Mogi
"Everything sure is getting crazy," Matsuda commented, watching Aizawa march away to find Ide. "What is up with those two?"
One more time, I reviewed the footage of Tero in the hall, making particular note of his body language, since it seemed to be nearly the only clear thing we could glean from the video, and I got out my phone to take a few things down.
"I've never seen them fight so bad, have you? I mean, I guess I've seen them have little spats here and there, but nothing like this, yelling at each other every single day." From the sound of his tone, Matsuda didn't have any real interest in the rift between Aizawa and Ide, outside his natural inclination to enjoy drama in any shape, and I got the feeling he hadn't even put enough thought into their behavior to form any real conclusions on the subject. In fact, it seemed as though he all but forgot they were at odds until they started bickering in front of him.
But I did wonder about it.
Today, Ide had outright defied his chief, and even though Aizawa hadn't said much about it, I'd been able to tell how much that truly troubled him from the permanent scowl he'd worn all morning and the way he muttered under his breath about, as he put it, stupid Hideki.
Apparently, Ide had chosen to prioritize keeping a personal eye on Matsuda rather than put his full focus into our efforts to locate the death note, and even though, given the circumstances, I understood why, it did concern me that it would only make this more difficult. With any luck, they'd have a reasonable conversation, and Aizawa would manage to rein him in.
In the meantime, we had gotten lucky with this footage, not just of some accomplice or hired gun, but of the alleged mastermind behind the plot, so my best recourse, despite my concern, was to focus completely on my own objective.
Tero appeared to be young and well-groomed, outside of having rebelliously long hair, roguish, almost, in unbuttoned shirt and open blazer. Completely self-possessed, he strode up the hall, not so much as glancing off his shoulder, he paid no mind to the camera, either unaware of it or unconcerned by it entirely, and not once did he hesitate, even as he unlocked the door. He must be familiar with Chiyuuda's clinic, either from casing the place prior—which I highly doubted, after my own tour there—or else from working there. At the moment, I found it most likely that he had been and might still be one of their employees.
"I don't get what the bickering is all about," Matsuda announced, leaning back in his chair. "It doesn't help us, and it sounds like they're fighting about a bunch of nothing."
"They're worried about you," I explained, finishing my notes and turning to a fresh page.
The way Matsuda studied me, he'd all but forgotten anyone had cause to be concerned for him. "I guess. I'm just saying, if they want to help, they need to get it together."
That they did, but I merely nodded. "What can you tell me about Tero?"
"Not very much," Matsuda admitted, after another pause. "I don't think any of his guys are Japanese, but he seemed to be. He knew a lot about Tokyo—sometimes he made it sound like he grew up right down the street from me—but I don't know if he's actually from around here. He just talked about a lot of the places I used to go as a kid, and even the places I go now, like he'd been talking to my sisters, or maybe my mom."
I guessed that might have been some play at getting in Matsuda's head, making him doubt the people in his life and chipping away at him in an effort to uncover details about the notebook.
Tonelessly, he went on. "There's something strange about him. He acts like you're best friends, even if he's hurting you. Like it's all just a game to him."
"Sounds like a sociopath."
"Textbook," he agreed, and leaned forward to study the blurry image again. "You think this'll be enough to help catch him?"
I couldn't help taking my eyes off my notes to watch him a moment, wondering if it mattered to him whether or not we caught Tero.
"Depends. It'll be more helpful if you can ID him in a court of law."
"This is definitely him," Matsuda confirmed, icily. "I have no idea what he'd be doing in a place like that, though. He was careful not to give away any personal details. Except…"
He paused, and his jaw moved as his tongue felt the inside of his damaged mouth.
"Except?" I prompted, out of sheer impatience.
"A couple times, he mentioned his family and how disappointed they are. I could tell he came from money, but he's probably too young to have made it by himself, so I got the feeling his parents still support him, even though he talks like he's let them down."
I backed up the footage and watched Tero stride down the hall once more, thinking again of how comfortable he looked there, how unworried and familiar, not at all the typical thief, racing the clock, who'd stolen an access card and barely knew where he was going.
Come to think of it, when I'd reviewed the list of researchers Chiyuuda had given me, I'd noticed one of them had shared his family name. Takashi Chiyuuda.
"I see," I murmured.
"I don't," Matsuda snorted. "What difference does any of that make?"
"When you don't know your perpetrator, your only choice is to try to understand who he is based off the clues he leaves behind."
Pensively, Matsuda stared at the screen. "I do know Tero," he explained, a little quieter. "He's unpredictable, and he's sick; he doesn't have a purpose. His chaos never stops." Somberly, he looked up at me, and I couldn't help staring at the cuts and bruises on his face. "Just because he got what he wanted doesn't mean he's done."
"We've seen no sign that he's after you," I reminded him, simply because, had he been normal, Matsuda would have been worried about that.
"No, but if I had to guess, wherever he is, he's still doing something completely twisted."
"Besides having the notebook, you mean."
Folding his arms, Matsuda nodded. "If he really wanted me dead, he could write my name down any time now. I think that means he's after something else, I just don't know what."
All the more reason to solve this quickly.
I got up, tucking my phone into my coat pocket and retrieving the security footage to take with me.
"You stay here," I instructed, even though I knew full-well he'd ignore me if it suited him.
"Kay," he agreed, colorlessly.
It occurred to me that it might be worthwhile to take him with me, in case Chiyuuda or one of his team could make an assessment about the state of his mind, but Aizawa had told me one of the NPA doctors had looked at him already, and I doubted Matsuda would be willing to sit still long enough to go through a subsequent evaluation, and in a delicate conversation with Chiyuuda, his energy might prove only to be a distraction. No, he'd best stay with the chief.
Before I could leave the office, old Danuja appeared once more, looking doubly sour compared to earlier. "Where is that man now?" she rasped.
Not knowing, I shrugged.
"He's around," Matsuda chimed in. "Maybe in the bathroom puking up the salad you ordered him."
"Tasteless as always, Otouto-kun," Danuja sniffed, with an air of motherly disapproval, and thrust a small box into my hands. "This came for him. Just one more thing for him to ignore, I suppose."
As she stomped away, I glanced at Matsuda. "Otouto-kun, now?"
"Yeah, some of them call me that," he muttered, like he could hardly be bothered to think about the particulars of his old life. "Not sure why."
I had a reasonable guess; given the way the chief obviously favored him, it wasn't difficult to deduce whose little brother he was supposed to be. Distractedly, I wondered if Aizawa knew he'd failed that badly in separating his personal feelings from his official obligations.
Trying to keep on track, I studied the package, but other than Aizawa's name written on it, it was blank. I doubted he'd be ignoring that.
I placed it tentatively to my ear, listening for any sound that it might be a bomb, though it was far too late for that, and the fact that Danuja brought it to me with no trouble likely meant it was safe.
