Dismissed With Prejudice (9780061760631) (12 page)

Andy Halvorsen never once took his eyes off her. That kind of jealous obsession is painful to see, especially when it isn't reciprocated.

“What about tomorrow morning?” I asked, dragging his attention away from his wife and back to the case.

“What? Oh, I'll be in the office by eight. I'll check and see if anything's come of the APB, then I can call you here and let you know what's going on.”

“All right. You don't think I'll have a problem getting a room?”

“The vacancy sign was still lit when we drove up.”

Monica returned with our drinks. Halvorsen hadn't ordered anything, but from the looks of the
glass Monica brought him, he was probably drinking straight Seven-Up or tonic. It was just as well. He was still driving a Whitman County car.

“How much?” I asked, as she set my drink on the table.

“Five-fifty for both,” she said.

“Wait a minute. You don't have to…” Halvorsen began, reaching for his wallet, but I already had the money out and on the table. I didn't want anything left open to the slightest misinterpretation. I included a tip, one small enough to keep Halvorsen from getting the wrong impression.

The MacNaughton's, when I tasted it, was particularly welcome. It had been a long, long day.

Monica collected glasses from two recently vacated tables, and took them back to the bar, where she stood leaning against the counter chatting easily with the bartender.

“What do you think?” Halvorsen asked.

At first I thought he was asking about the case, but then when I saw his eyes were once more glued to Monica's behind, I knew the Kurobashis were the furthest thing from his mind.

“She's very pretty,” I said.

“I think so too,” he said.

“How long have you two been married?” I asked.

“There months last week,” he answered. “We had to wait until my divorce was final.”

Electric tan, too much makeup, and a home-
wrecker besides. My already low initial opinion of Monica Halvorsen dipped a few more points.

“I wish she could get a job somewhere else, but this is all she's ever done, and we need the money. Child support and alimony. Barbara seems to think she's got a God-given right to stay home with the kids and sit on her butt.”

That was as much as I wanted to hear. My months of helping care for the children of Ron Peters, an ailing fellow police officer, had taught me that there's a whole lot more to taking care of kids than sitting on your tail, but I didn't have guts enough to tell him so.

I polished off my drink in one long gulp and set the glass on the table. “I'm going to go see about a room,” I told him.

As I walked away, I couldn't help thinking that Andrew and Monica Halvorsen may have made their three-month anniversary, but I was willing to bet money they wouldn't make six.

I
TOOK A DECREPIT CAB, POSSIBLY
M
OSCOW
, Idaho's only cab, from the University Inn to Colfax and was sitting in Andy Halvorsen's courthouse office at 8:15 the next morning when he called Sacred Heart Hospital in Spokane for a status report. Kimi Kurobashi was still in Intensive Care, and the doctors said it would probably be several days before we could talk to her.

Rita Brice, bleary-eyed from too little sleep and looking as though she had spent the night in her clothes, showed up in the office doorway a few minutes later to tell us that she was on her way to Colfax Community Hospital, where Machiko Kurobashi was about to be released. Because she had nowhere else to go, Machiko would stay with Rita at Honeydale Farm.

Rita said that her ex-husband had called to offer the use of two of his ranch hands during the crisis, both to help out with the work and to keep an eye on things. For an ex-husband, he sounded like an all right kind of guy.

The short night's stay in Pullman with Monica
seemed to have done wonders for Andrew Halvorsen's state of well-being. He was back on top of things. The nervous tic was gone from his face. He was bright, with a quick grasp of what was going on and what needed to be done, and it was a pleasure to observe him working with his head screwed on straight.

Shortly after Rita left, Halvorsen turned to me. “What about you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “There's not much sense in me hanging around on this side of the mountains. Kimi's in good hands at the moment, and, thanks to the Brices, so is her mother. I think I'd better get back to Seattle and see what's going on there.”

Halvorsen nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

With a freshly lit cigar in hand, he drove me back to the Pullman-Moscow Airport, where I caught the next plane out, riding home on what was probably the same frayed Metro-Liner I had ridden in on the day before. Scrunched into the too-small seat, I had nothing to do on the way back to Seattle but think.

I kept rehashing what Halvorsen had said the day before, about Kimi and Machiko's attackers being name-brand muscle with Cosa Nostra connections. Everything we had learned since then seemed to lend credence to that theory. The creep from Chicago who had tried to pick up Pamela Kinder hadn't been wearing gloves because his hands were deformed. He was a man with something to hide, a scumbag who proba
bly knew his fingerprints were on file somewhere, along with a couple of outstanding arrest warrants.

Chartering helicopters is an expensive proposition. Whoever was behind it either had money to burn or else they had some damaging piece of information on David Lions, information with enough blackmail potential that the charter pilot had been forced to go along with the program.

