Japan

Like Knives Behind My Eyes

Suicide – or murder? Will scandal taint the Bank of Japan? Here’s Chapter one of Tokyo Summer – A Shig Sato Novella.

 

Chapter 1

 

“It feels like knives behind my eyes.”ssnovella1

Setsuko Usami said it so often her husband seemed deaf to it. She knew that their years together taught her that Taro would not understand it, not even try. Taro Usami’s indifference had become almost as painful as the migraines themselves.

At one time early in their marriage she was surprised and glad Taro asked about her headaches, if anything was wrong, but that stopped. Her migraines always returned and he was tired of feeling useless, and would say, “What could he do?”

He never had headaches. He didn’t know what to do.

Eventually Setsuko gave up. What could he do? He was a rising star at the Bank of Japan and they had a tiny four-room flat in Chuo and she was the mother of two teenagers. His life was outside the home. Her life had not changed since her 20s. She cooked and cleaned and shopped and succumbed to the incessant, unbearable beat of the never-ending demands of life in Tokyo.

Setsuko remembered when Taro would ask about her day, act like he cared. That was when they were young and the world held so much promise for smart young couples staking their claim to making a good life for themselves in the city. She sometimes thought that being young was the cause of that. Now they were in their 40s and she was weary and laid in bed for hours every day even when she didn’t have her migraines.

She held onto hopes, though. Like it being the year 1988, and thinking that perhaps this would be the year her luck would change. She had heard 88 was a lucky number.

But it was the end of May and she laid on her futon and suffered through her migraines and wondered if her luck would ever change, or if this really was her life. She wondered if she would ever get fed up and actually say something like “that’s the last straw.” She wondered what would it be, that straw that finally broke the camel’s back.

She wondered about it, idly at times, then forgot about it as a new day presented new problems. But the thought always returned. What would happen? What would it take?

 

The last straw came at the end of June. Plans for the children’s summer holiday had to be decided. Taro’s indifference infuriated her. He said he was busy at work. He said a promotion was in the works. He said he couldn’t get away because the timing was all wrong.

She kept asking. A trip with her sister and their children just didn’t happen on a whim. She needed to know. She needed to plan. Her daughter’s sullen peevishness was driving her mad – getting the girl to agree to anything was a battle in itself, now that she was 15 and in full rebellion mode. Her son was pulling away from her, as boys do when they become teenagers. He was 13 and had sprouted up and seemingly overnight his voice had dropped an octave. His charming little boy self was disappearing. Getting them both to agree to go with her sister and their children to Okinawa had been like moving heaven and earth. And in another year she knew it would be impossible to get anyone to agree on anything.

Setsuko Usami clung to the hope her plans had not gone to pieces. Then one evening Taro came home late and she was ready to have it out once and for all. But before she could get started he said, “I have to go to Singapore for the Pacific Rim finance ministers meeting.” He said it as if he was taking the car to a mechanic.

“What! When?” She prayed it wouldn’t interfere with their holiday. “When do you have to go?”

“You know when,” he said as he removed his clothes and left them where they lay and reached for the pajama bottoms she had laid out for him. He escaped to the bathroom.

“Taro! My plans! Why can’t–”

“It can’t be helped!”

Setsuko stared at the bathroom door until he stepped out. She collapsed onto her futon and watched Taro lay down with his back to her. A thunderbolt of nausea erupted from deep inside her gut and she ran to the bathroom.

Taro called out, “What is it now?”

“You know what it is!”

Taro turned off the light. A pink half-darkness beyond their window spilled into the room where they slept, the dim split in two by a rare moonbeam. Sleep came easily.

 

+

 

Aroused from his slumber, Taro Usami realized he sensed Setsuko’s absence. He sat up and saw her unmussed futon. He listened for any household sounds. He heard nothing. Then he realized a need to relieve himself.

Stepping to the bathroom, half asleep, he wondered why the door wouldn’t open fully.

And why the light was on.

