up control to an investor.
'Were there investors willing to step in and save MicroBridge?
Abruptly, Davenport stood up, took an open briefcase from the credenza behind him, and began placing a series of file folders into it.
Questioning witnesses is very much like panning for gold. You have to sort through a lot of water and sand before you see the glimmer of a trace of gold in the muck at the bottom of the pan, and this was nothing more than a glimmer, but a sudden need for physical action is often indicative that the questioning is coming too close to real nuggets of truth. If that was the case here, Christopher Davenport didn't want us any closer.
'There could have been, he said eventually, as he snapped the briefcase shut and spun the numbers on the combination lock. 'But Tadeo wouldn't let me try to find any. Instead, he borrowed money on his own home to keep the company afloat. He kept it going far longer than anyone expected, but in the end it was like holding his finger in a dike. I tried to get him to see how unwise that was, to cut his losses. As I told you, Tadeo was a very stubborn man.
'Is it possible that Mr. Kurobashi might have stumbled onto some important discovery or process that he thought would turn things around?
'It's possible. He hinted around about that some, but that's all. That's the other thing you have to understand about entrepreneurs. They're always incurable optimists who think the next thing down the pike is going to save their ass.
'What about the sword?
'A sword? You mean like in Knights of the Round Table?
'No, Big Al said, consulting his notes. 'They call it a tanto, a samurai short sword, very old and very valuable. It looks more like a large knife than what we think of as a sword. Did he ever mention it to you?
'Never.
'And you never saw one in his office, didn't know he owned such a thing?
'No, I didn't, but you say it was valuable? How valuable?
'Very, I replied.
'It's strange Tadeo never brought it up when we were going over the financial difficulties. If nothing else, it sounds like an asset that at least would have bought him a little more time.
I was listening intently to everything Davenport had to say, but in the back of my mind, I was still thinking about the wild card in the deck-Clay Woodruff.
'Where does Woodruff live? I asked.
'Port Angeles, Davenport answered without the slightest hesitation. 'In a place called the Ritz Hotel. He owns that and the tavern under it.
Glancing at his watch, a Rolex, Davenport grabbed the briefcase and swung it off his desk. 'I'm sorry. It's late and I really must go. If you need more info, we'll have to arrange another meeting.
'Bum's rush again, Big Al said good-naturedly when we were once more in the elevator. 'So what now?
It was late, almost four. 'I'll tell you what. You go check on the DataDump folks, and I'll head back to the department and do the paperwork.
Big Al's jaw dropped three inches. 'You've got to be kidding. Since when do you do paperwork?
'Since right now. When I finish, I'll go grab something at Vito's.
'How come?
'Because that's where Chip Kelley hangs out.
Allen Lindstrom shook his head in mock disbelief. 'You sure as hell won't get any argument from me. If you're doing paperwork, I'm by God taking you up on it. I'm outta here. And with that, he took off and left me standing on the sidewalk outside 1201 Third.
When I got back to the department, the fifth floor was relatively quiet. Working slowly, I hunted and pecked my way through the necessary forms and reports. Watty stopped by my desk just as I was finishing up. Naturally, with someone watching me, I screwed up.
'Get out of here, I said, handing him the stack of papers. 'You always fuck up my typing.
He scanned through the reports. 'How does it look?
'Beats me. My best guess is that this Woodruff character over in Port Angeles could shed some light on all of it if we could just talk to him. I tried calling the number Mrs. Oliver gave us, but no one answered, and there's no listing for the Ritz Hotel.
Watty sighed and rubbed his chin. 'Sounds like somebody'll have to take a run over there.
'That's about what I figured.
'By the way, George Yamamoto stopped by today. He wanted me to let you know that he's having a memorial service for Tadeo Kurobashi at four o'clock on Saturday afternoon.
'He is. So George Yamamoto was going ahead with a memorial service for his friend despite Machiko Kurobashi's express wishes to the contrary. 'Where will it be?
'In Waterfall Park at Main and Occidental. George said both he and Kurobashi lived right around there after the war.
While we talked, Sergeant Watkins had stepped back a pace or two. I stood up to leave as well, taking my jacket off the back of my chair. I tried to put it on, but the sleeve hung up on the splints. In order to untangle it, I had to reach up the sleeve with my other hand.
With Watty standing there watching my clumsy efforts, I felt like I was making a damned spectacle of myself. So I was already defensive before he opened his mouth to ask the question.
'When do you go back to the doctor to have those bandages changed? They look like hell.
'When I get around to it.
That kind of curt answer wasn't at all what Watty deserved, but he shrugged it off and walked away leaving me shamefaced and once more painfully aware of the constant throbbing in my fingers.
In the busy days since Monday, except for the inconvenience of zipping my pants or starting a car or putting on my socks and shoes, I had managed to stop focusing all my attention on my damaged hand. The steady pain had receded into the background of my consciousness along with the nagging worry of not knowing exactly how the accident had happened. But Watty's question had brought it all back to the forefront.
My reaction was strictly out of frustration and reflex. Without considering the consequences, after Watty left, I slammed my hand into the desk and then stood there in shock, almost doubled over by the pain. Amazed and humbled by the pain. I've been shot before without having it hurt that much.
Slinking out of the office, I climbed down the four flights of stairs to the ground level. From past experience, I suspected that my face was probably gray with pain, and I didn't want to have to explain it to whoever might be in the elevator.
I made it to the car and sat there for several minutes waiting for the pain to subside enough so I could start the car. What should I do? Go to another doctor? Which one? Where?
I gave up having a family physician when I gave up having a family. The times I've gotten hurt since, it's alway been on the job. The medics have dragged me down to Harborview Hospital and the Emergency Room folks have glued me back together. But I couldn't very well turn up at that same ER and say please fix this, because the questions on the form would be a nightmare: When did it happen? How did it happen? Who treated it initially?
It was a helluva lot easier to handle the pain than it would be to bluff my way through the goddamned form. Defeated, I reached through the steering wheel and used my left hand to turn the key in the ignition. Ignoring the pain as best I could, I headed for Vito's up on Madison, a restaurant and bar with the dubious distinction of being called the drinking man's annex to the King County Courthouse.
Vito's may not be the closest watering hole to the cop shop and the courthouse, but it's far and away the most popular. It's where the lawyers and judges and detectives all go to hang out and rub elbows and tip a few when work is over for the day.
Judge Chip Kelley and I go back a long way. When I was starting out on the force, he was a flunky in the King County prosecutor's office. For years, since long before he was a judge, Chip Kelley has carried an invisible but unbreakable lease on a table in the far back corner of Vito's bar. I recognized his unique laugh the moment I stepped through the door into the darkened room.
It was the middle of the after-work rush. The place was crowded, but Kelley and two of his compatriots were at the usual table, cackling together over some ribald joke. Kelley stopped laughing when he saw me.
