Nightshade Page 5

  A few shaky breaths came over the phone as Rika’s mother struggled to master herself. “They found her yesterday morning, in a car with two people. Two people who . . . the police say they committed suicide.”

  “What? Rika was in a car with two dead people? Is she all right?”

  Mrs. Ozawa fell silent, then continued in a barely audible voice, “No, Yumi-san. She’s . . . she’s dead, too.”

  All the blood drained from Yumi’s face and the walkway tilted. Staggering, she gasped, “No. That’s not possible. It’s a mistake.” Partiers fell silent nearby.

  Mrs. Ozawa stifled a sob. “A detective came last night and took me to the hospital. I saw her. I identified her. There’s no mistake.” She broke down again.

  Yumi sank to her knees. She tried to choke out some words, but none came.

  “I’m sorry, Yumi-san,” whispered Mrs. Ozawa. She hung up.

  Rika couldn’t be dead. They’d been laughing together at the Mad Hatter on Friday night. She couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be.

  “Yumi, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  She looked up to find Ichiro bending over her. She glimpsed the concern on his face before everything dissolved in the first wave of tears.

  He took her elbow and said, “My father’s car and driver are parked just on the other side of those trees. Let me take you home.”

  Chapter 8

  Sunday, April 7

  8:00 P.M.

  Yumi

  The next night, a full moon cast a deep shadow over the Mad Hatter’s entrance. It looked like all the other unremarkable doorways along the narrow alley, except for the small, hand-lettered card taped at eye-level: CLOSED PRIVAT PATI.

  Yumi knocked, and the door opened a crack, revealing the reddened eyes of Rika’s friend Midori. She stepped back and let Yumi into the grotto-like café-bar, lit only by tabletop candles and spotlights trained on a wall of clear boxes displaying nearly a hundred Alice in Wonderland action figures. The owner’s collection of Alices ranged in size from cell phone ornament to “25th Anniversary 1/6th Scale,” but over the years they’d been joined by custom models crafted by the owner’s eccentric friends. Among the contributions were Sailor Moons, Innocent Venuses, and even a Gundam robot and a Godzilla, all meticulously painted with Alice’s trademark golden locks, blue dress, and white pinafore.

  The Mad Hatter himself was behind the bar tonight. He’d traded Friday’s Rasta beanie for a somber black trilby from a collection of headgear on the long shelf above the liquor bottles. Small and forgettable-looking except for his hats, the Hatter had never been seen without one. Some claimed they’d even spotted him in the local sento public bath, with a folded washcloth balanced atop a straw porkpie as he soaked, up to his neck in steamy water. Everyone called him Boshi-san, as if Hatter were his last name.

  He nodded at Yumi.

  She stood out from the rest of the crowd because she was the only mourner in the bar wearing regular street clothes. Tonight every flavor of Lolita-hood was represented: Sweet, Gothic, Elegant, Punk. They affected different interpretations of the Bo Peep look but were united in their commitment to a sisterhood more mannerly and chivalrous than the one inhabited by girls in jeans and T-shirts.

  Everyone in the bar tonight was a friend of Rika’s, assembled by the text messages that had wildfired from phone to phone since yesterday. At the center of the Circle were the GothXLoli magazine staff, where Rika had started as a fifteen-year-old cover model but graduated to writing music reviews, fashion tips, and helping style the photos that defined hot and not.

  Rika’s mentors Mei and Kei—never apart, one always dressed in white and the other in black—detached themselves from a knot of Gothic Lolitas near the bar. Bearing a length of wide, black ribbon, Mei solemnly tied it around Yumi’s left arm, carefully fluffing the bow as if preparing for a GothXLoli photo shoot. Even the most relentlessly pastel Sweet Lolitas wore black armbands for Rika tonight.

  The crowd parted as Yumi made her way toward the bar. Everybody knew she’d been Rika’s best friend outside the Circle.

  “Thank you, Boshi-san,” Yumi whispered, reaching for her pocketbook as he slid her usual White Rabbit across the polished glass. The owner shook his head and pushed her ¥1,000 note back across the bar. “On me tonight, Yumi-san.”

