8

   The Imperial Arms was an apartment building on a tree-lined street a kilometer from Westwood Village. Its fake Tudor beams needed a paint job, and the whole building had a run-down appearance. But that was not unusual in this middle-class section of apartments inhabited by graduate students and young families. In fact, the chief characteristic of the Imperial Arms seemed to be its anonymity: you could drive by the building every day and never notice it.
   “Perfect,” Connor said, as we walked up the steps to the entrance. “It’s just what they like.”
   “What who likes?”
   We came into the lobby, which had been renovated in the most bland California style: pastel wallpaper with a flower print, overstuffed couches, cheap ceramic lamps, and a chrome coffee table. The only thing to distinguish it from a hundred other apartment lobbies was the security desk in the corner, where a heavyset Japanese doorman looked up from his comic book with a distinctly unfriendly manner. “Help you?”
   Connor showed his badge. He asked where Cheryl Austin’s apartment was.
   “I announce you,” the doorman said, reaching for the phone.
   “Don’t bother.”
   “No. I announce. Maybe she have company now.”
   “I’m sure she doesn’t,” Connor said. “Kore wa keisatsu no shigoto da.” He was saying we were on official police business.
   The doorman gave a tense bow. “Kyugo shitu.” He handed Connor a key.
   We went through a second glass door, and down a carpeted corridor. There were small lacquer tables at each end of the corridor, and in its simplicity, the interior was surprisingly elegant.
   “Typically Japanese,” Connor said, with a smile.
   I thought: a run-down, fake Tudor apartment building in Westwood? Typically Japanese? From a room to the left, I heard faint rap music: the latest Hammer hit.
   “It’s because the outside gives no clue to the inside,” Connor explained. “That’s a fundamental principle of Japanese thinking. The public facade is unrevealing—in architecture, the human face, everything. It’s always been that way. You look at old samurai houses in Takayama or Kyoto. You can’t tell anything from the outside.”
   “This is a Japanese building?”
   “Of course. Why else would a Japanese national who hardly speaks English be the doorman? And he is a yakuza. You probably noticed the tattoo.”
   I hadn’t. The yakuza were Japanese gangsters. I didn’t know there were yakuza here in America, and said so.
   “You must understand,” Connor said, “there is a shadow world—here in Los Angeles, in Honolulu, in New York. Most of the time you’re never aware of it. We live in our regular American world, walking on our American streets, and we never notice that right alongside our world is a second world. Very discreet, very private. Perhaps in New York you will see Japanese businessmen walking through an unmarked door, and catch a glimpse of a club behind. Perhaps you will hear of a small sushi bar in Los Angeles that charges twelve hundred dollars a person, Tokyo prices. But they are not listed in the guidebooks. They are not a part of our American world. They are part of the shadow world, available only to the Japanese.”
   “And this place?”
   “This is a bettaku. A love residence where mistresses are kept. And here is Miss Austin’s apartment.”
   Connor unlocked the door with the key the doorman had given him. We went inside.

   It was a two-bedroom unit, furnished with expensive oversized rental pieces in pastel pink and green. The oil paintings on the walls had been rented, too; a label on the side of one frame said Breuner’s Rents. The kitchen counter was bare, except for a bowl of fruit. The refrigerator contained only yogurt and cans of Diet Coke. The couches in the living room didn’t look as if anybody had ever sat on them. On the coffee table was a picture book of Hollywood star portraits and a vase of dried flowers. Empty ashtrays scattered around.
   One of the bedrooms had been converted to a den, with a couch and a television, and an exercise bike in the corner. Everything was brand-new. The television still had a sticker that said DIGITAL TUNING FEATURE diagonally across one corner. The handlebars of the exercise bike were covered in plastic wrap.
   In the master bedroom, I finally found some human clutter. One mirrored closet door stood open, and three expensive party dresses were thrown across the bed. Evidently she had been trying to decide what to wear. On the dresser top were bottles of perfume, a diamond necklace, a gold Rolex, framed photographs, and an ashtray with stubbed-out Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes. The top dresser drawer, containing panties and undergarments, was partially open. I saw her passport stuck in the corner, and thumbed through it. There was one visa for Saudi Arabia, one for Indonesia, and three entry stamps for Japan.
   The stereo in the corner was still turned on, an ejected tape in the player. I pushed it in and Jerry Lee Lewis sang, “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, too much love drives a man insane.…” Texas music, too old for a young girl like this. But maybe she liked golden oldies.
   I turned back to the dresser. Several framed color enlargements showed Cheryl Austin smiling in front of Asian backgrounds—the red gates of a shrine, a formal garden, a street with gray skyscrapers, a train station. The pictures seemed to be taken in Japan. In most of the pictures Cheryl was alone, but in a few she was accompanied by an older Japanese man with glasses and a receding hairline. A final shot showed her in what looked like the American West. Cheryl was standing near a dusty pickup truck, smiling beside a frail, grandmotherly woman in sunglasses. The older woman wasn’t smiling and looked uncomfortable.
   Tucked in beside the dresser were several large paper rolls, standing on end. I opened one. It was a poster showing Cheryl in a bikini, smiling and holding up a bottle of Asahi beer. All the writing on the poster was in Japanese.
   I went into the bathroom.
   I saw a pair of jeans kicked in the corner. A white sweater tossed on the countertop. A wet towel on a hook by the shower stall. Beads of water inside the stall. Electric haircurlers unplugged by the counter. Stuck in the mirror frame, photos of Cheryl standing with another Japanese man on the Malibu pier. This man was in his midthirties, and handsome. In one photograph, he had draped his arm familiarly over her shoulder. I could clearly see the scar on his hand.
   “Bingo,” I said.
   Connor came into the room. “Find something?”
   “Our man with the scar.”
   “Good.” Connor studied the picture carefully. I looked back at the clutter of the bathroom. The stuff around the sink. “You know,” I said, “something bothers me about this place.”
   “What’s that?”
   “I know she hasn’t lived here long. And I know everything is rented… but still… I can’t get over the feeling that this place has a contrived look. I can’t quite put my finger on why.”
   Connor smiled. “Very good, Lieutenant. It does have a contrived look. And there’s a reason for it.”
   He handed me a Polaroid photo. It showed the bathroom we were standing in. The jeans kicked in the corner. The towel hanging. The curlers on the counter. But it was taken with one of those ultra-wide-angle cameras that distort everything. The SID teams sometimes used them for evidence.
   “Where did you get this?”
   “From the trash bin in the hall, by the elevators.”
   “So it must have been taken earlier tonight.”
   “Yes. Notice anything different about the room?”
   I examined the Polaroid carefully. “No, it looks the same… wait a minute. Those pictures stuck in her mirror. They aren’t in the Polaroid. Those pictures have been added.”
   “Exactly.” Connor walked back into the bedroom. He picked up one of the framed pictures on the dresser. “Now look at this one,” he said. “Miss Austin and a Japanese friend in Shinjuku Station in Tokyo. She was probably drawn to the Kabukichō section—or perhaps she was just shopping. Notice the right-hand edge of the picture. See the narrow strip that’s lighter in color?”
   “Yes.” And I understood what that strip meant: there had been another picture on top of this one. The edge of this picture had stuck out, and was sun-faded. “The overlying picture has been removed.”
   “Yes,” Connor said.
   “The apartment has been searched.”
   “Yes,” Connor said. “A very thorough job. They came in earlier tonight, took Polaroids, searched the rooms, and then put things back the way they were. But it’s impossible to do that exactly. The Japanese say artlessness is the most difficult art. And these men can’t help themselves, they’re obsessive. So they leave the picture frames a little too squared-off on the counter, and the perfume bottles a little too carefully cluttered. Everything is a little forced. Your eye can see it even if your brain doesn’t register it.”
   I said, “But why search the room? What pictures did they remove? Her with the killer?”
   “That’s not clear,” Connor said. “Evidently her association with Japan, and with Japanese men, was not objectionable. But there was something they had to get right away, and it can only be—”
   Then, from the living room, a tentative voice said, “Lynn? Honey? You here?”

