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Cop and Robber
RANK 17
Makoto strode through the precinct with purpose. Left. Right. Left again. And a final left.
She paused in front of a blocky grey door, wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt. She'd changed out of her uniform and submitted her resignation, but in civilian clothes, she felt unguarded, vulnerable. She'd never walked into this room out of uniform.
She stopped to breathe. Akira's hand gently brushed the small of her back.
"How're you feeling?"
Makoto smiled thinly. "Like I'm entering the lion's den."
He kissed her cheek. "You've got this."
She released her breath, nodded, and stepped into the interrogation room.
Large mirrors—reflective windows, she knew—covered a stretch of the wall. And at the table sat a trim, professional woman with immaculately combed silver hair.
At the sound of the door, the woman stood.
"Ah," said Niijima Sae. Then she suddenly sat back down, like she'd broken an unspoken rule. "Makoto. You're, you're here."
"Yes," said Makoto placidly. "I walked. From down the hall."
Sae was quiet for a moment. "How... are you?"
Makoto stared.
"You went missing for a while."
Makoto kept staring. Then she barked a quick, sharp laugh.
She'd gone missing for six days in the Black Mask case, she'd been shown as a potential execution victim on public television, and only now was Sae pretending to be worried. Maybe someone at work had criticized her, telling her to look after her family. Maybe some external pressure was forcing Sae to play the part of a caring sister.
"Let's just get this over with," said Makoto.
Niijima Sae's face was still. Pale, long fingers, the nails perfectly polished, rested on top of her laptop's keyboard, ready to strike.
Makoto silently sat. The air felt cold and damp in the interrogation room. It settled uneasily on her skin like a slimy coat.
"I'm here to pay my dues," Makoto said calmly. "Debrief of the Black Mask case."
"That's not what I'm here for."
That threw Makoto off. "What?"
Sae was quiet.
Makoto's face dawned. "You want a statement of induction as a criminal accomplice."
"You're not the one giving a statement today," said Sae harshly.
Makoto blinked. "Then who is?"
"Who else?"
Sae's voice trembled. Makoto didn't believe that it was genuine; it had to be forced, just another ploy. It wasn't genuine, it wasn't genuine, it wasn't—
"Where have you been?" Sae whispered.
She sounded worried. Not vaguely concerned, or distantly perturbed—worried, like she'd been hovering by the phone, like she'd been drilling Akechi for news on her little sister's whereabouts, like she'd been aggravated at a complete lack of contact.
Her voice was so small that Makoto almost believed it.
Almost.
"I went rogue for a week," said Makoto coolly. "This is the end of my police career. And that's if I'm lucky. Maybe I'll head to prison. Isn't that why you're here? To prosecute me?"
A muscle in Sae's jaw twitched, and Makoto almost—was it only almost?—felt bad.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" was all Sae said, still in that soft, vulnerable voice.
She only spoke like that when she had to swing the jury in her favor. That was it.
And after this meeting was over, after Prosecutor Niijima had pulled out the words she'd wanted, her face would completely clear, and she'd stand up, crisp and sharp, and she would say in that all-business, pristine tone: "This has been quite a productive session. Thank you for your time, Officer Niijima. I'll be seeing you in court."
So Makoto said the harshest thing she could. She was losing her grip on who she knew Sae to be. She needed to end this before she broke under the pressure.
"Am I hurt?" she repeated coldly. "It'd be better to hurt than to have to—"
And suddenly, like time stopped, her mouth froze.
She tried again.
Something in her, something deep and unchangeable, protested.
It'd be better to hurt than to have to be your sister.
She couldn't say it.
She was too weak. Prosecutor Niijima had already broken through her defenses.
Makoto swallowed, but the words wouldn't leave her mouth. They stayed there behind her teeth until they died on the tip of her tongue.
Instead: "Let's just continue onto business, Prosecutor."
Sae's eyes were unreadable, resting on Makoto. Then her movements were whiplike. Her hands snapped out and swiveled the laptop and the rubber grip pads squealed on the table and the screen was facing toward Makoto.