Once he managed to get his head in for a peek, he saw why. Setsuko lay on the floor, her body twisted, eyes open, mouth sagging, tongue limp, strands of hair matted on her forehead and cheek. An empty prescription medicine vial lay inches from her fingertips.

Later, his children would say he shouted “Setsuko” over and over.

Taro Usami would say he didn’t remember.

To pre-order a copy of  Tokyo Summer, click here. To sign up for for great deals and advance notice of more great Shig Sato stuff, just click here. Be assured your information is safe – I hate spam and never share information.

 

Suicide or murder? A Shig Sato bonus novella just for you!

ssnovella1Of all the summer projects I chose to tackle after relocating to Austin, Texas, the most challenging – and most fun! – was writing my first Shig Sato novella, Tokyo Summer. But it is available only to my email list subscribers. So don’t miss out. Click here to sign up for all the Shig Sato news and this Shig prequel, Tokyo Summer, available Sept. 28.

Here’s a sneak peek:

Junichi Ohto was a 30-year veteran of the Tokyo Metropolitan police. Thin and bald and with a smoker’s hack, he would never admit that being a detective at such a small outfit like Tsukishima Police Station was as good as his spotty career would get.

There had been days when he still had his hopes. At first, catching the Usami case that late June evening had given him hope that a good murder would put him right with his boss. But within minutes of taking in all the details he knew it was suicide. Typical domestic turmoil, husband some sort of mid-level big shot at the Bank of Japan. Wife a typical “education mama” who lived for her kids passing their college entrance exams. Why she swallowed a vial of valium was anyone’s guess.

“If she wanted to kill herself she could have jumped into the Sumida River and saved us all a lot of trouble,” he said to his partner, a detective so young and green he barely spoke a word other than “yes” and “excuse me.”

It didn’t take long for them to wrap up their interviews and file that case away.

“All we need are the toxicology reports,” Ohto told his station chief. “Not gonna get anything from them, either, I bet.”

Then, a few weeks later, Ohto’s boss said, “That Usami case? Murder.”

It hadn’t been a pleasant morning. Admonished like a rookie, scorned for being old and useless, Ohto knew the toxicology report made everyone in the station look bad.

Ohto lit a Seven Star cigarette and coughed for a minute after inhaling the delicious smoke. He wondered how quickly he was going to get demoted behind once Division took over the case. His boss had said that Sato asked for Ohto. By name.

He heard that the detectives picking up the case at Division were Ken Abe and Mo Kato, two officers he knew and resented for being the types the higher-ups liked. Kato could wait out a glacier for one key clue. And Abe. Ohto had seen for himself how Abe’s strange sense of smell had led to the arrest of a cross-dresser simply by identifying perfumes, lotions and body secretions no self-respecting man would know the first thing about.

But Inspector Shig Sato. He knew then that he was in trouble. Sato left no stone unturned. Ohto knew he was bound to be grilled like a tuna.

He smoked the cigarette down to the paper filter in 27 seconds then lit another before hitching a ride to Chuo. Ohto made it into the station with what little dignity he could muster, his eyes focused on what was in front of him as he quickly walked to Criminal Investigations.

After the usual greetings Ohto took a seat by Sato’s desk. He wasn’t prepared for Sato’s tactics. A junior police officer brought tea Ohto didn’t want, but recognized the gesture for what it was, nodded his thanks, and resisted the urge to light up a cigarette.

“Ohto, I’m sure you did your best with the information you had when you were handed this Usami case.”

Ohto tilted his head to one side, admitting nothing.

“Here’s how it is. I don’t care what happened then. I care about now. Now it’s a murder investigation. Now we have to start as if it’s hour one.”

“I see.”

Sato saw that Ohto did not see.

+

To get your copy of Tokyo Summer, just click and you’ll be reading in no time.

 

The World of Shig Sato: The Streets and Locales of Shig Sato’s Japan

In the world of our hero, Shig Sato is a denizen of the streets and neighborhoods of Tokyo. From his home in Hyakunincho to Azabu Police Station to the American navy base in Yokosuka, Shig lives by his dictum “follow the clues.”