With a sigh, I set it down on the desk, and even though I knew it meant about as much as my instruction to stay behind, I looked seriously at Matsuda and warned him, "Under no circumstances are you to open that."
Perhaps I made a mistake though. At first, Matsuda leaned on his fist, as if he couldn't care less that Aizawa had received a package, but as soon as I spoke those words, his gaze flickered up to meet mine, taking on an air of interest, and then he grabbed up the box. "What is it?"
"The chief's mail. Do not open it."
"This isn't mail," he murmured, tracing a finger over the bright red kanji written on the top.
"Please don't open it," I repeated, one last time, "and please stay right here."
"Okay, Mogi," he answered, but in the same, careless tone he'd been using on the others, and I knew it was merely lip service. And then he sat up straighter. "Aizawa and Ide are coming back up here, right?"
"I would assume so." After all, he shouldn't be left unattended for long.
Matsuda nodded, still running his fingers along the box, and then asked, somewhat quieter, "What are you going to do to make them stop fighting?"
It shouldn't be odd coming from our peacekeeper—normally, he wouldn't like to see them fight—but the fact that he was looking to me to intercede in such a detail was unusual, a jolting revelation that he did in fact care.
"I can't do anything," I explained, carefully. "But you can."
He lifted a puzzled look to me.
"Stay right here, and when they come back, do what they tell you."
Matsuda frowned.
"This would be much easier on everyone, if you'd do as you're told."
Slowly, he nodded. "Right."
Having done all I could, I headed out, happened to meet Aizawa and Ide in the lobby, so at least I got a chance to warn them about the package and to explain where I was going. I considered mentioning Matsuda's concerns over their sudden strain, but that might only distress them more, and in any case, they scrambled away, quickly, although, if I had to guess, Matsuda would have that box open by the time they reached him, and I walked out to my rental, lost in thought.
Receiving a package with no return address amidst a troubling case was never a welcome sign, but at least it might provide more evidence we could use in building our case. Matsuda's projections about Tero did us no good unless we could catch the man, and at the moment, I had no clear idea of how to achieve that, I simply knew, with every breath I drew, that my life depended on this.
I wished that it didn't. Each moment I spent with Matsuda showed me more and more that he was, in fact, incredibly confused, running wild with no direction, senselessly ignoring our concerns, and after the research I'd done at the lab, I felt surer than ever that he was in a worse state than I'd originally thought.
Even if Tero used a mind control technique to suppress his emotions, he couldn't have done that thorough of a job, and I got the sense it had been more an experiment than anything, with technology he didn't fully understand, leaving Matsuda warped, not unemotional, but incapable of emoting the things he did feel. Even his bewilderment over Aizawa and Ide's rough patch seemed to indicate that it troubled him, as it would, to see them at odds, to know it was all because of something that had happened to him—something he'd done, as he would put it—and although he was trying to comprehend that, he didn't appear to be capable of understanding their duress. Logically, he should be able to observe their actions, as I had, listen to their words, and put together the fact that they were going out of their minds with worry over his condition, and logically, he should respect that, cede to their wishes, even if it was only as a subordinate, and take a step back.
He couldn't, though. His directive wouldn't let him, his emotions couldn't interfere, and where normal Matsuda would be screaming at them by this time, please stop fighting about me, warped Matsuda could do little more than stand aside and try to piece together why their bickering should garner even a fraction of his attention when he had the notebook to deal with.
What a terrible existence. The fact that he couldn't so much as comprehend the full-scope of exactly how atrocious this thing that had happened to him was made it all the more horrific to me.
In less than two days of working on the case, I'd decided, once and for all, I couldn't leave him that way.
Aizawa and Ide would help him, of course, if they could, but being that their own emotions seemed to be badly interfering with their judgment, it worried me they might not be able to.
That, again, seemed to leave me torn between getting my own life back on track and helping Matsu.
Climbing into my car, I remembered the way Near had chided me already for allowing feelings to interfere with duty, but I wondered if he truly understood my position.
No, of course not. Near had emotional depth, so of course he could understand my position, were I to explain it to him. Possibly, if I told him about what had become of Matsuda, he'd be more understanding, take some of the pressure off me, agree to help in the investigation. With his connections around the world, he might know some way, even, to help Matsuda.
I'll have to look into it.
If Matsuda died over this, that would be a tremendous blow to take, even if I never returned to Japan again.
In mid-reach for the ignition, I paused, staring curiously at the glass on my floor, and then glancing at once to the windshield, where a jagged hole hung just below the rearview, a crack meandered directly across my line of sight, and more glass sparkled on the dash. It looked like a bullet hole, and judging by its position, it had narrowly missed hitting the driver in the head.
That explained, in part, why Ide had behaved so erratically upstairs. He'd almost died, and unlike Matsuda, he had the full range of emotions still to actually process that reality.
If Aizawa found out, he'd be furious that the two of them had come so close to throwing their lives away for clues that didn't matter.
Lucky for me, at least, I had renter's insurance.
Shaking my head and pushing down the sick feeling in my stomach, I started the car.
At once, ferocious growling poured from the speakers, startling me so bad I jumped, and then lunged to fumble with the volume dial.
"Ide," I muttered under my breath. I should have known better than to let him drive my car.
I realized I'd been holding my breath and released it loudly. At least the two of them were alive, but with Matsuda bent on doing things his own way, and Ide determined to look after him even to the detriment of his personal well-being and relationship with Aizawa, that could change in the blink of an eye. If something happened to them, I doubted Aizawa would be able to manage the guilt that would set in, and he might follow them to the grave.
Although I'd never seen Near wrong before, I simply could not believe any of them had been involved in this plot to steal the notebook, and what's more, I'd seen absolutely no sign of it. Why, then, had Near made such an assumption based on such a small amount of data? And why had he not only chosen to stay out of the case, but to leave it in the hands of people he supposedly didn't trust?
There must be something more.
I touched the security tape lying in my lap. We really needed this evidence.
Setting the radio on my usual jazz station, I drove back to the clinic.
Unfortunately, though, despite Chiyuuda's willingness to meet with me, cooperate, answer my questions, and even view the footage, little could be learned, and no sooner had he seen it, he said, "I'm terribly sorry, Detective. I don't know who that man is."
I studied him, thinking he'd come up with that response all too readily, as if he'd known, even before seeing the perp, what he was going to say.
"You understand," I told him, "that this is a very serious matter."
"Oh, of course! And I do wish I could be of better service! But… Alas!" He threw his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.
"This could be one of your employees," I pointed out. "We need a positive ID."
"Yes, but…again… I don't think it is."
"Then, do you think someone happened into your facility and just found the right room to steal that GPS? In the middle of business hours?"
"That does seem unlikely," he admitted, miserably.
"Could this be a patient?"
"Ah, no. Certainly not."
"You're positive?"
"Yes, Mr. Mogi. I know all our patients personally."