Last but not least was Pamela Kinder's comment about the Chicago accent. I'm sure there are lots of law-abiding citizens living in Chicago, but with all due respect to them, Elliot Ness didn't spend his career busting mobsters in Hoboken, New Jersey. That was reaching, though, and try as I might, I could see no connection between Tadeo Kurobashi and the Mob.

Waiting in line to pay the garage parking charges at Sea-Tac Airport, I used my car phone to try calling Big Al down at the department. Margie, our clerk, said that Detective Lindstrom was down at Industry Square meeting with Bernard Rennermann and Thomas Blakeslee. Obviously, Big Al hadn't been sitting on his hands in my absence. I told Margie I'd try to catch him there on my way into town.

Locating Big Al turned out to be no trouble at all. A white Reliant with the usual police department markings was parked near a building one building over from the one where Tadeo Kurobashi's body had been found. Bernard Ren
nermann's digs were next to the elevator on the ground floor.

A young receptionist took my name and called the information into an inner room. A moment or two later, Bernie himself appeared at a door down a short hallway, mopping perspiration off his brow with what looked like yesterday's handkerchief.

“Oh, Detective Beaumont. You're here too. I didn't know you were expected.”

“I wasn't,” I replied. “I managed to get here anyway.”

He stepped aside and let me into the room. It was a spacious conference room whose main piece of furniture was a long, rectangular oak table. The padded captain's chair at the far end was empty. Big Al Lindstrom sat on one side of the table, glaring sullenly at a smug little man who was seated opposite him, a man I assumed to be Thomas Blakeslee.

Somehow I had imagined Blakeslee, the bane of Tadeo Kurobashi's existence, to be different—bigger, larger than life. Instead, he was a stunted, bald-headed little twerp with thick glasses who smoked unfiltered Camels like a damn chimney.

Two chain-smokers in as many days! Doesn't anybody read those Surgeon General's warnings?

Thomas Blakeslee had managed to get himself at cross purposes with Big Al Lindstrom, whose hackles were definitely up. As I came in the door, Al glanced briefly in my direction and nodded, but
immediately he turned his full attention back on Blakeslee.

“This is my partner, Detective Beaumont,” he said. “Now, would you please answer my question?”

“What was it again?”

“Did Mr. Kurobashi know that you were the new tenant who would be taking over this space?”

“I wouldn't know about that. You'd have to ask Bernie here. He might have told him.”

“I didn't,” Rennermann blurted, again wiping his damp forehead. “You asked me not to, remember? So I didn't.”

“Why didn't you want Kurobashi to know that you were moving in?”

Blakeslee shrugged. “It would have been awkward, that's all. Besides, Tadeo had lost the lease. It was none of his business what happened to the space after he moved out.”

“Except that he lost the lease because he lost the patent infringement lawsuit against you.”

“Business is business,” Blakeslee said offhandedly.

He was a cold-blooded, mean-spirited little rat. No wonder he had provoked Big Al's ire. Lindstrom may look big and tough, but there's not a cruel bone in his body. Never has been. Meanness offends him.

Blakeslee thumped a mound of ashes into the large cut-glass ashtray on the table in front of him. “Look,” he said, “I wanted the space, all
right? My lease at the old place was running out in a few months anyway. I had to look for a new location. Then, when I found out that Tadeo was leaving, I decided why not? After all, we were in pretty much the same business. He laid out the manufacturing plant here almost identically to what I've been using in my place. Hell, he's the one who organized that plant years ago when he was working for me, except this one is brand-new, totally upgraded.”

“What about the equipment?” Lindstrom asked.

“I'll be bringing my own, of course.”

“And what happens to the MicroBridge equipment?”

Again Blakeslee tapped his cigarette, a gesture I recognized as a delaying tactic. “As the major creditor, I expected to buy it at the auction. For ten cents on the dollar, I should have been able to pick up all the equipment, the hard assets, and customer lists, and I wouldn't have had to pay a dime out of my own pocket.”

“It sounds as though that deal is off,” Big Al interjected.

Blakeslee shrugged again. “From what I hear, there's not much left, although I may still bid on some of the equipment.”

“Do you have any idea what Mr. Kurobashi was working on at the time of his death?”

“None whatsoever.”

“And you're not interested in finding out?”

“Not particularly. My dear Detective Lindstrom,
RFLink provides me with a more than adequate livelihood.”

“Particularly if your major competitor is no longer in business.”

“That's right.”

“Or dead,” Big Al added.

“Are you accusing me of something unlawful here, Detective Lindstrom? If so, I'm afraid I'll have to request that my attorney be present. I agreed to come here and talk to you of my own free will, but it seems to me that your questions are going beyond the pale of what's acceptable and what isn't.”

I had heard enough to see what kind of a tack Big Al was running on, and I happened to have some information that he didn't.