9

   She was silhouetted in the doorway, looking in. Barefooted, wearing shorts and a tank top. I couldn’t see her face well, but she was obviously what my old partner Anderson would call a snake charmer.
   Connor showed his badge. She said her name was Julia Young. She had a Southern accent, and a slight slur to her speech. Connor turned on the light and we could see her better. She was a beautiful girl. She came into the room hesitantly.
   “I heard the music—is she here? Is Cherylynn okay? I know she went to that party tonight.”
   “I haven’t heard anything,” Connor said, with a quick glance at me. “Do you know Cherylynn?”
   “Well, sure. I live right across the hall, in number eight. Why is everybody in her room?”
   “Everybody?”
   “Well, you two. And the two Japanese guys.”
   “When were they here?”
   “I don’t know. Maybe half an hour ago. Is it something about Cherylynn?”
   I said, “Did you get a look at the men, Miss Young?” I was thinking she might have been looking out of the peephole of her door.
   “Well, I guess. I said hello to them.”
   “How’s that?”
   “I know one of them pretty well. Eddie.”
   “Eddie?”
   “Eddie Sakamura. We all know Eddie. Fast Eddie.”
   I said, “Can you describe him?”
   She gave me a funny look. “He’s the guy in the pictures—the young guy with the scar on his hand. I thought everybody knew Eddie Sakamura. He’s in the newspaper all the time. Charities and stuff. He’s a big party guy.”
   I said, “Do you have any idea how I could find him?”
   Connor said, “Eddie Sakamura is part owner of a Polynesian restaurant in Beverly Hills called Bora Bora. He hangs out there.”
   “That’s him,” Julia said. “That place is like his office. I can’t stand it myself, it’s too noisy. But Eddie’s just running around, chasing those big blondes. He loves to look up to a girl.”
   She leaned against a table, and pushed her full brown hair back from her face seductively. She looked at me and gave a little pout. “You two guys partners?”
   “Yes,” I said.
   “He showed me his badge. But you didn’t show me yours.”
   I took out my wallet. She looked at it. “Peter,” she said, reading. “My very first boyfriend was named Peter. But he wasn’t as handsome as you.” She smiled at me.
   Connor cleared his throat and said, “Have you been in Cherylynn’s apartment before?”
   “Well, I guess. I live right across the way. But she hasn’t been in town much lately. Seems like she’s always traveling.”
   “Traveling where?”
   “All over. New York, Washington, Seattle, Chicago… all over. She has this boyfriend who travels a lot. She meets him. Actually I think she just meets him when his wife isn’t around.”
   “This boyfriend is married?”
   “Well, there’s something in the way. You know. Obstructing.”
   “Do you know who he is?”
   “No. She once said he’d never come to her apartment. He’s some big important guy. Real rich. They send the jet for her, and off she goes. Whoever he is, he drives Eddie crazy. But Eddie is the jealous type, you know. Got to be iro otoko to all the girls. The sexy lover.”
   Connor said, “Is Cheryl’s relationship a secret? With this boyfriend?”
   “I don’t know. I never thought it was. It’s just real intense. She’s madly in love with the guy.”
   “She’s madly in love?”
   “You can’t imagine. I’ve seen her drop everything to run and meet him. One night she comes over, gives me two tickets to the Springsteen concert, but she’s all excited because she’s going to Detroit. She’s got her little carry-on in her hand. She’s got her little nice-girl dress on. Because he just called ten minutes ago and said, ‘Meet me.’ Her face all bright, she looks about five years old. I don’t know why she can’t figure it out.”
   “Figure what out?”
   “This guy is just using her.”
   “Why do you say that?”
   “Cherylynn is beautiful, and real sophisticated-looking. She’s worked all over the world as a model, mostly in Asia. But deep down she’s a small-town girl. I mean, Midland is an oil town, there’s lots of money, but it’s still a small town. And Cherylynn wants the ring on the finger and the kids and the dog in the yard. And this guy isn’t going to do it. She hasn’t figured it out.”
   I said, “But you don’t know who this man is?”
   “No, I don’t.” A sly look crossed her face. She shifted her body, dropping one shoulder so her breasts thrust forward. “But you’re not really here because of some old boyfriend, are you?”
   Connor nodded. “Not really, no.”
   Julia smiled in a knowing way. “It’s Eddie, isn’t it?”
   “Umm,” Connor said.
   “I knew it,” she said. “I knew he’d get in trouble sooner or later. We all talked about it, all the girls here in the Arms.” She made a vague gesture. “Because he’s just going too fast. Fast Eddie. You wouldn’t think he was Japanese. He’s so flashy.”
   Connor said, “He’s from Osaka?”
   “His father’s a big industrialist there, with Daimatsu. He’s a nice old guy. When he comes over to visit, sometimes he sees one of the girls on the second floor. And Eddie. Eddie was supposed to get educated here for a few years, then go home to work for the kaisha, the company. But he won’t go home. He loves it here. Why not? He’s got everything. He buys a new Ferrari every time he bangs up the old one. He’s got more money than God. He’s lived here long enough, he’s just like an American. Handsome. Sexy. And with all the drugs. You know, real party animal. What’s in Osaka for him?”
   I said, “But you said you always knew…”
   “That he’d get in trouble? Sure. Because of that crazy side. That edge.” She shrugged. “A lot of them have it. These guys come over from Tokyo, and even if they have a shōkai, an introduction, you still have to be careful. They think nothing of dropping ten or twenty thousand in a night. It’s like a tip for them. Leave it on the dresser. But then, what they want to do—at least, some of them…”
   She drifted into silence. Her eyes had a vacant, unfocused look. I didn’t say anything, I just waited. Connor was looking at her, nodding sympathetically.
   Abruptly, she began to speak again, as if unaware of the pause. “And to them,” she said, “their wishes, their desires, it’s just as natural as leaving the tip. It’s completely natural to them. I mean, I don’t mind a little golden shower or whatever, handcuffs, you know. Maybe a little spanking if I like the guy. But I won’t let anybody cut me. I don’t care how much money. None of those things with knives or swords… But they can be… A lot of them, they are so polite, so correct, but then they get turned on, they have this… this way…” She broke off, shaking her head. “They’re strange people.”
   Connor glanced at his watch. “Miss Young, you’ve been very helpful. We may need to speak to you again. Lieutenant Smith will take your phone number—“
   “Yes, of course.”
   I flipped open my pad.
   Connor said, “I’m going to have a word with the doorman.”
   “Shinichi,” she said.
   Connor left. I took down Julia’s number. She licked her lips as she watched me write. Then she said, “You can tell me. Did he kill her?”
   “Who?”
   “Eddie. Did he kill Cherylynn?”
   She was a pretty girl but I could see the excitement in her eyes. She was looking at me with a steady gaze. Her eyes were shining. It was creepy. I said, “Why do you ask?”
   “Because. He was always threatening to. Like this afternoon, he threatened her.”
   I said, “Eddie was here this afternoon?”
   “Sure.” She shrugged. “He’s here all the time. He came to see her this afternoon, real worked up. They put extra soundproofing to the walls in this building when they took it over. But even so, you could hear them scream at each other in her apartment. Him and Cherylynn. She’d have on her Jerry Lee Lewis, the one she played day and night until you just about went crazy, and they’d be screaming and throwing things. He’d always say, ‘I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, you bitch.’ So. Did he?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “But she’s dead?” Her eyes still shining.
   “Yes.”
   “It had to happen,” she said. She seemed completely calm. “We all knew it. It was just a matter of time. If you want, call me. If you need more information.”
   “Yes. I will.” I gave her my card. “And if you think of anything else, you can call me at this number.”
   She slipped it into the hip pocket of her shorts, twisting her body. “I like talking to you, Peter.”
   “Yes. Okay.”
   I walked down the corridor. When I got to the end I looked back. She was standing in her doorway, waving good-bye.

