Chapter Text
Scattered documents with wrinkled edges lined a mid-century maplewood desk pushed against the sill of a cracked open window. The corners of each page fluttered as the wind came and went. The caffeine-riddled investigator pulled one back that had been sucked towards the outside, thankfully stopped by the aluminum screen. Warm rays of sunlight cast themselves across the dingy, muggy home office. A cacophony of car horns, the screeching cry of sirens, and the chatter of pedestrians sung through the window with the soft breeze of spring air. He placed it carelessly atop the ever growing pile of paperwork and sipped from his mug that had left several tea rings on the napkins he’d saved from breakfast. His apartment building had a quaint cafe he frequented on the ground floor, an angelic presence for when he couldn’t bring himself to cook.
He was beginning to yawn, his nose scrunched to his brow and eyes watering. His stomach was bloated and he eyed the used napkin with a Rorschach glob of melted cheese glued to it. The greasy croissant sandwich he’d eaten had to be the culprit, his guts moaning their discontent. He made a mental note to eat something lighter tomorrow morning. Though, he doubted he would
His tummy gurgled like a sputtering outer valve waking after a harsh winter spent shut off. The acidic ache of heartburn nestled between his diaphragm and throat, a symptom of entering his late twenties and eating garbage. He stretched back at an angle, his fingers interlocking above his head as worn crackles shot across his shoulders and down his back like a skeletal xylophone.
The scent of baked goods and chocolate wafted into his office, pulling a pleased smile between his cheeks. It was short lived, however, as the harsh stink of a delivery truck’s diesel exhaust attacked his sense of smell. He cringed, followed by half a minute of breathing solely from his mouth. Gross.
Earlier in the morning he’d picked apart his appearance, noticing how oily his scalp was due to the increased workload and resulting mental lethargy. His eyelids were puffy, swollen from lack of sleep that he tried to mitigate with tea and the energy drink that had been sitting in his fridge for over three months. All it really did was give him the jitters, his fingers twitching occasionally over the clack of his keyboard.
His black hair, tinged with a touch of teal in direct light, had begun to look a tad stringy as well. Pieces glued themselves to his temples and the nape of his neck like fresh condensation dripping down a water bottle. His long front bang had been clipped back with a bobby pin because the waxy feeling of it on his forehead was driving him crazy, irritating his brow dampened by sweat. Ridging along his hairline were a few red spots from folliculitis and further back towards his crown sat a dusting of dandruff. A few whiskers prickled from his jawline that were dark and coarse. The detective hated the feeling, having never been one to grow much body hair in the first place. He was not looking his best.
The investigator was tasked with a passel of casework that had led him to pulling longer work days than usual. Pretty much all of his clientele were paying him to investigate their partners for infidelity, and there were a lot, perhaps more than he should have accepted.
He had an inbox of endless emails from worried wives and vexed husbands demanding answers for their significant others’ sudden decline in romantic interest or peculiar amount of time spent out of the home. Lots of them were written in a moment of passion, the detective deduced. The rushed, biased language and haphazard “Sent from my Iphone” tagline at the end of half of them made it obvious. Everyday people weren’t exactly formal with their emails and he could sniff out partisanship in an instant. But really, who wouldn’t be biased in their shoes?
He wasn’t keen on this kind of work, the drama of it all too histrionic and morose for him, but the doubt of a lover paid well and he wasn’t one to turn down a decent lump sum.
While the work was different for each client, he had a routine that created a monotonous tone to each case. It started with an email or, occasionally, a visit to his home and office to discuss the clients’ troubles. He shared in sympathy and heard their woes but he was often put in the draining position of “Therapist” which he didn’t charge nearly enough for. Watching others break down into choked sobs and snotty messes he could only offer tissues to was common and while he had the capability of steeling himself to a point of intentional apathy, he was still a human with a compassionate soul. A heart that had wrenched and dropped to his bowels when betrayal had been unearthed from the mouth of the hurt. After getting through the worst of it, though, he discussed his contracts and fees which was much more sobering to his clients than a “that sounds tough,” could ever be.
