Chapter 18When Hiroshi got to the interrogation room, Sakaguchi was locked in a stare down with the motorcycle thief, seated at a thick, grey table. Hiroshi looked at the thief’s sullen face and his leg up horizontally across a chair, the pant leg cut back for a temporary splint. His black tracksuit was ripped and dirty from sliding under the truck, his hands cuffed to the table.
Hiroshi’s hip throbbed where he landed on it and his leg muscles felt wobbly. The cortisone shot and painkillers from the station clinic had not kicked in yet. The doctor and nurse had made him put his feet up for a few minutes and get rehydrated, but they couldn’t do anything for what Hiroshi felt about losing Mattson’s documents.
“Broken leg?” Hiroshi asked.
Sakaguchi shrugged.
“Don’t tell me,” Hiroshi said.
