He grimaced. “No, not yet.”

He took another sip of tea. “Neither of the jumpers left a note. And I have learned that each was concerned that the actual size of the nonperforming loans of the other party was significantly higher than advertised.”

“So? Everyone knows the problem loans are much bigger than the banks or the government admits.”

“True. But these men threatened to reveal the problem data as a way of blocking a merger that had no sound business rationale, but which was nonetheless favored by certain elements of the government.”

“Apparently not a very smart move.”

“Let me ask you something,” he said, looking at me. “Hypothetically. Would it be possible, realistically, to throw someone off a building and make it look like suicide?”

I happened to know with certainty that it was possible, but I decided to accept Tatsu’s invitation to keep things on a “hypothetical” level.

“Depends on how thorough a pathological exam would be conducted afterward,” I said.

“Assume very thorough.”

“With very thorough, it would be tough. Still possible, though. Your biggest problem would be getting the victim up to the roof with no one seeing it. Unless you had some way of tricking him into meeting you on a rooftop or otherwise knowing in advance that he was going to be there, you’d have to transport him yourself. If he were conscious for that journey, he’d be making a hell of a racket. Also, if he were fighting you, there would be evidence of a struggle. Your skin under his nails. Maybe a clump of your hair in his stiff fingers. Other items incommensurate with a voluntary act. And he’d be fighting with no regard for his own safety, no regard to pain, so there would be evidence of a struggle all over you, as well. You have no idea the way a man will fight when he understands he’s fighting for his life.”

“Tie him up first?”

“You tie someone up, it leaves marks. Even if he doesn’t struggle.”

“And he would be struggling.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Kill him first?”

“Maybe. But that’s risky. Changes to the body set in quickly after death. The blood pools. Temperature drops. And the results of impact to a dead body aren’t the same as the results to a live one. The examiner could spot the discrepancies. Besides, you’d still have to worry about evidence of the actual cause of death.”

“What if he were unconscious?”

“That’s the way I would go. If he were unconscious, though, you’d have to carry him like a body. And maneuvering seventy or a hundred kilos of dead weight isn’t easy. Plus, if you used a drug to knock him out, most likely it would still be in his bloodstream after death.”

“What about alcohol?”

“If he’d drunk enough to pass out, you’d be in good shape. A lot of suicides drink before pulling the trigger, so nothing suspicious there. But how are you going to get the guy to drink himself under the table to begin with?”

He nodded. “The two jumpers in question had blood alcohol levels high enough to have induced unconsciousness.”

“Could be what you think. Or not. That’s the beauty of it.”

“An injection?”

“Possibly. But to get enough alcohol in to do the job, you’d have to leave a detectable puncture mark at the spot where you injected it. Plus there’s alcohol in his bloodstream, but no residue of, say, Asahi Super Dry in his stomach? Not good.”

“Maybe a setup. A woman, someone strengthening his drinks, getting him to drink more than he can handle.”

“That could work.”

“How would you do it?”

“Hypothetically?”

He looked at me. “Of course,” he said.

“Hypothetically, I would try to get to the target late at night, when there would be the fewest people around. Maybe in his apartment, if I were sufficiently confident that he’d be there alone and that I had a reliable means of undetectable access. I’d dress like a janitor, because no one ever notices janitors, hit him with a stun gun, and put him in an industrial-size laundry cart, or a large rolling refuse container, whatever would be in keeping with the surroundings. I’d line it with something soft to make sure he didn’t suffer any contusions that would be incommensurate with his fall. You’d have to zap him every fifteen seconds or so with the stun gun to make sure he stayed quiet, but with no people around that wouldn’t be too difficult. Get him up to the roof, roll him over to the edge, and dump him. That’s how I would do it. Hypothetically.”

“What would you think if you found a small strip of plastic caught in the band of the victim’s wristwatch?”

“What kind of plastic?”

“Sheet plastic. Thick. The kind that comes in rolls, for protecting furniture and other large valuables.”

I was familiar with some of the uses for that kind of plastic, and I thought for a moment. “Your killer could have gotten the victim drunk. Let’s leave aside how for the moment. Then he rolls him in the plastic to prevent contamination from handling. Take him to the edge of the roof, grip one end of the plastic, and give a hard shove. The victim rolls out of the plastic and into the air. Very neat.”

“Unless, somehow, the victim’s watch snagged on the plastic.”

“Not impossible. But if that’s all you’ve got to go on, you haven’t got much.”

“There was also an eyewitness. A bellhop, working late in the hotel where one of the victims died. At three in the morning, the same time the coroner fixed the time of death, he got a good look at a janitor with a large cart going up in one of the elevators. Exactly the scene you just depicted.”

“He described your man?”

“To the details. A crushed left cheek, from his Muay Thai days. Unusual scarring on the opposite side of his face, under the eye. These are healed dog bites. ‘A frightening face,’ he said. Entirely accurately.”

“No such janitor employed in that building?”

“Correct.”

“What happened to the bellhop?”

“Disappeared.”

“Dead?”

“Probably.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

He shrugged. “And two similar deaths, outside of Tokyo. Each to a family member of a key player in parliament.” His jaw clenched, then released. “One to a child.”

“A child?”

Clench, release. “Yes. One with no history of emotional or other problems in school. No evidence of precursors for suicide.”

I had once heard that Tatsu had lost an infant son. I wanted to ask him, but didn’t.

“If those deaths were intended to send messages to the principals,” I said, “they were being pretty subtle. If the principal thinks it was suicide, there’s no impact on his behavior.”

He nodded. “I had the opportunity to interview each of the principals. Each denied that there had been any contact from anyone claiming that the deaths were other than suicide. Each was lying.”

Tatsu had a nose for that sort of thing, and I trusted his judgment. “I’m surprised you didn’t suspect I was involved in some of this,” I said.

He paused for a moment before answering. “I might have. But, although I don’t pretend to understand how you do what you do, I know you. You could not kill a child. Not that way.”

“I’ve told you as much,” I said.

“I am not talking about what you told me. I am talking about what I know.”

I felt bizarrely appreciative of his confidence.

“In any event,” he continued, “some of your movements, as recorded on the Osaka security camera network, provided you with an alibi.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Your cameras are good enough to track me, but not good enough to spot someone wrapping people in plastic and dumping them off roofs?”

“As I have told you, the networks are far from perfect. I do not have control over their operation.” He looked at me. “And I am not the only one with access.”

I took a last sip of tea and asked a waitress for some more hot water. We sat in silence until it had arrived.

I picked up the delicate china cup and looked at him. “Tell me something, Tatsu.”