Dismissed with prejudice

CHAPTER 12

Big Al and I sat in the warm autumn sun at the rough picnic table at the Pecos Pit Barbecue for the next forty-five minutes, while outdoor diners milled around us. We chewed on leftover hunks of ice in Styrofoam cups and brought each other up to date on what had been happening at opposite ends of the state.

"Did you ever talk to the people from the shredder company? I asked.

"Not yet. They were out of town yesterday when I stopped by on my way home. I thought I'd try to see them today.

"And what about Davenport?

"I had an appointment for yesterday, but he stood me up. His secretary rescheduled me for later on this afternoon.

"I'll go along, if you don't mind. He may be able to shed some light on this Woodruff thing. If nothing else, he might know where to look for him. Mrs. Oliver's saying he lives in a hotel on one of the peninsulas isn't a whole hell of a lot of help.

"We can always get the location of the pay phone from the phone company, Big Al said.

"I know, but if we can get it from Davenport it'll save time.

When we finally left the Pecos Pit, it was to drive to 1201 Third Avenue, Chris Davenport's shiny new building. According to the rave review of one prominent architectural critic, the building is "a perfect rendition of art deco style. I'd call it more an architectural rendering of tutti-frutti, with its towering confection of green mirrored glass and matte-finished pink granite. The multi-humped roof line looks like it came straight from the set of the 1930s King Kong, but of course that movie was made in black and white.

Once inside, we found that the old-fashioned marbled lobby looked like a time traveler from that same era. We fumbled around for several minutes before we were able to locate the bank of elevators.

Chris Davenport's office on the forty-fifth floor was suitably high in the building, definitely not low-rent squalor. When the elevator door opened, we found ourselves in a spacious and highly modern reception area done in the current fashion of dusty rose and subtle grays, rich-looking but soothingly quiet.

"Bankruptcy must pay pretty good wages these days, Big Al said under his breath.

"For attorneys, I returned.

As far as female help is concerned, law firms always seem to recruit the pick of the crop. A young receptionist with big boobs, a tightly belted knit dress, and a tiny waist announced our arrival over an intercom. Behind the receptionist's desk, mounted on the cloth-covered wall, was a large brass plaque listing the names of the partners, thirty-four by actual count. Davenport's name, in position nineteen, showed that despite his youthful looks, he had been around for some time.

Another nubile young secretary appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to lead us to Davenport's office. She directed us through a door around the corner from the reception counter. The door opened on a private stairway leading down to the next floor. That's when we discovered that the firm-Rice, Baxter, and Wheeler-leased two entire floors.

Davenport may not have been high enough in the pecking order to rate an upstairs office, but his did have a western exposure window with a magnificent view of the shipping traffic on Elliott Bay.

As we were shown inside, we found Davenport seated at his huge polished desk intently studying the inside of his mouth with a small, hand-held mirror. Like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't, he quickly stowed the mirror in a desk drawer and stood up, rubbing the outside of his cheek, offering his other hand in greeting.

"Sorry, he said, with an apologetic, metallic grin. "My orthodontist tightened the bands this morning. It hurts like hell.

"Aren't you a little old for braces? Lindstrom asked. I detected a trace of Norwegian humor behind the question. If Davenport caught it, he ignored it completely, and he didn't appear to be offended by the question. By then he was probably used to it.

"In our family, the girls were the ones who got braces, he explained. "They all had to be pretty enough to land husbands. That's why I'm having my teeth fixed now.

My own private opinion was that it would take a whole lot more than straightened teeth to turn Chris Davenport into Prince Charming, but I remained silent. Somebody on the team had to play it straight.

Davenport motioned to the window. "Great view, isn't it?

It was the same view of Elliott Bay that I see every day from my windows in Belltown Terrace, but, remembering the manners my mother had drummed into me, I went over to the window, looked out, and politely agreed that it was indeed a magnificent view. As I turned back to the room, I noticed the wall behind the visitors' chairs had two framed diplomas on it as well as a series of wife-and-kiddie-type photos.

I stepped close enough to the wall to read the text on the two diplomas. One was a Bachelor of Arts from Loyola and the other was a Juris Doctor from Northwestern. Neither was Summa Cum Laude or Magna Cum Laude, which didn't surprise me when I remembered Mrs. Oliver's derisive assessment that bankruptcy was all Davenport was good for.

The lawyer noticed my interest in his sheepskin display. "Good Catholic family, he said. "We boys all went through the Jesuit mill.

"Law school instead of braces? I asked.

He nodded. "Yup. That's how it works.

