Chapter 35: Sato’s Hobby, Takeda’s Voluntary Revelation (Vote for the Monthly Ticket! Keep Following!)

“What important discovery?” Yasuhiko Asai looked at his daughter with an even expression.

“Someone just called to report that the wanted fugitive, Ichiro Takeda, was spotted near a public phone booth in Shinjuku,” Ayaka Asai said excitedly.

“What?!” Yasuhiko, who had been calm just a moment ago, instantly sprang from his seat. “Did you send someone to check it out?”

Although four months had passed since the Choshin Bank robbery, its impact was still immense. While the media had seemingly moved on, any hint of new information would instantly draw national attention once more. Most officers had already resigned themselves to the idea that capturing Ichiro Takeda was hopeless. After all, with seven hundred million yen, he could easily live it up abroad for a long time, perhaps even start a new life elsewhere. Yasuhiko never imagined that after only four months, he would hear news of Takeda reappearing in Tokyo. His excitement was tinged with fear—fear that it might all end in disappointment.

“Before coming to report, I already dispatched officers to investigate,” Ayaka added, understanding her father’s concern. “The caller was very certain, absolutely convinced it was Takeda.”

“Inform me the moment you hear anything,” Yasuhiko instructed, then immediately corrected himself, “No, don’t leave. You stay here with me and wait for news.”

Meanwhile, at the Fujimoto household—

“Inspector Takahashi…” After letting Tomoharu Takahashi stew for a while, Hidenobu Aoyama finally spoke.

“No, no, Detective Aoyama, please, just call me Takahashi. Takahashi is fine.” Tomoharu, eager to please, waved his hands, cutting Aoyama off.

Smack! Aoyama frowned and delivered a slap. “Idiot! Did I give you permission to speak?”

“Yes, sir!” Takahashi winced at the stinging pain but dared not protest and immediately bowed his head in apology.

Aoyama shook his hand as if to ease the sting, then snorted coldly, “Tell me, do you know that Toshitomi Sato borrowed a large sum from a loan company?”

“What?” Takahashi’s head shot up in surprise, but he lowered it again at once, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know. Such personal matters, Sato wouldn’t tell me.”

“Does Sato have a gambling habit?”

“No, at least I’ve never seen any sign of it.” Takahashi shook his head vigorously like a rattle drum, then added, “Superintendent Sato leads a simple life. Aside from necessary work functions, he’s never been involved in gambling or anything of the sort. He goes home punctually every day and is very responsible with his family.”

“Are you writing his eulogy?” Aoyama’s face twitched with irritation and he kicked Takahashi hard.

Crash! Takahashi toppled backward, knocking over a chair, but scrambled up to kneel in his original spot. “No, not at all! He’s corrupt, he bends the rules, he’s stingy, he’s rotten to the core!”

“Do you have proof of any of this?” Ryoichi Fujimoto’s eyes lit up, eager for the answer.

“No, I don’t.” Takahashi managed a pained, pitiful smile. “He’s always careful. Anything shady is handled through phone calls and hints—he has me or others do his dirty work. He never gets his own hands dirty. We’re his buffer. Even if something happens, it can’t be traced back to him.”

“Useless!” Fujimoto spat.

“Yes, sir!” Takahashi did not dare argue.

“From what I’ve learned, Sato started borrowing heavily about half a year ago. Since you’re one of his trusted men, think—what could he be doing that’s so expensive?” Aoyama pressed coldly.

“This…” Takahashi racked his brain, sweat beading on his forehead. After a long struggle, his eyes lit up. “Stocks! Superintendent Sato is obsessed with the stock market! He used to recommend stocks to me, but I never bought any since I didn’t understand them. But come to think of it, he hasn’t recommended anything for the past year—it must mean he’s been losing money.”

Aoyama found this explanation reasonable. In the past few years, when the economy was booming, the Japanese stock market was also thriving, and many people dabbled in stocks, seeing it as a way to make their money grow. But recently, as the economy soured, the market slumped as well, and veterans like Sato probably lost their shirts. The stock market is addictive, especially for seasoned investors—much like gambling, they never think to cut their losses, always hoping to win it all back.

So the money Sato borrowed likely went into the market, but where did he get the funds to repay his debts? Aoyama doubted any stock had made Sato a profit; otherwise, he’d have started recommending picks to Takahashi again.

Ring ring—ring ring—

The sudden ringing of two phones interrupted Aoyama’s thoughts: one on the table before him, and another sounding from the bedroom.

“Mine…” Takahashi meekly raised his hand.

Aoyama signaled for him to answer, then picked up his own phone. “Hello.”

“Aoyama, come to the station immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Aoyama hung up, Takahashi emerged from the bedroom, phone in hand. “I’ve been ordered back to the station for a meeting.”

“If Sato asks, you know what to say?” Aoyama asked as he stood.

Takahashi nodded repeatedly. “I know.”

Aoyama smiled, turned, and left.

“Lock the door when you leave,” Fujimoto ordered as he followed Aoyama out.

“Yes, sir!” Takahashi replied loudly, bowing deeply as they left. “Take care, sirs.”

Bang! Hearing the door slam, Takahashi collapsed onto the floor, covering his face with his hands and sobbing softly. Anger, humiliation, regret—all welled up inside him with nowhere to go.

