Blue Light Yokohama Page 2

  CHAPTER 2: HUNGRY WORK

  “I’M JUST SAYING, IN ANY other country in the world, four prime ministers in four years would be a crisis.”

  “He hasn’t gone yet.”

  “Pah! It’s just a matter of time. But the sad truth is, for Japan, it won’t be a crisis. Just another resignation and the political automaton will rumble on, running on empty. And who is there to care about it?”

  “You’re talking about political apathy?”

  “Exactly that. Voter turnout at the last election was less than 50 percent. How are we ever going to change anything when half of Japan doesn’t care.”

  “But maybe there’s just nothing to be done about it, apathy or no.”

  As Iwata looked through the blinds at the murky dawn, he imagined volume dials on radios all over Tokyo being turned down. It wasn’t that the hosts didn’t raise the occasional interesting point, it was their self-satisfaction that irritated him. One was practically squealing now, enraged that the other disagreed—contractual though it was.

  “How can they care? Take schoolkids. They are not taught to ask why, or to disagree, or to learn through debate. They get taught to sponge up and fit in. The ones that don’t? Put them on the baseball team. Let them learn their place that way. Somewhere along the way, every other Japanese just learns to accept for the sake of accepting—”

  Iwata switched stations to a local frequency.

  “—time is 5 A.M., and if you’re just tuning in, today’s topic is Theta—the fastest growing religious organization in Japan. Some call it a new and enriching way of life, while others say it’s a moneymaking scam. Some even go so far as to describe it as a cult. What do you think? Perhaps you have questions for today’s panel? Call in now, we would love to hear—”

  Iwata flipped stations until he stopped at rolling news.

  “Specially designed blue LED lights were installed overnight above the platforms of dozens of Yamanote Line stations in Tokyo in an effort to combat ever-increasing rates of passenger suicides. While there is scant scientific evidence that these blue lights will reverse this worrying trend, experts believe the color blue may have a calming effect, Sumiko Shimosaka reports.”

  The sound of a train’s horn resounded, followed by the footfall of commuters and shrill service announcements. Iwata liked good production value.

  “Japan’s soaring rates of suicide have been exacerbated in recent years by the economic climate.” Shimosaka’s voice was childlike but defiant. “Tragically, this is an issue that has been seen time and again on the platforms of Tokyo’s busy Yamanote Line. East Japan Rail Company’s response to this? According to Professor Hiroyuki Harada of the National Research Institute, who was heavily involved in the project, the blue lights are ‘associated with the sky and the ocean, giving those suffering with agitation a calming effect.’ But with little evidence behind them and coming at great cost, will they actually work? This morning I spoke with a spokesperson for East Japan Rail Company.” The broadcast cut to the middle of an interview. “Mr. Tadokoro, the fact is, there is no evidence to suggest the lights will actually help. Given that the cost of this project is fifteen million yen, are you at all concerned that these blue lights will be seen as nothing more than a gimmick?”

  There was a ripple of embarrassed laughter. “It’s very simple. People are dying and it is our responsibility to try to help. This is why the system has been rolled out across all twenty-nine stations on the Yamanote Line. And that’s just the start. Fifteen million yen is small change if the situation can improve.”

  Shimosaka came back on. “A company line confidently toed. But as the end of the financial year approaches, certain realities—and losses—will have to be confronted by Tokyoites. Perhaps it is no coincidence then, that March is traditionally the peak month for suicide, or that 2011 is already predicted to be the fourteenth straight year to exceed thirty thousand suicides, according to preliminary figures from the National Police Agency. As for the blue lights, it remains to be seen what effect they will have on Tokyo’s commuters. This is Sumiko Shimosaka, reporting for—”

  Iwata turned the radio off. He showered, shaved quickly, then dressed in a dark suit. He looped an old black tie around his neck and left his apartment.

