“In instances like that we have several safe houses where they can go,” the young lawyer replied.

“Safe houses?”

“Temporary refuges. There aren’t many, but there are places that charitable people have offered us. One person has even provided an entire apartment building for us to use.”

“An entire apartment building,” Ushikawa said, sounding impressed. “I guess some people can be quite generous.”

“That’s right. Whenever our activities are covered in newspapers or magazines, inevitably we’ll get a call from people wanting to help out. Without offers from people like that, we would never be able to keep this organization going, since we depend almost entirely on contributions.”

“What you’re doing is very meaningful,” Ushikawa said.

The lawyer flashed him a vulnerable smile. Nobody’s easier to fool, Ushikawa thought, than the person who is convinced that he is right.

“How many women would you say are living in that apartment building now?”

“It depends, but—let’s see—I would say usually four or five,” the lawyer said.

“About that charitable person who provided that apartment building,” Ushikawa said, “how did this person get involved? I’m thinking there must have been some event that led up to this interest.”

The lawyer tilted his head. “I really don’t know. Though in the past this person was, it seems, involved in similar activities, on an individual level. As far as we’re concerned, we’re just grateful for this individual’s kindness. We don’t ask the reasons behind it.”

“Of course,” Ushikawa nodded. “I assume you keep the locations of your safe houses secret?”

“Correct. We have to make sure that the women are protected, plus many of our donors prefer to remain anonymous. I mean, we’re dealing with acts of violence, after all.”

They talked for a while longer, but Ushikawa was unable to extract any more useful information. What Ushikawa knew were the following facts: the Center for Victims of Domestic Violence had begun operations in earnest four years ago. Not long afterward, a certain “donor” had contacted them and offered them use of a vacant apartment building as a safe house. The donor had read about their activities in the newspaper. The donor had set one condition, namely, that the donor’s name never be revealed. Still, from what was said, Ushikawa could deduce that, beyond any doubt, the “donor” was the elderly dowager living in Azabu, the one who owned the old apartment building.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me,” Ushikawa said warmly to the idealistic young lawyer. “Your organization is certainly making a valuable contribution. I’ll present what I have learned here to our board of directors. We should be getting in touch with you fairly soon. In the meantime, my very best wishes for your continued success.”

Next, Ushikawa began to investigate the death of the dowager’s daughter. The daughter had married an elite bureaucrat in the Ministry of Transport and was only thirty-six when she died. He didn’t know the cause yet. Not long after she died, her husband left the Ministry of Transport. These were the only facts Ushikawa had unearthed so far. He didn’t know why the husband had left the ministry, or what sort of life he had led afterward. The Ministry of Transport was not the sort of government office that willingly revealed information regarding its inner workings to ordinary citizens. But Ushikawa had a sharp sense of smell, and something smelled fishy. He couldn’t believe that losing his wife would have made the man so overcome with grief that he would quit his job and go into hiding.

Ushikawa knew there weren’t many thirty-six-year-old women who died of illness. Not that there weren’t some. No matter how old you are, or how blessed your circumstances, you can suddenly fall ill and die—from cancer, a brain tumor, peritonitis, acute pneumonia. The human body is a fragile thing. But for an affluent woman of thirty-six to join the ranks of the dead—in all likelihood it was not a natural death, but either an accident or suicide.

Let me speculate here, Ushikawa said to himself. Following the famous rule of Occam’s razor, I’ll try to find the simplest possible explanation. Eliminate all unnecessary factors, boil it all down to one logical line, and then look at the situation.

Let’s say the dowager’s daughter didn’t die of illness but by suicide. Ushikawa rubbed his hands together as he pondered this. It wouldn’t be too hard to pretend that a suicide was actually death by illness, especially for someone with money and influence. Take this a step further and say that this daughter was the victim of domestic violence, grew despondent, and took her own life. Certainly not an impossibility. It was a well-known fact that certain members of the so-called elite had disgusting personalities and dark, twisted tendencies, as if they had taken more than the share of darkness allotted to them.

If that were the case, what would the rich old dowager do? Would she call it fate, say that nothing else could be done, and give up? Not very likely. She would take suitable revenge against whatever force had driven her daughter to her untimely end. Ushikawa felt he had a better understanding of the dowager. She was a daring, bright woman, with a clear vision and a strong will. And she would spare neither fortune nor influence to avenge the death of the one she loved.

Ushikawa had no way of knowing what kind of retaliation she had actually taken toward her daughter’s husband, since all trace of him had vanished into thin air. He didn’t think that the dowager had gone so far as to take the man’s life. But he had no doubt that she had taken some sort of decisive action. And it was hard to believe that she had left any trail behind.

Ushikawa’s conjectures thus far seemed to make sense, though he had no proof. His theory, however, did clear up a lot of questions. Licking his lips, Ushikawa vigorously rubbed his hands together. Beyond this point, though, things started to get a little hazy.

The dowager had set up the safe house to sublimate her desire for revenge, turning it into something more useful and positive. Then, at the sports club she frequented, she got to know the young instructor Aomame, and somehow—he had no idea how—they came to a secret understanding. After meticulous preparation, Aomame got access to the suite at the Hotel Okura and murdered Leader. The method she used was unclear. Aomame might be quite proficient in murdering people using a special technique. As a result, despite being closely guarded by two very dedicated and able bodyguards, Leader wound up dead.

Up to this point, the threads tying his conjectures held together—barely—but when it came to linking Sakigake’s Leader to the center for battered women, Ushikawa was at a total loss. At this point his thought process hit a roadblock and a very sharp razor neatly severed all the threads.

.    .    .

What Sakigake wanted from Ushikawa at this point were answers to two questions: Who planned the murder of Leader? and Where was Aomame?

Ushikawa was the one who had run the original background check on Aomame, and he had found nothing suspicious about her at all. But after she had left, Leader expired. And right after that, Aomame disappeared. Poof—like a gust of smoke in the wind. Sakigake had to have been very upset with Ushikawa, convinced that his investigation hadn’t been thorough enough.

But in fact, as always, his investigation left nothing to be desired. As he had told Buzzcut, Ushikawa was a stickler for making sure all the bases were covered. He could be faulted for not having checked her phone records beforehand, but unless there was something extraordinarily suspicious about a situation, that wasn’t something he normally did. And as far as he could tell from his investigations, there wasn’t a single suspect thing about Aomame.