It was a blank document.
Makoto kept blinking, her mind confused.
Sae pushed the laptop until it was in front of Makoto, waiting.
"You type," she said curtly. "Write notes. Questions. Treat this like an interrogation."
"An interrogation?"
Sae said nothing.
Makoto's brow furrowed. "If this is an interrogation, then you should be the one typing."
Still nothing.
Uncertainly, Makoto placed her hands on the laptop's keyboard and waited.
Sae breathed deeply.
Then spoke.
"Tan pleated skirt. Dark brown jacket. Paisley tie."
Makoto's fingers began typing out of habit—then stopped. Her eyes widened.
No way.
"That," said Sae, and now her voice was firm without a hint of weakness, "was what you wore to your high school graduation."
A tiny flicker of hope, fragile as a firefly, warmed Makoto's chest. She crushed it by force of habit.
It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.
Makoto swallowed. "You looked up the uniforms."
"I was there," Sae said neutrally.
"You couldn't have been," Makoto snapped.
Sae reached into her pocket and slid something across the table—her smartphone. The browser was already open, and on its brilliant retina screen shone a Niconico video that was uploaded by a user named takamaki_ann.
Takamaki Ann?
The intern?
With shaking fingers, Makoto fumbled for the play button. It took her three attempts.
She recognized the school immediately. She'd attended there for three years. The uniforms. The flower bouquets. The widespread banner screaming in bold, bright letters, CONGRATULATIONS, CLASS OF 20XX!
Makoto's throat constricted, sore.
"Hey there, Niconico!" Takamaki Ann, seated on a dinky plastic chair, waved cheerily at the camera. "I'm here today with the famous Prosecutor, Niijima Sae. Filming this for evidence because she likes to pretend she's heartless and her cells are written in binary, but honestly, she's a huge softie when you get to know her. Just has a terrible way of expressing herself. Ironic for a lawyer, don't you think?"
"Put that away before I sue you for violating my civil right to privacy."
"In case you couldn't tell, her kind and gentle nature is a huge hit with the guys."
"Ann."
"Whup! Show's starting. Catch you guys later!"
The video glitched to black. As the cheery end tag played—"Subscribe for more! Next video: dining at a... cat restaurant?!"—Makoto's eyes raised to Sae's.
Red for red.
"I don't understand," Makoto whispered. She sounded stupid. She felt stupid.
"I was there," Sae said. Patiently. Easing Makoto into the idea.
"But I—I didn't see you."
Sae's face was unreadable. "You'd stopped looking."
Makoto felt winded. She was right. Of course she was right; Sae was always right. At some point, between the endless nights of eating by herself and the recitals with no one to cheer for her and the stellar report cards that had no one to frame them, Niijima Makoto had stopped looking for Niijima Sae.
The thought made her feel hollow inside.
So she latched onto a question. Any question. "What is Takamaki Ann doing here?"
Sae frowned, recollecting memories. "She was a student vlogger with a significant online presence. Eventually, a... distasteful company attempted to force her into underage pornography. She started a lawsuit. Through a series of happenstances, I became the prosecutor for that case."
"And that's how you met?"
"Yes. That's also when Ann quit vlogging. She was inspired by law enforcement and decided to look into police careers." Sae's mouth lifted into a grudging smile. "I suppose that over time, we became somewhat close."
"She was your mole."
Sae looked back evenly.
"That's how you knew I'd gone missing during the Munakawa case," said Makoto. "Ann was your eyes at the Shibuya Police Department."
"A mole takes orders," said Sae curtly. "Ann does nothing of the sort. In fact, more often than not, she tells me things I don't care to hear."
Like how her sister was doing.
Or was that something Sae cared to hear?
Makoto swallowed and returned her attention to the computer screen. She tabbed back to her neatly typed notes, closing the vlog window. "Continue."
Sae closed her eyes. "Navy skirt. Navy sailor top. A red tie, but with one end undone and threaded into your hair—just enough for your friends to notice, but not the school administration. That was the endearing hint of rebellion that you donned to your middle school graduation."
