The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) (13 page)

“I went to your school today,” I said between bites of tofu. I didn’t want to eat the same thing I’d had the day before, so I was picking at a cold plate of the delicious soybean curd generously slathered with soy sauce.

“How did you have time to visit my college? I thought you were concentrating on writing our story.” Rika’s voice sounded critical.

“Nicky and Kunio went to Showa College. Don’t you think that makes the campus a good place to do research?”

She waved her hand airily. “But school’s not in session.”

“The admissions office is open. I saw a yearbook.”

Rika’s eyes flickered. “Were you able to get a photo of Kunio and Nicky?”

“I couldn’t remove the book, but I saw that the
manga
club photo included them as well as Seiko Hattori. But you weren’t in the picture.”

“I was more active in the journalism club. Didn’t you see my photo there?” Rika sounded casual.

How was I going to get her to confess? I eyed her warily and said, “Did you even belong to the
manga
club?”

Rika coughed. “Not exactly, but I am a fan. I went to their parties.”

Now I understood. When Rika’s friends at the beach said that she didn’t know much about
manga,
they’d been telling the truth.

I didn’t reply, waiting to see what would come.

After thirty seconds, the words came out of Rika in a rush.

“At our staff meeting, I mentioned being part of the club because I certainly know people in it. I’m practically a member.”

“I see.” I was learning a lot about the little intern who could. I looked at her for a moment, knowing that she was feeling uncomfortable, and I realized that we wouldn’t get very far if I turned into an accusing force.

“Let’s talk about another thing I’m interested in—the gang connection. My friend Takeo thinks the beach bar where I met you has many gangsters drinking there. Is that true?”

“Don’t say that word!” Rika whispered.

I always forgot that one wasn’t supposed to utter the word
yakuza
in public, lest one of the gangsters themselves overhear and become angry. But I was speaking English. The term had probably floated by most people.

Rika took a deep swallow of water and then said, “I’m not one of them. I’m just a normal Japanese girl!”

Rika’s fear was ludicrous enough to make me laugh, but I knew she was in a delicate emotional state, so I didn’t. “I know you’re not involved in that. Most people drinking in those places aren’t involved. But there were a few male customers with tattoos and sunglasses. I didn’t get close enough to look at their hands.”

Hands could be a giveaway for a gangster who’d slipped up once or twice. The traditional penalty for misdeeds within the Japanese underworld was said to be a severed finger.

“I’m giving my best to this article,” Rika said. “I have already examined a naked murdered man. I made many notes in my Palm Pilot for you. However, I will not walk up to one of these men to do an interview. There is no connection between the Bojo Bar and this article, other than the fact that you and I talked about our plans there!”

I sat back in my chair, thinking that it would be a lot easier to skip interviewing a gang member. Why did I feel that we had to?

“Rika, as you know, I can barely read Japanese,” I began. ”Nevertheless, when I buy wood-block prints, I look for the artist’s seal in the lower right corner. Because I’ve studied for so long, I know the seals better than a lot of people, but not as well as a veteran. On the TV news, the reporter suggested that the sign on Nicky’s forehead was a gang marking. I would never have thought of that before, but you know, it really makes sense. Nicky worked at Show a Boy, a strip club run by a very tough
mama-san.
There is a possibility that she hired gangsters to kill him—or that gangsters with an interest in the business killed him to send her a message.”

“So why is the answer to interview strange men at the beach?” Rika’s words came out in a passionate rush. “Why not go back and speak to that
mama-san?”

“I might do it,” I said. “There are actually a lot of things we both could do. Since you have the connections, you could find Seiko Hattori while I pursue the gang aspect.”

“Before we begin making such interviews, we must check with the magazine. Mr. Sanno might not like the angle. The
Gaijin Times
is all about selling things, not digging up knives hidden in the beach sand!”

“Mmm, that’s a nice metaphor,” I said. “May I use it for the article?”

“Not until we speak to Mr. Sanno!”

“But that’s jumping the chain of command over Alec Tampole,” I pointed out.

“I shall talk to Alec first. Then I’ll wait until Mr. Sanno is in a good mood.”

I lost my temper then. “Rika-san, it sounds like you don’t want to report this story with me.”

“Please give me time, Rei-san. I would like to present Mr. Sanno with my impressions of the corpse, including my diagram of the design on the forehead. Only then can he understand your desire to interview criminals.”

