Guilt By Degrees

20

We pulled around 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.