"Angels With Two Faces", Chapter Three
Title: Angels With Two Faces
Chapter: 3/??
Fandom: Arashi
Character, Pairing(s): none
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence and language
Summary: "I'm Kazu Ninomiya. I'm 26 years old, and I'm here to catch a murderer. Let me tell you about Los Angeles."
I don't know exactly what I was expecting to find out in California; answers, maybe. Something easy, a case cut and dried. It was pretty obvious that it was anything but, and was rapidly growing into something even more.
Matsumoto and me met with Sakurai and Aiba to go over what we'd gotten from the up and personals, but it wasn't much. Crazed killer not only stole the hearts of his victims, but also knew how to cover his own damn tracks. Wasn't anything to work off of other than six men steeped in corruption that stank like gang money- and can't charge men on that alone, not when you're dealing with two cold bodies in the morgue.
Even the high and mighty ones, they were still as bad as all the rest, maybe worse; worse cause they thought they were better. At least I know my vices. Killing stops being a crime when you've got a shiny badge in your pocket and Hoover backing your tracks.
I'm supposed to be good at this.
But ain't much to work off of, and even what we have is fuzzy and circumstantial at best. I don't like being unable to crack the case, and I like it even less when I got some detective as my partner with a permanent stick up his ass. I don't care about being liked, I care about getting the job done. Boys at the North Hollywood station are more concerned with jurisdiction lines and red tape, how they all fit into the grand scheme of things, and whether or not they can get their name on the report at the end of the day.
These days I just wanna wipe Matsumoto's smug look off his face completely- show him how DC runs.
I'm too frustrated to really enjoy Los Angeles, if it had anything to tempt me into doing so anyway. I take to coming back early to my room after lengthy discussions in the Lieutenant’s office. Ain't gonna catch a killer by talking him into confessing... but what else is there to do?
--
Nino woke to the telephone on the bedside table ringing obnoxiously loud. It startled him- for a few seconds, he stared up at the ceiling, rapidly blinking sleep from his eyes. It took several long seconds to decipher what the irritatingly high-pitched buzzing noise was.
He dropped the headset trying to grapple it from the cradle, and fumbled to retrieve it. "Hello?"
"Agent Ninomiya?" It wasn't a voice he recognized. "This is Yamashita at the North Hollywood station."
"What is it?" Nino asked, sitting upright. He ran a hand through the strands of his hair, sticking up in every direction.
There was a crackle of static over the line. "I was told to call you, there's been another incident."
Incident- he didn't mean incident. He meant there was another body, and the homicide team had been unable to stop the killer from striking again. The floorboards were cool when Nino's bare feet hit them, and he started pulling on his slacks even as Yamashita continued talking. "Matsumoto is on his way to pick you up outside your motel."
"I'll be waiting," Nino said, and practically slammed the receiver back down. His blood was pumping fire through his body; they'd lost. They had failed to track down the killer, and he'd struck again right under their noses. It tasted like bitter liquor on the back of his tongue, clogging his throat.
Matsumoto was quiet when the car pulled up outside the dimly lit exterior of the motel and Nino slid into the passenger seat. The sergeant didn't say anything, but his fingers were wrapped tightly around the wheel, so tight his knuckles were whitening.
Nino waited a few minutes, until they'd started moving through the darkened streets, before speaking. "What is it?"
"Another body," came Matsumoto's terse answer.
"Jesus," Nino sighed. He'd known, but the hot coals in his stomach flared up when he actually heard the words out loud. "Do we know it's connected?"
A moment of silence. "Can only assume it's why we were called."
Neither said anything else until Matsumoto pulled the car off Lankershim Boulevard and into a deserted parking lot. It took Nino a moment to identify where they were- he didn't know the area, but they'd been driving through the business district for the last few minutes. There was a darkened marquee and the lights above it- El Portal Theatre. Matsumoto pulled the car through to the back, near the far corner of the building, where another squad car was already parked.
"Inside?" Nino asked, stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
"No."
He followed Matsumoto round the building and into the alley behind the theater's building. There were two officers there already; both perked when they caught sight of the two approaching. And behind them, there was a car parked in the shadows.
Nino knew before anyone said anything.
"Where is it?" Matsumoto asked.
The taller of the two officers gestured towards the parked vehicle. "Passenger side."
Nino didn't have a flashlight, but the officer nearest him did, and he pulled the light from the man's hands as he rounded the back bumper of the car. His stomach was a mass of knots and he had to swallow the rest of them down, turning the light of the beam into the window. It caught the side of the man's face, illuminating the pale cheekbones.
His eyes were closed- thank god for that, at least. But there were splatters of crimson against the ivory, and Nino let the flashlight trail down the front of the man's shirt.
The shirt- which, from the sleeves, Nino could determine had once been pristine and white- was soaked with dark blood, and the front was torn completely from the edge of the knife used. It was so dark and mangled that Nino couldn't make out the specifics, but he didn't really need them; he knew what he'd see. A gaping hole in the man's ribcage, the splinters of crushed bone, and the hole where his beating heart had once been.
"Dammit," he swore, moving the flashlight aside to check the man's legs and hands, resting in his lap. There wasn't a sign of struggle- nothing was broken, like he'd kicked out, and there were no claw marks in the fabric of the seat from his fingernails.
But he was seated in the passenger seat, indicating that he hadn't been driving last.
"Who is he?" Matsumoto asked, over Nino's shoulder. He hadn't even heard the man approach. Nino reached in through the window, gingerly grappling for the side of the body's trousers. There was a wallet there. He got a hold of one corner and pulled it tree, and his hand came back smeared with red all the same.
He handed it off, and didn't watch as Matsumoto flipped through the contents. "Ryo Nishikido. There's an identification card from Pollard-Ho Chevrolet Company- he must work there."
"Nishikido?" one of the officers asked, loitering near the back bumper. "Name sounds familiar."
Nino frowned down at the body. "He been in trouble?"
"We can ask the Lieutenant," Matsumoto murmured. "If he has been..."
The sergeant's voice trailed off, but Nino knew where his train of thought was going. "If so, it follows the same pattern. Low-lifes being targeted."
"What do you make of it?"
Honestly? There wasn't enough; there wasn't nearly enough to make any sort of coherent connection between them other than the gaping holes in their chests. But at least bits and pieces were starting to collide in a way that just might give them something to work with. "Vigilante, I'd wager. Some concerned citizen taking things into his own hands, thinking these boys deserved to die."
"No sign of a struggle," Matsumoto commented. He was sharp, then, and had picked it up as well.
"Could mean they all knew the killer, too," Nino said. "Somebody who worked with all three- maybe a leader of some sort. The big name in charge, pulling the strings."
Matsumoto glanced back at the officers behind them. Nino couldn't read his expression. "Think they were all involved in the same thing? A gang?"
Either it was somebody thinkin' the boys had deserved to die, or somebody in charge taking them out before they could name him. Nino shut the flashlight off and stepped back from the car.
"Let's see what Dr. Ohno says."
Matsumoto nodded towards the officers. "Get this body into the morgue."
Nino stared down at the tires of the car, at the way they lined up straight with the building next to it. It was a deliberate parking job.
"Wasn't killed here," he said, out loud, without really thinking about it. "Somebody drove him here- drove his own car here and left it."
"Why here?" Matsumoto asked.
Nino made a little growl in the back of his throat, fingers pressing at the sides of his temples. "Don't know."
It was frustrating. Nino rounded the car again and slapped the flashlight back into the officer's hand he'd stolen it from.
The biting sting of blood followed him back to Matsumoto's squad car.
--
They had three now. Three bodies, mangled and cut up just the same. And all three were less than upstanding citizens of Los Angeles county. It was a pattern, and he could say it with certainty now - North Hollywood homicide definitely had a serial case to deal with. But how the hell would they keep it out of the press?
The other two bodies had been found in quieter areas of the city, but this time their killer got cocky. Leaving Nishikido in his own car and dropping him behind a movie palace like a nicely wrapped Christmas present for the police. Didn’t matter how much wrong a man had done - nobody deserved that sort of undignified end. Nobody deserved to get stabbed like that. Nobody deserved to get their heart taken like a prize. Not in this day and age.
It had been a quiet ride back to the North Hollywood station. Nino could almost read Jun’s mind - not something he suspected many could do. Aiba was an open book with his smiles and his frowns. Sakurai wore his heart on his sleeve, letting his temper let anyone in a five mile radius know what he was feeling. But Matsumoto kept it all in his eyes - and Nino knew that Matsumoto’s own look was mirrored in his own face.
He was furious. He was frustrated. And he was afraid.
They stood in the squad room while Dr. Ohno completed his initial look over the body. The doctor had been hauled out of bed, too. He’d grumbled when he came in - not about the lateness of the hour, but that he hadn’t been called to take a look at the crime scene. Instead, Nishikido’s body had been pulled out of the car and brought to the morgue while the man’s vehicle was still at the scene.
They were going to see if they could get some fingerprints off of the steering wheel, the door handles inside and out. But with all the blood, it was not going to be a fun or fruitful search, Nino suspected. Additionally, if the killer went to the trouble of cutting out the hearts of three different men, he was probably smart enough to not leave something so incriminating behind.
What Nino didn’t yet understand was the timing. Matsuoka had been the first, then Yokoyama a few days later. But it was nearly two weeks into the new year now - their killer had bided his time on this one. If he was just a madman, he’d go on a spree. This was measured out. He was taking his time between kills, and this whole deal with the car was just taunting the police, wasn’t it?
How the hell did he choose his targets? The first two had made him think vigilante. Someone with a beef against the various corrupt groups out here. Nishikido as a third body definitely fit this kind of m.o. As soon as he and Matsumoto got back, Sakurai had blabbed about the guy.
