"Let's go now, then, I said. "Dr. Baker, the medical examiner, won't be able to release the body until after the autopsy, but you can sign the paperwork and designate where you want it sent.
Kimi nodded. "All right. Wait here while I go change.
She got up and strode off to the Suburban, where she took a small suitcase out of the back and disappeared into the house with it. Machiko watched her daughter go, her head bobbing up and down in approval.
"Kimiko good girl. Smart, too, Machiko said.
"You're lucky to have her, I said.
Machiko nodded again.
"May we ask you some questions?
"I try to answer. Do my best.
"When was the last time you saw your husband?
"Yesterday morning. He leave home early to catch ferry.
"Where was he going?
She shrugged. "Do not know.
"Which ferry, did he say? Winslow? Bremerton?
She shook her head.
"Did he call you? I asked.
Machiko nodded gravely. "Yes. On phone.
"What time?
"Noon.
"And what did he say?
"He say, wait one more while. Things be better.
"When he didn't come home last night, did you think to try calling him at the office?
Machiko shook her head.
"Did you send someone back down to MicroBridge to check on him?
"My husband grown man. Come and go as he please.
Big Al Lindstrom had been watching this entire exchange with his head swiveling back and forth like an observer at a tennis match.
"If you don't believe that your husband committed suicide, he said, "then you must think he was murdered. Do you know of anyone who would want to see him dead?
Machiko Kurobashi's eyes, enormous behind the beveled glass, turned full on Detective Lindstrom. "No, she answered.
"Did he have any enemies?
"Yes. I think so.
"Do you know who those enemies might be?
"No.
"Did it have anything to do with this lawsuit your daughter was telling us about?
She frowned. "My English not too good. I do not understand.
"Was it about the lawsuit, the patent infringement?
Machiko shrugged helplessly and shook her head.
Big Al tried again, louder, as though turning up the volume would somehow batter down the language barrier between them. It didn't. Machiko simply looked at him sadly and shrugged her shoulders once more.
I suspected that Machiko understood far more English than she was willing to let on, but we had reached a point in the questioning process where, for some reason, it was important for her to pretend otherwise.
I'll admit that I found Machiko amazing and puzzling both. For a woman who had just learned that her husband was dead, she was showing remarkable resilience, fortitude, and restraint. To say nothing of stubbornness.
Kimiko Kurobashi had hinted to us earlier that she thought she had inherited her stubborn streak from her father's side of the family, but I had news for her. Based on what I had observed, I suspected she had been given a hefty double dose of it. On both sides of her genetic heritage.
CHAPTER 5
I was shocked when Kimi Kurobashi opened the door and stepped back outside the house ten minutes later. I hardly recognized her. The threadbare Levi's, Western shirt, and down-at-the-heel boots had disappeared. She was wearing a well-tailored gray suit with a high-necked, pleated white blouse, and a pair of black, high-heeled pumps. The ponytail had been replaced by a complicated knot of hair, held in place on the back of her head by an oversized pearl-handled comb. She looked like a model fresh from the pages of Nordstrom's latest dress-for-success catalog.
I'm always dazzled when women pull off wizard changes like that, and I'm equally sure that dazzled is just what women want men to be. It's like they all have Fairy Godmothers stashed away that they can pull out at a moment's notice. Men are pretty much stuck with being the way we are, warts and all. Big Al Lindstrom, caught pushing the lawnmower in his yard on a Saturday afternoon, is still the same guy I work with every day.
Kimiko, emerging from her mother's house, was so transformed as to be almost unrecognizable. She bore little resemblance to the grungy ranch hand who had gone inside a few minutes earlier. I found myself gazing at her appreciatively. A sophisticated butterfly had been concealed in the faded work shirt and the grubby Tony Lama boots.
"Should I take the Suburban? she asked as she came up to where Al and I were waiting with her mother. "It'll only take a few minutes to unhitch it.
I did my best to camouflage the lecherous stare. You can't hang a man for looking.
"No, I answered quickly. "We'll take you over and bring you back when we finish. It'll go a lot faster and give us a chance to talk to you on the way.
She nodded, spoke briefly to her mother in Japanese, and then started toward the car. Out front we found that George Yamamoto's car was gone and in its place sat a huge North American Van Lines truck with a crew of three loading boxes into it as fast as they could. Kimi walked past them with her eyes downcast, not acknowledging their existence.
Wincing at the pain in my fingers, I helped her into the backseat of the Reliant. It might have been more gentlemanly to put her in front, but I needed the extra legroom a whole lot more than she did.
It was silent in the car as we started back toward the freeway. I was hung over and half sick. It felt as though my pores were sweating pure champagne, and I reminded myself never to drink the stuff again.
Trying to take my mind off both my headache and my throbbing fingers, I began a mental review of what we had learned since arriving at Tadeo Kurobashi's office early that morning. Reflexively I reached for my notebook, wanting to consult my notes, but of course I hadn't taken any.
"Let me look at your notebook, Al.
He did, handing it to me carefully enough that it didn't fly out of my hand. Big Al's handwriting, a haphazard combination of printing and cursive, was difficult to make out. Remembering what Kimi had said about relabeling her mother's boxes, I thumbed through the pages until I reached the place where Al had laboriously copied down the Japanese words from the computer screen.
"Can you read Japanese? I asked. When she didn't answer, I turned around and looked at her. Lost in thought, she was staring blankly at the back of Big Al's muscular neck. She jumped when she realized I had spoken to her.
"Excuse me?
"Can you read Japanese? I repeated.
"Yes.
"What about this? I passed her the notebook.
Looking at the words, she held it in front of her for a long moment, long enough that I began to wonder if she had been mistaken and wouldn't be able to translate it after all. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the seat, letting the notebook drop into her lap.
"Well? I asked.
"Yes, she whispered. "I can read it.
"What does it say?
She recited the verse in a leaden voice without opening her eyes, without once having to glance at the text:
"‘A child is still one more hope
Even in this careworn world.'
"You recognize it then?
"Yes. It's a verse from my father's favorite poem, "A Child, written by a man named Shuntaro Tanikawa. How do you know about it? Where did you get it?
"It was on his computer screen this morning when they found him. Detective Lindstrom here copied it down. We thought it might be important.
She seemed more visibly shaken by this than by anything else that had happened. "On his computer screen? He had typed it there?
"Over and over, I replied. "Why, does it mean something to you?
She still didn't open her eyes. "I was that child, she answered softly. "I was supposed to be that child. I heard that poem a million times while I was growing up.
Ten points for George Yamamoto. He had called that shot. Tadeo Kurobashi's message had indeed been meant for his daughter, not for his wife.