Lauren thought she could have something drafted for Mary by the end of the week at the latest.
The flight to British Columbia was painless. At least two dozen of the 737's seats were empty, and miraculously, one of them was next to my exit-row aisle.
Having the room in front of me to be able to actually cross my legs on an airplane felt decadent. I read a biography for the first couple of hours before allowing my attention to drift outside as the pilot began the descent. As the plane banked to make our approach into Vancouver my eyes followed the linear wake of an early-season cruise ship that was heading north from Canada Place toward the Strait of Georgia and the Inside Passage. In the opposite direction a freighter headed south out to the Pacific through the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
I fantasized about being on one ship and then the other. After a long winter and spring in Colorado's aridity, the lushness and richness of the northwestern landscape was seductive. The day was clear enough to make out topographic details of the distant face of Vancouver Island. Closer in, the smaller islands and inlets of the San Juans gave my eyes and my imagination a thousand inviting places to hide. There are plenty of cities in North America where it would be just fine to hold a business meeting at the airport. Vancouver isn't one of them. I immediately wished I had made arrangements to stay longer.
Canadian immigration and customs were efficient, and within fifteen minutes of deplaning I had checked back in with United Airlines and was going through U.S. customs and immigration prior to moving on to the departure area for flights to the U.S. On the U.S. immigration form I was asked about my length of stay in Canada. I was tempted to write "fifteen minutes." Officially, I had left the United States, arrived in Canada, and returned to the United States without ever leaving the Vancouver airport.
The immigration official who checked my papers, the customs official who didn't check my carry-on, and the ticketing agent who gave me my boarding pass were all of Asian descent. In the ten years or so since my last visit the city of Vancouver had truly become a gateway to the Pacific Rim.
Taro Hamamoto had not arrived but he had made advance arrangements for me at the desk of the Air Canada lounge. The facility was small by U.S. standards but its comfort and amenities more than made up for its dimensions. Wonderful local beer on tap, plentiful snacks, fresh fruit, friendly people. I helped myself to something to eat and drink and settled into the small conference room where I had been instructed to wait for Mr. Hamamoto's arrival.
He stood in the doorway about ten minutes later.
I expected a man of typical Asian stature. But Taro Hamamoto was almost as tall as I was, nearly six-two. I expected a man graciously creeping from middle age into gentility. But Taro Hamamoto appeared to be no older than his late forties and had the lean, fit look of a distance runner. I expected to see a man wearing the Japanese version of Brooks Brothers. But when I stood to greet Taro Hamamoto as he walked into the conference room, he was Polo and Timberland.
We shook hands and he bowed almost imperceptibly as he introduced himself.
Immediately he offered me a business card. With barely a glance at his, I fumbled in my wallet for one of my own.
"Dr. Gregory," he said.
"I'm pleased to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Hamamoto. I'm grateful for the opportunity to talk with you."
"I hope I wasn't late."
"Not at all. My flight was early. Immigration was a breeze."
He glanced down at the conference table and saw the empty plate and the bottle of water in front of me. He said, "May I offer you anything before we begin?"
"No. I'm great. I helped myself. May I get you something?"
"Indeed not," he said.
"Please, let's get started, shall we. I'm… anxious to hear more from you.
It's not often I get the opportunity to speak about my daughter." His eyes saddened noticeably.
"My wife, she… well, she would rather forget than remember. Does that make sense?"
"Of course."
He held the tip of his tongue between his teeth for a moment and sat straight, his shoulders squared. He achieved the posture without effort or strain. The polo shirt he wore under a white cotton sweater was the exact same hue as the tip of his tongue.
"I have resources-contacts, if you will-in the United States. At my request these individuals have been kind enough to provide me with some research and background into the organization you represent, Dr. Gregory."
He smiled the slightest bit.
"Locard. It's a fascinating group with an impressive record."
"Yes" My business card lay on the table in front of him. He lowered his eyes to it before he spoke.
"And you… are not a permanent member."
Hamamoto's words were not posed as a question. I tried not to sound defensive as I replied.
"No. As you can see from my card, I'm a practicing clinical psychologist in Boulder, Colorado. I am not a permanent member of Locard. They consider me 'a guest specialist," which is a fancy way of saying that I'm an invited volunteer. I was asked to participate only in the current investigation.
The one involving the murder of your daughter, Mariko, and her friend, Tamara Franklin."
"And-please excuse my ignorance-why does Locard feel it needs the assistance of a clinical psychologist in Boulder, Colorado?"
My speech about the necessity of getting to know the two dead girls was beginning to feel rehearsed, even polished. I gave it again with some confidence.
As I finished, Hamamoto's face softened and his lips parted.
"You have completed your words, Dr. Gregory. In your eyes, though, I see that you are not done with your explanation of your involvement with me and my family."
Prevaricating with this man felt as though it would be counterproductive.
"All right," I said.
"Let me share the other reason for my involvement. Sometime shortly before her death your daughter, Mr. Hamamoto, was in psychotherapy in Steamboat Springs with a clinical psychologist like myself. It is an episode in her young life that Locard feels is worthy of more investigation. I concur with that assessment.
The forensic psychologist and psychiatrist on Locard thought that I would be the correct person to explore the issues related to that therapy."
"Dr. Welle," he said.
"The now famous Dr. Welle." Taro Hamamoto touched the collar of his shirt and swallowed. I expected him to launch into criticism of Raymond Welle. Instead, Hamamoto said, "He helped her. I want you to know that.
He helped all of us. Dr. Welle did. Dr. Raymond Welle." His hands clenched into fists before he released the pressure and spread his fingers.
"Back then, Mariko was skiing too fast. She was in danger of catching an edge.
Dr. Welle helped her get back under control. It was a great service to us."
The skiing metaphor surprised me almost as much as the praise. I said, "I'm glad to hear that he was so helpful to your family."
"Yes"
"It turns out that I am scheduled to meet with Dr. Welle in two days. In Colorado. His office has been gracious enough to set up a meeting to discuss the resumption of the old investigation."
Hamamoto nodded.
"For that meeting to be of any benefit to me I will need to provide Dr. Welle with written authorization from you-or your wife-that he has your permission to speak with me about your daughter's psychotherapy. Without that permission the records of her treatment remain confidential and he is not allowed to share with me any details of his work with Mariko."
"Are you suggesting that Dr. Welle has information that would help identify my daughter's killer?" His jaws tightened as he finished speaking.