Chapter 55

Never mind how gloomy Fushimi Shika felt—Minamoto Tamako was practically skipping.

She had it all planned out: the very first thing after reporting in would be to apologize to her new boss and explain why the senior who was supposed to pick them up hadn't come back. Compared to greeting rookies, the pompadoured driver clearly needed a hospital more.

Come to think of it, that pompadour guy looked familiar. Where had she seen him...? Oh—right. He was the driver who held the umbrella for Section Chief Kazama.

It felt good to run into an acquaintance at her new post; it made the prospect of patrol life even brighter. Bring on the hardship—she would wring every drop of meaning from each day!

Tamako's eyes sparkled. Even the stuffed rabbit officer in her arms sat a little straighter. She rolled her suitcase along, her rounded oxfords splashing through puddles as proudly as if she were walking a red carpet.

"Fushimi, why so down? Show some spirit!" She forged ahead, then glanced back. "It's our first day on the job—look alive!"

"Tch."

Now Fushimi understood why Squidward hated SpongeBob.

Still, he was here, and it was honest work. He'd grit his teeth and stick it out—for now. Deep down he nursed a small hope: if he got chummy with the boss, maybe he could pull strings and transfer to some sleepy koban. Bribery wasn't new to him; you just found out what the other person liked and made it happen.

One after the other they crossed the railroad tracks and stepped into the neighborhood. The light dimmed, buildings crammed so tight they almost touched, walls slathered with crude graffiti. The air stank of rotting leaves; faint weird laughter drifted over, as if a party were going on in a back alley.

Tamako noticed none of it. She gawked at everything, dazzled. So this was Tokyo—so punk, so stylish!

City folk could be snobs. Rumor had it Tokyoites sneered at Hokkaido bumpkins. The detective at the airport had certainly acted that way. When a pierced punk ambled past, Tamako whispered, "Don't stare. We'll look like hicks."

The moment the punk was gone, she peeked back anyway. He cleared his throat, spat a glob of phlegm, and casually smeared his dried gum right under the nose on a campaign poster. Wow—only in Tokyo could littering look like performance art.

They walked the main drag another block, turned at the intersection, and spotted the koban sign. The little building was a wreck, the nameplate scarred by what looked like knife scratches. At midday only a handful of pedestrians scurried past, heads down, footsteps hurried; the silence felt thick.

"Quiet place," Tamako murmured, climbing the steps.

The door was locked. She pushed, frowned. "Closed at noon? So lazy!"

Fushimi's eyes lit up. "Don't be rude. Seniors have their reasons. A closed koban in daylight? Pure genius—non-action governance. Lets citizens relax, keeps the neighborhood harmonious... ah, forget it, you wouldn't get it."

Suddenly the clouds parted for him. Of course—if law and order had gone to hell, the cops had probably given up. Why break your back for peanuts? Close shop and cash the paycheck—that was the life! He'd envied those ghost employees back in his last life, and now fate had dropped the same cushy gig in his lap.

Salary thief—I'm in!

The words were barely out when bolts rattled behind the door. Someone was on duty after all. Tamako parked her rabbit on the suitcase and snapped to attention, determined to make a good first impression.

The door creaked open.

Peering out was a haggard face—Kazama Takusai himself.

Half a year had passed since they'd last seen him, and the once-sharp section chief looked like a different species: stubble, tangled hair, bags under his eyes big enough to trap flies. For a moment neither cadet recognized him.

Recovering, Tamako saluted. "Patrol Officer Minamoto Tamako, ID TD035, reporting for duty!"

Kazama didn't blink; he'd already read the assignment orders. "No need for ceremony. Come in."

He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to look human.

"Sir, yes sir!" Tamako barked.

She dragged her suitcase into the front office. Papers overflowed the counter; the inner office was a graveyard of instant-noodle cups and empty energy-drink vials.

Kazama ran them through the paperwork—uniforms, caps, belts, radios, batons, cuffs, sidearms. Then he fished out a marker, tore the map off the whiteboard, and drew a circle. "Tamako, your beat."

"Eh? Already? No orientation, no area briefing?" She sounded small, suddenly afraid she'd sink.

"Briefing? Dorms are upstairs—second floor. Watanabe and I are on the third. The station chief rents off-site. Nothing else matters... Where's Watanabe, by the way?" He waved the question away. "Never mind. Point is, only three of us are on active duty. Keeping the peace is a stretch—no time for training."

He drew another, larger circle—twice Tamako's patch—and shoved the marker at the map. "Officer Fushimi, this is yours. Any complaints about you and I'll dock your pay."

Fushimi raised an eyebrow. Kazama yawned and added, "Look, we're stuck together, so let's be blunt: I'm not picking on you, and I'm not hazing you."

He circled a zone three times Fushimi's size. "This is Watanabe Shun's and my daily route, for reference. We're swamped."

Kazama capped the marker, slumped in his chair, and exhaled. "Official stuff's done. Now the personal—I owe you an apology. I was wrong to lock you up, wrong to think you were the killer. Forgive me or don't, but leave it at the door when we're on duty."

Fushimi studied him. "You were convinced I did it. What changed your mind?"

Kazama glanced at Tamako, leaned back, and said quietly, "Because the one who wrote 'Heaven's Punishment' has killed before—somewhere else. I checked. You have a rock-solid alibi."

There's another player in the game.