Makoto's fingers were frozen over the keyboard.
Sae... had been to her middle school graduation?
"Yellow hat. White blouse. Plaid skirt. You looked so excited at your elementary school graduation. You were always looking into the crowd. I know that you were looking for me." Sae opened her eyes. "But I... had to work late. I had to pay someone to take a video of you. And that... was the first time you were disappointed in me, I think. Truly disappointed."
It was. Despite Sae missing Girl's Festivals, birthdays, Christmases—she'd always believed that Sae would come to her graduation.
But then Sae hadn't.
And Makoto had learned to stop looking.
"And finally..." Sae swallowed. "Pink pajamas."
Painful white pulsed before Makoto's eyes.
"Stop," Makoto whispered.
"You were five, and it was a stormy night when you were wearing pink pajamas."
"Stop, Sae."
Sae's voice shook, but the traitorous words kept spilling from her mouth. "Niijima Makoto, you were five—"
—Makoto shook away two gunshots—
—two, not one—
"—when I saw you murder a man."
.
.
.
Sae raised her arm. In her hand gleamed the large, swelled-up shell of a concussion grenade.
"Get out," she said in a cold, clear voice, "or I'm blowing us all to hell."
Lightning, thunder, buffeting rain.
One of the men stepped forward, his clown mask leering down at her. She raised her chin, her hand clamping around the top of the grenade.
"This is not an empty threat," she said. "Leave, and keep your life."
The man reached out. He gripped the grenade and crushed it in his fingers. It fluttered to the ground—ragged scraps of paper maché.
A crafts project for school, and nothing more.
"You take me for a moron?" the man spat. "A cop wouldn't have a goddamn 'nade in his house."
Sae's eyes widened. Her small frame trembled, just once.
The man gripped her by the neck and stooped down. She choked, scrabbling frantically at his arms.
No no no.
Makoto moved.
She moved without intending to move, like a puppet yanked on a string. She burst out of the cabinet with an unholy scream, flailing toward the nearest man.
Her small, pudgy arms slapped his hand upward.
Her fingers braced around his trigger finger.
The muzzle of his gun swiveled right to his comrade—right to the man who was holding Sae.
Click.
There was white light. A deafening shot.
Blood lathed the walls. The headless form of a man collapsed on the floor.
Makoto screamed, kept screaming. She looked like a wild thing, a wraith, her hair swinging limply in front of her face and her eyes rolling in her skull. The remaining men screamed with her. They wrenched their guns away and tore out the front door, fleeing from the pealing sirens down the road.
And Niijima Makoto, five years old and a murderer, slumped to the ground.
.
.
.
Makoto's hands braced over her head.
The investigation room was silent, devoid of all noise except her own heavy breathing.
Sae watched her, tears lining her eyes.
"Why?" Makoto whispered brokenly. "Why..."
Sae bit her lip. "I know it was a painful memory. I'm sorry."
"I thought... I thought that was why you hated me. Because... I killed someone. I was bad." And she hadn't wanted to remember it. She'd wanted to forget that it had ever happened.
"No. Oh, Makoto, no, no." Sae stood, her face broken. "Please understand. We were young, with very few relatives, none of whom could take in two little girls. So social security wanted to distribute us. They wanted to send us to orphanages or foster homes... but separately."
A chill ran up Makoto's spine, and a piece of information that she'd been missing fell into place. "Social security."
"Our mother was gone. Our father had been shot dead." Niijima Sae's eyes were wet—or at least, they looked wet in the investigation light. "You would have found a home in the blink of an eye. A small, cute little girl with good manners and a charming smile. But me, I was twelve. I was foul-mouthed and strong-willed. No one would want me. You would have left me, Makoto, and I was scared—scared that you wouldn't just leave, but that you would forget me, and I would be alone, really alone. It was selfish. Completely selfish."
Niijima Sae had wanted Makoto. She had always wanted Makoto.
The tears that had bundled in Makoto's eyes finally spilled over. She cradled her face in her hands, barely holding back her ugly sobs.
