Marcia Clark - Guilt By Degrees

She started to say something, then stopped herself. “You okay?”

I filled her in on my conversation with Eric.

“That was fast,” she remarked.

“I take it you’ve already heard about Stoner?” I asked.

She nodded. “They made it official this morning. He’s confined to quarters until they decide what to do with him.”

“It makes me sick that a jerk like Hemet can rain crap on everyone for no good reason.”

“Well, Stoner did deck that deputy DA,” Bailey said philosophically.

“He had it coming,” I replied, wishing I’d gotten in a good kick or two myself.

We pulledaround the corner from the tiny storefront spa and parked in a loading zone.

“I’ve got the results on the blood on Yamaguchi’s jacket,” Bailey said.

“And?”

“It doesn’t match our victim,” Bailey replied.

“Huh,” I observed brilliantly. “Is it Yamaguchi’s?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.” I shook my head. “You ever find out how big the stain was?”

“Yeah, not big. About so,” Bailey said, making a dime-size circle with her thumb and forefinger.

I thought for a moment, nursing a hunch. “Let’s go talk to some spa workers, shall we?”

An oldish Asian woman with baggy eyes sat at the counter that was just three feet inside the door. Incongruously, a brightly colored parrot sat in a cage that hung from the low ceiling. If I hadn’t believed Yamaguchi before, I did now: this definitely was a real spa. A curtain of hanging beads separated the counter from the rest of the business, but we could clearly see that the entire room was filled with massage beds-all out in the open, no closed doors. Several of those beds were occupied by customers who were clothed in at least tank tops and shorts, if not more, and were being attended to by white-coated massage therapists.

We stepped up to the counter that was just big enough to hold a register and a bowl of wrapped peppermint candies, and I pulled out my badge. “We’re here to talk to you about an employee of yours, Ronald Yamaguchi.”

The woman peered at my badge and the photo on the opposite side, then narrowed her eyes at me. “Hair look different,” she remarked.

“Yeah, it was longer back then,” I replied.

“Better now,” she observed.

And maybe the parrot wanted to weigh in on my makeup?

“Were you here the day he got arrested?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied in a voice that quavered with a mixture of high and low notes. “He no kill that guy. Ronald no kill anybody.”

“But he did go out to the bank that day,” I said. “And the murder happened right outside that bank.”

She shrugged. “I not there. I just know.”

Fair enough. Everybody’s entitled to an opinion, but I needed evidence.

“Is he friendly with any of the other therapists here?” I asked.

The woman turned around to look at the workers behind her. After a moment, she pointed to a small ponytailed Asian woman at the back. “Wendy. She and Ronald friends. Eat lunch together.”

“You know when she’ll be done with her customer? We won’t take long. We just have a few questions for her,” I said.

The woman looked up at the ’50s-style clock-probably less an effort at retro chic than simply the one she brought from home-that hung on the wall. “About fifteen minutes.”

“Tell her not to leave when she’s done with the customer,” I said. “We’ll be right back.”

Bailey looked at me, puzzled, when we got out to the sidewalk. “Why aren’t we waiting in there?”

“Because I didn’t have time to order breakfast, and I’m starving,” I said testily. “You can join me if you want.” I pointed to the coffee shop on the corner.

“You’re such a pleasure right now, why wouldn’t I?”

I’d just placed my order with a tired-looking waitress at the counter when Bailey suddenly leaned forward and stared intently in the direction of the spa.

“What?” I asked.

A slow smile spread across her face. “Look,” she said, pointing.

A patrol officer was staring into the newsstand machines in front of the spa, but after a few seconds I noticed that he wasn’t looking at the papers; he was looking around the street as though checking to see if anyone-like us, I supposed-was watching. After one more quick glance, he entered the spa.

“Yamaguchi’s customer?” I said.

The waitress was busy, so I headed for the register to cancel my order. Bailey walked with me as she kept her eyes glued to the door of the spa.

“I’d rather be lucky than good,” Bailey said.

“Who said you have to choose?”

I nixed my order, and we did a fast trot back to the building.

We caughtup with him at his massage bed. He’d just leaned down to untie his shoes when Bailey badged him.

“Don’t panic,” she told him. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

The patrol officer stood up, his face-which had been red with the exertion of bending over-now white with fear. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and simply nodded. He shuffled out behind us, his shoes still untied.

“Detective Keller,” Bailey said as she stuck out her hand.

“Harley Sahagan,” he replied, taking it.

“And this is Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight,” she added.

I held out my hand, and Harley gave it a weak shake.

“I know this looks bad, but before you bust me, I want you to know I’m not just screwing off here. I got in a car accident on duty last year.” Harley, having found his voice, was talking fast. “Felony evasion, the guy crashed into a wall and we couldn’t stop in time. We rear-ended him hard. It messed up my back real bad. Riding in the squad car is killing me, but I used up all my leave, so I’ve gotta work. These guys”-he gestured over his shoulder at the spa-“saved me. I couldn’t afford a fancy spa, and insurance won’t cover a chiropractor. I was in really bad shape until someone told me about this place. I’m not cured, but at least I can deal.”

“Harley, that’s a lot of information, but I’m not here to bust you,” Bailey said. “And I’m glad you’re better. We just want to know if you have a regular masseur here.”

“Uh, yeah,” Harley replied uncomfortably. Then he nodded to himself. “So I guess he told you. Yeah, Ronald Yamaguchi was my masseur. Matter of fact, he was working on me when I got the call about that homeless victim.” He shook his head, his expression perplexed. “I’ve got to admit, I never figured him for the type to do something like that.” Harley sighed. “Guess you never know.”

“Actually, in this case, you might,” I said. “The way the evidence is shaking out, we’re thinking he probably isn’t the killer. And you just helped confirm that by corroborating his story.”

“Good to hear,” Harley said thoughtfully.

“And just FYI: he never did give up your name.”

Harley acknowledged this with a little smile. “Heck of a guy.”

I had a feeling Ronald’s tips were about to get healthier.

“By any chance, did you interview any witnesses at the scene?” Bailey asked.

“Nah, just crime-scene control,” Harley replied.

“Okay, we’ll get back to you if we have any more questions,” I said.

“Glad to help.” He paused. “Uh…would you mind…?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Have a good one,” Bailey said.

Harley went back inside and headed for his massage bed. We went in and returned to the front counter, where we found the ponytailed masseuse deep in conversation with the older Asian woman. When we walked over to the young woman, she looked pointedly at her watch.