One of Kusanagi’s boys. He and Aiba had just been out to interview the guy the other day - both detectives had seen Nishikido at the guy’s compound in the Hollywood Hills. Kusanagi fancied himself a man of business, owning several packing plants southeast of downtown. But that was just a front for his regular dealings. The guy had been up to no good since Prohibition, letting underlings in his employ take the fall for him for nearly a decade while he continued to live large. Nishikido had been one of his patsies - running one of Kusanagi’s offices by day and doing God knows what by night.
Sakurai was at his desk, rubbing his temples again. Luckily he hadn’t been drinking tonight. His frustration was filling the room in waves. “We were just there, Masaki,” he was complaining to Detective Aiba. “Just saw that guy.”
“Would have probably arrested him sooner or later,” Aiba remarked.
Sakurai rolled his eyes. “Probably. But nobody deserves that.”
“You think Kusanagi’s behind it? He wouldn’t be stupid enough to off one of his own guys right after you spoke to him,” Jun said, pouring out coffee for all of them. Nobody was going home to sleep any time soon.
“Or maybe he’s confident enough to think we wouldn’t think he’d be that stupid. So he did do it because we would think it was too obvious.”
Everyone turned with a weary, confused glare at Aiba.
The detective dropped his eyes down to his coffee mug. “Never mind.”
“Well, until he has a damn good alibi,” Sho announced, “Kusanagi’s staying on our suspect list.” The board still had all their main suspects pinned up.
But which of them wanted justice, their skewed vision of justice, so badly they’d kill three men and take their hearts? Oguri had been a snake but would he be that brutal? Would Mizushima take a break from chasing young starlet tail to carve a man up? What about Watanabe? Nakai? The mayor?
Dr. Ohno appeared in the doorway, waving for them to come along. “Not like it’s a surprise, but our victim died from stab wounds and blood loss.”
“Same methods?” Jun asked wearily.
Ohno nodded. “The way the wounds were, he was probably sitting up in the car seat for at least the first blow. But this one...this one fought a bit. Got a few cuts on his hands and forearms.”
“Trying to block the knife,” Sakurai muttered.
“So he was in his car?” Nino wondered. “Guy was in the car with him?”
“Not at that angle, no. My guess, and this is just a guess based on my preliminary examination mind you, is that our killer was outside, stabbing Nishikido through the open window of the car.”
“Nice night,” Aiba remarked. “Fine for driving with the window rolled down.”
“But would you roll down a window for someone with a knife?” Jun asked him.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” Sho said. “Which means Nishikido knew the guy, at least enough to roll down his window. Okay, can we assume, Doctor, that Nishikido was parked somewhere, met up with our killer, got cut up and took a one-way drive to the alley behind the El Portal?”
Ohno nodded. “That’s a safe bet. You said he was found in the passenger side seat, so the killer did his worst, drove him there, and probably made the final blow at the scene, removing the heart. I’ll have to continue my examinations to see if Nishikido was still alive and bleeding when the heart was taken...”
Everyone looked disgusted. After stabbing the man multiple times, the killer had the presence of mind to operate the vehicle. Of course, there was no way of knowing where Nishikido had been parked or how far the killer drove the car. That particular alley in North Hollywood was the final destination. But why?
“Why the El Portal?” he inquired. “Why go through that trouble? If he’s just a vigilante trying to raise a fuss, trying to tell us in his twisted way that these three men needed to be taken out, why drop them all in our backyard?”
The five of them looked up, eyeing each other nervously.
“Maybe he’s trying to send a message,” Jun answered. “To the department.”
“Or,” Nino said, stomach twisting, “to one of us specifically.”
--
The sun rose without any more leads, even as they sat round Sakurai's desk with papers everywhere. Even Ohno had stuck around to lend what he could into the deliberation, but it wasn't like any of them had much to go on. Nino's eyes felt itchy, like there was sand within the corners, and it just added to the pounding headache he was already developing.
"The connection is here," Nino said, drawing his finger across the paper's taped to the wall. "But we don't know why."
His finger stopped on Shun Oguri's face, tacked to the wall and slightly askew. Brow furrowed, he tapped the pad of his finger against the photograph a few times. There was something there- something at the back of his head that he knew.
"Monday," he said, aloud.
"Was yesterday," Sakurai finished. He sounded weary.
Nino waved him silent, trying to grasp the thought that was twirling around. It was on the tip of his tongue, just beyond his ears; there was something he should be remembering, buried amidst endless discussion of motive and unhelpful suspect interrogations. "No," he said, tapping against the picture again. "No, there's something."
"You mean the significance to the time between murders?" Matsumoto asked. "Or the day itself?"
"Monday nights," Nino said. "Monday nights at the lounge- Shun said they had amateur shows put on. It was a long-standing thing."
Ohno chewed on his thumbnail, face expressionless as he stared at the suspect-lined wall. "So?"
"So why would a lounge owner not attend his own establishment's biggest night?"
There was a second of silence, and Nino let his fingers close around Shun Oguri's picture. With a quick jab, he ripped it from the wall, paper tearing around the pin. He stared at the smirking face for only a moment longer before balling it up between his palms.
Aiba bit his bottom lip in thought, watching Nino throw the crumpled paper into the trash bin near Sakurai's desk. "We don't know he was there."
"Ask," Nino said. "He was. I guarantee he was."
"So that's one less," Matsumoto said. Nino turned back towards the wall. The place where Shun's picture had been was splintering off the connections, the web that enveloped all of them. But there was still nothing that tied them in with the three dead men-
Nino growled in the back of his throat, whirling. "I need some air."
What he needed was a cigarette, and he lit up one as soon as his feet hit the walk outside. It was nice to be outside in the dead of winter and only feel the slight chill against his arms; he might not care for California or its city of mislead "angels", but there was something pleasing about not feeling the crunch of snow and ice beneath his soles.
The door opened and closed behind him. "Got a light?"
Wordlessly, he handed the lighter back, keeping his hand out for when Matsumoto was done with it. They stood side by side for a few minutes, staring down at the street and the cars passing by the front of the station.
"Didn't want to see this," Matsumoto grumbled.
"See what?" Nino asked, taking another drag. "Three bodies with holes in their chests?"
"A killer like this in North Hollywood."
Nino had seen a lot of killers; seen his fair share of everything, really. He'd seen blood stains so soaked into carpet that they couldn't be washed clean, seen wallpaper streaked with remnants of a gun fight. Hell, half the time, he was the one causing all of the carnage in the first place. Sometimes it didn't sit well- but that was only when he chose to dwell on it.
He glanced over at his partner, at the lithe fingers curled around the lit cigarette. "Got killers everywhere- why should this place be any different?"
"Just-" Matsumoto seemed at a loss for words. He shrugged, and flicked his butt into the wood chips. "Just thought it would be better here."
What was 'better' like, anyway? Roads paved with gold? Every Oklahoma farm girl who thought she could be an actress getting a big break? All the police working on routine violations with pretty, definite features like Matsumoto?
Nino's fingers were itching to move, to fly across ivory. He needed something to help him think, and the tobacco wasn't doing anything to help. His head was spinning, buzzing in his ears.
"Ain't," he said, finally.
"No," Matsumoto agreed. "Really ain't."
It wasn't that hot out; wasn't hot at all, when had it gotten so warm. Nino ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. It didn't help.
"Just need to talk to people again," he mumbled. "Gotta find enough to crack them with."
"Can we?"
Failing wasn't an option. Failure was never an option. Failure was for two-bit detectives who couldn't run a private practice in an alleyway. But dammit, he was frustrated. It was coiling in his stomach and making his chest ache. He was better than this- murders didn't happen under his nose while he was working on the very same case.
"There has to be something," he said. "Something we're missing."
But he couldn't see anything in the web, in the sticky tendrils uniting the photographs on the wall, and he didn't like what that meant.
"Let's just get back to work," he sighed.
Ohno was not in the office when they went back in; had a date with some worms, it seemed, and some trout to snap them up. But Sakurai and Aiba were there; the lieutenant poring over the chicken scratch covered papers coating the surface of his desk, and the corporal mixing another cup of coffee.
"Here," Aiba said, setting it down by Sakurai's elbow. "It should be right- I think I've gotten the exact amount of sugar you like down."
Sakurai made a little noise of affirmation. "Thanks."
It was barely noticeable, but when Sakurai didn't glance at the cup again, something in Aiba's face fell- just a bit, just a fraction of a change. Matsumoto brushed past Nino's shoulder, and stood in front of the suspect wall once more with his fingers resting on his chin and his eyebrows pinched.
"The movie Mizushima is doing," Matsumoto started, slowly, "who is in it?"
Aiba shrugged. "That guy who is hot right now, I think. The one who does all the action movies."
"And Erika Toda," Nino added.
Sakurai looked up from his desk full of papers, brightening. "I love her. She's beautiful."
This didn't seem to help Matsumoto, who just frowned further and shook his head. "Does it have a lot of night scenes?"
"Haven't a clue," Nino said.
"I think we just need to talk to everyone again," Matsumoto said. "See if anyone has an alibi that holds up for last night."
"And if they don't?" Nino asked. "We still don't have anything to get them on. Not without evidence."
Sakurai sighed. "Or a confession."
Fat chance of that happening. Not with three bodies to convict on and three missing hearts. No trails, no tracks, nothing left behind at the scene- killer was smart. Killer was good.
Nino was better.
He just needed to figure out where the uniting thread was.
--
There’d be no appointments this time. Not with a third desecrated body - and according to Dr. Ohno’s best guesses, Nishikido had still been breathing when the final blow to the middle of his chest had come. Nino shuddered at the thought of that final strike, knowing that after that some psychopath was digging inside you for a heart that had just completed its last beat.
He was running without sleep, Matsumoto too. But they were wired, enough coffee to power an entire building full of businessmen. The El Portal job had been too well done - there were folks from the Herald-Express and the Examiner ringing Lieutenant Sakurai’s telephone off the hook. Was this a third body in North Hollywood? Was there a serial killer on the loose? Just how were these things related?
