the wrong way would help. The receptionist who took my name card was wearing a stylish polyester dress without a single wrinkle, making me notice that the linen sheath I’d been wearing for a few hours was now as wrinkled as a paper bag.

Mars Girl wasn’t displayed on the wall, I noticed immediately. If she was such a treasured brand name, why wasn’t she there?

I decided to speak English, on a whim. “May I speak with Mr. Mori, please? I’m here from the
Gaijin Times
—”

“
Gaijin Times?
” The receptionist’s implausibly skinny eyebrows arched upward with some emotion.

“It is an English-language publication—”

“Oh, yes. I know it.” She waved both hands at me, as if trying to subdue me. “Sit, please. I will call for tea.”

I sat, mystified, on an uncomfortable red sofa shaped like a pair of lips as she got on the phone to someone. Less than a minute later, a sprite in a purple polyester pantsuit materialized with a steaming porcelain cup of Darjeeling. I overheard the receptionist whispering into the telephone.

“From one of the big foreign newspapers… Yes, the
Times
… I’m not sure if it’s the 
Times
of London or the
New York Times
—Yes, I will do that.”

I tried hard to look like I wasn’t listening, but it was apparent that when I’d said “
Gaijin Times,
” the receptionist had not understood it was a title unto itself. She had interpreted my words as the literal translation, which meant “the foreign English-speaking person’s
Times
.”

Now she wanted my business card for clarification. The only way around it was to hand her my personal calling card, which simply said Rei Shimura Antiques and had Tokyo and San Francisco addresses. I explained to the receptionist, “I’m a stringer—that is, a local correspondent—who covers Tokyo arts for the
Times.
Is it possible for me to learn a little more about
Mars Girl?”

She tapped her chin with a perfectly pink fingernail. “Would you prefer to speak to the editor who supervises the series?”

“Yes, please.” I hadn’t known whom exactly to ask for, but she’d made it easy.

“Mori-san would ordinarily have made arrangements to take you, but at present he is dealing with the local press on another matter. I will therefore send you directly to the art department.” She placed the card carefully on the center of her desk’s blotter and got back on the phone.

Then she made another call, said a few words, including what sounded like “Ros Angeres Time-zu.”
Los Angeles Times.
Apparently, she’d made an erroneous guess about my employer’s identity based on my California address. Clearly, she thought I was much more important than I was, which could be helpful.

“You are very kind,” I said, sticking to exaggeratedly simple English. The more I kept the language distant, the fewer things she’d ask. Most Japanese people don’t venture into complicated English conversations for fear of making mistakes. This girl, with her perfect brows and nails and wrinkle-free clothing, was probably more agitated about making mistakes than most. I noticed how she’d strategically not asked the actual name of the paper I worked for, but guessed about it from my address. Not that San Francisco was near Los Angeles, but if it was in the same state, that was enough.

The sprite in purple reappeared to escort me to the art department, which was one floor higher. I’d heard that the “creative” and “business” sides of advertising agencies and media publications often were separated like this. But the art department was no cheerful, creative jungle. Instead there were rows of neat drafting tables with workers bent over them, interspersed with computers. Dayo Publishing’s art section could have been a bank office, if you swapped the bank employees’ navy for the funky casual look that the workers wore.

We were met by a woman in her twenties wearing a suit of sorts: hot pants with a jacket in the same pink polyester double knit. Her legs were covered by white tights. As she ushered us to the conversation area—a pair of purple leather love seats. I was surprised to learn that this hot-looking woman wasn’t another office lady but Hiroko Shima, managing editor for
Mars Girl
and three other
manga
series. I was thrilled. I’d expected a managing editor to be a man.

“So, people are interested in
Mars Girl
in the United States?” Hiroko Shima spoke very good English with the slightest trace of a California “Valley” accent.

“Yes, she has a global, or should I say galaxy-wide, appeal,” I answered with a little laugh. “I’m trying to learn why she’s become so popular that other artists in Japan are knocking off the comic.”

“Actually, I agree with you about the wide appeal of
manga,
especially the series that are animated for video. I spent my junior year at UC Riverside,” she answered with a bright smile. “There were so many
anime
clubs that I had trouble deciding which one to join. So I joined them all. I didn’t get much studying done that year.”

I joined in her trilling laughter. Hiroko was engaging in the kind of ostensibly carefree girl talk that was supposed to help us form an alliance.

“Do many women draw comics? I’ve heard many of the fans are women,” I said, smiling back. I was very glad that Mr. Mori had been too busy to see me. I had a feeling I could get exactly what I wanted from Hiroko.

“Slightly over half of the main artists for our comics are women. It takes a woman to write a comic that excites women.”

I followed up the softball I’d thrown her with a harder pitch. “What about the schoolgirl comics? The ones where the girls get raped, and so on?”

Hiroko waved her manicured hand in a dismissive gesture. “That’s an old, misunderstood story. Of course there’s a little sex in certain series. But those series are as likely to be written by women as men! I think the ones by women have a little more, um, sensitivity and romance. Oh, is this on the record?”

“Why not? I think you’re fascinating. But if you can introduce me to the originator of
Mars Girl,
I can turn the focus onto her. Or him.”