Davenport seated himself behind his desk and began doing a series of annoying finger aerobics that revealed, despite his otherwise open and relaxed air, that Christopher Davenport wasn't nearly as happy to be spending time with us as his outward show of geniality implied.

Big Al had lowered himself into a complicated low-slung chair where he shifted uncomfortably, like a rhino stuck in the mud. "We don't want to take too much of your time, Mr. Davenport, but we do need to ask you a few questions.

"Fire away, he said.

Since Big Al had set up the appointment, I was content to take a backseat and let him run the railroad.

"We're still trying to piece together Mr. Kurobashi's activities and whereabouts on the day he died, Big Al said.

Davenport nodded. "That makes sense. It's hard for me to believe he's dead. And the news reports of what happened to his wife and daughter- He broke off, shaking his head. "It's shocking. Appalling.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Big Al said. "When was the last time you saw him?

The attorney opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a leather-bound appointment book. He paged back through several days, then stopped and ran his finger down the page.

"Here it is. Friday, one-thirty. He came by and we went over what all he needed to bring to the hearing on Monday.

"The bankruptcy hearing?

"Yes. I told him everything we'd need in court on Monday.

"And he agreed to bring whatever was needed, financial records, and all that?

"Of course.

"So you're saying that you as his attorney were not in possession of those records?

"That's right. We always reviewed them in Tadeo's office. He insisted that we do it that way.

"Do you know anything about an arrangement to have the company records moved or destroyed?

Davenport let out a disgusted sigh. "As far as I know, they're still there. Somebody called me with a wild rumor that Tadeo had sent everything to the shredder.

"Who? I asked.

"Who what?

"Who called you with that rumor?

Davenport looked at me for a long moment before he answered. "Mr. Blakeslee was the one who called. As head of the creditor's committee, he was all in a lather over it.

"And where did Blakeslee get his information? Big Al interjected.

"From that slimy Rennermann character, the Industry Square property manager. He claimed to have gotten the scoop from one of the cops on the case. I told him I was sure it wasn't true, but I haven't been able to go by and check for myself. Mrs. Oliver told me that you cops aren't allowing anyone inside.

Big Al and I exchanged glances. We had caught Mrs. Oliver in a little white lie. "In other words, you can't go inside because of the investigation?

"That's what she said. I told Blakeslee not to worry, that I'd have things straightened out as soon as possible, with the new owner.

"Who is?

"Machiko Kurobashi. In name only, of course. Until the bankruptcy proceedings are completed.

I was stunned. "Machiko? Are you sure? What could she do with it?

"Yes, I'm sure. In the corporate minutes she's listed as both a major stockholder as well as an officer. But she's certainly not qualified to run it, and Tadeo didn't expect her to. He thought that with his wife holding the company, his daughter would finally come on board and take control. Now, though, with the bankruptcy proceedings, it's just a formality. At least this way I'll have someone qualified to sign off on things. Thank God, she's all right.

"Did Kurobashi have any enemies as far as you know? Big Al asked.

"Other than Mr. Blakeslee? No, not that I know of.

"What about Clay Woodruff? I asked.

"What about him?

"Would he qualify as an enemy?

"I don't know how to answer that.

"What do you mean?

"They were friends once, had worked together at RFLink. Tadeo claimed that Woodruff had been present when he offered to sell his new product design to Blakeslee, that Woodruff knew Tadeo had done all the design work on his own computer at home during off hours. And that testimony would have been invaluable, but Woodruff didn't testify. Without him, Tadeo's version of the meeting was totally inadmissible.

"Why didn't Woodruff testify?

"I couldn't find him. I sent process servers out after him, but by the time they located him, it was too late. The case had already been decided.

"And Tadeo lost his patent infringement case.

"You bet we lost. The whole case hinged on him.

"And it put Tadeo out of business.

"That's right. Tadeo felt that Woodruff had let him down, and of course he had. I think someone paid Woodruff to drop out of sight at the critical time.

"Who? I asked.

Davenport shrugged.

"Would Blakeslee have done it?

"He wouldn't be above it, Chris Davenport replied.

It was conjecture on the attorney's part, but it was worth following up on nonetheless. I nodded in approval as Big Al made a note of it.

"Who was the judge? I asked.

"Kelley, Davenport answered. "Judge Chip Kelley. He's good. Tough but good.

"I know Judge Kelley, I said. "Tell us what you know about Bernice Oliver.

Davenport shook his head. "A kook, if you ask me. When I found her there working, I tried to tell her to go home, that the company's broke and nobody's going to pay her, but she was adamant, said no matter what, she'd stay and keep on working until they disconnect the phones at the end of the month.