Nino certainly didn’t envy Sho’s job right then. That left Aiba to visit Oguri’s club and some of his lowlife friends to confirm that Shun had in fact been at his establishment the night before. Narrowing down their suspect list would help, but he wondered if it would make much difference. He and Matsumoto were on Mulholland Drive, en route to Kusanagi’s place.
They hadn’t met him yet - Sakurai had said he was just as slippery as their other suspects. Nino wondered if another brick wall awaited them as Matsumoto worked the car around another curve. “There, there’s the turnoff,” he pointed, and Jun nodded, turning to head down Nichols Canyon Road.
Kusanagi’s home was immaculate, settled back down a winding drive lined with trees. If Nino was at all interested in real estate, it was a nice place to hide and relax. There were several cars parked in the driveway. He wondered how many belonged to the boss’ staff and how many belonged to the boss himself.
He and Jun parked next to an Aston Martin Kusanagi had obviously had imported from England. The man clearly had a good deal of money. They rang the doorbell, trying to stay focused. But it was hard to do so when surrounded by wealth and luxury. He was tired - surely Kusanagi had a couch or twenty he could curl up on.
A maid answered the door but was quickly shuffled aside by a tall man with a glowering look. “Mr. Kusanagi’s not seeing visitors today.”
He flashed his badge, holding it a little higher than Jun held his own badge. He knew he’d get snapped at later, but he was feeling a bit cranky and assertive. “FBI, my friend here’s LAPD. Mr. Kusanagi is in fact seeing visitors,” he informed the man. “He’s seeing them right now or we go get ourselves an arrest warrant so we can take him into custody.”
The man glared some more but stepped aside. “He’s having a swim. If you gentlemen will follow me.”
Nino set his badge back in his pocket, already catching Jun’s grumpy face as they followed the henchman to the pool. Sure, henchman was one of those dramatic words they used in cheesy detective stories, but this guy fit the usual description. Paranoid, overprotective of the boss, a perfect grouchy face. “Didn’t catch your name,” Jun asked.
“Tamaki.”
“And what is it you do for Mr. Kusanagi?” Nino continued as they walked across marble floors, past exquisite vases and ornate chandeliers.
“Lawyer.”
Interesting.
“What kind of business are you and Mr. Kusanagi completing today, considering that one of your employer’s associates was brutally murdered last night?” Jun asked, and Tamaki stopped right before they reached the door at the rear of the building. “Mr. Kusanagi is aware of Mr. Ryo Nishikido’s death, isn’t he?”
“Passing strange that he’d have his lawyer over here right now. Mighty suspicious if you ask me,” Nino continued.
Tamaki turned, offering a rather wicked smile. “Mr. Kusanagi is more than aware of the unfortunate passing of his associate. I’m only here today to discuss some contracts. He is a busy man after all.”
Nino smiled back. “I’m sure he’s real torn up about Mr. Nishikido.”
The lawyer raised an eyebrow and opened the door, leading them out to a patio. The grounds were well-tended with several exotic species of flowers in beds just at the pool’s edge. The whole yard was lined with trees, keeping out the peeping eyes of neighbors or enemies.
Jun walked up to the edge of the pool, and Nino frowned as they saw a tall, lithe body doing laps. In the nude. Tamaki didn’t seem to find this strange at all, merely retrieving a bathrobe from one of the deck chairs. “Mr. Kusanagi. Some gentlemen to see you. FBI and LAPD.”
The man completed another full lap before heading for the pool’s ladder. He stretched, letting water drip from his form, and Nino and Jun looked away. It was only about 60 degrees out. “Little cold for some skinny dipping, sir,” Matsumoto muttered.
“I find it refreshing.” He was still not taking the offered bathrobe from his lawyer’s hands. “Good morning. You must be more of Lieutenant Sakurai’s crew. Knew you’d try to poke your nose in my business again.”
“If you could put some clothes on, Mr. Kusanagi, we can keep this short,” Nino remarked, trying to focus on a fern at the opposite end of the swimming pool.
“Something wrong with being naked in my own home?” Kusanagi asked, finally taking the robe and wrapping himself in it. He settled himself in one of the poolside chairs. “You here about poor Ryo? They here about Ryo, Hiroshi?”
Tamaki nodded. “That was my understanding.”
“It was on the radio this morning. Found behind the El Portal in his car,” Kusanagi continued, almost daring them to accuse him.
But what made Nino take a breath was the fact that the press not only knew about the murder, but they’d released the victim’s name so quickly. Maybe Sho was buying time - letting some information trickle out to keep their big problem under wraps for a bit longer.
“And when was the last time you saw Mr. Nishikido?” Jun inquired, getting out a small notepad and examining the man shrewdly.
“Yesterday afternoon. About 4 PM. He was over here to discuss business.”
“What sort of business?”
Kusanagi smiled. “Just business.”
“Did you argue about anything yesterday?” Nino interrupted, deciding to see if he could push him a bit.
The man considered it, remaining perfectly calm. “No. No, I’d say that Ryo was one of my best associates. Wouldn’t have left him in charge of one of my enterprises if I didn’t trust him fully.”
“Where were you last night? Were you in North Hollywood near the El Portal Theater?” Jun inquired.
He grinned while Tamaki stood behind him, face blank. “How stupid do you think I am, officers?”
“Not sure, Mr. Kusanagi. How stupid are you?” Nino fired back, keeping his voice steady.
The man immediately scowled, and Tamaki held onto his shoulder to keep him from launching himself out of the deck chair. “Keep pressing your luck. I was at a club last night.”
“Which one?” Jun pressed.
“Small jazz bar in Burbank. The Hat Trick.”
“So you were in the area,” Nino pointed out, and Kusanagi had murder in his eyes now. But was it the kind of murder that included driving a man’s car with his corpse in it? The kind where you’d stab him and take his heart?
“Wasn’t in North Hollywood. Wasn’t at the El Portal.”
“Can anyone verify that you were at The Hat Trick? If we went over there right now, would they corroborate what you’ve just told a detective from the Los Angeles police and a federal agent?” Nino continued.
Kusanagi scowled. “It was late. Smoky. Dark.”
It seemed the both of them were going on the offensive. Jun smiled, the million dollar Hollywood smile. “Surely one of your companions from the club could help you out. What escort service was it?”
The man was out of his chair then, and before Nino could stop him, Matsumoto was in the pool, and Tamaki was physically restraining his employer. “I didn’t kill Ryo!” Kusanagi was screaming. “I would never kill him!”
Jun’s head popped out of the water, and he spat and coughed. “I’ll have you for assault, Kusanagi.” Nino had to admit that the image of Jun completely soaking wet in the pool was comical, but he probably deserved it.
“He provoked him. Your friend provoked him, Agent,” Tamaki was saying, still holding Kusanagi back. “He’s just lost a friend, you know.”
Nino did nothing to help Jun from the pool, only jotting down a few scribbles on his own notepad, just to keep Kusanagi’s tension high. The guy probably wasn’t their man - sure, he was easily angered. He could have delivered a killing blow, but he was too well-known, too visible. All their suspects were.
“That’s enough for now, Mr. Kusanagi,” he finished, sticking the pad and pen back in the inside pocket of his trenchcoat. Jun’s hat had flown off with Kusanagi’s push, and it was on the pool deck, the only part of Matsumoto’s clothes that weren’t sopping wet. He picked it up and walked on ahead, hearing Jun’s squelching footsteps behind him.
“He didn’t do it,” Jun grumbled as they made it back to the car.
Nino tossed Jun the hat and got into the vehicle. “Probably not.” He looked over and stared at Jun for a few seconds before bursting into hysterical laughter, unable to contain it any longer.
“Shut up,” Jun said, turning the car on.
“What escort service?” Nino repeated, laughing at the other man in the car, his hair plastered to his head in long, dark, soaking wet strands. “That was golden. Escort service.” He slapped his knee, nearly snorting in his enjoyment. “That was golden, Jun.”
Matsumoto headed back down the winding drive to the main road. He shivered a bit - he had to change before they moved on to interview Nakai from the radio. Jun allowed a small smile to cross his face. “Yeah, that was pretty good, huh?”
--
Matsumoto parked the car outside of his apartment building, and his clothing left wet indentations on the seats when he slid out.
"I'll just be five," he said, with a scowl down at his still dripping pant legs. Nino couldn't really blame him- they couldn't waltz in to question Nakai with one half of their investigative party soaked to the bone. He didn't feel much like sitting in the car waiting for the detective to get into something dry, but he also didn't feel like following the man upstairs. He loitered in the foyer instead, glancing over the mailboxes at the far corner and scoffing at the potted plant with drooping leaves near the main door.
From the cobwebs in the corner and the bits of dust that were embedded in the carpet leading to the stairwell, he could wager a guess that the landlord didn't give too much thought to cleaning the premises. It was probably a larger venture- a man with half a dozen or more buildings to maintain. Nino let his hands run over the back of a chair a few inches out from the wall. Not someone overly obsessed with appearances- just getting the rent each month.
He was about to turn around again and head back out to the car when he saw it in the corner.
It was nothing to write home about; it was no concert grand, not even a Sohmer & Co small grand. It looked like it hadn't been dusted in months, tucked away against the two adjoined walls like a way to keep it out of sight. The wood on the cabinet was nicked and banged like it had been moved several times by careless hands. But when he opened up the cover and let his fingers run over the ivory, it felt just the same.
He sat on the bench without thinking.
It was terribly out of tune, and the sustain pedal was sticking so bad that he only got it to work with every other tap from his toes, but the notes trickled out from the strings anyway. It had been awhile since he'd last played. His fingers felt a bit stiff, but not unused to the motion. The vibrations from the back pushed the instrument into the wall it was resting just in front of, buzzing some of the picture frames against the chipping paint.
His fingers flew over the keys, just like the connecting webs of the case flew out from each person and intertwined with all the others. Indistinguishable, hopelessly entangled-
He shifted his left hand down, then back. C sharp's ebony stuck, and he had to hit it again with his pinky to unstick it.
What was the significance of the hearts? Was it a matter of life-force, a show of force- a signal of power, maybe, as if the killer was holding their bleeding souls in his hand?
