by Nagaoka Hiroki

* * * *

Translated from the Japanese by Beth Cary

The following story by Nagaoka Hiroki was the winner of the 2008 Mystery Writers of JapanAward. One of the judges for the award commented that it could be classifiedas a mystery, a “family story,” or a “humanist story”—for the personal life of the female police detective and her relationship with her daughter figure centrally in the tale.

* * * *

As she exited the ticket wicket and passed by some already shuttered kiosks, she could see several cardboard shelters come into view at the edge of the concourse.

There were five in all. One had been added about a week ago.

Sunken cheeks and unshaved chin. Age just shy of sixty. A rather tidy appearance...

Hazumi Keiko hurried along as she imagined what the new homeless man must look like.

She passed by a businessman at the exit from the concourse. He held a small mobile phone to his ear. It being the mid 1990s, more and more people carried these devices.

Maybe I should get a mobile phone. No, I don’t need to pay for one myself; the department will eventually provide one. Then I won’t need my pager anymore....

With such thoughts filling her mind, she walked for several minutes. She was nearly at her house when she noticed a disturbance.

A police van was parked in front of the old house on the alley, where there were few street lamps. It belonged to the crime-scene investigation unit. There was also a sedan, an unmarked patrol car belonging to the burglary section.

Some seven or eight bystanders stood at a distance, watching as the crime-scene investigators busied themselves.

It was Hazumi Fusano’s house.

Identifying herself to the uniformed police officer on guard, Keiko stepped toward the entryway. At the sound of her footsteps, the investigator dusting the front door with aluminum powder turned around. She didn’t recall his name, but recognized his face.

He stood up and raised his hand to the brim of his cap. “Detective, why are you here?”

“My house is nearby, right behind this one.”

“Is it? ... Oh, the name here is also Hazumi, isn’t it?” he said, pointing at the ground. “Is it a relative of yours?”

Keiko shook her head. “It’s a common name from way back in this area. What happened here?”

“It’s a B and E with resident.”

His mouth seemed to be stiff from the cold. It took her awhile to realize what he had said.

Again? Just a few days ago, an elderly person’s house had been burglarized in this district west of the station.

“What was stolen was cash. Just over one hundred thousand yen ($1,000). She had it inside a cupboard.”

“How about eyewitnesses? Are there any?”

She couldn’t stick her neck much further into this investigation; she was in a different section. But this was her neighborhood. She wanted to obtain as much information as she could.

“A neighbor saw someone suspicious just around the time of the burglary.”

“What kind of suspicious person would that be?” As she asked, Keiko turned her eyes to the front door.

The lock button stuck out like a protruding belly button from the center of the doorknob. It was a cheap, simple lock, one of the least protective against break-ins.

“I don’t know the details. But he may have had a large scar below his eye ... The detectives were saying something like that.”

Could it be Nekozaki?

The person who came to Keiko’s mind was someone she had handcuffed in the past. A large scar beneath his eye. Within the Kinesaka precinct, the only criminal who looked like that was Soichi Yokozaki—nicknamed Nekozaki, for cat. But his criminal record consisted of stalking and assaulting his ex-wife. He had no burglary conviction. If Yokozaki was in this neighborhood...

“Detective, how is that murder case coming along?”

“No developments,” she replied curtly.

Looking at her watch, she saw that it was after ten o’clock. Should she drop in on Fusano, or should she take her leave? She wavered as she thought of Natsuki.

In the end, she said, “Excuse me,” in a small voice, and stepped inside the house.

Fusano was seated with her legs tucked under her in the living room off the entryway. She was being questioned by the detective from the burglary section as she sat with her back to the paper shoji sliding doors, whose holes had been repaired with pieces of newspaper. The stooped shoulders of the eighty-some-year-old woman trembled beneath the dim light.

Keiko waited until the questioning was over, shifting her position to stay out of the way of the crime-scene investigator.

* * * *

When Keiko returned to her home, Natsuki was at the dining table. Her arithmetic textbook and notebook were spread open in front of her.

She’ll probably hand over a note with “Welcome home” written in pencil. As she thought this, Keiko spoke. “I’m home.”

“Welcome home,” Natsuki answered aloud. Her head, topped with a short haircut, remained facing the table.

“...That’s a suprise,” Keiko said.

“Oh? What are you surprised about?”

“It’s been awhile since I heard your voice.”

“I’m not angry anymore.” Natsuki pointed the tip of her pencil toward the kitchen. “I made supper. It’s mapo tofu. It’s in the microwave. Eat it when you want to.”

“Thanks.”

With this, the current mother-daughter standoff was over.

When Natsuki had suddenly stopped speaking to her four mornings ago, Keiko was annoyed, though this happened often. She had no idea what had set Natsuki off. It turned out that it was because Keiko had missed her turn to clean up the kitchen. But it was only yesterday, when she found a postcard in the mailbox, that she learned that this was the cause of her daughter’s ire.

“Don’t you think it’s disgusting to have cobwebs in the kitchen?” Natsuki’s handwriting had covered the entire surface of the back of the postcard.

Feeling the tension at her neck ease a little, Keiko entered the tatami-mat room and put her palms together in front of the Buddhist altar there.

It’s been four years already...

That much time had passed—and so quickly—since her husband, a senior detective in the violent-crimes section, had been run over by an automobile and died.

Natsuki is well and doing fine.

After reporting this to her husband’s photograph, Keiko tried to think of other things to report about Natsuki during the past few days. He had so looked forward to seeing his daughter grow up. But she couldn’t come up with anything. All she could do was repeat what she had said the day before.

