Keigo Higashino: Malice

“And nothing suggests that might’ve happened?”

“Well”—Detective Kaga smiled, showing white teeth—“if anyone had cased the place, they’d have realized there was very little left in that house worth stealing.”

My mouth opened in a perfect O . Detective Makimura was smiling slightly.

“Personally…,” Detective Kaga began, then stopped as though hesitant to say more. He started over. “I think it was someone who knew him.”

“Well, that’s troubling.”

“Just between you and me.” He raised a single finger to his lips.

“Of course.” I nodded.

He glanced at Detective Makimura. The junior detective then picked up the check, stood up, and headed over to the cash register.

“Oh, no, I’ll get it.”

“No need.” Detective Kaga held out a hand to stop me. “We were the ones who invited you out after all.”

“But they don’t pay for your meals, do they?”

“No, not for dinner, unfortunately.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No worries.”

“Still.” I looked over at the cash register. Detective Makimura was paying.

Something about what he was doing was strange. He was talking to the woman at the cash register. She glanced over in my direction, then turned back to Makimura and said something.

“Sorry,” Detective Kaga said without even glancing toward the cash register. He was staring directly at me and his expression hadn’t changed. “We’re just checking your alibi.”

“My alibi?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “We already checked with Mr. Oshima, your editor at Dojisha Publishing. But we have to corroborate as many details as we can. That’s just how we do things. I hope you understand.”

“Is that why you wanted to come here?”

“If we didn’t come at the same time of day, there might be a different person working the register on that shift.”

“I see,” I said, deeply impressed.

Detective Makimura returned. Kaga nodded to him. “They overcharge us for anything?”

“Not a thing.”

“That’s good for a change,” Kaga said, looking toward me, his eyes narrowing in the suggestion of a smile.

When I told him I was keeping a record of the last couple of days, Detective Kaga was interested in seeing it. We’d already left the restaurant and were walking back toward my apartment. If I hadn’t said anything, we would probably have parted ways there.

“I figured I wouldn’t have another experience like this in my life, so I should probably write it down. I think it’s just part of being an author.”

The detective thought about that for a while, then said, “I wonder if you’d let me read your account?”

“Read it? You? I don’t know. I never wrote it with the intention of having someone read it….”

“Please.” He bowed his head to me. Next to him, Detective Makimura did the same.

“Enough of that. What will people think when they see two policemen bowing to me by the side of the road? Besides, I’ve already told you everything.”

“I’d still like to see it.”

“Well, if you insist.” I scratched my head. “Can you come up to the apartment? I have it all in a file on my word processor, so you’ll have to wait while I print it out.”

“Not a problem,” Kaga said.

The two detectives accompanied me up to my apartment. As I was printing out the manuscript, Detective Kaga came and looked over my shoulder. “You use a word processor?”

“I do.”

“I noticed that Mr. Hidaka was using a regular computer.”

“Well, he uses it for other things besides writing. E-mail, games, all kinds of things.”

“You don’t use a computer, Mr. Nonoguchi?”

“A word processor’s enough for me.”

“And how do you deliver your manuscripts to the publisher? Do they come and pick them up?”

“No, usually I send them by fax. Right over there.” I pointed to the fax machine sitting in the corner of my room. I only had one phone line so my cordless phone was attached to the fax.

“But your editor did come over yesterday to pick up your manuscript.” Kaga looked up. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought I saw a keen gleam in his eyes. I remembered what Detective Kaga said about Hidaka’s killer having known him.

“There were a bunch of things we needed to talk about in person, so I asked him to make a special trip out to see me yesterday.”

Kaga listened to my response in silence, nodding, but said nothing more.

When the printout was finished, I handed it to him, saying, “Actually, there was one thing I haven’t told you yet.”

“Really?” Detective Kaga didn’t look particularly surprised.

“You’ll see once you’ve read this. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case, and I didn’t want to cast suspicion on a stranger.”

What I was talking about, of course, was Hidaka and the cat.

“I understand. I know that happens.” Detective Kaga thanked me profusely, and the two detectives headed out.

Well now.

I began writing today’s entry right after Kaga and his companion left. The continuation of what I handed to them, that is. I know he might want to read this, too, but I will try not to dwell on that as I write. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Two days have passed since Hidaka’s murder. The funeral took place at a Buddhist temple several kilometers from the house. A throng of publishing-industry people were in attendance, and the line to offer incense was long.

The TV crews were there as well. While the reporters were wearing their serious faces, they were, like snakes hunting, looking around for any dramatic scenes. If any of the mourners even looked as if they might be in danger of tearing up, the cameras would be on them in a flash.

After I had offered my incense, I stood by the reception tent, watching the mourners as they arrived. There were a few celebrities. I recognized some actors who had played some of Hidaka’s characters in the movies made from his novels.

A reading of scriptures and a brief talk by the head priest followed the offering of incense. Rie was wearing a black suit, prayer beads clutched in her hand. When the priest was done, she stepped forward and thanked the others for coming, then spoke about her enduring affection for her husband. I heard some sniffling in the otherwise quiet crowd.

Not once in Rie’s talk did she mention or express any hatred toward the killer. To me, that was a surer sign of her wrath and sadness than any other.

The coffin was carried out, and as the mourners began to shuffle home, I noticed someone I’d been expecting to see. She was walking alone.

I called out as she left the temple, “Miss Fujio?”

Miyako Fujio stopped and turned, her long hair whipping around. “You are…?”

“We met in Hidaka’s office the other day.”

“I remember.”

“My name is Nonoguchi, I’m Hidaka’s friend. And I was a classmate of your brother’s.”

“So I heard. Hidaka told me after you left.”

“I was wondering if we could talk? Do you have time?”

She looked down at her watch, then off into the distance. “Someone’s waiting for me.”

I followed her eyes. A light green van was parked along the side of the road. The young man sitting in the driver’s seat was looking in our direction.

“Your husband?”

“No, not that.”

Then, her lover, I assumed.

“We can just talk here. There’s a few things I wanted to ask you.”

“Like what?”

“I wanted to know what you talked about with Hidaka that day.”

“What we always talked about. Recalling as many of the books as possible, admitting his wrongdoing in public, and rewriting the story so it had nothing to do with my brother. I had heard he was leaving for Canada and wanted to know exactly how he was going to show his sincere apologies once he’d left.”