I'd just come back from showing this Honolulu couple an unfinished condo at the Fenton Project, and I wasn't brimming over with enthusiasm. You can pretty well tell whether or not you've got a live prospect, and I was ninety-nine percent sure these two had just come along for the ride. I'd sounded the male half out earlier, and he was just a grocery clerk.
But what really tipped me off was the fact they never asked word one about the price. Now, I've heard about the guy with the hick accent and dressed in dirty coveralls who comes in, peels thousand dollar bills off a roll, and pays cash without even looking at the contract. And I'm ready to believe there are people like that around, even if I've never run into any of them in my months of working for Dale, but I knew these two weren't in that class. They weren't even much interested in the terms the developer was offering, and that's a sure sign you're on a dry run.
So, after I get back to the office with them, I spend most of my time trying to shoo them away so I could get out of there myself. What I didn't realize was Dale had his door open and was listening to every word of the conversation. As soon as they left, he comes out of his office. And he's mad. And I mean mad! He's red and purple in the face and shaking. I'd never seen him like that. He had a temper, but he kept it pretty much under control. And he'd never lost it with me before.
At first, I thought he was putting on an act because he looked so weird, so I walked into his office right behind him. He went over to his desk and just flopped down into the chair. That's when he really chewed me out and then told me I was fired.
***
Hank wasn’t sure what to think of the new pathologist. Elima had come of age, and its unattended-death rate had finally reached the point where even the county council and mayor had to admit the county needed a full time pathologist.
Dr. Clyde Victorine had looks on his side. Hank had to admit to that, since Sergeant Corky Medeiros had commented on first catching sight of the new pathologist, “Hell, Hank, he looks enough like you to be your brother.”
Hank had been unable to see the resemblance. Dr. Victorine had about the same six-feet of height; dark, slightly graying hair; an incipient paunch—which Hank denied having; and a generally athletic appearance. However, Hank was willing to do some yielding to Corky's judgment, and so was prepared to like the new pathologist.
And Hank did like him. Clyde—and he had insisted on being called Clyde from the very outset—was friendly and easygoing. But Hank was a professional policeman who took his professionalism seriously. He'd learned to separate his feelings from his intellect, or at least he'd learned to try to. Is he just a nice guy, Hank asked himself, or does he have some smarts to go with it?
It wasn't until the Matthias murder, however, that Hank decided to look further into Clyde's background. Reaching for the phone, he called his old friend and former part-time pathologist, Dr. Calvin Lim.
“What do you think of our new pathologist, Cal?” Hank asked.
The short, rotund Chinese doctor paused. Then in his Charlie Chan accent, which his friends swore he affected to caricature his appearance, Cal said, “Really know not much about him, Hank.”
Hell! Hank thought, I should have known better. Never ask a lawyer about a lawyer, and never ask a doctor about a doctor.
He tried a different tack. “What do you think of his credentials?”
“Quite satisfactory. He was in private practice as internist for several years, then studied pathology at University of Chicago and Cook County Hospital. Council asked me for opinion. Would perhaps have preferred experienced pathologist. But person has to start somewhere. Saw nothing wrong. And his having originally been born here in islands did not hurt chances.”
“Main reason I ask is he just finished a preliminary on his first homicide. I made an arrest, partly on the basis of his statement. Then I got kind of worried. He's doing the pm this afternoon. He's invited me to come and watch. But, hell! I can't tell a kidney from a lung. You know that.”
“You are perhaps asking me to be observer?”
Hank shifted in his chair and grimaced into the phone. “That was kind of the idea.”
“Very unprofessional. I am only back-up pathologist for county. Would make bad impression if I asked to participate.”
Hank looked glum and said nothing.
“But,” continued Cal, “perhaps I can offer assistance. Lab unfamiliar and all that. Colleague helping colleague. Yes, perhaps.”
