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I said. “I don’t grasp what you are telling me. Could you give me specific details or examples to illustrate your point? This may be a critical aspect of the investigation.”
She sat with a blank expression for a few moments. I assumed she was considering my request or coming up with a strategy to get me out of the office, such as calling security, although other than a vigilant man seated at a desk in a corner in the ground floor lobby, I saw no security force. [NB—If she simply told me to leave, I would have obliged her due to our company policy of not forcing ourselves unduly on people we interrogate except in exceptional circumstances.]
Instead, she told me to wait in the conference room.
While she was gone, I made sure I had enough tape in the recorder hidden in my briefcase. I believe I did, but I put in a fresh tape to be sure. She returned in a minute with a stack of books she placed in front of me. I opened the top one which was a book on urban insect life.
“There,” she said, pointing to a technical drawing of a moth, according to the caption a Pidorus glaucopis atratus Butler, also known by its Japanese name Hotaruga. Its brownish-greenish wings were ridged, its feelers thick and bushy, giving it a strong appearance, more so than most delicate moths I was familiar with. Two bold white stripes, one on each wing near the end tips, formed a shallow “V.” The stripes added to the image of strength, like decorations on a fighter plane or a rugby player’s jersey. The moth was drawn on the grid screen of a window, giving it an imprisoned feel. Or maybe it was being kept out of whatever was behind the screen.
The art director said, “Can you feel the power of the moth in his drawing?”
“The technical aspects appear quite outstanding, although I’m not sure of the accuracy as I’m not an entomologist.”
“I can assure you that it’s accurate. We double-check all of our scientific facts.”
“Mizuno appears to be the ideal illustrator for your press. You must miss him a lot.”
“We do, of course,” she said, with a trace of gentleness that was shocking in its emergence from such a cold shell. “Our only problem with Ren, and this was a small problem, was that he rarely made deadlines. I say a small problem because almost none of our freelance artists make deadlines. We build in a cushion to account for this tendency. We tell them the deadline is in one month when actually two would be adequate.” Here she gave me a conspiratorial glance that I interpreted as her confession being our secret. I gave her a subtle nod. We seemed to have reached a point of common ground.
“How late was Mizuno, typically?” I asked.
“Usually only a week or ten days. I’d give him a gentle reminder, call a day or two after the deadline. He’d be so apologetic. I’d feel badly, but artists might take forever if it weren’t for deadlines and reminders.”
“How did you first meet him?”
“I saw his work in a magazine, one of those Sunday newspaper supplements. I couldn’t wait until the next day when I called the publisher to get his name and phone number. He seemed quite flattered, almost disbelieving, that I would go out of my way to contact him.”
I asked her this question: “What was his last project with you?”
From the pile, she pulled out the butterfly book and showed it to me.
“When did he work on this project?”
“Three years ago.”
“But you said he died three years ago?”
She frowned and her eyes narrowed in anger. I had lost traction in my interview and felt her pulling away from me. She said, “I was rounding off. I’d have to look up exact dates in my files and I don’t have time to do that.”
She stood up and walked to the door. Obviously the interview was over.
“One last question,” I attempted as I moved toward her.
She sighed but did not dissuade me.
“Who called you about his death?” I asked.
“I was trying to contact him about another project and left several messages. After a few days, his mother called. I remember her saying, ‘Ren has passed away.’ She apologized that he couldn’t work for us any longer. Then she hung up before I could offer much in the way of condolences.”
I choked back a sputter of anger, but it came out anyway. “His mother? That’s crazy. She is the one who has claimed him missing. How can I believe anything you’ve just told me?” After I said this, I realized it could have been someone claiming to be his mother.
Before I could rectify the situation, the art director pointed a finger to the door through which the bank of elevators waited like sentries.
expenses:
14-km car expense
¥950 parking
I arrived at the Kuchi complex a few minutes ahead of my appointed time. I checked in with the receptionist who was entirely professional this time—I was a paying customer after all. She offered me tea which I politely accepted. She went through my paperwork to make sure all was in order. At one minute before the hour, she escorted me into a cozy room. “The fortuneteller will be with you in a moment.” She smiled and I smiled. I sat in a deeply-cushioned chair so plush it nearly swallowed me up.
It was only a moment later that I was greeted by the fortuneteller. She wore a dark suit, fitting for our meeting. She took her chair and pronounced she was glad to see me again. “Let’s get right down to business. You want to contact a deceased person named Mizuno Ren. What exactly would you like to ask him?”
“I’m not sure I can say precisely. He disappeared so suddenly, like a whiff of smoke.”
“Disappeared you say? Are you sure he’s dead?”
“I meant disappeared as in ‘for good.’”
“How did he die?”
“Now there’s a question to ask him,” I said. “I would like to know the answer.”
“Sorry, but I find it a little strange that you don’t know.”
“I only recently heard of his death through a third party who didn’t know or wouldn’t give me any details.”
“How did you know Mizuno Ren? As a friend?” Her tone bordered on suspicious.
“More as an acquaintance through his mother.”
“You know his mother? Didn’t she tell you how he died?”
“She’s in denial over the whole thing, I’m afraid,” I said. “I do wonder what happened to him, of course, but I’m mainly interested in what he might want to tell me.”
“I see … that makes it a little more difficult. The more specific the question the better.”
“All right. How about these: Are you happy? Is there anything I can pass along to your mother?”
“That’s good enough to start with,” she said as she set out a dish of cone-shaped incense and lit one of them. The smoke drifted to the ceiling. She turned out the lights except for a single pin light that shot through the smoke and illuminated the particles. “Now relax and think only of Mizuno Ren. Think only of his life, not of his death.” Her voice was soothing, like a hypnotist’s. After a few moments, she began to whisper, exhorting Mizuno to join us. “Your friend wants to know if you are happy.” There was a slight disturbance in the stream of acrid smoke—as if a hand had pushed through it.
“He says ‘Yes, I am happy.’” She asked him, “Are you at peace?”
Again the smoke shifted, this time more violently. “He says he is at peace and wants to be left alone.”
I glanced down to the table and even in the dark I could