“If you want to get hold of me, please call me at work,” Shigeru said, heading for the front door. “I have instructed my secretary to put your calls through to me. Yurie will worry, so I don't want to take this matter home. Please understand that.”
“Take it home? But this is your home!” Yoshio yelled, unable to contain himself.
Shigeru stopped in his tracks, and threw back over his shoulder, “No, it isn't,” and went out, firmly closing the door behind him without a sound.
Yoshio was left standing in the kitchen. He held on to the edge of the sink with both hands and closed his eyes. The backs of his lids flickered red with fury, and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Then another sound cut in. His brain, stiff with rage, tried to shut it out, but the sound was persistent and continued on and on, asserting its existence. He opened his eyes. The sound was echoing around the living room. He didn't know where it was coming from, but something in the corner was flashing. A lamp the same color as the rage that had flickered behind his eyelids a moment ago was blinking on and off.
It was the phone. Yoshio hurried out of the kitchen. When he picked up the receiver, the persistent ringing stopped, but he couldn't hear anything on the other end of the line. “Hello?” he said, holding the receiver close to his ear.
There was a distant sound of music playing. It was a slow melody, one that Yoshio was unfamiliar with, and the lyrics sounded like English. What the heck was this? “Hello? Who's calling?” he asked.
The music stopped. There was a rustling sound as if the unknown caller on the other end of the line had shifted his grip on the receiver.
“Is this Mariko Furukawa's residence?”
Yoshio held the receiver away from his ear and looked at it. Was it a friend of Mariko's? There was a strange timbre to the caller's voice. It sounded like the synthesized voice on an ATM─Thank-you-for-bank-ing-with-us.
“Hello?” Yoshio said again. “Sorry, but who's calling?”
“It's Mariko Furukawa's home, isn't it?” the machine-like voice said again. “Although she's not there now. It must be, what, three months now?”
Yoshio looked at the receiver again. This time he drew his eyebrows together and his forehead creased into a frown. A prank call, he thought. Sakaki had warned him, when an incident like Okawa Park was reported on TV, there were often prank calls and hate calls made to relatives of the victim.
“I don't know who you are, but it's nothing to joke about,” Yoshio raised his voice and said firmly. “Don't go making trouble for people.”
He was about to hang up, when he heard the odd, machine-like voice on the other end laugh loudly, and his hand stopped.
“Don't be so dismissive, old man,” the voice said. “I called specifically because I wanted to talk to someone in the Furukawa household. If you're rude, I'll hang up. Have you got that?” Then the voice continued petulantly, “Just when I was going to let you know where to find Mariko.”
Yoshio stiffened. Hurriedly he held the receiver close to his ear. “What? What did you say?”
“By the way, old man, who are you? Who am I talking to?”
“I'd like to know the same.”
“That's confidential. Con-fi-den-tial.” The voice screeched with laughter. “And you're being rude, old man. Before asking someone else's name, you should first identify yourself.
“I-I …” Yoshio hesitated, feeling both impatient and agitated. “I'm Mariko's grandfather.”
“Ah, her Grandpa. Now I remember. You have a tofu shop, right? I saw it on TV. I bet you got more customers after it was on all those gossip shows. Everyone must have been curious.”
“Do you know where Mariko is? Where is she?”
“Now, now, don't be in such a hurry. I'll get to that once I know you a bit better.”
The line crackled, as if he'd repositioned the receiver, or shifted in his seat. Then a click. A lighter, Yoshio realized. The bastard had lit a cigarette, totally at ease. What did he want? But he couldn't hang up. It was probably a prank call, but there was a chance it wasn't. Until he could tell, he would have to keep listening.
“Gramps, you still there?”
“Yeah, I'm here.”
Yoshio was thinking as hard as he could. What would be the best way of talking to him? Should he be bullish and high-handed? Or polite and humble? What would be the best way of seeing through this guy's real intentions?
