“If you ask me, Mr. Oushuu, I think you could charge more for your work. Not just for the accuracy and speed of your investigation, but, my goodness, your ears don’t miss a thing! I was sweating bullets—I felt like a criminal myself. You really are outstanding.” Nakategawa gave a weak smile, putting a hand to his heart, as if to act out what he just said.
“As a rule, I only charge the prescribed rate.”
Although there wasn’t much demand for a certified fraud examiner, the regulated rate was not particularly low to begin with.
“It’s just like you to say that, Mr. Oushuu.”
Sora couldn’t bring himself to feel grateful for Nakategawa’s compliment. What was the point of telling him he wasn’t charging enough? “Don’t you think it’s expensive to hire a third party to audit the internal accounts?” he asked.
“It’s a low price to pay if we consider the bank’s reputation and trust,” Nakategawa replied. “If we can deal with the matter internally, that’s the optimal outcome.”
If they really valued their trust, Sora couldn’t understand why they chose not to make a criminal accusation as soon as they identified the likely suspect. He simply couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to carry out fraudulent activities. Embezzlement, corruption, appropriation, illicit donations, and bid rigging could all be exposed upon investigation.
“It’s a pointless, worthless crime,” he murmured under his breath.
Nakategawa listened to him in silence.
Sora simply couldn’t imagine what went on in the minds of people who chose to take part in such atrocious and obvious embezzlement.
“You’re so sure you’re always right, aren’t you? You and no one else.”
Etou’s jarring words still bothered Sora. And most of all, he kept on seeing the gaze of the attorney in his mind, as if he was still standing in front of him. It was Sora’s nature to firmly stand by his belief—it was impossible for him to imagine what drove those criminals to do what they did. And yet he frowned slightly as he felt another wave of unease.
The clear tones of the higurashi cicadas rang through the air, signaling the end of summer.
“He sure does look like a Japanese wolf.”
A familiar old man called out from a bench by Sanpouji Lake. Sora was taking a walk in Shakujii Park, which stretched from east to west over a wide, oblong area in Nerima Ward of Tokyo.
“You always say that,” replied Sora.
Since the extensive case at Daitokyo Bank had finally reached a point where he could prepare a written report, Sora had slipped off his leather shoes and suit jacket as soon as he got home. Still in his white business shirt and navy trousers, he had changed into sneakers and stepped out into the park.
His straight black hair had grown a little too long. Even so, people often told him that he looked “cool and clean.” He got “cold” a lot, too.
The old man was sitting with his wife on a bench. Mr. and Mrs. Kashiwagi were both in their seventies and lived in the neighborhood of Shizukuishi, same as Sora. They ran a calligraphy class there.
“We saw a painting of a Japanese wolf only yesterday, and they look so similar. It was on TV, a documentary about extinct animals. That wolf wasn’t pure white like our dear Fuuka, though.” Tatsuko leaned down from her seat, gazing affectionately at something near Sora’s waist height. “Right, Fuuka, sweetie?”
“Woof.”
There he was, an enormous white dog resting calmly on the ground, the very picture of a Japanese wolf.
Lately, Sora had been too busy with the Daitokyo Bank hearings to take Fuuka on walks, so they’d rushed out of the house as soon as he got home.
“Can I pet him?”
“Fuuka seems to love it when you pet him, Ms. Tatsuko.” Sora, as always, spoke slowly and respectfully in his mild, midrange tone. Everybody in town called the couple “Ms. Tatsuko” and “Mr. Rokurou.” “Don’t you, Fuuka?”
Neither the couple nor Fuuka would have been able to imagine how his gentle voice became so frosty at work, chilling the heart of the branch manager who had been next to him.
“Coo, coo.” Fuuka hummed happily, his large body snuggling up to Tatsuko.
Sora held the end of a long red leash, as was required by law, but he was always careful to stay close by so that it never got too tight.
“So what breed is he?”
Rokurou, who taught a free and easy style of calligraphy to the children of the town while being a professional calligrapher himself, asked this to Sora not for the first time.
