Chapter 53

As Fushimi Shika had said, the agreed pick-up time had slipped by a full half-hour. A delayed flight would have been forgivable, but any other excuse—no matter how politely his superior phrased it—would leave a bad taste in Fushimi's mouth. He hated waiting for people almost as much as he hated being waited for.

So, once the detectives had their suspect in cuffs, Fushimi cut them a simple deal. Option one: pretend neither he nor Tamako had ever been there and let the squad hog all the credit. Option two: do everything by the book and watch every officer who read the report realize that two fresh-minted patrol cadets had out-performed an entire detective unit.

The lead detective chose Option One without a word and waved them through. As for Watanabe Shun, Fushimi shrugged—he barely knew the guy; the police could handle him however they liked.

In the mid-nineties, Tokyo cabs still started at 400 yen for the first kilometre—steep compared to the rest of Japan, yet reasonable for Tokyo standards. Even someone like Fushimi, technically kept by a patron and blissfully unaware of it, could afford the fare.

A dozen taxis idled outside the terminal. Fushimi flagged one down, tossed their bags in the trunk, and slid into the back seat beside Minamoto Tamako. Tamako pressed her forehead to the window, replaying the case in her head, convinced her deductive powers had leapt forward in a single bound.

Of course, the whole affair had its tiny blemishes. For one, no one had showered her with praise: "Minamoto Tamako, the brilliant young lady who cracked a murder in thirty minutes—greater than any famous detective in print!"

Second, Fushimi had spotted the killer first and tipped her off with a glance. Without that nudge she might have fallen for the culprit's lies—no, correction, she already had. Utter disgrace, the Waterloo of her detective career! Lucky for her, her police career hadn't officially started, so the blot didn't count.

Tamako tilted her head and studied Fushimi from the corner of her eye. His earlier line echoed in her ears: "Criminals themselves are fundamentally illogical." It made sense. If she could read minds the way he did, she wouldn't need evidence; one squint and the guiltiest party would glow like a neon sign. Practically a superpower.

Still, why did Fushimi understand criminals so well? And why did he keep glancing at the tops of people's heads? Back in Daisetsuzan he'd even sneaked several looks at Instructor Shirata. The mystery nagged at her—what on earth was he hiding?

"Is there something on my face?" Fushimi asked, meeting her gaze sidelong. "Or do you object to how I handled the detectives?"

"No, no objections!" Tamako flapped her hands, terrified she'd bruise his delicate heart again.

Her mouth said "no," her brain shouted "yes." First, he shouldn't have talked back to the senior detectives. Second, he shouldn't have egged them into skipping the paperwork. But ever since her wall-facing penance had scarred her psyche, she policed her own words to avoid freezing out her only partner.

"If you've got opinions, spit them out. Do I look petty to you?" Fushimi smiled. "Healthy relationships thrive on honest feedback, right?"

Tamako nodded so vigorously her ponytail whipped like a metronome.

Maybe he wasn't that small-minded after all. Sure, he'd kneed an instructor's kneecap, stolen a diary, booby-trapped classmates, slashed tires during finals, bonked Shirata on the skull and handcuffed him to a car... but deep down he might be a good listener who'd simply lacked friends!

And I—kind-hearted Tamako, future great detective and famous inspector—have the sacred duty to steer him onto the righteous path!

She inhaled, set her face in solemn lines, and declared, "Actually, I've been meaning to say—"

"Hey!" Fushimi's eyes widened theatrically. "You really have complaints?"

Tamako's spell fizzled; she stammered, "Wait—you told me to speak up!"

"I say jump and you jump? Besides, this isn't about talking or not talking." Fushimi clutched his chest in mock agony. "I thought we were friends, but you see me as some villain! Do you know how much that hurts?"

"I—I'm sorry," she mumbled, head drooping.

"A nail leaves a hole even after it's pulled. If apologies fixed everything, we wouldn't need police. Real heartbreak isn't noisy; real disappointment doesn't weep..."

Fushimi launched into another sermon—his favorite tactic, effective only on the upright. A gentleman can be cornered by his own sense of honor.

Seeing tears well up again, he softened instantly. "Then again, everyone needs a blunt friend or two. Nobody's perfect—including me—so lay it on me."

"Not a single flaw," Tamako insisted, shaking her head like a tambourine.

"Come on, out with it!"

"Really, none."

"Say it!" Fushimi's face went stern. "Or I'll get angry."

Tamako pouted, thinking, You cry if I talk, you rage if I don't—what do you want? If only Kawai were here; she'd see straight through him.

Fushimi, of course, had plotted no good. The original plan was to ditch Tamako and enjoy a leisurely life at the Sugamo Station koban: skim case files when bored, watch neighbors bicker or murder each other, nap with manga on slow days, grind Cooking skill whenever the system nagged him—paradise!

But if Tamako served at the same koban, she might secretly report his loafing. Unlikely, given her personality, yet best to be safe. He'd simply have to "train" her into the perfect slacking partner.

"W-well, if I must..." Tamako lifted her little finger and thumb, showing the tiniest gap. "You're... just a teensy bit petty. That's all."

"Fair point," he said, nodding. "I'll work on it."

"Really?" Tamako's eyes went round.

"Absolutely—depends on your performance, though." Fushimi began laying the groundwork: "If you do well, you might even turn me into a cheerful, sunshine boy."

Tamako punched the air, silently celebrating.

At this rate she'd reform him into a diligent, upstanding partner!

She pictured the ideal scene: herself in gleaming armor, flag in hand. Murder breaks out—one flick of the flag, and Fushimi the Faithful Hound charges ahead. After she cracks the case, he kneels at her feet, paws raised, barking, "Detective Tamako is invincible!"

Daydream complete. Super-detective Tamako raises her arm and Fushimi the rabid hound sprints off; she crooks a finger and Fushimi the golden retriever wags his tail.

"Sunshine boy" was obviously a con, but did he think she was that gullible?

In the back seat, each nursed private triumph, dreaming of the sweet life awaiting them—"Sugamo Station Koban—perfect for slacking... or cracking cases!"