She still has her childish moments.

Her refusal to speak and her note-writing. These behaviors seemed childish to Keiko. Natsuki would be entering middle school next year, and Keiko wished she would stop this infantile imitation of her father.

It’s your fault.

“If something upsets you, try writing it down on paper. You’ll feel much calmer. I do that sometimes,” Natsuki’s father had told his daughter. Natsuki had been quick to anger from birth, and once angry, she wouldn’t speak. Keiko often recalled her husband teaching this way of dealing with her feelings to Natsuki.

Next she reported on her work day and told him of the case at Fusano’s house, which she had happened upon on her way home.

She had finally made eye contact with Fusano after several minutes of standing in her entryway.

The elderly woman got up and came toward her and bowed her head quietly. She seemed to have regained a bit of energy, seeing all the support that had come. Fusano knew that Keiko’s occupation was that of detective. But she wasn’t aware that Keiko was in the violent-crimes section, not the burglary section.

I’ll take some money to her later, Keiko thought. Using newspaper instead of shoji paper to mend her doors. Living like that, she could hardly have any savings. Her only income must be her old-age pension....

As these thoughts occupied the surface of her mind, Keiko was subconsciously counting. Three times. No, it might be four times this year, she had gone to the scene of elderly people living alone who had killed themselves. In each case, it was clear that the subject had been overwhelmed by poverty and, above all, by a sense of loneliness.

Keiko left the tatami-mat room and went to the kitchen. After warming the mapo tofu in the microwave, she also placed a can of beer on a tray and sat down facing Natsuki. Then she took from her handbag the postcard she had received the day before.

Natsuki was moving her thumb and index finger rapidly on the table.

Keiko slid the postcard toward the fingers.

“Will you stop doing this?”

Natsuki looked up at her, fingers still moving.

“If you have something you want to complain about, just tell me. If you can’t do that, at least write me a note and give it to me right then. When you do this, I worry so much, not knowing what you’re angry about until your note gets delivered.”

“Don’t want to.” Natsuki grinned. “That’s what my aim is, time-lag offensive.”

“Now listen ... You know that the mail deliverer sometimes makes mistakes between our address and Auntie Fusano’s address.”

“I know.”

“Then, you remember that one of your postcards was delivered to her place by mistake, don’t you? I was so embarrassed by that.”

“That’s the fault of the delivery person.”

“It’s your writing that’s at fault. You write our house number, 9, like a 7.”

“Yes, Mom. I’ll be careful about that.”

Accentuating her sigh this time, Keiko changed topics. “Speaking of Auntie Fusano, did you hear?”

Natsuki’s questioning expression said that she had not. The commotion seemed not to have reached this far.

“Just awhile ago, her house was burglarized.”

Natsuki’s fingers slowed down a bit. “A burglar?”

“Normally a burglar goes after a house when no one’s there. But this was the opposite. The burglar went in knowing someone was at home.”

“Really?”

“‘Really?’ ... Is that all you have to say? You’re being awfully cold-hearted. Who was the one who helped you get so good at calculations?” Keiko said as she imitated Natsuki’s finger motions.

Had she forgotten about those days when she was in lower elementary school? Fusano had been a big help. She had sat with Natsuki until late into the evening and even taught her how to calculate on the abacus. Shouldn’t Natsuki show some concern?

Of course, if she, Natsuki’s mother, could have come home earlier, her young daughter wouldn’t have had to be alone at night, or have the old neighbor woman take pity on her.

As she wrote down the calculation answers in her notebook, Natsuki said, “Don’t you have a much more important case you should be working on?”

She had jabbed at her mother’s weak point. “Well, yes. And I’m working hard on it.”

“Will you catch him quickly, please? A random attacker on the street isn’t cool at all. It’s a pain for me. I can’t even go to the convenience store after dark.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you don’t have any talent as a detective, Mom.”

“That might be true. Maybe a murder case is too difficult for a middle-aged female detective who commutes on the train.”

“On second thought, it may be better for you to be a lousy detective.” Natsuki closed her notebook. “If you can’t catch him, at least no one will come around here to pay their respects in revenge. If I lose you too, it’ll be a big mess for me.”

“‘Pay their respects,’ you say?” Where did this child learn such an expression?

The man who had run over her husband was an arsonist he had arrested, who was acting out of spite. Her husband’s life had been lost to this revenge, a detective’s occupational hazard.

She had told Natsuki the facts, but she didn’t recall having used such slang.

Even so...

The random street killing had occurred on November eighteenth. Two weeks had already gone by since then. What had she accomplished during that time? Without talent ... maybe Natsuki was right.

Her chopsticks suddenly felt heavy. As she placed the mapo tofu into her mouth, she thought of something, and said in a loud voice, “Wow, Natsuki. This is good. You should open up a Chinese restaurant here.”

“Hey,” Natsuki coolly squinted her eyes, “you’re just saying that because it doesn’t taste good.”

Keiko leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Right. Truth is, the flavoring could use some help.”

“See, what did I tell you? It sounded so fake when you said it.”

“Actually, it wasn’t you I was talking to, Natsuki,” Keiko said in even more hushed tones, and continued after glancing toward the tatami room. “I wanted your father to hear it.”

“Then you should go in there and tell him in front of the altar.” Pulled along, Natsuki’s voice also quieted to a whisper.

“That wouldn’t work. Natsuki, don’t you know about the effect of overhearing something that is leaked?”

Natsuki shook her head.

