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

Shiroyama on the back of Nikkei Science, and scanned the room for his socks. He had cast them off nearby and so he grabbed them and started putting them back on with one hand. Where is number sixteen in Ni-chome again? He tried to remember. Is it on the right at the end of the road past Ito Yokado supermarket?

Meanwhile, there was another phone ringing on the other end of the line and the officer told Goda, “Hang on.” The officer returned after a three-second wait. “MPD control center wants you to scope out the situation and report back. Kyosuke Shiroyama is the president of Hinode Beer.”

That’s right, he is, Goda mused. He had tracked the names and addresses of VIPs living in his precinct, and the president of Hinode Beer had been among the residents of Sanno Ni-chome.

“Got it. Be there in ten minutes. If you need to contact me just call on the scanner, don’t use the wireless. Until you hear back from me, don’t say anything to anyone for now. I’ll be right there.”

Grabbing a flashlight and throwing on a down jacket, Goda ran to the bathroom to rinse with Listerine to get rid of the whisky on his breath. He pushed the bicycle that he kept outside his apartment into the elevator, got off on the first floor, and by the time he started pedaling, it was 10:58 p.m.

Sleet mixed in with wind off the sea as it howled through the streets of the housing complex premises, where a smattering of lights glimmered here and there. Damn, it’s cold, was Goda’s first thought as he pondered whether he should take Ikegami-dori or the Dai-Ichi Keihin highway to Sanno Ni-chome, and it wasn’t until then that he finally began to wonder what might have happened. The president of Hinode would have a driver to chauffeur him around, so the fact that the family had reported to the police that he had not come home sounded an alarm. Something must have happened.

In the Sanno hills, each mansion with its lush green estate folded into the next one, protected by labyrinthine streets that all seemed to dead-end in a cul-de-sac. Late at night there were no cars passing by, and the darkness on the roads along the gated walls was total—as Goda pedaled on his bicycle, he felt as if he were swimming in the depths of the ocean. As he approached number sixteen in Ni-chome, he spotted a motorcycle from the police box parked in front of the gate of an estate walled off with Japanese andesine stone. The area was quiet, with no signs of any residents.

Goda stopped his bicycle a short distance away and checked the time. 11:07 p.m.

Next, he quickly scanned the premises from outside. The height of the wall was about 160 centimeters. A thick grove of tall trees surrounded the vast estate, and he could just make out the glass roof of a greenhouse. Beyond it stood an old Western-style home, where light from an incandescent lamp glowed in a second-floor window, as if someone had forgotten to switch it off. A single porch light was lit. He spotted another light on the first floor, obscured by the trees. Looking around, he noticed that the houses on either side and across the street were similar, and the dense trees all around offered little to no visibility.

The gate, which measured around 180 centimeters in both width and height, was made of sturdy cast iron and came equipped with an electronic lock that could only be opened with a passcode. The decorative latticework on the gate wove an elaborate arabesque design, leaving no leeway for a hand or arm to pass through. Beneath the intercom, the neon-bright red seal of SECOM home security was affixed to the gatepost. There was a straight path from the gate to the front door, about ten meters. On either side of the path were deep and shadowy shrubs, as tall as grown men.

Just as Goda was reaching for the intercom, a car turned into the street and stopped on the shoulder. Judging from the age and hurried pace of the young man who got out of the car, Goda knew it must be the son, and he called out, “Are you Mitsuaki Shiroyama-san?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“I’m Goda from the Omori Police Department,” Goda said, and showed him his badge.

Mitsuaki, who appeared to be almost thirty years old, was dressed in an exceptionally plain sweater and slacks, and his stoic features were devoid of expression.

“Are you the one who called the police? I’d like to speak with you for a minute inside,” Goda said in a low voice.

“I’ll open the gate.” Mitsuaki managed to reply in a measured tone, his shoulders heaving as he breathed, and he lifted the lid of the electronic lock on the gate and entered the four-digit passcode. As he did so, Goda asked him, “Where is your place of residence?”

“I live in the Ministry of Finance’s employee dormitory in Higashi-Yukigaya. My mother called to say that my father hasn’t come home.”

As they stepped inside through the unlocked gate, it closed automatically behind them, reverberating with the dull sound of cast iron colliding. Perhaps alerted by the noise, someone opened the front door, and Goda saw a familiar face peer out—it was Sawaguchi, the senior police officer from the Community Police Affairs Division. Goda gestured to Sawaguchi not to come out, and ushered Mitsuaki quickly through the front door.

Officer Sawaguchi stood on the concrete floor of the dimly lit entry vestibule, and an older woman sat kneeling on the wooden ledge of the raised entranceway floor. Wearing no trace of makeup, she wore a simple cardigan over her slight, petite frame. Mitsuaki, her son, called out to her immediately, “Mom, are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine—” the woman replied, with a rather carefree expression. Beside her, the officer spoke into the microphone of his radio, “Inspector Goda has arrived. Over.” Cutting through the static, a voice