Free Dismissed With Prejudice (9780061760631) by Judith A. Jance

into it as fast as they could. Kimi walked past them with her eyes downcast, not acknowledging their existence.
    Wincing at the pain in my fingers, I helped her into the backseat of the Reliant. It might have been more gentlemanly to put her in front, but I needed the extra legroom a whole lot more than she did.
    It was silent in the car as we started back toward the freeway. I was hung over and half sick. It feltas though my pores were sweating pure champagne, and I reminded myself never to drink the stuff again.
    Trying to take my mind off both my headache and my throbbing fingers, I began a mental review of what we had learned since arriving at Tadeo Kurobashi’s office early that morning. Reflexively I reached for my notebook, wanting to consult my notes, but of course I hadn’t taken any.
    â€œLet me look at your notebook, Al.”
    He did, handing it to me carefully enough that it didn’t fly out of my hand. Big Al’s handwriting, a haphazard combination of printing and cursive, was difficult to make out. Remembering what Kimi had said about relabeling her mother’s boxes, I thumbed through the pages until I reached the place where Al had laboriously copied down the Japanese words from the computer screen.
    â€œCan you read Japanese?” I asked. When she didn’t answer, I turned around and looked at her. Lost in thought, she was staring blankly at the back of Big Al’s muscular neck. She jumped when she realized I had spoken to her.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œCan you read Japanese?” I repeated.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat about this?” I passed her the notebook.
    Looking at the words, she held it in front of her for a long moment, long enough that I began to wonder if she had been mistaken and wouldn’t beable to translate it after all. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the seat, letting the notebook drop into her lap.
    â€œWell?” I asked.
    â€œYes,” she whispered. “I can read it.”
    â€œWhat does it say?”
    She recited the verse in a leaden voice without opening her eyes, without once having to glance at the text:
    â€œâ€˜ A child is still one more hope
    Even in this careworn world .’”
    â€œYou recognize it then?”
    â€œYes. It’s a verse from my father’s favorite poem, “A Child,” written by a man named Shuntaro Tanikawa. How do you know about it? Where did you get it?”
    â€œIt was on his computer screen this morning when they found him. Detective Lindstrom here copied it down. We thought it might be important.”
    She seemed more visibly shaken by this than by anything else that had happened. “On his computer screen? He had typed it there?”
    â€œOver and over,” I replied. “Why, does it mean something to you?”
    She still didn’t open her eyes. “I was that child,” she answered softly. “I was supposed to be that child. I heard that poem a million times while I was growing up.”
    Ten points for George Yamamoto. He had calledthat shot. Tadeo Kurobashi’s message had indeed been meant for his daughter, not for his wife.
    â€œHave you ever heard of the too precious child?” Kimi asked finally, her voice heavy, devoid of all animation.
    Big Al shook his head. So did I. “Not that I know of,” I said.
    â€œIt’s the latest psychological buzzword,” Kimi said, “but I think I am one. Or was.”
    â€œToo precious? What does that mean?” I asked.
    The events of the morning and of the last two days had taken their toll. Her voice was barely audible above the road noise of the freeway.
    â€œI was a change-of-life baby,” she said. “My mother was forty-four when I was born, and she had long before given up on the idea of ever having children. When I was born, both she and my father thought it was a miracle. They gave me everything, pampered me, wanted me to be smart, have fun, do it