jammed into his pocket? While she thought furiously, Ryuzaki stared at her appraisingly. As if he were evaluating her abilities based on her reaction...
“Allow me to explain. Last month, on the twenty-second of July, this crossword was sent to the LAPD by an unknown sender. Apparently, nobody could solve it, but if you were to solve this puzzle, it would give you the address of this house. Presumably it was a sort of warning from the killer to the police and to society in general. A declaration of war, one might say.”
“I see. Still...”
Despite what L had said, part of her had still been dismissing the thing as just a crossword puzzle, but now that she could read the clues for herself, it did look extremely hard. The clues looked so frustrating that most people would give up before even trying to crack any of them. But the man across from her had solved it all by himself?
“You’re sure the answer shows this address?”
“Yes. Feel free to keep it and solve it at your leisure if you doubt me. Either way, killers that send warnings are generally looking for attention, assuming they do not have some larger purpose. And the Wara Ningyo and locked room aspects of the case fit that profile. So it seems there is a very good chance of some other message... or something like a message, being left at the scene. Do you agree, Misora?”
Same conclusions as L. Who was this man?
If he’d simply stated the same deductions as L, she could have dismissed them as extrapolated from the conversation he’d heard hiding under the bed, but for him to actually have a copy of the puzzle, a
puzzle that only someone like L should have been able to acquire... The question of Ryuzaki’s identity had become of critical importance to her once again.
“Excuse me,” Ryuzaki said, putting both feet on the ground and heading, still stooped, for the kitchen
—as if slipping out of the room to give Misora time to calm down. He opened the refrigerator with a practiced motion, as if this were his own house, stuck his arm inside, and took out a jar—and then shuffled back to the sofa, leaving the refrigerator door open. It appeared to be a jar of strawberry jam. “What’s with the jam?”
“Oh, this is mine. I brought it with me and put it there to keep it cold. It’s time for lunch.” “Lunch?”
It did make sense that there would be no food in the refrigerator of a man who had died two weeks before, but lunch? Misora liked am herself, but she didn’t see any bread—and no sooner had the thought crossed her mind when Ryuzaki opened the lid, stuck his hand inside, scooped out some jam, and began licking it off his fingers.
Naomi Misora gaped at him. Words failed her.
“Mmm? Something the matter, Misora?” “Y-you have strange eating habits.”
“Do I? I don’t think so.”
Ryuzaki scooped another handful of jam into his mouth.
“When I start thinking, I get a craving for sweets. If I want to work well, jam is essential. Sugar is good for the brain.”
“Hunh…”
Misora was of the opinion that his brain needed specialized medical attention more than sugar, but at that moment, she did not have the nerve to say so. His body language reminded her of Pooh Bear, but Ryuzaki was neither yellow nor adorable, and less a bear inclined to doing nothing than a rather tall man with a pronounced slouch. When he had eaten four handfuls of jam, he proceeded to put his lips directly on the rim of the jar like it was a cup of tea and slurp the contents noisily. Within moments he had consumed the entire jar.
“Sorry for the delay.” “Oh... not at all.”
“I have more jam in the refrigerator if you’d like some?” “N-no thanks...”
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