“Then you wouldn’t have heard the phrase ‘heard at one remove,’ either. Listen. Let’s say there’s a made-up story.”

“Okay.”

“If you heard it directly from someone, you’d doubt if it was true, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“But how about if that same story was being told by that person to someone else, and you overheard that exchange? Then how would you take it? You might very well believe it, mightn’t you?”

“Maybe so.”

“That’s the effect of overhearing something. When you want someone to believe a certain piece of information, the trick is to tell it to another person and have it be overheard. So your dad should be happy in heaven now. ‘So, Natsuki has become a good cook,’ he’s thinking.”

“Hmm. So you call that way of telling someone ‘heard at one remove’?”

“Yes. See, you’ve learned something new, haven’t you?”

Keiko put down her chopsticks. She pulled the tab on the can of beer. Just then, the telephone rang, as if that were a sign.

“Is this Hazumi?” It was her section chief. His tone seemed normal, but it contained some irritation. “There’s been another murder, a second victim.”

Keiko had stood up even before she heard those words.

* * * *

The meeting, which started at five p.m., ended exactly two hours later.

Keiko was the first to dash out of the meeting room. Running into the restroom, she gargled over and over. It felt as if a needle was stuck deep inside her throat. She always felt this way when she was exposed to secondhand smoke. The man who had sat next to her was the problem. She knew his face. It was the deputy chief of the burglary section, who had questioned Fusano at her house on the night of December second, four days ago. Perhaps feeling important because he had been upped in rank to help pursue a murderer, he had smoked incessantly through the entire meeting.

Next time I’ll take the seat farthest away from him. So vowing to herself, Keiko returned to the squad room and opened the morning paper, which she had yet to read. The article on the random street killer was in the middle of the city page. It was in three columns. Though several days had passed since the second victim was killed, the case was still foremost in the news.

With no progress toward its solution, there was insufficient information for the article. In such cases, reporters resorted to desperate measures. The article treated as a scoop the fact that investigators from the white-collar crime, burglary, organized crime, weapons, and drugs sections had been temporarily assigned to the violent-crimes section to support the investigation.

“Detective Hazumi.”

Hearing her name called, Keiko lifted her eyes from the newspaper. The junior detective at the next desk extended the telephone receiver.

“Call for you. From lockup administration.”

What could they want? she wondered as she took the receiver.

“This is Itami.”

At the sound of his voice, Keiko pictured Itami’s square-jawed face.

“Can you come over here?”

“What’s wrong?”

“One of the guests staying with us insists on seeing you.”

“Who is it?”

“Number Fifteen.”

“I can’t tell from that.” She meant to tone down her voice, but couldn’t avoid sounding prickly.

“I can’t help it, it’s Number Fifteen. The rules say we have to call our guests by number.”

Keiko hung up the telephone and pressed her temples. Separation of investigation and detention: that was the entrenched principle that caused this inevitable conflict between the Criminal Investigation Department and the Detention Administration Department. It wasn’t something any of them could do anything about. Still, this kind of exchange was tiresome.

Is there a problem? her junior colleague asked with his glance.

“Give me some time,” she told him.

“Yes, but what about our interviews? When are we leaving?”

“Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.”

Keiko left the room and ran down one flight of stairs, to the third floor.

Among the “guests” in the detention lockup there were occasionally some who had information about crimes other than those they had committed. It was possible that “Number 15” had some information about the random street killer.

When she opened the heavy door leading to the holding cell, Keiko clasped her arms around herself. The heating should be the same here as on other floors, but this was a place full of steel bars, and no warmth could be felt.

At the guard desk was an unusually handsome-featured young police officer. His name was Saito. He lived in the same district as Keiko, west of the train station, and Keiko recognized him. His lifestyle seemed extravagant to her, as he bought new-model cars quite often. It was rumored that he was in debt to the agency’s savings cooperative.

“Where is Mr. Itami?” Keiko asked him as these thoughts passed through her mind.

“Please wait,” Saito responded, unexpectedly politely. He got up and went into the office behind her.

Shortly, in place of the handsome officer, the square-jawed chief emerged.

Saying only, “This way,” Itami began walking quickly along the hallway lined with cells.

Keiko followed him.

The bars on the cells were covered on the bottom half, but the top half was left open. This meant that the detainees could look out onto the hallway if they stood up. Seven p.m. With supper over, they were stuck with nothing to do. They stared out from their cells with curiosity.

As he walked ahead of her, Itami half turned and said, “Normally I wouldn’t listen to particular requests from our guests. But Number Fifteen was insistent on seeing you. I’m making a special exception.”

Tell that to Number 15, or whoever. But Keiko kept quiet and nodded at his patronizing words.

The cell where Itami stopped was at the farthest point from the guard desk.

“Hey, Number Fifteen.”

When Itami called out, a man near them turned around. It was a forty-year-old man wearing a soiled jacket. When she saw his face, Keiko swallowed her breath.

Nekozaki. A long scar under his right eye. There was no mistake. It was Soichi Yokozaki.

Yokozaki soundlessly approached the bars. From his narrow eyes an expressionless gaze was directed at her.

“When were you released?” Keiko said.

Yokozaki didn’t reply.

“Just ten days ago,” Itami answered in his stead. “He was finally let out, but then he stole some money from an old woman’s house, so now he’s back in here.”

It was the burglary at Fusano’s house. So it had been Yokozaki after all.

Wait, though. He might also be involved in the street killings. She wondered about this, but she immediately stopped short. The first killing was about twenty days ago. Yokozaki was still in prison then.

