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"I just want to make the suggestion, and have you accept it, that we can't afford to ignore any
possibility."
There. It had come out somewhat lamer than she had intended, but to someone of Eric's
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perspicacity it would make the point.
And as she watched, the shutters slammed down. He shook his head curtly, managing only with
an effort to stop short of overt anger. "No, that's not possible. Please, I don't want to discuss
this. Let this one ride."
The data didn't fit the theory. So what was Michelle to do now? Was this really the time to go
wading in with a two-by-four and tell him she had a tape; that his son had been spying on his
wife, who was not only betraying his business but had a lover too and oh yes, by the way, they
were planning to murder him? If he was this blocked to the small test that she'd tried, what
would pushing it further achieve, other than produce an emotional standoff that would push any
chance of their resuming on a constructive note only farther into the future? Better to let it rest
for now. Leave the thought to soak in; give the spinal-cord reaction time to die away. Wasn't
that, after all, as much as she'd told herself she had set out to accomplish?
She backed off with a sigh and enough of a smile to be conciliatory. "Of course, I understand
how you feel," she replied. "But you have to understand me too, Eric. I just wanted you to be
aware that from where I see things, nothing is impossible."
Eric nodded, made a face, and raised a hand to show that he concurred. There was still some
visible ruffling of the feathers . . . but the situation was defused.
They had the time, Michelle reminded herself. There was no indication of anything drastic
about to happen soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Doug Corfe sat in his second-floor office in the Neurodyne building and stared at the far wall,
as he seemed to have been doing for half the afternoon. And that wasn't good enough. There
was work to be done. But he couldn't get the situation with Vanessa off his mind. Eric and
Kevin were too close, too much like family for him not to feel responsible. And even if that had
not been the case, it wasn't something that a person of his makeup could sit by and let happen
without at least trying to do something.
But do what? His mind seemed to oscillate between extremes like a beach ball rolling from end
to end on a teeter-totter. Part of the time he felt that Michelle was being too cautious weren't
they talking about somebody'slife being at stake here, for heaven's sake? He would go to the
police himself if she wouldn't and who cared whether or not there was enough evidence to
make a case, who could prove what, or about all the other lawyer's technicalities? Several
times he had been on the verge of calling them right there, from his office. . . .
And then, like a view of a wire cube, his perspective would shift, and the whole line of thought
would appear as no more than a sop to his own conscience fooling himself that it would mean
anything to passively pass over to others what he had already been told would do no good. At
that point he wanted to throw aside all caution completely, and would find himself seriously
entertaining fantasies about arranging an accident himself and then shake himself out of it.
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Maybe something not quite as drastic, then. Weren't there supposed to be professionals who
specialized in making sure that messages got received clearly messages like, "Too bad, what
happened to Martin's nice boat; guess what might be next if anything happens to Eric."? . . .
But no, it was just another fantasy. He wouldn't even know where to start, even if he were
serious. The result of it all was that he was still sitting there more than halfway though the
afternoon, with nothing done that was worth speaking of, when Kevin called.
"Hi, Doug. Sorry to interrupt you at work, but I think it's important."
"I wasn't doing anything that you could call interruptible. Anyhow, if it's about what I think it's
probably about, it's important. What's up?"
"Well, er, I don't think it would be a good idea to go into it now. But could we get together
maybe this evening and talk about it?"
"Sure," Corfe said. "Did you have anywhere in particular in mind?"
"Probably best not at the house. I was thinking, maybe over at Hiroyuki's. Could you pick me
up later?"
Corfe frowned into the phone. "Hiroyuki's? Why there? Wouldn't that be almost as bad?"
"It has to do with an idea that Taki had last night you know, to solve our problem. Well, I
don't know about solve it, so much, but do something that might help, anyway. We tried it out
over there, and "
"Wait a minute, Kevin. An idea that Taki had? You're not saying he knows about this
situation?"
"He's okay, honest. It won't go any further. . . ."
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Corfe groaned and covered his brow with a hand.
"I know him better than I know anyone, really. He's the only person I can talk to who's on the
same wavelength. I had to talk to somebody. It's bad enough for you, Doug, from what you
were telling me, and we're not talking aboutyour dad. Just try being in my position for a day
and see how it feels."
"Okay, okay." Corfe couldn't find it in him to argue. He'd known Kevin long enough to believe
it wasn't something he would have rushed into lightly. And besides, it was done now. The worst
thing they could do would be to start falling out among themselves with accusations and
recriminations. "Give me a chance to get clear here." Corfe snorted to himself. Get clear from
what? He'd said it through pure force of habit. "I'll stop by the house at around . . . say,
between five and six."
"Sounds good to me."
After hanging up, Corfe remembered that Michelle had been at the firm earlier in the day. If
what Kevin had to say concerned the case in general, then perhaps it would be an idea if Corfe
took her along too.
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It didn't make any difference, as things turned out. When he called Beverley, Eric's secretary,
she told him that Michelle had departed back for Seattle a couple of hours previously.
While Corfe was driving to Kevin's a little over an hour later, he recalled a story that one of
Ohira's friends had told him of an incident that had taken place some years before. One of
Hiroyuki's female cousins a widow in her fifties became involved with a cult that practiced
self-discovery and inner development. Their chosen path toward enlightenment and a higher
mode of living involved groups getting together, usually at weekends, sometimes for a full
week, at varying venues, and to feel that she was getting into the spirit and contributing her
share, the cousin commissioned an architect to design a substantial extension to her house. The
architect also offered his services as a consultant to choose a suitable contractor for the work,
supervise the quality and performance, and generally act on her behalf to make sure she got
value for the substantial amount of money involved.
All did not go well. Extras that were supposed to be optional suddenly became essential; time
frames escalated; one estimate after another was exceeded. Ohira became suspicious and
hired a consultant of his own to do a little checking on the side. It turned out that the architect's
whole operation was a scam. He himself was the real contractor, paying himself under the
table, while at the same time gouging on prices and cutting costs through substandard materials
and shoddy work. At the same time, he had committed so little to writing, and the widow had
kept so few records, that Hiroyuki's lawyer was dubious that much could be made to stick in
court.
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