Magic Kaitou: Shades of Grey (3/4)

[what_we_dream]

Title: Shades of Grey (3/4)
Series: Magic Kaitou
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Sequel to Heavy Silences. Pretty Squad-centric.

Summary: Things are seriously amiss in the Tokyo Metro. For the first time in his life, Nakamori dreads Kid's next notice.

Back to Chapter 1

The weekend, thank the gods, prevents Oogawa from rushing into anything. The inspector sits at home, listening to Aoko complain about Kaito – the boy's been teasing her again; Nakamori rolls his eyes – smoking, and watching entirely brainless television programming. He doesn't want to think about anything. Not about Kid (annoying), or Iwada (enraging), or the new orders (maddening), or his future career (probably non-existent).

Despite that, there's one thing he can't stop thinking about because not only does he not know the answer, he genuinely can't conceive of it. What the hell has Kid done to piss someone off this badly?

The more Nakamori thinks about it, the more he begins to worry that, given the nature of the orders they've been given, Kid may be closer to the right side of the law on this matter than whoever's pulling strings in the Tokyo Metro. The more he begins to worry that doing right in this may mean going outside the law.

Nakamori's been a policeman his whole life. The law isn't some mystical ideal he worships: he knows that some of the regulations are unfair, and some are downright stupid. He doesn't think policemen are infallible gods: he knows they make mistakes, they commit crimes, and sometimes they hurt people. But twenty years on the Force has branded him all the same. He is a policeman. Enforcing the law, keeping order, and being on the right side is his life. Turning against that would be like asking a diabetic to surrender his insulin.

Even more horrific, though, is the idea that the entire system is corrupt. The idea that, at the top levels, there are shadow men making the Force dance to their tune. The idea that possibly the most dangerous and influential organizations in Japan – the police – are entirely above the law they enforce.

Nakamori can't conceive of working actively against the Force. But he can't conceive of working for a genuinely corrupt one, either.

He lights up another cigarette, ignores Aoko's pursed lips, and changes channels. She's been watching him with mild disapproval all weekend; today, she calls Kaito from the kitchen to tell him her father's driving her mad and ask if she can go over there. She gets over her irritations quickly, at least. He watches her leave, and then turns back to the television to stare at it without watching.

He doesn't know what he's going to do, but either way it will mean betraying someone. The Force, Kid, himself. He doesn't know which is worse, and he dreads the fast-approaching day when he finds out.

---

Nakamori arrives late to work on Monday, in no small part because he doesn't want to give Oogawa the chance to get him alone before hours. The men are at their desks either finishing off the last few heist reports or gearing up for the search for the diamond. Kid returns nearly all his stolen goods eventually, but rarely by simply dropping them off to the owners.

Nakamori walks through the busy outside office – the only time it's busier than after a heist is directly before one – and into the hot hush of his private office. The single window has its blinds pulled to keep out the hot morning sun, but the room's already a good 28 degrees and it's only nine. Nakamori hangs his light cotton suit jacket up on the single peg, runs a hand through his hair, and takes a seat behind his desk.

On top of the spread of reports, logistics and schematics that are not quite a genuine mess, is an envelope that wasn't there when he left Friday night. There's no name on the plain outside.

Nakamori picks it up slowly, flips it over in cautious hands and inspects the back. The envelope hasn't been sealed; no chance of saliva. Kid doesn't send envelopes – his letters arrive on their own. He also, in twenty long years, has never announced a second heist only three days after a first.

Inside is a single sheet of paper of the kind that the thief uses. And on it, printed in the same font he employs, is a single line of text. Midnight, Park Hyatt gallery, top floor. Come alone. Kaitou Kid. Down in the right-hand corner, as always, is the doodled caricature.

Nakamori stares at the paper for several minutes, just sits at his desk with his joints and muscles stiff and slowly beginning to twinge, and stares at the crisp note in his hands.

This is wrong.

Kid doesn't use envelopes. Kid doesn't write letters that read like bad film clichés. And Kid would never leave a note that could incriminate Nakamori.

Nakamori very carefully folds the letter in on itself, and slips it into his pocket. Goes downstairs to forensics, and spends a few minutes talking to a former colleague from the Old Squad. Comes back upstairs and slowly and sits down to do his paperwork. He fills out a file-full of forms that afternoon, not one of them with his full attention.

