3. Life Never Goes According to Plan

Three thousand years ago, a king named Solomon ruled one of the nations of the Eastern Mediterranean. In his lifetime, he managed to say a lot of wise things. Don't believe me? Step into a Catholic church and ask someone about the Book of Proverbs. I'm not sure if every Christian has read it in its entirety, but that collection of ancient Western wisdom contains ideas that resonate even with me, a self-proclaimed Buddhist. For instance, the notion that human plans only come to fruition if they align with a higher design. Which means one shouldn't count on events turning out favorably just because it suits them personally.

I realized that the burglary at the Yukinoshita residence would lead to a chain of unintended consequences at 7:08 AM. That was when a silver Honda Accord pulled up in front of the house, and out stepped a groggy, unshaven, and utterly furious Yamada-dono. My boss was livid because I hadn't immediately informed him about a crime involving the Yukinoshita family. My oversight stemmed from differing perspectives: for him, the Yukinoshitas were bigwigs in the prefecture; for me, they were people I'd wronged in the past and needed to avoid at all costs.

By 7:28, six additional uniformed officers had been stationed around the Yukinoshita home. At 7:33, I was sent to canvas the neighborhood in search of witnesses, hoping to catch the culprits while the trail was still fresh.

This was yet more proof of the flawed Japanese tradition of assuming senior colleagues are inherently more competent and effective simply because of their tenure. Sure, Yamada-dono has been in the police force about as long as I've been alive, but has that made him any more capable?

A competent boss would never send a sleep-deprived Detective Hikigaya to interact with people. A competent boss would dump paperwork, surveillance, or online research on him instead. Though, to be honest, a truly competent boss wouldn't even let Detective Hikigaya work under him in the first place.

With these thoughts in mind, I went door to door across several neighboring houses.

House Takayama. Shigeru Takayama, 48, partner in a law firm. Slept through the night, heard nothing. Keiko Takayama, 45, housewife. Same story. Hideki Takayama, 27, ER resident. Just got home from his shift about five minutes ago.

Unnamed house. No one home.

House Fujimoto. Emiko Fujimoto, 54, widow, landlady. Woke up around 6 AM, saw and heard nothing.

Unnamed house. Takashi Hosoya, 46, businessman. I got lucky here.

At 2:30 AM, Hosoya-san had a video conference with business partners in Lima, Peru. At 2:49, he lost cell service, which wasn't restored until 2:55. "The partners were annoyed. I lost the upper hand. The deal likely won't happen," the witness complained. At 3:17, the meeting ended, and at 3:19, he called his carrier's support line, where they assured him there were no technical issues on their end. He didn't notice anything unusual outside, as he was exhausted and only wanted to sleep. He was kind enough to show me the logs on his phone. I photographed them with my work smartphone, thanked him, and warned that he might be called to provide formal testimony — or even appear in court.

House Ito. Sachiko Morita, 39, housekeeper. Arrived for work at 6:30 AM. The homeowner is on a business trip to the States. Morita-san didn't see anything unusual this morning, but three days ago she noticed an unfamiliar man loitering around the usually quiet and exclusive neighborhood.

"Morita-san, can you describe him?"

"Well, he was… not too tall, maybe average height. Japanese, I think. Not a foreigner. Dark hair, not very long—kind of messy, I guess. He seemed… strange. Kept looking around like he was waiting for something or afraid of being seen."

"Clothes? Any distinctive features?"

"Clothes… um, maybe a light jacket, like a bomber, and pants… jeans, I think, kind of worn. Shoes… I don't remember, something dark."

"Thank you, Morita-san. An officer will take down your formal statement later, and you may need to repeat it in court."

By the time I finished canvassing the area, the cluster of Toyotas — interspersed with my boss's Honda and someone's old dark green Subaru Legacy — had been joined by a black Rolls-Royce Phantom, standing out like a swan among ducks. Luxury British cars aren't a common sight on Japanese roads. Japan's elite typically prefer more patriotic choices like the Toyota Century or German sedans like the Mercedes-Benz S-Class or Maybach. The odds of spotting a Rolls-Royce in Chiba are slim.

It just so happens that I'm one of the few Japanese people with firsthand experience of the effect a Rolls-Royce Phantom has on a person. It's disappointing. Instead of behaving like an honest Truck-kun and sending a gaping pedestrian to another world, where he might build a harem of beautiful elf girls, a Phantom merely sends you to the hospital with a broken leg. You'd expect more from such an expensive, luxurious, and rare car.

But who am I kidding? A harem? For Hachiman Hikigaya? Even Yoshiteru Zaimokuza, at the peak of his high school delusions, wouldn't come up with something so absurd. And even in my most hormone-fueled teenage moments, I never dared dream of such a thing.

This particular old Rolls-Royce brought back some very unpleasant and painful memories. And its owners—well, my memories of them were even worse. So, I tried to blend into the small crowd of uniformed and plainclothes officers gathered near the Yukinoshita house. My main goal? To subtly signal to my boss that my shift was almost over, I was exhausted, and I'd be of no use at this stage of the investigation. Ideally, he'd assign the case to a senior, competent detective, while I returned to my routine investigations. Worst case, I'd be given a minor lead to follow up on. But most importantly, I wouldn't have to interact with anyone from that family.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. That's not from the Bible — it's from Woody Allen, an American filmmaker. Like King Solomon, also Jewish, also wise. And, as it turns out, also right.

I didn't even have time to fully form my clever plan to dodge extra work (one of Detective Hikigaya's 108 skills, which I prefer to keep secret) before the gods decided to toy with me. Barely had I taken a step when I almost bumped into Mrs. Yukinoshita herself. Just as elegant as ever, barely aged, and still favoring traditional kimonos that cost as much as ten dresses from the latest Parisian collections.

"Long time no see, Hachiman," she said, with a faint smile. "Welcome home."