Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 19

Rain hammered the cherry blossoms until the branches bowed.

The auditorium doors burst open, wind and water racing down the central aisle. Thunder rolled in the distance, and two silhouettes appeared on the crimson carpet.

Sakurai Chizuru snapped her umbrella shut and hooked it beside the door.

In her left hand she carried a leather suitcase; a belted brown trench coat hugged her waist and swept the floor.

"Inside," she said, stepping aside.

Fushimi Shika walked past her. Sakurai pulled the doors closed behind them.

The hall—normally locked outside of commencement ceremonies—was empty. She had borrowed the key, brought props, and was ready to try a far more exciting game tonight.

"I thought this was special tutoring?" Fushimi asked, knowing full well it wasn't. "What are we doing here?"

"Use respectful language." Sakurai turned the key, locking them in.

"Yes, Instructor."

"I don't like beating around the bush. Let's be direct: you're Kawai's accomplice, aren't you?"

A hunter's smile curved Sakurai's lips. Carrying the suitcase, she walked between the rows of seats, mounted the stage, and looked up at the police-badge relief.

"I barely know her," Fushimi said.

True enough—he and Kawai were hardly acquainted.

"You met her last night and took something from her underwear," Sakurai said, producing a roll of film from her coat pocket and placing it on the lectern. "It's all here. Denial is pointless."

She turned, voice sharpening. "Doesn't stooping that low shame the uniform you wear?"

Fushimi didn't think so. It was just a job—no creed, no country to die for.

His silence pleased her. She set the suitcase on the lectern, pulse quickening. "For a student who shows no remorse, the harshest punishment is required."

Click—the locks sprang open.

Sakurai's slender fingers rummaged inside; metal clinked and a bell tinkled.

"Let's start with the basics of respect."

She lifted a dark-red leather collar set with a dull brass bell and a long chain. Hooking her index finger through the ring at the end, she asked softly, "Do you know how to address a superior?"

"Oh, chicken?" Fushimi answered.

Sakurai didn't correct him; she simply crooked a finger. "Come."

Fushimi stepped forward. Sakurai set her right boot on his shoulder from the edge of the stage and let the collar dangle.

"Kneel."

He looked up; beneath the trench coat lay a view worth the price of admission.

This woman was a complete deviant.

Her boots, splattered with mud from the road, pressed harder, staining his shoulder.

"You don't want to be expelled, do you?"

She rocked her heel, each tap driving home her superiority. "Still don't understand your place, you piece of trash?"

Fushimi suddenly stepped back. Sakurai's foot missed its mark; she staggered, nearly toppling off the stage. Two quick steps sent her into what felt like a curtain-covered cushion.

"The one who doesn't understand is you," Fushimi said, brushing mud from his sleeve.

Sakurai's anger flared, eyes cold. She liked men with backbone, but too much backbone ruined the mood—like trying to romance a brick.

Before she could speak, a crisp metallic slide echoed—round chambered.

The icy barrel kissed her temple.

Fear detonated in her chest; every muscle locked.

Who—

Fushimi's gaze slid past her. "Waiting until now? You planning to frame me, Kawai?"

"Couldn't be helped," came Nagano Kawai's bright voice. She wore the academy uniform, cheerful as ever. "When else would I get a chance? Remote location, thunder masking gunshots—perfect."

It was her. But why—

Sakurai raised both hands. "Calm down, Nagano. Remember why you enrolled. Don't throw your life away."

"Right, right," Fushimi drawled, lounging on the front-row bench. "She's a sworn officer. Penal Code says that's life without parole at minimum. Your life, finished."

Something about his tone struck Sakurai as off, but survival came first.

Kawai fell silent; only the rain spoke.

"You two," she said at last, "are really annoying."

"Look, it's just expulsion," Sakurai soothed. "You have your whole future—"

"Do you know why I wanted to be a cop?" Kawai interrupted.

"F-for justice?"

"No."

"Stable job?"

"No."

Kawai took a steadying breath, then a step back, the muzzle now aimed at the base of Sakurai's skull.

"For thirteen years I've visited the station every week to ask about the investigation. Each time an officer poured me tea and recited the same script: 'We understand how you feel, but the case is still open. Please be patient; we will catch the perpetrator.' Word for word from the textbook we use to comfort victims' families in class."

"The first month everyone was fired up—posters, neighborhood patrols, wanted notices. Then the posters were covered by ads, the neighborhood group changed faces, the notice swapped for some other killer. Father recited sutras, calling it karma; Mother cried, begging me to let go."

"Five years on, people told me to move forward. Ten years later, Father said I was possessed, Mother wept every night. Yet I still 'clung to delusion.' I worked four jobs to pay tuition, took the civil-service exam, and entered the academy. If no one else would keep looking, I would. Ten years, twenty—my whole life, until I found the woman who crushed my little brother."

"And on the first day of term, there you were, Instructor Sakurai. You haven't aged a day."

Sakurai's fingers trembled; cold seeped into her bones.

"I don't hate you," Kawai said softly. "Not at all. I only wish it had been me who died that day."

I remember Zhang Koukou, who stayed trapped in the day his mother left.