Matthew nodded. He didn’t really, but he didn’t want to prolong their conversation anyway. He wanted to get underway again. So far, his luck was holding. The man was alone on the large vessel. Normally he worked with his son, but the fisherman explained that his boy had joined the Navy the day after Pearl Harbor. Matthew had waited for some derogatory comment about the Japanese, but it was like the man hadn’t noticed Matthew’s ethnicity.
When Matthew had come aboard, the man explained that he just needed some muscle. Air had gotten into the diesel engine’s fuel line causing vapor lock. He needed someone to help raise the massive engine from its berth so he could clear the line and change the line’s banjo washers. Using a pulley and thick rope, it took all of their strength to lift the diesel engine. Once it had been raised a couple feet, the man had put two large blocks under it. Now the man lay on his back, covered in grease, filling him in on some internment camp in California.
He, too, had worked on diesels, and he knew the man wouldn’t be under the engine for much longer. It was time. “Got to go topside for a minute,” Matthew told him.
“I hear you. Drank so much coffee this morning, I’m still pissing it out.”
Matthew didn’t know what to say to that, so he just left the engine room. Making his way up to the wheelhouse, he immediately located the ship’s radio. He felt slightly guilty for what he was about to do. A fisherman’s radio was his link to civilization and help if he needed it. But Matthew didn’t want to take a chance that the man would hear another Coast Guard bulletin.
He carefully slid the radio from its cabinet, revealing a tangle of wires. He was just about to grab a handful of wires when he heard, “Please don’t, son.”
Matthew spun around, startled. The fisherman stood just a few feet away wiping his grease-stained face with a rag. “I already heard it.” Matthew froze, not comprehending. “My boy rigged it for me, before he took off.” He carefully wiped his hands on the rag before adding, “Wired an outdoor speaker. He didn’t want me to be topside and not hear the air-raid warnings.”
Matthew just stared at the man. His luck had just run out.
Chapter Six
Pacific Ocean, 6 Miles Northwest of Port Townsend, Washington. March 30, 1942
They stared at each other for a full minute. Finally, Matthew spoke. “May I ask you a question?” The man just tilted his head to one side, obviously waiting, so Matthew continued, saying, “How old is he? Your son?”
“I have two. Oldest is twenty-eight. The other twenty-two.”
Matthew nodded, stepping away from the radio. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Or against this country.”
But the man didn’t answer. He just continued to wipe his greasy hands with the rag.
“Sir, all I want is to serve my country. You know as well as I do that if I had been on the evacuation ferry, I’d now be on my way to that town, the one you talked about. Owens Valley.”
“It’s an area, not a town.”
“Whatever,” Matthew retorted. “They’d keep me there. For however long this war’s going to take. But your son, he could join the Navy. Help his country. I want to do the same. That’s my crime.”
The man pondered this for a minute. But he didn’t say anything.
“Are you going to tell them?” Matthew asked, holding his breath.
The man eyed Matthew carefully, still wiping his dirty hands on the rag. “I haven’t made up my mind.”
Matthew became angry. “So, your son, he gets to serve, but I don’t, because of my skin? My eyes? I was born on Bainbridge Island! I know Japanese, I can speak it if I have to, but I don’t understand why they bombed us. I hate them for that. I want to serve. I swear. I’m not some traitor!” He then shut up, surprised at his own anger. The truth was, he had intended to get on the ferry and then properly petition the armed forces to join. But, of course, that plan was no longer possible. That’s what angered him. All his plans were for naught.
“Where you headed?” the fisherman asked.
Matthew was taken aback. He didn’t really know where he could sign up, but he knew he’d first need new identification. And even then he might just be sent to a camp. “I’m not certain,” he answered truthfully.
“Well, I guess Seattle is out.”
Matthew wasn’t sure if the man was just toying with him, but he decided to take a chance. “No, sir, Seattle will be looking for me. They’re probably angry that I got away.”
“If I were you, I’d go south. Down to Monterey.”
“Why?” he asked, surprised. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go all the way to California. Not with the Coast Guard looking for him.
“Navy and Army are close by. You might be able to sell the boat. And it would be far enough that they wouldn’t be looking for you there.”
Matthew mulled this over. Then shook his head. “Don’t have enough fuel. Or food, for that matter.”
This seemed to surprise the fisherman. “You didn’t really plan this, did you?”
Matthew hesitated. “No, sir. It was all last minute.”
The man nodded. “Show you something,” he then said and walked out of the wheelhouse.
Puzzled, Matthew followed the man to the stern of the large vessel. There were several large drums, each marked “diesel.” Matthew looked from the drums to the man, unsure.
“Two of these will be plenty to get you down there,” the man explained.
“I don’t have any money—”
But the man waved him off. “You serve this country, that’s payment enough.”
Matthew was at a loss for words. Then the man chuckled. “Course, food’s your problem. I suggest you try fishing.”
For the first time since they had met, Matthew smiled. “That’s very generous.”
Again, the man waved the thought away. “I know you heard the bulletin just as I did. But you still stopped. You didn’t have to.” He studied Matthew for a minute. “That took courage. Courage our country needs.”
