The method behind this case wasn't all that clever, and the background wasn't particularly deep either. What really stood out was the sheer impact of someone ramming a whole truck into a shop. Now that had a certain spirit to it. No idea if the poor shop owner ever got compensated.
"What are you looking at?" Conan noticed that Karasawa's gaze had been fixed in the same direction for a while. He turned and saw the restroom door, tightly shut.
"That guy… something's off," Karasawa said casually. "How should I put it… He gives off a murderous vibe?"
Conan eyed him suspiciously, surprised he wasn't joking. "...Are you serious? Sure, he looked angry, but murderous?"
"Oh, did I forget to mention?" Karasawa smiled. "My parents are scholars in clinical medicine and psychology."
That was… an interesting flex. Conan considered the middle-aged man's state with a more serious look and asked, "So your conclusion is based on psychology?"
"No, it's more that—I've felt that kind of pressure myself. That split second when you're pushed to the edge and think, 'I want to kill him.' That guy gave me that same kind of feeling." Karasawa tossed out the kind of line you'd expect from a movie. Then he got to the actual point: "Also, he's been in the restroom way too long."
Had Karasawa just casually said something incredibly dangerous again? That creeping anxiety from this morning returned, the one that whispered, If I take my eyes off this new friend for even a second, I might end up handing him over to the police in tears.
About ten minutes later, the middle-aged man finally came out of the restroom and returned to his seat.
Thanks to Karasawa's heads-up, Conan had been keeping a close eye on him—whether he believed it or not—and caught something odd.
"He was licking his fingers," Karasawa muttered.
"And he switched drawing hands," Conan added.
They exchanged a look and nodded in sync.
Whether or not they were on the same wavelength, they were definitely both watching that table now.
"President Ōhara, are you kidding me?" Aihara shoved the papers across the table roughly. "You think just 'cause I'm about to switch jobs, you can squeeze every last drop out of me? You want all of this done by tomorrow?"
"Aihara, this is a rush order. You knew that when you accepted it!" Ōhara shot back, shoving the papers right back at him. Irritated, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.
He glanced at the bus passing behind Aihara, patted down his clothes, and muttered, "Lighter's gone. Gonna go look for it." Then he stood and headed toward the restroom again.
Aihara kept grumbling while flipping through the documents. Conan was just about to follow the president to see what he was up to when Karasawa suddenly stood up.
"What's wrong?" Conan stood too, instinctively.
"The truck—that delivery truck!" Karasawa spat out two words and burst through the door like a bullet.
"Truck?" Conan echoed, bewildered.
There was no time to think. He raced after Karasawa and caught sight of him sprinting like a launched arrow—toward the top of the slope, where a box truck was rolling down, gathering speed.
Karasawa's target was clearly that truck. Conan caught on a beat later.
This wasn't someone reversing. The truck had come loose from the top of the slope. And its trajectory—
—was aimed straight at the little shop at the curve in the hill!
Conan's pupils shrank. He bolted in that direction, just as Karasawa reached the truck's side, matched its speed with a burst of momentum, and leapt up, grabbing the side mirror to swing himself onto the door.
He peeked into the empty cab, then raised his right fist and smashed it down onto the window.
Conan stared in shock as the glass cracked into a spiderweb pattern with a single blow. Karasawa reached through the hole to unlock the door, flung it open, and nimbly clambered inside.
By now, the truck was moving at full speed. Thankfully, the keys were still in the ignition. Karasawa started the engine and slammed on the brakes.
Even with his actions flowing so seamlessly, the truck had already charged to within a hundred meters of the storefront. He stomped down hard, tires screeching across the asphalt and leaving black skid marks. Amid the screams of bystanders, the truck finally stopped—just over two meters from the shop's front door.
"Karasawa!" Conan, having run several dozen meters before doubling back, jumped up onto the open cab door. His heart was pounding from the chase and the shock. "Are you okay?!"
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Karasawa, breath ragged from sprinting two or three hundred meters and then pulling off a full-on action scene, leaned back in the seat and let go of the wheel. "I did it… wow, I actually did it…"
He'd known it—if the intent was saving lives, the Conanverse would allow even the wildest movie stunts. No one would stop him. The world would practically help.
Back in the shop, Aihara had just turned around, confused by the two kids who'd dashed out yelling—maybe someone tried to dine and dash?—when he spotted the truck's tail less than two meters away through the glass.
The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning—he'd almost died.
