Dale Furutani - Death in Little Tokyo

“And this office?”

“The office is part of a mystery that I’m setting up for the next puzzle. I’ve only had it for a week.”

“Are you a licensed detective, Mr. Tanaka?”

“No, I’m not. As I’ve been explaining to you, this whole setup is part of a club I’m with.”

“Are you aware that to be a licensed detective in the state of California, a person is required to have two thousand hours of experience as a detective with a police force or a law firm?” Hansen finished circling the office, and sat down at the edge of the desk. I decided he was an officious ass.

“No, I didn’t. Look, if I’m in any trouble because of the sign on the window. .”

“Do you know a Mr. Matsuda, Mr. Tanaka?” Hansen didn’t let me finish. I almost smiled at the familiar ploy. Except for the very real uniformed officer blocking the doorway, it could be part of an L.A. Mystery Club puzzle.

“I actually know several Matsudas. It’s a common Japanese name.”

“Mr. . excuse me,” Hansen reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, “Mr. Susumu Matsuda of Tokyo, Japan.”

“I met Mr. Matsuda last night, but I can’t say that I really know him.”

Hansen pulled out two folded sheets of paper from his jacket pocket, and handed them over to me. I unfolded them and looked at the sheets. They were photocopies of my detective business card, both the front and the back.

“Is that your business card?” Hansen asked.

“It’s one I had made up for the mystery puzzle. It goes along with the office.”

“Is that your handwriting on the receipt on the back of the business card?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Can you tell me what kind of package you received?”

“I don’t honestly know. I picked up the package for a client and that was my only contact with Mr. Matsuda. I couldn’t have spent three minutes in his room.”

“A client?”

I sighed. I was beginning to feel very flustered. “A woman stopped by yesterday and apparently made the same mistake you did. She thought I was a real detective. She asked me to go to Matsuda’s room and pick up a package for her.”

“His room?”

“I visited him at the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel. He’s a guest there.”

“When was this visit?”

“Last night.”

“What time last night?”

“I don’t know. I suppose a little bit after eight.”

“And you only stayed there a few minutes.”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Matsuda alone?”

“As a matter of fact, he wasn’t. There was a woman in the room with him.”

“A woman?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you happen to learn her name?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Was she there to pick something up, too?”

I shrugged. “I’d say she was there on quite different business, if you understand what I mean.”

“No, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“I believe she was a prostitute.”

“What would make you suspect that she was a prostitute?”

“Some of the statements she made and the way she acted and looked.”

“And you claim that this was the first time you met Mr. Matsuda?”

“That’s right.”

I knew what Hansen was doing. It was a cat and mouse game that I had played on more than one occasion myself in solving mystery weekend puzzles. Except in those circumstances I was usually the cat, and the person I was talking to was the mouse.

What made me the cat was knowledge-knowledge about the crime. When I did it, what I was trying to do in my questioning of the mouse was to draw some additional piece of knowledge or some statement that would connect the mouse to the crime.

It’s amazing how strong the need to confess is in people. Sometimes, but not always, the cat and mouse game would lead the mouse to blurt out some confession. The confession might be only a half-truth, without the mouse actually saying he or she was guilty. But it was from those half-truths that a bridge could be built, piece by piece, between the crime and the person suspected of committing the crime.

I wondered what the crime was that Hansen was investigating, and although I thought it might be better to show patience until Hansen finally told me, I couldn’t help myself and asked, “Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Earlier this morning Mr. Matsuda was found dead in his room.”

There was a long silence. I was flabbergasted and for a confused moment I wished this was actually still part of some elaborate hoax arranged by some other member of the L.A. Mystery Club. Finally, Hansen said, “You don’t seem very surprised.”

“Actually, I’m stunned.” Maybe I was hypersensitive, but I felt Hansen was doing the “inscrutable Asian” bit with his remark. It riled me. Now it was my chance to let the silence linger.

Hansen finally broke the silence by saying, “Did someone see you enter or leave Mr. Matsuda’s room?”

“I asked the desk clerk about a house phone when I entered the hotel. The woman with Mr. Matsuda saw me leave. I don’t know if any of the other hotel personnel saw me leave the hotel.”

“How did you spend the evening after you saw Mr. Matsuda?”

“Went home, took a bath, read, and went to sleep.”

“Any witnesses to that? You didn’t see anybody or meet anybody later that evening?”

“No. I was alone.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Tanaka?”

“Silver Lake, near Dodger stadium.”

“Do you have a car?” In Los Angeles, this was almost a given. Hansen was making a statement more than asking a question.

“Yes, I do.”

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“In the lot that’s about a block and a half from here.”

“Do you mind if we look it over?”

“For what?”

“We’d just like to look it over.”

To see if they can find any clues, I thought.

“And my apartment?”

“Yes. That would be nice if we could get your address and permission to look it over.”

I got scared. And with fear came anger. “You can look over anything you can get a warrant for.”

“That’s not being very cooperative.”

“I don’t have to be cooperative. It might not be in my best interest to be cooperative.”

“Something to hide?”

“I believe you’re the one who’s been hiding things, or at least not telling me exactly what happened to Matsuda. So far you’ve told me he’s dead. You’ve been interested in my whereabouts later last evening, even though I’ve admitted that I saw him. And you want to check out my car and maybe my apartment. What happened up there?”

“Mr. Matsuda was murdered. Very brutally murdered. In fact, he was more than murdered, he was totally dismembered; hacked to pieces. Our preliminary estimation is that it occurred at about one or two A.M., and it was such a brutal murder that whoever did it must have been covered with blood when he left the hotel. That’s why I think it might be advisable to look over your car and possibly your apartment. In fact, since you’re the first person we’ve come across who saw him last night, I think I’d like to ask you to come down to the station to make a statement.”

Hansen sat in a small room directly opposite me. Between us was a metal table covered with linoleum. At one corner of the table there was the microphone of a tape recorder, positioned unobtrusively. On Hansen’s side of the table was a large manila envelope. It had been a long afternoon.

“All right,” Hansen said. “Let’s go through your story one more time.”

He had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. The bright light from the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling framed his head and highlighted the fact that he was starting to go bald. The closely cropped hair had a definite shiny spot at the back of his head. Hansen had combed his remaining hair forward and to one side to help camouflage the receding hairline at the temples. His face was broad, with a wide chin. The scars of an adolescent problem with acne still pitted his cheeks.