“Never mind,” I said.
But Bailey was fed up with the traffic too. She looked in her rearview mirror, then swung around to the right, passing the line of cars stopped at the light. She got to the limit line just as it turned green and flew through the intersection in a burst of speed. A man in an orange nylon jacket and work boots who’d been about to cross against the light jumped back onto the curb and grabbed the pole of the street sign as she roared past.
“But I’d still like to get there alive,” I remarked. “If that’s all right with you.”
We’d just passed Temple Street when Bailey’s cell phone rang. She fished it out of her jacket pocket, announced herself, and listened for a moment. “Okay, when’s Newman going to have the blood?”
A few seconds later, she hung up. Her tight-lipped expression told me this hadn’t been good news.
“Still nothing on our vic,” she finally said. “He’s never been printed for any job, and if he’s ever been busted, it’s not showing up in any database.”
“Unbelievable. No ID on him and no prints on file. What are the friggin’ odds?”
Not being able to identify a victim is a serious stumbling block in any case, but it was a particularly gnarly obstacle in this one, where there was no obvious motive and the suspect in custody was looking less suspicious by the minute.
“What’s the coroner say about his physical condition?” I asked.
“Still waiting for him to return my call,” Bailey answered in a voice that told me she was equally aggravated. “But we should be hearing about the blood on Yamaguchi’s sleeve pretty quick.”
Half good news anyway. I mulled over the situation.
“You don’t have the autopsy report yet?” I asked.
Bailey shook her head. “Stoner told me the cause of death was ‘sharp force injury,’ known in English as a stabbing, but we don’t have any details about what kind of knife was used or the nature of the wounds.”
“Let me try Scott,” I said. Scott Ferrier, the coroner’s investigator, was a friend of mine who’d risked his neck to get me information in the past. My end of the bargain required that I reward his bravery with free meals at Engine Co. No. 28, his favorite restaurant. And since I loved the restaurant too, it was a win-win. I pulled out my cell and dialed, glad to have something to do besides fume over the gridlocked traffic. I got his voice mail and left a message.
“You know,” Bailey said, “the bank will have a record of the time and date of Yamaguchi’s deposit.”
“And Yamaguchi might have a receipt with that information too,” I said. “Corroborating that part of the story shouldn’t be a problem. And if the bank has cameras outside-”
“Which I’d bet they do-”
“Then we might get another angle on the stabbing,” I finished.
It was nearly three p.m. by the time Bailey pulled up in front of the bank, and downtown workers were already beginning to fill the streets, heading for home in cars, buses, and subways. By six o’clock, I knew the streets would be largely deserted, the crowded sidewalks of that afternoon a distant memory. Only the action in the bars and restaurants would show that this was a living, breathing city. The temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the interview with Yamaguchi, and the cool air had a serious bite to it. I pulled up the collar on my peacoat and followed Bailey into the bank.
It never ceases to impress me just how damn useful a badge can be. Within three minutes, we were seated in front of the manager’s desk.
“How can I help you, Detectives?” asked Andy Kim, one of the hippest-looking bank managers I’d ever seen, dressed in a smart, dark-green cashmere suit and paisley tie.
I figured I’d get more respect if he thought I was a detective, so I didn’t bother to correct him. Bailey explained what we wanted.
“We certainly have footage, both inside and out. As you can imagine, in this neighborhood, it’s a necessity.” He gave us a little just-between-us smile. “It’ll take them a few days to get you the footage, but I’ll have the time of Ronald Yamaguchi’s transaction brought in to you right now.” He picked up the phone and made the request.
About ten seconds later, there was a knock on the door, and a young woman who looked pleased to be there came in and handed him a piece of paper.
Andy took it from her and scanned it. “Thank you, Ms. Daley,” he said with a warm smile. He handed the paper to me.
“That’s the hard copy. It seems Ronald Yamaguchi did indeed make a deposit at twelve fifty-seven p.m. on the day in question.”
We thanked Andy, who promised to get us the surveillance-camera footage right away, and left.
“Well, part of Yamaguchi’s story checks out,” Bailey said as we headed for her car.
I got my cell and quickly checked in with Melia to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. She said I hadn’t, but that didn’t mean much. If Melia had a new piece of pulp to read, the building could be seized by terrorists without her knowing it. We got into the car, and I checked my watch. It was four p.m. already. Amazing how time flies when you’re having no luck at all solving a case.
“What’re you doing tonight?” Bailey asked as she steered the car toward the Biltmore.
“Graden’s taking me out,” I replied. Then, because I knew she’d ask, I added, “To Yamashiro’s.”
Bailey whistled softly. “Someone’s gonna get lucky tonight,” she said with a lascivious smile.
I gave her a sideways grin. “Well, if it’s only one of us, it’s gonna be a bad night.”
18
Graden was going to pick me up at six thirty, which meant at this point I had about fifteen minutes to pull it together. I whipped through my closet, looking for an outfit that would go with my beloved new boots. Black, stretchy slacks would work, and they were nice and long. I have a “thing” about short pants. I’d rather trip on the hems than wear “floods.”
The black lacy top was sexy, but there was a chill in the air, and turning blue with cold would probably undermine the whole sexy thing. I settled on the cobalt-blue cashmere sweater with the roll-neck. Not exactly wowee, but better boring than freezing. A little eyeliner and blush later, I shrugged into my coat and patted my pocket to make sure I still had my.22 Beretta. But I was going to be with a cop and his.44. Did I really need the firepower? Then again, it couldn’t hurt. I left it in my pocket and ran for the elevator.
By the time I got to the lobby, I found Graden standing next to the open passenger door of his darkly gleaming, freshly washed black BMW 750Li. He was talking to Angel, the doorman, who was looking at the car like it was Scarlett Johansson.
I hated to break up this lovefest, but nothing lasts forever.
“Hey, guys,” I said.
Graden gave me an appreciative smile.
“Hey, Rache,” he said, and gestured to the passenger seat.
I patted Angel on the arm as I got into the car. “How’s it going?”
“Good, good, Rachel,” he said. He tipped his hat to Graden and closed my door with a loving care that I knew had nothing to do with me.
Graden slid in and pulled the car around the circular driveway to the street. As he paused for oncoming traffic, he turned to me and said, “You look lovely, as always.”
I smiled and squeezed out a thank-you with as much grace as I could muster. Compliments always make me uncomfortable.