***
Maybe I should have gone into law instead of into real estate when I came to Elima. That's where the nice looking women seem to be. That Sergeant Medeiros, who was with the lieutenant when he hauled me in, wasn't bad looking at all. I'm big on slim figures in women, and she has one of the nicest ones I've seen in a long time. It must have been nice, because the occasion wasn't exactly one to fix that sort of thing in my mind. I had other problems to ponder.
And, as I said, Kay is something else again, even if she is Japanese. Then I was in for a real surprise when I went to court for the arraignment. Earlier, when I heard the judge was a woman, I figured she'd look like Mother Teresa and have the temperament of the Beast of Buchenwald.
Well, Judge Raines is really something else again. And here I thought I preferred blondes. When she started asking me questions, my mouth was so dry I could hardly answer, and it wasn't just because a murder charge was hanging over my head. She's got great eyes. It's the first time I've ever seen really green ones. And, phew, what a figure she has! It's slender in the right places, and curved just the way it should be in all the others. Those judicial robes couldn't hide that shape. For a bit, I almost forgot what might happen to me. I even thought about that line from the Mikado where one of the young lovelies says, “I'm glad that moment sad was soothed by sight of me.” My next thought was I shouldn't have been thinking about that, because I suddenly remembered the criminal caught sight of her just before his head was cut off.
Believe me, it was lucky for me I found Kay in the phone book. I needed someone like her to balance off the prosecutor who was a little half-pint Japanese right out of a World War II movie. He made me feel as though I was about to do double time on the Bataan Death March. I'm positive he wouldn't have at all minded being in charge of that trail drive.
I sneaked a look at Kay while the prosecutor was asking for the max—first degree—and I could tell she was seething under that mask. And, boy, did she tell him off! She said it was a travesty of justice to threaten the impossible in order to get a plea.
But if Kay's got a mask, Judge Raines's face is about as readable as Darth Vader's. No way would I want to play poker with that lady.
Kay won, all the way. I got off with a second and fifty-thousand dollars bail.
I could hear the prosecutor grinding his teeth when I left.
***
“We have to do something about that Scott Ikeda,” said Kay as she burst into Sid's office, unable to control her anger. Sid looked up and grinned. “Don't tell me. Let me guess. Our new young prosecutor asked Raines to immediately impose a death sentence on Crockett.”
“He might just as well have. Here I've got a client with no police record. He doesn't have even a traffic ticket or a parking ticket, at least not for the past ten years or so. He's been in Hawaii for almost a year. He owns his own home here. He has a steady, good paying job. He votes. He's not on dope. He's even done jury duty. There's not a hint of premeditation involved. Even the witness, and there's only one witness, admits he didn't see the killing. He just heard a quarrel. And so what does Ikeda ask for?”
Sid held up his hand, palm outward. “I can tell you exactly. Ikeda refused to let your client plead. He wanted to go for first degree murder. And he tried to get Raines to deny bail.”
“You're right, right down the line. He's a complete idiot. Can you imagine even suggesting there be no bail? The way Raines paused before she answered him convinces me she couldn't believe what she was hearing. What are we going to do about that weasel?”
“Nothing,” Sid said. “Because we're really ahead of the game when he's there. He always asks for too much. Both Wong and Raines regularly rule against him. He irritates them at least as much as he does us. What we need to do is to train ourselves to put up with him. I'll give you moral support when you face him, and you can do the same for me.”
Kay was still looking morose. “Or maybe we should send Qual in to deal with him. He thinks Ikeda's a scream. I wish I had a sense of humor like that. But I just can't laugh at cretins, especially when they're behaving like cretins.”