“But it's tough on you, too, isn't it Gramps?” the voice went on leisurely. “Mariko isn't there, and her mom is in the hospital. Does that mean you're looking after their house all the time?”
“I drop by now and then.”
“Of course, you have your business to attend to as well.”
The voice was odd, but it wasn't completely synthesized like a cash machine, Yoshio decided. Those didn't have this kind of inflection or tone. It was like on TV when they disguised the voice to protect the identity of a person being interviewed. He recalled that time someone had called the TV station after the Okawa Park incident using a voice changer. The media was still out on whether that guy had been the culprit or just a trouble-making opportunist. Yoshio had heard the tape played back a number of times on the TV, but he couldn't tell whether this was the same voice or not. But in any case, he thought this caller was also using a voice changer. There was no doubt in his mind on that point.
“I don't suppose you're the same guy who made that call to the TV, are you?”
The caller raised his voice, as if impressed. “Well I never! You can tell? You're a smart cookie, Gramps!” So he'd readily admitted it. “Yep, that was me, too. Calling from the very same phone.”
“You've done something to your voice. I suppose you're using a machine.”
“That's because I'm using a voice changer. They said as much on TV, didn't they? You're quite something, Gramps, knowing about voice changers at your age.”
Yoshio knew he was being teased, but he made a supreme effort to control his temper. He mustn't get angry. Least of all now. “Do you really know anything about Mariko?”
“Why do you ask?” the voice said, laughing. “You think I'm just some troublemaker?”
“I never said that. I can't possibly know either way.”
“Is that so? So whatever I say, you're not going to believe me? That's a real pity.”
Yoshio said hurriedly, “Not at all. There's quite a few things I want you to tell me. You do know something about Mariko, don't you?”
“I guess I do. But Gramps, how unfeeling you are!”
“Unfeeling?”
“You're all Mariko this, Mariko that─but what about the woman whose arm was found in Okawa Park, aren't you worried about her? It wasn't Mariko's, which means that something terrible has happened to another woman too. At least one other woman. Doesn't that bother you at all?”
Yoshio squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to let his agitation show in his voice. His heart was beating so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. His free hand balled tightly into a fist. He wanted to beat the crap out of this smooth-talking bully. If he could, he'd go down the phone to the other end of the line and twist his neck, twist it off─
“Hello? You still there, Gramps? You've gone all quiet. Doing a bit of soul-searching, are we?”
“Of course I'm bothered about the other woman,” Yoshio said quietly. “She too must have a family that is so worried about her they can't sleep at night. I'm just as concerned about her as I am about Mariko.”
“You're lying,” the voice said sharply. “That's a barefaced lie. How can you be just as worried about some other woman as you are about your own granddaughter?”
Just who was this bigmouth?
“I don't like liars,” the voice said for good measure, but his amused tone was at odds with what he was saying. He was enjoying himself.
Yoshio forced h
imself to stay calm. “If someone in your family went missing, you'd understand how we're feeling. You'd feel in your bones just how much those of us left behind are suffering, just how desolate we are. This isn't something that can be explained in words, you know. I can't say it very well. But I can't get either Mariko or that other woman out of my mind even for a moment. If I could change places with them I would. I really would.”
The caller was quiet for a moment, then, no longer laughing, he said, “You really want to help Mariko that much, Gramps?” For the first time he hadn't said Mariko's name in a mocking tone.
“Yes, I do. I want her to come home as soon as possible. If … if she's already dead, I want to know where her body is so we can bring her back to her mother.”
“So you think Mariko's already dead?”
“Isn't that what you told the TV station? That Mariko's buried somewhere else.”
“I did.” There was a chuckle. “But how do you know I'm telling the truth? That might be a lie.”
“Yeah. I don't know whether you're telling the truth or not. As you yourself said before, I don't even know whether you really have anything to do with either Mariko or that other woman's case.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Will you tell me?”
“I'll give you a hint. But not for free.”
So it was money─was that what he was after? “How much?”
