"Mr. Tsuneo…" Dr. Narumi, hearing "chop them up" again, tugged at his sleeve.
Her magnetic, gentle voice and delicate gesture startled not just Tsuneo but Conan too.
"Ahem, what are you two planning?" Conan coughed, staring intently.
As the truth unraveled, their intentions grew murkier.
"Can the score be used as evidence?" Tsuneo asked, scooting away from the cross-dressing doctor.
Narumi's instinctive feminine mannerisms were so convincing, staying close was risky.
"Not enough," Conan said, shaking his head, deep in thought.
Aso's dying message wasn't solid proof. Twelve years later, the fire's traces were ash. The four witnesses were the culprits—would they confess out of guilt?
"I've got Nishimoto's recorded confession and a useless ledger," Tsuneo said, tossing a tape and notebook to Conan.
"Evidence!" Conan's eyes lit up at the ledger's dates and numbers, but after flipping through, he frowned. Just numbers—no specifics.
"It's evidence, but Nishimoto's mental state…" Tsuneo shook his head.
"What'd you do to his head?!" Conan jolted.
"Nishimoto's been unstable for years. A mental evaluation could discredit him," Narumi said, glancing at Tsuneo. Only he knew how the tape was obtained.
If Nishimoto claimed coercion, what then?
"What about the drug deals?" Conan asked, nodding at Narumi's point.
"He said Hideo Kawashima, the rich candidate, supplied the drugs, which Nishimoto sold to Tokyo gangs. But after Kameyama's death three years ago, when Moonlight played, Nishimoto got spooked and quit. He doesn't know the current setup," Tsuneo said, finishing his melting ice cream.
He glanced at Conan's watch. An hour had passed—time to check on Nishimoto.
"Dr. Asai…" Conan saw Narumi lower her head, fists clenched on her knees.
The weak evidence must be crushing, given it couldn't prove her father's case.
Moonlight, shadows, vanishing—the letter was a murder warning.
What was Narumi's intent in hiring detectives? A taunt? No.
Conan grabbed her hand. "Narumi, you have to live well."
"Father…" Narumi smiled, recognizing the score's words.
"Wait a bit longer. I'll find the evidence," Conan said, his face deadly serious.
"Thank you, little detective," Narumi nodded, her boyish voice emerging for the first time in front of Conan.
Tsuneo was right—he was the needle to weave the threads into a net.
Conan turned to Tsuneo, holding out his hand. "Lend me your phone."
"Long-distance calls are pricey."
"You jerk!"
Conan snatched the phone and made a secretive call.
"Who is he?" Narumi asked, puzzled.
"Used to be a kid playing detective games. Now? Barely a detective," Tsuneo said, chuckling.
Ten minutes later, Conan returned.
"You head back to Tokyo. I'll stay and investigate," he said.
"Got it," Tsuneo agreed without protest.
International calls were costly, but this one was worth it. Some people had skills and connections.
"Kawashima…" Conan headed back to the community center to find Ran and Kogoro.
Tsuneo kept his promise, breaking one of Nishimoto's toes before leaving Moon Shadow Island by boat.
"It's Keiji Aso! He's back!" Nishimoto, curled up on a clinic bed, clutched his head, muttering Aso's name in terror.
Narumi stood by the window, gazing at the sunset, silent.
…
Tokyo. Night.
A tall figure in black, fully masked, bat in hand, appeared at an underground casino's door.
He knocked. A scar-faced bald man peeked through the slit.
Thud!
Three seconds later, the man collapsed, blood spewing.
The black-clad figure stepped inside, his heavy footsteps echoing in the dark, narrow corridor.
…
Twenty minutes later, sirens wailed as police cars lined the alley.
Besides familiar Criminal Division faces, the Organized Crime Division was there, handling gangs, firearms, drugs, and international cases.
The unconscious bald man was cuffed and loaded into an ambulance.
Through a 20-meter corridor and another door, light returned.
A pile of two to three dozen thugs, armed with knives and clubs, lay bloodied and broken.
Past a dozen tied-up gamblers, the second floor revealed a middle-aged man, unconscious at a desk, his right hand's fingers twisted from torture.
On the desk, neatly arranged, were notebooks and two pages of a confession, written shakily with his left hand—comical yet chilling.
(End of Chapter)
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