Some say New York is comprised of neighborhoods. This describes Tokyo. A prefecture in its own right, the city has been the center of culture and politics for four hundred years. Once known as Edo, the city had over a million people by the middle of the 18th century. The Meiji restoration brought the imperial family from Kyoto to Tokyo in 1868, Tokyo became the capital, and Western ideas and customs slowly came to the island nation.

history02_il02

The greater Tokyo region is made up of Tokyo and the prefectures of Chiba, Saitama and Kanagawa. The Kanto region include the prefectures shaded in light green. Sato’s family is from a neighborhood in Kawasaki, Kanagawa. It and other parts of the broad flat area around Tokyo Bay is known as the Kanto Plain. A devestating earthquake struck the area in 1923. In Shig’s lifetime, he witnessed the bombing of Kawasaki during World War II, and the rebuilding that came afterward.

skyscrapers

Shinjuku, famous for its skyscrapers as well as its entertainment district,  is one of the 23 wards of Tokyo. Many visitors to Tokyo know some of the wards by name without realizing it. For example, Shinagawa, Shibuya and Shinjuku are major train stations on the Yamanote commuter loop line encircling inner Tokyo as well as wards, or districts, in the city. And talk about densely populated – Shinjuku has 11,000 residents per square kilometer!

Shig and Miki’s home is in the Hyakunincho neighborhood, north of Okubo-dori, in Shinjuku. Sato’s beloved Azabu Police Station is on Roppongi-dori in the heart of the fashionable Roppongi district of Minato ward, the government, business, entertainment and fashion hub of the city south of the Imperial Palace.

map_of_tokyo

In the book one of the Shig Sato mysteries, The Gangster’s Son, yakuza boss Ses Fujimori likes to escape his worries by visiting the Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden. The city has many parks and gardens, some a part of shrines, some previously estates of the wealthy and powerful.

garden_shinjuku

On the map of Tokyo it is due west of the Imperial Palace and south of Shinjuku Station. Shig and Miki’s home is less than a mile north of the park. The map also makes note of Akasaka, where Sato and Ken Abe set up their private investigator office after they leave the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

yokosuka2

But as reader’s of The Gangster’s Son know, Sato will leave the city to track down suspects. For example, Sato and Detective Hisoka Endo travel to the American navy base in Yokosuka, in Kanagawa Prefecture. The military presence there and in Yokohama, about halfway in between Tokyo and Yokosuka, date back to the American occupation that began after the war and lasted until the early 1950s.

takatsuvillage

Sato’s respite from the city is his return to his family’s home in Takatsu, a ward in the city of Kawasaki along the Tama River. In the Takatsu of 1991, his neighborhood remains populated by families who fondly remember his mother, grandmother, and the family bakery that remained in operation through the 1960s. Several of the homes in that neighborhood, including Sato’s, remain. For Sato it is home, as much as his modest house in Hyakunincho. It is there he spends the summer of 1991, at a loss with what to do with himself as the events of his life unfold in ways he dreaded but must face. It’s there that, in the beginning of book two, The Thief’s Mistake, Ken Abe fetches Sato from his private sorrows.

Join Sato and Abe as  they follow the clues to places unlike another other – the streets, mansions, slums, suburbs, estates, highways and neighborhoods of Tokyo.

———————————————————————————————————–

Some locales in The Gangster’s Son and the distances

Hyakunincho to Azabu police station on Roppongi-dori – 7.6k, about 4.7 miles, a 25-minute drive, about 30 minutes by public transportation

Azabu Police Station to Yokosuka American navy base – 68k, about 42 miles, about 1 hour 45 minute drive

Hyakunincho to Takatsu, Sato’s family home, – 20k, about 12.5 miles, about 40-45 minute drive

To download a copy of my ebook mystery The Gangster’s Son click here,  and for a bonus novella, just click here.  