10

   Connor was using the phone in the lobby while the doorman stared sullenly at him, as if he wanted to stop him, but couldn’t think of a reason why.
   “That’s right,” Connor was saying. “All the outgoing calls from that phone between eight and ten p.m. That’s right.” He listened for a moment. “Well, I don’t care if your data isn’t organized that way, just get it for me. How long will it take? Tomorrow? Don’t be ridiculous. What do you think this is? I need it within two hours. I’ll call you back. Yes. Fuck you, too.” He hung up. “Let’s go, kōhai.”
   We walked outside to the car.
   I said, “Checking your contacts?”
   “Contacts?” He looked puzzled. “Oh. Graham said something to you about my ‘contacts.’ I don’t have any special informants. He just thinks I do.”
   “He mentioned the Arakawa case.”
   Connor sighed. “That old thing.” We walked toward the car. “You want to know that story? It’s simple. Two Japanese nationals get killed. The department puts detectives on the case who can’t speak Japanese. Finally, after a week, they give the case to me.”
   “And what did you do?”
   “The Arakawas were staying at the New Otani Hotel. I got the phone records of the calls they made to Japan. I called those numbers, and spoke to some people in Osaka. Then I called Osaka and talked to the police there. Again, in Japanese. They were surprised to hear we didn’t know the whole story.”
   “I see.”
   “Not quite,” Connor said. “Because the police department here was very embarrassed. The press had gone out on a limb, criticizing the department. All sorts of people had sent flowers. There had been a big show of sympathy for what turned out to be gangsters. A lot of people were embarrassed. So the whole thing became my fault. I had done something underhanded to solve the case. Pissed me off, I can tell you.”
   “That’s why you went to Japan?”
   “No. That’s another story.”
   We came to the car. I looked back at the Imperial Arms, and saw Julia Young standing at the window, staring down at us. “She’s seductive,” I said.
   “The Japanese call women like that shirigaru onna. They say she has a light ass.” He opened the car door, and got in. “But she’s on drugs. We can’t trust anything she told us. Even so, there’s starting to be a pattern I don’t like.” He glanced at his watch, and shook his head. “Damn. We’re taking too long. We’d better go to the Palomino, to see Mr. Cole.”
   I started driving south, toward the airport. Connor sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at his feet, looking unhappy.
   “Why do you say there’s a pattern you don’t like?”
   Connor said, “The wrappers in the waste basket. The Polaroid in the trash. Those things shouldn’t have been left behind.”
   “You said yourself, they’re in a hurry.”
   “Maybe. But you know the Japanese think American police are incompetent. This sloppiness is a sign of their disdain.”
   “Well, we’re not incompetent.”
   Connor shook his head. “Compared to the Japanese, we are incompetent. In Japan, every criminal gets caught. For major crimes, convictions run ninety-nine percent. So any criminal in Japan knows from the outset he is going to get caught. But here, the conviction rate is more like seventeen percent. Not even one in five. So a criminal in the States knows he probably isn’t going to get caught—and if he’s caught, he won’t be convicted, thanks to all his legal safeguards. And you know every study of police effectiveness shows that American detectives either solve the case in the first six hours, or they never solve it at all.”
   “So what are you saying?”
   “I’m saying that a crime occurred here with the expectation that it won’t be solved. And I want to solve it, kōhai.”

   Connor was silent for the next ten minutes. He sat very still, with his arms folded and his chin sunk on his chest. His breathing was deep and regular. I might have thought he had fallen asleep, except his eyes were open.
   I just drove the car, and listened to him breathe.
   Finally, he said: “Ishiguro.”
   “What about him?”
   “If we knew what made Ishiguro behave as he did, we’d understand this case.”
   “I don’t understand.”
   “It’s hard for an American to see him clearly,” Connor said. “Because in America, you think a certain amount of error is normal. You expect the plane to be late. You expect the mail to be undelivered. You expect the washing machine to break down. You expect things to go wrong all the time.
   “But Japan is different. Everything works in Japan. In a Tokyo train station, you can stand at a marked spot on the platform and when the train stops, the doors will open right in front of you. Trains are on time. Bags are not lost. Connections are not missed. Deadlines are met. Things happen as planned. The Japanese are educated, prepared, and motivated. They get things done. There’s no screwing around.”
   “Uh-huh…”
   “And tonight was a very big night for the Nakamoto Corporation. You can be sure they planned everything down to the smallest detail. They have the vegetarian hors d’oeuvres that Madonna likes and the photographer she prefers. Believe me: they’re prepared. They have planned for every exigency. You know how they are: they sit around and discuss endless possibilities—what if there’s a fire? What if there’s an earthquake? A bomb scare? Power failure? Endlessly going over the most unlikely events. It’s obsessive, but when the final night arrives, they’ve thought of everything and they’re in complete control. It’s very bad form not to be in control. Okay?”
   “Okay.”
   “But there is our friend Ishiguro, the official representative of Nakamoto, standing in front of a dead girl, and he’s clearly not in control. He’s yōshiki nō, doing Western-style confrontation, but he isn’t comfortable—I’m sure you noticed the sweat on his lip. And his hand is damp; he keeps wiping it on his trousers. He is rikutsuppoi, too argumentative. He’s talking too much.
   “In short, he’s behaving as if he doesn’t really know what to do, as if he doesn’t even know who this girl is—which he certainly does, since he knows everybody invited to that party—and pretending he doesn’t know who killed her. When he almost certainly knows that, too.”
   The car bounced in a pothole, and jolted back up. “Wait a minute. Ishiguro knows who killed the girl?”
   “I’m sure of it. And he’s not the only one. At least three people must know who killed her, at this point. Didn’t you say you used to be in press relations?”
   “Yes. Last year.”
   “You keep any contacts in TV news?”
   “A few,” I said. “They might be rusty. Why?”
   “I want to look at some tape that was shot tonight.”
   “Just look? Not subpoena?”
   “Right. Just look.”
   “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. I was thinking I could call Jennifer Lewis at KNBC, or Bob Arthur at KCBS. Probably Bob.
   Connor said, “It has to be somebody you can approach personally. Otherwise the stations won’t help us. You noticed there were no TV crews at the crime scene tonight. At most crime scenes, you have to fight your way past the cameras just to get to the tape. But tonight, no TV crews, no reporters. Nothing.”
   I shrugged. “We were on land lines. The press couldn’t monitor radio transmissions.”
   “They were already there,” Connor said, “covering the party with Tom Cruise and Madonna. And then a girl gets murdered on the floor above. So where were the TV crews?”
   I said, “Captain, I don’t buy it.”
   One of the things I learned as a press officer is that there aren’t any conspiracies. The press is too diverse, and in a sense too disorganized. In fact, on the rare occasions when we needed an embargo—like a kidnapping with ransom negotiations in progress—we had a hell of a time getting cooperation. “The paper closes early. The TV crews have to make the eleven o’clock news. They probably went back to edit their stories.”
   “I disagree. I think the Japanese expressed concern about their kigyō image, their company image, and the press cooperated with no coverage. Trust me, kōhai: the pressure is being applied.”
   “I can’t believe that.”
   “Take my word for it,” Connor said. “The pressure is on.”
   Just then, the car phone rang.