If only he hadn’t rushed to complete Sato’s orders, hadn’t underestimated his opponents, hadn’t acted so recklessly under the influence of alcohol—he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

The thought of now being at the mercy of minor inspectors like Aoyama and Fujimoto was unbearable, but for now, there was nothing he could do. He would have to obey them for the time being, keep them appeased, and bide his time until he could turn the tables.

Ring ring—ring ring—

At that moment, his phone rang again.

“Hello?” he answered absently.

“Takahashi, how is everything at the Shinjuku station? You must hurry,” Toshtomi Sato’s calm, deep voice came through the receiver.

“Yes, sir!” Takahashi answered, then added, “Don’t worry, Superintendent. I’ve already started dealing with Aoyama. Everything… is going smoothly.”

“Good. I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Sato praised him, then changed the subject. “By the way, I heard your station just found traces of Ichiro Takeda?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I was just called back for an urgent meeting.”

“If it’s confirmed to be Takeda, let me know at once. That man escaped from my hands—I’ve always kept an eye on him.”

“Yes, sir.”

…

After arriving at the station, Aoyama headed straight for Ayaka Asai’s office, pushing the door open. “What’s going on?”

“Takeda’s back,” Ayaka replied gravely from behind her desk.

“What?” Aoyama’s spirit lifted. “How was he found?”

Silent, Ayaka handed him a photograph.

Aoyama glanced at it. In the picture, Ichiro Takeda stood inside a public phone booth, wearing a baseball cap and smiling. One hand held the receiver, while the other mimed a gun at the surveillance camera.

“He called in to report himself. He’s taunting us,” Ayaka said through gritted teeth, her chest heaving with anger.

Aoyama was less perturbed and more puzzled. “Why would he do that? He shouldn’t even have come back.”

It was one thing to take the risk of returning to Tokyo, but to deliberately expose himself and provoke the police—what was his aim? A man might live without purpose, but he must live.

“I don’t know.” Ayaka shook her head, exhaling slowly. “Someone like him thinks like a madman—his actions are impossible to predict.” Her gaze hardened. “But since he’s back, we must catch him and wipe away the shame he brought the police four months ago!”

Knock, knock, knock! A voice followed the rapping at the door. “Inspector, the meeting is about to start.”

“Understood,” Ayaka replied, rising from her seat. “I’ll attend the meeting. Make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m not needed?” Aoyama asked.

Ayaka paused, then looked at him and replied, “Your rank is too low.”

Aoyama cursed inwardly.

Ayaka turned away, a small smile curling her lips, her mood noticeably improved as she strode out, slamming the door behind her.

When Ayaka returned from the meeting, she wasn’t surprised to find Aoyama sitting in her chair. She relayed the meeting’s outcome. “My father has decided to report the discovery to Headquarters and request that our station take the lead in the manhunt.”

Ichiro Takeda’s crimes were too severe. If Shinjuku Police tried to keep the credit to themselves and Takeda escaped again, they’d be held responsible.

“Will Headquarters agree? The First Division might want to take the case,” Aoyama remarked.

Ayaka shrugged, pride and confidence in her family evident. “The Asai family still has some influence in the police world. We found Takeda first. Sato won’t risk offending my father.”

“My brother is amazing,” Aoyama remarked in awe.

Ayaka looked bewildered. “Huh?”

I’m talking about my father—what’s this about your brother?

Aoyama grinned. “Don’t you call me ‘dad’ sometimes? So doesn’t that make your father my brother?”

“Idiot! You wretch!” Ayaka’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment and anger. She snatched up a teacup from the table, ready to hurl it at him.

Aoyama remained unruffled. “If you dare throw that at me, next time you’ll have to call me ‘grandfather.’ Then your father will have to drop another generation.”

He even stood and bowed deeply. “For your father’s sake, please reconsider, Inspector.”

Ayaka’s chest rose and fell with indignation. She glared at him, but finally set the cup down.

“Come here,” Aoyama beckoned with a finger.

Ayaka pursed her lips but obediently walked over.

Because there was a possibility of imminent action, and time was short, Aoyama had no intention of deep conversation—just a brief exchange. He also took the opportunity to try out a new tactic.

Ayaka truly lived up to her karate training; her kicks and footwork were impressive, giving Aoyama a real taste for it. Contentment is happiness.

Meanwhile, upon receiving confirmation that Ichiro Takeda had returned to Tokyo, Toshitomi Sato of Headquarters immediately went to see the Chief Superintendent to request control of the case.

“Chief, Takeda once escaped from my hands. Please, give me the chance to make up for that and catch him myself. I’m begging you,” Sato pleaded, bowing sincerely.

“Sato,” Kuniwo Nihei said warmly, “I understand your feelings, but the Shinjuku Police were the ones who found him and immediately reported it. It wouldn’t be right to exclude them, would it?”

“But—”

Nihei cut him off. “I know you’re eager, but don’t rush. This is how we’ll do it—let the First Division and Shinjuku Police jointly handle the case. Both sides will form a special investigation team. Asai will be chief; you’ll be deputy chief.”

Throughout the ages, one thing all leaders have mastered is the art of compromise.

“Yes, sir.” Sato knew this was the best he could hope for and could only bow in reluctant acceptance.