Frustrated, I backed the footage up again and paused it. "Please look hard, Chiyuuda-san. I understand if you don't want to implicate a member of your staff, but without your cooperation, you risk becoming an accessory to assault, at the very least."
His bushy brows knit together as he studied the screen.
"Assault against a police officer," I added. Sometimes, that prompted people to reconsider their position.
"I'm terribly sorry." He shot an apologetic look at me over the top of his glasses. "I really don't recognize that man."
Suppressing a sigh, I stood back and stared at the thief a while, trying to understand, why, assuming he was, he'd lie to me, but only one thing came to mind, an obvious truth I had no clear way of getting around.
Had he hit this wall, Aizawa would explode. He'd shout at Chiyuuda, threaten him with all sorts of charges, intimidate him into cooperating, but I'd never been that sort of detective.
"You consider this to be a family organization, correct?" I asked in a while.
"Yes, yes, as I've said. We're all like family here."
"But a number of your own family members work here with you, don't they? Your wife, for example."
"My family built this company," he agreed. "We've always ran it together."
"Do you have children, Doctor Chiyuuda?"
Ostensibly bothered, he gazed into my eyes. "Only one."
"Does your child help in the family business at all?"
Chiyuuda hesitated, wringing his hands. "Well…he's never seemed all that interested, to be honest. My son has lived a somewhat wayward life."
After what Matsuda had told me in Aizawa's office, that as much as confirmed it for me. There would be facts to check up on—business records and such—to see if I could make any correlations between the Chiyuuda famly and the basic outline Matsuda had given me of Tero, but even without that, I felt convinced.
"Why do you ask?"
"This is very much official business," I explained, "but in some ways, you might also view it as a family matter."
"I see," he said, although I could tell he didn't really.
"The NPA is a tight-knit group," I expanded. "For some of us, it's the only family we have."
That had never been my situation. After fifteen years at the NPA, there had, of course, been officers I'd been fond of, but I'd done well to keep my feelings professional, and it hadn't been until I'd joined Near and had to leave everyone I knew behind that I'd realized just how connected I honestly felt to my fellow taskforce members. Not enough to stay in Japan, obviously, and yet, having practically lived with them for six years, perhaps it would be odd if the sentiments between us didn't mimick the bond of family.
We'd given up nearly everything else. Ide and Matsuda had hardly dated, and the only woman I'd spent time with had been Misa Amane. Aizawa's marriage had come close to falling apart. We'd worked holidays and weekends. We'd given up our homes and our hobbies and our interests. We'd seen one another far more frequently than we had anyone else, and then, when it finally ended, we'd found ourselves in a position of estrangement, unable to connect with, confide in, or trust anyone outside of each other.
This Tero character had dug into that when he questioned Matsuda, and he'd discovered a way to use it to get the death note. Despite the fact that I'd been halfway around the world at the time, it had worked, and it did feel strangely like someone had turned my own brother against me.
Could anyone, even Near, fault me for feeling that way?
"That's very noble," Chiyuuda commented, and I realized I'd been silent a moment too long.
I cleared my throat to go on. "As I've mentioned, several times, this stolen GPS, this research your company conducted, and this young man," I pointed to the thief on the screen, "have all played a part in a severe case of assault against one of our warrant officers. Therefore, the chief of police is handling the case himself."
"As he should," Chiyuuda murmured.
"Depending on what more we uncover, you'll meet my chief. Most would not call him a pleasant man, and he is taking this situation personally."
Chiyuuda frowned.
"You have an opportunity, Doctor, to help me, here and now, before my chief shuts down your organization and hauls you in for questioning."
At that, his face paled, blanching almost completely white.
"I'm sure you have some idea of the procedure that would require. Needless to say, your employees would be out of work indefinitely. Your patients would have to seek help elsewhere. Any and all research done would have to be postponed and thoroughly investigated. It could go on for years, and your name will be irreparably tarnished by the time it ends; if he so much as suspects you've played a role—even complicitly—in the harm of one of his men, Chief Aizawa will make this as unpleasant for you as possible."
"Well." After a pause, Chiyuuda drew himself up. "Be that as it may, I would tell your chief exactly what I've told you. I don't know who this person is. That's all there is to it, Detective."
Finally, I sighed. Intimidation hadn't worked, possibly due to my calm delivery, but I got the feeling it wouldn't have worked for Aizawa either. This man, as best I could tell, was trying to defend his own family.
"I'm terribly sorry, Detective," he said in a while, with an air of sincerity.
I nodded. It didn't matter anyway. Once we caught Tero, Matsuda would be able to ID him on the video, and whether Chiyuuda happened to be connected with him or not would decide the fate of his company. In my opinion, he was simply prolonging the inevitable. My immediate concern was that, without his ID today, we'd have to find some new avenue for locating Tero in the first place. I had really hoped to get a name, possibly even an address, from Chiyuuda.
"There's one last thing," I said, before we left the security office. "And perhaps…in light of everything I just said, it's inappropriate, but…" I shook my head. "Really, it's personal, just between you and I."
Chiyuuda looked warily at me.
"The victim has been badly altered, and as best I can tell, it's because someone experimented on him with the mind control research you and I discussed yesterday."
His face, which had only just recovered its color, went white again, and as he averted his gaze, pressing a hand to his brow, I thought he might pass out.
"How that might play out for you and your company remains to be seen, but I'd like to know, for my own interests, if you know a way to undo that…programming."
"I suppose it depends," he whispered. "As I've said, I didn't have anything to do with that research, so I wouldn't have an answer for that off the cuff."
"If you spoke with the victim, could you make that assessment? Or someone from that team, possibly?"
"I believe…" he heaved a sigh, "that would turn out to be a conflict of interest. Especially after everything you've said today."
And so, it appeared, the Aizawa method had shut a perfectly good window of opportunity.
"It might help. If you're willing to help us…a jury would look favorably on that."
"That's assuming I'm ever implicated." He fixed his tie and then his hair, suddenly. "I'm afraid I don't have any more time for you today. Good afternoon, Detective."
Turning on his heel, he strode out, but I stayed a moment longer, thinking.
At least the trail hadn't turned completely cold; Chiyuuda stubbornly refused to acknowledge the involvement of his company, but some digging into his family and assets could reveal answers I'd come looking for.
In the end, should I feel sympathy for someone who'd played a passive role in this situation?
Even if I did, it wouldn't matter. I'd meant every word I said—when Aizawa found out Doctor Chiyuuda's own child might be responsible for the damage done to Matsuda, I knew he'd come down on this place with the full force of his power, and being that his power remained a thing he had yet to fully grasp, I assumed Chiyuuda's clinic would be destroyed.
Perhaps, though, some good could come of that, if Aizawa's pressure convinced Chiyuuda to help Matsuda.
I'm being pessimistic again, I chided myself, on the way out the door. When we catch Tero, I have no doubt Aizawa will apply plenty of pressure to him in the way of fixing Matsuda.