(maps courtesy Tokyo Municipal Government, Lonely Planet, BBC, photodiary.org, Google)

Sato goes looking for a Marine

gangster3

(Sato learns the victim’s ex-boyfriend is a U.S. Marine who is nowhere to be found. Sato knows it can take days to find someone in a city the size of Tokyo. He has a decision to make: go through official channels, or call a Navy investigator he has met in the past. – An excerpt from The Gangster’s Son).

Sato pulled a small leather business card holder from his coat pocket, opened it, and sighed.
His fingers knew almost by intuition which card to pull – Agent Michael Anderson, Navy
Investigative Service, Naval Forces Japan, Yokosuka Navy Base.
Mike Anderson had written his home phone number on the back of the card Sato now held.
At the time, Anderson said, “In case you ever need to call me. Any time, day or night.”
He had said those words four years earlier, when he met Sato on a case involving an
American sailor trying to buy marijuana on Roppongi’s main thoroughfare from another
foreigner the police happened to be tailing. Anderson seemed embarrassed for his countryman, and seemed to apologize for taking Sato away from more important duties.
“Call me if you need anything,” Anderson had repeated, “any time, day or night. This is my home number.”
Sato never did, not even the second time, when an American sailor was the cause of a
serious disturbance at a Roppongi nightclub that did not appreciate the presence of any
Westerners. That time, Anderson said he appreciated how Sato handled the case, keeping the sailor out of a Japanese jail cell, and repeated the offer: if there was ever anything he could do, just call.
Sato never understood the easy American attitude, “just call.” He preferred to keep police matters official. It was always much easier that way, in the long run. But that early Saturday morning, with a young woman dead and her GI boyfriend missing, Sato knew he had to do what Anderson said.
Just call.
He stared at the number.
Official channels would undoubtedly take too long.
Sato sighed, and dialed the number.
The sharp double ring of his bedside telephone blasted Mike Anderson into the here and
now. Before his mind caught up with his reflexes, he was sitting up, placing the phone to his ear, and saying “Hello?” It was not that he was still asleep; it was that he had never once in his time in Japan had his home telephone ring at 2 a.m.
But years of waking up alert and ready did not prepare him for what he was about to hear.
“Agent Anderson, this is Inspector Sato of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police. I am sorry to
bother you at this hour. I am investigating a murder. And I am looking for a Marine.”
Sato? Murder? Marine?
Anderson could not have been more surprised if Jesus Christ himself was on the phone.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Mike Anderson’s image of Sato quickly came to mind: competent, commanding bearing, but at that moment, unable to recall the last time he had spoken him. Anderson, a former Marine, was solid and squat as a fire hydrant, with a blond brush cut, deep-set blue eyes, and a low rumble for a voice.
“I know this should go through official channels,” Sato said, “but I need to talk to a Marine, a Lance Corporal Charlie Jones. I interviewed two other Marines who came up here. I let them return to their rooms at the Sanno. I don’t think I’m going to need to talk to them again, but this Jones was the victim’s boyfriend. Or former boyfriend. I need to find him.”
“A murder?” Anderson’s mind was slowly catching up to reality. While he listened to Sato, he turned on the light by his bed, found pants thrown over a chair, and tugged them on.
“Yes.”
“Do you know what unit he’s attached to?”
“The other Marines said the flagship.”
“Ah. Blue Ridge. And you said those Marines are on liberty? They aren’t AWOL or
something?”
Unsure of what Anderson meant, Sato said, “They are at the Sanno right now.”
“Okay.” Bending over a dresser drawer, fishing out socks and tugging them on, Anderson
said, “If they’re at the Sanno then they’re probably on liberty. I’m going to call the Officer of the Day and the Shore Patrol, get them looking for Jones, whoever he is. You think this Marine did it?”
Sato hesitated. “We have some clues to follow up on. But Jones left the scene. I’m not sure how it all fits together. I need to talk to him.”
“Damn little to go on there,” Anderson thought to himself as he tied his shoes. What would he tell the Marines? The base people? The admiral?
“Can you give me any idea what I’m dealing with here?” he asked.
“We’ve just begun the case,” Sato said. “We’re talking to everyone. Putting things together. It’s all preliminary. But I need to talk to that Marine.”
“Understood.”
Feeling more confident now that he was dressed, Anderson said, “I’ll call you the minute we find Jones. Charlie Jones, right? Flagship, right?”
Sato only knew what he had been told by Johnson and Ballard, so he said, “The other GIs
are called Johnson and Ballard. Both … black Americans.”
“Got it. Give me your number.”
Sato recited the station’s main number with scant hope of hearing from Anderson anytime soon, but now he was hours ahead of anything headquarters could do. With so many GIs in Tokyo, Sato calculated finding one would take at least one day, maybe two.
“Thanks for calling, Shig,” Anderson said.
“Thank you. Good-bye.”
Anderson stared at the phone, then sat back on the bed, replaying the conversation in his head.
“A Japanese cop calls in the middle of the night, needs to talk to a Marine. Pronto.”
Anderson thought this over. He knew Sato. He knew this was no quid pro quo, no “you help me, I help you.” Anderson had been an agent for fifteen years. His dad was a cop. Anderson knew all about trading favors. Japanese cops did not trade favors.
Anderson believed that what had just happened was something called on — at least, that was what he had read in some books before he came over. He had to be told it was pronounced own, like owning something, and sometimes it was called gimu, or giri. But he knew it meant obligation. Or duty. All the Japanese had it, and the sense of doing right by it, of being in someone’s debt for a kindness or a service. He knew it pervaded the whole country.
Anderson recalled that from the time a Japanese person is old enough to make sense of the world, this obligation ruled his life. It affected everything. He knew no Japanese person willingly brought on any more obligation than they had to, because they knew at some point, it had to be repaid. No favor was too big. No request was too small. It had to be repaid.
And Sato calling him in the middle of the night? Looking for a Marine? That had to be some big giri.
For the hundredth time since arriving in Japan, Anderson realized he would never make
sense of the Japanese.

