It may seem like too many questions are answered in this chapter, but remember, there's always room for a good twist or two on...CRIMINAL MINDS

For the first time in days-weeks?-he couldn't remember-he slept. It gripped him like a gentle vise; it was like the sleep of childhood. If he had any dreams, he couldn't remember a single one. He woke up to soft fluorescent light, and a breeze, tinged pleasantly with the smell of rain, wafting through transparent white curtains. It was nighttime.

For a moment, he smiled. Then familiar panic set in. This was his own bed, but how had he gotten there? He remembered trying to lie down in an alley, the stink of garbage; police had kicked him awake. They'd thought he was drunk. He tried to explain he was allergic to alcohol, but they'd laughed. He hadn't known where he was. It had been night; it seemed like it had always been night. Instead of the filthy suit that had clung to him like a second skin, he was naked except for a pair of underpants. He felt his cheeks; he hadn't shaved. But his skin was clean and smelled as fresh as the breeze, as the sheets underneath him. The smell of frying bacon reached him from the kitchen. Had he put it on?

He recognized his suit, still rumpled and dirt-stained, hung over a chair by the bed. He reached over and searched his pockets. His wallet, keys. The reassuring shape of the orange plastic pill bottle. But when he held it up to the light, it was empty.

Soft footsteps. He froze, fingers still wrapped around the bottle.

"Good morning." A girl stood in the doorway. Wearing a school uniform, her hands folded demurely in front of her. A warm, round face, lit by the streetlamp outside the window. A tiny red bow was fixed in her hair.

"Yuusuke-kun," she added, and smiled to form two enormous dimples.

"W-who are you?" His throat was dry; his voice came out in a wheeze.

"What a silly question! Would you like eggs over easy, or sunny-side-up?"

"Please…my pills. What…what happened to them?"

She padded closer to the bed. She was wearing only socks, he noticed.

"You don't need them," she said, with gentle conviction. "You don't need them anymore. Because I'm here. I'll take care of you."

"I need them…" He swallowed. It hurt.

"What for?"

"To keep me…from seeing things. Things that…aren't really there."

Slowly, she stretched out one hand. It was perfectly white, the nails trimmed to smooth crescents. She brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

"Like me?" she whispered. "But I am real. Can't you feel it?"

He felt like sobbing with relief. He seized the hand, pressed it to his cheek.

"That's right," she went on, caressing him, "I'm here now, and I won't go away. Not in a month. Not in a year. Ever."

"But I feel like…I might have done something really bad…"

"Shh. You haven't done anything, Yuusuke-kun. If you had, I would have known about it, wouldn't I? Now sit back. How would you like your eggs?"

When he and Rossi reached the address of the little sister cafe, Hata leaned against a utility pole, showing no inclination to go inside. When Rossi hesitated, he pointed laconically at the third floor. A sign in the window read: Namimi. It was accompanied by a small grinning cartoon face.

"Thanks," said Rossi. "You want a coffee or something while you wait? My treat."

Hata shrugged.

If there was one thing you could say for Akihabara, you were never more than ten feet from a vending machine. Rossi went over to the nearest one, stuck in a hundred yen coin and selected a Boss coffee, black. Hata grunted when he handed it to him, then gave him a thumbs-up. He took out a pack of Mild Seven cigarettes and offered one, but was declined.

On the stairs, Rossi hesitated again. With Garcia's assurance that it wasn't a sex thing, except when it was, he had no idea what to except. Then he chuckled to himself. Here he was acting like a teenager, when twenty years ago he would have been roaring up those stairs with a gallon of beer inside him, probably hoping it was a sex thing.

When he went through the door, he worried for a moment he'd broken into someone's apartment. Cafe Namimi resembled a living room with a widescreen TV, toys and board games scattered across the carpet, and what appeared to be an inflatable donkey in the fashion of a miniature rocking horse. But there was a menu posted on the wall, and several tables that must have been small even by Japanese standards. Rossi was the only customer.

A young woman rushed out from the back. She wore a sailor uniform, had short, sensibly-cut hair, and was probably in her twenties, though she could have passed for fifteen. The sight of Rossi didn't faze her in the least, and she spoke in fluent English: "You're home! I've been waiting and waiting! You could have at least called, so don't blame me if the tea is cold."

Then just as abruptly, she vanished.

Scratching his head, Rossi tried to jam himself into one of the chairs. He finally gave up, and sat cross-legged on the floor with one arm on the table.

A moment later, the girl returned with a cup of steaming tea. Rossi accepted it, at a loss for words.

