Lady Joker, Volume 1, Kaoru Takamura [best affordable ebook reader TXT] 📗

gentle voices of his son and wife soothed his ears, but while listening to them Shiroyama had contemplated the eventual ripple effects that the incident would have on his family, and the moment he replaced the receiver, he was rattled by the sudden desire to flee to a deserted island.

Then, giving in to a temptation that had lingered in a corner of his mind for the past two and a half hours, he made another call. The recipient was a bureaucrat working in a central government ministry who shared Shiroyama’s distaste for the convivial requirements of his job. Shiroyama knew from experience there was little chance he would be out drinking at this hour, and as expected he reached Kiyoshi Iwami in the commissioner-general’s office of the NPA.

“Iwami-san? It’s Shiroyama from Hinode.”

“Ah, Shiroyama-san! I’m so relieved to hear from you. Your safe return seems to have saved our necks around here. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Thank you, I’m perfectly fine. I understand you called as soon as you heard the news and I just wanted to thank you.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. Fifty-six hours and the police barely managed to do anything effective—shame on us. I can’t imagine how horrible it must have been for you. I haven’t left my post here since hearing about the incident, and have been getting updates on the progress of the investigation.”

Iwami’s way of speaking conveyed none of the typical bureaucrat’s cloaking of intimidation with flattery nor the stodginess of someone in power; and yet his distinctive straightforwardness, which seemed to betray no intention or emotion whatsoever, made the listener all the more aware of the power of the police force.

In his student days Iwami had been the quintessential geek, always trudging diligently to and from the library, and after joining the NPA, he played the sycophant at alumni reunions, graciously pouring drinks for their classmates who now worked for the finance or construction ministries—but not once during those times had Shiroyama ever seen joy in Iwami’s eyes. When someone said that Iwami was a rising star in Public Security and that before long he would be promoted to bureau chief, and Shiroyama had marveled how Iwami’s small, flat head could accommodate such distrust in humanity, faith in state power, and savvy to navigate the bureaucracy. Last year Shiroyama had attended a private celebration for Iwami’s promotion from deputy commissioner general to commissioner-general after years of service as the head of Security Bureau, and it seemed to Shiroyama, having not seen Iwami for a long time, as if the mundanity was now gone from his former bland tactfulness. “Being at the top of the police is like finishing a game of sugoroku first. Once you’re done you’re just waiting around collecting the paperwork submitted by others while they finish the game,” the man had joked with an easygoing detachment, yet Shiroyama had the strong impression of him as a well-designed robot. Their colleagues in other government or corporate sectors seemed only more world-weary with every passing year, sinking deeper into their own turmoil, whereas the police appeared to function with increasing order and ease the higher one climbed up the ranks.

“Oh no, I’m quite grateful for all of the police’s efforts. It would be selfish to ask for more,” Shiroyama responded. “By the way, Iwami-san. It’s my opinion that Hinode Beer is entirely the victim in this incident, but do the police see things differently?”

“Don’t be absurd. Why do you ask? Have our investigators been out of line?”

“This is my first encounter with the police, so I wouldn’t know what’s considered out of line, but there’s no point in making a statement if what I say is not accepted as is.”

“That’s a misunderstanding. What you tell us is recorded word for word as testimony and we ask you to take a look and ensure there are no errors before it gets an official seal. So please don’t worry about that. The police are never swayed by what’s reported in the media.”

“I see. I do hope that is the case. Otherwise, doubt may spread throughout the corporate sector that we can’t be sure how much trust to place in the police’s response when we get embroiled in incidents like this.”

“Shiroyama-san. If you notice anything going forward, please know that you can always come to me. I’ll see to it that we don’t inconvenience you any further.”

“I appreciate your consideration. Thank you.”

Shiroyama set down the phone and applied the last of his perseverance to come to this realization: the reason every voice he had heard in the last few minutes—including those of his family members—seemed impossibly distant was because, quite simply, this was what it meant to become the victim of a crime. In the distance between himself—the man who had been informed by the criminals that three-and-a-half million kiloliters of beer had been taken hostage—and the rest of the world, rifts were developing everywhere.

I see, so this is what it feels like to be a victim. Shiroyama went through a long and meandering thought process in order to settle upon such a trivial conclusion.

Finally, he took out a sheet of company letterhead and a fountain pen to draft the speech he would give to the assembly of executives early tomorrow morning.

Shiroyama hunched over his desk, and within about half an hour he had written a decidedly mediocre speech for the morning assembly. “We all should be aware that it is the individual employee who can protect our company, without succumbing to the violent act targeting us . . .” He reminded himself as always that the duty of a manager was not to lecture employees about a specific theory but rather to inspire them to come up with a specific theory of their own, and he put down his pen and put away the stationery. He stared at the clock that read half past nine and thought, I’m so tired, so dead tired.

He sat in a daze for ten or fifteen minutes,