by Dave Daren
“Again, that doesn’t explain how you suddenly ended up at ArDex,” I sighed. “Did you contact someone at ArDex to say you were interested in the company?”
“I had met some of their employees in Asia, of course,” he said smoothly. “And I might have mentioned that I was looking for an opportunity to return stateside.”
“So you went to the company first?” I pressed. “They didn’t come to you?”
“Well,” Watts replied as he held his hands out wide, “It’s hard to explain how these things happen sometimes.”
“Try,” I said curtly.
“I talked to acquaintances at several companies,” Watts admitted. “I had been putting out feelers, as you would say, for several months. When I heard the news about Arturo, I might have made a bit more noise about taking a position in the company.”
“Whom did you talk to?” I asked.
“Several people,” Watts said blandly. “But mostly to the head of operations in Asia. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Did you talk to anyone in the main office?” I pressed.
“I don’t recall,” he sighed. “It’s possible.”
“Did you know anyone in the main office?”
“Not especially,” he assured me. “After all, I’d been in Singapore for years.”
“Then why would ArDex bring you in?” I asked.
“My experience,” he replied with a smirk. “My contacts in Asia, my success with Three Dragons. You understand, these are the skills that make a great leader.”
“ArDex already had those,” I pointed out.
“Perhaps,” he said. He was too comfortable again.
“Did you know Arturo Bernardi?” I pressed.
“By reputation, mostly,” he admitted.
“But it was a letter from Arturo that convinced the board to bring you into the company,” I pointed out.
“Arturo’s interest would have been in preserving the company,” Watts explained. “He would have wanted the best man for the job.”
“How did he come to the conclusion that you were that man?” I asked.
“Who can say?” he said blandly. “Only Arturo, and he’s not here.”
“How long have you known Joseph Kurzak?” I queried as I changed directions again.
“Hmmm,” Watts intoned, “I don’t know any specific dates, but I believe we might have met for the first time about four or five years ago.”
“Four or five years ago,” I repeated. “Do you remember how you met?”
“It was before Arturo became ill,” he mused. “Joe was in Asia, on vacation I believe. Mutual acquaintances introduced us.”
“What, like at a dinner?” I demanded.
“We were in Macao,” Watts sighed. “I was there with a large group for the horse racing. It was a long weekend, as I recall. One of those bank holidays that seem to pop up for no apparent reason. Someone in our group knew Joe and recognized him when he saw him in the casino. Joe was introduced around and spent quite a bit of time with our group after that.”
“Did you and Mr. Kurzak communicate much after that?” I asked.
“Off and on,” he responded.
“Please be more specific,” insisted.
“I contacted him upon occasion to see how he was doing, and to invite him back for another round of racing,” he replied. “There was nothing nefarious. Just good practice to keep in touch with potentially important contacts.”
“Did you tell Mr. Kurzak that you were interested in a job with ArDex?” I pressed.
“Yes,” he said blandly. “I’m sure I did.”
“So it was Mr. Kurzak who recommended you to Arturo Bernardi?”
“Probably,” Watts conceded. “It’s not a secret.”
“Tell me about Arturo’s illness,” I said.
“I don’t have anything to tell,” Watts replied coolly after a quick glance at Bertoch.
“Mr. Watts is not a medical expert,” Bertoch pointed out.
“I just want to go over what you know about his illness,” I explained.
“I don’t know anything about his illness,” Watts replied. “He was already ill when the board asked me to step in. I met him a few times after that, and I must say, he did not look well. He had lost weight, his skin was sallow, and he tired out easily. I know that he was subjected to many tests, because Arturo spent much of our time together complaining about each and every test. That is the entire extent of my knowledge regarding Arturo’s illness.”
“You don’t have any theories?” I asked.
“As Mr. Bertoch already stated, I am not a medical expert,” he sniped.
“You hadn’t seen anything similar while you were in Singapore?” I continued.
“Something similar?” he protested. “What I saw with Arturo could be seen any day of the week in any country in the world.”
“Do you know Masao Daigo?” I asked.
“Masao Daigo,” Watts repeated. He blinked in surprise this time.
“Do you know him?” I asked again.
“Not personally,” he replied. “I know of him. His family is one of the oldest in Japan.”
“Do you recall a time when Masao Daigo fell ill under mysterious circumstances, with the same symptoms displayed by Arturo Bernardi?” I demanded.
“I don’t remember,” Watts replied quickly, but I saw the look of fear that appeared in his eyes for a fast second.
“Again, my client is not a medical expert,” Bertoch protested. “He’s hardly qualified to judge whether two different people on opposite sides of the world have suffered from the same strange disease. Unless you intend to accuse my client of somehow infecting both men, I suggest we move on.”
I agreed to drop the questions about Arturo’s health and the possible connection to Masao Daigo. The only reason I’d raised the issue was to see Watts’ reaction. The man was ice, and rarely let you see his true feelings, but the question about Masao had spooked him.
I pulled out copies of several of the ledger sheets and started the tedious process of walking Watts through the accounts. He answered each question in his usual slick and slightly smarmy way. I brought out the Happy Baby payment, and he barely batted an eyelash, even when I showed him that the money had seemingly vanished.