He gets a call back around three pm; it's not very long. Nakamori hangs up with a thoughtful look on his face. And then, dialling with slow fingers, calls his house and leaves a message for Aoko – tells her to have dinner with Kaito if she likes, he's got Kid to deal with.

He'll be home late tonight.

---

The Park Hyatt is one of many Western chain hotels in Tokyo, towering tall and impressive in Shinjuku, just across from the Tokyo Metro headquarters. An unusual location to choose, certainly.

Nakamori, eager to avoid Oogawa until after tonight's interview, slipped out of the office early in the evening by way of the equipment office, picking up a few things as he went. He stopped for dinner in a back-alley ramen shop that smelled heavily of miso and cigarette smoke, followed by several hours in the reading parlour of one of the many local pachinko parlours. Now, at 11:55, he rides to the top of the skyscraper on the high-levels express elevator. He is alone, as instructed.

The concierge downstairs informed him that the top-floor gallery was currently empty, awaiting a new exhibit. He's therefore not surprised to see no signs in the glass-faced advertisement cases, and no people in the hall leading to the wide false-gold double doors.

He approaches the entrance slowly, footsteps silent on the thick patterned carpet. Reaches to unbutton his jacket, and then thinks the better of it. Standing in front of the doors, he slowly raises a hand and tries the handles. They're unlocked.

Nakamori slips through one side of the double doors into the darkness beyond, letting it close softly behind him on well-oiled hinges.

The gallery is huge, nearly the size of an entire floor of the Tokyo Metro building. Although the electric lights are out, light is still streaming in through the myriad of square skylights above. It's a cloudless night outside and the moon is nearly full, and its light casts a chessboard pattern on the dark marble floor below.

Nakamori's footsteps echo in the cavernous room as he strides forward, slowly-adapting eyes now able to detect the smooth white walls surrounding him. There are no pillars, no tables, no chairs. Nothing.

He is entirely alone in a wide empty space.

Behind him, the door clicks. Nakamori turns sharply, frowning. And stops, dead.

"Not who you were expecting?" asks Iwada, eyes bright over the dull sheen of his pistol. He steps forward, and the door swings closed again on silent hinges.

Nakamori tenses, perfectly aware that the lines of his suit will hide it. "You I was expecting. The gun, I wasn't."

Iwada's eyes narrow slightly and Nakamori grins humourlessly, the corner of his mouth twitching up to reveal a sliver of tooth. "You may think I'm incompetent, but you can't honestly believe I've been chasing Kid for two decades and still can't tell a genuine note from a fake. I assumed you wanted to talk. Incorrectly, apparently."

Iwada stops just short of the centre of the room, some five metres from his superior. "I'm impressed, Inspector. Maybe I should have given you a higher rating."

Nakamori shrugs stiffly. "Maybe you should tell your bosses to get their grubby fingers out of the Tokyo Metro. We all smelled you a mile away."

"You don't need subtlety when you hold all the cards. Thursday night showed us all that there's no point trying to work with you; the party just reinforced it. What did you tell Oogawa? I'm protecting Kid against direct orders with no personal justification? You're no master of subtlety yourself, Nakamori. Here's a piece of advice they apparently don't teach you geniuses down in Section Two: don't spill your guts on an public sidewalk."

Nakamori bristles, glaring, but ignores the dig. "Who the hell's paying you, Iwada?"

Iwada's smirk is all smugness and crooked teeth. "Unlike you I keep my secrets. But I will tell you: my friends aren't patient men."

Nakamori, trapped in the centre of a wide room with no cover, frowns and tosses the games into the slipstream of the past. Draws himself up to his full height and lets icy rage freeze his face. "Fine. Let's cut the bullshit. You shoot me, you lose your badge and go away for a long time. Maybe your pals'll get you a shorter sentence, but you'll still be a cop killer. You'll be finished."

Iwada cocks his gun, dark eyes shining in the moonlight. There is a suppressor on the end; the end of this meeting has already been decided. "That's where you're wrong. I won't be shooting at you. I'll be shooting at a wanted criminal. Kaitou Kid, who has a capture or kill out on him. You'll just happen to be in the way. Unfortunate," he adds, as an apparent afterthought.

