A Midsummer's Equation: A Detective Galileo Mystery Page 9

  Not that he was upset. To the contrary, it was exciting. He had the sense they were doing something important, even if he didn’t know what that was.

  “Ready for the real thing?” Yukawa asked, reaching into the rocket and pulling out the weight he had carefully placed inside.

  “Huh, you’re taking it out?” Kyohei grunted. “I thought that was vital?”

  “It was vital, but it was just a stand-in for testing purposes. We’ll be using something else for the actual launch.”

  Just then, a cell phone rang. Yukawa reached into his satchel, pulled out his phone, and checked the display. A cloud came over his face as he answered. “Yukawa speaking.”

  The person on the other end was saying something Kyohei couldn’t hear. He watched Yukawa’s eyebrows move.

  “Sorry, but I can’t make it today,” Yukawa said. “Anytime after tomorrow would be fine. Yes, I’m in the middle of an experiment. Good-bye.” He hung up.

  “Work?” Kyohei asked.

  “It was DESMEC, telling me to come to a meeting,” the physicist explained. “That is, they call it a meeting, but all they really do is eat and waste my time. That hardly qualifies as work.”

  Yukawa began pouring a carefully measured amount of seawater into the rocket tank through a modified water valve at the rocket’s base. After setting the rocket on a homemade launch pad, he attached a bicycle pump and began filling the tank with air. Kyohei could see the bottle expand. They knew from the previous testing exactly how much seawater to use, how much air to pump, and what angle to set the launch pad. The only difference this time was that the testing weight was gone.

  “There,” Yukawa said, removing the pump from the rocket. He pulled his cell phone back out and punched at it with his thumb before putting it into the small chamber where the test weight had sat.

  “What? You put your cell phone in there?”

  Just then, Kyohei’s own phone began to ring. He fished it out of his pocket.

  “Answer that after the launch,” Yukawa said. “Now, on the count of three. Three, two, one, liftoff!”

  Yukawa pressed the switch attached to the launch pad and the rocket took off, blasting water behind it with impressive force. Kyohei’s eyes darted forward, following the semitranslucent rocket as it caught the sun and glimmered against a backdrop of blue sky.

  The rocket landed in the sea a considerable distance further than their previous launch. Kyohei checked the reading on the fishing line. “Wow, 225 meters! A new record!” he shouted in excitement.

  “Good,” the physicist said calmly. “Now answer your phone.”

  Only then did Kyohei realize that his phone was still ringing. He fished it out of his pocket and noticed the incoming call was a video call. He pressed the button to accept and stared at the screen.

  “Hey!” On his screen he could see a glimmering undersea world of reds, blues, and greens. The seafloor looked like a massive stained-glass window. The water was perfectly clear, and light from the sun above refracted in a hundred different angles, each creating a different color.

  “Well?” Yukawa asked.

  Kyohei showed him the phone screen. The faintest hint of a smile came to the physicist’s face. He gave a satisfied nod. “I’d say our experiment was a success.”

  SIXTEEN

  Detective Isobe from the prefectural police’s homicide division had a face permanently set to scowl. He had square, blocky features, with plenty of padding at the cheeks, and both his eyebrows and eyes were thin as threads. On the rare occasions when he did crack a smile, it carried the promise of reckless ambition and cunning schemes.

  Isobe had arrived at the Hari Police Department with three of his subordinates, “For the time being,” he announced. “If we do set up a task force here, I’ll be bringing in at least fifty others,” he said, his chest puffing out a little, though, at his rank, the chances that all fifty of them would actually be under his command were slim.

  Okamoto merely smiled and promised they would be ready.

  Isobe’s advance group had arrived with orders to ascertain the details surrounding the discovery of the body. Motoyama, Hashigami, and Nishiguchi were all summoned to the meeting room to deliver the briefing, though Motoyama did most of the talking. He explained the ins and outs of the case and gave them an idea of the overall timeline of events following the discovery, while Isobe listened, arms folded tight across his chest. The narrowness of Isobe’s eyes made it difficult to tell whether he was sleeping or not. Only his occasional nod gave any indication he was listening.

  “We’re still unclear what the connection between Mr. Tsukahara and Hari Cove might be,” Motoyama concluded. “Nor are we entirely sure of the reason behind his interest in the undersea mining talks.”

  Isobe groaned and his eyes opened wider as he scanned the faces of the three detectives. “So, how sure are they about this?”

  “Sorry?” Motoyama asked. “How sure is who about what?”

  “The widow and this director from Tokyo. How sure are they that it was murder?”