I shivered, thinking about how grisly the article was going to be. And also, without doubt, how people would enjoy it. In Japan, there were so few murders per capita that they all received plenty of attention. I’d seen the excitement on television about the strangely dressed foreign body that had washed up on the riverbank.

“Very well. While I wait for you to get me an answer, I’ll do some more background work. But one last thing. Are you really sure that the body you saw was Nicky’s?” I had a flicker of uncertainty about launching into a series of potentially dangerous interviews based on an identification made by Rika. I wished I could check out Rika’s story about Nicky’s body characteristics with Lieutenant Hata, but I couldn’t reveal to him that I’d sent her there, could I?

“I’m sure that it was Nicky,” Rika said, giving my hand a reassuring pat. “Don’t you trust me?”

After Rika and I parted, I still had two items on my agenda: visiting the Hattori Copy Shop, which was probably open through early evening, and talking to Marcellus. He’d leave home to work at the club by mid-afternoon, so I made him my top priority. I ducked into an NTT phone booth and pulled out from my bag the leaflet on which Marcellus had written his home number.

“Have you had your coffee yet?” I asked when Marcellus answered the phone with a sleepy
hai.
Or
hi.
It was hard to tell which language he used for his telephone greeting, because the English and Japanese words sounded the same.

“Who is this?” Marcellus demanded.

“Rei. Remember, the one you told to walk your way? We’ve got to talk about Nicky. Are you alone?”

“Oui.
I’m glad that you called. I could not talk the other day because of the
mama-san.
She has been jumping out the door to spy on me. She’s nervous.”

Now I knew I had to see Chiyo again. Lovely. “Do you think she might have had something to do with Nicky’s death? And what about Kunio?”

“I thought that you did not know whether Nicky died. Is there some news?”

I told him about Rika’s evaluation. “Of course, there are other men with that physical description in Tokyo, but the clothing, good teeth, and the blond hair made it sound like Nicky,” I said, finishing up my description.

“I believe you,” Marcellus whispered. “Oh, the sorrow of it. He was like my brother. My American brother. He taught me about rap music and break dancing. I owe my act to him.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.

“I do not want to hear what Chiyo thinks when she learns the truth,” Marcellus said. “She has no heart. In the time that Nicky has been missing, she has cursed him. She believed he moved to a bar in Roppongi that copied our dance show. Chiyo said that Nicky has no loyalty to the group, that he was an example of the worst possible
gaijin
character.”

“Soon she’ll hear his name on television or in the papers. Then she’ll probably feel guilty for all that she said.”

“Or guilty for other reasons!” Marcellus sounded ominous.

“What do you mean? Does this relate to the danger that you hinted about earlier?”

There was a long silence. “I have to think about what I can tell…”  Marcellus said at last.

“Do you think that Nicky’s death could be related to the
yakuza?”

“Don’t say that word!” Marcellus cried.

He had become so Japanese. “All right, I’ll say
g-a-n-g.
Are you aware of such groups’ involvement at the club?”

“No! Our customers are women of normal background. They would like to rape me, but they are not technically criminals. Just women being
naturelle.”

“What about visitors during off-hours?”

“I cannot discuss that.”

“I’m trying to figure out whether someone who stopped by your bar killed Nicky. If you won’t tell me, just think about keeping yourself safe!”

Marcellus snorted and said,
“Ma cherie,
when I came to this land, I believed it was the safest place on earth. In a tourist guide I saw a photograph of a Japanese village by the sea, with kind elderly ladies walking the road carrying baskets of vegetables. Consider where I must work, and the young ladies who try to tear off my clothing every night! The real Japan is a great shock.”

“I understand,” I said. “Can you get out of the city for a while?”

“I met a lovely lady who would like me to do that.” He sighed heavily. “The difficult part is that it pays more to be a rape artist than to catch fish from the sea. I wear handcuffs of gold.
Comprends-tu?”

I comprehended. I thought about what it would be like for Takeo if he couldn’t be a gentleman do-it-yourselfer in Hayama. He was too haughty—not to mention too thin—to make it through a night of customer pleasing at Show a Boy. So what could a man without options do? Might he turn to a life of crime?