To download a copy of my ebook mystery The Gangster’s Son click here,  and for a bonus novella, just click here.  

 

Today’s the day! The new Shig is out

After writing a Japan ex-pat novel a friend of mine told me the most interesting part of the story was a minor character,  a private investigator. I kept some of the other characters in the story. That’s how the Shig Sato mysteries were born.

Over the last four years I’ve had a blast writing the series. Book 3, Traitors & Lies, is available on Amazon today, December 16.

And two more books are set to come out in 2017! Nobody should be having this much fun.

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I invite you to enjoy Traitors & Lies – and discover the World of Shig Sato.

It’s fun for me. I hope they’re fun for you.

Merry Christmas!

Discover the World of Shig Sato. Tokyo Summer, a Shig Sato novella, is yours when you sign up for my mailing list. No strings attached. Just click

Are the Kobayashi twins in trouble again?

ss3new5smIf you’ve ever read a Shig Sato Mystery, you know the hapless Kobayashi twins can’t buy a break.

Will their luck change in Traitors & Lies? This is how it begins for them:

Sweat and grime was all Ishi and Joji Kobayashi had to show for their long hot weekend in an Osaki Police Station cell. Fatigue reduced their consciousness to a dim awareness, so that Monday morning in August, after an insurance fraud and murder case veered in another direction, the powers that were decided to get the twins out of the building. Startled awake by the “on your feet, on your feet” a bored police officer rattled keys and stomped his boots just to frighten to two rat-like creatures as they wiped sleep from their beady eyes.

“What?” Joji whined.

“You’re leaving,” the officer said, unable to muster any concern.

“What?” Ishi’s suspicion was of a practical nature. Being caught breaking and entering in a copier repair shop where a body lay dead, he was sure prison was in his future, not freedom.

“Get up and get out of here,” the officer said. “Go see the sergeant on your way out.”

The twins found their way to the Sergeant Hiro, plump and with a wise owl countenance. Hiro looked down at the boys over the top of his half-moon glasses. He knew the boys were held that weekend because they had broken into a copier repair shop where a dead man was discovered. The twins had no idea of what had happened and had pleaded their innocence until the interrogations stopped. But that had been on Saturday. This was Monday. Hiro saw the suspicion in their twitching eyes.