“Was that case really your doing?”

Yokozaki didn’t bother to answer this either.

“Must have been.” Again, Itami spoke for him. “It was just decided today that his prison sentence will be extended ten days.”

Even though the court had decided upon a ten-day extension of his sentence while the burglary was investigated, she still couldn’t believe that Yokozaki had committed the burglary.

“Where are you living now? What’s your address?”

She didn’t expect that Yokozaki would answer. She kept her eyes on the man inside the cell, but her voice was aimed at Itami.

“The station. That night he was digging in the trash bins in the area west of the station. He must have been tempted to go into the old woman’s house.”

“Wait a minute. You mean Kinesaka station?”

“Sure.”

“What do you mean, he lives there?”

“You know, there are four or five cardboard shelters on the concourse there.”

“Yes.”

“It’s one of those that is Number Fifteen’s address.”

“...Really?”

The new arrival had been Yokozaki.

“And,” her voice went high. This was because a certain phrase crossed her mind. Clearing her throat, Keiko continued, “What do you want from me?”

At this, finally, Yokozaki’s face moved. Showing his tongue, he slowly licked his lips and spoke in a hoarse voice.

* * * *

“Thanks. It’s been a help.” Quickly saying so, Keiko alighted from the car.

“Boss,” her junior colleague leaned across the passenger seat and said, “you should take a rest.”

“Why?”

“You don’t look so well. The chief is worried, too.”

“If I take a rest, will the killer also rest?” she answered in a joking fashion, pushing aside the headache that had set in.

Her colleague closed his mouth and pulled back to sit up straight in the driver’s seat.

Before she slid the key into her front door lock, she tested its strength by jiggling the doorknob. With staff being shifted to the violent-crimes section, the burglary section was now short-handed, so it was best to be cautious.

As soon as she stepped into the house, she called out, “Natsu!”

There was no answer. She could hear water splashing in the bathroom. Natsuki must be taking a bath.

On the dining table was a newspaper. It was opened to the same page she had seen just four hours before in the squad room. Was her daughter looking at the city page every day in order to find out more about her mother’s work?

Keiko searched in her tool box and brought out a small penlight and sat down in a chair. What occupied her mind was Yokozaki’s face.

What is he cooking up?

After a while, Natsuki came out of the bathroom. As her hair wasn’t wet, Keiko decided she must not have been soaking in the tub but rather washing the tub out.

“Could you sit here for a second?” Pointing to the chair across from her with one hand, with the other she pulled out a photograph from her bag. It was a mug shot of Yokozaki. When she had returned from the lockup, Keiko had rushed to the records room and opened up his case file. She had made a copy of his photograph.

“Look at this,” she said, putting the photograph on the table in front of Natsuki. “Take a good look at this face and remember it.”

Natsuki took the photo in her hand.

“His name is Yokozaki. He’s a stalker, a word we’ve heard a lot lately. That’s what he is. He’s a bad character who pursues his target to the end. He’s persistent, like a cat, so his nickname is Nekozaki, Cat-zaki. Some time ago, he stalked his ex-wife and ended up slashing her with a box cutter.”

Her eyes glued to the photo, Natsuki nodded.

“And I caught him and sent him to prison. So he must hate me for it.”

Natsuki blinked several times.

“Yokozaki’s been released from prison and has started living at the train station. He’s one of the homeless at Kinesaka station. That means he’s moved close to our house. So I’m a little worried.”

Natsuki lifted her eyes from the photo.

“Remember what you said the other day? Paying their respects? It just may be that he’s targeting me. This is only a possibility, but you may be in danger as well.”

Natsuki returned the photo to Keiko.

“Keep it,” Keiko continued, staying her daughter’s hand. “As luck would have it, Yokozaki’s in jail right now. But he’ll probably be released in ten days.”

From what the burglary-section officer had said, the only reason for Yokozaki’s arrest was eyewitness testimony from a nearby resident who had stated, “I saw a man with a scar beneath his eye.” If no other physical evidence was discovered, it was likely that he would be released when his lockup sentence was up.

“It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’ll fight him off and protect you. But, to be safe, just remember this face. And if you see him somewhere, run away. Understand?”

Not uttering a sound, Natsuki nodded her head. Keiko was perplexed. Even in this emergency, Natsuki was refusing to speak.

“Can’t you answer me? What are you angry about this time? Can’t you give me a reason?”

Still, Natsuki would not speak.

Keiko slapped the table with her hands, letting her frustration out. “I’m going out,” she said, and headed toward the front door. Outside, she first peered into the mailbox. Just as she thought, there was a postcard inside. The addressee, “Ms. Hazumi Keiko,” and the sender, “Natsuki,” were both written with penmanship that slanted up toward the right. The writing was familiar. But the postcard this time wasn’t the type sold at the post office, it was a picture postcard. This differed from the usual pattern. Below the address was written: “How long are you planning to pursue the burglar?” The other side was a photograph of some wildflowers of no particular distinction.

She turned it over to look at the writing again. She guessed, from the question, that Natsuki was annoyed that her mother was late coming home again. Was this why she was refusing to speak? It was true that she had been coming home after midnight the past few days. Last night she had stayed overnight at the police station.

But still...

Keiko felt fatigue weighing her down. Natsuki shouldn’t be behaving so childishly, throwing a tantrum over something like that. Besides, “It’s not a burglar. I’m chasing after a killer.” She caught herself talking aloud. When she thought about how hard she had worked to rise from the burglary section to the violent-crimes section, this misunderstanding was irritating.