  She thanked him and carried her drink to one of the tiny tables. The Lolitas gathered around, led by Midori, whose tall figure and waist-length, perfectly-ironed black hair were often featured in GothXLoli fashion spreads. Her feet were laced into calf-high boots, her tight black jacket nipped in at the waist, over a full skirt of striped cotton and netting. Tonight her eyes were an improbable turquoise, fringed with thick lashes and outlined in black. Midori set her drink on the table and pulled up a chair.

  “I don’t know what to say, Yumi. We’re all just devastated.” She waited for the murmurs of sympathy from the rest of the Lolitas to die down. “I heard you talked to Rika’s mother. Did she tell you what happened?”

  Yumi shook her head and blinked hard to keep the tears from spilling again. “She told me Rika was found yesterday morning in a car with two other people. The police said they committed jisatsu.”

  “A suicide pact?” Midori’s voice rang with disbelief.

  The plastic Alices looked on as the Lolitas buzzed at the news.

  “I wonder if they met on one of those suicide websites,” ventured a Goth-Lolita wearing black-and-white-striped tights under her ruffled skirt.

  “Rika wouldn’t do that,” Midori insisted. “I’ve known her since she was fifteen. She’s not the type to go spilling her heart to strangers on the Internet. If Rika was thinking of ending it all, wouldn’t she have talked to us first?”

  The Lolitas murmured and nodded in agreement.

  “Maybe she never got over that singer from Stacked Rubbish,” a Punk Lolita in a miniature pirate hat and eye patch suggested.

  “Never got over being mad, you mean?” Midori’s ice rattled as she stirred her drink moodily with her straw. “She did mention a few inventive ways she’d like to kill him.”

  “What about . . . that new editor?” Yumi said, remembering what Coco had told her.

  “What editor?” Midori asked.

  “My friend saw her in Shinjuku at the Tea Four Two with some thirty-ish guy on Friday afternoon. Rika told her she was doing a story for him, but Coco said it looked like Rika kind of, you know, liked him.”

  Midori shifted her gaze to the GothXLoli contingent. Mei and Kei exchanged glances.

  “He doesn’t work with us,” said Mei. “I think Rika was writing something for another magazine.”

  Kei added, “Our boss doesn’t mind if we freelance as long as long as we don’t work for a competitor. Usually Rika just did little pieces for Kera and Egg, but about three weeks ago she got really secretive about what she was working on. She assured Editor-san it had nothing to do with fashion, but all she’d tell us was that it was ‘real journalism,’ not ‘Hair Bow Do’s and Don’ts.’ She was staying late every night and started getting so many phone messages she was even texting under the table at the Friday staff meeting. Then she left early, and about ten minutes later I saw her coming out of the ladies’ room. I didn’t recognize her at first, because she was wearing such a strange outfit.” She shook her curls in disbelief. “A blue business suit. Like she was going to a costume party or something.”

  “She met with that editor, then came here,” Yumi said. “She ordered a salad, but barely ate any of it. Kept checking the time, as if she was worried about being late for something.” Yumi blinked as her eyes brimmed. “I can’t believe she was worried about being late to her own death.”

  Midori pushed back her chair and stood. “I don’t believe she committed suicide. I think the police are wrong.”

  Yumi wiped her eyes. “Why woul
d they tell her family it was suicide if it wasn’t?”

  “Because it’s easier. Did they even investigate other possibilities? Maybe it just looked like suicide. Maybe someone killed them.”

  “Why would someone do that?” asked Mei.

  “I don’t know, but who did Rika know who owns a car?” Midori argued. “Did the police even ask how she met the people who died with her? Who were they, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” Yumi wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue handed to her by the Punk Lolita. “Mrs. Ozawa didn’t say. She was pretty broken up when I talked to her.”

  “Do you think it was anyone we know?”

  “I’m sure Rika’s mother would have said something if she thought I knew them.”

  Midori frowned into her drink. “Maybe it wasn’t a suicide pact at all. Maybe those people had something to do with the story she was writing. What if they were sources and the story was about the kind of thing someone would kill to keep hidden?”