  “Well…” Motoyama began, shooting a look at Okamoto, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the floor. “We didn’t find anything particularly suspicious in our examination of the scene,” Motoyama continued. “There were no signs of a struggle, nor any other visible evidence of injury.”

  “But this director noticed something you didn’t, right? That’s why he ordered the autopsy?”

  Okamoto looked up. “We’re not entirely sure that’s what happened—”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, the deceased, Mr. Tsukahara, was the director’s superior officer in Tokyo. So, I think he just wanted to double check everything, you know.”

  “Which is why we’re here,” Isobe growled. “Just to get this straight, you didn’t order an autopsy yourselves because you didn’t think you’d find anything, correct? You think it was just an accident.”

  Okamoto and Motoyama sat silently.

  Isobe shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Great.”

  * * *

  “That Isobe guy’s got a bad reputation,” Hashigami said, leaning on the window as he looked outside at the passing scenery.

  “How so?” Nishiguchi asked, fiddling with the tab on the can of a vending machine coffee.

  The two detectives had boarded at Central Hari Station. The train car was empty, so they were sitting across from each other in a booth seat meant for four.

  “Let’s see, he’s ambitious, a bit of a manipulator, and a brownnoser to boot. The whiff of homicide in this case has got him all excited. Great chance for a promotion.”

  “That was him excited? He looked pretty grumpy to me.”

  Hashigami waved a finger. “He was just putting that on. I bet you ten to one he’s back at the prefectural office right now, delivering his report so energetically the spit’s flying out of his mouth.”

  If Isobe wanted this to be murder, that explained why he’d been so irritated with Okamoto and Motoyama’s insistence that it was an accident.

  The train made its way along the coastal line, arriving at Hari Coast Station. Neither of the detectives moved to get up. They would be going one stop further, to East Hari.

  The day Tsukahara attended the DESMEC hearing, he’d taken a taxi to the community center. They’d since tracked down the taxi driver, and he said he’d gotten a call from the dispatcher for pickup at East Hari Station, despite the fact that Hari Cove Station was much closer, a fact that had been written on the attendance voucher in Tsukahara’s possession. So Nishiguchi and Hashigami were on their way to do some questioning and find out exactly why he’d been way out in East Hari the morning of his death.

  East Hari Station had been built a ways inland, with a straight road leading from the front of the station toward the coast. A few side streets led off to local points of interest: a rose garden, a music box museum, a museum of curios and trompe l’oeil paintings—all attractions planned in previous decades to make
up for the town’s distance from the seashore. Few had been successful. Most of the small shops along the main road had their shutters closed, making it hard to tell which were open.

  “Compared to this place, Central Hari’s a metropolis,” Hashigami commented as they walked. “At least there you see people on the street. This is a ghost town.”

  Still, they were successful in finding a few shops that were open for business. They split up to ask questions, each carrying a photograph of Tsukahara. Nishiguchi was the first to catch a break: an old woman who worked at a shop with rows of dried seafood on display recognized Tsukahara’s face. She said he’d stopped by the day before.

  “He wanted to know the way to Marine Hills,” she told him.

  “Marine Hills?”

  A smile formed in the wrinkles of the woman’s face. “The summer resort place. They built it some time ago. Don’t think many people are up there now.”

  Nishiguchi got directions and gave Hashigami a call. They took a side street and began heading up a long, gentle slope.

  “Come to think of it, I’ve heard of this place,” Hashigami said. “Some big real estate place threw down a bunch of homes. Only ended up selling a few of them. It was a big loss.”

  “Do you think Tsukahara had an interest in failed real estate deals?” Nishiguchi wondered out loud.

  “Everyone’s got to have a hobby.”

  Eventually, the first of the homes came into view. No doubt they seemed like the peak of luxury at the time they’d been built. Now they looked painfully run down and dilapidated.

  A man in his fifties wearing a straw hat was clipping grass by the side of the road. Hashigami called out to him, and he introduced himself as an employee of the real estate company.

  “All the homes are for sale as far as I know, not that anyone’s buying. Guess they figure they at least need to keep the grass cut, just in case.”

  Hashigami showed him the photo of Tsukahara.

  “Oh yeah, I seen that guy just the other day,” the man said immediately. “He was checking out Senba’s house. That’s why I noticed him.”

  “Senba’s house?”

  The man pointed off into the distance. “See that white one there, up on the slope? That’s Senba’s old house.” He turned back to face the detectives, and added, “You know—Senba, the murderer.”

  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?”

  EIGHTEEN

  Narumi was getting the dining room ready for Yukawa’s dinner when Kyohei showed up.

  “Can I eat out here too?”

  “In the dining room?” Narumi turned to face her cousin. “You want to eat with Mr. Yukawa?”