The Silent Dead (30 page)

“You sly bastard, how'd you know I was here?” said Katsumata, scowling. Ioka sat nonchalantly down on the bench opposite.

“Oh, just a wild guess. Thought you'd be in the mood for a nice long soak, Lieutenant, so I decided to pop into a few saunas before looking for you at the beach.”

That was bullshit. From the whole of Tokyo, how on earth had Ioka tracked him to this sauna, miles away?

I mustn't underestimate this fellow.

All the other local partners Katsumata had had at Kameari had been spineless losers. He'd got rid of them with ease, either by sneaking off the train as the doors were closing or bribing them with a note or two.

I'll show you, you smartass
.

It'd been a while since he'd gone on the warpath, but Katsumata was determined to teach Ioka a lesson.

*   *   *

Katsumata caught the train from Okubo and went as far as Yoyogi, where he got off. Threading his way between several buildings, he reached the main road, where he leaped into a taxi heading for Shinjuku. Getting out at a traffic light by the railway station, he weaved his way through the crowds in the station and then walked out into a department store. He took the down escalator, slipped through a restaurant kitchen, and emerged into a back street.

Finally, he went out onto a long, straight street with very few pedestrians, where he turned around every few seconds to make sure no one was on his tail. It was okay. There was no one after him.

If he could keep up with me after all that, I'd have to admit defeat.

To be completely sure he was safe, Katsumata slipped into a nearby antique shop owned by a friend of his to kill half an hour.

“What are you so nervous about, Mr. Katsumata?” asked the owner, peering out the window as he poured his guest a cup of tea.

“Incredible as it may sound, I'm being followed.
Me!
”

The owner grinned meaningfully.

“Oh, so the higher-ups found out about your links with the yakuza?”

Katsumata grabbed the old man by his cotton-wool-like hair.

“Listen, old timer, you know what they say about walls having ears. If you want to stay alive, you'll keep your trap shut.”

Far from being cowed by Katsumata's threats, the old man beamed merrily. This sort of overheated banter was a playful ritual they both enjoyed.

“So I'd better keep what I know about your gangster buddies at the Yamato-kai and those dodgy new religions to myself?”

“Listen, why don't you pick up that plate there—yes, the one with two extra zeroes on the price tag—and do some plate-spinning practice?”

“You looking to spend some of that ‘pocket money' you're so good at earning?”

“Like hell I am.”

Katsumata's cell phone rang loudly in his pocket. The caller ID said it was the desk sergeant from Kameari police station.

“Yep.”

“Lieutenant Katsumata? Suyama here.”

Suyama was the sergeant who handled the administration and documentation for the case. Katsumata had slipped him ¥100,000 the day he had joined the task force, to keep him sweet. The stage whisper Suyama was speaking in was a good omen.

“What is it? Something come up?”

“A moment ago someone called Tatsumi called for Lieutenant Himekawa.”

“Tatsumi what? I need more than that.”

“I'm sorry, that's the only name I got.”

“Fat lot of use you are. Time to give me my money back.”

“Hang on, sir. Lieutenant Himekawa was out, so I asked Tatsumi if he wanted to leave a message. He was pretty insistent about wanting to speak to her directly, but when I pushed him, he finally agreed to leave a message for her.”

“Nice work. And may I assume that you have yet to pass this message on to the good lady lieutenant?”

“No, I haven't.”

“Attaboy. So what did this Tatsumi guy have to say?”

“He wanted the lieutenant to call him back, and he gave me the number of his cell. Ready?”

“Fire away.”

Katsumata wrote the number down on his hand.

“Got it. More like this, and you'll soon be in line for a bonus.”

“Thanks.” Suyama paused. “What should I do about Lieutenant Himekawa?”

“Don't give her that number
under any circumstances
. Play dumb.”

“Will I be okay?”

“You'll be fine. Just trust me.”

Katsumata ended the call.

Tatsumi …

He'd come across the name somewhere very recently, either heard it or seen it in print.

Tatsumi.

That was it! Heck, it was about as recent as you could get. The name had been in Otsuka's file. The guy was the only collar Otsuka had ever made himself: a sleazy PI based in Ikebukuro—Keiichi Tatsumi, the notorious trader in stolen information.