At my rental, I hesitated, fumbling with the keys and thinking. Part of me didn't feel like meeting up with the others, and I'd much rather find a quiet place to process and reflect than go back to warped Matsuda or witness Aizawa and Ide falling out. Then again, though, my presence might be paramount now to holding the team together, and I thought, despite the fact that it was unlike me to insert myself into other people's drama, possibly I should at least attempt to mediate between Aizawa and Ide, if only to prevent them from complicating the investigation.
While I stood on the side of the road, debating the issue, the white Subaru I'd seen yesterday flashed by and rounded the corner. This time, I got just enough of a glimpse of its license plate to know for a fact that it was the same car.
Sayu
From down the block, Tachi and I watched the police station, but everything there looked normal, officers carrying on with their usual coming and going, and absolutely no sign that anything dastardly might be afoot.
"I don't understand why we're doing this." I turned to Tachi, who leaned back against the planter box, standing in the shade of budding maple trees.
"To try and help Touta," he reminded me, casually.
"Yeah, I know that part, but I don't see the purpose of sneaking around. Why can't you just give this to Aizawa?" I waved the box he'd handed me at him. No larger than a deck of playing cards, he'd left it completely plain, aside from writing Aizawa's name on it, and when I shook it, something made of plastic rattled loosely inside.
Tachi's piercing eyes watched me, refusing to blink. "Please keep that out of sight, Sayu. I think I'm being followed now."
"Who's following you?" I demanded, slipping the box back into the pocket of Touta's jacket, quickly, and then scanned the street, but I knew enough to realize if someone was watching us, they wouldn't be obvious about it. "The people who kidnapped Touta?"
"Well, it could be," Tachi agreed, with a thoughtful air, "but I suspect it's one of my superiors. I've deviated too far from my mission by going after the information in that box."
"They don't want you to have it, then?"
Gravely, he nodded. "Well, more to the point, they don't want Chief Aizawa to have it. If I try to meet with him at all, they'll know what I'm doing."
Even after speaking with Tachi every day all week, the real details of his mission remained murky, I couldn't even guess at whether or not he had the ability to contact or see Aizawa, who honestly he worked for, or who'd sent him to look after me.
"That's why," he explained, in a careful voice, "you can't let anyone see that you have it. You just have to take it upstairs. To the proper department."
Again, I looked up at the station, watching the sun glitter off its hundreds of windows and trying to pick out which floor I thought was the correct department—my father's old department. I'd been here more times than I could remember, but since Dad died, I didn't know if I could stand to go inside, and I didn't want to.
I heard Tachi's expensive shoes scuff the concrete as he moved in closer, and then his breath fluttered on my neck while his voice whispered in my ear, "Don't be nervous. It's perfectly natural for you to come here, especially since you're looking for your fiancé—no one will question it—but they will question where this package came from and how you got your hands on it."
"What should I tell them? I don't even know what's in it."
"It's best that you don't know. In fact, it's probably best if you don't talk to anyone at all."
I couldn't help frowning at him, but he looked dead serious about that part, even the easygoing smile he normally wore missing. "How am I supposed to give it to Aizawa if I can't talk to anyone?"
"You're smart, Sayu." He lay a hand on my shoulder. "I know you can do it."
"Yeah, but," I faced him, just stalling now. "You said we can't trust Aizawa. Why are you suddenly trying to give him information?"
Tachi sighed, like it was all very difficult to think about, and he spent a few moments adjusting his stance, studying the station, and then looking around the street, before he finally said, "I told you I don't know if we can trust Aizawa. I don't know if we can trust anyone." He shook his head, sadly. "That is, I know I can trust you, Sayu, and I promise you can trust me, but outside of that, I'm afraid we're on our own."
All because of the death note. It had begun to look like Light hadn't stopped at taking my father and fiancé away from me; thanks to him, I'd lost the entire NPA. Even the detectives I'd known all my life. Even the ones who'd cried at my father's funeral.
Tachi gestured, vaguely, to the pocket where I'd placed the box. "Regardless of where Chief Aizawa stands, he needs that information, Sayu." He looked pleadingly into my eyes. "It could change his mind, get him back on our side, or, at least, ensure that he stays on our side."
I was careful not to touch that pocket, not wanting to let on to what it concealed, but I watched the bright spark of earnestness in Tachi's eyes.
"Once he sees that," he went on, lowly, "I have reason to believe we might be able to start trusting him again, and if that happens, he'll, hopefully, let you see Matsuda."
Heart hammering in my throat, I choked out, "You…really think so?"
"I do," he confirmed at once. "I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think it might help. I—"
He stopped suddenly, jerking his chin toward the station, eyes narrow, and I looked over my shoulder to see a single man standing just at the entrance, struggling to light a cigarette and muttering to himself. It looked like Ide.
Accordingly, Tachi pulled me back, crouching down behind the planter box and leaning around it to watch Ide.
I kept my eyes on him also, but he looked extremely agitated, jacketless, stomping back and forth in front of the door and smoking obsessively, continuing to talk to himself. I'd never seen cool, aloof Hideki Ide act that way.
When I told Tachi as much, he hissed back at me, "Yeah, me neither."
I remembered, from my childhood, how Ide and Aizawa had always been together, the way they exchanged looks only the two of them could read, and how they sometimes finished each other's sentences. Since I'd started dating Touta, I rarely saw them apart; they still communicated about ninety percent without words, and they still completed each other's sentences, but with my newfound adult perspective, I'd come to realize that meant they knew each other ridiculously well—better than some married couples did—so they'd obviously spent the last twenty years attached at the hip.
I remembered that Eriko had mentioned Ide's role of shielding Aizawa from any questions he didn't want to answer, and I had no doubt that if the chief was doing something he shouldn't be, Ide would be helping him simply for the sake of his personal feelings, but that didn't mean he'd like it.
I whispered to Tachi, "If Aizawa's doing something illegal, it would be really hard on Ide."
Solemnly, Tachi nodded.
As we were watching, Ide slowly ran out of steam, and then leaned back against the wall of the building to finish his cigarette and start another. Not long after that, Aizawa himself arrived, picking his way tentatively toward Ide. Side by side, they murmured indistinguishably to one another.
My heart sank as I studied them. I wanted to run up to them and tell them everything, ask them for the truth, and even if they just patted me on the head, told me nothing, and sent me away with empty promises that everything would be all right, I just wanted to feel like they were on my side, standing in for the father I'd lost.
And then I felt angry. They should be helping me, if only out of respect for Dad. Even after they'd promised my mother at Dad's funeral that they would be there, no matter what, to look after us, I couldn't go to them for help.
How would my father feel, I wondered suddenly, to know his little girl couldn't turn to two men he'd always trusted and cared about?
"This is your chance," Tachi hissed. His eager eyes met mine, red clashing with green as the hair fell in his face. "You know the back way in, don't you?"
"Yeah. I can slip in through the parking garage, but if they catch me inside—"
"Just tell them you're looking for Matsuda, and we'll try again later. Now go. Go."