“Mr. Blakeslee,” I put in, “would you have any idea why Tadeo Kurobashi would feed a virus into his entire office computer system, including the new computer he was giving his daughter?”

“How would I know? Everybody always told me he was a genius, but he never showed me anything I couldn't have done better myself and in half the time,” Blakeslee replied.

“Or why he would send most of his important company records to the shredder?”

“Like I said, even when he was working for me I didn't understand him. I have no idea, unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he had something to hide.”

“What might that be?”

“I don't know.”

“How much did you win?” Big Al asked, returning to the fray.

“Excuse me?”

“The judgment you won against him. How much was it and when is it due?”

“A total of 350 K. It was all due and payable the first of last month.”

“Will the judgment be voided by the bankruptcy proceedings?”

“No.”

“So his estate will still have to come up with that much money?”

“That's my understanding.”

“Did he actually steal your patents, Mr. Blakeslee?” Big Al asked.

Blakeslee tapped his cigarette and smiled enigmatically, a vulture claiming his prize.

“That's no longer a matter open to debate, Detective Lindstrom. A jury said he did. That's what counts.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I must be going now, if you don't mind. I have a luncheon appointment.”

Disgustedly, Big Al waved him out of the room. Bernard Rennermann hurried after his departing guest and soon-to-be tenant.

“I'm glad I'm a cop,” Big Al said. “At least with pimps and pushers, you know where you stand. These guys are absolute cutthroats. That asshole doesn't give a shit that Kurobashi is dead. All he cares about is how soon he can move in and pick
the rest of the meat off the bones. And Rennermann's no better. The whole time Kurobashi was fighting to keep his head above water, that lousy little creep was wheeling and dealing with the guy who was pulling the rug out.”

“Did you ask him where he was three nights ago?”

“Who? Blakeslee?”

I nodded.

“He claims he was at a board of directors meeting for RFLink, that he was there from dinnertime until well past midnight. He gave me the names and numbers of several people he says were there with him. I haven't had a chance to check any of them out yet.”

“But you're going to.”

“You'd best believe it. I don't trust that squirrelly little son of a bitch any further than I can throw him. What about the women? Are they going to be all right?”

“Machiko was supposed to get out of the hospital today. Kimi is lucky to be alive. The last I heard, she's still in Intensive Care.”

“Those bastards!” Big Al muttered under his breath. He stood up and stretched. “Been home yet?”

“No.”

“Ralph Ames came by the department looking for you early this morning. I told him that I'd have you call as soon as you showed up. Meantime, I have a lunch date. You're welcome to come along.”

“Who with?”

“Mrs. Oliver, Kurobashi's secretary. She called this morning and wanted to see one or both of us. I'm meeting her for lunch.”

“Where?”

“An ex-gas station over by Sears.”

“A what?”

“A converted gas station called the Pecos Pit Barbecue over on First Avenue South not far from here. She said to meet her there around eleven and it's almost that now. Are you coming or not?”

“I'm in,” I said, “but why meet her there when her office is right across the parking lot?”

“I asked her that myself since I figured I'd be finishing up with Rennermann and Blakeslee about now, but she insisted that she didn't want me coming by the office.”

“She's still holding down the fort then?”

“That's right.”

We took both cars and, once we reached the neighborhood, had to look around some before we found places to park. Pecos Pit Barbecue may have been a converted gas station, but it appeared to be fairly popular.

Mrs. Bernice Oliver, dressed in a heavy black sweater and an old-fashioned black sheath dress, a mourning dress, was standing in line with a bunch of hard-hats and other hungry working sorts. It was only ten after eleven, but there were already fifteen people and one outsized malamute pup
waiting in line to be served. The line snaked its way through a collection of outdoor picnic tables and ended up in front of a serving counter/window that had been built into the front wall.

Bernice Oliver was only five people back from the window when we got there. She motioned for us to come stand beside her. “So you're both here. Do you like your barbecue hot or medium?” she asked. We both requested medium. She directed us to go locate a sunny table where she joined us a few minutes later bringing with her a cardboard tray laden with three paper bags, three sodas, and a stack of napkins.

“I hope you don't mind that I just ordered for all of us,” she said. “It would have taken a lot longer if you two had to go to the back of the line.”

The barbecue beef sandwiches were huge, mouth-wateringly delicious, and impossibly messy. I would hate to have ordered hot, because the medium made my eyes water and my nose run. And I didn't escape the meal without a wart-sized blob of barbecue sauce landing square in the middle of my tie.

Eating the sandwiches required full concentration, and none of us attempted to speak until our sandwiches were completely gone. Mrs. Oliver finished first.

“Mr. Kurobashi used to bring me here for lunch sometimes,” she said. Taking one of the remaining napkins from the stack, Mrs. Oliver wiped her
eyes. Her tears had nothing to do with the spiciness of the food.