Why the hell was Tatsumi trying to contact Himekawa?

Given their history, he could see why the guy might get in touch with Otsuka—but Otsuka was dead. Was he trying to contact Otsuka's immediate superior? No, that wasn't it. Otsuka's murder had made the morning papers, and Tatsumi had seen the news. He was trying to get in touch with Himekawa
because
Otsuka was dead.

But what business could a lowlife like him have with Himekawa?

Katsumata gulped down his lukewarm green tea.

*   *   *

Katsumata called up some of his old buddies and asked them what they knew about Keiichi Tatsumi. They all had him pegged as harmless. In that case, why had Otsuka even bothered arresting the fellow? Whatever he was guilty of was just a youthful indiscretion—a healthy display of natural high spirits, in Katsumata's book. The best thing to do with people like him was to turn a blind eye and let them get on with their lives—until you needed them. Then you threatened them and smacked them around until they did what you wanted.

Hang on, that made sense.

What if Otsuka had asked Tatsumi to look into something for him? Perhaps when he'd headed out on his own, he'd gone to meet Tatsumi. That was the sort of thing one should always do outside of normal work hours, though. Otsuka had ignored that simple rule, and things had, predictably enough, gone south. The man was a fool or worse.

Katsumata decided to get the proprietor's tarty young daughter to call Tatsumi on his behalf. Her main job was with a repertory company, so her acting skills were good. Katsumata promised her fifteen thousand yen for her pains and gave her some background on Reiko Himekawa. “You're a twenty-nine-year-old lieutenant, tall, good-looking—and well aware of the fact. Oh, and you and the person you're calling have never met.” That was enough for the girl to put in a fine performance.

“Okay. I'll see you at three.”

The girl put down the phone and handed Katsumata a scrawled note. “Fountain Square, Sunshine 60 Building, Basement Level 1,” it said. Sunshine 60 was one of Tokyo's oldest skyscrapers and was in Ikebukuro.

“You did good.”

Katsumata handed the girl a couple of ten thousand–yen notes.

“Anytime,” she said as she stuffed them into her pocket.

“Hey.” Katsumata stretched out his hand. “I need my change: five thousand yen.”

She clasped his hand in both of hers. “Don't be stingy. I'll keep it for pocket money. Hey, maybe I'll let you spend the night with me.”

Katsumata shuddered and wrenched his hand away. “Don't kid yourself. I wouldn't even pay five hundred for a dog like you. Give me back the five thou.”

He gave her a smack on the head, but she kept stonewalling him. He finally got his change from the storeowner, who was laughing so hard he could barely stay on his feet. Hardly a model father.

*   *   *

Katsumata got out of a taxi at the entrance to Sunshine 60. He checked his watch. Seven minutes to go. He hurried down the stairs and headed for the rendezvous point in Fountain Square.

The broad underground promenade was lined with shops selling clothes for teenagers. It was summer vacation, and the place was heaving even though it was early afternoon on a weekday. Katsumata could have done without the crowds. The color and movement made staying focused harder.

After a short walk, he came to a plaza with a fountain on his right. Luckily, the stage in front of the fountain wasn't being used for a special event. Instead, young couples sat wolfing down crepes and burgers, and there were gaggles of teenage girls here and there.

That must be him
.

A man in a loud Hawaiian shirt was sitting to one side of the steps that led up to the fountain. Katsumata checked the photo he'd had sent to his cell phone. The Tatsumi in the photo had black hair; Mr. Hawaiian Shirt was blond. The face was the same, though.

Katsumata made a beeline for him. The man must have sensed something, as he looked over and eyed him with suspicion.

“You must be Tatsumi?”

“And who the fuck are you?”

“Katsumata, Homicide.”

Tatsumi scowled. “I made an appointment with a Reiko Himekawa, a female lieutenant from Homicide. If she can't make it, then I'm out of here.”

Tatsumi tried to get to his feet. Katsumata grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Cool it, brother. Himekawa couldn't get away. There's a lot of shit happening right now. Officer Otsuka, the cop who collared you, was shot, and Himekawa's dealing with the fallout from that. Her plate's full. That's why I'm here. I'm a lieutenant from Homicide, same as her.”