Missing persons cases were especially difficult for the detective. More often than not, he was the sole discoverer of a missing individual’s secrets and the loneliness of their bodies. While a warm body, spirited and strong, could tell a thousand lies, a ghost-quiet cold one spoke a thousand truths. His position came with the responsibility of notifying the families of those truths which had never been easy for him. It was both a relief and a burden. He struggled to balance the anguish with the closure that followed.
When a life had suddenly vanished and he was tasked with the challenge of bringing them home, he hardly ever slept, his drive overriding his necessity for rest. Once, when a child no older than eight had gone missing, the investigator stayed up for three days trying to find her. He drove across prefecture lines over and over in a rental, crawled through sludge covered tunnels near places she liked to play, and interviewed tens of people who knew her and frequented the area. His efforts proved fruitful, but that fruit was rotted and filled with worms.
Much to his heartache… he did find her, lifeless in a dry canal several miles from home, lost amongst the rice fields of the Ishikari Plain. The case had been one that gave him nightmares for several weeks after everything was closed. She’d died from dehydration and he couldn’t help but bear the ideal that if he had reached her in time, she’d be happily on her way home from school on a day like this one.
His nose crinkled at the memory and he shook it away, greasy, sweaty hairs clutching his neck. It was still hard to think about.
Fortunately, that hadn’t been his reality for well over a year. His mental health was all the better for it, learning to take better care of himself after spending his early twenties neck deep in papers, vices and self loathing. He barely treaded enough to keep himself alive half the time. Though, the barista at the cafe downstairs could argue he wasn’t feeding himself healthily.
Following a consultation, be it in person, email, or over the phone, the investigator would mull over the information he was given, often for hours at a time. Drinking a hot mug of black tea with lavender syrup, reclined at his desk, feet propped, was how he normally spent his time deep in thought. The bitter, floral aroma quelled any emotion slipping under his skin, pulled his head from the clouds and brought him back to a place of objective focus. It was better than the dizzying smoke of a cigarette and far better than painting his palate with the burn of Devil’s Reserve tequila he imported right out of Mexico.
While he had an egregious amount of adultery cases lined up, several of them open and shut within a couple weeks, his focus the last few days was on a recent uptick in burglaries amongst the city’s wealthiest. The seemingly endless news cycles of replayed interviews with the victims and coverage from many smaller, more local journalists spammed his feed anytime he opened his social media the past month. It sounded absurd, but in one case, a witness claimed a small person, likely less than 160 centimeters, wearing a white clown mask with red painted lips and a black, tattered cape, was seen escaping a townhouse window. They had escaped into the dark, affluent neighborhood without a trace yet left a comically designed black and white “calling card” with the acronym “D.I.C.E.” and a message stating their intentions embossed in gold. The message had been plastered all over the city as the front page headline of the Hokkaido Shimbun and forums were already chock full of theories.
“Those who hoard their wealth are doomed to see the consequences of their gluttony and greed. Come for us if you wish to be made fools. XOXO”
The “XOXO,” specifically, caused the investigator to roll his eyes when he first read about them, crinkling the local paper between his fingers. He supposed it was an intentional taunt by the group who, when things first started to quietly go missing from the city aristocracy’s homes, wanted to garner attention from the press. An immature ploy, maybe, but they got what they wanted. He couldn’t deny that.
Their first victim, a millionaire with more space in his home than anyone needed and three custom sports cars, had decided to let the police take this case, ignoring the P.I.’s offer to take up the search. Cops were practically useless for stuff like this and he had a good record to prove his capability. Didn’t matter, though. “Let the experts handle it,” he’d been told, a slight directed towards his young age.
D.I.C.E. had taken the catalytic converters from each vehicle, removed the hood ornaments, and spray painted various animals over the luxury, iridescent coat of the millionaire’s absolute favorite car he paid well over five grand to have wrapped. Pocket change to him, but life changing to most. The calling card rested on the dash and he only noticed it because it contrasted so horribly with the vehicle’s green leather interior. The animal graffiti was easily the most offensive thing, though.
