Chapter 5
"Deal!"
50,000 yen wasn't exactly a fortune, but it wasn't pocket change either—about a third of everything he had in the bank. For Fushimi Shika it was coal in winter.
His instant acceptance made Minamoto Tamako regret the offer. She didn't care about the money; she just wasn't sure he was worth it.
After ten-plus years as a lawyer, he could read faces like open books. One glance told him she was about to back out.
He narrowed his eyes and leaned in. "Don't tell you think I'm overpriced?"
Tamako's face went slack with shock, as if the words "How did you know?" were stamped across her forehead.
"Co on," Fushimi went on, hands spread. "You've got brilliant deductive skills, plus Kawai watching your back. What do you need for?" He shook his head theatrically. "So paying 50,000 yen just to feel safe feels like a waste, right?"
"Uh, well, that's—"
Tamako's gaze darted everywhere except his face; her index fingers poked each other in guilty circles.
That was exactly what she'd been thinking.
"Fine. Free piece of advice, then," Fushimi said, already stepping back. "If there ever was a murder, it happened ten to fifteen years ago. Even if Sherlock Hols himself ca back from the dead, the killer's beyond the reach of the law."
"Huh? How do you know that?" Tamako blinked.
"Use that clever little head of yours. Deduce it yourself." Another yawn cracked his jaw; two all-nighters in a row had him halfway to nirvana. "See you. I'm going to bed."
"Wait!"
She lunged again, aiming for his ankle. This ti he sidestepped; she face-planted into thin air.
"Explain before you leave! You had zero clues—why insist it's a decade-old case?"
She chased him down the corridor, clinging like a burr.
Fushimi waved her off without turning. "I'm not your partner. No obligation to answer. Oh, and the hiring fee just went up to 100,000 yen."
Tamako balled her fists, cheeks puffed in outrage.
According to every mystery novel, Fushimi should be the bumbling assistant, and she the dazzling detective. At the critical mont she'd blaze with inspiration, Fushimi would scamper after her bleating "Why?" and "How?", and when she unveiled the brilliant solution he'd applaud like a trained seal.
That was exactly what she'd just tried to buy for 50,000 yen: a living applause track. A detective's revelation feels hollow without a clueless sidekick gaping in awe.
But now it wasn't about money—it was about pride. Paying him was tantamount to admitting her own ignorance, and the future Famous Inspector Minamoto Tamako could never allow that.
"I'll work it out myself, even if you won't tell !" she declared.
"Good luck. I believe in you," Fushimi called over his shoulder.
He pushed open the office door. "Don't forget to lock up when you leave."
The mont he vanished, Tamako realized she was alone in the pitch-black office and bolted for the won's restroom to find Kawai.
Kawai had just finished washing her hands.
Tamako recounted Fushimi's warning, then asked, "What do you think?"
"From a single sheet of paper? Not much." Kawai flicked water from her fingers. "Besides, I write puzzles; I don't solve them."
Seeing Tamako wilt, Kawai added, "Maybe he was only guessing. Doesn't have to be real deduction..."
"A guess still needs grounds," Tamako muttered, chewing her thumbnail. "What clue did I miss? How did Fushimi reach that conclusion?"
They climbed back through the dorm window. Tamako lay in bed, still wrestling with the tiline.
Why ten to fifteen years?
What was special about that window?
The paper itself was pristine; it couldn't have sat around for a decade... So why?
She drifted off, mind churning.
Half-asleep, lightning struck: she sat bolt upright. "I've got it!"
So that was why Fushimi said the killer couldn't be prosecuted...
Her heart hamred. She'd pierced his flimsy "guess." To Tamako, it wasn't proper deduction at all—just a lucky hunch.
The alarm shrieked; dawn light speared through the gap in the curtains.
"Huh? Morning already..."
Good. She couldn't wait to tear Fushimi's shabby theory to shreds.
She splashed water on her face, yanked on her uniform, and marched to morning assembly. Being short, she stood in the front row. She itched to turn around and see Fushimi's expression, but the instructor's glare froze her in place.
Art class finally gave her the opening she needed. In full view of the class she slid her easel over and plopped down beside Fushimi.
Snaps of broken pencil leads crackled around the room; the male cadets looked ready to breathe fire.
With a gender ratio this skewed, one or two girls per class was normal. In the aggressively macho culture of a police academy still steeped in Shōwa-era vibes, a cute, seemingly defenseless girl like Tamako was a rabbit in the wolf den.
Tamako herself hadn't noticed.
"Hmph. Morning, Fushimi-kun." She greeted him smugly.
Fushimi took in the hostile stares and shrugged. "Morning."
"So, about that anonymous letter—I've had a new idea." She lowered her voice, hiding behind her sketch board to keep the others from eavesdropping.
"Oh?" Fushimi shaded a line on his paper.
Oh? That's it? Tamako pouted. "Don't you have a single question for ?"
"Nope." He flicked her a glance.
He'd read the "Ask !" sign on her face since roll call. Far too easy.
Tamako couldn't hold it in. Even if he wouldn't bite, she'd tell him.
"Ten to fifteen years—that's the statute of limitations, right?"
She stared up at him, eyes blazing. "You assud the cri is past the deadline, which is why you said the killer can't be brought to justice!"
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