The Salaryman's Wife(40)

How interesting. Was he drowning his sorrows or entertaining someone new? I pictured a slim Japanese girl in tight ski pants. I hastily rang off, hoping Mr. Yogetsu would not encourage his wife to call me back. I phoned the Alpenhof, where the bartender answering the phone sounded like he was in the middle of a brawl. When I asked him to check for a white man, he shouted “No gaijin!” and hung up.

I would have to contact Captain Okuhara first and then relay the message to Hugh. I dialed the number on the business card the police chief had given me. A desk sergeant answered, and I identified myself as the Japanese-American woman who had found Setsuko Nakamura’s body at Minshuku Yogetsu. There was a series of clicking noises, and I thought I’d been disconnected until I heard a new voice.

“Okuhara here.”

“This is Rei Shimura. Do you remember me?” I asked hesitantly.

“The amateur translator. I recognize your accent.”

“I have some more information about your case.”

“The Nakamura accident?” He sounded bored.

“I’m telephoning about the autopsy, which is…perhaps not correct after all.” Taking a deep breath, I launched a translation of the high points Tom had told me.

“Yes, I know what the Battle sign is. The coroner did not mention it.” Captain Okuhara spoke firmly.

“The thing is, we know the last thing she did that night was take a bath,” I reminded him. “If she had been struck in the head and then held underwater, she could have drowned. Do you remember how she had water in her lungs as well as the bruises behind the ears?”

“How did you reach this rather astonishing conclusion, Miss Shimura?”

“A Saint Luke’s physician provided this analysis, so if you don’t believe me, just call him! But please look around before all the evidence is gone—look in the bath at least—”

“She was found outside. You of all people, should remember that.”

“Yes, I found her under the bathroom window, with no footprints leading to, or away, from her body. She lay face down, which means there was no reason for her to have bruises behind her ears. No reason except for the fact that somebody hit her in the head. Think about it!” I dropped the formal language I’d started with, had no more patience for honorifics. There was a long silence.

“How did you get the autopsy?” When he spoke again he sounded friendlier, but I still felt ruled by caution.

“It was given to me.”

“The only person who had a copy was Mr. Nakamura.”

“Mr. Glendinning obtained a photocopy because he was concerned. He knew Mrs. Nakamura had wanted a divorce. There’s every reason to believe her husband was the person who struck her.” There, I’d said it at last.

Captain Okuhara wanted to know more. Now that I had his complete, uncritical attention, my words slowed and my grammar fell back into place. I told him about the papers in my door, the gas accident, and the scenario Hugh and I had constructed in the bathroom.

“You were correct to call, Miss Shimura,” he said at the end of my outpouring. Correct. That was an improvement over the way he’d been treating me. Cheered, I asked him what the next step would be.

“First, I will call this doctor at St. Luke’s you told me about. Then, if I see fit, I will order the autopsy redone.”

Feeling giddy I hung up and went to bed, but found I could not sleep. I fixed myself a cup of cocoa, trying to will myself into relaxation. Captain Okuhara had listened. He had thanked me. Vindication would never again feel so sweet.





12


The crackers and candy piled up next to the coffee-maker had been thoroughly pawed over, but they still tempted me on my first evening back at work. Everyone had brought a souvenir from their vacation travels. I added a small sampler of Shiroyama’s sweet bean cakes to the display and wondered if there would be time for a cup of tea and a quick bite before I started teaching.

“You look like the cat who got the cream. Did the flying Scotsman call back yet?” Richard’s sibilant whisper in my ear made me jump. I shook my head. I’d waited all weekend and was heartily sick of it. Richard opened his mouth, probably on the verge of offering condolences, but I interrupted him.

“You took that earring out of your mouth!”

“It’s a tongue stud,” Richard corrected. “This dress code sucks. I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”

It was a minor miracle that Richard managed to squeeze himself four nights a week into the button-down shirt, blazer, and trousers Nichiyu required of him. If he had his way, he’d dress in the black T-shirt, leather jeans, and multiple earrings he wore constantly on his jaunts into Roppongi and Shinjuku. No one at work was aware of his sexual orientation. This made him complain that our living together ruined his image. Still, he needed me as much for close companionship as my share in the rent payment.