There was a loud screeching laugh. “Oh man, that's so old-fashioned. Your generation, you all grew up in poverty and all you can ever think of now is money. Isn't that right, Gramps?”
“Well, what then?”
The caller paused, as if thinking. But that was just a pose, thought Yoshio. He had probably already anticipated this and had already decided what to demand. When he started talking again, it was in the brisk tones of conducting a business deal.
“I'll call the TV station again. Or maybe I'll choose a different station this time. I shouldn't show favoritism.”
He seemed to think he was something of a celebrity, Yoshio thought.
“And this is what I'll tell them. They should feature Mariko Furukawa's grandfather on tonight's news, live of course, and make him to get down on his hands and knees and beg for Mariko to be returned to him.”
Yoshio gripped the receiver without saying anything.
“Oh? You don't want to get down on your hands and knees?”
“I'll do it. No problem, as long as you keep your promise to return Mariko.”
“Trust me.”
“I want to trust you. But what grounds are there for that trust? Can't you give me any proof that you really know where Mariko is?”
Yoshio had intended this as opening negotiations, but the caller just chuckled. “You're pretty shrewd, aren't you, Gramps? You're not dumb. I'm beginning to like you. Okay, I'll take you up on it” he paused, then murmured “Hmm, what would be the best way to go about this …” He sounded childishly excited as if making plans for a picnic. “Maybe Shinjuku.”
“Shinjuku?”
“Stop being so edgy─I'm trying to think.”
Yoshio kept quiet. He glanced at the clock on the living-room wall. 5 PM. It was still light outside. He could hear the sounds of traffic and people. Here in the living room, in contrast, it was semi-dark and absolutely quiet.
Suddenly he wondered whether the light was on in the room the guy was sitting in─it must be a guy, surely. What sort of room was it? Considering the fact that he'd heard music playing in the background at the beginning of the call, he must have a stereo or a radio. A telephone─and since he was smoking, an ashtray. Or maybe he was using an empty beer or coke can as an ashtray?
A neat little room in a condo, or perhaps a shabby old apartment? Or perhaps in a proper house? When he went downstairs to the kitchen, he might find his mother in the middle of making dinner. From the way he spoke, he sounded quite young, so it was possible. That was a long call, his mother might say to him. Yep, I was talking to a friend, he'd reply. He might be living quite normally, looking calm and innocuous, showing no signs of what he was actually up to. Did he work in an office? Or was he a student? As things were right now, Yoshio could get on the same train and sit right next to him with no clue as to who he was. He didn't know what he looked like, and he hadn't even heard his real voice. Oh, how he wished he could squeeze himself down the phone line!
“Okay, let's do it like this,” the caller said.
Yoshio started.
“The Plaza Hotel in Shinjuku. It's one of the towers outside the west exit. Do you know it?
“If it's a big hotel, it should be easy to find once I get there.”
“I wonder if it'll do … don't go there wearing your slip-on sandals, Gramps, now will you? They'll just kick you out.”
“All right.”
“I'll leave a message for you at the front desk. It'll take a bit of preparation, so … let's say 7 PM. Come to the hotel at seven. It's pointless coming any earlier, and if I see you hanging around there I won't leave the message. So be punctual. The message will tell you what to do next.”
“Is that all?”
“If I tell you too much at once, you won't remember it Gramps. So I'm being kind to you. Oh, and a bit of advice: make sure you come on your own. If you bring the police with you, the deal's off.” He snickered, and then added, “I hope you don't get lost in Shinjuku, Gramps. Watch out for pickpockets. Good luck!”
And with that, he abruptly hung up. Calling back was impossible. Yoshio stared at the receiver in his hand, now emitting an impersonal dial tone. It suddenly felt cold and unpleasantly reptilian.
Shinjuku Plaza Hotel was a skyscraper about a five-minute taxi ride from the station's west exit. Yoshio heeded the caller's advice, and was wearing a jacket over his polo shirt and smart leather shoes. Even so, the sight of him rushing precipitously across the vast and somewhat overly gaudy gold and platinum foyer drew stares.
