Lady Joker, Volume 1 by Kaoru Takamura (lightest ebook reader .txt) 📕

“Will you let Chief Sugano know? I’ll talk to the slot editor.”

“I hope something comes out of this, doesn’t matter what,” Kubo mumbled, admitting his true feelings. He then quickly copied Negoro’s notes into his own notebook and left.

Negoro watched Kubo go, musing that the man’s bulk seemed to house a rather complex mind, then he roamed over to the meeting in the reception area by the window that overlooked the Chidori-ga-fuchi moat. The cast of characters seated randomly on the sofas included Tabe, the slot editor in charge of the incident; Murai, the slot editor for the evening edition; Negoro, who was supervising the feature articles; and finally Toru Maeda, the Metro chief. Before Maeda could say a word, Negoro handed Tabe his notes about Toda. Looking them over, Tabe simply furrowed his brow before he passed the notes over to Maeda. After scanning the notes for about two seconds, Maeda passed them on to Murai in turn. None of their expressions changed much. Negoro did not disclose Hinode’s entanglement with the Ogura-Chunichi scandal, deciding to keep it to himself for the time being.

“Negoro, check this out under the radar and see what you come up with. We don’t need the young cubs sniffing around randomly.” That was the only directive from Maeda, and no one else offered anything further. The Metro chief’s reaction was reasonable, given Toda’s background and the stories about discrimination that surfaced if one were to poke around anywhere in Japan.

“I wonder what the president will say when he starts talking,” the chief said, turning his attention to the construction of the Metro page. Maeda was steadfast, not the kind of man to be discouraged just because his hunch about the involvement of extortionists proved to be off the mark. “My guess is we shouldn’t expect anything major, but what do you think, Tabe?”

“If a victim who has returned safely is not willing to offer a statement, then that itself is a story worth writing about.”

“Whatever happens, the readers of today and tomorrow want to know about the Hinode Beer incident. Even if the press conferences run dry, keep on writing about it. I don’t care what. I’ll make adjustments to the other pages.”

The readers of today and tomorrow. This was Maeda’s catch phrase, but Negoro wondered if there was any point to digging into the details of what happened today, or to dragging out yesterday’s affair with repeated follow-up stories. At the very least, it was all too clear that the news type currently filling their pages—orange juice, fruit-flavored milk, and so on—failed to describe even a shadow of the crime that embroiled the trillion-yen corporation and its titan.

城山恭介　Kyosuke Shiroyama

Shiroyama sat in an artificial leather armchair presumably reserved for guests. In front of him was a table, and two investigators sat on a sofa across from him. Another investigator sat in a different armchair. At a desk a slight distance away, yet another investigator was taking notes. The shades on the windows were drawn, and in the stark light of the fluorescent bulbs, it was hard to tell if it was day or night. Clearly, inside the police department, time flowed differently than in the regular world. Not only was the language spoken here not the same, but Shiroyama also repeatedly found himself thinking how the place completely cut him off from the outside, trapping him with a sense of hopelessness. The police department was designed to torment criminals, of course, but victims of crimes and even ordinary citizens were not spared from a feeling of irreparable isolation. By this time Shiroyama’s joints were beginning to ache, and he crossed his legs lightly and leaned back in the chair to ease his discomfort, but the more he tried to assume a relaxed position, the more pronounced his awkwardness seemed.

Each of the three investigators conducting the interview had introduced himself as simply so-and-so from Investigation Headquarters. Shiroyama did not know their title or post, but all three spoke with precise and courteous diction and did not take their eyes off of him for even a second. When Shiroyama’s eyes moved, so did theirs. Finding their gaze unbearable, Shiroyama finally resorted to avoiding looking at them altogether. And yet, he could not escape the discomfort of having three pairs of eyes boring into him.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything to eat?” an investigator asked for the second time.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Well then, we would like to confirm a few things about what you have just told us. First, when you were attacked—you said you came up the path and were struck on your left side by a blow from behind, then because you were being choked, you were unable to turn to see the assailant. You were blindfolded for the duration of your confinement, and when you were released by the side of the prefectural highway the perpetrators left you blindfolded and your wrists bound while they fled. By the time you removed the duct tape from your wrists and the blindfold, they were nowhere in sight. Accordingly, since from beginning to end you did not see the perpetrators at all, you cannot describe their faces, physique, or clothing. Nor did you see the vehicle you were transported in. Do I have all that right?”

“Yes.”

“During those few times they carried or lifted you up and you came into contact with their bodies, you sensed they were of average build. And you never detected the smell of cigarettes.”

“That’s correct.”

“After you were attacked, there were three perpetrators with you inside the car. And after you arrived at the hideout, one left while two remained. During your confinement, you were able to distinguish between the two men’s voices, and though one sounded younger than the other, you felt that neither sounded older than forty. Both spoke standard Japanese with no accent, and their tone was consistently stiff, as if they were reading from a script. They never sounded rough or violent, and refrained from whispering or making