pay phone.
Mrs. Oliver shrugged. 'That's the only number he gave me.
Big Al had long since finished with his sandwich and had been listening quietly from the sidelines. 'How did Mr. Kurobashi feel when this Woodruff character didn't come testify? Was he angry?
'Not angry. Hurt. To be treated like that by a friend when he had counted on him so heavily. I mean, he had borrowed money everywhere, even mortgaged his house.
'And Woodruff let him down.
She nodded. 'And that's what makes me think Mr. Kurobashi must have talked to him.
'Why?
'Because the last thing he said to me as I was leaving on Friday was that he just didn't know who he could trust anymore.
Abruptly, Mrs. Oliver stood up to leave. 'I'd better be going now. I don't like to be gone more than an hour. People still expect someone to answer the phone, you know.
'Could I ask you one more question, Mrs. Oliver? Al Lindstrom asked.
'Certainly. She sat back down and waited attentively.
'Why didn't you want us to meet you at your office?
'I suppose I'm just being silly, but several times during the last few weeks, Mr. Kurobashi said he felt like someone was spying on him. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but with everything that's happened, I'm not so sure.
'But you still can't tell us what exactly he was working on?
'No. I know he thought it was important, but he kept all his notes about it locked up in his own computer and written in Japanese. He said he didn't want someone wandering into his office and reading things over his shoulder.
'Not even you?
'Not even me, she replied.
I tried to tell if there was any resentment in her voice when she said it, but I couldn't. If Mrs. Bernice Oliver was angry with Tadeo Kurobashi for keeping secrets from her, it certainly wasn't showing.
She stood up again. Pausing long enough to wipe a few remaining bread crumbs and sesame seeds from her lap, she stepped over the rail at the end of the picnic table bench and walked back to her car, hurrying to answer the last few phone calls in her dead boss's dead business.
Big Al shook his head as he watched her walk away. 'I still haven't figured out what makes that old dame tick, have you? Do you think he was banging her?
'Who, Kurobashi? It was almost impossible to think of the angular Mrs. Oliver in a sexual context, but luckily for the human race, we don't all have exactly the same tastes.
'Maybe, I said, 'but then again, maybe not. And I sure as hell don't have balls enough to ask her.
'Me either, Big Al admitted ruefully, 'so I guess we'll never know.
CHAPTER 12
Big Al and I sat in the warm autumn sun at the rough picnic table at the Pecos Pit Barbecue for the next forty-five minutes, while outdoor diners milled around us. We chewed on leftover hunks of ice in Styrofoam cups and brought each other up to date on what had been happening at opposite ends of the state.
'Did you ever talk to the people from the shredder company? I asked.
'Not yet. They were out of town yesterday when I stopped by on my way home. I thought I'd try to see them today.
'And what about Davenport?
'I had an appointment for yesterday, but he stood me up. His secretary rescheduled me for later on this afternoon.
'I'll go along, if you don't mind. He may be able to shed some light on this Woodruff thing. If nothing else, he might know where to look for him. Mrs. Oliver's saying he lives in a hotel on one of the peninsulas isn't a whole hell of a lot of help.
'We can always get the location of the pay phone from the phone company, Big Al said.
'I know, but if we can get it from Davenport it'll save time.
When we finally left the Pecos Pit, it was to drive to 1201 Third Avenue, Chris Davenport's shiny new building. According to the rave review of one prominent architectural critic, the building is 'a perfect rendition of art deco style. I'd call it more an architectural rendering of tutti-frutti, with its towering confection of green mirrored glass and matte-finished pink granite. The multi-humped roof line looks like it came straight from the set of the 1930s King Kong, but of course that movie was made in black and white.
Once inside, we found that the old-fashioned marbled lobby looked like a time traveler from that same era. We fumbled around for several minutes before we were able to locate the bank of elevators.
Chris Davenport's office on the forty-fifth floor was suitably high in the building, definitely not low-rent squalor. When the elevator door opened, we found ourselves in a spacious and highly modern reception area done in the current fashion of dusty rose and subtle grays, rich-looking but soothingly quiet.
'Bankruptcy must pay pretty good wages these days, Big Al said under his breath.
'For attorneys, I returned.
As far as female help is concerned, law firms always seem to recruit the pick of the crop. A young receptionist with big boobs, a tightly belted knit dress, and a tiny waist announced our arrival over an intercom. Behind the receptionist's desk, mounted on the cloth-covered wall, was a large brass plaque listing the names of the partners, thirty-four by actual count. Davenport's name, in position nineteen, showed that despite his youthful looks, he had been around for some time.
Another nubile young secretary appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to lead us to Davenport's office. She directed us through a door around the corner from the reception counter. The door opened on a private stairway leading down to the next floor. That's when we discovered that the firm-Rice, Baxter, and Wheeler-leased two entire floors.
Davenport may not have been high enough in the pecking order to rate an upstairs office, but his did have a western exposure window with a magnificent view of the shipping traffic on Elliott Bay.
As we were shown inside, we found Davenport seated at his huge polished desk intently studying the inside of his mouth with a small, hand-held mirror. Like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't, he quickly stowed the mirror in a desk drawer and stood up, rubbing the outside of his cheek, offering his other hand in greeting.
'Sorry, he said, with an apologetic, metallic grin. 'My orthodontist tightened the bands this morning. It hurts like hell.
'Aren't you a little old for braces? Lindstrom asked. I detected a trace of Norwegian humor behind the question. If Davenport caught it, he ignored it completely, and he didn't appear to be offended by the question. By then he was probably used to it.
'In our family, the girls were the ones who got braces, he explained. 'They all had to be pretty enough to land husbands. That's why I'm having my teeth fixed now.
My own private opinion was that it would take a whole lot more than straightened teeth to turn Chris Davenport into Prince Charming, but I remained silent. Somebody on the team had to play it straight.
Davenport motioned to the window. 'Great view, isn't it?
It was the same view of Elliott Bay that I see every day from my windows in Belltown Terrace, but, remembering the manners my mother had drummed into me, I went over to the window, looked out, and politely agreed that it was indeed a magnificent view. As I turned back to the room, I noticed the wall behind the visitors' chairs had two framed diplomas on it as well as a series of wife-and-kiddie-type photos.
I stepped close enough to the wall to read the text on the two diplomas. One was a Bachelor of Arts from Loyola and the other was a Juris Doctor from Northwestern. Neither was Summa Cum Laude or Magna Cum Laude, which didn't surprise me when I remembered Mrs. Oliver's derisive assessment that bankruptcy was all Davenport was good for.