  “I could look on her computer tomorrow at work,” Mei offered. “Maybe there’s a draft.”

  “We could check her browser history, too,” suggested Kei. “She probably did all her research in the staff room because her family doesn’t have Wi-Fi at home.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to try to get my phone back from the police,” Yumi said. “Maybe they’ll tell me who the other victims were. I’ll ask why they’re so sure it was suicide.”

  Chapter 9

  Monday, April 8

  9:00 A.M.

  Yumi

  The next morning, Yumi sat on the hard, vinyl-upholstered couches in the lobby of the Komagome Police Station, handbag clutched firmly on her lap. Wanted posters scowled down from the bulletin board, a few accompanied by helpful diagrams showing which fingers the fugitive gangsters were missing. Policemen arriving for work crossed to the elevator and lapsed into shoptalk while they waited for the lift.

  Yumi checked her watch. 9:00. Where was the detective in charge of Rika’s case?

  “Suzuki-san?” called the uniformed officer behind the front desk. The serious-looking young officer who’d just arrived detoured to the counter and listened, then glanced at Yumi and came over to introduce himself.

  “I am Assistant Detective Suzuki,” he said with a formal bow. “How may I assist you?”

  Yumi returned the bow. “Hajimemashite. I’m Yumi Hata.”

  “Ah.” His face brightened as he made the connection. “We have your phone.”

  “Are you in charge of Rika Ozawa’s case?”

  “I, er, yes, I’m working on it.” He paused, uncertain about how to proceed. “I’m not sure we can release your phone yet, though. I’ll have to check with my superior officer. We’re not treating her case as a suspicious death, but . . .”

  “You should be.” Yumi’s face assumed a stony expression.

  Surprised by her directness, he drew back and said, “I know it’s difficult to accept, Miss Hata. But people don’t always tell their friends . . .”

  “She didn’t kill herself.”

  He sighed. “Perhaps you should speak with my boss.” He turned to the desk officer. “Is Detective Nakamura in yet?”

  “He is,” said the tall man who’d just breezed through the front door. He stopped, staring at Yumi.

  Relief flooded Suzuki’s face. “Ah. Good morning, Nakamura-san. This honorable citizen—”

  “Yu-chan?”

  Yumi looked up at him, startled, because he’d used a familiar form of address only allowed between childhood friends. Then recognition dawned.

  “Ken-kun?”

  She knew instantly why she hadn’t recognized him. He’d had The Mole removed. In childhood, it had been easy to identify Kenji Nakamura even from a distance, because of the huge mole right next to his nose. Plus, he was always the tallest kid in the class. Now he’d lost that beanpole look and no longer had a schoolboy buzz cut. In fact, without The Mole, he’d grown up to be surprisingly . . .

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, pushing his hand through his hair. Yumi smiled at the familiar habit; he’d done that every time he had to speak in front of the class, even when his hair was so short it couldn’t possibly have been in his eyes.

  “I’m here about Rika Ozawa.”

  He regarded her with a puzzled frown. “Was she a friend of yours?”

  Suddenly aware that Suzuki was still standing there, listening to every word, Kenji cleared his throat and suggested, “Why don’t we go somewhere a little more comfortable than the lobby.”

  His assistant snapped to attention. “Would you like me to see if an interview room is available, sir?”

  “No, that’s okay, Suzuki-san.” He checked his watch. “The staff meeting isn’t until ten. We’ll be back by then.”

  Suzuki bowed and headed toward the elevator.

  “Let’s go to Matsumoto’s,” Kenji suggested. “It’s never too early for o-hagi.”

  They both smiled; a love of o-hagi, the homely, pounded rice balls covered with sweet red bean paste, was a passion they’d shared as kids, and Matsumoto’s was less than a ten-minute walk from the police station.