The acronym evaded the detective and seemed to have left everyone else wondering about it too. There were posts upon posts online with suggestions like “Dangerous Incorporation [of the] Crooked Entities,” and “Don’t Investigate, Cops Excuse [us],” but the investigator wasn’t convinced it meant anything like that. From the juvenile, comical, yet sophisticated nature of the burglaries, the detective hypothesized that it was simply nonsense meant to rile up the public; a name the group wanted people to recognize and talk about easily. He had no evidence for the conclusion, of course, but his gut was rarely wrong, even if it was blubbering nonstop.
His tea had cooled to room temperature but he downed it anyway, a sign he was getting lost in the paperwork creating a mosaic of faces across the desk. He needed a break before his eyes would start to dry and sting.
The man pushed himself from his work, the creak of his office chair mimicking the way his back felt, stiff and a little achy. He looked at the clock and realized it was far past morning. He had been so focused that time simply became irrelevant and it was now a quarter after three in the afternoon. He hadn’t showered or eaten lunch and it was time he remedied that.
He moved to his bedroom to pick out some fresh, comfortable clothes and find his portable speaker to listen to music while he washed up. Unlike the rest of the apartment, his bedroom was a mess. Clothes buried the rocking chair he had in the corner, his bed was never made (his sheets needed changing two weeks ago), and his closet was a sinkhole of files, hangers that fell off the hook, and a box of stuff from his college years.
In stark contrast, his en suite bath was tidy, with an organized counter free from clutter. Framed paintings of classical instruments peppered the walls. He had never played an instrument but had always been enamored by those who could. The plap of his bare feet echoed lightly within the periwinkle blue tiled space and he started his soft, jazzy and sensual playlist just loud enough to be heard over the pattering of water against the shower floor. The combined vibrato of an alto sax with the drips and dribbles of the water pelting his skin soothed him.
He felt for a comfortable temperature before stepping in, his clothes now abandoned to the laundry basket sitting along the far wall. He let the steaming water cascade down his skin and stood in it quietly, soft streams hitting his face that melted away the tension under his skin. His shoulders relaxed from their place by his ears and he rolled his neck a few times, giving into the desire to relax. As he scrubbed away the excess oils and dead skin across his scalp, the scent of his minty tea tree soap lightened his mood. Eyes closed, hot water streamed down his hair and chest. The young man’s mind wandered back to work, as it often did, while suds and loose hairs circled the drain on their way down.
He had a system in place that allowed him to start each project the same way. First, he would start a new file, like any investigation, including people, places, and client theories of interest, then he would schedule in a part of his day for locating, following, and documenting the whereabouts of his targets. He didn’t charge hourly, but instead by the tasks that a case required of him. A background check here, a scouting fee there. It all added up eventually.
He tried to do one client’s case at a time but sometimes things aligned in a way where he could investigate several people within a day. That was typically rare due to living in such a large city like Sapporo with no car. The rental company’s employees knew him by name at this point for how often he needed to travel outside city limits.
He hadn’t started to go out and locate these D.I.C.E. people just yet. The reports were relatively fresh and all information he had so far didn’t exactly give him anywhere specific to search besides the homes that had been burglarized. Most of the victims, only two of whom sought out the detective’s skills, had hardly realized anything had gone missing in the first place. Until they found their calling cards, of course. Their exorbitant wealth and by result, many, many, items of value, blinded them to when things came and went, their own hubris the reason the rich had been targeted to begin with, he guessed.
The detective had two main reasons to pursue this. The first was a reason of self-importance. It was no question that the wealthy elites of the city would pay much more to see the thief who took their property served justice than the woesome lovers would to find out if they were being cheated on or not. It was a simple business strategy. He had plans to get a car and open an actual office one day instead of working from home for the rest of his career. He wanted his home to be a home, a place to rest and recoup, and not a wayward stop for the sullen and broken hearted.