She sat down across from him, stared intently into his face, then reached out and straightened his tie.

"Rossi onii-chan?"

"I'm…Agent Rossi, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I take it Sasaki told you about me, Miss…?"

"Why should Mr. Sasaki have to tell me anything?" She sounded annoyed. "I'm Annie, your kid sister."

"…Annie? You'll have to excuse me, that doesn't sound like a very Japanese…"

"Don't be silly. How could a big, American man like you have a Japanese sister? Now drink your tea. Hot tea is good for you."

Somewhat cowed, Rossi obeyed. She continued to study his face.

"You're always so tired when you come home. Work, work, work, work," she took a breath, "work, work, work, that's all you ever do. You should it easy sometimes."

Rossi had begun to recover his footing. "I'd like that," he said. "But I'm on a very important job today. What can you tell me about Mei Oda?"

Annie blinked, and for a moment she paused. Rossi got the feeling Sasaki hadn't made it clear this was a business call. Sadness tinged her veneer of professional cheerfulness. Looking away, she muttered: "So you are here about that."

"That's right. Anything at all you can tell me would be helpful."

"Mei-imouto worked here a long time ago," she said. "Two years. It can't have anything to do with…what's happening now."

"That may be true," said Rossi, mindful to take a sip of his tea. "But it's often the details people don't notice that are really important. What was Mei like?"

"She was…nice. Everybody liked her. She didn't do this job for the money, she did it because she liked meeting people."

"Was there anyone she met very often? A regular customer?"

A patron, he wanted to say; all this reminded him of what he'd read about the old system of geisha.

"All Mei's onii-chans were regulars."

Annie screwed up her face. Something was just eluding her memory.

"Why did she leave Namimi?" Rossi asked. "Why did she decide to go into…cosplay?"

"She said she got tired of playing just one character. One of her onii-chans," she blinked; it had come back to her, "he knew somebody. He said he could get her a job at the biggest cosplay cafe, if she wanted. So, she did."

"What was this ah, onii-chan's name?"

She shook her head, a bit of her put-on coyness returning. "Most of our onii-chans don't use their real names. He said he was Yuusuke, but I think he was probably lying."

"Yuusuke. Did she ever call him Yu?"

"I can't remember."

"What was he like? Did you ever speak to him?"

"He was very nice too. Young…less than thirty. He always had something interesting to talk about. And he understood…the way things work here. He was very happy." Then with a hint of fear she added: "He can't have anything to do with this. I couldn't believe that. He'd never hurt Mei-chan."

Rossi held out both hands. "I'm not saying that. Still, he might know something. Is there any way of getting in touch with him?"

"No. He never paid with a credit card or anything, lots of people don't. You should go talk to the people at the cosplay cafe."

"Thanks. I intend to."

"But finish your tea first." Annie let out a long breath. She pouted, back in character, and suddenly hit Rossi on the arm.

"Hey! What was that for!"

"For tiring me out, and making me think about sad stuff! You're so mean to me, Rossi onii-chan, and all I do is worry about you."

"I'm sorry," he said, and was surprised by his own sincerity.

"You want to play a game with me? We have checkers, battleship, Japanese chess…"

"Maybe some other time."

"Mo-ou, you always say that. Anyway, I shouldn't keep you from your big, important job. You'll be careful, won't you?"

"I'll…do my best."

"Just because you're a big, American man doesn't mean the scary man won't hurt you too. Pinky swear."

"Now, Miss Annie, I'm sure…"

"Pinky swear!" She forcibly linked her little finger through Rossi's, shook it hard and pronounced: "Yubi ki-ri, yubi ki-ta! There, now if you break your promise you'll have to swallow a thousand needles."

Rossi's cellphone buzzed. Reid. He felt blood rising to his cheeks; it was as if Reid had peered through window and seen him.

"I'd better take this outside…"

"Of course! Go, go, go!" Although an inch remained in his teacup, Annie hauled to him feet and pushed him bodily out the door. "Come back and play with me later, now talk to your friend!"

Outside, Hata had finished his coffee and was smoking another cigarette. He smirked a bit when he saw Rossi emerge. Holding up one finger-wait a minute-Rossi ducked into a nearby alley.

"Reid."

"I have the missing piece of the victimology," said Reid, his voice torn between excitement and nervous tension. "All the victims must have cosplayed the heroine from Night Train, an old dating simulator…"

"Hang on. Dating simulator?"