“So, other than that, how'd it go
“It went surprisingly well, even though I was mad enough to chew nails. Judge Raines turned down my manslaughter argument. I can't really blame her for that, since Matthias was clobbered on the back of the head. But she accepted the “heat of passion” argument. It was Dale's club, after all. Even Ikeda couldn't argue Ron planned to kill Dale with Dale's club, when the whole bag was sitting right there in the office. That, alone, shot his first degree request all to hell. He made a feeble attempt at saying Ron could have known the bag was there and was planning to walk in, take out a club and use it. But Raines just looked him in the eye at that point, and Ikeda gave up that argument in a hurry. And Ron did really well. He's got an MA in History, by the way. And he's a lot sharper than I thought at first. His big problem was the sight of Judge Raines had him tongue-tied. As you know, she does do that to men.”
Sid grinned. “I'll have to meet Ron Crockett. I want to see how he reacts when I tell him the judge gave me a great, big smackeroo, right out in public.”
“I don't think you'll ever forget that, will you? You'll probably still remember it long after you've forgotten the other rather important event of that day.”
“Yes, there was something else, wasn't there. Seems to me I remember that that was the day Sheena and John Samuel mated. How long now before the kittens? It shouldn't be much more than a week.”
“Yes. And it's time to take John Samuel to be neutered.”
Sid winced and changed the subject. “Let's get in a set after work,” he said, “you can make believe the ball is Scott Ikeda.” Later that afternoon, after they'd relinquished the court at the civic center to another couple, Kay said, “I feel better now.” She had just defeated Sid, 6-2, though ordinarily they were very evenly matched and frequently went into extra games.
Sid grinned. “Remind me not to play you when you've had a bad day in court with our charming prosecuting attorney.”
***
The only thing worse than having the police show up at the door to arrest you for murder is to have to go back to work where everyone suspects you actually did do the murder. It's worse yet, when it's the boss who's been murdered.
The local newspaper didn't help either. The day after my arraignment the Elima Chronicle comes out for the first time with an editorial about judges being soft on crime. They didn't mention any names. But when they talked about accused murderers being released into the community for practically no bail, I caught on quick.
Fortunately, the crowd at work reads only the real-estate section in the Chronicle. And it wasn't as though any of the crew were going to do much mourning for Dale. I probably got along with him better than anyone else there, though that's not saying much. Dale had been on Elima only five years or so and, in that time, he'd managed to make more than his share of enemies. They included at least three of his employees.
I remember my old economics teacher saying a market economy is one where you get to the front of the pack by walking on other people's heads. I always figured he was a Marxist with a lot of screwy ideas, but I don't think he was too far wrong on that particular score. And Dale was a good example of what the prof was talking about. The only difference was Dale seemed to enjoy walking on people's heads. From what I could make out, he actually went out of his way to tromp on them, even when it wasn't especially necessary or profitable to do so.
Lyle Kaupu is a good example of one of Dale's walked-on heads. Lyle's mostly native Hawaiian, close to sixty, and a big, surly-looking guy. I often wonder what the customers must think of him. It took me a while to realize it wasn't me he was mad at, just the world in general and Dale in particular.
I never did get all the story straight, but Lyle and Dale started Royal Elima together as full partners. Dale managed to squeeze Lyle out. And, from what I heard from several sources, it was a pretty raw deal. I never could figure out why Lyle stayed on except he still owned a small interest in the agency. On the other hand, Dale could have bought him out if he'd wanted to, but I think Lyle's presence gave Dale some kind of sadistic thrill.
Kimmie Uchima was one of the others in the office who probably didn't shed any tears when she heard about Dale's death. When I joined Royal Elima, it was the talk of the office about how he was having a long drawn-out affair with her, on the promise he was getting a divorce and would marry her afterwards. It was the old story all over again. He got the divorce, all right—and then married somebody else.
Kimmie was a short, pretty, rather shy Japanese. It was hard for me to picture her having an affair with anyone, let alone Dale. But then, what psychological talents I have are aimed at selling, not analyzing people's love lives. And, speaking of selling, Kimmie was no slouch. She had the best record of any of the agents, and that may have been her reason for staying on after the jilting. The only other salesman there, who I knew for certain hated Dale's guts, was the one who was so quick to tell the police about my quarrel with Dale and who walked in on me while I was holding that club. That was Reginald Kaufman of the broken arms.