"Okay," I murmured, steeling my nerves and taking a few deep breaths. "Okay…"
"Sayu!" Tachi pushed me, and I stumbled to my feet, trying to look casual and move quickly as I went for the corner of the building, glancing hurriedly at Aizawa and Ide, but also trying not to draw attention to myself.
Once I'd gotten around the corner, I loped for the parking garage, ducking through a gap in the wall to avoid the security booth. Light had showed me that when we were kids and we used to play here, waiting for Dad to get off work. It wasn't a place for children, but everyone had looked the other way for the chief.
Can't think about any of that now.
As I neared the entrance to the building, I slowed my pace and kept my head down, again, trying to act natural. Police came and went, heading out to their cruisers, or coming back from a site. A few gave me curious looks, but nobody stopped me. They might recognize me, but even if they didn't, I was just a little girl—nothing to be concerned about.
Inside, everything had stayed just as I remembered it—old but well-cared for floors and walls, bright lights, and austere colors. I could almost see my brother and I, chasing each other down the hall, laughing and racing. So many times, I'd walked this very way with my father, excitedly telling him all about my day, or my plans for the summer, while he gave me that indulging smile and reminded me to take my studies seriously. Such a kind and honest man.
Kind, honest men seemed few and far between these days; I'd been lucky to meet Tachi, I realized, but I still refused to believe that my kind and honest man could have turned against everything he believed in, jeopardizing everything he was supposed to protect.
It just wasn't possible. I had to believe that the next time I saw him, once I'd explained everything, he'd be outraged by it all. He'd be angry with Aizawa and Ide for not helping me, he'd hold me, and he'd make everything all right.
No. I can't think about any of that either.
At a quick but inconspicuous pace, I clipped down the hall and into the main part of the building. There, I paused to look first at the receptionist, who paid no attention to me, and then at the entrance, half-expecting Aizawa and Ide to walk in at any second.
They wouldn't hurt me, though, right? Even if they'd betrayed their vows to uphold and protect the law, even if they weren't going to help me, they'd never do anything to me…
I don't know. I haven't got enough information.
Aizawa had said they lied about the death note to protect my mother and I. He and Ide had information that could ruin my life.
With another deep breath, I slipped quietly across the lobby to the elevator, but changed my mind and dove into the stairwell instead.
I ran up a several flights of stairs, and then burst out again, checking my surroundings. I didn't know what department I was in, but it wasn't the right one, so I slunk to the elevator, jamming the button, and waiting impatiently, a little afraid of who might be standing there when the doors opened.
Tachi had said if I ran into Aizawa and Ide, I should tell them I was looking for Touta, but that was easier said than done when I was so angry with them. If I came face to face with them, I didn't know if I'd be able to keep from yelling at them, and I was worried that, if I started talking, everything would slip out.
I just can't believe they're not trustworthy…
Those men worked with my father. They helped bring Kira to justice. They'd worked tirelessly to protect the notebook. I couldn't imagine what it would take to turn them. Money? Some threat? Promises of power? Maybe something too dark to even dream of…
What could be good enough to betray my father over?
Luckily, the elevator was empty, and I got on, trying to slow my breathing and the wild beat of my heart by clenching the box in my pocket. This was all to get Touta back—to help a man I knew to be good—anything was worth that to me.
If I find you, I promise not to pry or ask any questions. I just want you to be safe.
My ride up took forever. Here and there, the elevator stopped, and someone would get on. Each time, I held my breath, but other than curious glances and polite greetings, no one paid much attention to me, and soon enough, I'd reached the floor I needed.
Knees quivering, I got off and looked around again, to make sure I'd come to the right place.
Aizawa's department was quiet. The short hall led to another reception desk, this one empty, and beyond it, dozens of detectives sat at desks, working sullenly on their investigations.
Still struggling to look casual, I approached the reception desk and glanced at the name plaque, which read Danuja Amagami. I remembered old Danuja—she'd been my father's secretary while he was chief—I could only guess she must be Aizawa's as well. If she found a box with his name written on it, she'd give it to him.
Hurriedly, I tore the box from my jacket pocket and practically flung it onto the desk, checking around to see if anyone had noticed me, but they were too busy.
That'll have to do.
With any luck, it would actually help.
I turned back for the elevator, chewing my lip, wondering if I even dared to hope Aizawa and Ide might still be talking outside. I'd hadn't been in here that long, but I'd never known men to have lengthy conversations. They'd be back any second.
As I reached the doors, a voice called out. "Yagami-san! Is that you?"
I froze, muttering, "Oh no…"
Reluctantly, I turned to face the detective coming toward me. I recognized him from when my father had been alive, but I didn't know his name. All the same, he smiled warmly at me.
"Oh, Yagami-san, I thought that was you! I don't know if you remember me." He stood over me, beaming. "I'm Tenma."
"Ah… Yes… Tenma-san. I do remember you," I lied. "How have you been?"
"What can I say? It's been a difficult couple of years." His smile dropped into sadness. "I'm terribly sorry, Yagami-san. Your father and brother were such excellent detectives."
"Thank you very much." I bowed, politely, and he bowed back.
"What brings you by today?" he wanted to know, now that the condolences were out of the way.
"Just…needed to talk to the chief." I tried to smile.
"Oh, shall I let him know you're here?" He turned back toward the department, as if he'd race off to find Aizawa at a word from me. Another good man who'd known my father but whom I suddenly couldn't trust.
"No, no thank you, Tenma-san. I saw him already." I tried to look cool, but in my pockets, my fists tightened.
Confused, he glanced toward where I assumed Aizawa's office stood empty. "Just now? I thought…?"
"Yes, I spoke to him. I do appreciate your help though."
"Anything for Deputy Director Yagami's daughter," he said at once, smiling again. "Are you taking the elevator down?" He pushed the button for me. "Here. I'll walk you out."
"Actually." I backed toward the stairwell. "I was thinking of taking the stairs. I need the exercise. Thank you, Tenma-san."
"Oh! Well, then. Tell your mother I said hello!"
"Yes, sir, I will. Goodbye now."
With supreme confidence, I pushed through to the stairwell, and then ran all the way back down to the ground floor and out the back door again. When I reached the corner, Aizawa and Ide still stood at the entrance, seemingly arguing now, but Tachi was gone.
Matsuda
"Where exactly did this come from?" Aizawa wanted to know, turning the flash drive over in his hand and then holding it up to the light, as if he could stare through to figure out what kind of information it came with.
"Where does anything come from?" I examined the box it had come in, and the distinct handwriting, harshly slanted and a little bit sloppy. I didn't recognize it. "Danu-san brought it in."
Ide took the box from me. "It doesn't look like it came in the mail. Somebody must have dropped it off in person."
Grumbling under his breath, Aizawa turned to leave the room, taking the drive with him.
