Day Three - Morning

There is a very sharp pine cone down my throat when I wake. My penance for not remaining in bed while still sick. I fumble at the bedside table for my throat lozenges, artificial root beer flavor or not. For a moment, I revolt, squirming back under the covers, pulling the soft comforter to my face, closing my eyes and promising myself three more hours of sleep. Then my conscience reminds me, in a voice rather like Grampa's, only more nasal, that I am Naoto Shirogane, fifth of my line, Detective Prince. I am not to be outmaneuvered by a cold.

Just now, I cannot see anything worthwhile about being Naoto Shirogane.

I blast the shower, hoping the steam will clear my head, and by the time I'm fumbling with my tie, my throat has settled down to a scratchy ache. But my head's still congested, and I can't cope with a tie, not even a neck ribbon. My shirt matches my trousers and both are clean. That is quite enough for today. I trudge to the door, remembering, right as I turn the handle, that I'm playing host. I shut the door, knock, then, as there's no answer, open it again.

Souji is face-down on the couch, snoring. Looking past him, I see the beginnings of breakfast - he appears to have heated some water, and there are the contents of four eggs in a mixing bowl. My good senpai evidently wished to greet me with a meal, but his jet lag proved stronger than his generosity. He sleeps as I make myself a soggy plate of scrambled eggs and throw together some uninspired instant coffee. I confess, it's awkward eating with him sleeping right there. I don't linger, heading off to meet with my colleagues.

My cold ensures that I'm hardly hungry by 12:25, when I walk into Il Buttofuori to meet Adam Oliver. But I've hit my stride, having spent the morning working on the other case - made quite a few breakthroughs, all we need is the baklava vendor to come forward with testimony and we'll have our man - so I'm quite ready to interview Rise's would-be swain. Il Buttofuori is sunlit, elegant without being overbearing. I find Oliver already seated at a small table secluded by half a partition and an artificial potted tree. Blond, shaggy, and disheveled in that careful way that I can't respect, he doesn't rise when I approach, merely lifting one eyebrow.

"Mr. Oliver," I say, extending my hand, tone neutral, voice slow enough that I can both mask my cold and maintain a lower pitch, "I am Akira Ohtani, of Beautiful Adonis Oliver. I'm very pleased to meet you."

He gives my hand a quick shake, drops it, and looks at me. I sit, hands folded in lap. "So," Oliver says after a moment, "you're Japanese? That's cool. Uh..." He drums his fingers on the table. "I didn't know I had any fans in Japan. Uh... I used to watch Pokémon, that's Japanese." Quick smile, followed by more finger-drumming. "What was your name again?" I repeat it. "So what do I call you? I know you got all those screwy name things..."

"Please call me by my surname," I say. "Ohtani." I decide not to bother explaining honorifics. (As for the name itself, I'll have words with Rise later about her choice in pseudonyms.)

"Okay, sure," Oliver yaps, then picks up his menu, ignoring me. I frown, but as he is taking time out of an undeniably busy schedule to give me this interview, it is my duty to be accommodating. In this way, we manage not to say anything until after the waiter has brought us water, taken our orders, left, and Oliver has tapped out the beat of the William Tell Overture with his fingers. Twice.

I clear my throat - sounds good, if not perfect. "Well then, shall we begin?" I reach into my pocket. "Do you mind if I record you?" He waves his hand negligently and I place my recorder/gps/scientific calculator/radio/compass/strobe light between us (I made it last year; I could do better now), pressing the correct button. I lean my elbows on the table and plait my fingers. "Firstly, thank you for giving this interview. I am only an acquaintance of Ms. Kujikawa. This is very generous of you both." He shrugs. I ask him routine questions - what does he think of his role, what are his opinions about the project, etc, etc - until our meals arrive. After he gives me a tender anecdote from his childhood (rattled off with hardly a thought), I click the recorder off, return it to my pocket, and surreptitiously click it on again. "Well, I believe that concludes our interview."

"Sure." Oliver grimaces. We're only halfway through our lunch, and he's probably hoping I'll have a reason to leave.