“You have a more important case. Hurry up and find the street killer,” Natsuki had said the other day. So Keiko had thought Natsuki had come to appreciate her mother’s work. But it seemed she had overestimated her daughter.

The misunderstanding might not be limited to Natsuki alone. The image of detectives that elementary school pupils had was probably that they pursued burglars and killers with no division of responsibilities between sections.

She shoved the picture postcard into her coat pocket and passed through the gate. She walked to the station and went deep into the concourse. The cardboard-box shelters were quiet. All of the homeless seemed to be asleep. She approached the newest of the five shelters. This must be Yokozaki’s.

She wondered who was now living in the tidy apartment he had rented on the outskirts of town before he was sent to prison. Had he lost his belongings due to the civil suit brought against him? If so, how much compensation had his ex-wife demanded?

Keiko recalled again Yokozaki’s voice as she had heard it in the lockup.

“Can you come to visit me?”

At first she couldn’t comprehend what he meant by those words, spoken in such a hoarse voice.

“Won’t you come to visit me, Ms. Hazumi?” As he repeated his request, there was nothing threatening in his tone.

“I’m here now.”

Yokozaki slowly shook his head. “What I’m asking is that you come to the visitors’ room.”

She was at a loss for a reply. As far as she knew, there was no regulation that prohibited a detective from meeting with a suspect in the visitors’ room, but...

“That’s not possible,” Itami broke in. “Visiting hours are until four p.m. It’s way after that now. You’ll have to abide by the regulations.”

“I don’t insist on it right now. It can be on another day.” Yokozaki stated this with his eyes glued to Keiko, not even glancing at Itami.

Perhaps affronted by this, Itami raised his voice in anger. “It can’t be tomorrow. You’re being interrogated. You should be glad she came at all. The detectives are all busy with a murder case. They can’t be taking time with your petty case.”

“Then day after tomorrow.”

Itami was quiet.

Neither did Keiko respond. She couldn’t answer. Because she couldn’t gauge Yokozaki’s true intentions.

Why did he want her to visit? What was he scheming? Was he expecting to threaten her by saying something like, “Wash your neck and be waiting for the blade?”

Only two points were clear.

One was that Yokozaki had targeted her. Not only had he moved close to her house, he’d made a point of demanding that she visit him. There was no mistaking that he was planning his revenge.

The second point was that she had no intention of falling for his scheme.

She squatted down in front of the shelter. Just to be sure, she called out, “Good evening.” As expected, there was no response.

Passersby on the concourse gave sideways glances toward her. Feeling their eyes on her back, Keiko opened the cardboard door of the shelter. A sour smell stung her nose. She turned on the penlight that she had brought with her. The first thing that the weak light lit up was a dirty blanket. Stifling the nausea she felt, Keiko slowly moved the circle of light.

* * * *

The acrylic pane was thicker than she had expected. For its thickness, its transparency was high, and she could clearly see even the second hand of the clock on the opposite wall. The walls seemed to be insulated for sound, and no noise from the outside could be heard.

How many years had it been since she had come to the visiting room at the lockup? It must be since she had come on an observation tour during her police-academy days. If so, it had been over twenty years.

Keiko closed her eyes. What came first to her mind was her daughter. Natsuki had refused to say a word to her since the evening of the sixth—the day before yesterday. The message that had been “How long are you planning to pursue the burglar?” that day had become “Why do you like burglars who target homes when no one is there?” on the picture postcard she had retrieved this morning just as she was leaving for work.

It was Fusano who had brought that postcard. She had brought over this morning what had been delivered to her house yesterday. When Keiko looked at the house number on the address, she saw that Natsuki had deflated the circle on the 9 so that it looked like a 7.

And she said she’d be careful. Keiko apologized for the trouble.

Fusano also bowed her head deeply. “Thank you so much for the other day. I’m really in your debt.”

As Keiko hadn’t done anything special and she had even forgotten to give Fusano some money, she felt uncomfortable. Keiko opened her eyes from her reverie, took out her datebook, and wrote, “Withdraw money for Fusano.” The tip of the ballpoint pen didn’t quiver. No, she wasn’t nervous.

It seemed they hadn’t yet found any physical evidence that Yokozaki was the burglar. The interrogation would no doubt proceed until the extension of his sentence was up. That meant he was behind bars for another week or so. Unless someone else, who was the actual burglar, gave himself up, there was no way he would be immediately released.

We could move and go into hiding before he gets out.

Keiko closed her datebook. A moment later, the door on the other side of the acrylic pane opened. Yokozaki appeared first. Then followed Itami.

Keiko shot Itami a look that said, Are you going to be present as well?

Itami answered, “It’s regulation.”

Can’t be helped.

Only attorneys could meet with prisoners without guards present.

When she entered the visitors’ room, Keiko had shown her identification card at the reception desk and filled out a visitor request form, just like the general public. She wasn’t getting any special treatment just because she was part of the police force.

“You’re not allowed to do anything like an interrogation, of course. Also, depending on the content of the conversation, I may decide to end it. Keep that in mind,” Itami said brusquely, as he sat down on a folding steel chair nearby.

Yokozaki sat at the counter facing Keiko. Just as he had done the other day, through the steel bars, he stared at her with expressionless eyes. Keiko studied his thin lips and waited for them to open. Yokozaki kept quiet.

About a minute passed. There was no indication that Yokozaki would open his mouth.