   “God damn it, Peter,” a familiar rough voice said. “What the fuck’s going on with that homicide investigation?” It was the chief. It sounded like he had been drinking.
   “How do you mean, Chief?”
   Connor looked at me, and punched the speaker phone button so he could hear.
   The chief said: “You guys harassing the Japanese? We going to have another set of racial allegations against the department here?”
   “No sir,” I said. “Absolutely not. I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
   “I heard that dumb fuck Graham was making insults as usual,” the chief said.
   “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say insults, Chief—”
   “Look, Peter. Don’t shit me. I already reamed out Fred Hoffmann for sending Graham in the first place. I want that racist turd off the case. We’ve all got to get along with the Japanese from now on. It’s the way the world is. You hearing me, Peter?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Now about John Connor. You got him with you, is that right?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Why did you bring him into this?”
   I thought: why did I bring him in? Fred Hoffmann must have decided to say that Connor was my idea, and not his own.
   “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I—”
   “I understand,” the chief said. “You probably thought you couldn’t handle the case yourself. Wanted some help. But I’m afraid you bought more trouble than help. Because the Japanese don’t like Connor. And I got to tell you. I go way back with John. We entered the academy together back in fifty-nine. He’s always been a loner and a troublemaker. You know, anybody who goes to live in some foreign country, it’s because he can’t fit in here at home. I don’t want him screwing up this investigation now.”
   “Chief—”
   “This is how I see it, Peter. You got a homicide here, wrap it up and get it over with. Do it quick and do it neat. I’m looking to you and you alone. You hearing me?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “The connection is good?”
   “Yes, sir,” I said.
   “Wrap it up, Pete,” the chief said. “I don’t want anybody else calling me on this.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Finish it by tomorrow latest. That’s it.” And he hung up.
   I put the phone back in the cradle.
   “Yes,” Connor said. “I’d say pressure is being applied.”

11

   I drove south on the 405 freeway, toward the airport. It was foggier here. Connor stared out the window.
   “In a Japanese organization, you’d never get a call like that. The chief just hung you out to dry. He takes no responsibility—it’s all your problem. And he’s blaming you for things that have nothing to do with you, like Graham, and me.” Connor shook his head. “The Japanese don’t do that. The Japanese have a saying: fix the problem, not the blame. In American organizations it’s all about who fucked up. Whose head will roll. In Japanese organizations it’s about what’s fucked up, and how to fix it. Nobody gets blamed. Their way is better.”
   Connor was silent, staring out the window. We were driving past Slauson, the Marina freeway a dark curve arcing above us in the fog.
   I said, “The chief was in the bag, that’s all.”
   “Yes. And uninformed, as usual. But even so, it sounds like we’d better have this case solved before he gets out of bed tomorrow.”
   “Can we do that?”
   “Yes. If Ishiguro delivers those tapes.”
   The phone rang again. I answered it.
   It was Ishiguro.
   I handed the phone to Connor.

   I could hear Ishiguro faintly through the receiver. He sounded tense, speaking rapidly. “A, moshi moshi, Connor-san desuka? Keibi no heyani denwa shitan desuga ne. Daremo denain desuyo.”
   Connor cupped his hand over the phone and translated. “He called the security guard but no one was there.”
   “Sorede, chuōkeibishitsu ni renraku shite, hito wo okutte moraimashite, issho ni tēpu o kakunin shite kimashita.”
   “Then he called the main security office and asked them to come down with him to check the tapes.”
   “Tēpu wa subete rekōdā no naka ni arimasu. Nakunattemo torikaeraretemo imasen. Subete daijōbu desu.”
   “The tapes are all in the recorders. No tapes are missing or switched.” Connor frowned and replied. “Iya, tēpu wa surikaerarete iru hazu nanda. Tēpu o sagase!”
   “Dakara, daijōbu nandesu, Connor-san. Dōshiro to iun desuka?”
   “He insists everything is in order.”
   Connor said, “Tēpu o sagase!” To me, he said, “I told him I wanted the damn tapes.”
   “Daijōbuda to itterudeshou. Dōshite sonnaini tēpu ni kodawarun desuka?”
   “Ore niwa wakatte irunda. Tēpu wa nakunatte iru. I know more than you think, Mr. Ishiguro. Mōichido iu, tēpu o sagasunda!”
   Connor banged the phone in the cradle, and sat back, snorting angrily. “Bastards. They’re taking the position that there are no missing tapes.”
   “What does that mean?” I said.
   “They’ve decided to play hardball.” Connor stared out the window at the traffic, and tapped his teeth with his finger. “They’d never do it unless they felt they had a strong position. An unassailable position. Which means…”
   Connor drifted off into his private thoughts. I saw his face intermittently reflected in the glass under passing street lamps. Finally he said, “No, no, no,” as if he were talking to someone.
   “No, what?”
   “It can’t be Graham.” He shook his head. “Graham is too risky—too many ghosts from the past. And it’s not me, either. I’m old news. So it must be you, Peter.”
   I said, “What are you talking about?”
   “Something has happened,” Connor said, “to make Ishiguro think he has leverage. And I’d guess it’s something to do with you.”
   “Me?”
   “Yeah. It’s almost certainly something personal. You have any problems in your past?”
   “Like what?”
   “Any priors, arrests, internal affairs investigations, allegations of questionable conduct like drinking or homosexuality or chasing women? Any drug rehab program, problems with partners, problems with superiors. Anything personal or professional. Anything.”
   I shrugged. “Jeez, I don’t think so.”
   Connor just waited, looking at me. Finally he said, “They think they have something, Peter.”
   “I’m divorced. I’m a single parent. I have a daughter, Michelle. She’s two years old.”
   “Yes…”
   “I lead a quiet life. I take care of my kid. I’m responsible.”
   “And your wife?”
   “My ex-wife is a lawyer in the D.A.’s office.”
   “When did you get divorced?”
   “Two years ago.”
   “Before the child was born?”
   “Just after.”
   “Why did you get divorced?”
   “Christ. Why does anybody get divorced.”
   Connor said nothing.
   “We were only married a year. She was young when we met. Twenty-four. She had these fantasies about things. We met in court. She thought I was a rough, tough detective facing danger every day. She liked that I had a gun. All that. So we had this affair. Then when she got pregnant she didn’t want to have an abortion. She wanted to get married instead. It was some romantic idea she had. She didn’t really think it through. But the pregnancy was hard, and it was too late to abort, and pretty soon she decided she didn’t like living with me because my apartment was small, and I didn’t make enough money, and I lived in Culver City instead of Brentwood. And by the time the baby was finally born, it was like she was completely disillusioned. She said she had made a mistake. She wanted to pursue her career. She didn’t want to be married to a cop. She didn’t want to raise a kid. She said she was sorry, but it was all a mistake. And she left.”
   Connor was listening with his eyes closed. “Yes…”
   “I don’t see why all this matters. She left two years ago. And after that, I couldn’t—I didn’t want to work detective hours any more, because now I had to raise the kid, so I took the tests and transferred to Special Services, and I worked the press office. No problems there. Everything went fine. Then last year this Asian liaison job came up, and it paid better. Another couple hundred a month. So I applied for that.”
   “Uh-huh.”
   “I mean, I can really use the money. I have extra expenses now, like Michelle’s day care. You know what day care costs for two-year-olds? And I have full-time housekeeping, and Lauren doesn’t make her child-support payments more than half the time. She says she can’t manage on her salary, but she just bought a new BMW, so I don’t know. I mean, what am I going to do, take her to court? She works for the fucking D.A.”
   Connor was silent. Up ahead, I saw the airplanes coming down over the freeway. We were approaching the airport.
   “Anyway,” I said. “I was glad when the liaison job came along. Because it works out better for the hours, and for the money. And that’s how I got to be here. In this car with you. That’s it.”
   “Kōhai,” he said quietly. “We’re in this together. Just tell me. What is the problem?”
   “There isn’t any problem.”
   “Kōhai.”
   “There isn’t.”
   “Kōhai…”
   “Hey, John,” I said, “let me tell you something. When you apply for Special Services liaison, five different committees go over your record. To get a liaison job, you have to be clean. The committees went over my record. And they found nothing substantial.”
   Connor nodded. “But they found something.”
   “Christ,” I said, “I was a detective for five years. You can’t work that long without a few complaints. You know that.”
   “And what were the complaints against you?”
   I shook my head. “Nothing. Little stuff. I arrested a guy my first year, he accused me of undue force. That charge was dropped after inquiry. I arrested a woman for armed robbery, she claimed I planted a gram on her. Charge dropped; it was her gram. Murder suspect claimed I beat and kicked him during questioning. But other officers were present at all times. A drunken woman on a domestic violence call later claimed I molested her child. She dropped the charge. Teenage gang leader arrested for murder said I made a homosexual pass at him. Charge withdrawn. That’s it.”

