A Clean Kill in Tokyo

address against the declarations kept at the
Nyukan,
see if any of the people I identify are with the media.” The
Nyukan,
or
Nyukokukanrikyoku,
is Japan’s immigration bureau, part of the Ministry of Justice.
    “Do that. And while you’re at it, see if you can get me the girl’s home address. I tried one-one-zero, but it’s unlisted.”
    He scratched his cheek and looked down, as though trying to hide a smile.
    “What,” I said.
    He looked up. “You like her.”
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Harry…”
    “You thought she was going to open up for you, and instead she blew you off. Now it’s a challenge. You want another chance.”
    “Harry, you’re dreaming.”
    “Is she pretty? Just tell me that.”
    “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.”
    “So she’s pretty. You like her.”
    “You’ve been reading too many manga,” I said, referring to the thick, often lascivious pulp comic books that are so popular in Japan.
    “Okay, sure,” he said, and I thought,
Christ, he really does read that shit. I’ve hurt his feelings.
    “Come on, Harry, I need your help to get to the bottom of this. That guy on the train was expecting Kawamura to be carrying something, which is why he patted him down. He didn’t find it, though—otherwise, he wouldn’t have been asking Midori questions. Now you tell me: Who currently has possession of all Kawamura’s belongings, including the clothes he was wearing and personal effects he was carrying when he died?”
    “Midori, most likely,” he allowed with a small shrug.
    “Right. She’s still the best lead we’ve got. Get me the information, and we’ll go from there.”
    We talked about other matters for the duration of our lunch. I didn’t tell him about the CD. He’d already leaped to enough conclusions.

CHAPTER 7
    T he next day I got a page from Harry, who used a preset numeric code to tell me he had uploaded something to a secure site we use. I figured it was Midori’s address, and Harry didn’t disappoint.
    She lived in a small apartment complex called
Harajuku Badento Haitsu—
Harajuku Verdant Heights—in the shadow of the graceful arches of Tange Kenzo’s 1964 Tokyo Olympic Stadium. Cool Harajuku is the borderland that traverses the long silences and solemn cryptomeria trees of Yoyogi Park and its Meiji Shrine; the frenetic, shopping-addled teen madness of Takeshita-dori; and the elegant boutiques and bistros of Omotesando.
    Harry had confirmed that Midori didn’t have an automobile registered with the Tokyo Motor Vehicles Authority, which meant she would rely on trains: either the JR, which she would pick up at Harajuku Station, or one of the subway lines, which she would access at Meijijingu-mae or Omotesando.
    The problem was that the JR and subway stations were in opposite directions, and she was as likely to use one as the other. With no single chokepoint leading to both sets of stations, I had no basis for choosing either one. I would just have to find the best possible venue for waiting and watching and base my decision on that.
    Omotesando-dori, where the subway stations were located, fit the bill. Known as the Champs Elysées of Tokyo, albeit mostly among people who have never been to Paris, Omotesando-dori is a long shopping boulevard lined with elm trees whose narrow leaves provide first a crown and then a carpet of yellow for a few days every autumn. Its many bistros and coffee shops were designed with Paris-style people watching in mind, and I would be able to spend an hour or two watching the street from various establishments without attracting attention.
    Even so, absent a lot of luck, I would have been in for a very boring few days of waiting and watching. But Harry had an innovation that saved me: a way of remotely turning a phone into a microphone.
    The trick only works with digital phones with a speakerphone feature, where a line can be established even though the handset is in the cradle. The reception is muffled, but you can hear. Anticipating my next move, Harry had tested Midori’s line and had let me know we were good to go.
    At ten o’clock the following Saturday morning, I arrived at the Aoyama Blue Mountain coffee shop on Omotesando-dori, equipped with a small unit that would activate Midori’s phone and a mobile phone for listening in on whatever I connected to. I took a seat at one of the small tables facing the street, where I ordered an espresso from a bored-looking waitress. Watching the meager morning