***

I left the phone booth, which had become a hothouse, given the sun beaming down from outside and the general July humidity. My cotton knit dress that had looked so fresh and neat going off to lunch was now plastered to my body. I looked as if I’d gone swimming. To try to restore my appearance, I stood close to the air-conditioning vent in the subway car: the only cool spot I could find on my short ride to the Hattori Copy Shop.

After getting out, I stopped at the station’s news kiosk, mindful that I needed to buy something to photocopy. I had in my backpack several copies of
Showa Story,
but I didn’t want to tip my hand by using them. In the end, I settled on buying the Asian edition of
Newsweek.

I approached the small shop, which was fronted by glass, looking to see who was inside. There were no customers on the small row of chairs lined up against the window; I could see a counter behind which was copying equipment and two employees. As I got closer, I saw one was a middle-aged man, and the other a young woman. The two were in conversation; as I drew close to the door, I could tell it was an argument. The man was shaking his finger at the woman, and she was backing away. I wanted to hear for myself what they were talking about, so I quickly pushed open the door.

A bell jingled, announcing my presence and startling the woman, who, without even glancing in my direction, rushed through a door into the back of the shop. All I could see was that she had shoulder-length hair and a slightly chubby figure clad in Pepe Jeans. I thought she was probably under thirty, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I wondered if it was Seiko.

The man, who had remained standing in the customer service area, nodded at me and uttered the regular
irasshaimase
welcome that was given to customers entering a shop. He looked at me expectantly.

I opened my mouth and said, “Hattori-san?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“I need some articles photocopied,” I said. “The thing is, I would like to use a very good paper for it.”

“We have many high-quality papers. I can show you a selection.” He went to a shelf and began collecting samples of sheets. “What kind of quality do you want, exactly?”

“Ideally, a paper called Contessa.”

“Ah, that’s better for artwork, and it’s oversized, by the way. Didn’t you say that you are just photocopying articles?”

“The articles have color photographs,” I said swiftly. “It’s got to look good.”

“I’m afraid that I’m out of stock of Contessa right now, but I can get it within a month’s time. That probably is too long a wait.” He looked at me shrewdly, and I wondered if he’d seen through my feeble excuse.

“That is a long time,” I agreed. “What else can you offer me? Oh, and I was wondering, are you Seiko’s uncle?”

“I’m her father,” Mr. Hattori answered. “Do you know her?”

“A little bit,” I said after a second. I’d been listening to some rustling sounds in the back of the store that had suddenly stopped. “Does Seiko-san work here?”

“Yes. I’ll tell her that you said hello.”

“Oh, how convenient that she’s in the shop. May I say hello to her?”

“She’s actually gone out to lunch. I’ll tell her you stopped in, if you give me your name.”

It was two-thirty, not exactly a typical Japanese lunch hour. But maybe they had to work through the normal lunch hour, because that was when customers had enough free time to come in for service.

“You wanted to leave your name?” Mr. Hattori was staring at me rather quizzically.

“Rei Shimura,” I answered him, handing over my Rei Shimura Antiques card.

“Ah, you work with antiques. I can understand your interest in high-quality photo reproduction. Do you want me to create an advertising flyer for you?” His voice was a bit warmer.

“No,” I said, feeling silly that I hadn’t just brought in some photos of my wares. “It’s a news article for a, um, language class that I teach on the side.”

“Well, how about selecting the paper? Here is a choice that is comparable to Contessa. I’m sure you’ll understand that prices are higher than five yen for this type of paper.”

“Do you have anything in the twenty-yen range?” I didn’t want to blow a lot of money on this copying project, since I’d have to explain it to the accountant at the
Gaijin Times.

“Here’s something that’s suitable for photoquality reproduction that costs thirty yen per page. I assume you want a color copy made?”

“Yes.” I was flipping through
Newsweek,
looking for an article worth copying. I stopped at one about police efforts to crack down on Japanese gangs. I figured that it made sense for me to be photocopying an article on a Japanese topic.

“How many copies?”

Since I’d said that I was teaching a language class, I should have more than one made. However, I knew color copies were going to be expensive.

“Two.” Seeing his disappointed expression, I added, “It’s a very small class.”

“Teaching English isn’t big business anymore, is it?” Mr. Hattori commented. “Ten years ago, it was a good career choice. But now it’s not so good.”

Seiko was an English major, I recalled from the conversation at the admissions office. I wondered if another reason that Seiko’s father had made her leave school was the fact she was studying English.

