J. Jance - Dismissed with prejudice

I was sitting in the shadowy darkness of the living room when he walked in and saw me there. I have to give him credit for letting me have the slightest benefit of the doubt. He graciously allowed me to plead innocent until proven guilty.

"What happened? he asked. "Get stuck working late on a case?

"I forgot, I said, not willing to play games or make excuses.

"Forgot? he echoed.

"Yes, I said. "I'm sorry.

Unfortunately, apologies were not the order of the day. Ralph Ames blew his stack.

"Goddamnit, Beau, we set both the time and place specifically so you could be there. Six other people, not counting myself, built their day around that schedule, and you can sit there and say you forgot?

You get used to those kinds of recriminations from a wife, and gradually, over a period of time, you develop a certain immunity. Coming from Ralph Ames, though, from a man who is both my attorney and my friend, they had a slightly different impact.

Still, feigning indifference, I took a sip of my drink while ice cubes clinked noisily against the side of the glass. Except for that, the room was silent. Ames reached back to the wall switch and turned on the light. He looked hard at the glass, but he said nothing more. Comment or no, the dumbest kid in the class would have gotten the message that Ralph Ames disapproved. Even a slightly smashed J. P. Beaumont read him loud and clear.

"How come you forgot? he asked.

Time to go on the offensive. "Jesus H. Christ, Ralph! If I knew that, I would have remembered. I've had a tough day.

"You left the department at five-fifteen.

"You've been checking on me?

"Damned right. I went by to give you a lift, but you were already gone, and since your latest reprimand, I didn't want to risk leaving a business message with Margie.

At the instigation of one of the newer detectives, a jerk named Kramer, Watty had climbed my frame about my receiving nonofficial phone calls while on duty. Of course, I wasn't alone, but nobody else in the homicide squad drives a Porsche 928, and the last thing I needed was any more trouble with the brass.

Saying nothing more, Ames went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and came back to the living room, seating himself on the window seat across from me.

"How are the fingers? he asked.

"Fine, I answered warily, not willing to admit that they hurt like hell and not sure if he was really off the subject or merely coming at it from a different direction. I've seen Ames in action often enough to know he makes a formidable opponent. I didn't like this feeling of the two of us being on opposite sides of the fence.

"You're lucky you didn't lose them.

"Yeah, I answered. "I guess I am.

There was a pause while we sat in not-so-companionable silence. Depth-charged silence was more like it. Naturally, I was the first one to break. After all, I was the guilty party.

"So what happened at the meeting? I asked, keeping my tone light and casual.

"Nothing. Without you, there wasn't much point. I told them I'd try to reset it for later.

"Good, I said, not knowing what else to say.

Again the room became still. Ames was looking at me, studying me, building up to say something. Meanwhile, I paged through my mental catalog of smart-assed answers, preparing to pull one out and use it. I had a wisecrack all loaded up and ready to light when he surprised me by dropping the issue entirely.

"I saw in the afternoon paper that you're assigned to that case on Fourth South.

I breathed a small sigh of relief that he was willing to let it go. "Sure am, I said. "It started out looking like suicide, but it's not.

"Murder then?

I nodded. As the tension between us eased, I went on to tell him what I could about the circumstances surrounding Tadeo Kurobashi's death. He listened, seemingly attentive and interested, but beneath the smooth surface of conversation, I sensed we were playing a game, a set piece where two old friends make inconsequential small talk in order to avoid wandering into treacherous conversational territory.

When I reached the part about the Masamune sword, though, Ralph Ames was no longer merely listening for form's sake. He sat up straight, his eyes snapping to full alert.

"So you recognize the name? I asked.

"Masamune? You bet I do. And George Yamamoto seems to think it's genuine? he demanded.

"As far as he could tell, but then George isn't exactly a fully qualified samurai expert.

"No, I suppose not. Ralph seemed to mull the situation for a moment or two. "Are you of the opinion that the dead man may have come into possession of the sword through some illegal means?

"That's how I read it. Otherwise, wouldn't he have used it to buy his way out of the financial trouble he was in?

"Seems like, Ames conceded.

With a sudden loud splatter, wind-driven raindrops banged on the double-paned glass behind him. The storm that had been threatening all afternoon and evening burst through the night on the wings of a fierce squall. Ames gave no indication that he saw, heard, or noticed the pelting rain at his back. Chin resting on his hand, he appeared to be totally lost in thought.

"Except, he added quietly, "if-as this friend of his says-if Kurobashi was always interested in the ways of the samurai, what may seem reasonable to you and me and what might seem reasonable to him could be two entirely different things.

"What are you getting at?

"I have a friend, Ames said, "someone by the name of Winter, a fellow I went through law school with. He never practiced, though. Instead, he went back to school and picked up a Ph. D. in Oriental Studies. He lived in Japan for a number of years. Now he's living in New York and working as the Oriental antiquities guru for Sotheby's.

"Would you mind asking him about the sword?

"No problem, Ames said, glancing at his watch, "but it's too late tonight. I'll check with him first thing in the morning.

Again we were quiet for a time, but now it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable. The heavily charged atmosphere had been defused. When Ames looked at this watch, I checked mine. It was after ten. Realizing plenty of time had passed for Kimiko Kurobashi to drive across Snoqualmie Pass and make it back home to Pullman, I picked up the phone.

"I should call the wife and daughter and let them know about the autopsy, I explained to Ames. "When they left, we were all still under the impression it was suicide.

"Except for the wife, Ames added.

I nodded, dialing Eastern Washington information as I did so. In answer to my question, a tinny recorded voice recited Kimi Kurobashi's phone number. I dialed, but it was busy. I tried dialing it several more times in the next half hour, and each time the result was the same. At first I wasn't particularly worried. After a death there are often distant relatives and friends who must be notified. Finally, though, shortly after eleven, instead of getting a busy, I was told that the number was currently out of service.

Alarm began to nudge its way into my consciousness. What would cause a phone to suddenly go out of service in the middle of the night? I remembered George Yamamoto's concern that Tadeo's killer was still on the loose and that his wife and daughter were also potential targets.

Without bothering to put the phone back in its cradle, I dialed information again and was connected to the Pullman Police Department. The dispatcher there passed me along to the Whitman County Sheriff's Department, where I found myself talking with a young man named Mac Larkin.

Speaking calmly but firmly, I attempted to express the urgency of my concern that Machiko and Kimi Kurobashi might be in jeopardy out at the Honeydale Farm. With the bland indifference of youth, Larkin assured me that I shouldn't panic about someone's telephone being out of order since there were scattered reports of telephone outages coming in from all over Whitman County that night.