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CHAPTER 3

Captain 'Tim" Kawamura of the Azabu Police Station sat at his desk clipping his fingernails. Seniority of some twenty-odd years had earned for him the privilege of avoiding weekend work most of the time. On Saturdays in the summer, however, everyone was eligible for duty to complement rosters depleted by vacations. He was not happy about things, but it was part of the job. The nail on the little finger of his left hand had still not grown back—it having been bitten off by a prostitute from Thailand during a routine raid on a Roppongi disco a month ago.

The call to the police station was registered at 11:42 A.M. The message was somewhat garbled—panic appeared to be in evidence—but the gist of the report indicated that a "respected Japanese" had been found very clean but very dead at the tennis club up the hill in the wealthy area of town. Kawamura put the fingernail clippers into the desk drawer, picked up the phone, and called his wife.

"I may not be home in an hour," Kawamura explained in his best "it's not my fault" voice.

Kawamura watched his assistant, Suzuki-san, pace back and forth with extreme agitation in front of his desk. Kawamura's wife was reminding Kawamura of his promise to take the two children to Tokyo Disneyland for the afternoon.

"I understand all that," said Kawamura into the phone, "but developments are not clear. We may have to delay it until tomorrow."

Kawamura's wife was lecturing on the theme of "promises made are debts unpaid" as Suzuki-san bit off the end of his pencil.

"Let's play it by ear," counseled Kawamura as he hung up the phone. Suzuki-san was twitching, giving every indication of going into a jumping-up-and-down routine.

"We must hurry," announced Suzuki-san, "it's a respected Japanese."

Kawamura picked up two pencils and a ballpoint pen from his desk. He rummaged around in the top drawer of the desk and found a relatively unused notepad.

"All Japanese," Kawamura explained to his assistant Suzuki-san, "are respected."

The two men walked from the Azabu Police Station and joined the overkill force of twenty-five law enforcement officers en route to the Tokyo Lawn Tennis Club. As Kawamura slid into the back seat of the lead patrol car, his thoughts were less on the hastily reported details of the death—drowned in a bath—than they were on the very real possibility that his investigations would involve entering the murky world of international citizens and relationships. And this particular club had more than its share of that kind of thing.