Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 60

Chapter 60Fushimi moved fastest. He drew his pistol in a single fluid motion, left hand snapping up the torch to brace beneath the grip as he painted the far end of the corridor in hard white light.

The beam knifed through the gloom and bloomed into a pale circle on the wall at the end, bobbing left and right with the twitch of his wrist.

For one heartbeat the light carved the silhouette of a person—and then the figure vanished.

"Wh-where'd it go?" Tamako's throat bobbed.

Fushimi strode forward without hesitation, curiosity pricked for the first time in weeks. A staunch materialist, he was convinced ghosts didn't exist. Even if he'd died, crossed worlds, and awakened with a system, some rational explanation—aliens, bored higher-dimensional beings—had to fit the facts.

"Ah! W-wait for me!"

Tamako scurried after him, fumbling the holster flap open but leaving the gun inside. She wanted to know, too. Future great detective, future ace inspector—of course she refused to believe in spooks! Like every locked-room mystery, the "supernatural" would turn out to be a cheap trick. Still, terror was a reflex she couldn't switch off.

Behind them, Mr. Yasukawa yelped at the shadow and slammed his door. A moment later his cracked falsetto began a mournful Noh chant, the voice and footfalls echoing down the hall until Tamako's heart tried to climb out of her mouth.

They hurried past apartments whose doors were pasted with yellow talismans and guarded by white rice bowls brimming with salt, the tops blackened. The stairwell was dead silent. Fushimi leaned over the railing and swept the torch downward; Tamako peered beside him. The beam caught a figure on the stairs.

He centred the light on the person's face; the man threw up an arm against the glare.

"Oh. It's only you." Disappointment dripped from Fushimi's voice. Googlᴇ search novel fire.net

Watanabe Shun blinked back, a skewer of takoyaki in his left hand and a flat aluminium flask in his right. His cheeks were flushed—a walking dinner-and-drinks combo.

"Ah! Busted!" He crammed the octopus balls into his mouth, screwed the cap back on, and mumbled, "I wath juth checking your progweff..."

Tamako exhaled so hard her knees wobbled. No ghosts after all—except maybe Kawai's friendly spirit, which was just residual bio-magnetism... Anyway, false alarm.

Fushimi frowned, flicking the torch up and down the stairwell. "Were you just upstairs?"

"Up where?" Watanabe's brain was two drinks behind schedule. After a daytime punch to the head and evening sake, staying upright was already an achievement.

"Did you come up to this floor?" Fushimi pressed.

"Nope, just got here." Watanabe steadied himself on the wall and climbed another step. "How's your first patrol? Not too—hic—scary?"

Tamako noticed the silhouette had been taller, slighter. Her heart clawed its way back into her throat. "Senior, the joke isn't funny anymore."

"What joke?" Watanabe looked honestly confused.

They compared notes and the situation grew worse. While Fushimi and Tamako had watched the ghost, Watanabe had been on the stairs; he'd seen no one descend. He repeated it—he wasn't that drunk. Between the two groups the corridor had been sealed, yet the figure had vanished into thin air.

Fushimi paced the six-odd metres from corridor end to staircase: no side doors, no windows, no exits. Watanabe shrugged—first-night nerves, hallucinations, nothing to see. Fushimi was ready to file it under "interesting but irrelevant." Only Tamako refused to drop it; she smelled murder.

Yasukawa had said, "a woman jumped and died," yet Watanabe insisted no suicide had been reported to either the koban or the station. If both were telling the truth, the body had been disposed of—meaning the jump might have been planned murder. And if a ghost lingered, it was an innocent soul begging for justice.

She pictured herself, the rookie cop at Sugamo Station, unable to turn away from frightened residents and an unavenged spirit. Her legs shook too hard to deliver the morning-drama speech, so she couched it in practicality: "If we don't settle this, Mr. Yasukawa will keep chanting at all hours. Noise complaints—we have to act."

Reasonable enough. The three of them knocked again.

This time Yasukawa refused to open up until Watanabe hammered the door in irritation. "Go away, all of you! The spirit will latch onto you next!"

"Ha! A female ghost? How's she gonna—"

Watanabe caught the odd looks from the rookies, cleared his throat, and switched to dignity mode. "Whatever it tries, a cop's spirit doesn't break!"

Tamako, relieved he hadn't meant it literally, added, "We could organise a neighbourhood fund and invite monks from Honmyo Temple for a proper service. Once the soul's at peace, problem solved. May we come in?"

The offer—practical, respectful—swayed him. The lock clicked, and the door opened a cautious crack.

A gust of putrid air rolled out, thick with the reek of rot and chemical solvent. All three recoiled; Tamako's eyes watered.

"What the hell is that smell?" Watanabe gagged, takoyaki threatening a second appearance.