Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

He glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening and most of the desks were still manned or their occupants supposedly doing something policelike in the field. We are nuts, he decided. We Japanese are a completely nutty nation. We should be out enjoying ourselves instead of working ourselves even nuttier. I should be in bed with Chifune enjoying long slow sex – perhaps something slightly kinky – instead of being impaled on a swivel chair in my office with my eyes gritty and my clothing sweaty and rumpled, waiting for my Inspector- san to pull a huge rabbit – or maybe something more interesting – out of his parcel.

The parcel was rectangular and vaguely coffinlike in shape, though taller. "I assume, Inspector- san," said Adachi, "that there is a woman inside that container and that you will shortly cut her in half. You have that showman's look. Well, proceed: given the pace of progress around here, we are all in sore need of entertainment."

Inspector Fujiwara took the cue. He stretched his arms out like a magician winding up a crowd, then turned and tipped the wrapping material off the object. A nineteenth-century kurama nagamochi stood revealed. The heavy wooden chest, reinforced with iron corner pieces, was customarily used for storing bedding and kimono.

"Nice piece," said Adachi. "It has wheels, by the way – little round things at the bottom." He looked at the sweating detectives. "Why didn't you – Tokyo MPD's finest – push the bloody chest?"

"Forensics wrapped the wheels too, boss," said Fujiwara. "They do that kind of thing. They thought it would look neater. Anyway, we wanted to make it a surprise. You've been looking gloomy recently."

"Oh," said Adachi. He did not quite know whether to feel flattered or deflated. He did feel curious.

"Miwako Chiba," said Inspector Fujiwara. "A damned attractive woman in her early fifties. Slim figure, distinguished face, great eyes, lots of sex appeal. Looks great – could be twenty years younger."

"Is she in the box?" said Adachi. "Not that I want to pry."

"She lives out in Takanawa," said Fujiwara. "Nice house, two tatami rooms and the rest modern. Plenty of money there – not really big money, but comfortable. A settled look to the situation."

"Is there a Mr. Chiba?" said Adachi. He was beginning to understand.

"No," said Fujiwara.

"Little Chibas?" said Adachi.

"No," said Fujiwara. "None recorded and none that I noticed."

"Ah!" said Adachi. "What does she do?"

"Has a bar in Rippongi," said Fujiwara, "but someone else manages it. Chiba- san is a lady of leisure."

"Whose mistress or ex-mistress?" said Adachi. The pattern was predictable. A great deal of police work was about patterns.

"She is out of a job these days," said Fujiwara, "whatever their relationship."

"Hodama, the old goat," said Adachi. "Whatever he took, I'd like to have some. By all accounts, he was fucking someone or something steadily until he was broiled. Eighty-four years of age and still at it. He was a credit to our culture."

"Hodama," agreed Fujiwara.

Adachi had remembered how tired he was. He leaned forward. "Inspector- san," he said politely. "Would you be so kind as to tell me what is in that fucking box?"

"The kind of thing you would leave with someone you trusted," said Fujiwara, "if you were a prick like Hodama. Mementos of negotiations, secret conversations, and the like."

"Grrr…" said Adachi. "It's too late. I'm too tired. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Tapes," said Fujiwara hastily. "Just like President Nixon. Tapes."

" Banzai! " said Adachi. A thought struck him. Magnetic evidence was prone to vanish into the ether. It was not nice and physical, like paper of bloodstains. One quick pass with a powerful magnet and tape recordings were history. "Have you checked them? Is there anything on them?"

"Relax, boss," said Fujiwara. "This is really something."

The Chief Prosecutor always dressed well but conservatively.

He favored the unostentatious gray look, reflected Adachi; the guise of the silver fox. The focus tended to be on his face and, in particular, on his eyes. Day in, day out, for decades, those eyes read the souls of men. When the prosecutor stared intently at you, you just knew that it was pointless to lie. You were aware you could not hide. You understood immediately that he did not really need to ask. It was not merely that he could read your mind: He knew.

Smoke and mirrors, thought Adachi. Did a trick of nature slant you in one particular direction because you looked the part, or did the look follow the occupation? Either way, the success of so much that you did was so often slanted toward how you looked when you did it.

That evening the prosecutor was dressed for a function. He looked different, less like a dedicated public servant and more like a public figure; perhaps a minister or a leading businessman. The dark-blue silk suit was of Italian cut. The white shirt gleamed like a soap-powder ad. The tie was a discreet hand-painted design. The tassled black shoes had a sheen reflecting dedication bordering on obsession.

Did Mrs. Prosecutor graft away with the polishing attachment on her Makita drill, or did Mr. Prosecutor burnish his own shoes? Somehow, Adachi regarded the latter scenario as unlikely. People's personal habits were interesting in what they revealed.

He found the way the prosecutor was dressed that evening unsettling. It did not seem to reflect the man he thought he knew. Well, he was tired. Notions tended to introduce themselves when blood sugar was low.

The tape came to an end. "There were over two hundred tapes in a fireproof safe inside Chiba- san 's blanket chest," said Adachi, "all neatly labeled and cross-indexed. There are some prominent names mentioned on the tapes. The most interesting tape is the one you just played. The quality is not good, but the content is compelling."

"The two speakers are Hodama himself" said the prosecutor, "and Fumio Namaka."

Adachi nodded in agreement. "Both names are mentioned in the course of the conversation, and we have already obtained separate confirmation. Hodama's reedy voice is quite distinctive. Namaka's is also clear enough. No one else seemed to be present."

"So here we have Hodama saying he is withdrawing support for the Namakas," said the prosecutor, "and giving as his reasons the financial weakness of the Namaka keiretsu and their links with Yaibo. Hodama, despite their long association, cannot afford scandal and to go down with a sinking ship."

"That's how it sounds," said Adachi. "It is a thirty-five minute discussion. The go over the points several times, the way one does I that kind of conversation. The message is very clear. The Namakas are going to be ditched by their kuromaku – with deep regret and despite their long association."

"Are these tapes genuine?" asked the prosecutor.

"Our technical boys say they are," said Adachi slowly. "But that's a judgment, not certainty. Tape is tricky, but they have put twenty of the two hundred tapes through state-of-the-art equipment and the results indicate the genuine article. Also, they pointed out there is too much here to fake. It would be a massive job. So, best assessment is: the tapes are genuine."

Despite his words, Adachi was uneasy about the tapes. Tape was a reliable enough medium if you used it yourself and kept the evidence chain intact, but where a third party was involved he was cautious. There were all kinds of electronic tricks you could play these days. Also, the fact that some tapes were genuine did not mean all were. The sheer number of tapes would tend to suggest authenticity, but what better place, when you thought about it, to hide a couple of fakes. He resolved to check the tapes further with a speech analyst. But that would take time. Meanwhile, they would have to go with what they had.