An image of Arakida flashed before his eyes. Mikami checked his watch, then put a call through to Suwa’s mobile. It was eight forty-five. Suwa was in the Wan Wan Tei, a transvestite-run bar he’d recently unearthed. Having failed to get anything from the press in the headquarters, he’d improvised with a ‘social studies meeting’ led by Mikumo. He sounded tense at first, Mikami having left the office without explaining the reason for his bandage, but his tone reverted to normal when Mikami told him about the warrant.
‘That explains it,’ he said. ‘Ushiyama from the Yomiuri and Sudou from the Sankei, they’re both missing.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Another scoop. I hope that this isn’t going to mess up our chances of stopping the boycott.’
‘I want a report, first thing in the morning,’ Mikami instructed.
He palmed the phone shut. The clamour on the line was replaced with the racket of karaoke. A group of ten or so men and women of various ages – by the look of things, work colleagues – were gathered around the carpeted zashiki area. A slightly premature end-of-year party, according to the barkeeper.
Mikami felt restless. Suwa, Mikumo, even Kuramae – they would all be the same. They were focusing every resource on averting the boycott. And no wonder. The commissioner was due to visit in only three days. It was their job to manage the press. What else would they be doing?
An image of Yoshio Amamiya came unexpectedly into his thoughts. The appearance had been sudden enough to feel like a revelation, the insight he needed to break through the wall of his dilemma. Mikami felt the colour drain from his face.
The commissioner general is our highest-ranked official. I’m confident the media coverage will be significant. It will be broadcast on TV. The news will reach a great number of people.
His own words. He’d tried to build up Amamiya’s expectations, with a view to getting him to agree to the commissioner’s visit. But it hadn’t worked. Amamiya had long ago given up expecting anything from the police. He felt bitter towards them, having learned of the cover-up of the kidnapper’s call. He’d seen the visit for what it was, a PR exercise. That was why he hadn’t even considered Mikami’s entreaty. He hadn’t given in to any new expectations. He hadn’t changed his mind because of anything Mikami had said. He’d been shocked, moved even, when he’d broken into tears – but that was all.
Even so . . .
He’d said the words.
. . . there is a real chance of this bringing in new leads.
Mikami emptied his glass.
It had been a revelation, after all. Stuck in a local skirmish, he’d looked up at the sky and caught sight of a shooting star. A promise. One he’d made in the outside world, away from any consideration of Criminal Investigations or Administrative Affairs.
He felt a shift, a weight tipping the scales. The commissioner would never forgive a boycott. Whatever happened, Mikami had to ensure his voice made the papers and the airwaves. For Amamiya. And in order to take responsibility for what he’d said.
He realized his mind was made up. There had never been any real ‘promise’. And if the only way of stopping the boycott was lying to the reporters, that wouldn’t even constitute finding a third path as press director. All he’d done was find another extreme, following the polar opposites of Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs. It doesn’t matter. It’s enough. He would use the excuse of Amamiya to force a change in direction.
A very Mikami way of settling the dispute.
‘Look, he’s got a smirk on him,’ the mama-san teased.
‘Leave him be. Probably felt good to land one on his asshole boss,’ the barkeeper said next to her. ‘He just wants to drink by himself. Can’t you see that?’
They were gearing up to start again. Mikami turned his chair so his back was facing the counter. The uproar coming from the zashiki was at its peak. The apparent leader of the group, a man in his fifties, was howling out an off-tune ballad. The rest were clapping in time; from the looks on their faces, it was clear they were still half at work. The women were already fidgeting, ready to leave.
Mikami was counting on Suwa. On Mikumo. Even on Kuramae. Everything would turn out fine if the Press Club held a GM to overturn the boycott. His made-up assurances would become real. Media Relations would survive.
Mikami’s gaze met with that of a woman in the group. She let out a snigger and whispered something in the ear of the woman next to her.
He looked away and flipped a cigarette into his mouth. Still bickering with her husband, the mama-san held out a lighter; a flamethrower-sized lick of fire burst out. The man sitting next to him chose that moment to open a conversation. Mikami had seen him there, probably once before. He thought he remembered the man being a doctor, but it turned out that, after failing to gain entrance to medical school for three straight years, he’d ended up as head of administration in a hospital that had been in his family since his grandfather’s generation. Mikami told him the bandage was because he’d fainted, and ended up – despite his mood – having to give the man an outline of his symptoms. The man nodded gravely. ‘It could be Ménière’s disease,’ he said, before asking whether the dizziness came from the left or right ear first. You’re not even a doctor, Mikami thought ungraciously, even as his hand came unconsciously up to his left ear.
He called a taxi.
When he left, it was to the mama-san’s smile, the barkeeper’s look of concern, and the glances that rippled through the group of women. Inside the vehicle, he noticed his hand was still on his left ear. He recalled the cold touch of the phone. Ayumi hadn’t said a word. In her silence, she’d left nothing more than a suggestion. Was that what it was? Mikami wondered. Had she called so he’d ask the questions himself? What have you ever done as a parent? Did you ever try to understand anything about me?
Mikami got out of the taxi to see Yamashina standing next to his front door; that was when he realized how drunk he was, and in how bad a mood.
You bastard.
He’d been with the others at the Wan Wan Tei but had become uneasy when he’d noticed that the chief reporters from the Yomiuri and the Sankei were missing and decided to call over. He’d probably come hoping to secure a tidbit for himself. Ayumi’s shoes . . . I can see they’re gone. He thought he’d get lucky again – it was clear from his expression. He was walking over with an obsequious smile, making a show of how cold it was. Mikami waited with his feet firmly in the ground, then reached out with his bandaged hand. He grabbed Yamashina by the scarf and pulled him in until he was breathing down the man’s bright-red ear.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Yamashina. I didn’t feed you news on the bid-rigging because I like you. I did it out of charity. Because of the way you resemble an abandoned dog in the rain.’
He shoved the man, now frozen and bolt upright, to the side, before striding in through the front door. Minako came straight out. She’d started to say that Yamashina was outside when she noticed his bandaged hand and broke off.
‘Just an accident, cut myself a little,’ Mikami said, easing off his shoes.
Minako was obviously suspicious but refrained from asking any more questions. She composed herself again then told him that Director Odate’s wife had called, at around eight o’clock.