"Right, the officer said, "will do.
Once out of the building, George Yamamoto headed for his car and we went toward ours. Big Al was grumbling about having to play both chauffeur and secretary while my fingers were screwed up, but I wasn't paying much attention. My headache was back and I was hours and miles away from any possibility of aspirin.
We were waiting at the stop sign for traffic to clear on Fourth South when George Yamamoto pulled up beside us and honked his horn. I rolled down the window.
He had changed his mind. "I guess I'll go with you after all, he said. "You'll probably need someone to interpret. Machiko doesn't speak English very well or at least she didn't the last time I saw her.
"You know how to get to their place?
He nodded.
"We'll follow you, then. Lead the way.
Al waited long enough for George to pull out in front of us. "I could have found it all right, you know, he said.
I think he resented George going along, regarded his presence in somewhat the same light as Howard Baker did, as a hindrance rather than a help.
"Yes, I said, "but unless I miss my guess, your Japanese isn't all that hot. Mine sure isn't.
We drove to Kirkland in relative silence. At midmorning, traffic on the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge was fairly light. The entire trip only took about half an hour.
As we drove, I couldn't get the picture of Kimi Kurobashi out of my mind. What monster had reared its ugly head between that happy-go-lucky, horsy kid and her adoring father? What had set them at each other's throats? Whatever it was, now it was permanent. There would be no more chances for reconciliation. Those were gone. Used up.
Whatever hidden meaning might be locked in the cryptic message Tadeo Kurobashi had left for his wife or daughter in those final words on his computer screen, the feud between him and his daughter was never going to get any better. Their quarrel would never be over, never be resolved, not as long as Kimiko Kurobashi still lived.
People die. Quarrels don't. That inalterable realization made me sad as hell.
For everyone concerned.
CHAPTER 3
There are a lot of things about this job that aren't wonderful; doing mountains of paperwork and dealing with the media are two items that come immediately to mind. But by far the worst part, bar none, is notifying next-of-kin. Delivering bad news, fatal bad news concerning a loved one, costs everybody-the people receiving it as well as those dishing it out.
Anyone who knocks on the door and walks into the home of survivors of a homicide victim is walking into an emotional mine field. There's no way to prepare in advance for what may happen because everyone reacts differently. Some survivors accept the news calmly and quietly, while others burst into hysterics, either crying or laughing. I've seen both. On some occasions I've been made to feel welcome and even been invited to stay to dinner, while at other times I've been bodily thrown out of the house. Once I was assaulted by a grief-crazed widow who held me personally responsible for her husband's death. She came after me tooth and nail, ready to flay the skin right off my face.
But all of those are overt reactions-things cops can see for themselves and either accept or avoid by taking some kind of evasive action. For homicide detectives, though, there's often another dimension, a hidden element of risk.
Law enforcement statistics show that murder victims are usually killed by someone they know. One way or the other, survivors hold the keys to what went on before the crime. As a consequence, answers to mysteries surrounding murders and often even the killers themselves lurk just below the surface of those initial, painful next-of-kin visits. A detective has to go into those interviews with all his instincts fine-tuned and with his attention to detail honed to a razor-sharp edge.
And since at that stage of the investigation we didn't know for sure whether Tadeo Kurobashi had been murdered or if he had died by his own hand, we had to go to his home with our eyes open as well as our minds.
We followed George Yamamoto off 520 and up the I-405 corridor to the N.E. 70th exit. We headed east for a mile or so and then south on 135th toward Bridle Trails State Park. As the name would imply, it's a horse-acres neck-of-the-woods, with plots divided into five-acre parcels containing sprawling houses attached to two- or three-car garages. Stables with paddocks and thoroughbred horses take the place of conventional backyards.
Tadeo Kurobashi's house, set in a shady stand of towering alders, was at the end of a long cul-de-sac that bordered on the back of the state park. A FOR SALE sign had been pounded into the ground next to the mailbox, and the word SOLD was fastened underneath.
It could have been any standard American tri-level set in a well-kept but natural setting. The shingles on the roof and the siding of the house had weathered to a matching shade of slate gray. A closer examination of the roof, however, revealed that the ends of the roof peaks had been curved slightly upward, and a length of timber protruded underneath, giving the house's whole appearance a distinctly Japanese flavor.
We followed George Yamamoto into the circular front driveway and parked behind his car. Before anyone had a chance to get out, a woman came striding around the side of the house toward us. Her glossy black hair was pulled back and held in a long ponytail. The way she walked made her seem taller than she was, and her clothing-western shirt, faded Levi's, and worn cowboy boots-gave her an old-time wrangler appearance. At first glance I thought she was much younger than she was, a teenager maybe. Close up, however, I recognized her as a twenty-year-older version of the grinning child from the picture in Tadeo Kurobashi's office.
Kimiko Kurobashi wasn't grinning now. A deep frown furrowed her forehead, her mouth was set in a thin, grim line, and her chin jutted stubbornly. She stopped a few feet from the cars and stood waiting for us, feet spread, hands on her hips.
Since I was the first one out of the cars, I was the target of her initial blast. "If you're the new owners, we were told we didn't have to be out until three P.M. We're not ready.
George Yamamoto exited his car and started toward her. "Kimi- he called, then stopped, as words stuck in his throat.
She turned when he spoke to her. Recognition registered on her face, but she made no move toward him. Instead, she stood like a granite statue, waiting for him to come to her. "What are you doing here?
George's professional demeanor had fractured during his long solo ride across the lake. Criminal justice professionals of all kinds learn to detach themselves from death. They have to. They build a wall around their emotions and stay safely inside that protective circle, but if something breaches that wall-the death of one of their own, a family member or another cop, for instance-then they're in big trouble, just as George Yamamoto was now.
He stumbled blindly toward Kimiko Kurobashi, his arms outstretched, groping for words. Nothing came out of his mouth but an unintelligible croak. Once he reached her, George gathered Kimiko in his arms and crushed her against him.
"Kimi, Kimi, Kimi, he murmured over and over.
She placed both hands against his chest and pried herself away. "What's wrong? What's the matter?
Shaking his head, George Yamamoto didn't answer directly. "Where's your mother? he asked.
"She's out back, but tell me. What's wrong?
"It's your father, Kimi.
"My father! What about him? Is he dead?
Her question registered in my consciousness like an arrow zinging straight into the bull's-eye. Not "Is he hurt? Not "Has there been an accident? or "Is he in the hospital? But right to the heart of the matter: "Is he dead?
"Yes.
Her wide-set eyes, so brown they were almost black, filled quickly with tears. She stiffened and backed away, brushing the tears away quickly, fiercely. Several feet away from all of us, she stood with her arms crossed, face averted, holding herself aloof from George's murmured expressions of sympathy. Her reaction appeared to be nine-parts anger and one-part grief.