The second reason he was intrigued by these thefts was because he somewhat agreed with their message, though he would never say that out loud.
The items stolen so far by this band of Robin Hoods were not simple, expensive tech like someone would steal to sell online (besides the catalytic converters. Those were clearly taken for cash). Instead what they pocketed were crude, absonant displays of wealth. One item, a blood diamond ten centimeters in diameter that was purchased solely for being a massive blood diamond, was replaced with a calling card. On it, the text demanded the owner slit their wrists, drain their blood into a whiskey decanter, and sell it to the highest bidder for partaking in such a horrific trade. Reading the article of this incident drew the investigator’s lips into a smirk. He knew the group was non-violent, was certain of it, but the ultimatum threw the media into an absolute frenzy. Sure, theft was wrong in many ways, he believed, but this… it seemed righteous and the detective’s curiosity had him ruminating. He woke up thinking about D.I.C.E. and he went to bed thinking about D.I.C.E. He wondered what their leader would be like if he could just sit and have a conversation with them. A band of thieves that was set on humbling those who crushed the necks of others… it wasn’t beyond him, or many of his peers, to sympathize with the cause and that was exactly where the problem lied. They had supporters.
As he scrubbed away the dead skin and massaged his arms, the composite drawings lingered at the forefront of his thoughts; several clown-like people, dressed in white, wearing masks that were all different, and ranging in heights. That’s all anyone knew. One person in particular, the suspected leader of the group, wore a military style cap and a black cape, something so cartoonish that the investigator questioned the head of operation’s maturity. They weren’t violent by any means but they were swift, garish, coy, and incredibly organized. He had concluded that the oldest of them couldn’t be more than thirty years old and had someone among them with a knack for theatrics, if not all of them.
He stood in the water for a bit longer, the warm embrace something he wasn’t ready to withdraw from just yet. His thoughts shifted to a consultation from a couple days ago, a case he hadn’t really started on.
♦ ♥ ♣ ♦
As he stood in his office, mug in hand and eyes focused on his pinboard of mapped out burglaries, his doorbell chimed.
His object of scrutiny had been the escape routes D.I.C.E., or one of their members, more likely, had used to quickly leave the scene of the crime after stealing the blood diamond. No one had seen or heard a getaway car nor was there any evidence of the nearby rivers being used for transport. So how, with people seeing them just barely slip outside law enforcement’s grasp, did they bug out so quickly? For a group so campy, the detective found it odd that their elopement hadn’t been just as unusual or flashy as everything else about them. It was surprisingly plain.
He leaned towards the idea that the group simply blended in with society; shedding their costumes and loot likely in nearby stashed bags, like a nondescript gym bag for example, then boarding a bus, train, anything to get them back from where they came. He just had to prove it but the evidence was lacking and it frustrated the hell out of him. There were no reports of bags or strange people using public transportation. His assumption was circumstantial at best but it was what he had come to deduce and it was that end of the line that led him here, staring at the pins, highlighted map, and strings connecting each location on his pinboard.
The resounding ring of his doorbell came back and he blinked, grounding himself back into the present, before heading for the door with his laptop planted against his side.
The investigator stepped through his well-kept apartment. Books stood neatly tucked onto creamy white shelves with black, stone paperweights to hold them upright. The walls, an ugly greyish brown that he had yet to paint over, were about eight feet high and sprinkled with miscellaneous decor he had picked up from a thrift store when he first moved in. They were laid out randomly, as if he had just picked a spot, put a nail in the gypsum, and hung whatever the first thing he touched was, to that spot. Which was exactly what he had done. Two years ago. At which point, he had grown so used to it that he hardly ever looked at the art on his walls anyway. He had a sizable television, nothing huge, but good enough for him to sit a ways away on his aubergine leather couch (also from the thrift store, though in very fine condition) without having to squint to read the subtitles he always kept on.