It was exactly seven o'clock, and he was alone. Yoshio had followed the caller's instructions to the letter. He still wasn't sure he was doing the right thing, though. He had dithered so much that he felt anxiety might burn a hole in the pit of his stomach. Should he contact Sakaki and inform the investigation team? He had picked up the phone several times to do so. But if it was just a malicious prank, he would be wasting police time. Plus, if the caller was genuine, not following the instructions would make him break his promise. Yoshio's biggest fear, though, was that if Mariko was still alive and he angered the caller, he might end up killing her.
He had been tempted to go earlier and stake out the lobby to see if he could get a glimpse of the guy. But then he probably knew what Yoshio looked like and had already said that if he saw him hanging around he wouldn't deliver the message─what if that hadn't been an idle threat? It could mean that Yoshio had signed Mariko's death sentence. However vexing, then, he felt he had no choice but to do as the caller had said. There was no room for maneuver.
When he reached the wide, solid-wood counter, he addressed the nearest uniformed person, “Um, excuse me, but someone was supposed to leave a letter addressed to me here.”
The receptionist, a young man with a kind face and downward sloping eyes, appeared unperturbed by Yoshio's agitated appearance and replied brightly, “Sure. May I ask your name?”
“Yoshio Arima.”
“Mr. Arima,” the man repeated, flicking through some cards in a compartment under the counter. “Mr. Yoshio Arima, right?” he said, looking up at Yoshio again. Having received confirmation, he pulled out an envelope and said, “Here it is.”
Yoshio almost snatched it from him, his hand trembling. It was a lined white envelope, nothing special. The words “To Yoshio Arima” were printed on it, in typeface. There was no sender's name, and the flap had been stuck down with glue and sealed with a big red heart. Yoshio tried to open it right there and then, b
ut his hands were shaking and sweaty and he couldn't get a grip on it. The flap was so firmly stuck down it was almost as if it was deliberately spiteful.
The hotel receptionist seemed to be unable to bear watching him, and said, “Perhaps some scissors might help?”
“Thank you. May I borrow some?”
Fighting shortness of breath and a feeling of dizziness, Yoshio cut open the envelope with the silver scissors. Inside was a single sheet of notepaper folded in fourths. He took it out. At the center of the white ruled notepaper was printed, again using a word processor, “Wait in the hotel bar. I'll contact you at 8 PM.” Yoshio read it through twice. After reading it for a third time, he looked up at the receptionist.
“What floor is the bar on?”
“Our main bar, Oración, is on the top floor, the twenty-fourth.”
“Where's the elevator?”
“There's a direct elevator down there on the right, just past the cloakroom.”
Yoshio was about to head for it, when he remembered something important, and turned back to the receptionist. “Do you happen to remember the person who brought this note?”
“I beg your pardon?” asked the receptionist. “Do you mean the person who delivered it to the reception desk?”
“Yes, yes,” Yoshio said, nodding. “What time it arrived, what the person who brought it looked like. I think it was probably a young man, but I'm not sure.”
The young man's mild face looked somber. “Please wait a moment. I'll have to find out who on our staff took delivery of it.”
“Thank you.” Yoshio bowed, banging his forehead, with its receding hairline, loudly on the counter. A woman receptionist working at a computer terminal off to the side couldn't repress a giggle. She was about the same age as Mariko. When she noticed Yoshio looking at her, she wiped the smirk off her face and averted her eyes. As he stood leaning against the end of the counter, several guests came up to the desk to collect their keys or fill out a form and have a porter take their luggage up to their rooms. A businessman in an expensive suit, a young woman in a colorful dress. When he looked out over the lobby, he saw people chatting animatedly and men sitting back in the armchairs smoking, briefcases on the floor by their feet. The lounge at the other end of the lobby had its lights dimmed and candles on the tables, with guests relaxing here and there listening to the piano performance that had just started.