Now my work begins. Fortifying myself with a sip of water, I drop my shoulders and relax in my chair. If I could adopt an air as nonchalant as Souji's this might be easier, but I've been doing this long enough to trust playing to my strengths. Distance will do the job, eventually. "Are things easier with Ms. Sheridan off the project?"

He doesn't look startled - I'm sure many reporters have already asked him - but he does glance again to ascertain that my recorder's no longer out. "Eh, she's batshit." He shrugs and laughs.

I take another sip, hiding my frown. "From what I've heard, everything's been going smoothly for you and Ms. Kujikawa." Haven't heard any such thing, but if he assumes his "relationship" with Rise is common knowledge, he'll be much more likely to be open about it. As open as an actor with a publicist's agenda ever is.

"Yeah..." He trails off, watching me rather more carefully. He stirs his diet soda with his straw, the motions of carelessness. "You said you were tight with Rise?"

My eyebrows jump. "I beg your pardon?" I reach for my fork and spear an avocado wedge. "I've seen her movies. I've spoken with her manager before. He's the one who really arranged this interview."

"So you're not even friends?" Oliver's still feeling this out.

"Not at all."

He gives me a dubious look that I pretend not to see, then relaxes, slumping forward, elbows on table as he pokes through his beef strips. "She's kind of a slut, truth be told." I don't have to fake my surprise. The lift to my eyebrows is all he needs, embarking on a long, if scattered, soliloquy concerning Rise's faults and virtues - giving examples of both that keep me surprised. He moves on to her appearance, then vivid speculation of her romantic life, much of it....betraying some of the...unorthodox workings of his own mind. I nod, make vague comments, and try to concentrate on what he says, though the more he goes on, the more I don't want to listen. Only at the end does his suspicion return, and he adds quickly, "But, you know, we all find our inner beauty. I love her more than anything."

I nod tightly. I'd dropped my right hand in my lap, the better to shred my napkin while listening to him. It was imperative to establish that I am no close associate of Rise's - if Oliver felt I had the slightest interest in her welfare, he'd never be candid with me. If he thought I was a woman, he'd never be candid with me. And he certainly has been candid with me. Being a woman and being Rise's friend, it's all I can do not to stand and heave my chair at him, be candid right back. Guns are efficient, but in this instance I believe blunt force would be more satisfying than a bullet.

"Well," I say with some effort, trying to keep my voice steady, both to remain calm and to keep it in its lower register, "it's nearly two. Thank you for giving me so much of your time, Mr. Oliver."

"No problem." He blinks, as if realizing he's just been divulging to a complete stranger. But then, I'm only a writer for a little-known Japanese magazine. His flops his napkin onto the table and doesn't notice as I reach into my pocket and turn off the recorder.

There's a message from Rise on my voice mail when I step out of the restaurant. I put a block between myself and Il Buttofuori, then call her.

"So?" she asks, apprehensive. "Did you get anything...good?"

"If by good, you mean incriminating..." I pause and take a deep breath, still unable to calm down. I end up coughing, finally managing to say, "I think it would be in your best interests to avoid any closer association with Oliver." Honestly, if he comes near her, I'll shoot him...costar or no costar.

"Oh, tell!" she tweets. "No, wait, I'm on break, I'll be at your suite in twenty minutes."

"Hm." I cough again, thinking of my house guest, probably still asleep on the couch. "No. Not my suite."

"Why not?"

"The maid's probably going through it right now," I invent. "We'll meet elsewhere. Union Square?"

"Uh...'kay. Sure. See you in about twenty then."

One of my colleagues calls me as I'm walking, hunting for a lozenge in my pocket because I can feel coughing coming. We've heard a tip the baklava vendor is cracking, will probably be in contact later. But there's a good chance the owner of the Taste of Djibouti restaurant will try to stop him, so he needs protection - and I haven't brought a lozenge, it transpires - and by the time the coughing fit is over, I'm breathless and can only acknowledge the news with monosyllables. And by the time he's done, my phone is beeping again. "Yes?"

"Morning, Naoto-kun."

"Good afternoon, Senpai. Did you sleep well?"