“It happens sometimes,” he said sadly. “Even with the best accountants and the latest software. I’ll have someone look into it, now that you’ve brought it to our attention.”
And so it went, every odd transaction simply another sad mistake that would be carefully investigated. I had no doubt that if I were to request an updated version of the accounts, all of these ‘little mistakes’ would be fixed. At least, on the surface. I’d also bet that the money would still be missing.
Watts had taken on his slick persona again, and Bertoch checked his watch every few minutes. Clearly, they weren’t impressed with my accounting skills. But that was fine. I was perfectly happy to let Watts and Bertoch believe that I’d overplayed my hand.
We reached the last of the spreadsheets, and Bertoch heaved himself into a more upright position. Watts gave me a nasty smile and started to stand up.
“I just have one more question,” I said. I placed a copy of the picture of Watts and the Mizuchi on the table.
Both Bertoch and Watts looked at the picture. Bertoch gave me a quizzical look but said nothing. Watts had frozen.
“Do you know this man?” I asked.
“You have to answer,” Bertoch prodded when Watts remained silent.
“He is familiar to me,” Watts grumbled.
“What is his name?” I continued.
“Asaki,” Watts huffed. “Asaki Hoshu. Well, Hoshu Asaki in the West.”
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“He owns several companies in Japan,” Watts replied more firmly now.
“Companies that are now the exclusive clients of ArDex,” I stated.
“Yes,” Watts replied with a shrug. “It’s been beneficial to both companies.”
> “What do these companies make?” I asked.
“Baby-related products,” he said.
“Do you know this man by any other names?” I demanded.
“Like a nickname?” Watts nearly laughed. “No, I do not. He prefers to keep things formal.”
“Have you ever heard the name Mizuchi?” I continued.
“No,” he sighed. “I have never heard the name Mizuchi before you raised it in this ridiculous lawsuit.”
“Really?” I said doubtfully. “All those years in Singapore, and you never heard of a yakuza leader called Mizuchi.”
“I don’t associate with such people, Mr. Creed,” Watts replied in a steely voice. “You may be used to spending your days around petty thieves and criminals, but I have real business to attend to.”
“Ah, yes,” I agreed. “Transporting baby goods.”
I heard the barest snicker from the transcriptionist.
“I think we’re done here,” Bertoch declared as he pulled himself out of the chair.
“Right,” I said. “Tomorrow, then. I look forward to interviewing Mr. Kurzak.”
We went through the procedure of officially ending the deposition, and then Watts, Bertoch, and the silent associate hustled from the room. I thanked the transcriptionist and helped her pack her case. We walked to the car lot together, and she gave me a sunny smile as she pulled away.
I sat in the front seat of the Honda and dialed Sofia’s number first.
“Hey, Boss,” she said when she picked up. “How’d it go?”
“About what we expected,” I replied. “The picture caught him off guard. And Bertoch had no idea who it was.”
“Not surprising,” Sofia pointed out.
“No,” I agreed, “It’s not. Mizuchi runs a pretty tight ship. Only those who have to know, know.”
“So what did Watts have to say about Mr. Asaki?” she asked.
“Just that he’s a business partner,” I said. “I need to circle back with Watts on how he met Asaki, but I’ll let him stew for now. I want to be able to pick his story apart when the time comes.”
“Tomorrow’s the big one,” Sofia commented.
“Kurzak,” I agreed. “I need to get him back to that place where he wants to protect Anna.”
“Do you have enough to do that?” she asked.
“I think so,” I mused. “Especially with Leo’s death. I just need to keep reminding him how dangerous things are for Anna.”
“Well, I finished the exhibits,” she stated. “I sent you a link to the folder. The conference center will print out copies in the morning and have them ready for you.”
“Have I mentioned recently how much I adore you?” I replied.
“Have a good evening, Vince,” she laughed.
I checked the time after I hung up with Sofia. It was still on the early side for dinner, but I decided to call Miyo anyway. The phone rang several times before she picked up.
“Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“Miyo,” I replied. “It’s Vince. Is now a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine,” she assured me. “I’ve been using the stairs all day since I couldn’t make it to the gym.”
“You sound like you’ve been running a marathon,” I declared.
“I guess I have,” she laughed. “I promised myself that I would try to do more than just walk up and down the stairs. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now my quads are killing me. I think I’d rather get up early and go to the gym.”
“Are you still up for dinner?” I wondered.
“Absolutely,” she assured me. “I get off work in an hour. Where are you?”
“Near the courthouse,” I replied. “We just wrapped up for the day.”
“Well, I’m not too far away,” she said. “It’ll only take me about half an hour to get there.”
“Perfect,” I proclaimed. “There’s a little pub about a block behind the court. It’s across the street from a Whole Foods.”
“I know the Whole Foods,” she replied. “What’s the name of the pub?”
“Santo’s,” I answered. “It’s not real big, and it sort of looks like a dive on the outside, but the food is good.”
“I’ll see you there,” she declared.
