Chapter 54

It was roughly twenty to thirty kilometers from Tokyo Haneda Airport to the Sugamo Koban, and the taxi ride took about half an hour. After they had finished painting their futures for each other, the cab still had a ways to go. Sitting in silence felt pointless, so the conversation circled back to the murder at the airport.

"I still don't get it. Why would the driver kill that middle-aged guy? Weren't they partners?"

Tamako felt no pity for the killer; she only regretted missing the tearful confession. In every mystery novel and police drama she'd ever read, the culprit broke down the moment the detective solved the case—dropping to his knees, covering his face, and sobbing out why he'd done it.

"That's the yakuza life," Shika said with a shrug. "Sooner or later some underling stabs you in the back."

"Huh?" Tamako blinked. "How do you know they were yakuza?"

"Are you playing dumb? You notice every microscopic clue at a crime scene, but you miss the obvious?" Shika tapped his own collar. "The lining of their suits was embroidered with gang crests, and the wrists that peeked out were covered in tattoos. How much clearer could it be?"

"So what? Maybe they were just tattoo enthusiasts." Tamako scratched her head.

Since childhood her mother had drilled into her never to judge by appearances. Because of her family's status, no one had ever dared raise their voice around her. Even the scariest, full-back-tattooed yakuza uncle would smile gently and ask, "Would the young lady like a candy?"

Given that upbringing, she should have turned into a spoiled, bratty little princess. But her mother was no pushover; the moment Tamako showed the slightest air of arrogance, Mom delivered a "heavy fist of justice." Whether Mom had overcorrected or simply scolded too hard, the result was the awkward personality Tamako had today.

"Fine, fine. Let's pretend I was wrong." Shika couldn't be bothered to argue.

Tamako narrowed her eyes; the two cowlicks on her head twitched like radar dishes. Fushimi clearly had some unusual talent! He kept insisting partners shouldn't hide anything from each other, yet he tucked his own skills away. Hmph—he must be wary of her deductive prowess, terrified she'd outshine him, so he guarded every advantage.

Tamako still hadn't forgiven Shika for beating her three times: once in art-class deduction games, once in the graduation exam, and now the airport murder made three. Because of that, she hadn't dared push her "gospel of deduction" on him lately.

Three strikes—never again. Someday she would uncover all his little secrets, copy every trick, surpass him in every way, and make him bow before her genius.

Plotting her grand theft of knowledge and her "Fushimi Reformation Plan," Tamako let an involuntarily scheming smile slip across her face.

The cab suddenly braked. Thinking they had arrived at the koban, Tamako looked up—only to find they had stopped beside a railway crossing in the middle of nowhere.

"Sorry, folks," the driver said with an apologetic grin. "I can't go any farther. You'll have to walk from here."

"What's wrong?" Shika rolled the window down. "The road ahead looks clear."

The crossing lights flashed red, bells clanging. Beyond the striped barrier, a narrow street threaded between tightly packed apartment blocks. Sidewalks were choked with vertical signboards; a dense net of power cables blocked the sun, turning the pavement dim and claustrophobic.

For a moment Shika thought the cab had teleported him to the pigeon-cage tenements of Kowloon.

"It's impossible to park inside," the driver explained. "The public order's not great... Be careful when you go in."

Shika was sure he'd misheard. If memory served, this neighborhood was famous for gray-haired grandpas and grandmas. Even thirty years ago they'd have been middle-aged—could the entire place be a geriatric bosozoku gang?

"What do you mean 'public order's not great'?" he frowned. "This is a shopping district, isn't it? Shopping districts are safe."

"You're not from around here—Hokkaido accent, right? If you want the mall, you don't need this street. Inside it's rough, dangerous. Tourists should avoid it."

The driver pointed toward a skyscraper at the far end of the block.

"Sugamo Prison used to be here—held political prisoners and war criminals. They tore it down a while back and built Sunshine City, probably the mall you're looking for. It's the tallest building in Tokyo now. The area around it's safer. Happy to drive you around—no extra fare."

Shika's sense of foreboding deepened. "Then where's the Sugamo Station Koban?"

"Right in the old street." The driver cheerfully stuck an arm out the window. "Cross the tracks, straight ahead five hundred meters."

Reality sank in. Shika paid the fare, and he and Tamako climbed out to collect their luggage from the trunk.

Still unwilling to accept it, Shika leaned back in. "By 'bad public order' you mean the old folks stage fake-accident scams, right? So out-of-town drivers don't dare park?"

"They do that, sure. More common are car thefts, smash-and-grabs, muggings. At least the scammers follow some rules; the yakuza don't." With that, the driver rolled up the window and waved through the glass.

"..."

Tamako felt a wave of dark aura. She glanced up and flinched. Shika's face was so stormy it looked as if the entire world owed him 500 yen. He even clicked his tongue in disgust.

"W-what's wrong?"

Tamako wondered if he was mourning the taxi fare. Couldn't be; they'd lived on campus expenses, and she'd paid him a hefty bonus in Daisetsuzan. Unless his obsession with money had reached pathological levels?

At this rate he'd turn into a miser—how could he be her diligent, upstanding partner?

Pitying him, Tamako patted his back. "Don't worry! The driver said the neighborhood's rough, so your hazard pay will be huge—maybe even a bonus. Work hard and money troubles will be history!"

Shika felt another dagger to the heart.