He pressed against the keys harder, swelling the mezzo-forte. His right fingers tapped out the moving chords, the triplet formation of his hand shifting further up the board.
Or was it a way to show off? Was the killer doing that to laugh in the detective's faces? Was he taking the organs because he could, because no one was stopping him?
Was the deliberate carving of the victim's chests the killer's own presto agitato? The splatters of blood felt like they could be the arpeggios, the accented chords. Every sforzando he hit felt like the dying gasps of the men they'd found opened and bled like suckling pigs.
By the end, his arms were trembling. As his fingers tapped out the last few notes and his foot depressed the sustain pedal, he stared at the keys like they would give him the answers he sought. Sometimes they did- sometimes the chords mirrored the threads of the case.
He took in a deep, shaky breath, palms resting on the bottom rim of the keyboard.
"What was that?"
He'd been so caught up in the song that he hadn't even noticed Matsumoto creeping up behind him. Nino struggled to right himself again, slowly pulling away from the emotion of the notes. "Mozart. Sonata No. 14."
"I didn't know you played."
There was a lot of things that Matsumoto didn't know about him, and what was the point of going about changing that now? The man was standing close behind him, a bit to his right, and Matsumoto leaned forward to tap one of the keys Nino had just been playing. The sound reverberated through the cabinet.
He got the barest whiff of cologne, whatever the detective had put on when changing into fresh clothes.
"Don't much," he said, keeping his gaze on the end of the lower octave of white and black. "Not anymore."
There was a moment of silence, and then Matsumoto pulled back again. "You're good."
"Thanks," Nino whispered, throat dry.
"I always wanted to play."
With those fingers, he would have been amazing. "Why didn't you?"
"Never had the opportunity," Matsumoto said. "Why did you become an agent instead of a musician?"
Because bloodstains can't always be washed out of rugs and shirts. Because some stains stay forever in the back of one's mind and eat away there, festering, growing potent and angry and ever-stronger. Because there is no justice unless the individual takes control in doling it out. Just like the keys in front of him, motionless and silent under his gaze, the world was in shades of black and white. It was a matter of choice which hue to end up on.
"Just did," he replied.
He turned, wishing to leave, to get moving again- the stop had cost them time, and now it was costing him control. But Matsumoto was frowning, adjusting the buttons on his cuffs. "No one goes into a line like this just because, not with talent elsewhere."
When had it turned into an introspective? He just wanted to get back on the case again. "Some do."
"What was it?" Matsumoto asked. His face had gotten serious- it was the look he wore when he was staring at the pictures of the suspects pinned to the wall. The look of concentration, where he bit his lower lip a little bit and squinted just slightly.
"What?"
"What happened that made you chose this?" the detective asked.
Nino's insides were roiling. "Let it go, Matsumoto. Just leave it be."
"Was something, though, wasn't it?" Wasn't a detective for nothing- he could see right through the thin bits of a shield Nino was trying to put back into place. Damn piano. He'd lost himself in the music, alright, and now he was paying for it all over again.
"Just let it go," he begged.
"Was it something or someone-"
"Just leave it be, Jun!" Nino shouted. It was louder than any of the sforzandos he'd banged out earlier, lingering in the corners of the lobby like a sick joke. Los Angeles was a sick joke, right down to the name of the crime-infested city limits. Matsumoto leveled him with a long stare, and then nodded, just once.
Life was a sick joke, sometimes. He didn't need to be reminded.
"Let's just go," he said, near a whisper, already moving past Matsumoto's shoulder and towards the front entrance once more.
He got to the car first, and the other man didn't say anything until he'd put the key in to start the ignition, and then he paused, fingers curled over the steering wheel.
"You know, Kazu," Matsumoto said, slowly. "If you ever..."
"Yeah," Nino said thickly. "I know."
The weirdest part was that he did.
--
He’d let too much slip, let down too many of his defenses in front of Matsumoto. Nino stared out the car window, watching the palm trees blur. The keys had been familiar once more under his fingertips. Playing had once been fun, a way to burn off stress by banging on the keys. Now all it did was help him clear away all the unnecessary garbage in his mind and let him focus on the shadows that lurked both on the streets of the east and west coasts alike.
And Matsumoto had seen it, taken something that he’d wanted to keep as his own. He’d let him see it - let him see how each note that had echoed in the hallway of Jun’s apartment was more than just Mozart to him. Nino almost wanted to get something in exchange, find some chink in Jun’s armor so they’d be on even ground again.
The radio station was in Hollywood, south of where they’d spent the morning trying to get Kusanagi to budge. “Mr. Nakai’s on the air right now,” the woman at the front desk complained as they barely flashed their badges and headed for the broadcast booth.
“We won’t interrupt anything,” Jun called back over his shoulder. He turned back and adjusted his hat. “Unless we want to,” he whispered.
Nino smirked, pulling out his note pad. There were a few water drops staining the paper from the incident with Kusanagi’s pool, and he cleared his throat before the funny image of Jun soaking wet from head to toe in January preoccupied him again.
They stopped just outside the broadcasting area. Within behind soundproof glass, a man in a well-pressed suit stood before a microphone. Masahiro Nakai had a program on in between serial dramas. As the “Voice of Los Angeles County,” Nakai broadcasted his views nearly every day. According to Jun, he was extremely popular despite advocating rather extreme ideas.
He and Matsumoto could hear the playback of Nakai’s broadcast in the halls as he read his script into the microphone. His face was extremely animated, and he thumped his papers with his index finger as he railed on and on.
“…will not stand. How much longer will we let the fat cats running this county into the ground go unpunished? The corruption in the Los Angeles Police Department is making their force look like a grand joke!” Nakai complained, receiving a big thumbs up for his producer in the booth. “I’m right, aren’t I, Taka?”
The produced nodded and smiled. Well, Nakai was certainly loud and was getting his message out to his audience. Jun was pacing a bit, trying to avoid Nakai’s slights about his place of employment.
“Can the police protect us? No,” Nakai argued. “Of course they can’t. Not when they’re chasing girls and chasing their latest bribe. I have a report here that says on New Year’s Eve, ladies and gentlemen of Los Angeles, on New Year’s Eve they were at the Trocadero for a party. Let me say it one more time. They were at a party when this murderer could be lurking in your neighborhood!”
“Doesn’t expect us to sleep either, huh?” Jun mumbled.
“And just yesterday, ladies and gentlemen, a third murder victim turned up in North Hollywood. Some are saying they’re gang slayings, others that there’s a vigilante cleaning up the streets,” Nakai continued. “If it is a vigilante, then I have two words for him.”
Nakai paused for dramatic effect, looking up from his script to smile directly at them. He’d known they’d be coming. “To the vigilante I say - thank you.”
Nino rolled his eyes. Overdramatic. People listened to this guy? People believed he was spouting the truth?
“Since the police can’t protect us from the scum and villainy of this city, then it’s good that someone’s taking out the trash. Once again, I’m Masahiro Nakai, your voice in Los Angeles County. Please stay tuned for the Myrtle and Milly Show, sponsored by…”
Nakai wrapped up his rantings while he and Jun entered the producer’s booth. He held up his badge. “Ninomiya, FBI. Here to speak with the radio…personality.”
Jun held up his own badge as soon as Nakai came through the door, setting down his scripted outbursts on a table. “LAPD, Detective Sergeant Jun Matsumoto. I’m a huge fan.”
Nakai grinned. “I’ll bet you are, Sergeant. Taka, give me a minute with these boys if you don’t mind?”
The producer and other radio station staff departed, and Nino dove on in. “So you’re advocating murder on the air, Mr. Nakai?”
“Certainly not. But if the boys in blue aren’t capable of taking care of criminals, what’s the harm? No big loss if there’s one less thug on our streets.”
Jun crossed his arms. “No big loss if a slightly insane radio commentator does it himself to increase his fame?”
Nakai laughed. “Your lieutenant had the same idea about me when there were just two dead crooks in your morgue, kiddo. You think I’d give up all this to lurk the streets at night?”
“Well,” Nino interrupted. “What if it’s not you? What if you’ve got a partner? A loyal listener willing to do your dirty work. For all that you’re about cleaning up the streets, you oughta mind the company you keep. Watanabe says you’re a regular at his track. One of Kusanagi Tsuyoshi’s businesses is a sponsor of your program.”
“What of it?”
“All of the so-called crooks who’ve been killed had similar connections, ran in similar circles,” Jun reminded the radio man. “It’s a small world out here, huh?”
“Sure is,” Nakai said, heading for the door. “If you gentlemen were wondering where I was last night, you’ll be disappointed. I was golfing.”
“Alone?” Jun asked.
“And in the dark?” Nino followed up.
The man simply shrugged. “I like the challenge.”
Nino didn’t believe Nakai, not one bit. The more this looked like a vigilante case, the more he had a feeling Nakai had a hand in it somewhere. “Mind if we follow up on that golfing claim?”
Nakai winked. “If you wish. Gentlemen, sorry to waste your time, but I have a previous engagement.”
“Maybe we could ride with you,” Matsumoto pressed. “Find out more of what you’ve been advocating to your avid listeners.”
“No,” Nino muttered. “Let him be. We’ll see how much he’ll be smiling when we bring him in as an accessory to three murders.”
The man’s eyes darkened and his smile became forced, but he opened the door and gave them a wave. “Be sure to tune in tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll have some lovely things to say about your pathetic accusations. Why don’t you go catch the real killer?”
The door slammed shut, and he and Jun were alone. They needed a break in this case - they didn’t need any other bodies.
“I have a suggestion for your boss,” Nino said, seeing Jun immediately tense. Matsumoto hadn’t liked most of Nino’s suggestions thus far. “A tail. Put a tail on these guys. See where they go every night. Who they talk to.”
“Don’t have the manpower,” Jun replied.
“Don’t have any other choice.”
Jun just chewed his lip, turning on his heel to leave. That damn piano in Matsumoto’s building was calling him again - but he didn’t have time to answer.
