Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 11

The corridor was crowded, so Fushimi Shika led her downstairs instead and they sat on a bench beneath the cherry trees. Minamoto Tamako swung her legs, chattering non-stop, her face practically screaming Praise me!

"...and so, after meticulous deduction, I narrowed the sender down to a very small pool."

"Next, Kawai and I split up—she went after whoever issued the notice, while I checked the gatehouse log of incoming items..."

Fushimi cut in. "Just give me the bottom line."

"The reasoning matters too! Have a little patience."

Tamako pouted, then continued.

"The gatehouse log had no red ink, but Kawai found an identical bottle of Pilot-brand red ink in the Academic Affairs Office. I asked around—every notice or memo has to be copied and polished by a transcriber before it's released. That bottle belongs to him."

Fushimi laced his fingers, thinking. "Couldn't someone else have stashed the same brand?"

Tamako raised one finger.

"First, instructors and guidance counselors do random sweeps for contraband. If you're going to hide red ink, why not just use black ink or a normal pen to write the letter in the first place?"

A second finger went up.

"Second, red writing is everywhere in daily life, but borrowing a bottle of red ink is a pain. Most people never buy it unless they have a special need. So red ink must be something the sender handles often—he reached for it without thinking."

A third finger joined the count.

"Third, both the sender and the transcriber use Pilot brand. That's too neat to be coincidence; most shoppers grab whatever red ink is cheapest. Same brand means same source."

She tilted her head and looked at Fushimi, voice soft. "You're great at reading minds, Fushimi, but you're lousy at pure logic."

Fushimi didn't take offense; he was only poking for holes.

"All right, let's tentatively label the transcriber as our sender. What's his name?"

"Ishizuka Kazuo," Tamako said.

She had crouched outside the Academic Affairs Office for ages, too shy to step forward. Kawai's break had ended, leaving Tamako to soldier on alone—until Fushimi showed up.

"Speaking of which—" Her gaze dropped to his chest. "Why are you so sweaty, Fushimi?"

"It's hot."

"Liar." Tamako narrowed her eyes.

Fushimi brushed cherry petals from his sleeve and stood. "Twenty minutes left of lunch. Let's figure out how to talk to Ishizuka before classes resume."

"Hey! Obvious topic change!" Tamako grabbed his sleeve.

"You chose the direction, but Tamako here cracked the case. Amazing—you'll be a famous inspector-detective someday."

A single rainbow puff of flattery left Tamako dazed. She giggled "No, no, not really," scratched her cheek, and forgot every lingering doubt.

"Don't be modest—you out-reasoned me. I've still got a lot to learn. I'll be counting on you for any future brainwork."

Fushimi ladled on the praise, drafting free labor.

"Leave it to me!" Tamako thumped her flat chest, beaming.

He mentally noted: Tamako floats when praised. Entry added to the Minamoto Tamako user manual. This girl is way too easy.

With the rest of lunch break he chatted up janitors, trainee gate guards, cafeteria aunties—anyone who might know Ishizuka. Tamako tagged along, too shy to interrupt.

The assembly whistle shrilled while they jogged to the parade ground. Only then did Tamako ask, "Weren't we supposed to talk to Ishizuka?"

"I said figure out how to talk to him. That means we don't march up and ask outright."

"Why not?" Tamako looked lost.

"Your EQ really is rock-bottom. You don't tell strangers your secrets. We collect intel first, then negotiate from a position of strength."

He flashed back to his lawyer days—clients hiding crimes until the prosecution dropped bombs in court. After a few disasters he learned to map the terrain before any conversation.

Tamako muttered, "Says the guy who can't even make friends..."

He didn't catch it, and they joined the formation. As they passed Instructor Sakurai, she shot Fushimi a look that sent ice down his spine.

Heaven only knew how brutal tomorrow night's "special guidance" would be.

Afternoon brought routine drills, kendo practice, firearms handling, and lectures. The schedule claimed 5:30 p.m. dismissal; reality tacked on two or three extra hours, followed by "voluntary night runs." Net break time: about ninety minutes.

After wolfing down dinner, Fushimi resumed his casual interrogations, fishing for anything on Ishizuka Kazuo. With the Criminal System he could see everyone's "vice" and steer the conversation accordingly. Most people chatted happily; intel piled up.

Ishizuka Kazuo, male, 46, widower, lives in the staff dorm. Day job: copying and filing paperwork.

According to one cafeteria auntie, Ishizuka once had a daughter who died in an accident sixteen years ago. Details were murky; afterward his wife left him. He's lived alone ever since.

"Quiet job, quiet man—total wallpaper. If you hadn't asked, I'd forgotten he existed," people said.

Tamako wanted to tag along but Fushimi refused: "Folks won't gossip in front of a cute girl." She sat in the cafeteria stabbing broccoli with murderous intent.

When the cafeteria closed, she was shooed out; the broccoli still stood. Next time, she vowed, the green fiend would fall.

Just then Fushimi returned. Before she could speak, he pulled four crumpled paper balls from his pocket and told her to pick one.

"What are these?"

Tamako unfolded the paper and read aloud:

"Hit-and-run?"