“Over in Nerima? You know when the Kajimotos moved into the apartments?”
“Not exactly, but when they moved out, they had mentioned that they’d been here for almost twenty years.”
“Well, then they overlapped with the Kawahatas for sure, and 206 is on their stairwell,” Kusanagi said, snapping his fingers. “Okay, let’s get to Ekota.”
Kusanagi hailed a cab. They had only just pulled away from the curb when Utsumi’s cell phone rang.
“Hello,” she answered, “Utsumi speaking. Yes, thanks for this morning. What, you found someone? Could you put me on the phone with them?” There was a pause. “Okay, I’ll call back again later. Thank you so much for your help.” She hung up and turned to Kusanagi. Her face was a little flushed.
“Who is that?”
“A volunteer group with offices in Shinjuku. They run a few soup kitchens and homeless shelters. I stopped by there on my way to Arima Engines and left a copy of Hidetoshi Senba’s photograph so they could show it to their staff.”
“And?” Kusanagi prompted, hope stirring in his chest.
“Well, one of the women who works for them said she’d seen Senba several times at one of the soup kitchens.”
“Around when?”
“She said the last time was over a year ago. I didn’t get to speak with her directly—she was out. Back in an hour or so.”
“Can you stop the car?” Kusanagi said to the driver. The driver hurriedly pressed down on the brake and pulled over to the side of the road.
“What’s wrong?” Utsumi asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. This is our best lead yet. I want you to go to that office right now and wait for this woman to get back. Driver, open the door. She’s getting out.”
THIRTY-FIVE
It was already past five in the evening, but the temperature hadn’t dropped a single degree, and the asphalt was steaming from the heat of the day.
Nishiguchi was in East Hari, along with a police sergeant named Nonogaki, looking for the restaurant where Tsukahara had eaten lunch. Noodles had been found in his stomach during the autopsy, but noodles hadn’t been served at the Green Rock Inn that evening. The degree of digestion suggested some time had passed. The noodles had an unusual characteristic, too: in addition to the expected wheat flour and salt, there were traces of three kinds of seaweed—the same three kinds commonly found in seaweed udon, a Hari Cove specialty.
Nishiguchi had been on a wild goose chase, making the rounds of all the warehouses and garages in the Hari Cove area where someone could have been poisoned with carbon monoxide, when the orders came to find out where Tsukahara had eaten lunch. Nishiguchi sighed, anticipating another afternoon spent as a tour guide to whomever the prefectural police sent down—a police sergeant named Nonogaki, as it turned out.
Nishiguchi called ahead and found three small restaurants in East Hari that served seaweed udon. They struck out at the first and were now walking over to the second, working up a sweat in the lingering heat.
The second restaurant was on a road that ran across the shoulder of a small hill, sloping downward toward the ocean. There was a gift shop out front and a small dining area in back. Some benches on the opposite side of the road provided a spot to sit and look out at the view.
A middle-aged woman was running the shop by herself. There were no customers. Nishiguchi showed her the picture of Tsukahara.
“Yeah, he was here,” she answered with a shrug.
The police sergeant from prefectural homicide pushed past Nishiguchi with an intense look on his face and immediately began questioning the woman, asking if there had been anything unusual about Tsukahara’s behavior, if he had made any phone calls, if he looked like he was waiting to meet someone, if he had been in a good mood. The woman just shrugged again and said there were some other customers at the same time, so she never really got a good look at him.
“Was there nothing about him that left an impression at all?” Nonogaki asked, his tone indicating that he’d already given up.
“Well, no, not really. Though he did go and sit on the bench out front when he was done eating.”
“One of the benches across the road? What then?”
“That’s all, just sat on the bench and looked out at the ocean. Then he walked off. Back toward the station, I guess.”
“Around what time was that?”
“Oh, I don’t remember exactly. Probably a little after one.”
Tsukahara had taken a taxi from East Hari Station at one thirty, heading for the community center. That meant he had gone to see the house in Marine Hills first, then come here for lunch before heading for the station.
They thanked the woman and left.
Nonogaki sighed loudly. “Well, that was a bust. The victim ate seaweed udon for lunch. Big deal.”
“If you’d like to ask around a bit more, I’m happy to help,” Nishiguchi offered.
Nonogaki made a sour face and groaned. “Time-wise, he would’ve had to go straight to the station after leaving here. I don’t see what more questioning would get us,” he said, taking out his phone.
While Nonogaki talked with his supervisor, Nishiguchi went across the road and stood next to the bench. He could see the rooftops of several old houses lower down the hill. The trees poking up between the rooftops were a deep green. Nishiguchi came out to East Hari every now and then. The place hadn’t changed in decades, and nature felt even more untouched here than over in the cove area. Of course, that meant there hadn’t been much economic development either. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.
On another road about ten meters further down the hill, he saw a man standing and looking out over the ocean. He was carrying a suit jacket over one shoulder, and when he turned, Nishiguchi caught a glimpse of his face. Nishiguchi’s eyes widened.
“Hey,” Nonogaki said, walking up behind him. “I gotta get back to headquarters. Got a meeting with Isobe’s team. What’re you going to do?”
Guess I’m not invited, Nishiguchi thought. “I think I’ll do a bit more questioning around here,” he said. “I know a few people in town.”
“Home-court advantage, right. Well, it’s all yours.” Nonogaki thrust his phone back into his pocket and walked off without so much as a glance behind him.
Nishiguchi waited for the sergeant to disappear down the road, then took a flight of concrete steps that led down the hill. The man from before was still standing on the road, apparently deep in thought.
“Excuse me,” Nishiguchi said when he got closer, but the man didn’t seem to hear him. “Excuse me,” he repeated, a little louder this time.
The man slowly turned. There was a deep, thoughtful furrow between his eyebrows. He looked put out at the interruption.
“You’re Mr. Yukawa, aren’t you?”
“Yes?” the man said, looking at Nishiguchi’s face for a moment before blinking, as though he’d just realized something. “We met the other day at the Green Rock Inn. You’re a detective.”
Nishiguchi introduced himself and Yukawa nodded, then pointed a finger at him. “You’re not just any detective. You’re Narumi’s classmate.”
“That’s right. Did she mention me?”
“It came up in conversation.”
This was news. Nishiguchi was acutely interested in specifically how his name had come up and was wondering how he might ask Yukawa this, when the physicist added, “She only mentioned you were classmates. We didn’t get into details.”
“Oh, right,” Nishiguchi said, his heart sinking just a little. “You have a friend in the Tokyo Police Department yourself, don’t you?”
“If you want to call him that, sure.”
“He’s not your friend?”
“I’d call him more of a nuisance. Do you know the kind of ridiculous questions I’ve had to answer, just because I happened to stay in the same inn as the victim?”