  Yumi and Kenji had known each other since she’d abruptly appeared midyear in his third grade class. They’d been assigned to work together on their Japanese Culture project, building a scale model of the main building of the Ise Shrine. Irritated at being paired with a big, clumsy-looking boy, Yumi figured she would end up doing all the work, but she soon discovered that Kenji was much better at model-making than she was. One day when they were working at his house, he’d shown her his collection of Gundam robots, each tiny piece meticulously glued. Though he was only nine, he’d already built one of the big Perfect Grade kits, something most kids didn’t tackle before high school.

  They’d remained casual friends through middle school, sometimes hanging out with the same crowd, sometimes not. Then in high school, Kenji’s mother had died suddenly, and even the friendship of his schoolmates and his baseball team wasn’t enough to keep him from falling into a black well of grief. He left school for a while and went to live with relatives in Osaka; when he returned, he and Yumi never quite reconnected. Their friendship didn’t end, exactly—it just faded as they left childhood behind.

  Walking to Matsumoto’s, Yumi was amazed at how easy it was to pick up where they’d left off, slipping into the comfortable familiarity that went with years of shared experience. Some things never changed.

  But others had. Sneaking a look at Kenji as he reminisced about the time he and his friends had cut school to go to a Seibu Giants game, Yumi was uncomfortably aware of how attractive she found him now, just because that mole was gone and he’d let his hair grow. Ashamed to discover she was so shallow, she resolved not to make the same mistake with Ichiro.

  Chapter 10

  Monday, April 8

  9:30 A.M.

  Kenji

  The bell jangled its welcome as Kenji pushed open the heavy glass door and held it for Yumi. Matusmoto’s coffee shop was unchanged, except for new prices pasted onto the hand-lettered menu that had been there since they were in elementary school. The shop’s name was spelled out in flaking gold letters across the big plate-glass window; Kenji could still read it backwards, even though one leg of the second “M” was now missing. The clock with plastic sushi instead of numbers still kept perfect time over the cash register, and Mrs. Matsumoto still wore the same faded apron and indigo-dyed kerchief. Only the Formica tables had aged, their shiny pink tops now dulled by countless scrubbings.

  “I hope you both still like o-hagi,” she said, setting a plate of egg-shaped red bean sweets and two cups of tea on the table.

  Kenji and Yumi both smiled. O-hagi had been the first link in their friendship, back in third grade. They’d always played rock-paper-scissors over who got t
he fifth one, too gooey to split.

  “Dozo,” Kenji said, pushing the plate toward Yumi. Now that they were grown-ups, he ought to let her choose first.

  They ate their first ones in silence, transported back to childhood as the sweet starchiness of the red bean jam mingled with the chewiness of the sticky rice. While Kenji ate his second one, Yumi sipped her tea and asked, “How long have you been working in our old neighborhood? I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other before.”

  “Not so strange, really,” he replied. “I was just transferred in last November. They keep me pretty busy, and since I assume you haven’t been committing any crimes—” He grinned. “—it’s not surprising our paths haven’t crossed. What about you? Still living with your folks?”

  Yumi filled him in—the college years in America, the interpreting job.

  So she wasn’t married yet. Kenji hesitated, then asked the question he’d been dying to know the answer to since he saw her standing in the lobby. “You still going out with that foreign guy, the American?”

  “Ben? No. How about you?”

  “Me?” His face reddened. “No, I’m still, uh, single.” He excused himself, muttering about more tea.

  Damn, how could she still do this to him? Yumi had sunk a little hook into his heart the first day she walked into third grade. In all their years together at school, sitting three seats apart, she’d never guessed, never gave him a second look. Not that any girls did, back then. That hadn’t changed until the day he went back for winter term his second year in college, having spent his Coming-of-Age money at the mole doctor.

  He’d just switched to the law department and was mystified when girls in his new classes started asking if they could come to his room for help with their term papers. It didn’t take him long to figure out they had a rather different activity in mind. He spent a year making up for lost time, but by the time he graduated, he was long past worrying he’d never find a girlfriend. He abandoned the party circuit in favor of launching his career, and although he still got calls from girls inviting him to group dates, he wasn’t tempted. None of them were the least bit like Yumi Hata. He took a calming breath and returned to the table with his refill. Be professional, he told himself. Businesslike.