Bainbridge Island, Washington. March 30, 1942
By late afternoon many of the local fishermen were in the harbor, cleaning up their trawlers in preparation for the next day’s outing. As he made his way down the dock, Johnstone eyed three men on a larger vessel as they went about their chores. The detective could tell that they were seasoned pros as they squared the rig with such dexterity that he guessed they had done this same routine every day for many years.
No one noticed him as he walked up the steep gangplank that led to the boat’s deck. Two were on the bow, but he made his way over to a younger man on the stern laying out the fishing net. “Catch much?” Johnstone asked.
The young man didn’t seem to hear. Then he turned, saw Johnstone and a look of surprise crossed his face. Then it was gone. He went about laying out the net with practiced accuracy. Carefully side-stepping the net, Johnstone approached the man.
“Detective Johnstone, Seattle police,” he said as he displayed his badge to the young man.
The man didn’t seem to care. He picked up two corners of the large net and awkwardly walked across the deck before laying the corners down on the other two corners. He then picked up the newly folded corners, held them high, and walked until the net was folded in half again. Keeping out of his way, Johnstone said, “I need some help.”
The man continued to systematically fold the heavy net. “Can’t hear nothing,” said another voice. “Stone deaf.” Johnstone whirled around. This man was quite a bit older with gray hair and a long gray beard. He wore a floppy hat and his clothes were filthy. “Name’s Troy. Troy Davidson,” he said with a smile, offering his right hand.
They shook hands and Johnstone showed Davidson his badge. “Detective Johnstone. Seattle police. I’m just looking for some information.”
“I don’t snitch on my neighbors.”
Johnstone was taken aback for a moment, then smiled. “No, nothing like that. I’m wondering, when you catch your fish, where do you take it?”
�
��South end,” the man replied as if it was common knowledge.
“South end? In Seattle?”
“The fishery is right there. Closest one, anyway.”
“So, you don’t bring the catch back here? To the island?”
“Now why would I do that?” the man asked, clearly perplexed.
Johnstone kept his patience in check. “People here need fresh fish, don’t they?” He nodded to The Crow’s Nest on the hill overlooking the harbor. “Restaurants. Markets.”
“Not the quantity I bring in,” he said, laughing. “We ain’t got that many people here.”
“So you take your fish to Seattle, to the fishery, then some fish comes back here to be sold to the markets or restaurants?”
“No. That’s just me. I don’t sell here. Some small producers, they sell here. Especially if they have a bad day. Don’t catch much, it might not be worth going over to the south end.”
Johnstone nodded. “Ever hear of some of the fishermen bringing their catch back here, putting it in trucks, and taking it over?”
“Some. Some Japs do that.”
This surprised him. He had convinced himself that Matthew was using Porter’s truck for some illegal operation. Still it didn’t seem like a logical practice, so he said, “But it seems like a lot of extra work. You have to unload your boat, put it in a truck, then take a ferry over to Seattle. Unload it.”
“Yeah, but they don’t do it every day. Like you said, it’s more work. But you can sometimes get better prices than just the south-end fishery. And I will say, those guys are hard workers. Wish I could hire some. Course, now they’re all gone. But they work hard.”
“But why would they do that? Unload it twice?”
“They take it to different wholesalers. Bypass the fisheries. Sometimes it pays off. But me, I’m not that young. Like you say, gotta work twice as hard. This is enough.”
Johnstone nodded. “Well, thank you.” He turned to go. Then turned back. “Do you know Matthew Kobata?”
“Kobata?” the old man repeated. “Young kid, right?”
“Twenty-one, I think.”
“Knew the father. Good man. Worked hard. Then got into a bit of trouble, but like I say, those people, they work hard.”
“Trouble?” Johnstone asked, his interest piqued.
“Rumors, I say, and like I told you, I don’t snitch on my neighbors.”
“He’s dead.”
“That he is.”
They stared at each other. Finally, Johnstone said, “Please. It could be important.”
“He’s the one that started doing it. Taking his catch over to the mainland to sell at different outlets. He made some good money.”
“You said ‘trouble,’ though.”
“Look, rumors can be ugly.”
“I’m investigating two murders,” Johnstone said tersely.
“Here?” the old man asked, clearly startled.
“The bodies were found here, yes.”
“Who?”
“We’re working on the identifications now,” Johnstone explained. He wasn’t about to reveal the truth. “Now, what trouble?”
The man shrugged. “Hard to say. I hear it was some operators from the mainland. They got upset when he went back to the south end.”
“Upset, why?”
“Don’t rightfully know. I guess he got beat up pretty bad once, though.”
Johnstone thought this over. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Well, some of the guys were surprised when his son picked up where the old man left off. I mean, everyone knew his pop had some sort of bitter feud with those people. Or at least, that’s what everyone said. So why do business with them?”
That was a good question, Johnstone thought. A very good question.
***
As Johnstone approached The Crow’s Nest restaurant, he saw Sally sitting on a bench overlooking the harbor. He could tell that she had been crying, her face flushed and her eyes red. She tightly clutched a handkerchief in one hand. It was clear that she had been waiting for him, and she stood when he was just a few feet away. “Detective Johnstone,” she said.
