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

cancer, and died the day before yesterday. Four years ago, the reason a veteran detective who had exclusively handled white-collar crime had been harassing Monoi about Hatano’s case had something to do with a group of extortionists who were suspected of giving Okamura’s letter to Hatano, and apparently Takahashi had doggedly pursued this thread afterward as well. But due to internal circumstances on the police force, he had been shunted over to Koiwa, and since then had been relegated to his desk everyday, working on administrative tasks in Police Affairs—so for someone who had still been on active duty, Handa said, his funeral was poorly attended. Handa had occasionally gone to visit Takahashi in the hospital, reasoning that the man had once been his superior, if only for a short time.

“The last time I saw him, a week ago, Takahashi asked me to look up the criminal record of a man named Yoshiya Kanemoto. I thought it was just the delirium of a gravely ill person so I paid no attention, but he said Kanemoto is a golf buddy of the extortionist Shin’ichi Nishimura, and that Kanemoto himself stops by the home of Seizo Monoi about once a month.”

“You mean Yoshiya Kanemoto of Kanemoto Foundry?”

“That’s right. You know him, don’t you, Monoi-san?”

“Yoshiya is the son of the owner of the foundry in Hachinohe where I was an apprentice. I used to look after him. Of course this was over half a century ago.”

“What’s your relationship with him these days?”

“He was very attached to me when he was young, so he still comes by to bring me things from time to time. Some foreign liquor, or ginseng or some such.”

“Takahashi said Shin’ichi Nishimura has been to your house with Kanemoto.”

“I don’t know anyone named Nishimura.”

“The man has a one-centimeter mole on the right side of his chin. Try to remember.”

Monoi started to feel a bit foolish as he looked back at Handa, who at some point had assumed the tone and gaze of a detective, but after being prompted, he reluctantly dredged his memory for the face of the man with the mole—the fellow he had occasionally seen in Yoshiya Kanemoto’s Mercedes.

“Yes . . . I’ve seen a man with a mole.”

“That’s Shin’ichi Nishimura. He’s the one who gave Seiji Okamura’s letter to Hatano. That’s quite a man to know, Monoi-san.”

“But I’ve never even spoken to him.”

“I explained it to you four years ago, didn’t I? What the police focused on in the dentist’s case was how, exactly, Nishimura had gotten hold of Seiji Okamura’s letter from forty years ago. You are Seiji Okamura’s younger brother, and on top of that you are associated with Nishimura—no wonder you’re marked. That’s just how this world works.”

Having said as much, Handa finally grabbed the can of beer he must have bought from the vending machine next to the liquor shop across the street and, popping the tab, he took a sip.

Monoi, on the other hand, having been blindsided by such an unexpected story, felt as if he had something caught in his throat. Just last month, Yoshiya Kanemoto had appeared with a cheerful, reddened face and brought him a watermelon; it was hard for him to believe that the police had surveilled even the minute-or-two-long conversation they had standing by his storefront.

“But isn’t the case with the tape Hatano sent to Hinode Beer already closed?”

“Yes. Especially now that the crusading investigator has died.”

Handa seemed to have found Takahashi’s funeral thoroughly infuriating. Without even being prompted, he talked about the service, which had taken place in a small temple in Machida; how neither the deputy chief nor any detectives from the Criminal Investigation Unit offered any words of remembrance about the deceased’s work ethic; and how as they were waiting for the hearse to leave, there had been a lively conversation about a burglary case that had nothing at all to do with Takahashi. Handa was one to talk—he barely knew Takahashi himself, so part of his frustration as one of the mourners was no doubt to substitute for his personal indignation.

“A man’s life is so trivial. No matter how diligently you work, if you don’t rise up in the world, you’re left out of the loop even in death. And if you do manage to get ahead, you’ll be merrily sent off with empty messages of condolence . . .” Handa flashed a rare, wry smile as he spewed such predictable grievances.

“You might be right. You’re better off alone when you die.”

“That’s why they say it’s best to be with an older woman,” Handa said, offering an equally rare quip.

“Your wife, she’s older than you?”

“By ten years. By the time they turn forty-five, they don’t even put on makeup any more.”

Handa gratefully ate the pickled eggplant and cucumber that Monoi had set out to accompany his beer, saying, “These taste so much better than the store-bought stuff.” Monoi sipped his shochu.

“By the way, are Kanemoto’s visits irregular?” Handa resumed his questioning. “Does he show up at night or during the day? Has the pharmacist or your neighbors seen him?”

Monoi told him that Kanemoto visited infrequently, usually late at night after he had been drinking or early Sunday morning on his way to play golf; that when his wife, Yoshie, was still alive, Kanemoto had come into his home two or three times for a drink, but in the last ten years Kanemoto’s lifestyle had shifted so that now he only stopped by in his Mercedes; that they barely even had what would be considered a conversation when they saw each other, and that he didn’t know whether his neighbors had ever seen them together.

“All right. First, you’ve got to end things with Kanemoto. It would look unnatural if you cut him off suddenly, so do it gradually.”

“I understand about Kanemoto. The old man was being careless.”

“I’m only telling this because of what you said to me on the phone the day before yesterday.”

Handa said this without any particular gravity, then opened his second