I handed Mr. Hattori the magazine flipped open to the article about Japanese gangsters. I saw his eyes widen slightly at the topic, and he looked at my face again. I smiled benignly.

Mr. Hattori went a few feet behind the counter and began the process of making a color copy. It took a minute or so, but he kept his back turned, as if to discourage further queries about Seiko.

I used this time to glance around the shop. The walls were decorated with framed examples of photocopied and printing jobs. I didn’t see anything as obvious as a
Showa Story
cover on the wall, but I didn’t need to see one to be fairly certain it had been printed here. Seiko could have done it on the sly, when her father wasn’t watching. She could have been the one who used up all the Contessa stock.

“All right, then. Each color photocopy is two hundred fifty yen, plus sixty yen for the special paper, plus tax—your total is five hundred eighty-eight yen.”

I paid it, getting a receipt so that the
Gaijin Times
would reimburse me.

“Thank you for your business, Miss Shimura.” Mr. Hattori lined up the sheets and slid them into a perfectly sized red-and-white-striped bag. The bag’s pattern looked familiar. I’d seen another one like it somewhere.

“You’re welcome,” I answered, taking the bag. “Oh, when would be a good time for me to catch Seiko in person?”

“She’s so busy
.
It’s hard to say.”

I had a feeling that she’d be busy whenever I came in. I exited the store, no closer to finding Seiko than when I had gone in.

I walked around to the back of the shop and saw a Toyota Town Ace van parked in a narrow space adjacent to the shop. I crouched down to take my notebook out of my backpack. I was going to record the license plate specifics and see if I could use that information to get a home address for the Hattori family.

I heard the sound of footsteps and looked up. If this were Mr. Hattori, I’d have to make some kind of excuse.

But it was the young woman with shoulder-length hair and a stocky frame I’d seen earlier. She wore a red-striped cotton tunic over her jeans that matched the pattern on the shopping bag Mr. Hattori had put my photocopies in. She looked a lot like the yearbook picture of Seiko Hattori, only minus the confident, happy expression—and plus a black eye.

I saw the young woman look back over her shoulder into the copy shop, and her pace quicken as she walked away from it. She was crossing the parking lot where I was crouched behind the van. She didn’t notice me because she was busy fumbling in a large backpack for something. I caught a flash of what looked like yellow fur. Could it be her dog costume? She stuffed the fur back in, pulled out sunglasses, and put them on.

As I began to trail her, the girl I thought was Seiko turned around, glanced at me, and then walked casually toward the street. Maybe it was a normal occurrence, in this area of few sidewalks, for pedestrians to cut through the copy shop’s parking area. She stood poised on the edge of a crosswalk. When there was a break in traffic, she cut across. She was jaywalking, something not ordinarily done in Japan. Citizens were not supposed to cross streets until the corny musical melody told them that it was safe.

I hurried to catch up with her; by the time I reached the crosswalk, the electronic “walk” jingle had started and I smoothly crossed the street. I saw the striped tunic bobbing ahead of me, almost but not quite lost in a crowd of other young people. But then, to my surprise, her swift walk turned into a run.

Perhaps she was scared of someone she’d seen in the crowd—or else her father had warned her about me. If I’d been wearing my trusty Asics instead of sling-back Bally pumps, I would have taken off after her. She wasn’t a fast runner—I could have caught up within half a minute. But because I was feeling so impaired by my shoes, I struggled through the crowd in a racewalk. My head was starting to ache. It had been a long day, and this chase was not something I’d expected would end it.

Seiko’s run ended at a bus stop, just as a large bus pulled to a noisy halt. I wanted to laugh at myself. She wasn’t a fugitive, just a person trying to catch a bus. Time, and the long queue at the bus stop, were on my side; by the time I reached it, the stoplight at the intersection had gone red, so the bus was still waiting. I climbed on, so intent on locating Seiko that I forgot to take a paper ticket marking my embarkation point. I was reminded by a schoolchild.

“Sorry,” I murmured, and made my way to the back. Seiko Hattori was snuggled in a seat along the window, her face half hidden by a comic book. She was still wearing the dark glasses, most likely to shield her bruised eye area from the public gaze.

I hung out, holding on to a rail while standing in the aisle, staying near Seiko. A large grandmother type who had been standing ahead of me in the queue for the bus had gotten the seat next to Seiko. The two were politely ignoring each other, standard bus etiquette.