A Clean Kill in Tokyo

Akihabara. Why don’t you try something classic? I recommend the
yuzukiri.”
Yuzukiri
are
soba
noodles flavored with the juice of a delicate Japanese citrus fruit called the
yuzu
, and an Issan house specialty.
    The waitress came back and took our order: two
yuzukiri.
Harry told me he hadn’t managed to unearth anything particularly revealing about Kawamura, just general biographical details.
    “He was a Liberal Democratic Party lifer,” Harry explained. “Graduated from the University of Tokyo in 1960, political science major, went straight to the government along with the rest of the cream of the crop.”
    “The States could learn something from this. There, the government gets the college rejects. Like sowing the smallest seeds of corn.”
    “I’ve worked with some of them,” Harry said. “Anyway, Kawamura started out crafting administrative guidance for the Japanese consumer electronics industry at the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. MITI was working with companies like Panasonic and Sony to enhance Japan’s position in the world economy, and Kawamura had a lot of power for a guy in his twenties. Steady promotions up the bureaucratic ladder, successful but not spectacular. High marks for architecting strategic domestic semiconductor guidance in the eighties.”
    “That’s all discredited now,” I said absently.
    Harry shrugged. “He took the credit when he could. After MITI he was transferred to the
Kensetsusho,
the old Construction Ministry, and stayed with it as Vice Minister of Land and Infrastructure when Construction was merged into the
Kokudokotsusho.”
    He paused and ran his fingers through his unruly hair, doing nothing to improve its appearance. “Look, mostly what I can tell you is basic bio stuff. I need to have a better idea of what I’m looking for, or I might not even recognize it if I see it.”
    I didn’t respond right away. I recognized this would be dangerous, but I knew, if I wanted to solve this mystery, I would take the risk.
    I told him what I had seen at Alfie and afterward, of following the stranger to the apartment in Daikanyama.
    He shook his head. “What are the chances you would run into Kawamura’s daughter like that? Unbelievable.”
    I looked at him closely, not sure that he believed me. “It’s a small world.”
    His face was unreadable. “Or it could be karma.”
    Christ, how much does this kid know?
“I didn’t know you believed in karma, Harry.”
    He shrugged. “You think there’s a connection with the break-in at Kawamura’s apartment?”
    “Could be. The guy on the train was looking for something on Kawamura. Couldn’t find it. So he breaks into Kawamura’s apartment. Still can’t find it. Now he thinks the daughter has it, I guess because she would have her father’s things.”
    The waitress brought us the two
yuzukiri.
Without a sound she knelt on the tatami, placed each dish on the table, slightly repositioned them in accordance with some strict mental framework, stood, bowed, and departed.
    When we were done eating, Harry leaned back against the wall and belched long and low. “It was good,” he admitted.
    “I know.”
    “I want to ask you a question,” he said. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
    “Okay.”
    “What’s your angle on this? Why are you looking so hard? It’s not like you.”
    I thought about telling him I was doing it for a client, but I knew he wouldn’t buy that.
    “Some of what’s been happening doesn’t jibe with what the client told me,” I said. “That makes me uncomfortable.”
    “This uncomfortable?”
    I could see he was in a relentless mood today. “It reminds me of something that happened to me a long time ago,” I said, telling him the truth. “Something I want to make sure never happens again. Let’s leave it at that for now.”
    He held up his hands, palms forward in a gesture of supplication, then leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Okay, the guy you followed, we can assume he lives in the apartment building. A good number of foreigners live in Daikanyama, but I can’t imagine there are more than a dozen or so in that one building. So we’re already in decent shape.”
    “Good.”
    “The mama-san said he told her he was a reporter?”
    “She did, but that doesn’t mean much. I think he showed her a card, but it could have been fake.”
    “Maybe, but it’s a start. I’ll try to cross check the foreigners I find at that apartment