“Seems like you boys got lucky. Forensics decided you two had nothing to do with killing that copier repair shop guy,” Hiro said. “And you’re little breaking and entering escapade is being ignored …”

“Really?” Joji twitched, unable to believe his freedom was only a few feet past the station’s front door.

“… thanks to Inspector Sato. And the chief. So do the smart thing. Get out of Gotanda as fast as possible. And stay out of Gotanda.”

“But…” Joji began, but Ishi only said, “What day is it today?”

Hiro cast a worried glance at the boys. “Monday, August 19.”

Joji began to count on his fingers how many days they had been locked up. He lost count after two.

“Okay,” Ishi hissed as he grabbed his brother by the arm and followed a waiting officer out a back door of the station. A minute later, the twins were walking down Yamate-dori, free to go where they pleased.

“Something’s not right,” Joji said.

“They let us go,” Ishi replied.

“You think Katsuhara had anything to do with this?” Joji doubted getting out of jail for no good reason. What he doubted more was the benevolence of Fat Katsuhara, a top captain and right-hand man to yakuza kingpin Ses Fujimori. Katsuhara occasionally had the twins do small jobs. Usually it got the boys in jail.

“I hope not,” Ishi said. “I think we’re in trouble, maybe not with the cops, but with the fat man.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to go anywhere near the fat man.”

“What about going back to the garage?” Joji’s question worried Ishi. He knew that when a cop like Sergeant Hiro said stay out of Gotanda, he meant it. His brain ached from the thoughts invading his brain: No place to go. No money. No food. All of their belongings at their cousin’s machine shop and no way to get there except by foot. Hot, tired, hungry and thirsty, the twins faced a long walk to a place where they were sure they would not be welcome.

Despite the sergeant’s warning, the twins agreed only place they could think of to go was their cousin’s machine shop on the other side of Gotanda station. It was the last home they had, two cots off to the side of a greasy work area. Sure of Katsuhara’s fury if he caught sight of them or knew where they were hiding, the twins walked, talked, tried to think of how to stay out of trouble, but came up with nothing other than getting their bag of a few clothes and the bar of soap and they towel they shared.

Ishi said, “Lets go.” Joji fell into step by his side.

A dozen yards behind the twins, slow and steady, a white Toyota panel van followed the twins as they walked east side toward the Yamanote elevated commuter rail line. At a red light it sped to the corner, a door opened, a man jumped out, grabbed the twins, shoved them into the van, and as the van sped off as the door slid shut and the lock clicked.

When the twins overcame their bewilderment, they saw the faces of Katsuhara thugs, young men snarling under punch perms and willing to knife their prey without blinking. The twins had been assigned one thug each. The driver was equally fierce. But it was the man in the passenger seat that got the twins’ attention.

“You two have been busy.”

Ishi and Joji glanced up saw demonic black mane of Dragon Matsumura, nephew of a Fujimori captain and their nemesis from the days when Dragon recruited potential Fujimori foot soldiers from the bosozoku motorcycle gangs. Matsumura made sport of the likes of the Kobayashis. The twins both had the same thought at the same moment: “We’re dead.”

Matsumura had seen to it that no police were following the twins. He also was sure they only thing any onlooker would do after seeing to boys hustled into a van is stop, stare, and go on about their business. He was told the cops would let the twins go after realizing they were small fry not worth housing and feeding for another day, but then, the cops were liable to do anything. When a Fujimori contact at the station said the twins were being set free, Dragon got the word: Pick them up.

Joji, too nervous to speak, glanced at Ishi, who managed to say, “Where are we–”

“Shut up.”

Matsumura kept his eyes on the road.

The twins then recognized the driver. Shiro Nakano, a motorcycle gang delinquent who acted tough and wanted to prove it. The Kobayashi twins knew him from Kenbo’s motorcycle shop in Shinjuku, a teen gang hangout where the twins were treated like vermin.  