Reid was impatient: "It is what it sounds like, Rossi. The player interacts with girls in a…dating fashion. Most games have multiple heroines, but Night Train only had one: Rei Nakamura. The game is set in high school, and its epilogue fast-forwards six years into your marriage. If you made the wrong choices, she can kill herself, and the note she leaves is the one our unsub uses…"

"So what's that day, six years ago?"

"At one point the hero and heroine have a conversation about the afterlife. The hero tries to convince her there's life after death. She says, then why don't we just kill ourselves now? And he says, maybe we have already."

Something made Rossi shudder.

"And the name of the hero?" he asked.

"It's Yuusuke."

He caught his breath. "Excellent work, Agent Reid. Where are you know?"

"I'm with Johnny, the guide Sasaki-"

"I need as comprehensive a list as possible of all young women who regularly cosplay as this…heroine. Can he do that for us?"

"I think so, I'll ask…"

"Terrific. I'll see you later tonight."

No sooner had he hung up then he dialed Garcia. "The goddess speaks from her seat of power, state your petition."

"When you can spare a minute, Agent Garcia, I'd like a list of professional males between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. Our unsub spends enough time in the area that he probably lives or works within a twenty-block radius. And he is employed; he has the money to spend in these places."

"Your wish is my command, but you'll be looking at a very long list…"

"We'll narrow it down as we discover more parameters, but it's a start."

"Rodger-dodger, over and out, it shall not disrupt my shopping for more than a millisecond."

"Thanks, you're an angel."

Rossi hung up. He took a deep breath. Hata, growing curious, had wandered over. He gave another thumbs-up; this time accompanied by a questioning glance. His face flushed, Rossi returned the thumbs-up with confidence.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Hotch was feeling apprehensive. The worst of the evening (going by Sasaki's warning) was over. In fact, Hotch had found the geisha dances intriguing with their subtle movements; and their music had been haunting. Prentiss as well had listened spellbound. But when the geisha returned, bearing clay flasks of sake on wooden trays, he realized the evening's main event: drinking.

Hotch hadn't had more than one social drink in years. Even in the most terrible moments of the past few years, he hadn't retreated into the bottle like some men. He didn't like the way it made him feel; no amount of liquor could erase his responsibilities, and his guilt over them only grew more profound.

Unfortunately, he had the sense that drinking any less than Hasekura and his friends would be an insult.

The friends themselves were a strange group; Hasekura alone represented the police. Hotch had been introduced to the deputy finance minister, a billionaire real estate developer, the owner of a news station, and a popular actress who played some TV detective. If Sasaki had been mistaken about the boredom, he had been dead-on about the publicity stunt; it was a matter of time before the cameras showed up.

A glance at Prentiss confirmed the impression.

The talk was loud, and Hotch covertly texted Rossi under the table:

Status?

The reply was prompt: Progress. Talk tomorrow.

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Prentiss was drinking carefully, but the well-fed deputy finance minister on her right kept insistently filling her cup. Hotch hoped she knew the strength of the sweet-tasting sake. Well, she was a seasoned field agent. Now she was trying to hold a serious conversation with Hasekura. Since he acted like she wasn't there, this took some effort.

"Hasekura-san, I know the case doesn't fall under your immediate jurisdiction, but we'd still like to hear your thoughts. You must have a lot of experience…surely you have some ideas."

The flattery succeeded in turning his head for a moment.

"Well," he mumbled. "Well. Of course, something like this was bound to ah, happen eventually. I mean, it has happened before."

"What do you mean?"

"The Miyazaki case. These otaku are all a bunch of sex perverts." Then placing his hand on Hotch's arm in an uncalled-for gesture, he confided: "You must please not think all Japanese people are like that. That's why I invited these guests. Successful…very big in the world. Not like those weirdos. But weirdos are your ah, speciality, so you'll be sure to solve the case!"

He burst out laughing, as did the actress, who had overheard.

The developer took a slug of sake and, wiping his mouth, put in: "That is right. I own the Akiba-Ichi building. Maybe you see it? Is restaurants, is shopping, very good for foreign guests. They don't want to see these otaku and their dirty stores."

"I know plenty of foreigners who like that kind of thing just fine," observed Prentiss.

Hotch tried to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to gape at Hasekura's callous disregard for the lives of the victims. But maybe this was a cultural attitude he didn't understand. After all, since he wasn't in charge of the investigation, there was little he could do to speed it along. T

hat wasn't true, Hotch reflected. Hasekura could have let them do their jobs.

Morgan slumped against the stone wall. He was exhausted. In spite of his concerns, the interviews at police headquarters had gone smoothly. Except for the presence of a translator, they were the same heartbreaking conversations he'd had with dozens, if not hundreds of grieving loved ones.