The kitchen was similar in that it had the same wall color and he kept it neat. Otherwise, it wasn’t anything to gawk at; just white cupboards, a two basined sink, and floral linoleum that made him nauseous just looking at it. He tried to cover it up with an old rug, but the edges were visible which he’d never liked. There was a large window above the sink which brought in a decent amount of natural light. Making the kitchen feel bigger than it actually was, the panes taking up about a third of the farthest wall of his apartment from the front door.
To the left, a small corner with a door covered by a soft blue curtain pinned in place led to the fire escape that looped around the corner to his office. It was hardly ever used this time of year and the days he spent burning his menthol cancer sticks shrunk to a measly twice a week. Which was much better than the two packs a week he’d been lighting up a year and a half ago.
He had been attempting to quit the rigid vice for the past six months after bills got tight and he realized how much money he was spending on twelve pack cartons of the damned things. As a student, he’d crept his way into buying more and more as a way to cope, to “soothe his anxieties,” he would tell people, despite the nicotine actually making his heart beat faster. Thankfully, the curtain had become a good deterrent. He had to unpin it to get out so that extra step became a natural barrier to accessing the smokes he left in an Alkaloids tin out there.
The investigator softly stepped through his living area and looked through the peephole to find a man about his age standing there, eyes sunken in and tired. He seemed depressed, even. Just from looking at him, the investigator knew he was here either about a missing person or a cheater. He could tell from the slump of the man’s shoulders, the way his eyes glided to his lower right as he waited, and the fidgeting hands that this man was not happy with life right now. The detective took a full breath then opened the door with an inviting smile, tucking his immediate judgement away for later analysis.
“Hello, can I help you?” He asked.
“Yes, um… I’m looking for Private Investigator Saihara Shuichi. Is that you?” The man sounded nervous, his voice wavering and small.
“Yes, that would be me,” Shuichi started politely, “but you may just call me Mr. Saihara if you prefer. It’s nice to meet you. And your name?”
The taller man’s hands clasped as he massaged his thumb for a moment, embarrassed for seemingly no real reason. “Inuo Takahashi, sir. I… I was hoping to request your services.”
“I understand, Mr. Inuo. Come inside where we can talk in private.” He motioned for the other man to enter. “My neighbor can be quite nosy,” he said, pointing across the way to a pink apartment door with a home-made camera adhered to the doorframe.
Saihara led Inuo to his two matching accent chairs and opened the floor for his prospective client to speak. He sat himself upright and attentive, relaxed with one leg crossed over the other. His client on the other hand, was an armadillo, curled inward and tense. Shuichi waited patiently and cleared his throat.
“Before I get into it, um, I have a question.” The man paused, looking over the investigator, “You’re not… homophobic are you?” Inuo asked, eyes cast downward, lip quivering as if waiting to be branded a ghoul.
Saihara blinked. As a queer man himself (he could never decide on a label so after a while he settled for that), he was unexpectedly surprised this was a question someone had for him, and two, he was realizing this would be his first adultery case for a gay couple if that was what Mr. Inuo inferred.
“No, I’m not.” Saihara replied candidly, “does that have something to do with why you’re here?” He already knew the answer to that.
Takahashi seemed to relax a bit at the detective’s reply. Seems he was mostly nervous because of that, the detective noted.
“Well… I’m here because I think my boyfriend is cheating on me.” Inuo muttered, using his thumb nail to lightly scratch the inside of his palm. “I found him on Grindr… Uh, I only logged in to see if he’d been active there.”
Simple enough, the investigator thought to himself.
“You suspect this to the degree of hiring me?” Saihara asked.
“Yes. He’s been uh, cancelling or “forgetting” plans and he comes over smelling different. He tells me not to worry about it but I can tell when he’s lying. He lies a lot actually. Kind of compulsively.” A solemn frown replaced the embarrassment.
Saihara could tell this man would rant if he let him, so he kept the man on track. Streamlining a consultation was better for everyone involved anyway.
“What plans has he cancelled?” Shuichi asked.
