“Which you gave to Mr. Takura—”
“A little before six o’clock that same day. I went over near his office and handed it to him in person. He processed it right away, he said.”
“That left one more thing for Mr. Takura to take care of: he had to pick up the fake medical certificate from your mother. So he left his office and went around to your place.”
Fumitaka frowned and scratched the side of his head.
“I really got Mr. Takura in trouble. He has a legitimate alibi, but he can’t give it to you because he bent the rules for me. As far as I’m concerned, he’s welcome to tell you everything. There’s no other way out.”
“Mr. Takura hasn’t breathed a word about the fake medical certificate.”
“That’s because he’s thinking about the consequences. When I gave him the real certificate, he promised not to mention it to anyone. ‘I’m a trueborn Tokyoite. I’d rather die than break a promise.’ Those are his exact words.”
“How come you didn’t say anything, either?”
This comment flummoxed Fumitaka. He was briefly at a loss for words.
“Apparently, she’s got cancer of the bile duct.”
“The bile duct... I see.” The expression on Kaga’s face was grave.
“She’s too weak for an operation. They’ve discharged her — for now, at least. The idea is to keep an eye on her and treat her at home, but she’s unlikely to get her old energy back.” Fumitaka took a deep breath and went on, “She may only have six months left to live.”
“I can only offer my deepest sympathies.”
Fumitaka just smiled.
“It’s nice of you to sympathize, but the important thing is for no one else to find out the truth. Not my mother, obviously, but not Naho, either.”
“I understand completely,” said Kaga.
“That girl loves my mom like her own mother. Her real mother died when she was little more than a baby, so her granny means everything to her. I don’t want to tell her what’s really going on until she has finished classes and has got her start as a hairdresser.” A thought struck Fumitaka midflow, and he looked at Kaga. “I suppose I can’t hide the truth any longer. We’ll have to come clean about the fake medical certificate to provide Mr. Takura with a proper alibi.”
Kaga shook his head slowly and deliberately.
“I discussed the matter with my superiors, and I’ve arranged for someone from the local precinct to have a word with the homicide detectives at the Metropolitan Police. The only thing we’ll need is a statement from you.”
“I see. If I do that, everything will be okay.”
“Sorry for the bother.”
“No worries,” said Fumitaka, shaking his head. “The woman who was murdered in Kodenmacho — she lived alone?”
“That’s right.”
“Does she have any family?”
Kaga briefly looked down, something between a grimace and a smile on his lips. Fumitaka sensed that the detective was reluctant to speak.
“I’m sorry. Of course, you can’t talk about the investigation.”
“No, those aren’t really details that we need to keep secret. The woman was living by herself after separating from her husband. She had a son, but they seldom saw each other.”
“That’s interesting.”
“We don’t yet know why she decided to move to the Nihonbashi area. She’s a bit of a mysterious newcomer.”
Fumitaka looked startled.
“Just like you, then.”
“I guess so.”
The two men laughed.
“Ah, look. It’s your daughter.” Kaga motioned with his eyes toward the street.
Naho was standing outside the store, rearranging the rice crackers in the display cases. The glass door opened and Satoko emerged onto the street. They exchanged some words. Naho face’s was a sulky pout.
“If Naho finds out that we met, she’s bound to ask all sorts of questions.”
“Why not just tell her that Mr. Takura is no longer a suspect? That should do the trick.”
Fumitaka nodded and stood up. “Do you expect to stay at the local precinct for a while?”
“Probably.”
“Well, I’m delighted to hear it. Please come around for more rice crackers anytime.”
“Will do.”
Placing the money for his iced coffee on the table, Fumitaka went out onto the street. A businessman in shirtsleeves hurried past the café.
2
The Apprentice at the Japanese Restaurant
1
At four o’clock every day, Shuhei had to sprinkle the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Wearing a special white smock, he used a ladle to splash water from a bucket. It would have been easier to use a hose, but when he suggested this to Yoriko, the restaurant’s co-owner and manager, she glared at him and called him a fool.
“You’re not washing a car, you know. The point of sprinkling water is to keep the dust down. Soaking the whole sidewalk will only inconvenience our customers.
“People who choose to come to a restaurant like ours take atmosphere seriously. They love the sight of an apprentice sprinkling water from a bucket. Some kid in jeans squirting water from a hose — where’s the poetry in that?”
Since their customers only started to arrive around six o’clock, objected Shuhei, none of them actually saw him sprinkling the sidewalk. So what did it matter?
Yoriko’s response was a smack on the head. “Don’t talk back. Debating isn’t part of your job description.”
That’s not very nice, thought Shuhei. But he held his tongue; despite Yoriko’s occasional high-handedness, he respected her abilities as a manager.
A man came out of the restaurant just as Shuhei was ladling out the last of the water. It was Yoriko’s husband, Taiji, the other owner of Matsuya, as the restaurant was called. He was decked out in a Hawaiian shirt and white chinos, with a pair of shades and a gold neck chain thrown in for good measure. Taiji was convinced that he was the last word in style, though Shuhei felt that his look needed work. Shuhei had half a mind to tell Taiji that he resembled a low-level gangster from a B movie.
“Hi there. Got my things for me today?” asked Taiji, looking around anxiously.
“Yeah, I got them.”
“Where are they?”
“Safely out of sight.”
“Good work, kid. Go fetch ’em, will you?”
Shuhei put the bucket down and ducked into the alleyway that ran down one side of the restaurant. He pulled out a white plastic bag from the basket of a parked bicycle and brought the bag back to Taiji. Taiji was looking at his watch and casting nervous glances in the direction of the restaurant’s main entrance. He was clearly worried that Yoriko would come out and find him.
“Here you go.” Shuhei held out the plastic bag.
“Thank you, thank you. I owe you.” Taiji peered into the bag and gave a satisfied nod. “You got what I asked for?”
“Yes. Seven with bean paste, three without.”
“Appreciate it. Appreciate it. Keep the change.”
“Okay.” Shuhei inclined his head slightly. The change was all of fifty yen.
“Remember, this is a secret. Not a word to anyone. You got that?” Taiji placed his index finger up against his lips.
“Yes, I know.”
“Don’t breathe a word to anyone. I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
“I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”
“Good. We’re both on the same page, then.” Clutching the plastic bag, Taiji walked off toward the main street. Shuhei sighed quietly as he watched him go.
Starting at six o’clock, the restaurant had a steady stream of customers. Shuhei was a server; he brought the food from the kitchen. The cooks provided him with a brief explanation of each dish, what the ingredients were and how it should be eaten. Nonetheless, he often found himself at a loss when customers asked him anything too finicky. When they did, he would have to make his way back to the kitchen and ask his fellow cooks or the owners for additional information. Nine times out of ten they reproached him for not having listened properly the first time around.