   If you’re a cop you know that complaints like these are background noise, like traffic on the street. There’s nothing you can do about them. You’re in an adversarial environment, accusing people of crimes all the time. They accuse you back. That’s just the way it works. The department never pays any attention unless there’s a pattern or repetition. If a guy has three or four complaints of undue force over a couple of years, then he gets an inquiry. Or a string of racial complaints, he gets an inquiry. But otherwise, as the assistant chief Jim Olson always says, being a cop is a job for the thick-skinned.
   Connor didn’t say anything for a long time. He frowned, thinking it over. Finally he said, “What about the divorce? Problems there?”
   “Nothing unusual.”
   “You and your ex are on speaking terms?”
   “Yes. We’re okay. Not great. But okay.”
   He was still frowning. Still looking for something. “And you left the detective division two years ago?”
   “Yes.”
   “Why?”
   “I already told you.”
   “You said that you couldn’t work the hours.”
   “That was most of it, yeah.”
   “That, and what else?”
   I shrugged. “After the divorce, I just didn’t want to work homicide any more. I felt like—I don’t know. Disillusioned. I had this little infant and my wife had moved out. She was going on with her life, dating some hotshot attorney. I was left holding the kid. I just felt flat. I didn’t want to be a detective any more.”
   “You seek counseling at that time? Therapy?”
   “No.”
   “Trouble with drugs or alcohol?”
   “No.”
   “Other women?”
   “Some.”
   “During the marriage?”
   I hesitated.
   “Farley? In the mayor’s office?”
   “No. That was later.”
   “But there was somebody during the marriage.”
   “Yes. But she lives in Phoenix now. Her husband got transferred.”
   “She was in the department?”
   I shrugged.
   Connor sat back in his seat. “Okay, kōhai,” he said. “If this is all there is, you’re fine.” He looked at me.
   “That’s all.”
   “But I have to warn you,” he said. “I’ve been through this kind of thing before, with the Japanese. When the Japanese play hardball, they can make things unpleasant. Really unpleasant.”
   “You trying to scare me?”
   “No. Just telling you the way things are.”
   “Fuck the Japanese,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
   “Fine. Now I think you better call your friends at the network, and tell them we’ll be over, after our next stop.”

12

   A 747 roared low overhead, its landing lights flaring in the fog. It passed the sputtering neon sign that read Girls! Girls! All Nude! Girls! It was around eleven-thirty when we went inside.
   To call the Club Palomino a strip joint was to flatter it. It was a converted bowling alley with cactus and horses painted on the walls. It seemed smaller inside than it appeared from the outside. A woman in a silver tassled G-string who looked close to forty danced listlessly in orange light. She seemed as bored as the customers hunched over tiny pink tables. Topless waitresses moved through the smoky air. The tape-recorded music had a loud hiss.
   A guy just inside the door said, “Twelve bucks. Two drink minimum.” Connor flipped his badge. The guy said, “Okay, fine.”
   Connor looked around and said, “I didn’t know Japanese came here.” I saw three businessmen in blue suits, sitting at a corner table.
   “Hardly ever,” the bouncer said. “They like the Star Strip downtown. More glitz, more tits. You ask me, those guys got lost from their tour.”
   Connor nodded, “I’m looking for Ted Cole.”
   “At the bar. Guy with the glasses.”
   Ted Cole was sitting at the bar. His windbreaker covered his Nakamoto Security uniform. He stared at us dully when we came up and sat beside him.
   The bartender came over. Connor said, “Two Buds.”
   “No Bud. Asahi okay?”
   “Okay.”
   Connor flipped his badge. Cole shook his head and turned away from us. He looked studiously at the stripper.
   “I don’t know anything.”
   Connor said, “About what?”
   “About anything. I’m just minding my own business. I’m off duty.” He was a little drunk.
   Connor said, “When did you get off duty?”
   “I got off early tonight.”
   “Why is that?”
   “Stomach trouble. I got an ulcer, it acts up sometimes. So I got off early.”
   “What time?”
   “I got off at eight-fifteen at the latest.”
   “Do you punch a time clock?”
   “No. We don’t do that. No time clock.”
   “And who took over for you?”
   “I got relieved.”
   “By whom?”
   “My supervisor.”
   “Who is that?”
   “I don’t know him. Japanese guy. Never seen him before.”
   “He’s your supervisor, and you never saw him before?”
   “New guy. Japanese. I don’t know him. What do you want from me, anyway?”
   “Just to ask a few questions,” Connor said.
   “I got nothing to hide,” Cole said.
   One of the Japanese men sitting at the table came up to the bar. He stood near us and said to the bartender, “What kind of cigarettes you got?”
   “Marlboro,” the bartender said.
   “What else?”
   “Maybe Kools. I have to check. But I know we got Marlboro. You want Marlboro?”
   Ted Cole stared at the Japanese man. The Japanese seemed not to notice him as he stood at the bar. “Kent?” the Japanese said. “You got any Kent lights?”
   “No. No Kent.”
   “Okay then, Marlboro,” the Japanese man said. “Marlboro is okay.” He turned and smiled at us. “This is Marlboro country, right?”
   “That’s right,” Connor said.
   Cole picked up his beer and sipped it. We were all silent. The Japanese man beat the bar with his hands, in time to the music. “Great place,” he said. “Lot of atmosphere.”
   I wondered what he was talking about. This place was a dump.
   The Japanese slid onto the bar stool next to us. Cole studied his beer bottle as if he’d never seen one before. He turned it in his hands, making rings on the bar top.
   The bartender brought cigarettes, and the Japanese man tossed a five-dollar bill on the table. “Keep the change.” He tore open the pack, and took out a cigarette. He smiled at us.
   Connor took out his lighter to light the man’s cigarette. As the man leaned over the flame, he said, “Doko kaisha ittenno?”
   The man blinked. “Sorry?”
   “Wakannē no?” Connor said. “Doko kaisha ittenno?”
   The man smiled, and slipped off the bar stool. “Soro soro ikanakutewa. Shitsurei shimasu.” He gave a little wave, and he went back to his friends across the room.
   “Dewa mata,” Connor said. He moved around to sit on the stool where the Japanese man had been sitting.
   Cole said, “What was that all about?”
   “I just asked him what company he worked for,” Connor said. “But he didn’t want to talk. I guess he wanted to get back to his friends.” Connor ran his hands under the bar, feeling. “Feels clean.”
   Connor turned back to Cole and said, “Now then, Mr. Cole. You were telling me that a supervisor took over for you. At what time was that?”
   “Eight-fifteen.”
   “And you didn’t know him?”
   “No.”
   “And before that time, while you were on duty, were you taping from the video cameras?”
   “Sure. The security office always tapes from the cameras.”
   “And did the supervisor remove the tapes?”
   “Remove them? I don’t think so. The tapes are still there, as far as I know.”
   He looked at us in a puzzled way.
   “You fellows are interested in the tapes?”
   “Yes,” Connor said.
   “Because I never paid much attention to the tapes. I was interested in the cameras.”
   “How’s that?”
   “They were getting the building ready for the big party, and there were lots of last-minute details. But you still had to wonder why they pulled so many security cameras off other parts of the building and put them up on that floor.”
   I said, “They what?”
   “Those cameras weren’t on the forty-sixth floor yesterday morning,” Cole said. “They were scattered all around the building. Somebody moved them during the day. They’re easy to move, you know, because there’s no wires attached.”
   “The cameras have no wires?”
   “No. It’s all cellular transmission inside the building itself. Built that way. That’s why they don’t have audio: they can’t transmit full bandwidth on cellular. So they just send an image. But they can move those cameras around to suit their purposes. See whatever they want to see. You didn’t know that?”
   “No,” I said.
   “I’m surprised nobody told you. It’s one of the features of the building they’re most proud of.” Cole drank his beer. “Only question I have is why somebody would take five cameras and install them on the floor above the party. ‘Cause there’s no security reason. You can lock off the elevators above a certain floor. So for security, you’d want your cameras on the floors below the party. Not above.”
   “But the elevators weren’t locked off.”
   “No. I thought that was kind of unusual, myself.” He looked at the Japanese across the room. “I got to be going soon,” he said.
   “Well,” Connor said. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Cole. We may want to question you again—“