The three victims were blameless. There had been no trouble in their lives with money, or religion, or even with men; there was a breakup in Maya Asano's case, but not a painful one, and the boyfriend had an alibi. Her older brother had sat there wordlessly shaking his head, and broken off the interview early.

All that innocence extinguished in an instant of screeching metal.

He was standing in a park of sorts; actually it seemed to be a gravel pit, marked by a few trees, where people could smoke. Businessmen stood in white clouds, casting him the occasional glance, curious or suspicious. Two schoolgirls perched on the wall opposite him, eating pastries. Something about them struck Morgan as odd, and after a moment he concluded, without feeling much surprise, they were young men in drag.

He hadn't yet experienced anything that might be called culture shock. Perhaps, because his experience of Tokyo had taken place so far at night, it felt like a long dream.

His cellphone rang.

"Rossi, talk to to me."

"There have been some developments, but I'm going to call it a night. Captain Sasaki knows a good…ramen place? I suggest we reconnoiter there."

Consulting his watch, Morgan was shocked to find it was half-past one in the morning.

"Ramen? Like the stuff you buy for ninety-nine cents at the student co-op?"

"He claims it's better. Meet us in front of Yodobaishi Camera, I'm told you can't miss it."

Indeed one couldn't. It loomed over Morgan where he stood, behind the train tracks where they had arrived. Another train was just pulling in.

The door of the restaurant opened with considerable difficulty. Garcia, cradling three small paper bags under one arm, and an enormous vinyl bag under the other, wedged her way in sideways. Her face fell when she caught sight of Rossi.

"Oh, sir."

"What! This is how a civilized Italian man eats pasta," he insisted, twirling the ramen noodles around a fork, his soup spoon poised to catch the dripping broth.

"The unsub will go scott-free if we're laughed out of Tokyo for your atrocious table manners. Look! People are staring!"

They were, although it likely had more to do with the large gathering of foreigners than Rossi's choice of utensils. Each of the diners had a bowl of ramen, oozing steam, and a tall glass of beer; except Reid, who stuck to water.

"Pull up a chair, babygirl," said Morgan, "and maybe another for your luggage."

Reid's eyes narrowed. "Is that the new Kodak laser printer?"

"In this bag, and this is for my games, and this is my new camera, and this is all my Rozen Maiden doujinshi from Mandarake; and here in my purse, within the confines of my trusty iPad, is the list you asked for, sir."

"Glad to hear it."

"Well," said Sasaki, looking quietly pleased at the evening's progress, "I suppose we can't discuss the case openly here, but…"

"Hang on." Reid's phone went off. He inched his chair toward the wall, away from the noise. "Uh-huh. What's that? Hotch? Sorry, we're in a restaurant and…oh, okay. We'll be back soon. In under an hour? Understood. Goodnight."

Sasaki looked wry.

"How were the festivities?"

"Actually," said Reid, flipping his phone shut, "I kind of wish I'd attended." Then, glancing around at the others, he leaned forward and mouthed: Prentiss got drunk.

"Who does he think he is? Who does he think is? I oughta go back in there…give 'im a kick in 'is greasy balls. Secretaries. How the hell does a guy like that get power? I'll give him Japan. I'm more Japanese than he is."

"Agent Prentiss, please keep your voice down."

"Oh yeah? Is that an order? That an order, big shot? You think you're so tough, Hotch. But you are tough. I love you. I lo-ove you! C'mon, lighten up."

Hotch half-dragged her down the hotel corridor, stopping every few yards to wipe his forehead. His own face was more than a little flushed.

"Which room is yours?"

"There's only two rooms, Hotch. One for the sweet, innocent, girls, one for the nasty, dirty boys. How'd you forget something like that? You drunk or something? Huh?"

"Is it on the left or right of ours? I can't remember."

"Left. No, right. No, left. Definitely right."

He tried her key card on the right hand door, successfully. Garcia wasn't back yet. He guided her to what he assumed was her bed and lowered her down.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I agree with you about Hasekura. But he won this round."

"We'll get 'im next time…you n' me, Hotch…"

Hotch went into the bathroom, poured her a glass of water, and set it on the night table.

"I'm leaving this here. You'll need it."

Tangled in the sheets, Prentiss moaned: "Tell me a story, Hotch."

"Once upon a time, there was a spoiled little girl who wouldn't go to sleep."

"Oh yeah. Wha' happened to her?"

"The unsub got her. Goodnight."