“Yes, the devil mask. I saw photos of it in his case file. You impounded it as evidence, neh?”
“We did. He had everything he needed to carry out the subway bombing well before we were onto him. He didn’t pull the trigger on it because he was waiting for a holy day in his cult, their equivalent of New Year’s, except they call this the Year of the Demon. He stole the mask right before the celebration—and by ‘celebration,’ I mean bombing that subway station. That was just the beginning, sir. We’ve investigated every lead we have on the Divine Wind, and assuming our lab guys did their estimating right, we’ve seized about half of the cult’s explosives.”
Kusama gave an appreciative nod. “I’m impressed.”
“It’s not good enough, sir. Joko Daishi intends to burn this city to the ground. He says the Divine Wind will deliver the Purging Fire. It’s a holy quest for him. He believes the mask gives him divine sanction.”
Kusama gave her a quizzical frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He thinks he can’t be killed, so long as he holds the mask.”
“Ah. As I recall, you tested that theory.”
Mariko could only nod in affirmation. She’d ripped Joko Daishi off his motorcycle at a hundred kilometers an hour, yet somehow he’d walked away from it. Mariko didn’t like to believe in magic, but she’d seen some things that just weren’t natural. The only other word to use was supernatural.
But in this case, it didn’t matter if the mask was magical. It only mattered that Joko Daishi believed in it. “Sir, the mask is legally his property, and his lawyer is going to argue that it was material evidence only in the case we had against Joko Daishi. Since he’s got a proxy to take the fall, his lawyer is going to try to have the mask released to Joko Daishi as soon as he gets out. Please trust me, sir: you’ve got to keep that mask out of his hands. He’s at his most dangerous—”
“Spare your breath, Sergeant. He’s already got it.”
Mariko couldn’t keep herself in her seat. “What?”
“I told you from the beginning: there’s nothing more I can do. We released him this morning, mask and all. And don’t you look at me like that. Do you think I want a terrorist loose in my city? Of course not. My hands are tied.”
“With due respect, sir—”
Now Kusama was on his feet as well. “Due respect is exactly what you owe me, Oshiro-san, and you should count yourself lucky that I gave you two warnings to that effect already. You are insubordinate, obstinate, and now that I’ve met you myself, I see you’re clearly prone to outbursts.”
“Sir, that’s just not true—”
“And now you interrupt me? Stand at attention, Oshiro.”
Mariko snapped to attention, instantly silent. She risked a quick glance at Sakakibara, who closed his eyes and shook his head. It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but it communicated massive, soul-crushing disappointment.
Kusama walked out from behind his desk, stood face-to-face with Mariko, and removed her sergeant’s pin.
It hit her like a bullet in the gut. She felt like she should want to cry, like that should have been an urge to repress, but there was only a hollowness instead. He might as well have pulled out one of her lungs.
In the most casual act of cruelty, Kusama set the pin down on the edge of his desk, facing her, right where she could reach it. It reflected in the polished teak: a tiny plate of gilded copper, with a cluster of leaves in the center and triple bars on either side.
Kusama walked back around to the other side and took his seat. “Sit down,” he said. “Let’s talk like civilized adults.”
Mariko looked over at Lieutenant Sakakibara, who still stood at the window with his arms folded across his chest. He gave her a tiny nod toward the chair. His face was as stern as ever, as inscrutable as ever; she couldn’t tell whose side he was on.
She had no alternative but to drop herself back in her seat. She started to speak in her own defense, then thought better of it and shut her mouth.
“You see?” said Kusama. “You can behave yourself.”
He shifted in his seat and adjusted his tie. So softly that she could hardly hear him, he said, “I don’t care for raising my voice, Oshiro-san. It’s unbecoming. So are these little tantrums of yours. I find you to be moody, temperamental, and far