right or the fact that he was so damn smug about it. Yamada-sensei had a similar ability to read her mind, and Mariko had always found it maddening in him too. She hated that Furukawa reminded her so much of Yamada.
“Thirteen oh four,” she said—too loudly. There were other pedestrians in earshot. She’d reached the narrow street where she planned to do her shopping, an urban box canyon and an all-out assault on the senses. All of the stores were brightly lit, and most had English names: FamilyMart, ABC-Mart, Mode Off. A pachinko parlor chimed and dinged and chattered, loud as a Vegas casino. Its signs were in English too, and though they were supposed to advertise slot machines, the placards read PACHINKO AND SLUTS. Cigarette smoke gave way to the syrupy, succulent smells of a yakitori restaurant. Between the sensory overload and the cramped quarters, it was enough to drive anyone into a full-blown panic attack.
Lowering her voice and covering her mouth, Mariko said, “Does that number mean anything to you?”
“No. Why?”
“Look into it. It has something to do with Joko Daishi’s next attack.”
“I see. His mother told you this?”
“Yes—and by the way, threatening to withhold a sick kid’s medication is pretty low even for you.”
“Withhold?” Furukawa seemed surprised. “Far from it. We went to great lengths to treat young Makoto.”
“Of course you did. Out of the goodness of your heart.”
“That’s quite enough,” said Furukawa. “I have no further appetite for your moralizing, Detective Oshiro. Either hang up the phone or come upstairs so we can speak like well-mannered adults.”
At that very moment someone tapped her on the shoulder. She whirled around, her elbow flying high, only to see Endo Naomoto backpedaling with a startled look on his face. “Whoa,” he said. “Totally sorry about that.”
The other shoppers flinched away like a skittish school of fish. Sudden violence out of small women was not a part of their daily routine. Endo was just as rattled. “What the hell?” Mariko said. “What are you doing here?”
“Playing billiards,” Furukawa said through the phone. At the same time, Endo nodded up at a fourth-floor window behind him. “The boss shoots pool here,” he said.
Mariko huffed and got her heart rate under control. She looked up at the long row of windows on the fourth floor, with a sign running under them reading BILLIARDS BAGUS. “You have to be kidding me,” she said, looking Endo in the eye while speaking into the phone.
“Come upstairs,” Furukawa said. “Let’s talk.”
“We already talked.”
“You have more questions now. You have been speaking with Shoji-san, neh? About her son?”
Mariko hated that this man knew so much about her—not just her private conversations but even which store she was heading to. He got in her head in a way only Han and Yamada-sensei were allowed to. “Good night, Furukawa-san.”
“Whatever Shoji shared with you, it’s not the whole truth.”
“She has no reason to lie to me.”
“Oh no? Did she explain Professor Yamada’s role in her son’s life? Did she explain the assignment Yamada was supposed to give to you? Or why he gave you his sword?”
Mariko laughed—not too dismissively, she hoped. She didn’t want to oversell it. The truth was that she knew precious little about her sensei and she was always eager to learn more. One of the great mysteries in her life was why he’d taken her under his wing and entrusted her with Glorious Victory Unsought. Yet one more secret that Furukawa knew about her. How did he pull this stuff out of her head?
He had the good graces not to make her ask. “Please, do an old man a favor. Spare my knees and come upstairs so I don’t have to come down to you. We can speak in private here. Endo-san will show you the way.”
“Nope. Endo-san will do my shopping for me.”
Endo seemed earnestly offended. “What? No way.”
Mariko took out the little notebook she carried everywhere—standard detective equipment, as she thought of it—and tore out a page. “Here. The stores are closing in twenty minutes. If I have to talk to your boss, you have to run my errands.”
“Boss, come on—”
“Do it,” said Furukawa, and Mariko passed on the message. It wasn’t quite fair to say Endo’s head sagged like Charlie Brown’s, but Mariko thought sad piano music would have been appropriate. He pulled the shopping list out of her hand and read it dejectedly. “You have to be kidding me. Underwear?”