“He’s a mix. He was still a little puppy when he was given to me. I had no idea he’d grow so big; it feels like it happened overnight. I basically just work to make sure I have enough for him,” said Sora, joking about the food expenses.
Fuuka lowered his head, as though he could follow their conversation.
Sora bent down and whispered, “Sorry,” in Fuuka’s ear.
“Why don’t you get him checked sometime? He really does look exactly like a Japanese wolf.”
“The last record of a Japanese wolf is in the Meiji era, so it’s been more than a hundred years now. Siebold’s1 papers are almost all gone as well. Fuuka’s just a slightly large hybrid.”
“You talk as if you’ve seen it with your own eyes,” Rokurou teased. He seemed impressed by Sora’s knowledge of the Meiji era and of Siebold from some years before that.
“…I like history, so it slipped out.”
“You really are studious—our learned lawyer. I’d expect you to make brisk and efficient work of our divorce, too. You’d make sure you divide everything equally between us. Of course, we’d pay you the appropriate fee in full,” said Tatsuko with a warm smile. She often brought this up, no matter what Sora said.
“I know I always say this, but I’m not that kind of lawyer. I used to be a public prosecutor.”
“But there’s a sign in front of your house that says OUSHUU LAW FIRM.”
Two years ago, Sora had bought a house with an office space in Shizukuishi. For a young legal practitioner, it was a rather expensive purchase. Although he had just enough in his longtime savings to use as seed money for the property, it was a spacious house in an expensive neighborhood where maintenance costs were nothing to sneeze at.
“I’m not cut out to be an attorney. My firm is for doing stiff and stuffy legal work. I’m what they call a certified fraud examiner—not the kind of work where I can be of service to people like you. I sneak into companies to investigate.”
Sora, usually quiet and serious, did his best to work his facial muscles into a playful grin. He didn’t want the people in his neighborhood to see the man he became when he worked on cases like the one in Mejiro. Once he was back in Shizukuishi, he could forget everything about work.
For Sora, time slowed down in this tranquil place.
“But we’ve already decided that you should be the one to sort out our divorce. Brisk and efficient, if you please,” said Rokurou, echoing Tatsuko’s request.
“Well, I suppose you two can never get divorced, then. I can’t possibly take on such a difficult task.”
The couple’s request might have sounded like a joke, but it was well-known among the townsfolk that the two childless calligraphy artists had thought about splitting many times, and for good reason.
“I can’t name anyone I could entrust with such a heavy responsibility, so I’m afraid I can’t make any introductions, either.”
Even if it wasn’t the Kashiwagis asking him, he would never be so reckless as to accept such an important piece of work offhand. With Rokurou and Tatsuko, he was doubly cautious.
“You’re an earnest man, Mr. Lawyer.”
“I’m stubborn, I know. I’m sorry.”
He knew full well that this obstinate inflexibility, which revealed itself not only in his work but also in other areas of his life, was simply his nature. He bowed to Rokurou apologetically.
“Why’re you apologizing? It’s a good trait to have. You’re earnest, and you have a strong sense of responsibility.”
“That’s right,” Tatsuko chimed in. “You know what responsibility is.”
To Sora, his disposition felt like a liability, but the couple turned it into something positive in their frank, breezy manner.
“…I do hope that’s the case.” Sora himself couldn’t see the bright side, and he looked down.
That day, as with all other days, he had no doubt he’d carried out his work properly, and yet there was a darkness that lingered over his heart. He was touched by the couple’s words. Whenever he talked to them, he felt like he was drinking a glass of cool, refreshing water in the desert.
“By the way—could you take this, dear? It’s close to the expiration date, so it was on sale at the shop. It was such a good deal, I just got greedy and bought too much,” said Tatsuko brightly, picking up three bags of Shimabara somen noodles off the bench.
“Oh, I couldn’t. You’re always giving me something.” Sora waved his hands and tried to refuse, but the noodles were already right in front of his face.
“Go on. Take them. You know old folks like us can’t help worrying over young people living by themselves.”
“Come on—let us be busybodies.”
Sora gratefully took the somen packs and stowed them away in the reusable bag he always kept in his pocket.
“Thank you so much.”