Chapter: 3/??
Fandom: Arashi
Character, Pairing(s): none
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence and language
Summary: "I'm Kazu Ninomiya. I'm 26 years old, and I'm here to catch a murderer. Let me tell you about Los Angeles."
I don't know exactly what I was expecting to find out in California; answers, maybe. Something easy, a case cut and dried. It was pretty obvious that it was anything but, and was rapidly growing into something even more.
Matsumoto and me met with Sakurai and Aiba to go over what we'd gotten from the up and personals, but it wasn't much. Crazed killer not only stole the hearts of his victims, but also knew how to cover his own damn tracks. Wasn't anything to work off of other than six men steeped in corruption that stank like gang money- and can't charge men on that alone, not when you're dealing with two cold bodies in the morgue.
Even the high and mighty ones, they were still as bad as all the rest, maybe worse; worse cause they thought they were better. At least I know my vices. Killing stops being a crime when you've got a shiny badge in your pocket and Hoover backing your tracks.
I'm supposed to be good at this.
But ain't much to work off of, and even what we have is fuzzy and circumstantial at best. I don't like being unable to crack the case, and I like it even less when I got some detective as my partner with a permanent stick up his ass. I don't care about being liked, I care about getting the job done. Boys at the North Hollywood station are more concerned with jurisdiction lines and red tape, how they all fit into the grand scheme of things, and whether or not they can get their name on the report at the end of the day.
These days I just wanna wipe Matsumoto's smug look off his face completely- show him how DC runs.
I'm too frustrated to really enjoy Los Angeles, if it had anything to tempt me into doing so anyway. I take to coming back early to my room after lengthy discussions in the Lieutenant’s office. Ain't gonna catch a killer by talking him into confessing... but what else is there to do?
--
Nino woke to the telephone on the bedside table ringing obnoxiously loud. It startled him- for a few seconds, he stared up at the ceiling, rapidly blinking sleep from his eyes. It took several long seconds to decipher what the irritatingly high-pitched buzzing noise was.
He dropped the headset trying to grapple it from the cradle, and fumbled to retrieve it. "Hello?"
"Agent Ninomiya?" It wasn't a voice he recognized. "This is Yamashita at the North Hollywood station."
"What is it?" Nino asked, sitting upright. He ran a hand through the strands of his hair, sticking up in every direction.
There was a crackle of static over the line. "I was told to call you, there's been another incident."
Incident- he didn't mean incident. He meant there was another body, and the homicide team had been unable to stop the killer from striking again. The floorboards were cool when Nino's bare feet hit them, and he started pulling on his slacks even as Yamashita continued talking. "Matsumoto is on his way to pick you up outside your motel."
"I'll be waiting," Nino said, and practically slammed the receiver back down. His blood was pumping fire through his body; they'd lost. They had failed to track down the killer, and he'd struck again right under their noses. It tasted like bitter liquor on the back of his tongue, clogging his throat.
Matsumoto was quiet when the car pulled up outside the dimly lit exterior of the motel and Nino slid into the passenger seat. The sergeant didn't say anything, but his fingers were wrapped tightly around the wheel, so tight his knuckles were whitening.
Nino waited a few minutes, until they'd started moving through the darkened streets, before speaking. "What is it?"
"Another body," came Matsumoto's terse answer.
"Jesus," Nino sighed. He'd known, but the hot coals in his stomach flared up when he actually heard the words out loud. "Do we know it's connected?"
A moment of silence. "Can only assume it's why we were called."
Neither said anything else until Matsumoto pulled the car off Lankershim Boulevard and into a deserted parking lot. It took Nino a moment to identify where they were- he didn't know the area, but they'd been driving through the business district for the last few minutes. There was a darkened marquee and the lights above it- El Portal Theatre. Matsumoto pulled the car through to the back, near the far corner of the building, where another squad car was already parked.
"Inside?" Nino asked, stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
"No."
He followed Matsumoto round the building and into the alley behind the theater's building. There were two officers there already; both perked when they caught sight of the two approaching. And behind them, there was a car parked in the shadows.
Nino knew before anyone said anything.
"Where is it?" Matsumoto asked.
The taller of the two officers gestured towards the parked vehicle. "Passenger side."
Nino didn't have a flashlight, but the officer nearest him did, and he pulled the light from the man's hands as he rounded the back bumper of the car. His stomach was a mass of knots and he had to swallow the rest of them down, turning the light of the beam into the window. It caught the side of the man's face, illuminating the pale cheekbones.
His eyes were closed- thank god for that, at least. But there were splatters of crimson against the ivory, and Nino let the flashlight trail down the front of the man's shirt.
The shirt- which, from the sleeves, Nino could determine had once been pristine and white- was soaked with dark blood, and the front was torn completely from the edge of the knife used. It was so dark and mangled that Nino couldn't make out the specifics, but he didn't really need them; he knew what he'd see. A gaping hole in the man's ribcage, the splinters of crushed bone, and the hole where his beating heart had once been.
"Dammit," he swore, moving the flashlight aside to check the man's legs and hands, resting in his lap. There wasn't a sign of struggle- nothing was broken, like he'd kicked out, and there were no claw marks in the fabric of the seat from his fingernails.
But he was seated in the passenger seat, indicating that he hadn't been driving last.
"Who is he?" Matsumoto asked, over Nino's shoulder. He hadn't even heard the man approach. Nino reached in through the window, gingerly grappling for the side of the body's trousers. There was a wallet there. He got a hold of one corner and pulled it tree, and his hand came back smeared with red all the same.
He handed it off, and didn't watch as Matsumoto flipped through the contents. "Ryo Nishikido. There's an identification card from Pollard-Ho Chevrolet Company- he must work there."
"Nishikido?" one of the officers asked, loitering near the back bumper. "Name sounds familiar."
Nino frowned down at the body. "He been in trouble?"
"We can ask the Lieutenant," Matsumoto murmured. "If he has been..."
The sergeant's voice trailed off, but Nino knew where his train of thought was going. "If so, it follows the same pattern. Low-lifes being targeted."
"What do you make of it?"
Honestly? There wasn't enough; there wasn't nearly enough to make any sort of coherent connection between them other than the gaping holes in their chests. But at least bits and pieces were starting to collide in a way that just might give them something to work with. "Vigilante, I'd wager. Some concerned citizen taking things into his own hands, thinking these boys deserved to die."
"No sign of a struggle," Matsumoto commented. He was sharp, then, and had picked it up as well.
"Could mean they all knew the killer, too," Nino said. "Somebody who worked with all three- maybe a leader of some sort. The big name in charge, pulling the strings."
Matsumoto glanced back at the officers behind them. Nino couldn't read his expression. "Think they were all involved in the same thing? A gang?"
Either it was somebody thinkin' the boys had deserved to die, or somebody in charge taking them out before they could name him. Nino shut the flashlight off and stepped back from the car.
"Let's see what Dr. Ohno says."
Matsumoto nodded towards the officers. "Get this body into the morgue."
Nino stared down at the tires of the car, at the way they lined up straight with the building next to it. It was a deliberate parking job.
"Wasn't killed here," he said, out loud, without really thinking about it. "Somebody drove him here- drove his own car here and left it."
"Why here?" Matsumoto asked.
Nino made a little growl in the back of his throat, fingers pressing at the sides of his temples. "Don't know."
It was frustrating. Nino rounded the car again and slapped the flashlight back into the officer's hand he'd stolen it from.
The biting sting of blood followed him back to Matsumoto's squad car.
--
They had three now. Three bodies, mangled and cut up just the same. And all three were less than upstanding citizens of Los Angeles county. It was a pattern, and he could say it with certainty now - North Hollywood homicide definitely had a serial case to deal with. But how the hell would they keep it out of the press?
The other two bodies had been found in quieter areas of the city, but this time their killer got cocky. Leaving Nishikido in his own car and dropping him behind a movie palace like a nicely wrapped Christmas present for the police. Didn’t matter how much wrong a man had done - nobody deserved that sort of undignified end. Nobody deserved to get stabbed like that. Nobody deserved to get their heart taken like a prize. Not in this day and age.
It had been a quiet ride back to the North Hollywood station. Nino could almost read Jun’s mind - not something he suspected many could do. Aiba was an open book with his smiles and his frowns. Sakurai wore his heart on his sleeve, letting his temper let anyone in a five mile radius know what he was feeling. But Matsumoto kept it all in his eyes - and Nino knew that Matsumoto’s own look was mirrored in his own face.
He was furious. He was frustrated. And he was afraid.
They stood in the squad room while Dr. Ohno completed his initial look over the body. The doctor had been hauled out of bed, too. He’d grumbled when he came in - not about the lateness of the hour, but that he hadn’t been called to take a look at the crime scene. Instead, Nishikido’s body had been pulled out of the car and brought to the morgue while the man’s vehicle was still at the scene.
They were going to see if they could get some fingerprints off of the steering wheel, the door handles inside and out. But with all the blood, it was not going to be a fun or fruitful search, Nino suspected. Additionally, if the killer went to the trouble of cutting out the hearts of three different men, he was probably smart enough to not leave something so incriminating behind.
What Nino didn’t yet understand was the timing. Matsuoka had been the first, then Yokoyama a few days later. But it was nearly two weeks into the new year now - their killer had bided his time on this one. If he was just a madman, he’d go on a spree. This was measured out. He was taking his time between kills, and this whole deal with the car was just taunting the police, wasn’t it?
How the hell did he choose his targets? The first two had made him think vigilante. Someone with a beef against the various corrupt groups out here. Nishikido as a third body definitely fit this kind of m.o. As soon as he and Matsumoto got back, Sakurai had blabbed about the guy.
One of Kusanagi’s boys. He and Aiba had just been out to interview the guy the other day - both detectives had seen Nishikido at the guy’s compound in the Hollywood Hills. Kusanagi fancied himself a man of business, owning several packing plants southeast of downtown. But that was just a front for his regular dealings. The guy had been up to no good since Prohibition, letting underlings in his employ take the fall for him for nearly a decade while he continued to live large. Nishikido had been one of his patsies - running one of Kusanagi’s offices by day and doing God knows what by night.