  Cramming on to the fifty-one bus, Iwata spent the journey watching commuters play games on their phones. He got off one stop before Shibuya Station and passed a nameless canal that hid behind cramped, overpriced apartment blocks. In these backstreets, failing restaurants lived on the lonely lunch hours of salarymen. Walls were latticed with graffiti and rotting billboards advertised vague concepts:

  DVD

  SET-MENU

  REMEDY

  Tokyo rain brought out the smell of sewage. Beyond that, there was only soy sauce and exhaust fumes.

  Iwata emerged on to Meiji-Dori and Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department Shibuya HQ came into view. It was a fifteen-story beige block set in a V-shape, looking more like the headquarters of an insurance multinational than a police station. Iwata crossed the rain-slick road with a volley of commuters and hurried up the steps to the main entrance.

  Inside, expressionless Tokyoites sat blinking in the filthy waiting area. Parents chewed their nails, young women denounced gropers, commuters reported stolen bicycles—the daily bread of the TMPD. Skipping the line, Iwata approached the front desk and identified himself. A balding cop handed over a temporary pass.

  “Elevators. Far end, up to the twelfth.”

  The elevator was wall-to-wall with mugshots and missing persons. No music played. A large poster for tourists outlined the steps to follow when calling 110.

  1. STATE WHAT HAPPENED.

  • “THERE IS A ROBBER.” = “DOROBO DESU.”

  • “THERE WAS A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT.” = “KOTSU JIKO DESU.”

  2. STATE YOUR LOCATION.

  3. STATE YOUR NAME & ADDRESS.

  The doors slid open to a large open-plan office awash with loud telephone conversations and cigarette smoke. The halogen panels overhead gave faces an ugly pallor. A huge digitized map of Tokyo took up the entire back wall, lights flashing wherever there was an incident. The city was black, the lights were red. Beneath it, rows of monitors flickered green like tired eyes. Iwata could smell air freshener, a poor attempt at the kinmokusei flower that failed to hide the stench of sweat.

  Everyone was working. In the center of the room stood the only exception to this—a pack of men in poorly cut suits eyeballing crime scene photographs. The tallest one, hands in his pockets, puckered thick lips and snorted.

  “Don’t fucking lie to us, Horibe.” His voice was adenoidal and composed. “Given half the chance, you still would.”

  The others fell about laughing while Horibe feigned good humor. Iwata left them behind and stopped at a door at the end of the office. Above it, the sign read:

  SENIOR INSPECTOR ISAO SHINDO

  He knocked firmly and entered. The office was a featureless cube, the window blinds were down. Shindo was a tall, balding man in his fifties. Clearly, he hadn’t showered in several days, shaved in several weeks, nor seen a running track for several years. Iwata bowed before him and shifted a stack of papers from one of the guest seats. Shindo rubbed his long broken nose as he inspected the new arrival. Iwata pretended not to notice, instead looking around the room.

  There were no personal items here, no photographs, no awards, and no infantile drawings. Just filing cabinets, case documents, and coffee stains. Iwata could respect that.

  “So.” Shindo’s voice was parched and tired. “You’re my new inspector?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Iwata, then?” He took out a personnel file and flipped through.

  “That’s right.”

  “You studied in America?”

  “Political science at UCLA. Then Peace Officer Standards and Training at San Diego Miramar College.”

  “That might be enough to be police in America. But what have you got that counts for som
ething here?”

  “Training and qualifications at National Police Agency in Fuchu.”

  “No other studies in Japan?”

  “After high school, no sir. It should all be right there in the file.”

  “I can read, Iwata. But right now we’re talking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me something, do you consider yourself Japanese?”

  “I was born here, sir. Same as my parents. My passport has a chrysanthemum flower on it, just like yours. I am Japanese, whatever I might consider myself to be or not.”

  Shindo grunted and leaned back in his chair. “Actual police experience?”

  “Four years. Chiba Prefectural Police. Chōshi PD.”

  “The quiet life by the ocean, eh?”

  “I was with Homicide for three years, sir.”

  “And did you get any actual homicides? I’m not talking suicides or traffic here.”

  “Several. Including the Lake Hinuma murders.”

  “Oh, that was you?”

  Iwata nodded.

