Toward Night's End (8 page)

“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!”

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 adamant 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.”

“I see,” Johnstone said. But in truth, he didn’t. The man’s only identification was a driver’s license and some personal checks. Both with the Fourth Street address, apartment 4-B. There was no Navy identification.

“So, you can find him there, okay?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Carsteen.”

“I’m not Mrs., okay?” clearly annoyed again. “I’m a friend. That’s it.”

“I’m sorry, I just presumed—”

She waved him off. “It’s okay. But go to the base, okay?” She started to shut the door and Johnstone blocked it with his hand.

“He’s dead, ma’am,” Johnstone said. “He died a couple days ago. On Bainbridge Island.”

She just stared at him. Finally, she asked, “Someone kill him?”

“Why do you say that?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. He got in that fight last week, you know?”

Johnstone waited for her to continue, but she didn’t elaborate. His gut told him that she was holding back. But he took another tack. “Does he have family, ma’am?”

“Not that I ever knew about. But you could check—”

“At the base,” Johnstone said, interrupting.

“Right.”

Johnstone nodded. He thought for a minute, then ventured, “Do you happen to know what happened to his hand? The left hand? His fingertips, they—”

“He never said. Wouldn’t talk about it,” she readily explained. “It was before I met him.”

“I see.”

“Just some things he was real private about, that’s all.”

Again Johnstone nodded. He’d have to find out some other way. Not that it mattered. It probably didn’t have anything to do with the man’s death, but it was interesting, and if he learned what happened to his left hand it might help him figure out why the man was murdered. He decided he had asked enough questions for one day, so he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. If there is anything I can do...?”

She looked at him. Then gave a sheepish smile. “Pay the rent?”

The day before, for the first time in her life, Kumiko was glad her husband was dead. He had loved the sea, their beautiful island, and the tall cedars that enveloped the land. But this place was desolate. The ground was hard as rock. There were no trees. Just ugly brown scrub brush. To make matters worse, she could hardly pretend that they were just going to live in a different city for a while, although this is what she had told Julia time and again. But the barbed wire fences that ringed the one square mile area and the tall guard towers with armed sentries didn’t allow for any pretense. And so Kumiko was pleased her husband hadn’t lived to see this. There was simply no beauty here. None at all.

When they had left the train, they had been put on large trucks and transported across the forsaken land for several miles. She knew they had arrived when she had seen the large wooden sign mounted on two large posts that read, “Manzanar War Relocation Center.” Soon thereafter they had passed a small military sentry post, and it was then that she first noticed the barbed wire.

“What’s it look like?” she had heard Ido ask Daniel.

“I don’t know,” Daniel replied. The excitement of the train ride was now over. He was old enough to know their future looked bleak.

“Owens Valley,” Ido said. He waited for a moment, then asked, “Is it pretty? This Owens Valley?”

When Daniel didn’t reply, Kumiko had turned to Ido and told him in Japanese, “It’s the high desert, Otousan. There are no trees. Just some scrub brush, but not much of that.”

They then had to stand in line for quite sometime as every person made his or her way to a long table where several soldiers sat with thick registry books. The soldier in front of them explained that they had to personally sign in with their name, age and town of origin. Kumiko had written Ido’s information, but when she tried to sign for him, the soldier had quickly taken the pen away and explained that Ido had to sign his own name. It was the law. Kumiko had been allowed to help guide his hand to the right place, but since he couldn’t see, his signature scrawled largely at an angle. Kumiko had anxiously looked at the soldier. But the young man just smiled politely and personally thanked Ido who had been very pleased he had done well, smiling brightly and bowing slightly to the serviceman in reply.

The soldier had then given them a crude map of the relocation center. The cafeteria where they would eat was clearly marked, as were several bathroom and shower facilities. Each barracks was numbered in an orderly fashion and she noted that they had been assigned to Barracks #5.

At first, Kumiko had thought that each barracks would house one or two families. But she soon discovered that she was greatly mistaken. Each barracks was designed for dozens of occupants. The long, narrow structure was filled with cots along both walls and there were a few dressers, desks and chairs scattered about. Some families that had arrived earlier had taken it upon themselves to move their cots and a dresser or desk to make up a small living area. Old sheets had been hung from the ceiling to provide privacy.