Sakurai was at his desk, rubbing his temples again. Luckily he hadn’t been drinking tonight. His frustration was filling the room in waves. “We were just there, Masaki,” he was complaining to Detective Aiba. “Just saw that guy.”
“Would have probably arrested him sooner or later,” Aiba remarked.
Sakurai rolled his eyes. “Probably. But nobody deserves that.”
“You think Kusanagi’s behind it? He wouldn’t be stupid enough to off one of his own guys right after you spoke to him,” Jun said, pouring out coffee for all of them. Nobody was going home to sleep any time soon.
“Or maybe he’s confident enough to think we wouldn’t think he’d be that stupid. So he did do it because we would think it was too obvious.”
Everyone turned with a weary, confused glare at Aiba.
The detective dropped his eyes down to his coffee mug. “Never mind.”
“Well, until he has a damn good alibi,” Sho announced, “Kusanagi’s staying on our suspect list.” The board still had all their main suspects pinned up.
But which of them wanted justice, their skewed vision of justice, so badly they’d kill three men and take their hearts? Oguri had been a snake but would he be that brutal? Would Mizushima take a break from chasing young starlet tail to carve a man up? What about Watanabe? Nakai? The mayor?
Dr. Ohno appeared in the doorway, waving for them to come along. “Not like it’s a surprise, but our victim died from stab wounds and blood loss.”
“Same methods?” Jun asked wearily.
Ohno nodded. “The way the wounds were, he was probably sitting up in the car seat for at least the first blow. But this one...this one fought a bit. Got a few cuts on his hands and forearms.”
“Trying to block the knife,” Sakurai muttered.
“So he was in his car?” Nino wondered. “Guy was in the car with him?”
“Not at that angle, no. My guess, and this is just a guess based on my preliminary examination mind you, is that our killer was outside, stabbing Nishikido through the open window of the car.”
“Nice night,” Aiba remarked. “Fine for driving with the window rolled down.”
“But would you roll down a window for someone with a knife?” Jun asked him.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” Sho said. “Which means Nishikido knew the guy, at least enough to roll down his window. Okay, can we assume, Doctor, that Nishikido was parked somewhere, met up with our killer, got cut up and took a one-way drive to the alley behind the El Portal?”
Ohno nodded. “That’s a safe bet. You said he was found in the passenger side seat, so the killer did his worst, drove him there, and probably made the final blow at the scene, removing the heart. I’ll have to continue my examinations to see if Nishikido was still alive and bleeding when the heart was taken...”
Everyone looked disgusted. After stabbing the man multiple times, the killer had the presence of mind to operate the vehicle. Of course, there was no way of knowing where Nishikido had been parked or how far the killer drove the car. That particular alley in North Hollywood was the final destination. But why?
“Why the El Portal?” he inquired. “Why go through that trouble? If he’s just a vigilante trying to raise a fuss, trying to tell us in his twisted way that these three men needed to be taken out, why drop them all in our backyard?”
The five of them looked up, eyeing each other nervously.
“Maybe he’s trying to send a message,” Jun answered. “To the department.”
“Or,” Nino said, stomach twisting, “to one of us specifically.”
--
The sun rose without any more leads, even as they sat round Sakurai's desk with papers everywhere. Even Ohno had stuck around to lend what he could into the deliberation, but it wasn't like any of them had much to go on. Nino's eyes felt itchy, like there was sand within the corners, and it just added to the pounding headache he was already developing.
"The connection is here," Nino said, drawing his finger across the paper's taped to the wall. "But we don't know why."
His finger stopped on Shun Oguri's face, tacked to the wall and slightly askew. Brow furrowed, he tapped the pad of his finger against the photograph a few times. There was something there- something at the back of his head that he knew.
"Monday," he said, aloud.
"Was yesterday," Sakurai finished. He sounded weary.
Nino waved him silent, trying to grasp the thought that was twirling around. It was on the tip of his tongue, just beyond his ears; there was something he should be remembering, buried amidst endless discussion of motive and unhelpful suspect interrogations. "No," he said, tapping against the picture again. "No, there's something."
"You mean the significance to the time between murders?" Matsumoto asked. "Or the day itself?"
"Monday nights," Nino said. "Monday nights at the lounge- Shun said they had amateur shows put on. It was a long-standing thing."
Ohno chewed on his thumbnail, face expressionless as he stared at the suspect-lined wall. "So?"
"So why would a lounge owner not attend his own establishment's biggest night?"
There was a second of silence, and Nino let his fingers close around Shun Oguri's picture. With a quick jab, he ripped it from the wall, paper tearing around the pin. He stared at the smirking face for only a moment longer before balling it up between his palms.
Aiba bit his bottom lip in thought, watching Nino throw the crumpled paper into the trash bin near Sakurai's desk. "We don't know he was there."
"Ask," Nino said. "He was. I guarantee he was."
"So that's one less," Matsumoto said. Nino turned back towards the wall. The place where Shun's picture had been was splintering off the connections, the web that enveloped all of them. But there was still nothing that tied them in with the three dead men-
Nino growled in the back of his throat, whirling. "I need some air."
What he needed was a cigarette, and he lit up one as soon as his feet hit the walk outside. It was nice to be outside in the dead of winter and only feel the slight chill against his arms; he might not care for California or its city of mislead "angels", but there was something pleasing about not feeling the crunch of snow and ice beneath his soles.
The door opened and closed behind him. "Got a light?"
Wordlessly, he handed the lighter back, keeping his hand out for when Matsumoto was done with it. They stood side by side for a few minutes, staring down at the street and the cars passing by the front of the station.
"Didn't want to see this," Matsumoto grumbled.
"See what?" Nino asked, taking another drag. "Three bodies with holes in their chests?"
"A killer like this in North Hollywood."
Nino had seen a lot of killers; seen his fair share of everything, really. He'd seen blood stains so soaked into carpet that they couldn't be washed clean, seen wallpaper streaked with remnants of a gun fight. Hell, half the time, he was the one causing all of the carnage in the first place. Sometimes it didn't sit well- but that was only when he chose to dwell on it.
He glanced over at his partner, at the lithe fingers curled around the lit cigarette. "Got killers everywhere- why should this place be any different?"
"Just-" Matsumoto seemed at a loss for words. He shrugged, and flicked his butt into the wood chips. "Just thought it would be better here."
What was 'better' like, anyway? Roads paved with gold? Every Oklahoma farm girl who thought she could be an actress getting a big break? All the police working on routine violations with pretty, definite features like Matsumoto?
Nino's fingers were itching to move, to fly across ivory. He needed something to help him think, and the tobacco wasn't doing anything to help. His head was spinning, buzzing in his ears.
"Ain't," he said, finally.
"No," Matsumoto agreed. "Really ain't."
It wasn't that hot out; wasn't hot at all, when had it gotten so warm. Nino ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. It didn't help.
"Just need to talk to people again," he mumbled. "Gotta find enough to crack them with."
"Can we?"
Failing wasn't an option. Failure was never an option. Failure was for two-bit detectives who couldn't run a private practice in an alleyway. But dammit, he was frustrated. It was coiling in his stomach and making his chest ache. He was better than this- murders didn't happen under his nose while he was working on the very same case.
"There has to be something," he said. "Something we're missing."
But he couldn't see anything in the web, in the sticky tendrils uniting the photographs on the wall, and he didn't like what that meant.
"Let's just get back to work," he sighed.
Ohno was not in the office when they went back in; had a date with some worms, it seemed, and some trout to snap them up. But Sakurai and Aiba were there; the lieutenant poring over the chicken scratch covered papers coating the surface of his desk, and the corporal mixing another cup of coffee.
"Here," Aiba said, setting it down by Sakurai's elbow. "It should be right- I think I've gotten the exact amount of sugar you like down."
Sakurai made a little noise of affirmation. "Thanks."
It was barely noticeable, but when Sakurai didn't glance at the cup again, something in Aiba's face fell- just a bit, just a fraction of a change. Matsumoto brushed past Nino's shoulder, and stood in front of the suspect wall once more with his fingers resting on his chin and his eyebrows pinched.
"The movie Mizushima is doing," Matsumoto started, slowly, "who is in it?"
Aiba shrugged. "That guy who is hot right now, I think. The one who does all the action movies."
"And Erika Toda," Nino added.
Sakurai looked up from his desk full of papers, brightening. "I love her. She's beautiful."
This didn't seem to help Matsumoto, who just frowned further and shook his head. "Does it have a lot of night scenes?"
"Haven't a clue," Nino said.
"I think we just need to talk to everyone again," Matsumoto said. "See if anyone has an alibi that holds up for last night."
"And if they don't?" Nino asked. "We still don't have anything to get them on. Not without evidence."
Sakurai sighed. "Or a confession."
Fat chance of that happening. Not with three bodies to convict on and three missing hearts. No trails, no tracks, nothing left behind at the scene- killer was smart. Killer was good.
Nino was better.
He just needed to figure out where the uniting thread was.
--
There’d be no appointments this time. Not with a third desecrated body - and according to Dr. Ohno’s best guesses, Nishikido had still been breathing when the final blow to the middle of his chest had come. Nino shuddered at the thought of that final strike, knowing that after that some psychopath was digging inside you for a heart that had just completed its last beat.
He was running without sleep, Matsumoto too. But they were wired, enough coffee to power an entire building full of businessmen. The El Portal job had been too well done - there were folks from the Herald-Express and the Examiner ringing Lieutenant Sakurai’s telephone off the hook. Was this a third body in North Hollywood? Was there a serial killer on the loose? Just how were these things related?
Nino certainly didn’t envy Sho’s job right then. That left Aiba to visit Oguri’s club and some of his lowlife friends to confirm that Shun had in fact been at his establishment the night before. Narrowing down their suspect list would help, but he wondered if it would make much difference. He and Matsumoto were on Mulholland Drive, en route to Kusanagi’s place.