"Afternoon?" A stifled yawn. "Sheesh, didn't realize it was this late. Sorry about that."

"Think nothing of it. Is anything wrong?"

"Well-" I can hear a jumble across the phone - perhaps he's stood or begun pacing "-I'm gonna need your help springing this on Rise-chan."

"Ah...well..."

"No, no, don't worry."

"I'm not worrying-"

"You sound apprehensive. More so than usual. Everything's going to be copacetic."

"Senpai-" I mentally flail for excuses to remain aloof from this. "Pr-proposing to someone must be a very personal event. I strongly feel this should be between you and Rise-chan."

"Yeah, don't worry, I'm not going to propose to you. I mean, you'd turn me down."

"Senpai, you are my friend and I am willing to forgive much, but I fail to see the humor in twitting me like-"

"Right. I promise, Naoto Shirogane, you will play no part in the actual proposal. I just need you to get me from point A to point B."

I frown. "Must a proposal demand such strategy?"

"It does when your beloved likes a production."

"You have a point," I admit. "Rise does like things to be elaborate."

"And I like making Rise happy. So yeah, I need you to help me coordinate. Which is what you're good at, Naoto-kun. No one plans better."

"At the moment-" I sneeze "-I rather wish that were not the case."

He disregards that one. "So let's meet up and plan?"

"Uh - presently. I'm busy. I'll call you when I can." And hang up before he can suggest anything else. Damn. Why did I ever acquire friends? Rise wants information (and blackmails me), Souji imposes on me (but does it so good-naturedly I can't resent him without looking bad), Kanji -

Actually, my mood lifts at the thought of Kanji. Whatever faults he has, he is not, at the moment, demanding anything of me. I still have several blocks to go before I reach Union Square, and I'd like to clear my head before meeting with Rise. But if I walk in silence, chances are all too good one of my colleagues will call again. Therefore, I must chose my own ground. I call Kanji. Talking to him will be the next best thing to clearing my head.

There's a long silence, then I hear the connection - then something clatters, Kanji swears, and then - "Whuh? Who's - Dammit, who is this?"

"Ah... It's me. Did I disturb you?"

"What?" More fumbling. I think he's sitting up. "Shit, are you in trouble? What's going on?"

"What?" I ask right back, dodging a group of tourists. "What do you mean? I'm fine."

"Then-" It starts as a question and ends on a shout. "The hell you calling in the middle of the night for?"

I stop, not caring as two businessmen nearly collide with me. I wince, start to calculate what time it must be in Japan, then decide I'd rather not know. "I - I'm sorry, I'm still out of it. I didn't think. It's only afternoon here. Please forgive me."

"No - I - uh - I mean - Shit." He exhales. "You took ten years off my life there."

I'm both pleased and annoyed - and embarrassed, which is the strongest of the three, followed shortly by annoyed. "You don't need to worry about-"

"I wasn't worrying about you!" he snaps. "I just - calls in the middle of the night never mean something good, and with you over there - alone - all the shit you get yourself into-"

"You don't need to worry about me," I reiterate, voice rising, impatience with myself, residual anger at Oliver, and dread of another coughing fit blundering in the background of my thoughts. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, need I remind you? And if you are not worried about me, Kanji Tatsumi, I would appreciate more civil discourse. I apologize for disturbing your sleep. It won't happen again." And I take the phone from my ear to end the call.

Not fast enough, because I can hear his voice, tinny from distance. "Shut the hell up, I am worried about you!"

I smack the phone back to my ear, my voice coming in a rapid clip. "That's what I thought, it is entirely unnecessary for you to worry, and I consider it condescension at best, an insult at worst, and-"

"Dammit, only you'd be asshatted enough to think that someone worrying about you is an insult!"

"It implies that you think I am incapable of taking care of myself, when in fact I-"

"-halfway across the world, and what if something happens to you, it's not like you're good at staying outta trouble-"

"-if you really were my friend, if you had an ounce of respect for me, you'd realize that I don't need anyone sitting at home wondering if I'm all right or-"

"Screw this! I don't care! Do whatever the hell you want."

I have an excellent rebuttal, but the connection ends before I can even start.