Joji and Ishi glanced at the back of Matsumura’s head, then at the rear-view mirror. Nakano’s fierce scowl unnerved them.

They clutched each other’s arms.

“You little shits. You can’t stay out of trouble for a day without fucking up big time,” Matsumura’s disdain spewing from his angry lips.

“We didn’t -”

“Shut up.”

Unable to see out a window, Ishi and Joji glanced at the floor, each other, Matsumura, and Nakano, their breathing quickening, their nerves fraying.

“You two are costing me a morning when I could be doing something else. Certainly not driving you around,” Matsumura snarled. “But I’m here to give you a message. Stay away from anything Fujimori. You have nothing to do with the Fujimori clan, the Fujimori name, nothing, nothing to do with Fujimori. Nothing. You do not say the name, you do not talk about anything you know, you think you might know. You don’t talk to anyone about anything you’ve said or done. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“I hear of anything, you’re dead. Fat Katsuhara hears anything, you’re twice as dead. No associates, no riding clubs, no one. You’re through. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Now get out.”

Joji’s minder opened the side panel door and the soon Joji and Ishi found themselves pushed to the ground in front of their cousin’s machine shop.

What little native intelligence the twins’ possessed had by now lead them to realize the men was not going to beat them.

“But…” Joji began.

“Don’t forget,” Matsumura said, his finger running across his throat. It was the last thing the twins saw before the van pulled away.

Picking themselves up and brushing themselves off, Ishi and Joji Kobayashi notice huge bay door into the machine shop is closed. Furtively looking about, they quickly walk along the side of the building to the back of the garage. They know the book door alarm latch had been broken and unrepaired the last time there were at the shop. Each wished it remained so.

As the peeked around the corner they saw the door shut. But the alarm still appeared broken.

“What are we going to do?” Joji asked.

“We have to try something, ” Ishi replied as he slowly crept to the door and turned the knob.

It opened.

With no alarm sounding.

The twins scampered into the shop as fast as they could, shut the door behind them and for the first time that morning, began to believe they were out of trouble.

Traitors & Lies
A Shig Sato Mystery
Look for it December 16
at Amazon
and other vendors Jan. 1

Discover the World of Shig Sato. Tokyo Summer, a Shig Sato novella, is yours when you sign up for my mailing list. No strings attached. Just click

 

Freebie Weekend – The Gangster’s Son : A body identified

CanvaJBpicAmazLogoThe Gangster’s Son and The Thief’s Mistake are free Labor Day Weekend – it’s a great way to discover the world of Shig Sato. Just click here and then once more – or twice!  – for your copies – yep – for free. And be sure to look out for Shig Sato No. 3, Traitors & Lies, debuting this fall.

Here’s an excerpt from Shig Sato Mystery Book :1 The Gangster’s Son

(The parents of Kimi Yamada learn of their daughter’s death and must go identify her body.)

gangster3Mysterious knocking ended Yosh and Miyako Yamada’s summer slumber. Even as they tightened their robes as if to protect themselves from what the two policemen were saying, a slow ballet of shock and grief stirred in their hearts as they tried to comprehend words like “dead” and “Kimi” and “Roppongi” and “a short time ago” and “can you identify the body right away?” Time shifted to a meaningless state, and they took no notice of their actions or their surroundings as they fell into hell.

Before they realized what they were doing, Kimi Yamada’s parents found themselves driving from their home in the western suburbs through dimly lit, unfamiliar streets, looking for the place where the police said they could find their daughter. Searching kept their minds occupied as an incomprehensible torment squeezed their souls.

Eventually they found the building they were directed to go to, the building caped in the dark of night, surrounded by harsh streetlights. They parked their modest sedan as close to the shiny glass doors as possible, and it took some time before the couple was aware that a tall man chewing a toothpick was standing by the large glass doors.

As they approached the doors the man opened one and held it open for them as he said, “My name is Kato. I’m a police officer. Please follow me.”

