Stephen White - Cold Case

Emily needed more attention so I took her over to Adrienne's house to play with jonas While dog and child were playing a game that made no sense to me, I asked Adrienne how she and Erin were doing. Erin was Adrienne's last known romantic interest.

Adrienne was cranky. She said, "Why?" I lied and said I was just curious.

"Yeah. Right. You and the National Enquirer"

"Well, I haven't seen her around much lately and I've been, I don't know… wondering."

"God, you're such a pathetic liar." She laughed.

"The truth is I think I've been dumped."

"Ren, I'm so sorry."

She waved off my sympathy.

"Nah, it's okay. We were winding down to the basics, anyway."

"The basics being?"

"The… uh… gender thing."

"Oh, yeah. The gender thing. Are you having some second thoughts about… you know?"

"No. I had second thoughts about that so long ago I can't remember what they were."

I waited for her to move on someplace. We both watched Jonas try to mount Emily as though she were a horse. Emily was pretty cool about it. Jonas stayed on for the better part of ten feet. I thought it might be a new record.

"Are you still gay?"

She smacked me on the shoulder. It hurt.

"That's not a question a polite person asks."

"Then how does a polite person find out the answer?"

"A polite person minds his own business." "So who's the Lexus?" I asked.

She glared at me.

"What Lexus?"

"You've been getting visits from a Lexus. Whose carriage is it?"

She made a guttural noise I associated with disgust.

"A woman lives alone out in the goddamn wilderness with her kid and still she can't get any privacy? I'm beginning to understand those nuts with guns in Idaho."

"We live in adjoining fishbowls, Ren. We can see into yours. You can see into ours."

"Not fair. Mine's much more interesting. You ever watch your life from a distance? It ain't no Truman Show." She hadn't told me who owned the Lexus.

It should have been enough activity to calm me down about Dorothy Levin. But it wasn't. I was still anxious about the phone call by the time Lauren and I climbed into bed to watch the late news. I told her about my conversation with Adrienne.

"Is she okay?"

"Adrienne's resilient." "The bet's still on," she concluded.

"I'll go talk to her. She'll tell me things she won't tell you. I still say its a boy Lexus, not a girl Lexus."

Lauren connected with Mary Wright early Monday morning. Mary had a list of questions about Colorado law and procedure that she needed answered. Lauren suggested E-mail, Mary said she preferred paper, and they settled on a correspondence via fax. The first sheet of paper from the Justice Department was sliding from our home machine as I was rinsing out my coffee cup and heading to town to see my first patient on Monday morning.

Lauren thought she could have something drafted for Mary by the end of the week at the latest.

The flight to British Columbia was painless. At least two dozen of the 737's seats were empty, and miraculously, one of them was next to my exit-row aisle.

Having the room in front of me to be able to actually cross my legs on an airplane felt decadent. I read a biography for the first couple of hours before allowing my attention to drift outside as the pilot began the descent. As the plane banked to make our approach into Vancouver my eyes followed the linear wake of an early-season cruise ship that was heading north from Canada Place toward the Strait of Georgia and the Inside Passage. In the opposite direction a freighter headed south out to the Pacific through the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

I fantasized about being on one ship and then the other. After a long winter and spring in Colorado's aridity, the lushness and richness of the northwestern landscape was seductive. The day was clear enough to make out topographic details of the distant face of Vancouver Island. Closer in, the smaller islands and inlets of the San Juans gave my eyes and my imagination a thousand inviting places to hide. There are plenty of cities in North America where it would be just fine to hold a business meeting at the airport. Vancouver isn't one of them. I immediately wished I had made arrangements to stay longer.

Canadian immigration and customs were efficient, and within fifteen minutes of deplaning I had checked back in with United Airlines and was going through U.S. customs and immigration prior to moving on to the departure area for flights to the U.S. On the U.S. immigration form I was asked about my length of stay in Canada. I was tempted to write "fifteen minutes." Officially, I had left the United States, arrived in Canada, and returned to the United States without ever leaving the Vancouver airport.

The immigration official who checked my papers, the customs official who didn't check my carry-on, and the ticketing agent who gave me my boarding pass were all of Asian descent. In the ten years or so since my last visit the city of Vancouver had truly become a gateway to the Pacific Rim.

Taro Hamamoto had not arrived but he had made advance arrangements for me at the desk of the Air Canada lounge. The facility was small by U.S. standards but its comfort and amenities more than made up for its dimensions. Wonderful local beer on tap, plentiful snacks, fresh fruit, friendly people. I helped myself to something to eat and drink and settled into the small conference room where I had been instructed to wait for Mr. Hamamoto's arrival.

He stood in the doorway about ten minutes later.

I expected a man of typical Asian stature. But Taro Hamamoto was almost as tall as I was, nearly six-two. I expected a man graciously creeping from middle age into gentility. But Taro Hamamoto appeared to be no older than his late forties and had the lean, fit look of a distance runner. I expected to see a man wearing the Japanese version of Brooks Brothers. But when I stood to greet Taro Hamamoto as he walked into the conference room, he was Polo and Timberland.

We shook hands and he bowed almost imperceptibly as he introduced himself.

Immediately he offered me a business card. With barely a glance at his, I fumbled in my wallet for one of my own.

"Dr. Gregory," he said.

"I'm pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Hamamoto. I'm grateful for the opportunity to talk with you."

"I hope I wasn't late."

"Not at all. My flight was early. Immigration was a breeze."

He glanced down at the conference table and saw the empty plate and the bottle of water in front of me. He said, "May I offer you anything before we begin?"

"No. I'm great. I helped myself. May I get you something?"

"Indeed not," he said.

"Please, let's get started, shall we. I'm… anxious to hear more from you.

It's not often I get the opportunity to speak about my daughter." His eyes saddened noticeably.

"My wife, she… well, she would rather forget than remember. Does that make sense?"

"Of course."

He held the tip of his tongue between his teeth for a moment and sat straight, his shoulders squared. He achieved the posture without effort or strain. The polo shirt he wore under a white cotton sweater was the exact same hue as the tip of his tongue.

"I have resources-contacts, if you will-in the United States. At my request these individuals have been kind enough to provide me with some research and background into the organization you represent, Dr. Gregory."

He smiled the slightest bit.

"Locard. It's a fascinating group with an impressive record."

"Yes" My business card lay on the table in front of him. He lowered his eyes to it before he spoke.

"And you… are not a permanent member."

Hamamoto's words were not posed as a question. I tried not to sound defensive as I replied.