He intended to get a feel for the strength of their relationship. Clients tended to exaggerate or ignore the red flags completely. Often enough, it was the complacency and rose tinted glasses that led them to getting hurt. A red flag just looked like any old flag when a pair was worn so freely. He’d seen it over and over. Of course, it was on the cheater to take responsibility for their betrayal, but Saihara understood that people could and would walk away if they were pushed enough and had the support. Sometimes relationships are built on extremely shallow, ankle biting waters and detecting that, in Saihara’s opinion, was the first step to detachment.
Mr. Inuo blinked away a small well of tears that bubbled up from the question, his lashes now dewy and clumping together.
Deeply emotional, Saihara noted. He’s been hurt before. “Dates we planned weeks in advance like a boat cruise dinner and a concert for a band we both like.” Inuo let out quickly as if it had been the only thing on his mind for days. Coiled up in his memory bank, chewed on, dryly swallowed and retched back up. It was likely. He was here, sitting across from a private detective who had a focus on adultery.
”Those were last month and then just a few days ago, he told me he had to stay late at work because they got an unexpected shipment that needed to be inventoried.” He cradled the back of his neck with one hand and squeezed, massaging the tense muscles. “We have a game night once a week and he never misses that, ever! It’s weird! And when he got home, he didn’t smell like the warehouse, he smelled like some fancy incense or something. Didn’t even text me when he was coming back.” He lamented, still not meeting Saihara’s eyes while his movement grew more animated.
Are you upset from concern or needing a sense of control? Saihara questioned silently. Both?
“So, he works in a warehouse?” Saihara uncrossed his legs and opened up his laptop on the coffee table, starting a new document he titled Inuo Infidelity 1 and creating a section for Places of Interest
“Yes, it’s a toy factory, I guess. Part of his job is just making sure the doll assembly machine is working right.” Inuo replied, fingers now slightly gripping at his thighs.
Saihara looked up from his laptop after entering in his initial notes and eyed Inuo skeptically. While he could see the pain on this man’s face, there was something underneath it that felt off; like meeting eyes with a stranger for a beat too long in a busy city square where the world slows for a moment, apprehension easing its way up one’s spine.
“Do you know where that is?” Saihara asked, slipping his skepticism into a mental filing cabinet as his eyes returned to the document.
“Yeah, it’s in the industrial part of town. You know where the old smoke stacks are?” He answers quickly.
Saihara nodded, “I know exactly where you’re talking about. What time is his usual schedule?” He kept his voice steady and neutral, being careful not to entertain the inkling of suspicion he had.
Mr. Inuo shifted in his seat a bit. “Well, that’s the thing. His schedule is kind of sporadic. He says it's because the machines need to be checked at random times for efficiency but… it sounds like a lie.” He said.
Time: Changes randomly, may be a faux alibi, Saihara typed.
“How long have you been suspicious of him?” He moves on, effectively harboring Mr. Inuo from spiraling into the emotions he had inside, ready to spring out from their chiming Jack-in-the-box.
“Since last month, when he started cancelling on me. We’ve only been dating for like 10 months and he was really attentive at first.” A sad smile played at the corner of Inuo’s lips. “He loves to play Poker, Go, Shogi, Chess, UNO, video games… that’s a lot of how we bonded. Just challenging each other and chatting over a game. We’re,” he chuckled, “we’re both pretty competitive.”
Saihara could see the sincerity and that made his heart sore. This man, Saihara decided, was an anxious type and perhaps had a habit of letting that anxiety bleed into the relationship. He knew that well enough, having been the same in his last (only) romantic endeavor. He looked over his laptop screen to Inuo with a soft smile and pulled himself from the distraction he was slipping into.
“It sounds like you really like him.” He said. He needs sympathy, I suppose.
“Of course I do, I…” Mr. Inuo sighed, “I love him but I’m not sure he feels as strongly. And his behavior recently just kind of leads me to think that. Especially the Grindr thing.”
“You’ve talked with him about your concerns?” Shuichi asked, slithering around to taste what the communication was like between them.