He broke out in a cold sweat, yelling and scrambling away from the table in a panic.
Karasawa jumped down from the cab, looked at the still-chaotic-but-fortunately-unharmed shop, and let out a breath. He glanced at the shattered window on the door. "Ah… guess I owe someone a new window."
The pedestrians who had witnessed the entire scene were now reacting—some gasped, others broke into applause.
"That's what you're worried about?" Conan grumbled, smacking his arm. Then he noticed the blood dripping from Karasawa's wrist and hand, the glass having cut him. "Here—wipe that off, you're bleeding!"
The well-trained citizens of Beika Town were already on the phone with the police. By the time Karasawa had wrapped a hasty bandage around his hand—Conan was dumbfounded to see him pull one from his bag like it was no big deal—the cops had arrived.
Since Karasawa had stopped the truck in time and no one was hurt, the incident wasn't treated as a murder attempt. It wasn't even assigned to the Homicide Division.
After briefly explaining what he'd seen—the truck's suspicious movement from the hilltop—Karasawa returned to the shop to the truck driver's tearful thanks and repeated insistence that he wouldn't have to pay for any damage.
Their books were still on the table, after all.
Aihara, who had just narrowly escaped death, immediately grabbed Karasawa's hand, eyes wide with gratitude. "Thank you, seriously, thank you. That was insane—what kind of bad luck is this? I can't believe I almost died today…"
Behind him, President Ōhara emerged from the restroom, face pale and splotchy. He locked eyes with Karasawa, who smiled and said with layered meaning, "Sometimes, just surviving a disaster like this is a strange kind of luck, isn't it?"
Ōhara glanced at the truck in front of the store, teeth clenched.
"Sir," Karasawa said, brushing off Aihara's grip and casually patting Ōhara's shoulder, "you almost got caught up in something nasty too. Better be careful."
"Was that guy behind the accident?" Half an hour later, after giving statements to the police, Karasawa and Conan left the shop. Conan broke the silence.
"Most likely," Karasawa replied, hands stuffed in his pockets, casually slinging his commuter bag behind him. "The driver said he never parks on slopes, but his usual unloading spot was taken by a sedan today. He had no choice. He said he pulled the handbrake and locked the wheels, but when I got in, the handbrake wasn't on. And that sedan? It belonged to that uncle."
Since there were no casualties or serious damage, the case was filed as a truck driver's error—an unfortunate accident. The only true victim might be the truck driver's insurance company.
But the real method? That remained unknown. Conan couldn't help but speculate. "How did he pull it off? Even if he climbed out the restroom window to release the brake, there wouldn't be enough time to get back inside unnoticed."
"He must've rigged some kind of delay mechanism."
"Yeah, otherwise he'd risk getting caught in the crash himself. So what did he use?"
"High-tension wire?"
"Not really feasible on a street like that… Ice, maybe? Like a block under the wheels?"
"Sounds less reliable than a rig that yanks the brake."
"You didn't see anything when you climbed in, right? So maybe it was the ice block trick? You think he'll try again?"
"Who knows. Could be just a sudden burst of murderous rage. Once it failed, maybe he lost the drive to follow through—"
"That's the least convincing thing you've said today. Wouldn't the ice leave a puddle behind?"
They went back and forth, tossing theories as they walked home.
Conan glanced at Karasawa's wrist peeking out from his sleeve. The gauze was messily wrapped, blood soaking through in faint pinkish lines.
…So Karasawa really is a good guy.
Behind them, Akai Shuichi tugged at his mask as he stopped at the corner, watching Karasawa's retreating figure before turning toward Café Poirot.
Karasawa Akira, he thought. Not only did you grow up healthy—you turned out to be one hell of a kid. If they knew… they'd be proud.
Farther down the street, in a dim back alley, a furious Ōhara Kazuo stormed back toward the office, his plan failed.
Aihara was set to leave the company next week. Now that the accident had failed, Aihara would probably never step foot in that store again. The plan had no chance of succeeding anymore.
Ōhara sighed, uncertain if it was from frustration or relief.
He reached into his coat for a cigarette, but his fingers brushed against something stiff—paper.
"What the…" he muttered, pulling it out.
It was a red card, business-card sized. Pasted across it were mismatched letters cut from newspaper, spelling out a short message:
"We are aware of your sins and crimes.
Do not assume your failure spares you from judgment.
—The Phantom Thieves of Hearts."