   “I’ll write down my phone number for you,” Cole said, scribbling on a bar napkin.
   “And your address?”
   “Yeah, right. But actually, I’m going out of town for a few days. My mother’s been feeling sick, and she asked me to take her down there to Mexico for a few days. Probably go this weekend.”
   “Long trip?”
   “Week or so. I got vacation days coming up, it seems like a good time to take it.”
   “Sure,” Connor said. “I can see how it would. Thanks again for your help.” He shook hands with Cole, and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “And you take care of your health.”
   “Oh, I will.”
   “Stop drinking, and have a safe drive home.” He paused. “Or wherever you may decide to go tonight, instead.”
   Cole nodded. “I think you’re right. That’s not a bad idea.”
   “I know I’m right.”
   Cole shook my hand. Connor was heading out the door. Cole said, “I don’t know why you guys are bothering.”
   “With the tapes?”
   “With the Japanese. What can you do? They’re ahead of us every step of the way. And they have the big guys in their pocket. We can’t beat ‘em now. You two guys’ll never beat ‘em. They’re just too good.”
   Outside, beneath the crackling neon sign, Connor said, “Come on, time is wasting.”
   We got in the car. He handed me the bar napkin. On it was scrawled in block letters:


THEY STOLE THE TAPES

   “Let’s get going,” .Connor said.
   I started the car.

13

   The eleven o’clock news was finished for the night, and the newsroom was nearly deserted. Connor and I went down the hall to the sound stage where the Action News set was still lit up.
   On the set, the evening broadcast was being replayed with the sound off. The anchorman pointed to the monitor. “I’m not stupid, Bobby. I watch these things. She did the lead-in and the wrap-up the last three nights.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say, Bobby.”
   My friend Bob Arthur, the heavyset, tired producer of the eleven o’clock news, sipped a tumbler of straight scotch as big as his fist. He said, “Jim, it just worked out that way.”
   “Worked out that way my ass,” the anchorman said.
   The anchorwoman was a gorgeous redhead with a killer figure. She was taking a long time to shuffle through her notes, making sure she stayed to overhear the conversation between Bob and her coanchor.
   “Look,” the anchorman said. “It’s in my contract. Half the lead-ins and half the wraps. It’s contractual.”
   “But Jim,” the producer said. “The lead tonight was Paris fashions and the Nakamoto party. That’s human interest stuff.”
   “It should have been the serial killer.”
   Bob sighed. “His arraignment was postponed. Anyway, the public is tired of serial killers.”
   The anchorman looked incredulous. “The public is tired of serial killers? Now, where’d you get that?”
   “You can read it yourself in the focus groups, Jim. Serial killers are overexposed. Our audience is worried about the economy. They don’t want any more serial killers.”
   “Our audience is worried about the economy so we lead off with Nakamoto and Paris fashions?”
   “That’s right, Jim,” Bob Arthur said. “In hard times, you do star parties. That’s what people want to see: fashion and fantasy.”
   The anchor looked sullen. “I’m a journalist, I’m here to do hard news, not fashion.”
   “Right, Jim,” the producer said. “That’s why Liz did the intros tonight. We want to keep your image hard news.”
   “When Teddy Roosevelt led this country out of the Great Depression, he didn’t do it with fashion and fantasy.”
   “Franklin Roosevelt.”
   “Whatever. You know what I’m saying. If people are worried, let’s do the economy. Let’s do the balance of payments or whatever it is.”
   “Right, Jim. But this is the eleven o’clock news in the local market, and people don’t want to hear—“
   “And that’s what’s wrong with America,” the anchorman pronounced, stabbing the air with his finger. “People don’t want to hear the real news.”
   “Right, Jim. You’re absolutely right.” He put his arm over the anchorman’s shoulder. “Get some rest, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”
   That seemed to be a signal of some kind, because the anchorwoman finished with her notes and strode off.
   “I’m a journalist,” the anchor said. “I just want to do the job I was trained for.”
   “Right, Jim. More tomorrow. Have a good night.”

   “Stupid dickhead,” Bob Arthur said, leading us down a corridor. “Teddy Roosevelt. Jesus. They’re not journalists. They’re actors. And they count their lines, like all actors.” He sighed, and took another drink of scotch. “Now tell me again, what do you guys want to see?”
   “Tape from the Nakamoto opening.”
   “You mean the air tapes? The story we ran tonight?”
   “No, we want to see the original footage from the camera.”
   “The field tapes. Jeez. I hope we still have them. They may have been bulked.”
   “Bulked?”
   “Bulk degaussed. Erased. We shoot forty cassettes a day here. Most of them get erased right away. We used to save field tapes for a week, but we’re cutting costs, you know.”
   On one side of the newsroom were shelves of stacked Betamax cartridges. Bob ran his finger along the boxes. “Nakamoto… Nakamoto… No, I don’t see them.” A woman went past. “Cindy, is Rick still here?”
   “No, he’s gone home. You need something?”
   “The Nakamoto field tapes. They aren’t on the shelf.”
   “Check Don’s room. He cut it.”
   “Okay.” Bob led us across the newsroom to the editing bays on the far side. He opened a door, and we entered a small, messy room with two monitors, several tape decks, and an editing console. Tapes in boxes were scattered around the floor. Bob rummaged through them. “Okay, you guys are in luck. Camera originals. There’s a lot of it. I’ll get Jenny to run you through them. She’s our best spotter. She knows everybody.” He stuck his head out the door. “Jenny? Jenny!”