Dear old Reggie! He was the first person I saw when I got back to work after being released. There he was, standing there with his arms in those big casts. When I walked into the office and saw him talking to the secretary, I had the sudden urge to break his legs too.
Chapter 4
As Lisa Raines returned to chambers, she smiled absently at Keiko Nishimura, the court clerk. Keiko was a short, pleasant looking woman in her late thirties. She'd worked at the courthouse since the day she had graduated from Napua High School. And Lisa had depended heavily upon her during her first months as a judge on Elima.
For her part, Keiko had nothing but admiration for Judge Raines. Her secret hope was that at least one of her two daughters would go to law school and accomplish a tenth as much as that lovely, enigmatic woman had.
Just the previous night she had said to Hideyo, her husband, “I liked old Judge Tanaka, but it was a blessing when he retired. There were months and months of court cases piled up ahead of us, and we kept falling further and further behind. There was even talk of the State Supreme Court doing something about it. Then Judge Raines took his place. My, she must have worked sixteen-hour days there for a while, but today she had only one case and no backlog. I never thought I'd see the day when that would happen.”
Lisa was thinking the same thing when she smiled at Keiko that morning, but her viewpoint was somewhat different. There were still the routine reports to check, still petitions to read, hearings to be held, and decisions by higher courts to examine, but the docket had been cleared of all the old cases. The mountain of paperwork and pending trials she'd found waiting for her when she'd come to Elima was now level ground. And Lisa was unhappy because of it.
As she took off her robes and shook her hair loose, she looked at herself in the mirror. “What now, Lisa Raines?” she asked her reflection. “Now that you can't forget yourself in work, you're going to have to deal with yourself again. It's not a joyful prospect, is it?”
Lisa had had bouts of dealing with herself and didn't like to even think of doing it again. Born Lisa Joseph, on a small, truck farm outside of Spokane in Washington State, her first memory was one of dealing with herself. She was sitting on the floor in the front room of the farmhouse she remembered so well. She'd been engrossed in something, something she couldn't recall, and her mother—slim, tall, blonde and smelling of soapsuds—took her away for so
mething she also couldn't recall.
Lisa had become angry. How old was she? Three? Four? But there were no tears. There weren't any then, and there had never been any since. She just turned her anger inward. Her face had frozen and she'd refused to budge, refused to talk. She must have thought, though she couldn't yet phrase it that way, “I'll punish you by punishing myself.” And she had. Whatever it was her mother had wanted her to do, she knew for sure she hadn't done it.
It was some years later that her half-sister, some five years older than Lisa, gave an explanation for that self-punishment. Angry about something, the blonde child, who looked so much like their mother, had slapped Lisa because of some trifle. When Lisa retreated into herself and simply stared impassively at her attacker, Shirley had exclaimed in exasperation, “You damn little Indian. You don't even know how to cry.”
School provided both the escape from her self-examination and many occasions for its recurrence. It was there she found learning was the escape—though the expression of it brought both a reward from the unbelieving teachers, and harassment from envious students.
The worst day at school was the day she overheard two teachers in the corridors talking about her. “Too bad she's part Indian,” one had said. “With that mind of hers, she could really become something if she'd been white. This way she'll end up with a drunken husband and a half-dozen snot-nosed kids.”
The best day was in the middle of her junior year in high school when her Social Science teacher called her into his office to talk to her, after just one day in his class. That teacher was Jon Raines.
***
The other two real-estate agents in the office are Quentin Robichaud and Joyce Joaquin. Joyce is OK for my money. She's one tough Filipina. She's been in real estate for thirty years, and knows all of the ropes. She helped me a lot when I first came to work at Royal Elima. That's not like most real-estate agents. Usually, everyone around the office is paranoid, afraid someone's going to steal a prospective buyer. But Joyce isn't that way at all.
No Time for Death: A Yoshinobu Mystery Page 2