Tatsumi was unmollified.

“Not interested. ‘If anything happens, contact Lieutenant Himekawa. You can trust her.' That's what Otsuka said to me.”

That set alarm bells ringing.

“Something happened?”

“Someone ransacked my apartment,” said Tatsumi, through clenched teeth. “Last night, a bit after eleven. They smashed my hard drives and infected all five of my PCs with a virus. Professional job. Lucky I always keep a backup with me, so it's not that big a deal.”

Tatsumi spread his arms, palms upward.

“It's Himekawa, or nothing. A sly old fox like you—no, thank you very much.”

Concealing his irritation, Katsumata sat down on the steps beside Tatsumi.

“No need to get nasty. We know that Otsuka asked you to investigate something for him before he died. Otsuka was a serious cop, so I'm guessing that ‘something' was connected to the case we at Homicide are working on right now—Strawberry Night. Am I right? Someone went through your place, and you heard the news about Otsuka being bumped off, so you called the station to talk to Himekawa. Here I am instead. Perhaps I gave you a shock, but perhaps we can make it work to your advantage. Look, we know you gave Otsuka a report and that he paid you two hundred and forty thousand yen for it. How 'bout you sell the same information to me? You get a double payday for one job. It's better than a kick in the teeth.”

Katsumata did his best to sound friendly. He thought he was offering a good deal. Why was Tatsumi glaring at him with undisguised contempt?

“Don't dick around with me. My original price was four hundred thousand.”

“Well, take my deal, and you'll clear four eighty. It's pretty good.”

“It's pretty shitty. You want the same again, you'll pay me five hundred grand.”

What's this guy on? Is he kidding me?

Katsumata raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Hold your horses, friend. What's with the price gouging? Two forty's a good deal.”

“Otsuka asked me to look into something specific. He had the data. You don't even know what you want me to look into—that's why it'll cost you.”

“I get you, but come on, be reasonable. I mean, you said you've got a backup, right? You don't need to redo your research. You can double your income without lifting a finger. Life doesn't get much sweeter than that.”

“Wrong. When I contacted the police, moneymaking was the last thing on my mind.”

“So why not take the two hundred and forty thousand?”

“You really don't get it, do you? I'm not here to do business. That's why I've named a price that's out of your range. You want to bankrupt yourself, go ahead. It's no skin off my nose.”

The bastard! Unbelievable.

Katsumata tried to recall how much money there was in the account he had set up under his daughter's name. It was a little under three million yen, so it wasn't like he didn't have enough. Still, the idea of forking over five hundred grand to this sleazeball investigator got his back up. On the other hand, someone thought the information was worth killing for. If it cracked the case, half a million was a bargain-basement price. Since they broke into Tatsumi's place to destroy the data, it had to be important.

Katsumata's made up his mind. “Okay, I'll do the deal. Five hundred grand it is.” He was expecting Tatsumi to be pleased. Instead, the man squinted at him suspiciously.

“You've got a lot of dough for a regular cop.”

Tatsumi ran his eyes over Katsumata, as if sizing him up, then looked up at the roof of the atrium. Suddenly he smacked a fist into his palm, as if he had remembering something. “Katsumata of Homicide! I know all about you. You're that crooked cop they kicked out of the Public Security Bureau. You line your pockets by auctioning off sensitive information. People call you Stubby.”

Katsumata emitted an appreciative grunt. He wasn't wild about the “crooked cop” part, but everything else was on the money. “I'm impressed. So I'm a celeb in your world?”

“Dream on,” Tatsumi sneered, but his expression was less hostile now. “You and I, we're two of a kind. Ah, fuck it. I don't care who you are or what department you're in—you accept my terms, then a deal's a deal. I need cash, though. In advance.”

I like this guy,
thought Katsumata.
He's nice and easy to understand
.
People who get tied up in knots about their precious feelings and principles are such a pain in the ass. I like dealing man-to-man with people who believe in one thing only: cold hard cash. You always know where you stand with them. Tatsumi was right—they were two of a kind.