  “Yes, I think I remember reading about that, made one or two papers.” Shindo checked himself and leafed through to the end. “And you’ve been signed off work for … fourteen months?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s not my business but it’s my business, you understand?”

  Iwata nodded and Shindo flipped the file shut. He’d seen enough.

  “Well, I have to ask. Are you sure you’re ready for Tokyo? It takes a certain kind of cop to stomach Division One. This wouldn’t just be returning, this would be like going up two or three levels, you get that?”

  “I’m ready, sir. I assure you.”

  Shindo drummed a silent tune on his lips.

  “Okay. I’m going to be honest with you. I’m not a fan of people transferring in here. Anyone who steps up to bat for Division One ought to know this pitch, not just have a good swing.” Shindo shrugged. “But you have good studies. Good references from Chōshi PD. You speak English. You’ve cleared cases. Those things matter, I suppose.”

  Iwata glanced at the tower of thick case files on the desk. Shindo had collected a roll of napkins in a Tupperware container. His only cutlery seemed to be a knife.

  “All right, then,” Shindo said, mostly to himself. He picked up the phone. “Sakai? Yeah, come through.” He hung up and sighed with what Iwata read as buyer’s remorse.

  There was a knock at the door and a woman in her late twenties entered. She wore a gray suit and a crisp white blouse. There was an empty beauty about her and her smile was indifferent. She was only a few inches shorter than Iwata and she wore a thin, gold butterfly necklace. She bowed sharply but Shindo waved away the formality.

  “Sit.”

  As she sat, Iwata caught a snatch of her perfume. It contained no flowery notes, only function.

  “Sakai, this is the newly appointed Inspector Iwata. He will lead this investigation and you will assist him. Welcome to Homicide, kids.”

  She glanced sidelong at Iwata for a moment. If she was impressed, it didn’t show.

  “What about the Takara Matsuu case, sir?” Her voice was a surprising contralto.

  “You’ve just graduated from Missing Persons. That creep will turn up in the mud sooner or later. Any other questions, Sakai?” Shindo’s tone made it clear that the question was rhetorical.

  “No, sir. Thank you for this opportunity.”

  Shindo took a case file from the top of the pile. It was marked with a large, stark label:

  KANESHIRO FAMILY MURDERS

  Before passing it over, he aimed a rotten banana of a finger at them.

  “Now I want you both to tread with care. This case belonged to Hideo Akashi until he threw himself off a fucking bridge four days ago. That man was an institution here, just so you know the size of the shoes you’re trying to fill. Added to that, the Mina Fong thing has brought a fucking shit storm down on us. We’re still playing this as accidental or suicide for now, she’s an actress after all, but the press already smell bullshit. Anyway, to the matter at hand. Do your best but don’t expect help from the other departments. The family were Korean, so not exactly front-page news. Especially not when a sex symbol turns up dead in her own apartment.”

  He tossed the file across the desk and Iwata opened it. After a moment’s reading, he looked up.

  “The whole family?”

  Shindo smiled worn teeth.

  “Like I said, son. Two or three levels. Now get going. They were killed sometime over Valentine’s night, so this case is already overripe.”

  Iwata and Sakai both stood and bowed.

  “We’ll do our best, sir!” Sakai barked.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Sakai opened the door and led the way through the office without looking at her new partner. She marched confidently toward the elevator, ignoring what Iwata assumed were habitual glances from the desks. The group of men standing by the water cooler fell silent as she passed. A few paces ahead, an elastic band whistled past Iwata’s ear and pinged off Sakai’s back. She didn’t slow her stride but Iwata saw her cheeks darken. He turned back to see the tallest of the men smile. His face was sallow, his buzz cut fresh and his dark lips wet. Seeing Iwata, a smile formed on his lips—presage or playfulness. Beneath the lips, canine teeth.

  The Lord is my light and my salvation.

  Whom shall I fear?

  “You have a real productive day,” he called.

  Iwata turned away.

  Sakai was waiting for the elevator with folded arms. The doors slid open and Iwata followed her in. In the TMPD car park, Sakai approached the security booth, showed her badge, and signed out a maroon-colored Toyota Crown.

