Guilt By Degrees

17

“The bank?” Bailey asked as we walked out into a thin, gray afternoon that offered little contrast to the grim pallor we’d just left in the county jail.

I agreed and we got into her car. The postlunch wad of traffic forced us to inch along Broadway at a pace so slow it was maddening.

“Would’ve been faster to walk,” I groused.

“Fine with me. I can park it right there.” Bailey nodded to a steelworking yard that was dominated by a tower spewing out a river of smoke.

It wasn’t the kind of place you’d leave your own car, but we were in a county car that hadn’t seen better days in quite a while-it wouldn’t be a tragedy if it did get stripped or stolen. But I looked down at my feet and shook my head. I’d worn a pair of new, très chic, black suede ankle boots I’d scored at a half-off clearance sale. I’d treated myself to them today as consolation for having to go to the jail. They were comfortable enough, but if they got messed up, I’d lose it.

“Never mind,” I said.

But Bailey was fed up with the traffic too. She looked in her rearview mirror, then swung around to the right, passing the line of cars stopped at the light. She got to the limit line just as it turned green and flew through the intersection in a burst of speed. A man in an orange nylon jacket and work boots who’d been about to cross against the light jumped back onto the curb and grabbed the pole of the street sign as she roared past.

“But I’d still like to get there alive,” I remarked. “If that’s all right with you.”

We’d just passed Temple Street when Bailey’s cell phone rang. She fished it out of her jacket pocket, announced herself, and listened for a moment. “Okay, when’s Newman going to have the blood?”

A few seconds later, she hung up. Her tight-lipped expression told me this hadn’t been good news.

“Still nothing on our vic,” she finally said. “He’s never been printed for any job, and if he’s ever been busted, it’s not showing up in any database.”

“Unbelievable. No ID on him and no prints on file. What are the friggin’ odds?”

Not being able to identify a victim is a serious stumbling block in any case, but it was a particularly gnarly obstacle in this one, where there was no obvious motive and the suspect in custody was looking less suspicious by the minute.

“What’s the coroner say about his physical condition?” I asked.

“Still waiting for him to return my call,” Bailey answered in a voice that told me she was equally aggravated. “But we should be hearing about the blood on Yamaguchi’s sleeve pretty quick.”

Half good news anyway. I mulled over the situation.

“You don’t have the autopsy report yet?” I asked.

Bailey shook her head. “Stoner told me the cause of death was ‘sharp force injury,’ known in English as a stabbing, but we don’t have any details about what kind of knife was used or the nature of the wounds.”

“Let me try Scott,” I said. Scott Ferrier, the coroner’s investigator, was a friend of mine who’d risked his neck to get me information in the past. My end of the bargain required that I reward his bravery with free meals at Engine Co. No. 28, his favorite restaurant. And since I loved the restaurant too, it was a win-win. I pulled out my cell and dialed, glad to have something to do besides fume over the gridlocked traffic. I got his voice mail and left a message.

“You know,” Bailey said, “the bank will have a record of the time and date of Yamaguchi’s deposit.”

“And Yamaguchi might have a receipt with that information too,” I said. “Corroborating that part of the story shouldn’t be a problem. And if the bank has cameras outside-”

“Which I’d bet they do-”

“Then we might get another angle on the stabbing,” I finished.

It was nearly three p.m. by the time Bailey pulled up in front of the bank, and downtown workers were already beginning to fill the streets, heading for home in cars, buses, and subways. By six o’clock, I knew the streets would be largely deserted, the crowded sidewalks of that afternoon a distant memory. Only the action in the bars and restaurants would show that this was a living, breathing city. The temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the interview with Yamaguchi, and the cool air had a serious bite to it. I pulled up the collar on my peacoat and followed Bailey into the bank.

It never ceases to impress me just how damn useful a badge can be. Within three minutes, we were seated in front of the manager’s desk.

“How can I help you, Detectives?” asked Andy Kim, one of the hippest-looking bank managers I’d ever seen, dressed in a smart, dark-green cashmere suit and paisley tie.

I figured I’d get more respect if he thought I was a detective, so I didn’t bother to correct him. Bailey explained what we wanted.

“We certainly have footage, both inside and out. As you can imagine, in this neighborhood, it’s a necessity.” He gave us a little just-between-us smile. “It’ll take them a few days to get you the footage, but I’ll have the time of Ronald Yamaguchi’s transaction brought in to you right now.” He picked up the phone and made the request.

About ten seconds later, there was a knock on the door, and a young woman who looked pleased to be there came in and handed him a piece of paper.

Andy took it from her and scanned it. “Thank you, Ms. Daley,” he said with a warm smile. He handed the paper to me.

“That’s the hard copy. It seems Ronald Yamaguchi did indeed make a deposit at twelve fifty-seven p.m. on the day in question.”

We thanked Andy, who promised to get us the surveillance-camera footage right away, and left.

“Well, part of Yamaguchi’s story checks out,” Bailey said as we headed for her car.

I got my cell and quickly checked in with Melia to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. She said I hadn’t, but that didn’t mean much. If Melia had a new piece of pulp to read, the building could be seized by terrorists without her knowing it. We got into the car, and I checked my watch. It was four p.m. already. Amazing how time flies when you’re having no luck at all solving a case.

“What’re you doing tonight?” Bailey asked as she steered the car toward the Biltmore.

“Graden’s taking me out,” I replied. Then, because I knew she’d ask, I added, “To Yamashiro’s.”

Bailey whistled softly. “Someone’s gonna get lucky tonight,” she said with a lascivious smile.

I gave her a sideways grin. “Well, if it’s only one of us, it’s gonna be a bad night.”