Cajun Justice(77)

When the taxi neared the apartment complex, Cain instructed the driver to stop right there and not go any closer to the main doors.

“This is good. Right here. Here! Koko ni.” Cain didn’t want to be dropped off at the front doors because he wasn’t yet sure if they were being watched by the yakuza.

Cain walked around the neighborhood and the building’s parking lot. He looked intently at all the cars and made sure that none harbored a lookout. Black was the most popular color in Japan. It didn’t matter the make or model—almost all the sedans were black. Some were silver, but none were the orange Nissan Skyline that Sabrina had described.

Cain’s phone buzzed in his hand. It was a text message.

IS EVERYTHING OKAY? Umiko wrote. IT’S REALLY LATE AND I HAVEN’T HEARD BACK FROM YOU.

He called her. “Bonnie has been kidnapped.”

“Are you sure? This is unbelievable!” Umiko said.

“I’m trying to backtrack her steps. I’m at her apartment now. But I gotta be honest with you, Umi. I’m feeling overwhelmed right now. Everyone is right. I’m a gaijin—an outsider in this foreign place.” His voice started to crack. “It’s my fault. Now she has been taken. And I’m the only person Bonnie has looking for her.”

“I will help you. I can go with you to the police station,” Umiko offered.

Cain sighed. “That’s not going to do any good. I spoke with some officers earlier at Bonnie’s apartment. They were useless.”

“That is why you need my help,” Umiko said with confidence. “I have lived my whole life in Japan. I understand Japanese procedures, and I also know how to get around them.”

“I didn’t think navigating Japanese bureaucracy was even possible,” Cain said. “That’s how it feels around here, but maybe there’s hope. My crew chief used to say that an officer knows the rules, but a chief knows the exceptions to those rules. If you’re willing to help me, I’ll take it. I can use any help I can get right about now.”

“I will meet you at Tokyo police headquarters in one hour.”

“There’s a koban near Bonnie’s apartment. Wouldn’t that be quicker?”

“Quicker is not always better.”

“That’s a very Japanese thing to say.”

“What can I say? I’m Japanese.”

Cain let out a chuckle and realized it was the first time he had laughed since he shared breakfast with Umiko that very morning. But it seemed as though days had passed already.

About an hour later, Umiko showed up carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts box. “I purchased these on my way here. They will help us. Japanese inspectors watch American police movies.”

“And even if they don’t, everybody loves doughnuts.”

“Hai, and I have chocolate, glazed, and some with cute sprinkles.” Umiko smiled.

Tokyo’s metropolitan police headquarters was an enormous wedge-shaped building that ascended eighteen stories. It was the station responsible for overseeing more than forty thousand police officers. On the roof was a large red communications tower—undoubtedly for dispatching police and receiving 110 calls, the equivalent of America’s 911.

About thirty civilians were lined up to speak with the officer on duty.

“I’m sorry for this long line,” Umiko said.

“Are you kidding? New Orleans has a fraction of the population Tokyo does, and their line would snake out the door, all the way into the French Quarter.”

Umiko and Cain took their place in line. The line was orderly, and everyone waited patiently except for Cain. He continued glancing at his Omega Seamaster. “I just need to find that orange Skyline.”

Cain had been observing the people in line. After about the fourth person had given money to the duty officer before leaving, Cain decided to say something.

“Why is everyone paying the duty officer? What’s that all about?”

“They are turning in money,” Umiko said.

“What?”

“Yes. They have found money, or someone’s wallet or umbrella. Most likely on the train. And they are turning it in.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I think over one million dollars in yen gets turned in to the lost and found every year.”

“The hell with umbrellas. Someone needs to turn in Bonnie,” Cain exclaimed.

At about that time, they reached the front of the line. “I will talk to the police officer,” Umiko said. “Please try to relax, and trust me.”

It was as if Umiko was a different person. Instead of her normal appearance of stability, athleticism, and competence, she presented herself to the officer as very timid and shy.

“Sumimasen,” she said, and quasi bowed several times. The rest of what she said was in Japanese, and Cain didn’t know what she was saying. At one point, she lifted the box of doughnuts into the air to show the officer. He smiled—perhaps for the first time during his shift that day.

A few moments later, an inspector came to the lobby and requested that Umiko and Cain follow him back to the detective bureau. It was an open-bay area illuminated by bright fluorescent lights. They walked past at least fifty desks at which sat uniformed and plainclothes detectives clacking on typewriters and computers and answering ringing phones. All the desks, chairs, and telephones looked identical.