With an hour and a half until dinner, I decided to head to the public law library and work on some of my other cases. The law library was in an annex of the courthouse, and it still had a steady stream of daily visitors, even though most of the material housed there could just as easily be accessed online. Attorneys still liked to use the library because it was remarkably quiet. Citizens liked it because the librarians were always willing to help track down a statute or an obscure case. Even judges were spotted there occasionally, usually tucked away in the stacks, heads buried in some ancient reporter.
I managed to chug through a lot of paperwork and even fired off a whole stream of emails. When I finally glanced at the clock above the main entrance, I realized I was already five minutes late for dinner. I tossed everything into my briefcase and ran out the door.
Miyo was just sitting down when I arrived at the pub. She gave me a quick wave, and I used the stroll to the table to catch my breath. She was in black again, a long-sleeved midi that said boring office, except that it was Miyo who was wearing it. She managed to make the thing actually look sexy.
“Sorry,” I said as I took a seat across from her. “I got caught up in my work.”
“I just got here myself,” she assured me.
“How are your quads feeling?” I asked as I read through the specials listed on the chalkboard behind the bar. I’d learned in my law school days that while the food on the menu was good, the specials could really wow you.
“Horrible,” she asserted. “I may have to take an Aleve tonight.”
“At least you got your steps in,” I teased as I turned my gaze back to her.
“So what’s good here?” she asked as she perused the menu.
“The burgers are always reliable, and the fish tacos,” I replied. “And the grilled chicken with lemon sauce is surprisingly tasty.”
“What are you having?” she inquired.
“I’m going to try the wings,” I said with a nod towards the specials list.
She read over the specials and then glanced back at the menu. The waitress, a stoop-shouldered, gray-haired woman, arrived without saying a word. She stood there, pencil in one hand, order pad in the other, and waited for one of us to speak.
“I’ll have the wings dinner plate and a Coke,” I told our silent server.
“What do you want for your side?” she asked in the raspy voice of a lifelong smoker. “We got a house salad, fries, baked potato, sweet potato fries, or kale.”
“Kale?” Miyo asked in a surprised tone.
“With ham,” the waitress added.
“Ah,” Miyo replied. Now it made more sense. Whatever healthy quality the kale might have had was lost with the addition of ham, and no doubt plenty of grease to go with it.
“I’ll just have the fries,” I decided. I’d ordered the house salad here once before. I’d received a large bowl of wilted lettuce, topped with one tomato slice and shredded velveeta. Health food was not their thing.
“I’ll have the Reuben with fries and water with lemon,” Miyo declared.
Mission accomplished, our waitress ambled away.
“You’re sure the food’s okay?” Miyo asked doubtfully.
“As long as you’re not trying to go healthy,” I replied. “Salad isn't really their thing.”
“Well,” she decided, “I earned that Reuben today.”
“You did,” I agreed. “So where are you working now?”
“I found a real estate office that needed an assistant, and they weren’t too picky about my visa situation,” she said. “They thought they wanted someone who was fluent in Spanish, but I convinced them that the real money was with customers who spoke Japanese or Chinese.”
“You speak Chinese?” I aske
d in surprise.
“I speak Mandarin,” she replied. “My parents insisted.”
“Any other languages?” I wondered.
“Some Korean,” she said.
The waitress returned and deposited our drinks and some flatware on the table. Miyo’s water had half a lemon floating on top.
“They don’t skimp here,” I observed.
Miyo laughed and then jabbed the lemon with her fork. She deftly squeezed the juice into the glass and then set the rind to the side. She took a sip and nodded in approval.
“What happens next on my case?” she asked. She licked a stray drop of water from her lower lip and gave me a secretive smile.
“The deadline is in two days,” I replied. “I think they’ll wait until the last minute to file.”
“You think they’ll respond?” she said.
“She’s been sued before for the same thing,” I explained. “The first time, they made it through a day of trial, and then the parties settled. There was another complaint filed after that one. Looks like that settled as well. The same attorney handled both cases.”
“What kind of settlement?” she asked.
“It wasn’t in the court documents,” I replied. “My guess is it came with a non-disclosure agreement.”
“I just… I could use the money,” she said. “The new job is great, but I still have some loans to pay off.”
“We won’t accept anything short of the full amount you’re owed,” I assured her. “They’ll start with a low offer, hoping you’ll be desperate enough for cash that you’ll take it. You just need to be patient.”
“I will,” she sighed. She studied the lemon remains for a moment, then brightened. “So, where are you working these days?”
“I’m renting a place closer to the courthouse, just for the duration of the case,” I replied.
“Is this your go-to restaurant now?” she asked with a laugh.
“No,” I said with a sad shake of my head. “I started coming here during my summers at law school. I’d come back to L.A. and help my parents, but I’d always do part-time legal work as well, usually with someone my parents knew. One of the lawyers I worked with swore that all the big name attorneys and judges ate here, so me, and the rest of the interns decided to try it out. We never did see any famous legal theorists, but the food turned out to be pretty good. Not to mention, fairly cheap, which is important when you’re a poor student.”
