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go to his home with our eyes open as well as our minds.
    We followed George Yamamoto off 520 and up the I-405 corridor to the N.E. 70th exit. We headed east for a mile or so and then south on 135th toward Bridle Trails State Park. As the name would imply, it’s a horse-acres neck-of-the-woods, with plots divided into five-acre parcels containing sprawling houses attached to two- or three-car garages. Stables with paddocks and thoroughbred horses take the place of conventional backyards.
    Tadeo Kurobashi’s house, set in a shady stand oftowering alders, was at the end of a long cul-de-sac that bordered on the back of the state park. A FOR SALE sign had been pounded into the ground next to the mailbox, and the word SOLD was fastened underneath.
    It could have been any standard American tri-level set in a well-kept but natural setting. The shingles on the roof and the siding of the house had weathered to a matching shade of slate gray. A closer examination of the roof, however, revealed that the ends of the roof peaks had been curved slightly upward, and a length of timber protruded underneath, giving the house’s whole appearance a distinctly Japanese flavor.
    We followed George Yamamoto into the circular front driveway and parked behind his car. Before anyone had a chance to get out, a woman came striding around the side of the house toward us. Her glossy black hair was pulled back and held in a long ponytail. The way she walked made her seem taller than she was, and her clothing—western shirt, faded Levi’s, and worn cowboy boots—gave her an old-time wrangler appearance. At first glance I thought she was much younger than she was, a teenager maybe. Close up, however, I recognized her as a twenty-year-older version of the grinning child from the picture in Tadeo Kurobashi’s office.
    Kimiko Kurobashi wasn’t grinning now. A deep frown furrowed her forehead, her mouth was set in a thin, grim line, and her chin jutted stubbornly.She stopped a few feet from the cars and stood waiting for us, feet spread, hands on her hips.
    Since I was the first one out of the cars, I was the target of her initial blast. “If you’re the new owners, we were told we didn’t have to be out until three P.M . We’re not ready.”
    George Yamamoto exited his car and started toward her. “Kimi—” he called, then stopped, as words stuck in his throat.
    She turned when he spoke to her. Recognition registered on her face, but she made no move toward him. Instead, she stood like a granite statue, waiting for him to come to her. “What are you doing here?”
    George’s professional demeanor had fractured during his long solo ride across the lake. Criminal justice professionals of all kinds learn to detach themselves from death. They have to. They build a wall around their emotions and stay safely inside that protective circle, but if something breaches that wall—the death of one of their own, a family member or another cop, for instance—then they’re in big trouble, just as George Yamamoto was now.
    He stumbled blindly toward Kimiko Kurobashi, his arms outstretched, groping for words. Nothing came out of his mouth but an unintelligible croak. Once he reached her, George gathered Kimiko in his arms and crushed her against him.
    â€œKimi, Kimi, Kimi,” he murmured over and over.
    She placed both hands against his chest andpried herself away. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
    Shaking his head, George Yamamoto didn’t answer directly. “Where’s your mother?” he asked.
    â€œShe’s out back, but tell me. What’s wrong?”
    â€œIt’s your father, Kimi.”
    â€œMy father! What about him? Is he dead?”
    Her question registered in my consciousness like an arrow zinging straight into the bull’s-eye. Not “Is he hurt?” Not “Has there been an accident?” or “Is he in the