“Number Fifteen,” Itami said as he scraped the steel chair on the floor. “You want to say something, don’t you? Don’t hesitate.”

Keiko also became impatient. Come on, speak up. She had put aside her determination not to visit him, thinking that he might give her a hint as to what he was planning.

Her examination of the cardboard shelter the night before last had yielded nothing. All she had as for information was what he himself had said. His remaining silent would mean she had wasted her time coming here when she was so busy. She still had to go on interviews today. There were as yet no leads in the serial street killings.

Ten minutes passed. Yokozaki’s mouth remained shut.

“Hey, Number Fifteen.” Itami’s voice showed his fatigue. “If you’re just going to keep silent, I’m going to end the visit.”

At this, Yokozaki finally opened his mouth. “Thirty minutes.”

“What?”

“I have thirty minutes. The regulations allow me thirty minutes for visiting time. It hasn’t even been half that time yet.”

Itami clicked his tongue in exasperation.

“Besides,” Yokozaki said, with a faint smile on his face, “visiting isn’t just talking. It’s still a visit to just look at the other person’s face.”

Don’t be silly. It seemed she had made a big mistake coming here. This was just the type of insidious harassment this man nicknamed “The Cat” was capable of. If so, it was best to leave quickly.

Keiko leaned forward to stand up. But it was Itami who stood up before she did. Clucking his tongue again in obvious annoyance, he opened the door and shouted into the hallway.

“Hey, Saito, are you busy?”

“No, not so busy,” was the response that Keiko could hear.

“Then trade with me.”

There were footsteps, and then Saito’s trim features peeked in from the doorway. The young officer sat down in the steel chair in place of his chief, who left this boring job midway and departed hastily from the visiting room.

Having missed her timing to leave, Keiko sat down again.

Another minute passed.

Yokozaki opened his mouth again. “When I’m being interrogated, I can tell a lot from the behavior of the detectives.”

What was he saying all of a sudden? Puzzled, Keiko asked, “What can you tell?”

“The progress of an investigation. I can tell how close a case is to being solved.”

As Yokozaki suddenly moved his upper body, Keiko stiffened. With the same faint smile on his face, he placed onto the counter his hands, which had been on his knees. “It seems the real perpetrator has been identified in the case I’m suspected of.”

“So, you didn’t steal, after all?”

“No, it wasn’t me. I don’t know who it is, but the real burglar is someone else.”

Using his arms as supports, Yokozaki leaned his upper body forward.

“The detectives have figured out who it was and are secretly gathering evidence. The next stage is to seek an arrest warrant. There’s no mistake. The atmosphere in the interrogation room is clear.”

Yokozaki’s eyes lit up for an instant.

“But there’d be some trouble if they arrest the suspect, so the detectives are in a quandary.”

The faint smile disappeared from Yokozaki’s face.

“That means, Ms. Hazumi, listen up, it could be as early as tomorrow...” Keiko stopped breathing. Yokozaki placed his face close to the acrylic pane and hissed, “...that I might be released from this place.”

* * * *

Her headache was no better in the morning. In fact, it was worse. She felt as if the inside of her skull was being hammered with a mallet. She replaced the rice she had hardly touched in the rice cooker and put the side dishes she had not eaten into the refrigerator.

Natsuki was washing dishes at the sink without a word. As the instant water heater was broken, her hands must be numb with cold, but she continued to use the sponge and detergent without complaint. When she finished washing up, Natsuki left the kitchen. Retrieving the morning paper from the mailbox, she opened it up at the dining table.

Keiko snatched the newspaper from her.

Natsuki looked up, her eyes wide.

“I’m off today.”

“Sleep in tomorrow,” last night her boss had said shortly, having peered at her face. She felt humiliated. He must have been truly concerned for her health, but for Keiko it was as if she had heard him say, “You’re not up to dealing with this murder case.”

“I’m off today. I’ll be home all day.”

Natsuki didn’t reply. She just nodded.

The message “Why do you like burglars who target homes when no one is there?” had changed to “Which is more important—a petty thief or your daughter?” in the picture postcard she found in the mailbox last night. Natsuki still couldn’t forgive her mother’s late homecomings.

“Natsuki, I first want to say, write your number nine clearly with the circle. The way it looks, you’re bothering Auntie Fusano.”

On all of the postcards Natsuki had sent, the 9s looked like 7s. That meant that it wasn’t just the second postcard but the first and third ones as well that had been misdelivered to Fusano’s address. So the old woman had brought over all three cards.

“Understand?”

Natsuki didn’t say anything.

“Stop the silent treatment and start talking, why don’t you?” Keiko ripped the edge of the newspaper in irritation. “Also, this is important, so listen carefully. For the time being, from tonight, you’ll go to your grandfather’s to stay. You’ll go to school from there. Don’t worry. It’s just a precaution.”

“I may be released as early as tomorrow.” If Yokozaki’s words were true, he could be released today.

But she wasn’t about to swallow his bluff whole. After she had left the visiting room, she had gone to the burglary section and inquired of the chief detective in charge of the investigation whether Yokozaki would be released immediately. When she heard that it wasn’t the case, rather than feel relieved, she was bewildered by Yokozaki’s stupidity. What meaning did a lie that would be so easily discovered have? If all he could muster was an empty threat like that, he must in fact be the burglar who had stolen money from Fusano’s house. That would make certain his re-incarceration. Then she wouldn’t have to move.

Yes. This was just a precaution.

“All right? Your answer?”

At that, Natsuki pulled an advertising flyer toward her and wrote “Okay” on the back.