"We should see what's on it," I called, but he stepped out like he hadn't heard me.
I looked at Ide, finding the intense frown he'd worn ever since we left Uko-san's club.
"What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing, Matsuda."
"Get over it," I suggested. "Nobody died."
"No, but the syndicate will probably come after us now, and that's the last thing we need."
"Did you tell Aizawa what happened?"
"Some of it, yeah." He slouched against the wall. "I didn't tell him you almost executed five people."
"Yeah, why not?"
"He'd put you behind bars," he muttered, still looking over the box, like he could find more evidence if he stared at it long enough.
After what he'd said today, I'd realized they were probably right—it was dangerous to let me pursue my directive—so far, I didn't know why they hadn't tried to lock me up somewhere, but if they did, I might have to kill them.
That thought sat numbly inside me, like a quivering pool of molasses, just another fact of life. Nothing could stand in my way, especially not when I was getting so close.
"All right." Aizawa bustled back in, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Danuja says this package just appeared on her desk a little while ago."
Ide went rigid against the wall, and he suddenly tossed the box back onto the desk. "Depending on what this is, we'll have to check with security and see if they noticed anyone suspicious coming into the building. Maybe look at the cameras."
With a sigh, Aizawa set the flash drive down. "Right. Depending…"
They really wanted to waste time doing a lot of unimportant stuff; as far as I was concerned, it didn't matter who brought the flash drive, so long as we could learn something from it.
It looked cheap, and it didn't have a lot of memory.
"We should have it analyzed," Aizawa muttered, standing back next to Ide with his arms folded. "Just in case."
"I think if it was dangerous, something would have happened by now," Ide mused. "But maybe we can get fingerprints from it."
"Hard to believe any suspect would drop this off here. It's like they want us to have all the evidence we need to convict them."
"Or they're arrogant."
"Unless it has nothing to do with the case at all."
All three of us frowned down at the flash drive.
"Hey," I said, "let's pop it in and see what's on it."
"I want to have it analyzed first," Aizawa insisted. "X-rayed."
"That'll take all day." I looked back at him. "Why are you dragging your feet?"
"Because," he growled, "I'm not sure I'm in the mood to see what's on it."
"Why? What do you think it is?"
He fixed an intent look on me. "What do you think it is?"
"I have no idea. That's why I asked."
Aizawa and Ide slowly looked at each other. Ide shook his head, and Aizawa murmured, "You said they made a tape."
"Sure. But this isn't a tape." I grabbed the flash drive before either of them could think to stop me—I'd gotten so much quicker than them—and jammed it at once into the computer. "Besides, it's kinda dumb to not look at a piece of evidence just because you're afraid of what it might show you."
"Matsuda," Aizawa said, sternly, but his authority seemed to wane with every passing moment as he realized, more and more, that he couldn't get me to obey. "Just wait until we know more about where this came from."
But the autoplay had popped up already, and I clicked on it. The next folder contained two files—a PDF and a video file. I went for the video.
"Matsuda." Aizawa clamped a hand down on my wrist, but he was too late to stop me.
With two easy clicks, the video came up, dark and unsteady. Heavy breathing panted out of the speakers, and then a chilly, familiar voice invited, "C'mon, Touta, say hi to the camera."
From out of the blackness, another voice croaked, "Fuck you…" pained though, half sobbing, and then a white shape appeared.
"Oh my god," Ide whispered. He made a move for the mouse, but I blocked him out, studying the screen.
"Really, now, don't be rude," Tero scolded. "Don't you want to show your friends that you're okay?"
The white shape came into focus—a small man in a dingy cell, tied to a dentist's chair, black fringe hanging in his eyes, crimson gushing from his gaping mouth.
Next, a face loomed in the screen, eyes seeming to glow, smile sharp and icy. "Good day, Chief."
At my shoulder, Aizawa drew a tight breath.
"I know you've been looking for your lost, little soldier. Well, here he is." The face disappeared, showing the man in the chair again, twitching and yanking hopelessly on his bonds. "Safe and sound."
The camera zoomed in on the prisoner's face, illuminating the blood and bruises.
"Seriously, Touta. Say hello to your chief. Maybe it's the last time he'll ever hear your voice at all. Don't you want to give him some comfort before you die?"
"Fuck you… Fuck you…"
"Yeah, yeah. That's all he's been saying for hours. Pretty rude, your little soldier. Especially considering how polite and cheerful he's always been in the past."
The camera shifted, a moment of silence passed, and then Tero said casually, "Let's see if I can get him to say goodbye to you."
Shadowy against the black backdrop, he passed the camera, and the prisoner in the chair started to squirm and beg. "No. No… No! Please! I'll say whatever you want! I'll do whatever you want! Just don't!"
The knife came out. I remembered its ivory handle and smiling blade. I remembered how it felt, jammed beneath my fingernail and cutting through my flesh.
Pathetic begging turned to violent screaming, but even it didn't drown out the calm sound of Tero's voice scolding, "I told you, Touta. You do what I say. That's the only way this works."
Helplessly, the prisoner thrashed, and the camera zoomed in on his terrified face, where I saw a sparkle of tears.
Something inside me shuddered. My tongue found the gap in my mouth where healthy teeth used to be. My stinging fingers curled into fists.
That's…me…
I took a slow breath; the air filling my lungs felt like a knife in the side still, and I remembered how they'd beaten and kicked and stomped on me until I'd thought I was going to die, how begging and screaming and crying had only made me feel humiliated and wild, like an animal.
On the screen, Tero ripped the last of my fingernail off, turned it over in his hand, curiously, while I broke down into furious tears, and then tossed it on the ground like it was nothing. The tip of the knife disappeared inside my mouth, and the sobbing stopped immediately, like he'd touched a switch.
His icy voice murmured, "I've been nice so far, not cutting off something that won't grow back. Haven't I?"
Emphatically, I nodded, still sniffling and whimpering like a child.
Tero's free hand brushed the hair from my forehead, gently. "So do what I say, Touta."
In person, he'd been terrifying—steely like a machine, ruthlessly violent behind that guise of friendliness, the complete lack of emotions in his eyes, no matter what he said or how he said it—he didn't need a knife, or pliers, or any weapon to make me obey.
The nodding turned resigned.
"Good." Heartless gaze back on the camera, he pointed his free hand. "So tell him. Tell him how much you need him to come save you."
With that, he drew the knife from my mouth, dripping blood and saliva, and I started immediately, "Ai-Aizawa…please, God! Please, I need you to come find me."
The camera focused on my face again, watching the tears roll from my eyes and the blood ooze from my lips, the snot drizzle from my nose. My teeth gritted in a wince, while mists of shame and fear filled my eyes, and I stared at the floor. "He's gonna kill me… Ai… He's gonna kill me… And I can't… I… I need you to stop him. I need you to help me!"
Tero smacked me in the head, not very hard, but he laughed when my whole body convulsed. "Look at the camera, you little faggot. Tell your chief how much you fucking need him."