“Please,” Johnstone said, motioning to the bench. After she sat down again, he took a seat near her.
“Is it true that Tom...that Tom was found in Mr. Porter’s truck?” she asked as soon as he sat down. “That’s what people are saying.”
Johnstone nodded.
“I know Matthew was supposed to go to the relocation center today, but I believe him. If the Navy needed his boat, he’d take it to them. Wherever they wanted it.”
Johnstone didn’t say anything for a moment. He just watched as she wrung her handkerchief nervously. Then he gently inquired, “You said Tom and Matthew had changed recently. Grown more serious.” She nodded, not looking at him. “We’re at war. It’s sobered up a lot of young men.”
She whirled her head at him in surprise. “That’s not it.”
“No?” Johnstone asked.
“No, no. Something was going on.”
Johnstone let this hang in the air for a moment, then said, “How often did Tom go with Matthew to take the fish to town?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. I mean, Matthew didn’t go every day. I really don’t know if Tom went each time.” She studied him for a moment, then asked, “Why are you asking about that?”
“I’m not real sure, to tell the truth.” He gave her a tired smile.
There were a few minutes of silence. Then she said, “You’re wrong, you know. Matthew had nothing to do with Tom’s death.”
“I’m sorry, but right now he’s a prime suspect.”
“How can you say that?” she retorted in anger. “They’re best friends, they’re inseparable!”
He wondered if she realized that she talked as if Tom were still alive. Purposely baiting her, he asked, “If Matthew was such a good friend, why leave Tom in the truck? Why not report it?”
“He didn’t know! How would he know?”
“Because he was alive and well when he drove Mr. Porter’s truck to his house. That’s why.”
This took her back. She just stared at Johnstone. Finally, she managed, “Mr. Porter’s truck...It was found at Matthew’s house?”
“Yes.”
“When?” she demanded.
Johnstone shrugged. He was tired. And he didn’t want to fight with her. “I don’t know the exact minute.”
“But Matthew wasn’t there!”
“No,” he agreed. “He’d left in the boat by the time the truck was located.”
“No!” she thundered, rising to her feet. “Don’t you see? The truck, it wasn’t there! Not when Matthew went to his boat to leave!”
This got Johnstone’s attention and now he stood. Staring at her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. In fact, I turned around there. I was driving my dad’s Chevrolet. It’s big. I turned around in their yard.” She stared at him now, her eyes blazing. “I’d remember if Mr. Porter’s truck had been there! It wasn’t! Someone put it there after Matthew left!”
Chapter Seven
Seattle, Washington. March 31, 1942
At first he had believed Tom’s long-suffering girlfriend had been telling the truth. Someone had purposely left Porter’s truck at the Kobata house to pin Tom Bollgen’s murder on the Japanese-American. It made sense. There were plenty of people who now hated the Japanese. But the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that Sally was protecting Matthew Kobata. Then again, why would she protect someone – anyone – that murdered her lover? That didn’t make sense. So maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe Porter’s truck turned up after Matthew had made his getaway.
But then, what about Cody Carsteen’s murder? The knife he found in Kobata’s boat was clearly part of a set that matched the murder weapon. The only thing he felt sure of was that Kobata had killed Carsteen. But why? He’d like to believe that it was a retribution killing for Tom Bollgen’s death, but Dr. Charlie was adaman
t that Carsteen was murdered prior to Bollgen. He had already confirmed that the congealed blood found in the back of Porter’s truck was Carsteen’s.
What a mess, thought Johnstone as he got out of his car and headed to the old apartment building. It had started to rain, and Johnstone had left his umbrella at the office, so he walked very quickly and got inside before getting soaked. He then cursed under his breath. The dilapidated building didn’t have an elevator. That meant climbing four stories. Damn.
The only good thing was that he was back in Seattle. His own turf. And both bodies were now in Chet Mortenson’s lab where the chief medical examiner would perform the autopsies.
He reached the fourth floor completely out of breath and cursed again. How had he gotten so out of shape? He took his time looking for apartment 4-B, trying to catch his breath. The hallway was run down, in desperate need of a new coat of paint. When he found the correct apartment, he knocked on the door. It was immediately opened by a middle-aged woman with cheaply dyed blonde hair. She looked irritated.
“Mrs. Carsteen?” Johnstone asked.
She just glared at him. “Cody will pay the rent, okay?”
“I’m not here about the rent, Mrs. Carsteen.” Johnstone showed her his badge. “Seattle police, ma’am.”
She just looked more irritated now, if that was possible. With a heavy sigh, she asked, “I don’t know anything about it.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re here about the fight, right?”
“What fight?” Johnstone inquired.
“Last week? He got in some fight at a bar on Third. You guys were called.”
That was interesting, thought Johnstone. Hopefully there would be a police report. “Who was the fight between?”
“How would I know?” she retorted in disgust.
“May I come in?”
“He’s not here, okay?” she replied, not budging an inch. “He’s on base.”
This surprised Johnstone. “What base?”
“Navy?” She said, in a questioning tone. She could see his surprised look, so she added, “He’s in the Navy.”
Toward Night's End Page 6