Keiko boiled over with rage. “Speak to me decently!” Unable to suppress her anger, she crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it at Natsuki. “Don’t joke around. Can’t you see that I’m really concerned for you? Grow up. You’re too old to throw silent tantrums about trivial things. Why are you being so childish? We have serious things to worry about right now....”

* * * *

She could hardly open her eyes. It must be the sleep in the corners of them. She rubbed it out. But as she raised herself up, Keiko realized that she had fallen asleep at the dining table.

It took her awhile to recall what had happened. After she had yelled at her daughter, she had pulled herself together.

Natsuki had tears in her eyes. Sniffling, she had picked up her book pack, saying, “I’m sorry,” in a small voice, and then she had run out the front door.

Keiko followed her to apologize, but by the time she made it to the door, her daughter had gone. Her headache grew worse. She staggered back to the chair and closed her eyes to rest just a bit.

She looked at the clock. It was already past two p.m. On the table was the morning paper she had grabbed from Natsuki. Rubbing her eyes again, she opened it up first to the city page, as was her custom.

The next instant, Keiko was struck motionless. Opening her eyes wide, she read through the article twice. Then she jumped up from the table, knocking over her chair to grab the telephone.

“Yes, this is Number Seven Elementary School.” The voice at the other end seemed to be overly slow.

“Please let me speak to Natsuki, Hazumi Natsuki, Grade Six, Class Two. This is her mother. It’s an emergency!”

“Please wait.”

While the school staffer went to call Natsuki to the telephone, Keiko scanned the article once more.

“Policeman Turns Himself In on Burglary Case.” She hadn’t misread it. The headline was clear. “In the burglary case of the night of December 2, when cash was stolen from a private house in the district west of Kinesaka City station, a police officer of the Kinesaka precinct has turned himself in, admitting to the crime. After an interrogation, which occurred on the evening of December 8, police determined that the suspect did commit the burglary and arrested the officer.”

The actual perpetrator had been a police officer! “But there’d be some trouble if they arrest the suspect, so the detectives are in a quandary.” That was what Yokozaki had meant in the visiting room.

More than that, what bothered Keiko was the ending to the article. “With this development, the unemployed man, 40, who had been arrested and detained as a suspect in this case was released from the Kinesaka police station.”

Yokozaki was already out. It hadn’t been a bluff. His words had been the truth.

“Hello. Natsuki has already gone home. We didn’t have fifth period today.”

Keiko hung up without listening for more and, grabbing her coat, ran out the door. She sped to the station on her bicycle, clenching her teeth. Flinging her bicycle down at the entrance to the concourse, she ran toward the cardboard shelters.

Yokozaki might be following Natsuki. She couldn’t help feeling that he was. If so, it would be futile to go to his shelter. But she could think of nothing else she could do. She wasn’t in any condition to worry about what others might think. She opened the door of the closest shelter. Someone was lying under the blanket in the dim, dark box.

Who was it? Had another homeless person moved in?

Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the dark, and she couldn’t see who it was. She shifted her body to the side to let in more light. She stared at the man’s face. She was able to confirm the scar beneath his right eye. She drew back for a second as her expectation had missed its mark. Then she leaned into the shelter and pressed Yokozaki.

“You...” If you touch my daughter I’ll make sure you never get out of prison. She had expected to say something like that, but due to her confusion and her excitement, the next words didn’t follow.

She thought Yokozaki laughed. Keiko glared at him.

He said, “So that’s it, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were thinking about it, weren’t you? Revenge, or ‘paying my respects.’“ Yokozaki looked away. “I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to go to prison again. Even if I’m homeless, it’s better outside bars than behind them.”

“Then,” Keiko pulled her face away, “why did you come to this station?”

“Because it’s just right for someone with no place to live. No other reason.”

“What about that visit? Wasn’t that to threaten me?”

“No, it wasn’t. Did you read this morning’s paper?”

Keiko nodded.

“Then you must have seen the burglar’s name and face.”

She shook her head. The article had merely said “a police officer” and there was no photograph.

“You haven’t? I guess it’s not easy for reporters to get information, is it? It probably didn’t make it into the early edition.” So saying, Yokozaki twisted his body to reach for the paper. “I found a late edition that was thrown out in the station trash bin. I’ll give it to you. Look at it carefully.”

Yokozaki handed her the folded newspaper. Keiko drew in a sharp breath when she saw the photograph of the burglar’s face. That was when she understood everything.

“Yokozaki ... you saw this face that night.”

Being in the neighborhood, he had witnessed the burglar running away from Fusano’s house.

“Yeah, I was surprised.”

Of course he was. When he was arrested and taken to the lockup, he had seen the perpetrator there. No wonder he had been surprised. No, he wouldn’t have been sure at that stage that the man in this photo was the burglar. He couldn’t have seen the man’s face clearly in the dark. That was why he came up with the scheme to ask for a visit. Yokozaki had bet that if the man he had seen was the perpetrator, he would turn himself in.

“I’m sorry I suspected you....”

“No, I was using you as well. I don’t have anyone I can call an acquaintance anymore. I couldn’t think of anyone but you who could come to visit me.”

“What do you plan to do now?”

“I’ll start over. I’ll find a job.”

“That’s good....”

Keiko left the cardboard shelter. A perpetual criminal. That was how she had pegged Yokozaki. She had concluded that he was a cold-blooded criminal. But, perhaps it had been a mistake to judge everything about him from the stalker incident.

