Chapter 52

While Fushimi Shika was busy talking trash, Minamoto Tamako wasn't idle. Since her partner had already charged in, she followed right behind, snapping on white gloves and getting to work.

"Who let this snot-nosed kid in here!"

The blond guy lunged for Tamako's cowlick, snarling, "Who said you could touch the boss's body? You little—"

Fushimi caught his wrist and dug a thumb into the pressure point; the harder the guy struggled, the more his forearm burned. The rest of the crew surged forward to back their brother up, only to freeze when Tamako, still crouched over the corpse, announced:

"Male, thirty to thirty-five. Left chest wound with radial blood spatter—probable cause of death. Murder weapon is a wooden crossbow bolt embedded up to the fletching. From the entry angle, the shooter was on the second-floor balcony... right there!"

She jabbed her little finger upward. A passenger strolling along the upper corridor bent down and plucked a crossbow from a planter.

Security yelled for backup, but the blond guy sprinted upstairs with his boys and tackled the traveler, fists flying.

Innocent bystander (probably): Aminos—who, let's be honest, saw a tiny crossbow and thought, "Free souvenir."

"Hands up! Stay where you are!"

Detectives finally arrived, uniforms spilling in to restore order. Haneda's dotted with koban and branch offices for exactly this reason; detectives can reach the scene faster than the airport guards.

After pounding the traveler, the blond tried to bolt. Two officers took him down, slapped on cuffs, and gave him two love taps with the baton before he calmed down.

Fushimi flashed his badge again and explained. Only then did everyone realize these two weren't detectives at all—just rookies who hadn't even reported for their first shift.

"You're fresh out of the academy, and this is how you treat a crime scene? Real murders aren't practical exams!" the lead detective barked. "Which koban are you heading to? Who's your station chief?"

Before Fushimi could answer, the blond shouted, "You clowns want to lecture us? Rookies had the killer in cuffs inside five minutes and avenged my big brother—beats you salary-bandits who only know how to bow and apologize!"

"Typical Yakuza gorillas—no brains, all brawn," the detective sneered.

"What did you say? Let me go and let's settle this—"

"A traditional crossbow's effective range is ten to thirty meters," the detective cut in, still ignoring him. "From that balcony to the victim is at least thirty. You said the place was packed, the victim ringed by people. How do you make that shot with a toy crossbow?"

He didn't spare the blond another glance; rookies playing detective were worse than useless. He glared at Fushimi. "Forget accuracy—why didn't a single witness actually see the shooter? Waving a crossbow in public should've caused instant panic."

The blond blinked, suddenly unsure, and glanced at Tamako. She looked like a kid who'd guessed right on a test. If that traveler was the killer, why didn't he run? Why pick up the weapon and just stand there? The real culprit was still—ugh, thinking hurt; cops were useless.

Tamako peeled off her gloves and raised her head. "Because the bolt wasn't fired from a crossbow at all."

Everyone froze. Only Fushimi's eyes flicked upward again, gaze settling on a spot above someone's head.

"The killer used the bolt to fake a long-range shot. In reality, he was inside the crowd the whole time."

"During the commotion, the killer pressed right up to the victim and drove the bolt into his heart. That crossbow on the balcony was just a prop, planted ahead of time."

"To mislead us, the killer set the angle by hand, then shoved the bolt home with his palm."

The detective frowned, finally looking at the tiny girl who'd delivered the theory. "You expect us to believe no one noticed? Stabbing a guy with a crossbow bolt is even more obvious than shooting one."

"It's possible!" Tamako's eyes sparkled, reflecting the detective's stunned face. "Wear white gloves, hold a pick-up sign in front of the victim's chest like you're brushing off lint. One smooth motion, nobody looks twice. Afterward, hide the bloody gloves behind the sign, slip them into your pocket, and melt back into the crowd."

"Honestly, even I almost bought the setup. If Fushimi hadn't kept staring above that person's head, I wouldn't have kept digging... You've already worked it out, right?"

She pointed past the ring of onlookers. A chauffeur in a navy-blue uniform was edging backward, face grim. "The killer is you—the driver sent to pick him up!"

The chauffeur bolted. Officers cursed and gave chase. Fushimi stood with his right hand in his pocket, left hand checking his watch. He didn't lift a finger to trip the guy—didn't even shift his weight.

The detective exploded. "What the hell are you doing? Stop gawking and move!"

"Real crime scenes aren't practical exams," Fushimi murmured, still watching the second hand sweep. "Rookies shouldn't run around half-cocked."

The detective recognized his own words thrown back at him and flushed crimson, but before he could retort—

"However!"

Fushimi tapped the watch face. "I'm punctual. I'd hate to be late on my first day. If this drags on, the koban sergeant will chew me out. Let's wrap it up."

"Spare me the hindsight—he's getting away—" The detective spun to follow.

"Three."

Fushimi counted aloud. "Two."

"Huh? What's he—"

A ripple went through the crowd. Travelers near the exit stared as a squad of airport guards with riot shields poured in, colliding head-on with the fleeing driver. While everyone listened to Tamako's theory, Fushimi had borrowed a guard's walkie-talkie and called for backup.

"One."

The driver hit the floor under four officers, roaring in despair.

"Let's go," Fushimi said, patting Tamako's shoulder. "Pick-up's late. We'll grab a cab to the koban."