"Kid's not here," snarls Nakamori, the thin layer of ice over his anger cracking, and gestures to the empty expanse around them. Iwada's lips split into the ghost of a grin.

"I'm surprised you don't know, Inspector. That is the one truly wonderful thing about a phantom thief. He leaves no traces."

Nakamori opens his mouth to reply, and the gun barks twice, shattering the silence.

The impact of the bullets is like being hit by a train; Nakamori staggers and falls, landing hard on his back staring up at the grey squares of ceiling and black squares of sky, a reverse chessboard.

He has to move. Has to get up and dodge, has to get Iwada's gun the hell away from him. But it's a fight just to pull in the air he needs to keep the world in focus, all he can do just to keep thinking past the pounding of his pulse in his head. Iwada's steps echo loud in his ears as the man crosses the marble floor, slow as a pendulum swinging. Nakamori, gasping for breath, tries desperately to turn over. And sees, high above him, a flash of white.

Kaitou Kid tumbles from the ceiling like a sycamore seed and lands with easy grace, mantle flowing in a white river behind him. He stands directly between Iwada and Nakamori, blocking the inspector's view of the lieutenant. Nakamori's vision's blurred and his chest is burning; all he can see is the vague outline of Kid's white form, shining in the moonlight. He feels like cursing the thief for a fool, but can't draw in the breath for it. His fingers scratch against the smooth marble as he struggles to keep control, heartbeat pounding furiously in his ears.

"I'm hurt, lieutenant," says Kaitou Kid, coldly. "You set up a meeting with Kaitou Kid, and you didn't invite me?"

Nakamori can't see Iwada past the thief, but he hears the surprise in the bastard's voice. And then the smug smirk. "So you two are in communication. This is even better. 'Inspector dies a hero's death, taking down the moonlit thief.'"

"I'm afraid not," says Kid, walking slowly in a wide circle around Iwada, hands held loosely at his sides. "For one thing, the Inspector didn't invite me here. Lieutenant Oogawa found a rough copy of your letter in the Squad's recycling bin, and called it in over the official radio frequency. They should be here any minute. For another, neither of us is going to die tonight."

Overhead, something explodes without warning in a bright burst of light, blinding Nakamori. The suddenly-white world is filled with sound; running footsteps, a metallic clatter, Iwada cursing. When Nakamori blinks the bright stars from his vision, Kid is standing back where he was before the flash-bomb went off, the rapid rise and fall of shoulders the only indication of what must have been a hard sprint. Iwada is squinting at him, still holding his gun.

Nakamori, finally managing to draw a proper breath past his burning ribs, fights desperately to sit up and pull open his jacket.

"It ends now," says Iwada and, just as Nakamori finally fumbles his coat open to grasp for his revolver, pulls the trigger. The inspector's fingers fall away from his weapon in shock before he ever feels the moulded wood of its grip.

At the art gallery, Nakamori saw Kid move with amazing speed. But tonight, he moves so fast he nearly vanishes. His arm snaps up as he streaks leftwards, white against black like lightning splitting the sky, just as the gunshot goes off. And then he comes to a halt, hand held at heart-height.

"Why lieutenant," says Kid, in an imitation of Iwada's previous tone. "I'm surprised you don't know. I'm not just a phantom thief."

He opens his white-gloved hand, and turns it over. A tiny rounded piece of metal drops from his hand and hits the floor with a silvery tinkle, bounces and rolls to a stop near Nakamori's hand. The bullet.

"The best magicians catch bullets," he announces, bright and charming as always. But beneath the velvety showmanship is cold hard steel. This isn't a boast. It's a warning. Hurt me, hurt others, and you cannot imagine what I can bring down on you. Nakamori shivers painfully.

As Iwada stares and the thief stands frozen in a tableau with his hand out to engrave this moment in their memories, the gallery doors slam open.

An instant later the overhead lights turn on with an electric crackle, and a team of Squad men lead by Oogawa storms in, guns in hand. To find Iwada, standing frozen in shock in the centre of the room, literally holding a smoking gun. Kid's stage-managing is keen enough to end careers in one sharp shock. The thief may not be violent, but he's not merciful either. Not to those who shoot first.