They hadn’t met him yet - Sakurai had said he was just as slippery as their other suspects. Nino wondered if another brick wall awaited them as Matsumoto worked the car around another curve. “There, there’s the turnoff,” he pointed, and Jun nodded, turning to head down Nichols Canyon Road.
Kusanagi’s home was immaculate, settled back down a winding drive lined with trees. If Nino was at all interested in real estate, it was a nice place to hide and relax. There were several cars parked in the driveway. He wondered how many belonged to the boss’ staff and how many belonged to the boss himself.
He and Jun parked next to an Aston Martin Kusanagi had obviously had imported from England. The man clearly had a good deal of money. They rang the doorbell, trying to stay focused. But it was hard to do so when surrounded by wealth and luxury. He was tired - surely Kusanagi had a couch or twenty he could curl up on.
A maid answered the door but was quickly shuffled aside by a tall man with a glowering look. “Mr. Kusanagi’s not seeing visitors today.”
He flashed his badge, holding it a little higher than Jun held his own badge. He knew he’d get snapped at later, but he was feeling a bit cranky and assertive. “FBI, my friend here’s LAPD. Mr. Kusanagi is in fact seeing visitors,” he informed the man. “He’s seeing them right now or we go get ourselves an arrest warrant so we can take him into custody.”
The man glared some more but stepped aside. “He’s having a swim. If you gentlemen will follow me.”
Nino set his badge back in his pocket, already catching Jun’s grumpy face as they followed the henchman to the pool. Sure, henchman was one of those dramatic words they used in cheesy detective stories, but this guy fit the usual description. Paranoid, overprotective of the boss, a perfect grouchy face. “Didn’t catch your name,” Jun asked.
“Tamaki.”
“And what is it you do for Mr. Kusanagi?” Nino continued as they walked across marble floors, past exquisite vases and ornate chandeliers.
“Lawyer.”
Interesting.
“What kind of business are you and Mr. Kusanagi completing today, considering that one of your employer’s associates was brutally murdered last night?” Jun asked, and Tamaki stopped right before they reached the door at the rear of the building. “Mr. Kusanagi is aware of Mr. Ryo Nishikido’s death, isn’t he?”
“Passing strange that he’d have his lawyer over here right now. Mighty suspicious if you ask me,” Nino continued.
Tamaki turned, offering a rather wicked smile. “Mr. Kusanagi is more than aware of the unfortunate passing of his associate. I’m only here today to discuss some contracts. He is a busy man after all.”
Nino smiled back. “I’m sure he’s real torn up about Mr. Nishikido.”
The lawyer raised an eyebrow and opened the door, leading them out to a patio. The grounds were well-tended with several exotic species of flowers in beds just at the pool’s edge. The whole yard was lined with trees, keeping out the peeping eyes of neighbors or enemies.
Jun walked up to the edge of the pool, and Nino frowned as they saw a tall, lithe body doing laps. In the nude. Tamaki didn’t seem to find this strange at all, merely retrieving a bathrobe from one of the deck chairs. “Mr. Kusanagi. Some gentlemen to see you. FBI and LAPD.”
The man completed another full lap before heading for the pool’s ladder. He stretched, letting water drip from his form, and Nino and Jun looked away. It was only about 60 degrees out. “Little cold for some skinny dipping, sir,” Matsumoto muttered.
“I find it refreshing.” He was still not taking the offered bathrobe from his lawyer’s hands. “Good morning. You must be more of Lieutenant Sakurai’s crew. Knew you’d try to poke your nose in my business again.”
“If you could put some clothes on, Mr. Kusanagi, we can keep this short,” Nino remarked, trying to focus on a fern at the opposite end of the swimming pool.
“Something wrong with being naked in my own home?” Kusanagi asked, finally taking the robe and wrapping himself in it. He settled himself in one of the poolside chairs. “You here about poor Ryo? They here about Ryo, Hiroshi?”
Tamaki nodded. “That was my understanding.”
“It was on the radio this morning. Found behind the El Portal in his car,” Kusanagi continued, almost daring them to accuse him.
But what made Nino take a breath was the fact that the press not only knew about the murder, but they’d released the victim’s name so quickly. Maybe Sho was buying time - letting some information trickle out to keep their big problem under wraps for a bit longer.
“And when was the last time you saw Mr. Nishikido?” Jun inquired, getting out a small notepad and examining the man shrewdly.
“Yesterday afternoon. About 4 PM. He was over here to discuss business.”
“What sort of business?”
Kusanagi smiled. “Just business.”
“Did you argue about anything yesterday?” Nino interrupted, deciding to see if he could push him a bit.
The man considered it, remaining perfectly calm. “No. No, I’d say that Ryo was one of my best associates. Wouldn’t have left him in charge of one of my enterprises if I didn’t trust him fully.”
“Where were you last night? Were you in North Hollywood near the El Portal Theater?” Jun inquired.
He grinned while Tamaki stood behind him, face blank. “How stupid do you think I am, officers?”
“Not sure, Mr. Kusanagi. How stupid are you?” Nino fired back, keeping his voice steady.
The man immediately scowled, and Tamaki held onto his shoulder to keep him from launching himself out of the deck chair. “Keep pressing your luck. I was at a club last night.”
“Which one?” Jun pressed.
“Small jazz bar in Burbank. The Hat Trick.”
“So you were in the area,” Nino pointed out, and Kusanagi had murder in his eyes now. But was it the kind of murder that included driving a man’s car with his corpse in it? The kind where you’d stab him and take his heart?
“Wasn’t in North Hollywood. Wasn’t at the El Portal.”
“Can anyone verify that you were at The Hat Trick? If we went over there right now, would they corroborate what you’ve just told a detective from the Los Angeles police and a federal agent?” Nino continued.
Kusanagi scowled. “It was late. Smoky. Dark.”
It seemed the both of them were going on the offensive. Jun smiled, the million dollar Hollywood smile. “Surely one of your companions from the club could help you out. What escort service was it?”
The man was out of his chair then, and before Nino could stop him, Matsumoto was in the pool, and Tamaki was physically restraining his employer. “I didn’t kill Ryo!” Kusanagi was screaming. “I would never kill him!”
Jun’s head popped out of the water, and he spat and coughed. “I’ll have you for assault, Kusanagi.” Nino had to admit that the image of Jun completely soaking wet in the pool was comical, but he probably deserved it.
“He provoked him. Your friend provoked him, Agent,” Tamaki was saying, still holding Kusanagi back. “He’s just lost a friend, you know.”
Nino did nothing to help Jun from the pool, only jotting down a few scribbles on his own notepad, just to keep Kusanagi’s tension high. The guy probably wasn’t their man - sure, he was easily angered. He could have delivered a killing blow, but he was too well-known, too visible. All their suspects were.
“That’s enough for now, Mr. Kusanagi,” he finished, sticking the pad and pen back in the inside pocket of his trenchcoat. Jun’s hat had flown off with Kusanagi’s push, and it was on the pool deck, the only part of Matsumoto’s clothes that weren’t sopping wet. He picked it up and walked on ahead, hearing Jun’s squelching footsteps behind him.
“He didn’t do it,” Jun grumbled as they made it back to the car.
Nino tossed Jun the hat and got into the vehicle. “Probably not.” He looked over and stared at Jun for a few seconds before bursting into hysterical laughter, unable to contain it any longer.
“Shut up,” Jun said, turning the car on.
“What escort service?” Nino repeated, laughing at the other man in the car, his hair plastered to his head in long, dark, soaking wet strands. “That was golden. Escort service.” He slapped his knee, nearly snorting in his enjoyment. “That was golden, Jun.”
Matsumoto headed back down the winding drive to the main road. He shivered a bit - he had to change before they moved on to interview Nakai from the radio. Jun allowed a small smile to cross his face. “Yeah, that was pretty good, huh?”
--
Matsumoto parked the car outside of his apartment building, and his clothing left wet indentations on the seats when he slid out.
"I'll just be five," he said, with a scowl down at his still dripping pant legs. Nino couldn't really blame him- they couldn't waltz in to question Nakai with one half of their investigative party soaked to the bone. He didn't feel much like sitting in the car waiting for the detective to get into something dry, but he also didn't feel like following the man upstairs. He loitered in the foyer instead, glancing over the mailboxes at the far corner and scoffing at the potted plant with drooping leaves near the main door.
From the cobwebs in the corner and the bits of dust that were embedded in the carpet leading to the stairwell, he could wager a guess that the landlord didn't give too much thought to cleaning the premises. It was probably a larger venture- a man with half a dozen or more buildings to maintain. Nino let his hands run over the back of a chair a few inches out from the wall. Not someone overly obsessed with appearances- just getting the rent each month.
He was about to turn around again and head back out to the car when he saw it in the corner.
It was nothing to write home about; it was no concert grand, not even a Sohmer & Co small grand. It looked like it hadn't been dusted in months, tucked away against the two adjoined walls like a way to keep it out of sight. The wood on the cabinet was nicked and banged like it had been moved several times by careless hands. But when he opened up the cover and let his fingers run over the ivory, it felt just the same.
He sat on the bench without thinking.
It was terribly out of tune, and the sustain pedal was sticking so bad that he only got it to work with every other tap from his toes, but the notes trickled out from the strings anyway. It had been awhile since he'd last played. His fingers felt a bit stiff, but not unused to the motion. The vibrations from the back pushed the instrument into the wall it was resting just in front of, buzzing some of the picture frames against the chipping paint.
His fingers flew over the keys, just like the connecting webs of the case flew out from each person and intertwined with all the others. Indistinguishable, hopelessly entangled-
He shifted his left hand down, then back. C sharp's ebony stuck, and he had to hit it again with his pinky to unstick it.
What was the significance of the hearts? Was it a matter of life-force, a show of force- a signal of power, maybe, as if the killer was holding their bleeding souls in his hand?