Without saying anything, the Yamadas meekly followed Kato to where the unthinkable would become real.

Kato watched Kimi Yamada’s parents arrive to identify the body of their daughter in the small hours of that Saturday morning in June. He saw life extinguished from their eyes, their bodies bent, hands shaking, the mother clinging to the father.

They dutifully followed Kato down a hallway no different from any other building in Tokyo, but in their minds the Yamadas were now capturing each step they took, frame by frame  like a torturous slow-motion moving picture. They tried to will time to stop long enough for them to flee their fate, but no matter how hard they tried, they found themselves in that horrible place, following the tall man.

“Is she here?” Mrs. Yamada whispered as they walked down a corridor.

“Yes.”

“Did she –”

“Come with me,” was all Kato said.

The silence became unbearable.

“She’s such a good girl,” Mr. Yamada whispered. “She’s such a good student. She plays the piano.”

“Yes,” Kato said.

“She is our only child,” the father whispered. “She never gives us any trouble.”

“Until she took that job…” the mother began, but fell silent.

“She speaks English. She wants to …” but words failed the father.

Kato said nothing as his solid footsteps pounded a beat on the linoleum under the Yamada’s hesitant shuffle, a miserable rhythm filling the corridor, punctuating the stillness sad government buildings inhabit.

The inevitable turned out to be quite simple: Kato pulled back the sheet covering Kimi Yamada’s face. Her parents took one horrible look and their mournful tears affirmed her identification.

Kato asked his question anyway.

“Is this Kimi Yamada?”

“Yes,” the father croaked, fighting a new wave of grief, but resolved not to look away.

“Her face,” her mother screamed in a hollow voice with no volume, no depth. “Did that man do that?”

“Which man?” Kato asked as he gently covered Kimi and led the pair to standard, hard plastic chairs meant for anything but comfort.

“The black foreigner,” the mother said, ashamed that she had to say the words out loud.

“We’re looking at everything, checking every fact,” Kato replied, wondering how the inspector was getting along with that.

The mother brushed back a strand of her hair, but kept her eyes on the floor, shame and anger in her words. “We insisted she break things off with that, that soldier. We insisted! I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with this!”

“We’re looking into it.”

“He’s an American, just a common soldier,” she said, giving way to fresh anger. “She deserved better than him! She deserved better than …” But her grief swallowed her whole, and she dissolved into her husband’s arms.

“Mr. Yamada?”

The man looked at Kato.

“Do you have someplace you can go, other than your home?”

“What?”

“Do you have someplace you can stay for a few days? Other than your home?”

“Why?”

“Sometime soon, reporters and photographers will find out who you are and where you live, and you don’t need that kind of bother right now. Do you have a relative or friend you can stay with for a few days?”

“I don’t know …”

“Mr. Yamada, your daughter was killed by someone. We’re working the case. Eventually people will find out that it was your daughter who was killed, and then they will come looking for you for a comment. Do you want that?”

“No!” Mrs. Yamada sat up, fierce and determined. “The jackals. Why can’t they leave us alone?”

“I have a sister …” Mr. Yamada began.

Kato said, “I suggest you go there, straight from here, and stay there for a day or two. Let things play out.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Mr. Yamada asked.

Kato knew if the GI did have something to do with the murder, pandemonium would fall on everyone, especially the Yamadas. Kato wanted them one step ahead of the television crews and newspaper photographers.

But all he said was, “Sometimes, things can only be made worse for you two at a time like this. Please don’t say anything to the press or anyone else until we have a chance to check our facts and find a suspect. I promise to call you when we have made an arrest. Okay?”

“Yes, yes,” the father said wearily. “We’ll go to my sister’s place. In Chiba.” As he wiped his tears, he said, “We have to make arrangements …”

Kato wrote down the several phone numbers the Yamadas recited. Then he escorted them out of the morgue and watched as they walked the way people do when leaving a terrible place. The woman’s last words to him rested uneasily on his mind.

“Find that man. He killed my Kimi.”

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