“I probably could do that. Manami Oida is here today. She originated the series six years ago; it first appeared as part of a compendium of many comics. We gave her the chance to create a monthly
Mars Girl
magazine a year later.”

“She is absolutely the one I want to talk to! Thank you!” I gushed.

“She comes just two afternoons each week. Usually she spends her days working out of an office near her home. But you’re lucky this is a Thursday. She’s here Mondays and Thursdays.”

“Is that typical? I’d think creating a monthly magazine is a full-time job. Are the others I see in the office also working part time?”

Hiroko shook her head. “No, they’re here all day, every day. They do the rote things: lettering, setting up covers, general kinds of artwork. They’re not involved in creating stories. As you can imagine, the writers are the most important element in the comic. The art in our comic is relatively simple and straightforward—it is the spell-binding adventures of Mars Girl that cause our readers to buy and buy again.”

“I must confess to you I haven’t read every
Mars Girl
comic published,” I admitted.

“Please don’t feel bad. The series has been running for five years with a monthly issue, so what does that make? Sixty issues to read? You’ve got many other things to do with your time.”

“Have you read each issue?” I asked.

Hiroko nodded. “Yes. That series is one of my personal favorites. I like the power she has. The way she lives within a traditional Japanese structure, but lashes out from time to time.”

“Has Mars Girl ever done time travel? Has she solved crimes in another era?”

“Oh, no. Our version—the original Mars Girl—lives in the future! She is a twenty-second-century woman. She has the heart of a typical Japanese girl but the strength of a super human. You cannot kill her. She’s thrown down ten flights of stairs, and she jumps up, ready to fight. Wouldn’t we all like to do that?”

I changed tactics. “What do you think of what the amateur series
Showa Story
has done by taking Mars Girl back to pre-World War II Japan?”

Hiroko crossed her legs, making her shorts ride up a little higher. I had the sense it was a movement she used frequently in job situations. Maybe it distracted men who were doing business with her, but it didn’t distract me. She asked, “Why are you speaking to me about
Showa Story
?”

“I’m sort of an art critic.”

“Sort of?” Hiroko’s friendliness was changing to frost.

“My area is Japanese art history. My article involves a discussion of how
manga
have evolved from wood-block prints. That’s why I asked what you think of Mars Girl in a pre-World War II background.”

“You must keep this off the record.” Hiroko looked at me intently.

I nodded, knowing that Rika would disapprove of my acquiescence. I told myself that it was more important to learn something than it was to print it.

“To answer what I think you’re really asking—what do we think about
Showa Story’s
appropriation of our character—well, we have known about it for a while. Many
doujinshi
groups create comic books based on different Dayo products. Our general policy is to ignore them. They do not produce enough copies, and they aren’t sold in enough places to steal market share. I would also argue, based on my experience in college
manga
clubs, that there can be positive results from
doujinshi.
If Mars Girl is cool enough to inspire an underground comic, she’s pretty cool indeed. Until now,
Showa Story
provided us free advertising.”

“Do you know if anyone at Dayo Comics was in contact with the
Showa Story
circle?”

She shook her head. “We have more pressing things to do with our time.”

“But what about your spokesman’s reaction? On television, he hinted that
Showa Story
had engaged in plagiarism.”

“The circumstances around that death put the
Mars Girl
series in a bad light. We have to make it clear that our Mars Girl is not their Mars Girl. We can’t have a controversy like the one that occurred over
Pokemon.
You heard about that, didn’t you?”

“Of course!” A few years ago, all across Japan, several hundred children watching one episode of the animated show
Pokemon
had suffered seizures. Stories appeared worldwide about whether the culprit was really a blinking strobe effect or a more sinister side to Japanese animation.

“The only reason I’m talking to you is that I don’t want stories appearing in Los Angeles talking about the evils of Japanese animation. I’m being direct so that you will better understand the situation, I hope.” Hiroko looked straight at me, all the coyness gone.

“I can assure you no such stories written by me of such an ilk will ever appear in Los Angeles,” I said emphatically. “One last question, strictly theoretical: Would a publisher be upset with a photocopy shop that was printing an unauthorized
doujinshi?
Could the publisher accuse the shop of trademark infringement?”

“No! I’ve been trying to tell you that
doujinshi
publishing does not disturb us. As Mr. Mori said, it’s not really fair that they get tax-free income resulting from use of our characters, but that’s just the way it is. I am very upset that a crime was committed that relates to our icon. But naturally, I feel bad for the American man who died. It’s tragic, isn’t it?”

She was so forthcoming, but was she for real? I tried to figure that out as something at her waistline beeped: a cell phone. She unsnapped it from her mod white patent leather belt and held it to her ear.

“Is Oida-san available? I’ve got a reporter to meet her,” she said.

I watched her face as she said yes a few times, and finally clicked off.

“You can meet the
Mars Girl
artist. But please, no questions that might embarrass her. She’s a very shy person.”

I raised my eyebrows at that but didn’t comment as I followed her through a warren of computer cubicles into an area where drafting tables were packed closely together in a similar way. At first I thought the slightly plump, middle-aged woman wearing bottle-thick glasses had to be a visitor to the department, because she looked so hopelessly square next to the mod Hiroko. But when she put down a pencil on the drafting table and I got a glimpse of an outline of Mars Girl on a piece of paper, I realized she could be the head artist.