He pressed against the keys harder, swelling the mezzo-forte. His right fingers tapped out the moving chords, the triplet formation of his hand shifting further up the board.
Or was it a way to show off? Was the killer doing that to laugh in the detective's faces? Was he taking the organs because he could, because no one was stopping him?
Was the deliberate carving of the victim's chests the killer's own presto agitato? The splatters of blood felt like they could be the arpeggios, the accented chords. Every sforzando he hit felt like the dying gasps of the men they'd found opened and bled like suckling pigs.
By the end, his arms were trembling. As his fingers tapped out the last few notes and his foot depressed the sustain pedal, he stared at the keys like they would give him the answers he sought. Sometimes they did- sometimes the chords mirrored the threads of the case.
He took in a deep, shaky breath, palms resting on the bottom rim of the keyboard.
"What was that?"
He'd been so caught up in the song that he hadn't even noticed Matsumoto creeping up behind him. Nino struggled to right himself again, slowly pulling away from the emotion of the notes. "Mozart. Sonata No. 14."
"I didn't know you played."
There was a lot of things that Matsumoto didn't know about him, and what was the point of going about changing that now? The man was standing close behind him, a bit to his right, and Matsumoto leaned forward to tap one of the keys Nino had just been playing. The sound reverberated through the cabinet.
He got the barest whiff of cologne, whatever the detective had put on when changing into fresh clothes.
"Don't much," he said, keeping his gaze on the end of the lower octave of white and black. "Not anymore."
There was a moment of silence, and then Matsumoto pulled back again. "You're good."
"Thanks," Nino whispered, throat dry.
"I always wanted to play."
With those fingers, he would have been amazing. "Why didn't you?"
"Never had the opportunity," Matsumoto said. "Why did you become an agent instead of a musician?"
Because bloodstains can't always be washed out of rugs and shirts. Because some stains stay forever in the back of one's mind and eat away there, festering, growing potent and angry and ever-stronger. Because there is no justice unless the individual takes control in doling it out. Just like the keys in front of him, motionless and silent under his gaze, the world was in shades of black and white. It was a matter of choice which hue to end up on.
"Just did," he replied.
He turned, wishing to leave, to get moving again- the stop had cost them time, and now it was costing him control. But Matsumoto was frowning, adjusting the buttons on his cuffs. "No one goes into a line like this just because, not with talent elsewhere."
When had it turned into an introspective? He just wanted to get back on the case again. "Some do."
"What was it?" Matsumoto asked. His face had gotten serious- it was the look he wore when he was staring at the pictures of the suspects pinned to the wall. The look of concentration, where he bit his lower lip a little bit and squinted just slightly.
"What?"
"What happened that made you chose this?" the detective asked.
Nino's insides were roiling. "Let it go, Matsumoto. Just leave it be."
"Was something, though, wasn't it?" Wasn't a detective for nothing- he could see right through the thin bits of a shield Nino was trying to put back into place. Damn piano. He'd lost himself in the music, alright, and now he was paying for it all over again.
"Just let it go," he begged.
"Was it something or someone-"
"Just leave it be, Jun!" Nino shouted. It was louder than any of the sforzandos he'd banged out earlier, lingering in the corners of the lobby like a sick joke. Los Angeles was a sick joke, right down to the name of the crime-infested city limits. Matsumoto leveled him with a long stare, and then nodded, just once.
Life was a sick joke, sometimes. He didn't need to be reminded.
"Let's just go," he said, near a whisper, already moving past Matsumoto's shoulder and towards the front entrance once more.
He got to the car first, and the other man didn't say anything until he'd put the key in to start the ignition, and then he paused, fingers curled over the steering wheel.
"You know, Kazu," Matsumoto said, slowly. "If you ever..."
"Yeah," Nino said thickly. "I know."
The weirdest part was that he did.
--
He’d let too much slip, let down too many of his defenses in front of Matsumoto. Nino stared out the car window, watching the palm trees blur. The keys had been familiar once more under his fingertips. Playing had once been fun, a way to burn off stress by banging on the keys. Now all it did was help him clear away all the unnecessary garbage in his mind and let him focus on the shadows that lurked both on the streets of the east and west coasts alike.
And Matsumoto had seen it, taken something that he’d wanted to keep as his own. He’d let him see it - let him see how each note that had echoed in the hallway of Jun’s apartment was more than just Mozart to him. Nino almost wanted to get something in exchange, find some chink in Jun’s armor so they’d be on even ground again.
The radio station was in Hollywood, south of where they’d spent the morning trying to get Kusanagi to budge. “Mr. Nakai’s on the air right now,” the woman at the front desk complained as they barely flashed their badges and headed for the broadcast booth.
“We won’t interrupt anything,” Jun called back over his shoulder. He turned back and adjusted his hat. “Unless we want to,” he whispered.
Nino smirked, pulling out his note pad. There were a few water drops staining the paper from the incident with Kusanagi’s pool, and he cleared his throat before the funny image of Jun soaking wet from head to toe in January preoccupied him again.
They stopped just outside the broadcasting area. Within behind soundproof glass, a man in a well-pressed suit stood before a microphone. Masahiro Nakai had a program on in between serial dramas. As the “Voice of Los Angeles County,” Nakai broadcasted his views nearly every day. According to Jun, he was extremely popular despite advocating rather extreme ideas.
He and Matsumoto could hear the playback of Nakai’s broadcast in the halls as he read his script into the microphone. His face was extremely animated, and he thumped his papers with his index finger as he railed on and on.
“…will not stand. How much longer will we let the fat cats running this county into the ground go unpunished? The corruption in the Los Angeles Police Department is making their force look like a grand joke!” Nakai complained, receiving a big thumbs up for his producer in the booth. “I’m right, aren’t I, Taka?”
The produced nodded and smiled. Well, Nakai was certainly loud and was getting his message out to his audience. Jun was pacing a bit, trying to avoid Nakai’s slights about his place of employment.
“Can the police protect us? No,” Nakai argued. “Of course they can’t. Not when they’re chasing girls and chasing their latest bribe. I have a report here that says on New Year’s Eve, ladies and gentlemen of Los Angeles, on New Year’s Eve they were at the Trocadero for a party. Let me say it one more time. They were at a party when this murderer could be lurking in your neighborhood!”
“Doesn’t expect us to sleep either, huh?” Jun mumbled.
“And just yesterday, ladies and gentlemen, a third murder victim turned up in North Hollywood. Some are saying they’re gang slayings, others that there’s a vigilante cleaning up the streets,” Nakai continued. “If it is a vigilante, then I have two words for him.”
Nakai paused for dramatic effect, looking up from his script to smile directly at them. He’d known they’d be coming. “To the vigilante I say - thank you.”
Nino rolled his eyes. Overdramatic. People listened to this guy? People believed he was spouting the truth?
“Since the police can’t protect us from the scum and villainy of this city, then it’s good that someone’s taking out the trash. Once again, I’m Masahiro Nakai, your voice in Los Angeles County. Please stay tuned for the Myrtle and Milly Show, sponsored by…”
Nakai wrapped up his rantings while he and Jun entered the producer’s booth. He held up his badge. “Ninomiya, FBI. Here to speak with the radio…personality.”
Jun held up his own badge as soon as Nakai came through the door, setting down his scripted outbursts on a table. “LAPD, Detective Sergeant Jun Matsumoto. I’m a huge fan.”
Nakai grinned. “I’ll bet you are, Sergeant. Taka, give me a minute with these boys if you don’t mind?”
The producer and other radio station staff departed, and Nino dove on in. “So you’re advocating murder on the air, Mr. Nakai?”
“Certainly not. But if the boys in blue aren’t capable of taking care of criminals, what’s the harm? No big loss if there’s one less thug on our streets.”
Jun crossed his arms. “No big loss if a slightly insane radio commentator does it himself to increase his fame?”
Nakai laughed. “Your lieutenant had the same idea about me when there were just two dead crooks in your morgue, kiddo. You think I’d give up all this to lurk the streets at night?”
“Well,” Nino interrupted. “What if it’s not you? What if you’ve got a partner? A loyal listener willing to do your dirty work. For all that you’re about cleaning up the streets, you oughta mind the company you keep. Watanabe says you’re a regular at his track. One of Kusanagi Tsuyoshi’s businesses is a sponsor of your program.”
“What of it?”
“All of the so-called crooks who’ve been killed had similar connections, ran in similar circles,” Jun reminded the radio man. “It’s a small world out here, huh?”
“Sure is,” Nakai said, heading for the door. “If you gentlemen were wondering where I was last night, you’ll be disappointed. I was golfing.”
“Alone?” Jun asked.
“And in the dark?” Nino followed up.
The man simply shrugged. “I like the challenge.”
Nino didn’t believe Nakai, not one bit. The more this looked like a vigilante case, the more he had a feeling Nakai had a hand in it somewhere. “Mind if we follow up on that golfing claim?”
Nakai winked. “If you wish. Gentlemen, sorry to waste your time, but I have a previous engagement.”
“Maybe we could ride with you,” Matsumoto pressed. “Find out more of what you’ve been advocating to your avid listeners.”
“No,” Nino muttered. “Let him be. We’ll see how much he’ll be smiling when we bring him in as an accessory to three murders.”
The man’s eyes darkened and his smile became forced, but he opened the door and gave them a wave. “Be sure to tune in tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll have some lovely things to say about your pathetic accusations. Why don’t you go catch the real killer?”
The door slammed shut, and he and Jun were alone. They needed a break in this case - they didn’t need any other bodies.
“I have a suggestion for your boss,” Nino said, seeing Jun immediately tense. Matsumoto hadn’t liked most of Nino’s suggestions thus far. “A tail. Put a tail on these guys. See where they go every night. Who they talk to.”
“Don’t have the manpower,” Jun replied.
“Don’t have any other choice.”
Jun just chewed his lip, turning on his heel to leave. That damn piano in Matsumoto’s building was calling him again - but he didn’t have time to answer.