Chapter 73: The Truth Itself No Longer Matters

“You’ll bring the money to Arakawa Nature Park now.”

Just as Watanabe had anticipated, after a brief silence, the person on the other end accepted the fact that only one hundred million yen would be delivered.

“Alright! I’m on my way!”

As soon as the call ended, Watanabe Osamu immediately dialed Aoyama Hidenobu. “Aoyama, the blackmailer contacted me. He wants me to bring the money to Arakawa Nature Park now. Should you go and stake out the park first?”

Through the two phone calls, Watanabe could tell, despite the caller’s attempt at calm, a tension in his breathing—it was probably his first time committing such a crime.

For an inexperienced amateur like this, Watanabe thought he could be apprehended right at the scene of the exchange.

“No, just give him the money,” Aoyama replied, unhurried and composed. “We must consider the possibility that there’s more than one perpetrator, or that the real mastermind is sending someone else to make the exchange while he stays hidden. We can’t alert them and risk scaring them off. Just proceed with the deal as instructed, but hide a tracker in the bag with the money.”

They had to succeed in one strike—if the criminal got spooked and disappeared, he might never show himself again. They had to be prepared for every possibility.

“You’re as cautious as ever, Aoyama.”

Watanabe took two miniature tracking devices from the station, then headed to the parking lot. He had already put the one hundred million yen in the trunk the previous night. As a minor but corrupt official, excluding discounted financial bonds, this was the largest sum he could scrape together in a short time. No matter how much the blackmailer wanted, he would only get one hundred million yen.

To put it bluntly: “If you want to extort me, it’s not about how much you want, but how much I have!”

Watanabe concealed a tracker at the very bottom seam of each money bag, then sped off toward Arakawa Nature Park.

The park, located in the 7th block of Arakawa district, was a fair distance from Akasaka. Even rushing, it took Watanabe over half an hour to arrive.

He parked the car, picked up his handheld phone, and called the blackmailer. “I’m at the park entrance.”

It was working hours, and the area was rather remote—there were hardly any people in the park.

“See the trash can at the entrance?” the blackmailer asked, then continued without waiting for Watanabe’s reply. “Put the money in there, then drive away. I warn you, no tricks. If I can’t get back safely in time, my associate will spread your photos all over Japan!”

The caller’s breathing was ragged as he spoke.

“Relax, I wouldn’t risk my future for this amount,” Watanabe snorted and hung up. He glanced around, took the two large money bags from the trunk, and tossed them into the trash can.

He then got back in the car and drove away, calling the blackmailer as he went. “I did as you said. The money’s in the trash can. When will you give me my photos?”

“I’ll contact you again.” The line went dead immediately, and the phone was switched off.

Not long after Watanabe left, a young janitor—average build, around 170 centimeters tall, wearing a hat and mask—appeared at the park entrance, pushing a trash bin and slowly wheeling it away.

“Foolish man, you’re finished,” Watanabe muttered in his car, watching the tracker receiver on the passenger seat. The signal indicated the bags were on the move, and he sneered.

Eventually, the receiver showed the bags had stopped in a residential area in Harajuku 1-Chome, Shibuya district. Watanabe took the receiver, switched to a taxi, and headed there. He showed his badge to the driver, asking for his cooperation as he checked the front of each house in the neighborhood.

By comparing the strength of the signal, he pinpointed the exact house number and immediately called Aoyama Hidenobu.

“It’s at 15-17 Harajuku 1-Chome, Shibuya.”

“Okay, Watanabe, I’ll take it from here!” Aoyama replied with a relaxed tone.

“I leave it all to you, Aoyama!”

Aoyama hung up and, without bringing any subordinates, armed himself and headed alone to the location. En route, he called Fujimoto Ryoichi and Nakamura Shinichi, instructing them to meet him there as well.

After all, those were the only two he could fully trust.

Both the Metropolitan Police and Shinjuku Station were close to Harajuku 1-Chome, so within a dozen minutes, the three met in front of the target house.

“We don’t yet know how many people are inside, but they shouldn’t have firearms. Once we’re in, subdue everyone immediately!” Aoyama drew his gun and addressed them.

“Yes!” The two men nodded gravely.

Nakamura Shinichi stepped forward and pressed the doorbell.

“Ding-dong, ding-dong…” The bell rang for nearly a minute before a wary voice came through the intercom, “Who is it?”

“There’s mail for you,” Nakamura replied.

“Mail for me?” The person inside sounded puzzled. After a moment, footsteps approached, and a shadow could be seen drawing closer through the crack in the door.

The gate opened a sliver from inside.

Fujimoto Ryoichi immediately kicked the door wide open with a crash, knocking the person behind it to the ground.

“Don’t move! Police! Move and you’re dead!”

Nakamura Shinichi rushed in after him, planting a foot on the man’s head and leveling his gun in warning.

Meanwhile, Fujimoto Ryoichi crossed the yard and burst into the house. “Police! Get down!”

Their coordination was seamless.

“All clear inside,” Fujimoto called after a minute, emerging from the house with a young woman in handcuffs, her hair disheveled.

