Chapter
thirty-six
I parked in a deserted lot near Shinobazu Pond. It was five in the morning, and though the summer sun hadn’t yet made it over the horizon, the sky was now completely light. The area was quiet and empty.
I got the yakuza’s body out of the trunk and situated in the wheelchair, slipped the hat and a surgical mask on him to conceal the mangled mess that had once been his face, and covered him with the blanket I had bought the day before. I closed the trunk and wheeled him into the park. For anyone who happened to be up and about at this hour, I’d look like an attendant from a nearby hospital or convalescent home, kindly taking out an old and rather arthritic ward to watch the sun rise over the lotuses.
At the south end of the pond was a public restroom. I wheeled the yakuza in, dragged him into a stall, locked the door, pulled myself over the top, and wiped down the spots I had touched. Doubtful anyone would be here in the next fifteen minutes or so, and even if someone did come in, there were two open stalls.
I pushed the empty wheelchair back to the car and drove it to a medical clinic near the station, wiping the handgrips before walking away. No one would know who it belonged to or how it got there, but nor would anyone pay it any mind. Eventually, someone would bring it inside and the clinic would appropriate it, or it would be discarded, or stolen, or whatever. Regardless, it wouldn’t be connected with me. The scrubs and lab coat went into a nearby trash bin. Then I returned the car to the rental agency. They were closed, and it was a little unusual for someone to return a vehicle outside business hours, but there was enough space under the door to slide the keys. I got on Thanatos, rode back to the pond, and parked right across from it. I cut the engine, dismounted, and stood there for a moment, just gazing at that beautiful machine. Roman Red and Egret White. I sighed. I patted the gas tank, the seat. I smiled a little, knowing I was being stupid. It was just a motorcycle. I supposed I was turning it into some kind of surrogate, a microcosm of the life I was leaving, a receptacle for all my sorrow and regret. But I couldn’t help it. “Going to miss you,” I said, and turned and walked away.
I headed back to the bathroom and climbed over the stall where I’d left the yakuza, pausing to wipe down the spots I touched. The body was getting warmer, which was good. A non-refrigerated victim would mean one less discrepancy for Tatsu to have to manage. I opened my bag, pulled out some clothes, and dressed him. Underwear, socks, everything. I took off the shoes I was wearing and put those on him, too, taking the new pair for myself. Soles without any scuff marks would have looked strange, and again, the fewer discrepancies Tatsu had to manage, the better. There were going to be enough as it was.
I put my wallet in his pocket, and, smiling grimly now, a folded piece of paper with McGraw’s number on it. I even put my watch on his wrist. I slipped my bag around his shoulder. Everything I owned was inside it. Even the letters from my parents, the fading photographs, everything. All I kept were the gun and some cash. Probably there was some symbolism in that. If so, I was too young at the time to be dissuaded by it.
I stood and looked down at the yakuza, at myself. My heart was beating hard. There was no coming back from this. In a weird way, I felt I really was about to die, that Ueno Park had become a giant gallows and I was ascending the steps.
I unlatched the stall door with a knuckle, eased it shut behind me, and went to the restroom entrance. The path around the pond formed a C from here, with the restroom at its center. I could see far in both directions. No one was around. I dashed back to the stall, got the yakuza’s arm around my neck and my arm around his waist, and hauled him up. If someone saw us now, I was just helping my stumbling-drunk drinking buddy back to his apartment after an all-night bender. Weak, but probably enough to get me by. But there was still no one around. I heard a Yamanote train pull out of Ueno Station, traffic in the street. Tokyo was waking. I wouldn’t have long to wait.
There was a waist-high metal fence separating the path from the pond. I propped the yakuza against it, his ass on its edge, the balance of his body tipped toward the lotuses, the only thing preventing him from going over my grip on one of his wrists. I took the hat off his head and pulled it low over mine. The surgical mask went into one of my pockets. Then I pulled the last of the Hi Powers from the back of my pants, and waited.
A few minutes later, I saw two old women in track suits walking toward me on the path to my right, apparently out for a little early morning exercise around the pond. I checked left, and was pleased to see an old man with a small dog. I wondered absently what it was about old people that got them up so early. Well, it didn’t matter. The main thing was, they looked like sober, reliable, socially conscious citizens, who no doubt would make good witnesses. Their eyesight might be somewhat in doubt, but I wasn’t worried about them getting too close. They didn’t look like they’d be able to mount much of a chase.
I monitored them with peripheral vision until they were each about twenty-five meters away. Then I raised the gun, pointed it just past the yakuza’s unrecognizable head and out into the lotuses, and held it there for a long, theatrical moment. I fired. The sound was huge and unmistakable in the early morning quiet surrounding the pond. I let go of the yakuza’s wrist and the body tumbled backward into the water with a splash. Several ducks took off from around him, quacking. I kept the gun out for just a moment longer, making sure everyone had time to confirm what they thought they had just heard and seen. Then I glanced furtively left and right, tucked the gun back into my pants, and walked off the path through the bushes and trees, keeping my head down as I moved, trying to look like a criminal.
I had no doubt the pensioners who had been walking toward me, stunned and in disbelief, would hurry over and check the water. They would see a body in it. They would call the police and describe what they had just witnessed: a man, shooting another man point-blank in the face and then fleeing on foot. Tatsu was waiting for that call, and knew roughly when to expect it. He would be the first to arrive. The water and muck would somewhat conceal the discrepancies I was worried about, at least to any casual observers, and Tatsu would have to handle the rest. The victim, he would discover, had no next of kin, and even if he did, the injuries to his face would make identification difficult. His identity would have to be confirmed by what was found in his pockets, and in the bag around his shoulder, and by the motorcycle key he was carrying and the motorcycle itself, registered in Tokyo, parked close by. The dead man was named John Rain, and the only clue to what happened to him would be a phone number in his pocket. A phone number Tatsu, as lead investigator, would naturally call, so that he could question the person on the other end of it. Did you know the victim? What was your relationship? Why was he carrying your phone number? Where were you when he was gunned down?
Of course, McGraw would claim to have no knowledge of me, and insist he had no idea why I would be carrying his phone number. No one would be able to prove otherwise, or even be much inclined to try, given his diplomatic immunity and likely connections. On top of which, I knew he’d have an alibi. After all, he had known there was going to be a murder in Ueno early this morning, and he was a careful man, a thorough man. Still, the pucker factor he would feel under Tatsu’s penetrating cop gaze and pointed questioning would help blind him to the real reason he was being interviewed: to provide unimpeachable, official police confirmation that I was dead. After which, he could rest easy. He would have no way of knowing news of my death had been greatly exaggerated.
Not until I told him myself.