   “Okay, let’s see,” Jenny Gonzales said, a few minutes later. She was a bespectacled, heavyset woman in her forties. She scanned the editor’s notes and frowned. “It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them, they just will not put things in proper… Finally. Here we are. Four tapes. Two limo driveups. Two roving inside, at the party. What do you want to see?”
   Connor said, “Start with the driveups.” He glanced at his watch. “Is there any way to do this fast? We’re in a hurry.”
   “Fast as you want. I’m used to it. Let’s see it at high speed.
   She hit a button. At high speed, we saw the limousines pulling up, the doors jumping open, the people getting out, jerkily walking away.
   “Looking for anyone in particular? Because I see somebody marked footages for celebrities during the edit.”
   “We’re not looking for a celebrity,” I said.
   “Too bad. It’s probably all we shot.” We watched the tape. Jenny said, “There’s Senator Kennedy. He’s lost some weight, hasn’t he. Oops, gone. And Senator Morton. Looking very fit. No surprise. That creepy assistant of his. He makes my teeth shiver. Senator Rowe, without his wife, as usual. There’s Tom Hanks. I don’t know this Japanese guy.
   Connor said, “Hiroshi Masukawa, vice-president of Mitsui.”
   “There you go. Senator Chalmers, hair transplant looking good. Congressman Levine. Congressman Daniels. Sober for a change. You know, I’m surprised Nakamoto got so many of these Washington people to attend.”
   “Why do you say that?”
   “Well, when you get down to it, it’s just the opening of some new building. An ordinary corporate bash. It’s on the West Coast. And Nakamoto is pretty controversial right at the moment. Barbra Streisand. I don’t know who the guy is with her.”
   “Nakamoto is controversial? Why?”
   “Because of the MicroCon sale.”
   I said, “What’s MicroCon?”
   “MicroCon is an American company that makes computer equipment. A Japanese company named Akai Ceramics is trying to buy it. There’s opposition to the sale in Congress, because of worries about America losing technology to Japan.”
   I said, “And what does this have to do with Nakamoto?”
   “Nakamoto’s the parent company of Akai.” The first tape finished, and popped out. “Nothing there you wanted?”
   “No. Let’s go on.”
   “Right.” She slid the second tape in. “Anyway, I’m surprised how many of these senators and congressmen felt it was acceptable to show up here tonight. Okay, here we go. More driveups. Roger Hillerman, under secretary of state for Pacific affairs. That’s his assistant with him. Kenichi Aikou, consul general of Japan, here in L.A. Richard Meier, architect. Works for Getty. Don’t know her. Some Japanese…”
   Connor said, “Hisashi Koyama, vice-president of Honda U.S.”
   “Oh, yeah,” Jenny said. “He’s been here about three years now. Probably going home soon. That’s Edna Morris, she heads the U.S. delegation to the GATT talks. You know, General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade. I can’t believe she showed up here, it’s an obvious conflict of interest. But there she is, all smiling and relaxed. Chuck Norris. Eddie Sakamura. Sort of a local playboy. Don’t know the girl with him. Tom Cruise, with his Australian wife. And Madonna, of course.”
   On the accelerated tape, the strobes flashed almost continuously as Madonna stepped from her limousine and preened. “Want to slow it down? You interested in this?”
   Connor said, “Not tonight.”
   “Well, we probably have a lot on her,” Jenny said. She pushed the very high-speed fast-forward and the image streaked gray. When she punched back, Madonna was wiggling toward the elevator, leaning on the arm of a slender Hispanic boy with a mustache. The image blurred as the camera swung back toward the street. Then it stabilized again.
   “There’s Daniel Okimoto. Expert on Japanese industrial policy. That’s Arnold, with Maria. And behind them is Steve Martin, with Arata Isozaki, the architect who designed the Museum—“
   Connor said, “Wait.”
   She punched the console button. The picture froze. Jenny seemed surprised. “You’re interested in Isozaki?”
   “No. Back up, please.”
   The tape ran backward, the frames flicking and blurring as the camera panned off Steve Martin, and went back to record the next arrival from the limousines. But for a moment in the pan, the camera swung past a group of people who had already gotten out of their limousines, and were walking up the carpeted sidewalk.
   Connor said, “There.”
   The image froze. Slightly blurred, I saw a tall blonde in a black cocktail dress walking forward alongside a handsome man in a dark suit.
   “Huh,” Jenny said. “You interested in him, or her?”
   “Her. “
   “Let me think,” Jenny said, frowning. “I’ve seen her at parties with the Washington types for about nine months now. She’s this year’s Kelly Emberg. The athletic modelly kind. But sophisticated, sort of a Tatiana look-alike. Her name is… Austin. Cindy Austin, Carrie Austin… Cheryl Austin. That’s it.”
   I said, “You know anything else about her?”
   Jenny shook her head. “Listen, I think getting a name is pretty good. These girls show up all the time. You see a new one everywhere for six months, a year, and then they’re gone. God knows where they go. Who can keep track of them?”
   “And the man with her?”
   “Richard Levitt. Plastic surgeon. Does a lot of big stars.”
   “What’s he doing here?”
   She shrugged. “He’s around. Like a lot of these guys, he’s a companion to the stars in their time of need. If his patients are getting divorced or whatever, he escorts the woman. When he’s not taking out clients, he takes out models like her. They certainly look good together.”
   On the monitor, Cheryl and her escort walked toward us in intermittent jerks: one frame every thirty seconds. Stepping slow. I noticed they never looked at each other. She seemed tense, expectant.
   Jenny Gonzales said, “So. Plastic surgeon and a model. Can I ask what’s the big deal about these two? Because at an evening like this, they’re just, you know, party favors.”
   Connor said, “She was killed tonight.”
   “Oh, she’s the one? Interesting.”
   I said, “You’ve heard about the murder?”
   “Oh, sure.”
   “Was it on the news?”
   “No, didn’t make the eleven o’clock,” Jenny said. “And it probably won’t be on tomorrow. I can’t see it myself. It’s not really a story.”
   “Why is that?” I asked, glancing at Connor.
   “Well, what’s the peg?”
   “I don’t follow you.”
   “Nakamoto would say, it’s only news because it happened at their opening. They’d take the position that any reporting of it is a smear on them. But in a way they’re right. I mean, if this girl got killed on the freeway, it wouldn’t make the news. If she got killed in a convenience store robbery, it wouldn’t make the news. We have two or three of those every night. So the fact that she gets killed at a party… who cares? It’s still not news. She’s young and pretty, but she’s not special. It’s not as if she has a series or anything.” .
   Connor glanced at his watch. “Shall we look at the other tapes?”
   “The footage from the party? Sure. You looking for this particular girl?”
   “Right.”
   “Okay, here we go.” Jenny put in the third tape.
   We saw scenes from the party on the forty-fifth floor: the swing band, people dancing beneath the hanging decorations. We strained for a glimpse of the girl in the crowd. Jenny said, “In Japan, we wouldn’t have to do this by eye. The Japanese have pretty sophisticated video-recognition software now. They have a program where you identify an image, say a face, and it’ll automatically search tape for you, and find every instance of that face. Find it in a crowd, or wherever it appears. Has the ability to see a single view of a three-dimensional object, and then to recognize the same object in other views. It’s supposed to be pretty nifty. But slow.”
   “I’m surprised the station hasn’t got it.”
   “Oh, it’s not for sale here. The most advanced Japanese video equipment isn’t available in this country. They keep us three to five years behind. Which is their privilege. It’s their technology, they can do what they want. But it’d sure be useful in a case like this.”
   The party images were streaming past, a frenetic blur.
   Suddenly, she locked the image.
   “There. Background camera left. Your Austin girl’s talking to Eddie Sakamura. Of course he’d know her. Sakamura knows all the models. Normal speed here?”
   “Please,” Connor said, staring at the screen.
   The camera made a slow pan around the room. Cheryl Austin remained in view for most of the shot. Laughing with Eddie Sakamura, throwing her head back, resting her hand on his arm, happy to be with him. Eddie clowned for her, his face mobile. He seemed to enjoy making her laugh. But from time to time, her eyes flicked away, glancing around the room. As if she was waiting for something to happen. Or for someone to arrive.
   At one point, Sakamura became aware he did not have her full attention. He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly toward him. She turned her face away from him. He leaned close to her and said something angrily. Then a bald man stepped forward, very close to the camera. The light flared on his face, washing out his features, and his head blocked our view of Eddie and the girl. Then the camera panned left, and we lost them.
   “Damn.”
   “Again?” Jenny backed it up, and we ran it once more.
   I said, “Eddie’s obviously not happy with her.”
   “I’d say.”
   Connor frowned. “It’s so difficult to know what we are seeing. Do you have sound for this?”
   Jenny said, “Sure, but it’s probably walla.” She punched buttons and ran it again. The track was continuous cocktail party din. Only for brief moments did we hear an isolated phrase.
   At one point, Cheryl Austin looked at Eddie Sakamura and said, “…can’t help if it’s important to you I get…”
   His reply to her was garbled, but later, he said clearly to her, “Don’t understand… all about the Saturday meeting…”
   And in the last few seconds of the pan, when he pulled her to him, he snarled a phrase like “…be a fool… no cheapie…”
   I said, “Did he say ‘No cheapie’?”
   “Something like that,” Connor said.
   Jenny said, “Want to run it again?”
   “No,” Connor said. “There’s nothing more to be learned here. Go forward.”
   “Right,” Jenny said.
   The image accelerated, the party-goers becoming frenetic, laughing and raising glasses for quick sips. And then I said, “Wait.”
   Back to normal speed. A blond woman in an Armani silk suit shaking hands with the bald-headed man we had seen a few moments before.
   “What is it?” Jenny said, looking at me.
   “That’s his wife,” Connor said.
   The woman leaned forward to kiss the bald man lightly on the mouth. Then she stepped back and made some comment about the suit he was wearing.
   “She’s a lawyer in the D.A.’s office,” Jenny said. “Lauren Davis. She’s assisted on a couple of big cases. The Sunset Strangler, the Kellerman shooting. She’s very ambitious. Smart and well connected. They say she has a future if she stays in the office. It must be true, because Wyland doesn’t ever let her get air time. As you see, she makes a good appearance, but he keeps her away from the microphones. The bald guy she’s talking to is John McKenna, with Regis McKenna in San Francisco. The company that does the publicity for most high-tech firms,”
   I said, “We can go forward.”
   Jenny pushed the button. “She really your wife, or is your partner kidding?”
   “No, she’s really my wife. Was.”
   “You’re divorced now?”
   “Yeah.”
   Jenny looked at me, and started to say something. Then she decided not to, and looked back at the screen. On the monitor, the party continued at high speed.
   I found myself thinking of Lauren. When I knew her, she was bright and ambitious, but she really didn’t understand very much. She had grown up privileged, she had gone to Ivy League schools, and had the privileged person’s deep belief that whatever she happened to think was probably true. Certainly good enough to live by. Nothing needed to be checked against reality.
   She was young, that was part of it. She was still feeling the world, learning how it worked. She was enthusiastic, and she could be impassioned in expounding her beliefs. But of course her beliefs were always changing, depending on whom she had talked to last. She was very impressionable. She tried on ideas the way some women try on hats. She was always informed on the latest trend. I found it youthful and charming for a while, until it began to annoy me.
   Because she didn’t have any core, any real substance. She was like a television set: she just played the latest show. Whatever it was. She never questioned it.
   In the end, Lauren’s great talent was to conform. She was expert at watching the TV, the newspaper, the boss—whatever she saw as the source of authority—and figuring out what direction the winds were blowing. And positioning herself so she was where she ought to be. I wasn’t surprised she was getting ahead. Her values, like her clothes, were always smart and up-to-date—
   “…to you, Lieutenant, but it’s getting late… Lieutenant?”
   I blinked, and came back. Jenny was talking to me. She pointed to the screen, where a frozen image showed Cheryl Austin in her black dress, standing with two older men in suits.
   I looked over at Connor, but he had turned away, and was talking on the telephone.
   “Lieutenant? This of interest to you?”
   “Yes, sure. Who are they?”
   Jenny started the tape. It ran at normal speed.
   “Senator John Morton and Senator Stephen Rowe. They’re both on the Senate Finance Committee. The one that’s been having hearings about this MicroCon sale.”
   On the screen, Cheryl laughed and nodded. In motion, she was remarkably beautiful, an interesting mixture of innocence and sexuality. At moments, her face appeared knowing and almost hard. She appeared to know both men, but not well. She did not come close to either of them, or touch them except to shake hands. For their part, the senators seemed acutely aware of the camera, and maintained a friendly, if somewhat formal demeanor.
   “Our country’s going to hell, and on a Thursday night, United States senators are standing around chatting with models,” Jenny said. “No wonder we’re in trouble. And these are important guys. They’re talking about Morton as a presidential candidate in the next election.”
   I said, “What do you know about them personally?”
   “They’re both married. Well. Rowe’s semi-separated. His wife stays home in Virginia. He gets around. Tends to drink too much.”
   I looked at Rowe on the monitor. He was the same man who had gotten on the elevator with us earlier in the evening. And he had been drunk then, almost falling down. But he wasn’t drunk now.
   “And Morton?”
   “Supposedly he’s Mr. Clean. Ex-athlete, fitness nut. Eats health food. Family man. Morton’s big area is science and technology. The environment. American competitiveness, American values. All that. But he can’t be that clean, I’ve heard he has a young girlfriend.”
   “Is that right?”
   She shrugged. “The story is, his staffers are trying to break it off. But who knows what’s true.”
   The tape ejected and Jenny pushed in the next one. “This is the last, fellas.”
   Connor hung up the phone and said, “Forget the tape.” He stood. “We’ve got to go, kōhai.”
   “Why?”
   “I’ve been talking to the phone company about the calls made from the pay phone in the lobby of the Nakamoto building between eight and ten.”
   “And?”
   “No calls were made during those hours.”
   I knew that Connor thought that someone had gone out of the security room and called from the pay phone—Cole, or one of the Japanese. Now his hopes of following a promising lead by tracing the call were dashed. “That’s too bad,” I said.
   “Too bad?” Connor said, surprised. “It’s extremely helpful. It narrows things down considerably. Miss Gonzales, do you have any tapes of people leaving the party?”
   “Leaving? No. Once the guests arrived, all the crews went upstairs to shoot the actual party. Then they brought the tape back here to make the deadline, while the party was still going on.”
   “Fine. Then I believe we’re finished here. Thanks for your help. Your knowledge is remarkable. Kōhai, let’s go.”

