Inside, the theater was sparsely peopled, the stage empty except for musicians tuning their instruments: The play was late in starting. So much the better, Hirata thought-he could snare Koheiji now instead of waiting out the play. The actor still didn’t strike Hirata as the best suspect, but Sano wanted him reinvestigated, and Hirata and Koheiji had things to settle.

Hirata climbed onto the runway that extended from the stage, between rows of seating compartments, to a curtained door at the side of the room. He pushed through the curtain into a corridor, past actors lining up to go onstage. Walking down the corridor, Hirata peered into rooms where more actors fussed while attendants adjusted their costumes and makeup. Gaudy courtesans and strutting samurai abounded among the cast. Hirata came to the last door along the passage. A man’s breathy grunts and a woman’s moans issued from inside the room. Hirata lifted the curtain that screened the door.

Costumes on wooden stands, a dressing table and mirror, and theatrical props jammed the small space. On a futon in the corner, Koheiji lay, his kimono hiked above his bare buttocks, his trousers fallen around his knees, atop a woman who sprawled nude in a tangle of her long hair and brightly colored robes. He panted while thrusting into her; she bit on a cloth to stifle her moans. Hirata cleared his throat. The lovers’ heads turned toward him, and the lust on their faces turned to dismay. The woman squealed.

“Who are you?” Koheiji demanded, springing to his feet and glaring at Hirata through a mask of white face powder, painted black eyebrows, and rouged cheeks and lips. “How dare you barge in here?”

The woman scrambled into her robes, then ran out the door. Hirata tilted back his hat. “You remember me,” he said. “I’m here for a little talk with you.”

The actor’s face showed alarm as he recognized Hirata. He seemed to decide against arguing with the chief retainer of the shogun’s sōsakan-sama. Nodding sullenly, he straightened his clothes. “All right, but please be quick.” He looked in the mirror, checking his makeup, then hung two wooden swords at his waist. “I have to go onstage in a few moments.” Sudden anxiety colored his expression as he faced Hirata. “Hey-I hope you won’t tell anyone what you just saw?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Hirata said.

“She’s the wife of the theater owner,” Koheiji said. “If he found out about us, he would fire me.”

The explanation sounded credible, but Hirata heard a tinny, discordant note in Koheiji’s voice. Instinct told Hirata who the actor was really afraid would learn about the affair, and the reason why. Hirata tucked the knowledge into the back of his mind for future use. “I might be persuaded to keep quiet,” he said, “if you tell me what you were doing the night Senior Elder Makino died.”

Koheiji’s eyes gleamed, wary and sharp, from within the mask of theatrical makeup. He leaned against the wall near the door and folded his arms. “I already told you, when we talked the day before yesterday.”

“You told me at least one lie then,” said Hirata. “You said there was no sex between you and Makino. Did you forget to mention the sex shows that he hired you to perform for him? Or do you think they don’t count?”

The actor cursed under his breath. “There’s no privacy in this town. Everybody talks about everybody else. I should have known you’d find out about my little business.”

“Then why did you try to hide it from me?”

“I thought it would make me look guilty.”

“You look even guiltier because you lied.”

“So what if I did?” Koheiji pushed himself away from the wall, defensive and belligerent now. “I told the truth when I said I didn’t kill Makino. And so what if I put on sex shows for him? That’s not a crime.”

“What about when you almost beat a judicial councilor to death during one of your shows?” Hirata said. “That was a crime.”

Alarm flashed in Koheiji’s eyes, but he quickly blinked it away. He said, “That never happened,” and slouched against the door with carefree nonchalance. But his nonchalance was obvious fakery. He was, as Hirata recalled the watchdog Ibe saying, not an especially good actor. “Who told you it did?”

Hirata didn’t answer. He waited, knowing that people would often spill compromising facts just because they can’t tolerate silence when under pressure. From the theater came the smack of wooden swords clashing and voices shouting in a duel scene.

“It must have been that pitiful, second-rate actor, Ebisuya. He was always jealous of me. He’ll say anything to get me in trouble.” The need to excuse himself superseded wisdom in Koheiji. He blurted, “Things got out of control. I didn’t hurt the judicial councilor that much. He lived.”

“Senior Elder Makino didn’t,” Hirata said. “Did things get out of control with him, too? Did you beat him to death during one of your sex shows?”

Efforts at nonchalance failed Koheiji. He stood rigid with anxiety, his back, hands, and heels pressed to the wall. “I didn’t kill Makino. There was no show that night.”

“Who was the woman?” Hirata said. “Was it Okitsu? Did her sleeve get torn when things got rough?”

“No!” Vehemence raised Koheiji’s voice. “Makino brought in courtesans for me to use. But not that night.” Again Hirata heard the tinny note in the actor’s voice that signaled lies. “I didn’t see Makino at all. Okitsu will tell you-she and I were together the whole night.”

Frustration filled Hirata because Koheiji seemed determined to stick to his story. The actor had no reason to tell the truth when lying would protect him better. Under different circumstances, Hirata would have applied physical force to make Koheiji talk. But Sano didn’t approve of forced confessions because even innocent people would incriminate themselves if hurt or frightened enough. Furthermore, he’d told Hirata to be discreet in his inquiries, and Hirata meant to do everything right this time.

“What about last night?” Hirata said, switching the interrogation to a different course. “Where were you and what were you doing then?”

Koheiji’s painted face went blank with confusion. “I was here, at the theater,” he said slowly, as if to give himself time to figure out where the conversation was heading. “We were rehearsing a new play.”

“When did you begin and when did you finish?” Hirata said.

“The rehearsal started around the hour of the boar. We worked long past midnight. We slept in the dressing rooms until it was time to get ready to perform this morning.”

“Were you with the rest of the cast during the whole rehearsal?”

Koheiji nodded. “I’m the star. I’m in every scene. I may have slipped outside between acts a few times, but…” His posture had gradually relaxed since Hirata had dropped the subject of Makino’s murder, but he spoke with caution: “Why are you asking me all this? What’s so important about last night?”

“Last night Lord Matsudaira’s nephew Daiemon was murdered,” Hirata said. He watched emotion contract the muscles of Koheiji’s face under the garish makeup. But he couldn’t tell whether the actor was surprised by the news or worried about why Hirata had brought it up.

“Hey, I’m sorry to hear that,” Koheiji said in the tone appropriate when speaking of the death of a prominent citizen. “How did it happen?”

Either he didn’t know or he thought it wise to feign ignorance, Hirata speculated. “Daiemon was stabbed.”

“Oh,” Koheiji said. Tilting his head, he regarded Hirata with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. “What does his death have to do with me?”

“Did you know him?” Hirata said.

“Not very well. I met him at parties where actors were hired to entertain the guests. But wait just a moment.” Koheiji thrust his hands palms up toward Hirata and waggled them. “You don’t think I had something to do with…?” He chuckled nervously as he dropped his hands. “I haven’t seen Daiemon in months. Not since a party at his uncle’s house.”