There was so much guilt and so much humiliation as I finally looked at the camera, and I remembered feeling that way—hating myself for begging and for giving in so easily—but I couldn't feel it now. I couldn't feel anything.
"Shuichi…" I moaned. "Oh my god… Please don't let me die like this."
I can't even feel afraid to die anymore…
Suddenly, I let go of the mouse and turned away.
Aizawa and Ide stared at me like they were going to be sick, but I stalked past them and out into the hallway, where I hesitated for a second, still listening to that voice—my voice—pleading for rescue I knew now would never come.
But I can't feel disappointed. I can't feel hurt or betrayed. I can't feel relieved that I survived. I don't feel strong or weak or scared or ashamed of myself. I don't feel anything.
That's not true, I told myself as I started up the hall, stomach shuddering, hands trembling. No. It's not quite true…
Deep inside, something did stir to life, like an ember getting a breath of unexpected breeze just before it went out. I wanted to feel again, even if that meant being scared or ashamed. I wanted to live, even if it meant I lost everything I'd ever had. I wanted to trust Aizawa, Ide, and Mogi—guys I considered friends—and I wanted to love Sayu, the way I had the night they took me away from her.
I don't want to feel so dead.
How did they steal so much by doing so little? And why wasn't it complete? How could I watch myself being tortured without even a touch of fear and yet still care about the fact that I felt so very lost?
Why do I care? I just need the notebook.
Outside, I stared up at the cloudy sky.
Something went wrong, very, very wrong, when they programmed me—it must have—because if they'd done it right, this conflict wouldn't exist at all. The notebook would be all I cared about, not leaving a gap for anything else.
Very specific wording made me this way, but Tero was no professional. No. He was just a sociopath looking to try new things: brain washing and supernatural murder tools. He didn't know what he was doing, and he'd made a mistake somewhere.
In my head, his voice hissed, You're going to get the notebook and bring it to me. You're going to care about that more than anything else, and you're not going to let any feelings stand in your way.
But he didn't say I wasn't going to feel anything at all. He could have, and I wouldn't. That's how hypnosis worked. At least, I thought so. It was complete control over my mind, unbreakable, until someone snapped their fingers and said the magic words to bring me back.
What other mistakes did you make, Tero?
Not understanding why, I drew the photo from my pocket, more creased and worn than ever before, and I didn't understand either why, every day, I kept getting up, putting on a new pair of pants, and religiously retrieving the photograph from yesterday's suit.
Because there are still emotions in me. Because I want to look at this picture and see me, with Sayu, happy and smiling, because I want to feel happy again…
But those emotions were getting in the way.
I pulled Ide's lighter from my pocket and set the corner of the photo on fire, watching the couple crinkle and blacken.
That man was gone anyway—his weakness of wanting others' approval had died, his fears about failing had vanished—and only the directive remained.
Get the notebook. That's the only chance I have at all of ever finding my way back. And I want to. I want to so bad.
Dully, I tried to remember how things used to be. For nearly as long as I could remember, I'd wanted to be a police officer—a detective—even though nobody had much faith that I'd be any good at it. I'd studied and trained. I'd been determined to prove them all wrong. But even after I made it into the NPA, regardless of how happy it made me, I'd learned quickly that I probably never would be good at it, because the job required so many skills I'd never had.
Why did they do this to me?
I reached into my jacket to feel my pistol, thinking about how I'd nearly executed Uko-san and his men. Between my skills with a gun and lack of true emotions, it seemed like I'd become some kind of killing machine.
Almost ten years ago, when I first entered the academy, if someone had told me I could be anything close to a killing machine, I would have laughed them right out of the building. Anybody who'd been around me a few minutes would have laughed about that, even if they'd seen me shoot.
The first time I'd seen Chief Yagami had been at the range; I didn't even know who he was at first. He'd come up behind me, and when I'd heard the instructor blurt out, "Good day, Chief," I'd paused to look back at him. But Chief had said, calmly, "Don't mind me, son," and I'd tried to focus on firing. Even though his being there, watching, had totally wrecked my concentration, when I'd run out of rounds, he'd said, thoughtfully, "Mmm, Matsuda, isn't it? You have a real aptitude for this."
Compared to the rest of the men in my class, I guess I had; some of them had been scared of the gun, or squeamish about the recoil, but I'd liked it all right from the beginning—the smell of powder, the noise, the feel of the kickback shooting up my arm. Maybe it was just the first time I'd felt invulnerable, and I'd known it was something I could get good at; it was something that could make me useful.
For years, I'd practiced as much as possible, going to shoot any time I felt lonely, restless, bored, trapped, or ineffective, and in the end, it had paid off.
The day we'd gone to retrieve the notebook from Mello, as we waited for Light's signal, and I was sitting apart from the others, fidgeting, trying to slow the beat of my heart, the deputy director had stood over me. "Are you nervous, son?"
"A little, sir…"
"Well, don't be. You're good—you know that."
"Yeah, but I've never shot at a person before…"
"I know, Matsuda." Even now, with the haze of apathy and the voice in my head screaming for the notebook, I couldn't forget how he'd laid his hands on my shoulders, looking meaningfully into my eyes, and sometimes I looked back on that moment and wondered if he knew somehow that he was about to die. "If there was ever a time to put that skill to use, though, this is it…"
What would you think of me now?
With some dismay, I realized I didn't care what he'd think. I didn't even remember why it had ever mattered what he thought.
In a little while, I heard the door open, and then Aizawa stepped up, staring at me.
"What are you doing?" he asked in a moment.
"Thinking about my directive," I lied. No point in giving him false hope.
Nodding, he leaned against the wall next to me, and I noticed his hands were shaking as he slipped them into his pockets, but I didn't bother to check out his expression. I was pretty sure I could imagine it okay.
"How much did you watch?"
Aizawa snorted, "Too much."
It must have been hard for them to see even a few moments of that, and it was a wonder he could come to me like this, so calm. From the corner of my eye, I checked on his expression after all, but I was wrong—I hadn't expected the agonized wince on his thick lips or the helpless look in his eyes as he gazed down the street. To look at him, you'd think he was the one who'd been tied to that chair, getting tortured, begging for help from someone who couldn't even hear him.
Seeing that footage took me back to terrifying nights, lying in chains on a cold floor, listening to every sound and driving myself crazy, mostly afraid it would be Tero coming back to hurt me more, but always hanging on to the faint flame of hope that, somehow, it would be Aizawa and Ide. I'd played it over and over in my head how it would feel to see them again, to know I was safe and going home to Sayu. I'd dreamed about it so vividly that when I woke up and realized it wasn't real, I'd gone into hysterics. Still, there'd never been a doubt in my mind that they would find me, eventually.
"It's okay that you couldn't," I muttered suddenly.
"I don't think so, Matsuda," Aizawa whispered back, running a hand over his goatee. "And…I don't think… If you were normal, you wouldn't feel that way. It's not okay that I couldn't help you."