“Yes! A few times, actually. He can be so aloof sometimes, though. It’s… gah, I don’t even know. It feels like I’m being strung along right now.” Inuo tossed his hands into the air then slouched down, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together between them as if he were giving up.
Saihara frowned at that. Aloof, huh? That sucks.
He wanted to extend himself for the man, someone from his community in pain, but he kept his eyes on his laptop, remembering to focus on collecting information.
You’ve got a heart, Shuichi, but you gotta remember this is a business transaction, he heard the familiar voices of his mother and uncle advising in his thoughts.
“What’s his name? Age?” Saihara continued.
“Oh, duh, uh, his name is ‘Kichi. Uh, Ouma. Ouma Kokichi.” Inuo said.
“Ouma Kokichi…” Shuichi whispered to himself as he jotted the name down. The nickname, ‘Kichi, was grossly similar to one he used to be called. He gritted his teeth before continuing.
“He’s 26.” His client added.
Same as me, Shuichi thought with a hum.
The two went back and forth for several more minutes, dialing in details and building a solid case file for Shuichi to get his work started. Paperwork was signed, red tape taken care of quickly.
As his grandfather clock ticked by and the autumn sun started to lower into the horizon, the two finished their consultation and Inuo and Saihara stood to shake hands.
“I will look into this with all I’ve got, I can assure you of that, Mr. Inuo.” Saihara said with a firm shake of his hand and a short nod.
“Thank you, Saihara… I… He’s a chronic liar, ya know? I don’t know why I keep trying with him but he’s… yeah.” Inuo said, his eyes falling to the baseboards lining the floor.
Shuichi nodded again, empathy growing in the back of his throat, forcing him to take a deep, steady breath as his thoughts placed him in Inuo’s position. His gaze dropped as well.
“I get it. Well, maybe not exactly how you’re feeling, but I know what it’s like to be lied to by someone you love.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully in order to move things along and remain sensitive to Inuo’s plight. “I have a few things to get in order before I can start working fully on your case but give me a couple days, and I’ll dive right in, all right?”
His client’s lips raised to a small smile of appreciation and he nodded. “All right. Can I call to ask for updates after you start?”
“Of course. I do have business hours that I intend to stick with, but if you call outside of them and I’m not doing anything, I’ll make sure to answer, okay?” Shuichi grinned softly.
“Okay… Thanks, again.” Inuo said.
“I’ll email you when I begin. Thursday by the latest.” As gentle as his voice was, he knew it wouldn’t be comforting enough to lift Inuo’s spirits. It usually never was.
Mr. Inuo turned to leave with another nod and a curt wave. Shuichi followed behind to see him out, then locked his apartment door with a low click. As he heard the shuffling of Takahashi’s feet walking down the stairs, he let out another slow, deep breath and walked over to his office to slump into his desk chair.
♦ ♥ ♣ ♦
As he shut off the shower, he made plans to eat then resume work. Thinking back on his chat with Mr. Inuo had given him the headspace he needed to fully put himself into the case. Truthfully, he had been a little hesitant to start it after the strange gut feeling he had regarding Mr. Inuo. He had yet to put his finger on what it was he suspected about the man and it bothered him. Perhaps once his investigation officially began, and he knew more about Ouma in particular, Shuichi could pin down the pesky speck of suspicion.
Staring over his pot of instant ramen, his face was tightened into a pensive moment of thought, eyes trained on the swirling warm, brown broth. Chopsticks stirring in the flavor packet and a few extra spices, an egg, and vegetables (who said he wasn’t eating well?), Shuichi’s mind returned to his thoughts on D.I.C.E., trying to visualize what it was like as they scampered away with the blood diamond
A three story micro-mansion with balconies wrapping around the second and third levels stood firm in the middle of the city tucked between two resorts. It was dark, likely somewhere around one or two in the morning and no one was home, confirmed by not a single light being on. Typically the owner, when home, left the kitchen on the second floor’s light on while she slept in case she needed a glass of water during the night. They knew this, having watched the home day and night for several weeks now, monitoring the mansion for their next, smooth heist. A calling card resting nicely in their coat pocket and a tote or duffel of some kind at their side, the clown approached, sticking to the shadows as they scaled the trellis of roses up to the second floor like a little, sneaky beetle. One misstep caused the wood to splinter beneath them but they were more than able to keep going.