After she returned home, she looked once more at the newspaper Yokozaki had given her. There was the real burglar—even in the grainy photograph Officer Saito’s face looked handsome.

Her meeting with Yokozaki in the visiting room was Yokozaki’s way to have Saito overhear the conversation. Yokozaki had insistently waited to speak, hoping that Saito would come into the room as guard. He used the opportunity to give false information that the real perpetrator had been found and that the evidence against him had been secretly investigated. If Itami hadn’t left and called Saito in, Yokozaki would no doubt have asked for another visit and tried for another chance.

* * * *

Awhile later, Natsuki returned home. As she put down her book pack, Keiko stretched out her hand to her daughter’s forehead and traced her fingers along the spot where she had thrown the wad of paper that morning.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“That’s okay. Does your head still hurt?”

“Just a little.”

“What time are we going to Grandpa’s house?”

Keiko shook her head. “We don’t have to go.”

“Shucks, I was looking forward to it.” Natsuki left the living room and went into the kitchen. “You should lie down. I’ll wake you up when supper’s ready.”

Keiko nodded and sat down on the sofa. She pulled a blanket over her and lay down. It was shortly after she had closed her eyes that the doorbell rang.

“Coming,” Natsuki replied, scurrying to the entryway and opening the door. Keiko followed her movements with her ears, keeping her eyes closed.

Then she heard, “Hello, Natsuki.” It was Fusano’s voice. “Is your mother here?”

“She’s lying down, but I can wake her.”

“No, don’t do that. Wait, Natsuki, don’t. I just made this. Please eat it.”

“Wow, thanks.”

What was it that she’d received?

“I’m sorry I can only show my thanks with something like this.... And here, this was in the mailbox.”

“Oh, thank you.”

That must be a postcard. Natsuki must have once again written the number so that it was easy to misread. Four times in a row. She must have done it on purpose.

On purpose ... Keiko opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Could it be...?

“Well, Natsuki, I’ll come again.”

“Thank you so much.”

When she heard the door close, Keiko sat up and waited for Natsuki. As she returned to the kitchen, Natsuki was carrying a double-handled pot with both her hands. Tucked between her fingers was a picture postcard.

Natsuki had thought that her mother was asleep. When their eyes met, she shrugged.

“That was Auntie Fusano, wasn’t it?” Keiko asked.

“Yeah. She brought us this,” Natsuki answered, as she lifted up the pot and took off the cover.

Several small fish had been simmered to a golden color beneath the steam. Keiko’s appetite was stirred. Fusano had made a dish of sardines simmered in soy sauce and sugar. Keiko knew how delicious it was, having tasted it before.

“Mom, did you do something for her? She said this was to thank you.”

“He was arrested.”

Natsuki put the pot on the table. “Who?”

“The man who stole money from her house.”

Natsuki froze for an instant.

“It’s not as if I did anything special.”

“Hmm.” Giving her usual bored answer, Natsuki turned her back and crouched over the wastebasket. Keiko could hear the sound of paper being torn. Afterward, when Natsuki stood up straight, the postcard had disappeared from her hand.

With her empty hands, Natsuki began to put away the advertising inserts and items on the table. Among them was the newspaper that Yokozaki had given Keiko.

“What? You don’t need to read the city page? You’re not interested now that the case is solved?”

When Keiko said this meanly, on purpose, Natsuki looked up at her. She seemed a bit upset.

Unconcerned, Keiko continued. “A postcard. It’s not unnatural to have what you write show if it’s a postcard, is it? I get it. The person who receives it automatically reads it. But wasn’t it hard to keep writing the nine like a seven?”

Natsuki’s gaze locked with Keiko’s. She was trying to figure out how much her mother knew.

“And what did you write on the postcard you just ripped up? About the burglar? Did you use the police jargon you know, since you’re the daughter of detectives? But the reader wouldn’t be able to understand those words.”

So saying, Keiko reflected on the messages she had received so far. Had Natsuki really been angry at her mother’s late return?

“How long are you planning to pursue the burglar?”

“Why do you like burglars who target homes when no one is there?”

“Which is more important—a petty thief or your daughter?”

Wasn’t the true meaning in the words “burglar,” “burglars who target homes when no one is there,” and “petty thief”? Wasn’t the sequence of messages communicating that the detectives were pursuing the burglar from morning till night?

To whom? To the old woman whose money had been stolen. It was not her mother, but Fusano, that Natsuki had wanted to read those words.

In the mass media, the spotlight had been on the random street killer. It had been announced that detectives had been shifted from the burglary section to the violent-crimes section. Fusano had no doubt seen this news. And she was no doubt worried. Would the money that had been stolen from her be returned? Most of all, she must have felt lonely. She must have thought that the world had forgotten about her.

That was why Natsuki had sent those postcards. She had counted on misdeliveries and aimed at the effect of overhearing something. In actuality, the burglary-case investigation had become less critical, but in giving Fusano the opposite impression by having her hear it at one remove, Natsuki had tried to make Fusano think it wasn’t so.

No matter how major a case comes to the fore, your small case hasn’t been forgotten, Auntie. The detectives are persisting in chasing after the burglar who stole your money. No one has forgotten you. Natsuki had kept reassuring Fusano by communicating that to her.

Natsuki’s cheeks were flushed. “Hey, Mom, what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I just think that you didn’t need to pretend you were so angry, just so you could send the postcards.”

Turning her flushed face away, Natsuki reached for the faucet at the sink. She stuck her hands into the flowing water and scrubbed them.

To Keiko it seemed that her daughter had grown a bit taller compared to the day before.