first thing in the morning.
Again we were quiet for a time, but now it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable. The heavily charged atmosphere had been defused. When Ames looked at this watch, I checked mine. It was after ten. Realizing plenty of time had passed for Kimiko Kurobashi to drive across Snoqualmie Pass and make it back home to Pullman, I picked up the phone.
"I should call the wife and daughter and let them know about the autopsy, I explained to Ames. "When they left, we were all still under the impression it was suicide.
"Except for the wife, Ames added.
I nodded, dialing Eastern Washington information as I did so. In answer to my question, a tinny recorded voice recited Kimi Kurobashi's phone number. I dialed, but it was busy. I tried dialing it several more times in the next half hour, and each time the result was the same. At first I wasn't particularly worried. After a death there are often distant relatives and friends who must be notified. Finally, though, shortly after eleven, instead of getting a busy, I was told that the number was currently out of service.
Alarm began to nudge its way into my consciousness. What would cause a phone to suddenly go out of service in the middle of the night? I remembered George Yamamoto's concern that Tadeo's killer was still on the loose and that his wife and daughter were also potential targets.
Without bothering to put the phone back in its cradle, I dialed information again and was connected to the Pullman Police Department. The dispatcher there passed me along to the Whitman County Sheriff's Department, where I found myself talking with a young man named Mac Larkin.
Speaking calmly but firmly, I attempted to express the urgency of my concern that Machiko and Kimi Kurobashi might be in jeopardy out at the Honeydale Farm. With the bland indifference of youth, Larkin assured me that I shouldn't panic about someone's telephone being out of order since there were scattered reports of telephone outages coming in from all over Whitman County that night.
I tried to let what he said allay my fears, but it didn't work. An insistent alarm continued to hammer in my head. The picture of Tadeo Kurobashi's mutilated body was fresh in my memory. His killer was free to kill again.
When I voiced my concern to Ralph Ames, he immediately began playing devil's advocate. "From what you told me about the hurried way they left town, how would anyone know exactly where they were going?
"They wouldn't, I replied, "unless they followed them out of town. With that I was back on the phone to Mac Larkin.
"You again? he demanded.
"When are they going to restore service to the Honeydale Farm area? I asked.
"The phone company fixes phones, he replied curtly. "They don't tell us how to do our job, and we don't interfere in theirs. All I know is, they're doing the best they can.
Another line buzzed, and Larkin left me sitting on hold for the better part of five minutes. "Have you been helped? he asked, when he came back on the phone.
"As a matter of fact, I haven't, I replied. "I'm still worried about those women. I'm telling you, the woman's husband was murdered last night. It's possible the killer will come after them next.
"And it's also possible that California is going to fall into the Pacific. Possible, but not very likely. This line is for emergency calls, Detective Beaumont.
"Couldn't you at least send a deputy by? I asked.
"I've entered your call into the log, and I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making any promises. With that he hung up.
"Do any good? Ames asked.
"Not much, I answered. "No way could I build a fire under that little jackass on the phone.
"You've done as much as you could, Ames said. "It'll probably be all right.
But his words offered small comfort. While I had been on the phone, Ralph had turned around in the love seat and was sitting facing out the window, watching the pattern of splashing raindrops on the glass.
"Who all knew about the poem? Ames asked
Again we were quiet for a time, but now it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable. The heavily charged atmosphere had been defused. When Ames looked at this watch, I checked mine. It was after ten. Realizing plenty of time had passed for Kimiko Kurobashi to drive across Snoqualmie Pass and make it back home to Pullman, I picked up the phone.
"I should call the wife and daughter and let them know about the autopsy, I explained to Ames. "When they left, we were all still under the impression it was suicide.
"Except for the wife, Ames added.
I nodded, dialing Eastern Washington information as I did so. In answer to my question, a tinny recorded voice recited Kimi Kurobashi's phone number. I dialed, but it was busy. I tried dialing it several more times in the next half hour, and each time the result was the same. At first I wasn't particularly worried. After a death there are often distant relatives and friends who must be notified. Finally, though, shortly after eleven, instead of getting a busy, I was told that the number was currently out of service.
Alarm began to nudge its way into my consciousness. What would cause a phone to suddenly go out of service in the middle of the night? I remembered George Yamamoto's concern that Tadeo's killer was still on the loose and that his wife and daughter were also potential targets.
Without bothering to put the phone back in its cradle, I dialed information again and was connected to the Pullman Police Department. The dispatcher there passed me along to the Whitman County Sheriff's Department, where I found myself talking with a young man named Mac Larkin.
Speaking calmly but firmly, I attempted to express the urgency of my concern that Machiko and Kimi Kurobashi might be in jeopardy out at the Honeydale Farm. With the bland indifference of youth, Larkin assured me that I shouldn't panic about someone's telephone being out of order since there were scattered reports of telephone outages coming in from all over Whitman County that night.
I tried to let what he said allay my fears, but it didn't work. An insistent alarm continued to hammer in my head. The picture of Tadeo Kurobashi's mutilated body was fresh in my memory. His killer was free to kill again.
When I voiced my concern to Ralph Ames, he immediately began playing devil's advocate. "From what you told me about the hurried way they left town, how would anyone know exactly where they were going?
"They wouldn't, I replied, "unless they followed them out of town. With that I was back on the phone to Mac Larkin.
"You again? he demanded.
"When are they going to restore service to the Honeydale Farm area? I asked.
"The phone company fixes phones, he replied curtly. "They don't tell us how to do our job, and we don't interfere in theirs. All I know is, they're doing the best they can.
Another line buzzed, and Larkin left me sitting on hold for the better part of five minutes. "Have you been helped? he asked, when he came back on the phone.
"As a matter of fact, I haven't, I replied. "I'm still worried about those women. I'm telling you, the woman's husband was murdered last night. It's possible the killer will come after them next.
"And it's also possible that California is going to fall into the Pacific. Possible, but not very likely. This line is for emergency calls, Detective Beaumont.
"Couldn't you at least send a deputy by? I asked.
"I've entered your call into the log, and I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making any promises. With that he hung up.
"Do any good? Ames asked.
"Not much, I answered. "No way could I build a fire under that little jackass on the phone.
"You've done as much as you could, Ames said. "It'll probably be all right.
But his words offered small comfort. While I had been on the phone, Ralph had turned around in the love seat and was sitting facing out the window, watching the pattern of splashing raindrops on the glass.
"Who all knew about the poem? Ames asked
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