"Why would she do that? I asked.

Davenport shook his head. "I don't have any idea.

"Was there any hanky-panky going on between her and Tadeo?

Chris Davenport grinned as though he found the very idea quite amusing. "Bernice Oliver? She doesn't seem like the type. Besides, Tadeo never struck me as being that desperate, if you know what I mean.

"When you talked to Mr. Kurobashi on Friday did he mention being in touch with Woodruff?

This time Davenport frowned before he answered. "No. Why should he be in touch with Woodruff? I'd be surprised to hear there was any further contact between those two. Tadeo was a stubborn man, gentlemen, and once someone crossed him…

"Like his daughter?

"So you know about that? Yes, exactly. Once he wrote someone off, that was it.

As long as I was sending up a series of trial balloons, I figured I could just as well let go of all of them. "What about connections to organized crime?

Davenport looked incredulous. "Tadeo and organized crime? Totally preposterous! You can't be serious.

"Do you have any idea what Mr. Kurobashi was working on just prior to his death?

"No, not really. He was a secretive man. Smalltime entrepreneurs often are. They invent something or discover something and then want to keep it all to themselves. They'd rather go out of business than have to give 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.

"I'll be damned! If it isn't the old lonesome stranger himself, J. P. Beaumont. Long time no see, Beau. Sit down. What the hell happened to your hand?

Without waiting for a response, Kelley stole a vacant chair from an adjoining table and shoved me into it, summoning the cocktail waitress with his other hand. "You still swilling that rotten MacNaughton's? he asked.

The other questions hadn't merited answers. This one did. I gave the waitress a grateful nod while Kelley ordered another round for the whole table. Everybody else was drinking martinis.

"Hey, Beau, you know these two guys?

I did, but he introduced us anyway. Chip Kelley was on a roll.

"So what brings you to this joint? I thought you ran more to the Doghouse these days.

"I came to see you, I said. "It's easier than trying to make an appointment.

The drinks came and he tipped his glass in my direction. "Salut. Here's to not having to make appointments. So what can I do for you?

One of the reasons I don't hang around Vito's anymore is that Chip can drink me under the table any day of the week and still sound sober as a judge, if you'll forgive the expression.

"I understand you were the judge in a patent infringement case that went to trial several months ago.

Kelley nodded. "Probably. Seems like a couple of those turn up every year. And if it's still in the appeals process, I may not be able to comment.

"Let me ask you about it in theoretical terms then, no names.

"All right.

Observing Vito's long-standing and inviolable rules of order and without ever leaving the table, the other two men drifted tactfully into a quiet discussion of golf scores, leaving us with as much privacy as if we had physically moved to another room.

"Go on, Chip urged.

"Let's suppose that this guy invented something on his own time while he was working for somebody else, and suppose he offered it to his employer. The employer didn't want it, in fact refused it outright, but when the poor schmuck who invented it began developing and marketing the product on his own, the former employer filed suit saying that the patent really belonged to him, that the guy had done the work while working as an employee on company time.

"So? Chip asked.

"So eventually the poor schmuck loses in court. Damages, court costs, the whole ball of wax are awarded to the former employer. But supposing there was a witness to that same conversation between the schmuck and the employer, a witness who could testify to that effect, that the product had been offered to the employer and subsequently turned down, and that the development didn't happen during work hours.

"So what's the problem?

"At the time of the trial, the witness was nowhere to be found.

Kelley considered the situation for a few moments. Finally he shrugged. "I don't know all the extenuating circumstances here, but off the cuff I'd say that without the witness, the schmuck would be SOL. With the witness, the case would probably go the other way. I would have dismissed it with prejudice so the ex-employer couldn't jack him around anymore. I take it this missing witness has now been found? Is he willing to testify?

"I can't say.

"Well then, I don't know what the exact judgment was, but there may be nothing to stop the schmuck from reopening the case and filing a countersuit of his own.

"Yes, there is, I said.

"What's that?

"He's dead.

"Oh. My answer had a visibly sobering effect on Judge Chip Kelley. "Maybe the heirs can file a suit, then, Kelley suggested after a moment. "It's been done.

"That's all I needed to know. I finished my drink and pushed back my chair.

"Hey, you can't go yet. You've only had one. Aren't you going to have something to eat?

"I'm too tired to eat, and one drink is more than enough. Thanks for the help.

Ignoring Chip's squall of protest, I made my way out the door into the clear fall evening. It was a long way from Moscow, Idaho, to Vito's, and it had been a long, long day. All I wanted to do was spend a quiet evening at home in my recliner.

Dream on, you fool. I should have known better.