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said he would check the bank
accounts we got from Noboru Hosoi and try to trace where the
money came from. Japan had not adopted a social security
numbering system like the U.S., so it was possible for Hosoi to open
an account under false identification, which she had in fact done. No
problem. We had the numbers and the alias: Ai Yoshida. As far as I
knew, the authorities did not have that information.
    "Our banking system is sometimes cloudy, but I understand
it," said Morimoto. There was a spark of fire in his eyes that might
have been stoked by spite at that same system that had spit him out.
"I have contacts, still. If the money was transferred from another
bank, I'll trace the source. If it was cash, I'll find out."
    That was the most pluck I'd seen in him since he shoved me
onto the rush-hour train. I liked it.
    Later that night, I got a call from Yuri asking me if I could
find my way to Shibuya station the next morning. The investigator
who had rendezvoused with the model was working in that area, and
he had a report for us. She said they'd wait for me at a coffee shop
across the street from Hachiko.
    "What's Hachiko?"
    "Just go to Shibuya and follow the signs. You'll find it."
    I did. Hachiko was a dog that decades ago had developed a
habit of waiting at the station every day to meet its master. After his
master died, the dog still trotted to the station and waited. Japanese
found the hound's inability to break his habit endearing. He became
a symbol of war-time loyalty. They put up a statue and made a movie
about him.
    Lucky dog.
    In China, Hachiko would have been soup de jour the day his
master died.
    Yuri was right about Hachiko's statue being easy to find. So
was the shop. She and her compadrè were having lattes
when I arrived. I ordered the brew of the day. It wasn't Cajun, and
they didn't have egg and bean mariachis , so I got a bagel and a
banana instead. Yum.
    Not everyone in Shibuya looked like they were on their way
to audition for a boy band or a costume-play club. The coffee shop
customers were dressed for office work. The only thing unusual was
that about seventy percent were women. Yuri and the investigator
with her were both dressed in black pullovers and black slacks.
Maybe Protect Agency had a dress code that Morimoto hadn't heard
about.
    Yuri introduced Ken Nozaka. He half rose and extended his
hand, good grip. Not that I was attracted, but objectively, I'd have to
say he was prettier than Yuri, skinnier nose anyway. Not a bad
choice for someone to chat up a model.
    "What'd we find out?" I asked Yuri, but Nozaka answered for
himself.
    "Where would you like to begin?" He spoke as though he'd
stayed up all night practicing the elocution on that sentence. It was
precise, but unnatural. I gave him another scan. He was lean but built
solid. His nails were filed and his hair was neat, except for a few
strands that fell across his forehead. He had probably counted them
out and sprayed them into place. The imperfection that imparted
perfect balance, like pouring a tablespoon of yin into two cups of
yang. Nature didn't like purity.
    Me neither. Besides he was sitting too close to Yuri.
    "Did she know Dorian?"
    "Unfortunately, I could not find out. When I asked her too
much about Miss Hosoi, she almost didn't answer."
    I was pretty sure he meant to say that she didn't answer
most of the questions. Nozaka's dicey syntax made Mr. Perfection a
little more likeable, but not by much.
    "Did she say why she didn't want to talk about Hosoi?"
    "No, she looked afraid, and—" He glanced at Yuri as though
he was asking for permission to talk.
    She didn't respond.
    I did. "And?"
    "Yuri-san asked me to try to make a deal, so I offered to pay
the model for sex. She said okay. I think she expected it."
    "How much?"
    Yuri nudged Nozaka's shoulder and leered at me. "You
interested?"
    "If I have to explain every question, this could be a long day."
I bit into the bagel, chewy overly processed batter, and flushed it
down with