In the bedroom, a cop searching through my chest of drawers finds something that makes me swallow hard: a simple black wallet dé Dale gave me. The cop runs his gloved fingers through each pocket, but, not finding anything, returns it to the drawer. He moves onto the next drawer and fishes around my socks and boxer shorts, tedium starting to show in his face.

“C’mon, you know why we’re here, don’t you?” Ozawa prods again.

The guy is starting to sound like a broken record. Every time he asks, I reply with the exact same answer: “No. I don’t know.” I look straight into the narc’s eyes and say, “I honestly haven’t got the slightest of clues.”

I wonder how others are able to perform in similar circumstances. Do they collapse like aluminum cans under the slightest pressure? Do they blather away, confessing every class of sin, venial and mortal? Do their telltale hearts drive them mad with guilt until they own up to everything?

It’s not in my nature to lie, but I can’t afford to be forthcoming with these men, not until I know what they know—namely why they have raided my apartment in the first place. The last thing I want to do is to confess to the wrong crime.

The first posting/chapter in this series can be found here.

Rokuban: Too Close to the Sun and other works are available in e-book form and paperback at Amazon.