They fashioned a lockpicking kit from another pocket and made sure to stay in the security camera blindspots, their feline agility allowing them to go undetected as they scurried across the balcony. The window was a no-brainer and they got it unlocked within seconds, lifting the bottom pane just enough to climb inside and carefully lowering it to avoid a harsh sound piercing the quiet night. The only noise within the mansion they could detect was the minute electrical buzzing of the cameras rotating back and forth.
They stuck close to the walls, their night vision goggles letting them watch the camera's movement and make their way to the third floor accordingly. Their feet creaked against the pine staircase and they stepped closer to the wall to dampen their strides, a gloved hand tracing up the railing. They knew no one was home, but they had to act the part, didn’t they?
The thief found the entertainment room where the blood diamond was on display. Slinking up close to the digital security panel beside the sliding glass door leading to the balcony, they pulled a crudely fashioned code scrambler from their pocket and let it do its work. They eyed the clock on the wall, sweat beading on their neck and beneath their ceramic clown mask as they inched devilishly closer to their prize.
Perfectly cut and pristine, the enormous diamond refracted the stark white of their outfit, drawing them in as it glittered under their gloves. Into the bag it went, hefty as it pushed to the bottom, unsurprisingly dense. The thief made their escape, leaving the way they came and making their way back into the shadows of the wooded area behind the home.
They were quick to climb a tree to collect their wardrobe change before making their way to the busy metropolitan area not even a fifteen minute walk away. The alleys were their allies, the only souls those of rats and stray cats looking for a meal. They blended into the night crowds outside the bars, hopped on a bus, and called it a night.
Shuichi blew on the hot noodles wrapped around his chopsticks, his daydream over as he started to eat his lunch. He was sure he was somewhere close in how he pictured the burglary had taken place but he was unsure how much of it was strictly molded by his imagination.
Back in his office, thin hands held his bowl close to his chest as his eyes trailed across the room to his pinboard. He gave his mind a few minutes to process. Something inside him clicked.
He pilfered through the notes on Ouma he had printed out on his desk and realized something. The industrial area he worked in was roughly a fifteen minute walk from one of the wealthy targets’ homes. He could easily investigate the two cases together if he timed himself right and perhaps the area itself held clues to help Shuichi’s investigation.
However, the longer he mulled it over, the longer he considered the betrayal of this queer romance. It felt more personal to him which in turn lit a fire within that he didn’t want to see the shadows of. As he thought about what he may find following Mr. Ouma to and from work, his lungs burned into the bars of his ribcage prison, tried and convicted. A glint of light sparked across his pupils at the thought, his compassion trying to scratch its way into tears. Gay love was already tough to find and to have it so bitterly ripped away was something he had yet to experience for himself. Shuichi preferred solitude over such trials. He feared what an ending ignited by betrayal would do to him like he feared the heartbreak Inuo would suffer if his investigation came back unfavorable.
His fingers tightened to an iron grip, scanning the photo of Ouma with whitened knuckles and a tense jaw. People like him, who played with others’ hearts for their selfish, greedy strokes of ego were people Shuichi made an oath to never truly understand. He could never lie to someone so deeply, to perjure his intentions for the sake of a quick dopamine fix and a lover to lie in another bed with. It was not him and it would never be him. He cared far too much and felt far too much to subject himself to the guilt that branched from the pain he caused another. He shook his head and pinched his bangs, disgusted.
From his window, he looked across the rooftops of the hazy city. The sun would be going down soon, the clouds a strong array of oranges and purples. It was best that he spent the rest of the evening sorting the mess on his desk.
...
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I’ll catch you in your lies, Ouma.