She was wanted, she was wanted, she was wanted.
"I made a deal with one of our distant uncles," Sae said shakily. "He'd sign on as our official guardian, and in return—I'd work. I'd work hard, and I'd repay him on loans. So I worked as hard as I could. Part-time jobs. Law school. I had to pay him off quickly, and then, then we could be happy. We could do all those things you wanted to do. Hiking. Hawaii. Destinyland."
"I didn't want Destinyland," Makoto sobbed. "I just wanted you."
Sae rounded the table and gathered Makoto in her arms. Makoto gripped her blazer.
And there they stood in the interrogation room, clinging to each other, bawling like idiots.
Sorry, one said, or maybe both. Sorry, I'm sorry.
Shut up, I'm more sorry.
Crackling giggles, teary smiles.
—for home is not a building—
Finally, Sae settled back, but her hands still rested on Makoto's shoulders. There was a true sparkle in her eye, something that couldn't be credited to the overhead fluorescent.
"Makoto," said Sae, "why don't we go out for sushi? And this time... let's take our time."
Makoto nodded, beaming through her teary eyes. Her grin radiated light.
"While we're there, sis... I have someone I want you to meet."
.
.
.
Kurusu Akira smiled.
Niijima Sae glared back.
"Sis," said Makoto, "this is Akira. My, um, fiancé. Akira, this is Sae. My sister."
"I'm aware," Sae bit out.
"We've met," Akira supplied.
"Yes, you've seen each other," said Makoto, "but that doesn't mean you've met. Meeting involves seeing each other as a person. Not an enemy. Or someone to mindgame. Or a potential criminal."
Sae glared at Akira.
Akira grinned back.
"Sis," said Makoto neutrally, "I want you to start seeing him as my future husband. Not... you know, an ex-suspect. Who was acquitted. Just saying. And Akira—"
"I'm being perfectly cordial, Majesty."
"Stop being unnecessarily annoying just to piss her off."
Akira's grin dropped.
"Good. Now... why don't we order some sushi?"
.
.
.
"So. Kurusu. What do you like about my sister?"
"Her money. And looks. That's it."
"Akira!"
"What? She's clearly bent on criticizing me no matter what answer I give."
"Kurusu. Try again. Or I'll snap your tailbone in two."
"Ouch. In that case... Because she shot me. Four times, in fact."
"Sis? Put the knife down. Sis?"
.
.
.
"So, Prosecutor Niijima, what do you like to do in your free time?"
"Indict criminals."
"Don't you do that for work?"
"I do it in my free time, too. Like now. Come with me."
"Sis."
.
.
.
"You guys really need to find a common point."
"Wouldn't that common point be you, Majesty? Namely, that we both love you?"
"Kurusu, I'll be honest. I still can't tell if you're really serious about Makoto."
"What would convince you?"
"Probably nothing."
"Well, there's the problem."
.
.
.
Dinner had successfully passed without injury or serious psychological damage, which was, in Makoto's book, a win.
Over the meal, Akira and Sae's tension of cat-and-mouse had dulled into something like inventive bickering. Makoto could tell that they were starting to respect each other, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
After all, aside from Makoto, the major common point they both had was scathing wit.
But then the bill came.
"I'll cover this one, Prosecutor," Akira said smoothly. He swiped the bill with a deft motion.
Sae's gaze was cold and unimpressed. "The only thing worse than a man with no money... is an irresponsible man with no money."
Her hand snapped for the bill, but Akira juggled it to his other hand. He slid in his credit card—premium black with shiny gold edges and most certainly not befitting of a minimum wage café owner—and tossed it to the waiter without hesitation.
Sae gaped.
Akira smiled. "If it puts your heart at ease, Prosecutor, shall I show you my retirement fund?"
"Don't," said Makoto tiredly. "She'll just investigate you for embezzlement."
"Never mind. I humbly retract my offer."
Sae remained agape, her jaw stretched in bewilderment.
And Makoto laughed, clear and bright.