  “It’s in your name.” She slung Iwata the keys. “So drive good.”

  As he pulled out on to Meiji-Dori, rain engulfed them. Sakai pressed a button and the turret lights flooded the street with blue. The siren began to wail and traffic parted. Iwata headed west, toward Setagaya.

  * * *

  Though one of Tokyo’s most populous wards, Setagaya was quiet today. Only the patter of raindrops through the zelkova leaves could be heard. The streets were empty from the downpour. In the distance, a slow train lumbered toward the city.

  Iwata and Sakai got out of the car. The parking lot was an exposed, mostly empty space wedged in between the Tama River and a fringe of trees, which acted as the boundary to the university grounds. Zipping up her black raincoat, Sakai led the way down concrete steps that gave on to the edge of the river. Iwata paused.

  “Sakai.”

  “What is it?”

  “There should already be police here to secure the area and canvass for witnesses. These cars should be checked out.”

  “Yeah, well you heard what Shindo said about resources.”

  Iwata took out his new notebook and jotted down the registration plates of the three vehicles. When he was finished, they followed the river south, its surface flecked with premature cherry blossoms. A few hundred meters up the path they came to a stairway that led up to a gated complex.

  A miserable police officer huddled against the rain. White breath seeped out from under his hat.

  “Sorry, no press.”

  Sakai smiled tepidly and pulled out her police ID. The officer apologized, lifted the police tape, and opened the gate for them. Inside, the housing complex was a muddy swamp of malachite puddles. Abandoned hard hats collected rainwater. Construction vehicles lay dormant. A large sign read:

  VIVUS CONSTRUCTION—THE GOOD LIFE.

  Not much of the complex remained. Demolition work had claimed every home except for the one at the far end. Sakai swore as she crossed the sludge but refused to slow her pace.

  “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t dawdle.”

  Except for its size, the Kaneshiro family house was an unremarkable two-story concrete affair surrounded by a small partition the demolition company had provided. It was well maintained, with a garage and a
small balcony on the upper floor. It might once have been a desirable address but its distance from the street and the looming wall of trees behind gave it a private solitude. All the curtains were drawn and all the windows closed. Except for one.

  Two cops in high-vis raincoats stood under the awning, flipping through a lurid exposé of the Mina Fong death.

  SUICIDE? SOMETHING MORE SINISTER? SENSATIONAL DETAILS INSIDE!

  The taller of the cops was skinny with no chin, while the shorter one had dyed orange hair and a mole just above his eyebrow. That mole cocked up now as he caught sight of Sakai.

  “Who are you?”

  Sakai held up her ID and checked her trousers for flecks of mud.

  “Open the door,” she said flatly.

  The chinless cop smirked and went back to his newspaper. Mole noticed this and reddened. He licked his lips before replying.

  “You mean you’re the investigators?”

  Sakai looked up at Mole for the first time and at once he recognized his mistake.

  “Do you think we’re delivering pizza, asshole?”

  “No, I just—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hatanaka, but—”

  “Well, Hatanaka, I asked you to open the door but for some reason, we still seem to be having a conversation about this. So I’m going to threaten you. But I want to be very clear here. My threat doesn’t entail protocol. It entails your disgusting fat ass, a roomful of bull queers, and adult nappies for the foreseeable future. I hope you understand me because I doubt nappies come in your size.”

  Hatanaka paled as he nodded. She turned to the taller one and slapped the newspaper from his hands.

  “Now you will have the parking lot secured with the names of the car owners by the time I’m done in here or I’ll fucking paralyze you. I know a lot of bad men who’ll take a lump hammer to your spine for my pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top. Do we understand each other?”

  Both men bowed sharply.

  “Peachy. Thank you, officers. Now fuck off.”

  No Chin immediately hurried toward the lot as he fumbled with his radio while Hatanaka fished out the house keys from his pocket. Iwata bit the insides of his cheeks to suppress his smile and pointed to the front door.