“Why not?”
“A conjecture, sir.”
Kusanagi tensed; his hand on the phone was sweating. Unconsciously, he braced himself, as though he were about to get physically smacked.
All he heard on the other end of the line was a long sigh. Then Tatara said, “This conjecture of yours is based on some information from a source?”
Tatara was sharp. He was talking about Yukawa, clearly.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Valuable information.”
“Valuable enough to help us identify a suspect?”
“Probably, yes. But it’s going to take a bit of doing before we’re ready for that.”
“On your part, I take it? And you don’t want the guys from the prefectural police involved?”
“I think this would go more smoothly if we handled it ourselves, yes.”
Tatara fell silent. Kusanagi felt a bead of sweat trickle down beneath his armpit. He tensed again, ready for the shouting to start.
But when Tatara spoke again, he was calm. “What’s Utsumi up to? She with you?”
“No, I have her tracking down Senba right now.”
“Any leads?”
“An eyewitness who saw him.” He explained about the soup kitchen in Shinjuku.
“All right,” Tatara said. “I left this in your hands, so we’ll play this the way you want to. But I need you to promise me you’ll tell me the exact moment you have everything you need to pin down a suspect. Got it?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Great, then get to it,” Tatara said, hanging up.
Kusanagi took a deep breath and pressed the buttons on his phone, feeling his shirt cling to his skin with sweat.
“I was just about to call you,” Utsumi said when she answered. She sounded chipper. Maybe she’d found something.
“Where are you? Still in Shinjuku?”
“No, Kuramae.”
“What are you doing out there? You get something from the woman with the volunteer group?”
“I did. Ms. Yamamoto—that’s her name—told me that Senba used to come by their soup kitchen every week until last winter or so. She said she remembered him in particular because he carried himself with a little more composure than their usual customers.”
“Until last winter … so she hasn’t seen him this year?”
“That’s right. She thought he might have passed away.”
“Why’d she think that?”
“He wasn’t doing so well the last time she saw him. She said she referred him to a doctor that gave the homeless checkups for free.”
“Did he go?”
“I had Ms. Yamamoto call the clinic, but they never saw anyone by the name of Senba. He might’ve gone under an alias, so I thought I’d pay them a visit tomorrow and show the doctor his photo.”
“Right. So, why Kuramae?”
“Apparently, there was one other person who knew Senba—he used to work with Ms. Yamamoto, but he transferred to a different volunteer group this year. Their office is in Kuramae. They run a soup kitchen on Sundays in Ueno Park.”
“And you think Senba might’ve switched from Shinjuku to Ueno?”
“I did, so I had Ms. Yamamoto call him, but unfortunately he hadn’t seen Senba in Ueno Park either.”
“Okay. So wait, why are you in Kuramae?”
“Well, he hadn’t seen Senba, but he did meet someone looking for him.”
“What? When?” Kusanagi gripped the phone tighter in his hand.
“Back in March.”
Kusanagi took out his notepad and pen and crouched on the ground. Holding his phone to his ear with his shoulder, he spread the notebook out across his knee. “Tell me where the office is. I’m coming too.”
He hung up and hailed a taxi. The ride to Kuramae took about half an hour. The office was on the second floor of a small, brown building just off Edo Street, near the Sumida River.
He pressed the buzzer outside the door and heard someone moving inside. The door opened, and a short man in his forties peeked out. “You the police?”
Kusanagi nodded and looked into the room. Utsumi was sitting in front of the desk, buried in files.
The man introduced himself as Tanaka. “Please, come in.”
Kusanagi made his way in between the cardboard boxes on the floor, and asked Utsumi, “Did you go over everything?”
“Most of it, yes. Mr. Tanaka identified Tsukahara as the man who came looking after Senba.”
“Did he say anything about why he was looking for Senba?” Kusanagi asked Tanaka.
“No. I figured he was with a collection agency. We get a few of those. A lot of the homeless are people running from debt.”
“Mr. Tanaka tells me that Mr. Tsukahara came here at the end of March, and then again two or three times after that. He would always stand a little ways away from the soup line, just watching. But he never saw him after May—is that right?” She turned to Tanaka, who nodded.
“Nobody much liked the look of him. We were happy when he stopped coming. Did something happen? What’s this investigation about, anyway?”
Kusanagi chuckled and waved his hand. “It’s nothing big,” he said, watching Utsumi stand up out of the corner of his eye. “We may have some more questions for you later on, but I think we’re good for now. Thank you for your time,” he said, heading for the door.
The left the building together and walked down the street a little way until they found another coffee shop—the same chain as the one in Ekota Station.
The two exchanged reports, and Kusanagi mentioned his conversation with Tatara.
“Did you tell him what Yukawa said about being careful how we solved the case?”
“No. I don’t think there are many other people in the department who would appreciate the subtleties involved there. And I think Tatara understands what we’re up against. If Yukawa’s getting involved on his own accord, we don’t want to do anything to hold him back. So, what’s your next step? I was going to look into where Mrs. Kawahata and Narumi were living those last few years in Tokyo,” Kusanagi said, taking an unenthusiastic sip of his coffee.
“Well, something occurred to me when I was talking to Mr. Tanaka.”
“And that is?”
“Well, I’d say it’s certain that Tsukahara was searching for Senba—we have sightings of him from two places at two different times now. But I’m thinking a detective like Tsukahara wouldn’t have stopped there. He was probably making the rounds of several places.” Utsumi turned almond-shaped eyes toward Kusanagi. “But then he stopped coming in May. What if he stopped coming because he found Senba?”
Kusanagi set his coffee cup down and shot her a penetrating look. “What if he did? Is there something there that we can work with?”
“When Senba was spotted in Shinjuku, he was emaciated. It was clear at a glance that he was sick. If Mr. Tsukahara found him in April, I doubt he looked any better.”
“He might even have been dead.”
“Last night, I went through the database of unidentified bodies found in the greater Tokyo metropolitan area this year. There wasn’t anyone who matched Senba’s description, but I’ll check again. It gets more difficult if he wasn’t dead. What if Tsukahara had found him at death’s door? What you think he would’ve done in that situation?”
Kusanagi leaned back in his chair and let his eyes wander as he thought. “I suppose he’d have taken him to a hospital first. He’d get him checked out, and if he needed it, hospitalized. There are hospitals that specialize in the homeless.”
“Offering free or very low-cost services, yes.”
“Right. There’s about forty or so just in Tokyo.”
“Yes, except it’s doubtful he would have been able to get care, even at one of those hospitals. They require a residence card, and Senba didn’t have one of those after he got out of prison. I checked his records. If they went to the hospital, Tsukahara must have paid the fees.”