We stepped up to the counter that was just big enough to hold a register and a bowl of wrapped peppermint candies, and I pulled out my badge. “We’re here to talk to you about an employee of yours, Ronald Yamaguchi.”
The woman peered at my badge and the photo on the opposite side, then narrowed her eyes at me. “Hair look different,” she remarked.
“Yeah, it was longer back then,” I replied.
“Better now,” she observed.
And maybe the parrot wanted to weigh in on my makeup?
“Were you here the day he got arrested?” I asked.
“Sure,” she replied in a voice that quavered with a mixture of high and low notes. “He no kill that guy. Ronald no kill anybody.”
“But he did go out to the bank that day,” I said. “And the murder happened right outside that bank.”
She shrugged. “I not there. I just know.”
Fair enough. Everybody’s entitled to an opinion, but I needed evidence.
“Is he friendly with any of the other therapists here?” I asked.
The woman turned around to look at the workers behind her. After a moment, she pointed to a small ponytailed Asian woman at the back. “Wendy. She and Ronald friends. Eat lunch together.”
“You know when she’ll be done with her customer? We won’t take long. We just have a few questions for her,” I said.
The woman looked up at the ’50s-style clock-probably less an effort at retro chic than simply the one she brought from home-that hung on the wall. “About fifteen minutes.”
“Tell her not to leave when she’s done with the customer,” I said. “We’ll be right back.”
Bailey looked at me, puzzled, when we got out to the sidewalk. “Why aren’t we waiting in there?”
“Because I didn’t have time to order breakfast, and I’m starving,” I said testily. “You can join me if you want.” I pointed to the coffee shop on the corner.
“You’re such a pleasure right now, why wouldn’t I?”
I’d just placed my order with a tired-looking waitress at the counter when Bailey suddenly leaned forward and stared intently in the direction of the spa.
“What?” I asked.
A slow smile spread across her face. “Look,” she said, pointing.
A patrol officer was staring into the newsstand machines in front of the spa, but after a few seconds I noticed that he wasn’t looking at the papers; he was looking around the street as though checking to see if anyone-like us, I supposed-was watching. After one more quick glance, he entered the spa.
“Yamaguchi’s customer?” I said.
The waitress was busy, so I headed for the register to cancel my order. Bailey walked with me as she kept her eyes glued to the door of the spa.
“I’d rather be lucky than good,” Bailey said.
“Who said you have to choose?”
I nixed my order, and we did a fast trot back to the building.
21
We caught up with him at his massage bed. He’d just leaned down to untie his shoes when Bailey badged him.
“Don’t panic,” she told him. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”
The patrol officer stood up, his face-which had been red with the exertion of bending over-now white with fear. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and simply nodded. He shuffled out behind us, his shoes still untied.
“Detective Keller,” Bailey said as she stuck out her hand.
“Harley Sahagan,” he replied, taking it.
“And this is Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight,” she added.
I held out my hand, and Harley gave it a weak shake.
“I know this looks bad, but before you bust me, I want you to know I’m not just screwing off here. I got in a car accident on duty last year.” Harley, having found his voice, was talking fast. “Felony evasion, the guy crashed into a wall and we couldn’t stop in time. We rear-ended him hard. It messed up my back real bad. Riding in the squad car is killing me, but I used up all my leave, so I’ve gotta work. These guys”-he gestured over his shoulder at the spa-“saved me. I couldn’t afford a fancy spa, and insurance won’t cover a chiropractor. I was in really bad shape until someone told me about this place. I’m not cured, but at least I can deal.”
“Harley, that’s a lot of information, but I’m not here to bust you,” Bailey said. “And I’m glad you’re better. We just want to know if you have a regular masseur here.”
“Uh, yeah,” Harley replied uncomfortably. Then he nodded to himself. “So I guess he told you. Yeah, Ronald Yamaguchi was my masseur. Matter of fact, he was working on me when I got the call about that homeless victim.” He shook his head, his expression perplexed. “I’ve got to admit, I never figured him for the type to do something like that.” Harley sighed. “Guess you never know.”
“Actually, in this case, you might,” I said. “The way the evidence is shaking out, we’re thinking he probably isn’t the killer. And you just helped confirm that by corroborating his story.”
“Good to hear,” Harley said thoughtfully.
“And just FYI: he never did give up your name.”
Harley acknowledged this with a little smile. “Heck of a guy.”
I had a feeling Ronald’s tips were about to get healthier.
“By any chance, did you interview any witnesses at the scene?” Bailey asked.
“Nah, just crime-scene control,” Harley replied.
“Okay, we’ll get back to you if we have any more questions,” I said.
“Glad to help.” He paused. “Uh…would you mind…?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Have a good one,” Bailey said.
Harley went back inside and headed for his massage bed. We went in and returned to the front counter, where we found the ponytailed masseuse deep in conversation with the older Asian woman. When we walked over to the young woman, she looked pointedly at her watch.
I decided to play my hunch. It was a low-risk proposition at this point. I introduced myself and Bailey, then got right to it.
“Wendy, I understand you and Ronald Yamaguchi are close,” I began.
“Yeah,” she said, flipping her ponytail back. “So?” she asked with attitude.
“He ever let you wear his jacket?” I asked.
The question took her off guard, as it was meant to. She frowned at first, then shrugged.
“Sometimes he lets me, other times I just take it,” she replied. “When I’m not working-it gets cold in here.”
“Mind if I take a look at your arms?” I asked.
Wendy looked at me suspiciously for a moment before answering. “Why?” she asked in a bitchy tone. “You want to bust me for killing someone too?”
“Maybe,” I replied. “Did you kill anybody?”
She rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. “That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking,” I said flatly.
She sighed again. “No. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“In that case, I just want to see your arms.”
“Why?” she asked, her tone now belligerent. “I’m not a junkie or nothing.”
This was getting truly annoying.
“Look, Wendy,” I said in a stern voice, “I don’t know many junkies who’re full-time masseuses, but assuming you’re one of the few, let me reassure you, I couldn’t care less. I’ve got a homicide to deal with that has very little to do with you, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with it. So how about you show me your arms and we’ll both get on with our day?”