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.
'I wanted to come here today because… She stopped and shook her head. 'Just because… Her voice trailed off.
'That's understandable, I said.
'But also to give you something, she added. She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. 'You asked me the other day if I knew who Mr. Kurobashi might be going to see on a ferry. I couldn't think of anybody then, but this morning I was going through last week's messages, the carbon copies, and I came across this.
Big Al was still working on his sandwich, so she handed the paper to me. The blue ink had copied badly, so it was difficult to read. The telephone number itself was almost totally illegible.
'Clay? I asked. 'I can't make out the last name.
'Woodruff. He called last Friday. I was so upset at hearing his voice that I almost didn't give Mr. Kurobashi the message.
'Who's Clay Woodruff?
'I thought he was Mr. Kurobashi's friend, Mrs. Oliver said disdainfully.
'Was? I asked. 'What happened?
'I met Clay when we all worked at RFLink. He was young then, but he was already director of marketing. He and Mr. Kurobashi became very close. They both loved computers, used them at home and in the office the way other people use pencils. That was years ago, you see, long before everybody had one.
I nodded, not wanting to interrupt her, but trying to urge her to go on.
'Anyway, when Mr. Kurobashi came up with that new product design, it was really innovative, really exciting. The two of them went to see Blakeslee and offered it to him. It could easily have doubled the sales of RFLink, but Blakeslee turned it down. Clay said that was crazy and that if Blakeslee was that stupid, he was quitting, so Blakeslee fired him on the spot. He fired Mr. Kurobashi as well. I quit right after that.
'It sounds like Blakeslee was a turkey and the other two stuck together like glue.
Mrs. Oliver nodded. 'That's how it seemed at the time. Right away, Mr. Kurobashi began putting together money to start MicroBridge. Blakeslee had made him sign a noncompetition agreement, but since he had been fired, Mr. Kurobashi figured it wasn't enforceable. Blakeslee's lawyer must not have thought so either, because nothing ever came of it, but after MicroBridge came online, Blakeslee sued for patent infringement.
'And won, I said.
'He shouldn't have, Mrs. Oliver said bitterly. 'And he wouldn't have, either, if Clay had done his part.
'Which was? I prodded.
'Show up to testify. He dropped off the face of the earth for a while after he left RFLink. He's a composer, and he told Mr. Kurobashi at the time that he was sick of the business world and that he was going to concentrate on his music. When the patent infringement thing came up, Mr. Kurobashi didn't worry about it very much, because he was sure Clay would testify. Except he didn't.
'Why not?
'I don't know. Before the trial, Mr. Davenport tracked him down. He had to hire a private detective to do it. That's very expensive, you know. But when it came time for the trial. Clay couldn't be found. Mr. Davenport said that Blakeslee must have bought him off. That was why I was surprised when he called on Friday, acting all friendly like, as though nothing had ever happened. Such nerve!
'So you gave Mr. Kurobashi the message. Did he return the call?
'I don't know. I didn't pry into Mr. Kurobashi's affairs, but he may have.
'Where does Clay Woodruff live?
'At the time of the trial, I remember Mr. Davenport saying Clay was living in a hotel over on the peninsula somewhere.
'Which peninsula, Kitsap? Olympic?
'Over there somewhere, she said. 'Across the water.
'Can you get us a better copy of this phone number?
'I wrote it down on the back, she said.
I turned over the paper and looked at the number. The last four digits began with a nine. 'This is probably a
