Lady Joker, Volume 1 Kaoru Takamura (ereader ebook .TXT) 📖

police inspector with the Third Violent Crime Investigation Team from MPD. He had been assigned to Special Investigation Headquarters that had been set up in Shinagawa Police Department to handle a murder case. But unlike the icy, reptilian face in Handa’s memory, the face of the man in front of him was calm and luminous, projecting a vibrant, otherworldly smile, and his closely shaven head—so bracingly handsome—made him look completely different, like a clone. As if in a trance, Handa continued to stare at him, for the moment disbelieving his own eyes.

Upon closer inspection, Goda appeared to be sitting astride his own bicycle, and the contents of the front basket were a basin with shampoo, a soap dish and other toiletries, and a violin case. When Handa’s eyes glanced at the basket, Goda immediately donned a shy smile and said, “It’s my day off today, so I went to the batting cages, the public bath, and now I’m on my way to a local gathering.”

“That’s very health-conscious of you. On my day off I usually go the racetrack or play pachinko—oh, and that Theater Palace over there is great, too. In the middle of the day, it’s housewives of all stripes . . .”

Handa laughed, blathering on about things he had had no intention of mentioning, and though he tried to scrutinize the façade of the man before him, his opponent put up an impenetrable defense.

“I’d much rather enjoy a triple-feature of adult films instead of arguing with geezers with athlete’s foot at the public bath. Anyway, are you off-duty today too, Handa-san?”

It was as if each word that escaped from Goda’s bracingly fresh mouth self-destructed before it reached Handa. Such crude and insubstantial remarks rang hollow, coming from Goda, and if they were meant as jokes, they sailed past Handa’s comprehension.

“Goda-san, do you play the violin?”

“I’ve got a rehearsal right now with an ensemble for a Christmas concert over there at Kamata Church. I only dabbled when I was a child, so I’m way out of my depth,” Goda said breezily, then peeked at his wristwatch. “Oh, sorry to take so much of your time. Excuse me, I have to go now,” he said, bowing his head slightly. Out of habit, Handa’s head also lowered automatically as he responded, “Oh, not at all.”

Handa, staring at the receding figure as he peddled away on the sidewalk, remained rooted to the spot for a few long minutes. Time seemed to have stopped as everything he had felt back when they had encountered each other on the staircase at the Shinagawa Police Department—the physiological mass of emotion that had erupted within him, the mood and circumstances surrounding him at the time—came rushing back all at once. Handa stood there bewildered, suddenly forgetting where he was.

With the rush of emotion constricting his throat, Handa asked himself, Did he say Omori Department? If Goda had been transferred to a local department from MPD, did that mean he had been promoted? No, the director of CID and the acting deputy chief were both someone else. If he was still an assistant police inspector after being transferred, then the simple fact was that he had been demoted. The hotshot from MPD who had walked with a swagger four years ago had been demoted. Handa experienced the pleasure of this realization only fleetingly, for now he couldn’t help but wonder what it was about that face, which had been as sleek as glass. Though this was something that—once again—remained beyond Handa’s imagination.

Handa tortured himself endlessly, caught up in the illusion as if he were still standing there on the staircase of the Shinagawa Police Department. Who was that guy? Who was he to have materialized out of nowhere, carrying a set of toiletries and a violin case in the basket of his bicycle and saying he was on his way to a rehearsal for a Christmas concert before disappearing before his eyes? The guy who had practically cut him off in the crosswalk—as if to taunt him, as if to suddenly slap him across the face, as if to gloat for a brief moment? When his thoughts reached this point, Handa had completely forgotten what time he was supposed to meet his wife, and instead began running toward Kanpachi, in the direction the guy had disappeared.

Kamata Church was located about three hundred meters past the Kamata Overpass, and then down a side street on the left. Following his vague recollection of where it was, Handa dashed into a narrow alley at the corner of a parking lot and, still running, he found the open gates of the church on his right.

Beyond the front garden stood a simple wooden chapel. To the left of the chapel, there was a single-story wooden shack that appeared to be a meetinghouse—parked in front of it was the bicycle he had seen earlier, and he could hear strains of string instruments coming from within.

Without even thinking about it, Handa approached the building and peered inside through the window. Inside the humble, wood-paneled room illuminated by a single light bulb, eight men and women holding violins and cellos were seated in a semicircle around a music stand, and in one corner he saw Goda’s face. Had Goda’s story about arguing with geezers with athlete’s foot at the public bath been a lie, or was it that this man’s world was so extraordinarily different from his own? Goda’s right hand and elbow, which controlled his bow, and his left hand, which slid along the neck of the instrument, moved with such mysterious dexterity. And his profile, turned toward the sheet music, was focused so intently on the musical notes that the rest of the world seemed to have completely disappeared for him. His face bore no trace of disappointment at having been transferred to a local police department. No, not only the world of the police force but also the grimy public bath, the geezers with athlete’s foot, the detective from another department whom