11. Answers to Questions Do Not Bring Us Closer to the Truth
When it comes to solving problems and achieving goals, a well-coordinated organization is exponentially more effective than a group of even the most talented individuals. While I see no joy in being just another cog in the machine, from an outsider's perspective, such systems are the only way to address the challenges faced by large groups of people. We don't live in Wild West movies where a lone sheriff can protect an entire town from danger. In fact, in the better westerns, the hero only succeeds with help. Watch High Noon if you've never seen it.
Arresting a group of suspects alone is impossible. That's why, the very next day, I reported the results of my conversation with the informant to my superior. My reward was Yamada's restrained gratitude, paired with his promise to forward the information to city headquarters.
About thirty minutes later, Detective Takayama called me. He instructed me to arrange a meeting with the pawnshop owner. That was supposed to be the extent of my involvement in the investigation. However, things quickly deviated from our plan.
"Shinjirou, someone I know wants to approach you with a major deal. I recommend you hear him out."
"Come to Ranzaki together at 6:30 PM."
"He doesn't want me involved in the details. He'll be alone."
"I know you. I don't know him. Let him go wherever he wants for all I care."
This text exchange was followed by a short negotiation with Takayama. After some consideration, he agreed that I'd have to accompany him. It was implicitly understood that my role there was simply to reassure the informant, while Takayama would handle the actual work.
The rest of my day was consumed with routine tasks. In the evening, I had the privilege of being driven to the operation site in an unremarkable bronze Honda Accord—not the Toyota I'd expected—from headquarters.
Detective Takayama turned out to be a grim, painfully thin man in his mid-forties, dressed in a cheap dark gray suit. Behind the wheel was another plainclothes detective. In stark contrast to his boss, this man was stout, with bland facial features. Men like him often appear stupid, and occasionally, they are. But in this case, it seemed to be a carefully cultivated mask. As I later discovered, Ryu Yoshikazu was an exceptionally observant and patient man, a natural-born hunter. People like him make excellent police officers.
I gave a brief overview of the person we'd be dealing with. Takayama nodded silently, and neither he nor Yoshikazu said another word during the ride to the meeting point. That suited me just fine.
Ranzaki was a low-end izakaya, far removed from the places Shinjirou or I would normally frequent. It resembled a Western bar more than a traditional Japanese establishment. Loud music played throughout the room, making eavesdropping nearly impossible. An ideal venue for our purpose.
Tonight, the pawnshop owner had decided to indulge in gluttony at my expense instead of drinking. Although izakayas aren't known for proper meals — they don't even serve rice — there's nothing to stop you from stuffing yourself with fried meat as long as your wallet can handle it. Judging by the dirty dishes still on the table, Shinjirou had already downed his first beer and polished off a couple of appetizers.
I introduced the negotiating parties to one another and ordered beers all around. The informant cast a distrustful glance at the city detectives and grimaced, as if chewing on a sour plum.
"The skinny one reeks of poriko so badly, even blind people would avoid my pawnshop if he came near. I'm not letting him set foot on my property."
I frowned. Personal insults don't bother me much, I've even used them liberally myself. In my youth, I'd managed to provoke some people so thoroughly that they'd use my own name as an insult. But derogatory nicknames for my profession? Those get under my skin. Perhaps the salaryman mentality had burrowed too deeply into my brain over the years.
"And the fat one?" Detective Takayama asked sarcastically.
"The sweat stench cancels it out. Hachiman and the idiot can come — one looks like a clueless errand boy, the other like an unscrupulous scumbag. Perfect buyers for shady goods."
The "unscrupulous scumbag" jab didn't even make me raise an eyebrow. I told you, personal insults rarely affect me.
Takayama and Shinjirou spent some time hammering out the details of the upcoming operation. Well, more accurately, Takayama dictated terms while Shinjiro nodded along, occasionally pushing back against points he didn't like. Yoshikazu, meanwhile, was demolishing a plate of fried chicken.
By the end of the evening, I was roped into the city headquarters' operation at the cost of a hole in my personal finances so deep, I might as well have pawned something valuable at Shinjiro's shop.
The bust took place three days later. Yoshikazu and I waited for the sellers of the stolen goods in the back room of the pawnshop. Outside, several detectives from the criminal investigation division, led by Takayama, covered us.
Fortunately, headquarters had decided not to jeopardize the pawnshop owner's status as a police informant. Our job was simply to pose as discerning buyers and confirm that the sellers indeed had the stolen paintings. The actual arrests would occur elsewhere.
The seller turned out to be a jittery man of about 25, with short black hair. He fit the vague description the Yukinoshita neighbours' maid had given me. Most likely, he was the group's errand boy.
He did, in fact, have one of Takahara's stolen landscapes with him. I examined the painting like a connoisseur and declared it too new to interest my client. I told him to bring something from the Meiji, Taisho, or early Showa periods next time.
The seller cursed and left. Yoshikazu contacted his boss, and my involvement in the case was over.
The gang that had robbed the Yukinoshita home was apprehended later that day, in its entirety. Rumors spread rapidly, detailing the Chiba police department's resounding success. The gang consisted of four members — one seasoned burglar and three amateur accomplices.
How had they chosen their target? They'd received a tip with details about the security system and the existence of a buyer willing to pay 3 million yen for the entire collection of seven paintings. Why hadn't they sold the paintings to this buyer? Because it was a fabrication — no one showed up at the appointed time. Where did the tip come from? An anonymous email sent via a secure server. The address was known only to a select group of individuals interested in hiring a skilled burglar. And who were these individuals? That was for the police to figure out.
Both the police and the prosecution were unsatisfied with the outcome. However, the Yukinoshita family felt differently. Nobuo Yukinoshita held a press conference, publicly thanking the Chiba police department for their swift resolution of the case and the return of his close friend's paintings.
None of this concerned me. I made up for the time lost on the Yukinoshita case by working overtime on my usual tasks. Most nights, I returned home so exhausted that I could barely muster the strength to shower and change. The last thing I expected in such a state was the doorbell ringing. I made an unforgivable tactical error for a detective. I opened the door without asking who it was.