Nakamori struggles to his feet, Iwada turning to stare at him. If his eyes get any wider, they'll probably fall out. Nakamori grins without humour, and lets his jacket fall open to reveal the Kevlar below, borrowed earlier in the day from the equipment office. "Arrest the bastard," he growls, and watches with supreme satisfaction as Oogawa wrenches the gun from Iwada's limp hand and Yamamoto cuffs him with more strength than strictly necessary.

"On what charge?" demands Iwada, recovering. "I was acting under orders – to bring Kaitou Kid in, by violence if necessary. You got in the way of my shot – it was an accident!" In the better light, Nakamori can see Iwada's bulldog cheeks quivering with his rage, his face reddening.

There's a quiet click to his left. Nakamori glances over to see Kid holding up a recorder. "Really," he drawls, and presses a button. Iwada's voice blares out from the tinny speakers: This is even better. 'Inspector dies a hero's death, taking down the moonlit thief.'

"I think premeditated murder will do," says Nakamori, wincing as he slips off the Kevlar vest. The two bullets buried in it will be excellent evidence at trial. So, for that matter, will his bruises.

"You're crooked as a corkscrew, you son of a bitch," spits Iwada, now a deep shade of puce.

"I wouldn't throw stones," replies the inspector, and nods to Washio and Yamamoto, who drag the disgraced lieutenant out. The other men, save for Oogawa, give Nakamori a wary look and then slowly file out of the room.

Kid has stepped back away from the action, stands leaning against a wall with his hat bent low to shadow his eyes while his lips are set in their usual faint grin. He turns as Nakamori looks towards him, and tosses something. The inspector drops his vest to reach for it, catches it after a tricky fumble. It's a small white tape, and along with the gun, the vest and his own statement, it's all the evidence he needs to put Iwada away.

"Kid," he begins, not knowing how to finish. Thanks for saving me from my own lieutenant is not high on the list of things he ever thought he would have to say.

"You'll need this as well," says the thief, saving him the trouble. Produces from his jacket a suppressed pistol the same make as Iwada's and holds it with a steady grip that nevertheless hints of controlled caution. Kid doesn't like guns. Nakamori stares at it, then at the bullet lying on the ground. The perfectly undamaged bullet. He looks back up and sees Kid grinning crookedly. "They don't call them magic tricks for nothing, Inspector."

"You replaced his gun in the flash," deduces Nakamori. "But why bother giving him one –" Nakamori cuts himself off before finishing. He now has six men who can be called to the stand to attest that they found Iwada pointing a gun at the thief, and Nakamori behind him. Kid, as usual, is two steps ahead of him. "But how the hell did you know? Don't tell me Oogawa actually found a draft notice in the bin. Iwada's not that stupid." He glances to Oogawa, who looks at him in confusion; Nakamori's not entirely sure what to make of that.

Kid shrugs, still smiling. "They may be tricks, Inspector, but that doesn't mean I reveal them. That's your job." He crosses the room in even steps, and looks up. Nakamori doesn't see anything, but apparently Kid does; he reaches out and catches hold of something too fine to see. "Good night, Inspector. I'm afraid you may need to be more cautious of your colleagues in the future." He raises one arm ceiling-ward, tips his hat with the other.

"Kid!" shouts Nakamori, and the thief freezes. Drops his hand away and looks back with unreadable eyes. "Who are they? Why are they after you? Tell me, I –"

The words I can help die on his lips. He can't help. Kid isn't a friend. Isn't a colleague. Isn't even a civilian, deserving of his aid. Kid is a criminal. Not just a criminal but his specific quarry, and it is Nakamori's sole and entire duty to apprehend him. If this were anyone else, Nakamori could offer them his help, his protection.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn't have to.

Sawara was right. In the good old days, it was so simple. So black and white. They were right, Kid was wrong. And now, suddenly, it's all pure, monochrome grey.

With a feeling like something fundamental breaking, like the pillars of his world not only trembling but splintering, Nakamori realises that he honestly doesn't know anymore why he shouldn't help the thief. Honestly doesn't know which side of the law is still equal to right. Kid may be a renegade, but he follows his own unique principles of justice unwaveringly. That's a hell of a lot more than Nakamori can say of the Force. A hell of a lot more than he can, after these past few months, say of himself.

