A Midsummer's Equation

SEVENTEEN

“Hey, Kusanagi, I found it.”

Kusanagi leaned back and swiveled around in his chair. Kaoru Utsumi was approaching, a folder in her hand.

“Oh, thanks. What was the case?”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to read it yourself?”

“I’ll look over the details later. Give me the short version.”

Utsumi leaned on a nearby desk, staring down at Kusanagi. “You’re feisty today,” she said.

“Of course I’m feisty. This is on orders from the director.”

“I understand, except for the part where I’m your assistant all of a sudden.”

“They said I was allowed to deputize whomever I needed.”

“So why me?”

Kusanagi grinned and looked up at her. “I told you Yukawa was there, didn’t I?”

“Which is why they’ve picked you. Still missing the connection to me.”

“It’s pretty obvious. He’s not going to drop everything to help us with the investigation, so your job is to win him over.”

Utsumi scowled. “I’m not sure I’m qualified.”

“You’ll be fine. He won’t listen to me, but if you come crying to him, he’ll fold. I guarantee it.”

“I have to put on a show, now?”

“I’m sure you’ll do whatever the situation demands. Now, please, the case? We don’t have a lot of time.”

Utsumi sighed and glanced down at the folder in her hand. “Name: Hidetoshi Senba. Arraigned on charges of murder sixteen years ago, and sentenced to eight years in prison. The murder took place on a street on the west side of Tokyo.”

“On the street? Was it a fight?”

Utsumi shook her head. “The victim’s name was Nobuko Miyake, forty years old at the time. She’d worked for years as a nightclub hostess but was unemployed at the time of her death. Senba was an old acquaintance, and they went drinking the night before he killed her. Apparently, he asked her to return some money he’d loaned her, and she played dumb, saying she didn’t remember any loan. The next day, he went to meet her and threatened her with a knife, saying he’d kill her if she didn’t return the money. Instead of getting scared, she laughed at him; he lost his temper and stabbed her. That’s the digest version.”

Kusanagi crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Seems pretty clear-cut. Nothing too newsworthy there. Did he go on the lam or something?”

“No. They arrested him two nights later.”

The report of a woman found lying on the street in a residential area of Ogikubo had come in at around ten o’clock on the night of March 10. By the time the police arrived, she was already dead. She had multiple stab wounds to the chest. She was carrying a driver’s license, making identification easy. Some simple canvassing revealed that she’d been drinking the night before at one of her usual hangouts with a middle-aged man who hadn’t been there in several years. That was Senba.

They discovered an old business card of his upon searching the victim’s apartment. Apparently, he’d been a regular back when she was a hostess. After suffering some business losses, he’d moved back to his wife’s hometown for a period of time before returning to Tokyo. His residence at the time was a two-story apartment on the east side of Tokyo.

The detective who’d paid Senba a visit noticed something odd about his behavior and asked if he might look inside his apartment. Senba refused, so the detective left, but lingered nearby in order to keep an eye on Senba’s apartment.

Eventually, Senba emerged with a small bag in his hand. The detective followed him, and when Senba paused by a nearby river and looked around, the detective approached and called out to him. Senba immediately broke into a run. Though it was close, in the end the detective caught up to him, and he was put under arrest.

A bloody knife was found inside Senba’s bag, and it didn’t take long for the labs to confirm that it was a match for the one that killed Nobuko Miyake.

“The detective that caught Senba by the river that day was none other than the late Masatsugu Tsukahara, the subject of our current investigation.”

Kusanagi shrugged. “Any detective who was refused entry to someone’s apartment would suspect something was up. So, was Tsukahara in charge of the interrogation, too?”

“Yes, according to the record.”

“An eight-year sentence … which means he’s out by now. The real question is why Tsukahara went to his old house.”

The call had come from a Detective Nishiguchi in Hari about an hour earlier. Nishiguchi found out about the house and its former occupant, but they had no files for the case in their local offices, thus the request.

“You think he just stopped in on his way?” Utsumi wondered out loud.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe he was on his way to the hearing in Hari Cove, and just decided to take a little detour to see where the man he’d once arrested used to live?”

Kusanagi groaned. “It’s a bit of a stretch. I can understand if the man was living there, or maybe his family, but an empty house? That, and it was already for sale at the time of the murder. Hardly seems worth a visit.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Utsumi agreed, letting go of the theory with uncharacteristic ease.

“Anyway, send those files on to them, and let’s get that address.”

“Hidetoshi Senba’s current address, I take it?”

“You’re on the ball, Detective.”

Kusanagi’s phone rang. It was an unregistered number. He answered.

“It’s Tatara. Got a moment?”

“Sure, of course,” he said, straightening a little in his chair.

“I got a call from the lab. They found a cause of death.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to be surprised. It was carbon monoxide poisoning.”

Kusanagi gasped, despite himself.

“Apparently, it was really hard to pin down, so they ran every blood test in the book. That’s when they discovered levels of carboxyhemoglobin well above the lethal amount. It would’ve taken him only about fifteen minutes to die after he hit saturation. Also, they found traces of sleeping pills.”

This fit a common suicide profile, of course, except people who committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning rarely then jumped off of a seawall.

“I’ll inform the guys at the Shizuoka PD. And I’ve had them send a copy of the report to the locals, too. If anyone calls, be sure to tell them,” Tatara said quickly. Kusanagi could hear the sound of people in the background—the buzz of another police station, perhaps.

“Can I ask a question, Director?”

“Sure. Make it quick.”

“You were in the same division with Tsukahara sixteen years ago, correct?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Do you happen to remember a murderer you picked up around then, a man by the name of Senba?”

“Hidetoshi Senba?”

Kusanagi was startled by the director’s quick response. Of all the cases he must’ve seen in the intervening time, something about this one must’ve stuck in his memory.

“Yes, he killed a former hostess.”

“What about him?”

Kusanagi related what he had heard from Nishiguchi. Tatara was silent for a moment. “Listen,” he said, “I’m over at the Shinagawa Police Department. You mind coming down here?”