"Well, I wasn't mad when you came and got me at the gas station; I was just happy to see you."
Even now, I couldn't forget the shock of that consolation. At the time, I hadn't been able to remember everything I'd just escaped from, but turning around and finding Aizawa and Ide there, looking hilariously unprofessional in their street clothes, raggedly tired, clutching their guns and almost collapsing from their own relief, had filled me with peace, replacing all my fears with the idea that everything would be okay. Even after my interrogation at the station, it never crossed my mind that they'd failed me.
Aizawa studied me, and I realized I'd made a mistake giving him even that much to hold onto. "It's not okay with me," he announced.
By this time, I'd definitely seen that Aizawa's guilt was going to tear him apart for the rest of his life, just like, after this morning, Ide could probably never look at me the same way again.
Some day, that might actually matter.
"I was thinking," Aizawa started up in a low, uncertain tone, like he barely knew who he was talking to. "Earlier, I was thinking about what a jackass I've always been to you, ever since the day we met. How I just never took you seriously. Like you said the other night, you only ever wanted me to like you, and I couldn't even just be…friendly."
"Oh." I turned to him. "That's weird to bring that up now."
"Is it?" he asked, still in a distant tone of voice, and his eyelids drooped. "I'm not so sure. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for all that. After seven or eight years of my treating you like an idiot, I can't believe you actually trusted me to help you…but I failed. Not because I didn't care, though, Matsuda." He faced me at last, looking like someone had stabbed him in the lungs, gasping, "I really did try."
"That's why it's okay," I explained. "I know all that. I've always understood a lot more than you ever gave me credit for."
"Yeah," he sighed, scraping his fingers across his bushy hair, and then he was quiet a long time, eyes shut, mouth twisted with agony.
"I wonder if I'll remember any of this," I mused.
Aizawa glanced at me. "Why wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I can't remember killing those three syndicate guys. Maybe I won't remember this either. Maybe it'll just be like waking up from a bad dream."
He whispered, "I guess," and I tried to imagine how that might feel to him and the others, but like everything else, I only had the vaguest sense of how unfair it would be.
"I hope I don't," I admitted. "I don't think the real Touta Matsuda could handle any of this." I scuffed at the charred remains of the photo at my feet. "Not even just the memories."
Aizawa faced me, and I finally met his gaze, interested to see how the pain had deepened in his eyes, turning them bright, almost golden. "First of all," he said, but only with the slightest shred of his old authority, and I knew this was destroying him. "You are still the real Touta Matsuda, it's just that you're incredibly fucked up right now."
"I don't feel like Matsuda."
"I know, but you also don't realize how much you still act like him. And if you were really gone, if I really thought there was no getting you back, I might just let Boko have you, train you to be a killer, and try to forget all this. But I can't do that, because…" His voice sank. "For me, it's like you never came out of that room. I know you're not asking me to help you…and you don't feel anything, but you are Matsuda, and I can't give up on you."
"Maybe you should, though. I mean, I'm way more useful like this."
"Not really," he spat. "Even from a professional point of view, I can't see how you're any good to me this way." His brow creased, thoughtfully, and he said, "I wonder if you're even any good to Tero like this."
"I doubt it. Like I said, I was supposed to die on the helicopter; he might not even realize I'm coming after the notebook, depending on what his guys told him." One thing I'd noticed while they were holding me, his men were terrified of him, and I doubted Golden Teeth would have been eager to explain how I'd gotten away, so the fact that he was still running around, alive and well, made it seem like Tero might not even know I was alive.
"Wait a minute…" His eyes widened as it came to him, like it had to me earlier. "In that case, he really screwed up."
I nodded. "I doubt he wanted me to do all this."
Pessimistically, he muttered, "If he thinks you're dead, why would he give me that video today?"
"Maybe just to screw with you. Anyway, dropping it off in person means he's still nearby, so maybe he knows I'm alive after all."
"If he's changed his mind about killing you, he might want something else from you."
I'd thought the same thing, but since I really had no idea what else Tero could want, I said, "Maybe. Or he might just be enjoying the show. That seems more like him."
He shifted and exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose, so I knew that idea made him angrier than ever. "Matsuda… As long as Boko and Near both expect you to retrieve the notebook, there isn't a lot I can do. Unless you tell me you don't want to do this. That would give me something to work with."
Stubborn Aizawa could make a lot happen using very little. All I had to say was that I wanted to quit, go home, relax, and he'd dig his heels in, stop the investigation cold, and channel his energy into making sure I got to do that.
While I thought it over, he coaxed, "Logically, it doesn't make any sense for you to be on this case. You know that, right? We can get the notebook back without your help."
Get the notebook, get the notebook.
"You're right," I agreed. "It makes sense for me to go see someone, try to get back to normal, while you guys work on the case."
"That's what I've been saying." He crept closer, a ray of hope touching his voice and even his eyes.
"Well, I've always known that, Aizawa, but…"
Get the notebook. Get the notebook. Get the notebook.
"But I'm not sure you get it. I don't care about whether or not the notebook is safe, I'm programmed to go, in person, to wherever it is, so I can take it to him."
"He already has it, Matsuda," he reminded me, desperate and impatient. "As far as we know. What are you going to do if you find him? Take it away so you can hand it right back?"
I shrugged.
Aizawa gritted his teeth, hissing, "I am so sick of you shrugging at me… Look, you hear what you're saying, don't you?"
"Like we said, he screwed up."
Frustrated, sputtering, he slammed back against the wall. "You're telling me you have a directive you can't even complete!"
I met his gaze again, unflinchingly. "Now you see why I think I'm going to die."
"Stop saying that!" he exploded suddenly. "I told you I don't want to hear that!"
"I don't see any way around it—"
Aizawa snagged the front of my shirt, jerking me close to growl in my face, "Do you honestly believe I'd let you die?"
"No, but I didn't honestly believe you'd let me be kidnapped and tortured and programmed into a sleeper cell either."
Mouth falling open, he emitted a pained gasp, and I watched the agony dull his eyes, making him look old and worn out.
"It's just a fact," I explained. I'd believed in him and trusted him implicitly, probably more than he even knew. More than was wise. "I never would have thought—"
Lips curling back in a snarl, he shoved me into the wall. Pain shot up my injured side.
"What did I tell you about saying things without thinking?" he shouted, both hands fisted in my shirtfront.
Calmly, I grabbed his wrist, twisting his hand from my shirt and wrenching his arm back until he froze, cursing and looking furious.
"Goddammit, Matsuda!"
"I know you'd never stand by and let me die," I told him, coldly. "But I don't believe there's anything you could do to stop it." Ramming him back with my shoulder, I stepped by, and he gaped at me, rubbing his wrist. "This sucks for you. I get that. I don't know what else there is to say about it. There's nothing you can do, Aizawa, and you might as well accept it."