Gods help him, Iwada was right. He isn't simply feeling sympathy for a single person, isn't simply shying away from hurting a man he knows. That's bad, but it's understandable. Even cops have compassion – he's always believed that to be not a flaw but an asset. But believing in a criminal's integrity over that of the Force? He's more than playing with fire, he's covering himself in gasoline. Arakawa, who tried to warn him off this path more than once, surely saw it coming. Possibly even Kid himself did; Watch yourself, Inspector. Nakamori, everything he believed to be fundamentally true suddenly collapsing around him and leaving him with nothing to hold onto, feels the blood drain from his face with a lurch in his chest.

Kid gives him a strange look from beneath the shadowy brim of his hat. "Their identity is not a secret I would divulge, Inspector, even if I could. And it's not one you want to know. I can only repeat what I said before: watch your back." Kid presses a switch on a tiny control, and is pulled up to the ceiling in a smooth ascent. He lands easily in the narrow cut-out of a skylight, and disappears out onto the roof.

Nakamori groans, and drops his head into his hands, tottering on suddenly unstable legs as the adrenaline drains away and leaves him cold. A hand on his elbow catches him, and he snaps up to see Oogawa standing beside him. He had entirely forgotten his lieutenant – his real lieutenant. He forces himself to pull it together, concentrate on the here and now.

"Are you alright, Inspector?"

He wipes away the sweat that he's only just noticed beading along his hairline, and for the first time since May misses the heat of summer. "Fine," he answers, shaking his head to try to clear it. His chest still aches as he breathes, and he knows from experience that putting on shirts and jackets will be painful for a few days. He hangs his jacket over his arm instead, holding the bullet-proof vest with his other hand. Oogawa holds both Iwada's real and fake pistol. "This is going to mean a lot of paperwork," he continues, glumly. And then, the idea of paperwork spurring a new line of thought, he turns a suspicious look on Oogawa. "How the hell did you know to come here, anyway?"

"Kid told the truth, sir. We did find a draft in Iwada's can," he says, looking more conspiratorial than cagey. Nakamori's eyes narrow.

"But?"

"But only after I got a phone call telling me to get my ass back to the office and look for it. From you," finishes Oogawa.

Nakamori feels like dropping his head into his hands. He doesn't, but it's a near thing. "Did you believe it?"

"I believed the message, sir. But not the voice."

He perks up. "He made a mistake?"

"No, sir. You've been avoiding me all day. No reason to call me when Sawara or Yamamoto would have done as well."

Nakamori freezes, irritation passing quick as a summer hailstorm into embarrassment. "Oogawa –"

Oogawa cuts him off in a firm tone before he can even begin. "I made my choice, sir: I'm staying. If I leave know, the gods only know who they'll replace me with. Besides, after hanging on through all those slow years, how could I leave now that things have gotten serious?" He smiles self-deprecatingly, and Nakamori wonders who it is Oogawa really thinks needs him. His boss, his Squad, or his target. Perhaps ignorance is better; he knows his own answer now, and can hardly face it.

"You're a good man, Oogawa. I won't forget it." Nakamori drops a heavy hand on his shoulder, clasps it. "My offer's open, if you change your mind." For his career – for his own good – Nakamori wishes the man would leave. But gods, he's glad he's staying. A hostile situation's no time to lose his strongest support. Losing Oogawa would be like having his legs cut out from under him; it makes him weak to think of it.

The man nods once, eyes meeting his superior's firmly, and then he turns and leaves. Nakamori, standing in the cool room, glances up once again at the skylight. It's closed now, with no silhouette visible against the sky. If Kid hangs around after his theatrical departures, no one ever sees him.

Nakamori walks over to the door and switches off the light; once again, the floor is a black and white chessboard, and he's nothing but a pawn. A pawn with no idea whose is the hand that moves him. Well, pawns can damn well become kings, and mere inspectors can bite a hell of a lot harder than people think. He grits his teeth, narrows his eyes, and leaves.

Outside in the hallway, Oogawa's waiting for him. Nakamori strides right on past him, and the man hurries to catch up. "We're going to find out who's behind this," he says, staring straight ahead. "It's all about Kid, after all, that makes it our mandate. We're going to find out who the hell's trying to shut him down, and drag them out into the light."

"Yes, sir."

And that, Nakamori knows now, stabbing savagely at the elevator button, will be the last thing he does as a member of the Squad.

On to Epilogue