Aoyama Hidenobu entered the yard, momentarily stunned at the sight of the woman, then smiled. “Appearances are deceiving. Your acting at the hospital yesterday was impressive—you even fooled me.”

It was the woman who had reported the crime, Ayaka Asō.

Ayaka Asō kept her head down, silent.

“Bring everyone inside,” Aoyama ordered, then went into the house himself. On the living room table, stacks of large bills sat in plain view, with more money still in the two bags on the floor.

It was a full hundred million yen—just unloading it all would take forever, so they hadn’t yet discovered the hidden trackers.

The young man and Ayaka Asō were brought to the living room.

Aoyama sat on the sofa, idly toying with a bundle of cash as he addressed the two, forced to kneel: “To sum up the whole affair in a single sentence: greedy lovers conspire for money, betray a close friend, and commit murder. Isn’t that right?”

“No… it’s not!” Ayaka suddenly lifted her head, weeping with agitation. “I didn’t kill Masako! I didn’t! We only took the photos. She was my best friend—how could I kill her? It really wasn’t me…”

“So it was you, then?” Aoyama flung a wad of cash at the young man’s face.

His face bore several distinct scratch marks.

“No! It wasn’t me either!” the young man stammered in panic. “We fought, yes, but…I only knocked her out. I didn’t kill her!”

Seeing their terror, Aoyama narrowed his eyes. They didn’t seem to be lying.

“It really wasn’t us!” Ayaka cried, desperate to prove her innocence. She spilled everything in a torrent. “We… we just wanted money, how could we kill anyone…”

They began to explain, each interrupting the other.

The young man was Kyōka Kitano, Ayaka Asō’s boyfriend of two and a half years. Their relationship was strong.

But he had a gambling problem and was drowning in debt.

Ayaka supported him through prostitution.

This time, though, Kitano’s debts were owed to the Yamaguchi-gumi. They threatened to harvest his organs if he couldn’t pay.

Just as Ayaka was wracked with worry about her boyfriend’s debt, her best friend, Masako Mikami, approached her with incriminating photos of Watanabe Osamu in bed, inviting her to join in blackmailing him.

Desperate to help her boyfriend, Ayaka agreed and told him everything. But Kitano, greedy for more, decided to steal the photos for himself.

After all, blackmail could be a steady source of income, not just a one-time thing.

It was a long-term money machine!

In the end, Ayaka, blinded by love, betrayed her best friend and secretly made a copy of Masako’s house key for Kitano.

Two nights earlier, in the early morning, Kitano donned a hood and gloves, used the key to enter Masako’s home, and caught her sleeping.

He interrogated her about the location of the incriminating photos. The reason for such directness was that a simple theft might have failed to locate the hidden photos, and he wanted to create the impression that he was sent by Watanabe Osamu, so Masako would never suspect Ayaka.

Masako, terrified, confessed the hiding spot, but when Kitano went to retrieve the photos, she tried to escape. A struggle ensued.

Kitano knocked her out.

He grabbed the photos and fled in a panic.

“The whole next day, Masako didn’t contact me, didn’t show up for work, and her phone was off. I got worried and went to her place, but…” Ayaka sobbed, her voice hoarse, “We really didn’t kill her!”

“Yeah, we just wanted money—we’re not killers! If I had that kind of nerve, I’d be rich already! Besides, I got the photos—why would I kill her? And if I did, why such a brutal method?” Kitano protested.

Aoyama believed they were telling the truth.

But what if they weren’t?

Then he realized—why should he care? Was the ultimate truth really so important?

Aoyama looked at Kitano. “The scratches on your face—Masako did that during the struggle?”

“Yes, and she scratched my body, too,” Kitano admitted. “But I only knocked her out, I swear—I didn’t kill her!”

“So Masako’s fingernails contain traces of your skin tissue,” Aoyama said with a dazzling smile, before his gaze turned icy. “That makes you the murderer!”

“I’m not! I didn’t! I really didn’t kill her!” Kitano wailed in despair.

Nakamura and Fujimoto exchanged a glance.

Whether Kitano was the murderer didn’t matter.

What mattered was that they now had evidence to pin the crime on him. If he wasn’t the real killer, well, that was just bad luck—he’d take the fall for someone else.

“Heh, every criminal says that.”

Aoyama didn’t care who the real culprit was; he’d already decided to close the case with these two—after all, they weren’t good people anyway.

He had no intention of playing detective to seek justice.

All that mattered was catching a culprit and claiming the credit.

“Please, investigate further! There must be other clues—it’s not me, not us!”

“I didn’t kill anyone! I swear, I didn’t…” Ayaka and Kitano howled, banging their heads on the floor, begging Aoyama for mercy.

But Aoyama was unmoved. He tossed several bundles of cash to Nakamura and Fujimoto.

“Thank you both for your hard work today. Take these.”

“Yes!” The two men didn’t stand on ceremony.

“Pack up the money,” Aoyama instructed, “I’ll do my best to get you both transferred to the Metropolitan Police.”

“Thank you, Inspector!”

They were overjoyed at those words.

Aoyama had them take away the money, then called Sakai Ryotaro to bring two officers to escort Ayaka and Kitano back to headquarters.