"Mmmmmm, she answered.
I couldn't tell if that meant yes or no. "Which is it? I asked.
"Depends on the question.
She snuggled comfortably against my chest, nuzzling into the curve of my neck. Totally un-police chief like behavior.
"What time do you have to be at work today? I asked.
"Eight. I told them last night that I might be running late.
"Oh no, you won't. I have to be at work at eight, too. Do you want breakfast?
"Not exactly, she said.
"Me neither, I said, eating myself on top of her. She pulled my face down to hers and gave me a lingering kiss. A demanding kiss.
When I drew back from her lips, Marilyn's eyes were open, and she was smiling. "Good morning, she whispered.
"Don't talk, I said, and buried myself inside her, which is why, without ever having breakfast, I was ten minutes late to work and Marilyn Sykes was twenty. The good thing about being chief of police is that not many people have nerve enough to ask a police chief where she's been or what she's been doing, and even if they had asked, Marilyn Sykes is the type who probably would have told them.
I wasn't that lucky. Big Al was waiting for me, and so was Sergeant Watkins.
"You working banker's hours these days? Watty demanded.
Watty and I have had numerous run-ins of late, particularly since my series of hassles with Paul Kramer, one of the newer detectives on the squad. I'll admit, I haven't been busting my butt to mend fences, but then neither has Watty.
"Doctor's orders. I answered with a tiny white lie, and Watty didn't question it. With a disgusted shrug of his shoulders, he walked away.
"I've got a message here for you, Big Al said. "George Yamamoto wants to see you right away.
"Where are you going?
"To see Captain Powell.
"What about?
"Maxwell Cole is doing a feature on Hubert Jones' mother. He wants to interview one of the detectives. Powell says I'm elected.
"Thank God for small favors, I responded.
Maxwell Cole is a longtime acquaintance of mine, a crime reporter turned columnist, whose profession naturally puts him at odds with cops in general and me in particular. We can't be in the same room together without setting off explosions. Powell probably figured, and rightly so, that any interview Maxwell Cole did with me would not reflect favorably on the Seattle Police Department.
Counting my blessings, I dashed down the stairway and into the crime lab to talk with George Yamamoto. As soon as I saw him, I knew something was wrong. George was sitting alone at his desk, staring at his phone. I knocked on his door frame twice before he heard me and looked up, his narrow face drained and haggard.
"Come in, he said, motioning wearily. "Come in and close the door.
"What's the matter, George? You look beat.
He cocked his head to one side. The slightest hint of a sardonic smile played around the corners of his lips. "Beaten? Maybe I am. Isn't that Ralph Ames a friend of yours?
"Yes.
"A good poker player? Yamamoto asked.
I shrugged. "I wouldn't know about that. I don't play poker.
George nodded wisely. "I do. He's a good bluffer. I believe I've just been blackmailed, Detective Beaumont, and unless I'm sadly mistaken, your friend Ralph Ames is behind it.
"Ames? Blackmail? No way. I almost laughed aloud, but George's coldly humorless expression stifled the urge.
"There are many degrees of blackmail, Detective Beaumont, and this is probably fairly benign, but it's blackmail nonetheless.
"Jesus Christ, I groaned. "What the hell is going on? I don't understand any of this. And how you got the crazy idea that Ralph Ames is behind it-
"He is, George interrupted. "Ames and that Winter fellow.
"What could Ralph Ames or Archie Winter possibly have on you?
"Not them, Yamamoto said quietly. "Machiko.
"This doesn't make sense.
"Ames and Winter came here yesterday wanting to see the sword, and I showed it to them. Winter has solid credentials. He agreed with me that the sword is a genuine Masamune. Now, this morning, I have a call from Machiko Kurobashi telling me that if I don't release the sword to her at once, she'll go to the media with the story.
"What story?
"Conflict of interest. The newspapers will lap it up. She'll tell them how I'm keeping the sword because of the long-standing feud between us.
"But how can she get away with that if it's not true?
George Yamamoto leaned back in his chair, his fingertips templed in front of his nose. "But that's where you're wrong, Detective Beaumont. It is true. I thought the sword was Tadeo's. One of the reasons I didn't want to release it to her is that I didn't think she deserved to touch it. Now Winter tells me the sword is rightfully hers. Her maiden name was Kusumi.
I nodded. "I thought as much when Winter was talking about it the other night, when he told me that the other matching pieces had been found in the ruins of Nagasaki.
"What exactly do you know about Machiko's background? George asked.
"Not much. Only what you told me, that she came to this country as a war bride, an occupation bride really, and that she married Tadeo after her first husband died.
"She was a whore! George Yamamoto declared vehemently, slamming his fist into his desktop. "Machiko Kurobashi was a no-good worthless whore!
For a long moment it was silent in George Yamamoto's small private office. In the outer lab, beyond the closed door, humming voices droned and telephones rang faintly. No one beyond the confines of his private office seemed aware of the outburst.
"You don't know that for sure, do you, George?
He nodded. "Yes, I know it for sure. I told you before about Tomi, my sister. When Machiko showed up out of nowhere and took Tadeo away, I wanted to find out about her. I had friends who were able to check into her background. They told me she was working the streets in Tokyo when she met and married her first husband. I reported what I had found out to Tadeo, but he said it didn't matter. He married her anyway.
George swung around in his chair and stared angrily out his office window, a dingy pane of water-splotched glass overlooking Third Avenue.
"I've run this department for years without a hint of scandal, George said slowly, "and as long as I give her back the sword, that will continue to be true. No scandal. No problem. She claims she needs to borrow it for a day or two.
"And if you don't let her have it?
"She goes to the papers.
"It does sound like blackmail, I conceded, "but she can't prove it.
"She won't have to. Newspapers don't require proof.
"Does she know about the memorial service?
George nodded his head. "I told her. She didn't say anything about it.
"But she isn't coming?
"No.
Dozens more questions swirled in my head, but they could wait. Between asking then and asking later, I chose later. George was having a tough enough time as it was. I got up, walked to the door, and opened it.
"Will you be coming to the memorial service? George asked.
"What time is it again?
"Four o'clock. In that little place called Waterfall Park at Main and Occidental.
"I'll be there, I said.
George nodded. I left the room, closing the door softly behind me. Unfortunately, George Yamamoto regarded even a hint of scandal as a serious assault on his personal honor.
When I got back upstairs, there was a Federal Express envelope lying facedown on my desk. I opened it and shook out the contents-a single piece of paper, a copy of the composite drawing of a darkly handsome man in his mid-thirties. I picked up my phone and dialed Andy Halvorsen in Colfax to see if he had received his copy. He had.
"Just a few minutes ago. In fact, I was about to call Pamela Kinder in Spokane to see if she can pick this guy out of a montage of pictures. I've spent half the morning on the phone with Alvin Grant, that detective in Schaumburg. He's excited as hell.