stopped cold.
'I can't talk about it, he said.
'What do you mean you can't talk about it?
'I'm doing a favor for a friend, he replied. 'Just because Tad is dead doesn't mean I won't keep my word.
I wasn't getting anywhere, so I tried a different angle. 'When Mr. Kurobashi came to see you that day, did he seem upset to you?
'Upset? Hell yes, he was upset. He had lost everything, and all because I didn't testify. Then, out of the blue, I call him up and act as though we're still asshole buddies. He was pissed as hell.
'Were you? I asked.
'Was I what?
'Were you still asshole buddies?
'As far as I was concerned we were, Woodruff replied.
'Why didn't you testify then? I asked.
Woodruff drew back and looked at me. 'I already told you. Because I never got called. I never got a summons. When I explained that to Tad, he understood. When I tried to reach him on Friday, I was calling in the dark. I had no idea that the judge had ruled against him and he was losing his business.
'Tell me about his state of mind that day. Did he give any hint that he was in some kind of trouble or that his life might be in danger?
'No.
'And this product that you say he was working on. Would it be something that could be of use in illegal activities, something the Mafia might have a vital interest in?
'No.
'Did you ever know Mr. Kurobashi to have any dealings with criminal types?
Once more Woodruff's eyebrows knitted together to form a solid bridge across his nose. 'You're asking me if I have any knowledge of Tad being involved with organized crime?
'Yes.
Woodruff's finger moved away from his nose. He rubbed his hand thoughtfully back and forth across his jutting chin. The salesman in me recognized the gesture as a buying signal-decision time.
'Wait here, Woodruff said. 'I need to go get something. Want another beer?
'Fine, I said.
Woodruff picked up the pitcher and filled both of our glasses; then, grabbing his computer from the floor, he excused himself and walked over to the bar. He spoke briefly to the bartender, then he came back to where we had been sitting.
'It's upstairs, he said. 'I'll be right back.
'Take your time, I said casually, trying to conceal any show of curiosity about what he was going to get. The bartender came to the table and busily wiped off the damp rings left by the pitcher and glasses.
'So you're from Seattle, are you? he said, 'Here for the weekend?
'Just tonight, I replied.
'The music starts up at nine, he offered helpfully. 'Local group, R and B. Real laid back. People around here seem to like it.
'You mean you don't play Woodruff's music here in the bar?
The bartender grinned. 'Oh, it gets played in here all right. Not necessarily on purpose. For instance, everybody knows that section he was working on today pretty much by heart.
'The soundproofing's not that good?
'You could say that.
My glass was partially empty, and the bartender filled it with the dregs of the pitcher before hurrying back to the bar, where someone was calling him for a refill. I sat there alone for several minutes watching the denizens of Port Angeles and Davey's Locker perform. They all knew one another, knew who was good at pool and who was lousy, who could hold their beer and who couldn't. A television set in the background was quietly playing a 'Star Trek rerun to an audience of one medium-old lady with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. The place seemed as innocuous as an overgrown living room.
I drifted for a few moments, sipping the beer and contemplating what it would be like to live in a small town like this as opposed to a big city. When my glass was almost empty, though, I began to grow uneasy. It was taking Woodruff a hell of a long time to bring back whatever it was he was going to show me.
I turned and tried looking out the window, but the opaque blue glass barred any view of the street outside. I stood up, walked over to the door, opened it, and looked up and down. In either direction, the sidewalk and the wide one-way street were totally deserted. I stepped far enough out onto the sidewalk to see the windows of Woodruff's apartment above Davey's Locker. They were dark and empty, with no sign of life behind them, and when I tried the door to the stairway that led up to the Ritz Hotel, it was locked with an old-fashioned Masters padlock.
There was a sudden sinking sensation, a lurch in my stomach, telling me that somehow, for some reason, I'd been suckered. I turned toward the 928. My door was still locked, but I could see that the door on the passenger's side wasn't, even though I knew I had locked it. After all, I'm a cop. I always lock car doors.
'Damn!
I hurried around to the driver's side and opened it with my key. I shoved the key into the ignition and turned. Nothing happened. Not even so much as a click.
'Damn, I said again. 'Damn, damn, damn.
CHAPTER 17
By midnight I was back in line waiting for a ferry. Again. This time, I was on the Winslow side, trying to return to Seattle. The ferry had been pulling away from the dock just as I came roaring down the hill into Winslow. The ferry schedule isn't like horseshoes. Near misses don't count. The score for the day stood at Washington State Ferry System-two; J. P. Beaumont-zip. Had there been a blood-pressure measuring device in my car, I'm sure I would have registered off the charts.
I'm not any kind of mechanical genius, and I make it a point never to fiddle around with the complicated equipment under the hood of my flashy 928. I let someone else do it, preferably a tried-and-true Porsche specialist.
On this Friday night in Port Angeles, it had taken Triple A more than an hour to send out some jerk in a tow truck. He tried using a set of jumper cables, turned the key, and nothing happened. Then he had poked around under the hood with a flashlight, finally discovering that the battery cable had been neatly clipped. Whoever did it had made sure that the break in the wire was well out of sight.
So the damage was repairable, but everything took time, and I knew that with every passing moment, Clay Woodruff was slipping farther and farther beyond my grasp. While the tow truck guy was looking for a replacement battery cable, I walked across the street to the Port Angeles Police Department and attempted to swear out a complaint against Clay Woodruff, accusing him of vandalizing my car. The Port Angeles cops treated the whole situation as an enormous joke.
How did I know it was Woodruff who had vandalized my car? Had I actually seen him do it? What was it he had gone to get when he left me waiting in Davey's Locker, and where had he gone when he left there? My complaint that every passing moment was giving Woodruff more time to get away fell on deaf ears. Get away from what? Was Woodruff under suspicion for some crime? Was the Seattle Police Department looking for him for a specific reason? Woodruff had been a law-abiding citizen in Port Angeles for a number of years. Who the hell was I?
I'm a slow learner, but eventually I got the picture-small-town cops stonewalling big-city cop. On the small- town cop's turf. At the city cop's expense. They laughed at first, but finally, reluctantly, they put out an APB, but by then Woodruff was nowhere to be found.