14

   Driving again. This time to an address in Beverly Hills. By now it was after one in the morning, and I was tired. I said, “Why does the pay phone in the lobby matter so much?”
   “Because,” Connor said, “our whole conception of this case revolves around whether someone made a call from that phone, or not. The real question now is, which company in Japan has locked horns with Nakamoto?”
   “Which company in Japan?” I said.
   “Yes. It is clearly a corporation belonging to a different keiretsu,” Connor said.
   I said, “Keiretsu?”
   “The Japanese structure their businesses in large organizations they call keiretsu. There are six major ones in Japan, and they’re huge. For example, the Mitsubishi keiretsu consists of seven hundred separate companies that work together, or have interrelated financing, or interrelated agreements of various sorts. Big structures like that don’t exist in America because they violate our antitrust laws. But they are the norm in Japan. We tend to think of corporations as standing alone. To see it the Japanese way, you’d have to imagine, say, an association of IBM and Citibank and Ford and Exxon, all having secret agreements among themselves to cooperate, and to share financing or research. That means a Japanese corporation never stands alone—it’s always acting in partnership with hundreds of other companies. And in competition with the companies of other keiretsu.
   “So when you think about what Nakamoto Corporation is doing, you have to ask what the Nakamoto keiretsu is doing, back in Japan. And what companies in other keiretsu oppose it. Because this murder is embarrassing to Nakamoto. It could even be seen as an attack against Nakamoto.”
   “An attack?”
   “Think about it. Nakamoto plans a great, star-studded opening night for their building. They want it to go perfectly. For some reason, a guest at the party gets strangled. And the question is—who called it in?”
   “Who reported the murder?”
   “Right. Because after all, Nakamoto controls that environment completely: it’s their party, their building. And it would be a simple matter for them to wait until eleven o’clock, after the party was over and the guests had left, to report the murder. If I were preoccupied with appearances, with the nuances of public face, that’s the way I’d do it. Because anything else is potentially dangerous to the corporate image of Nakamoto.”
   “Okay.”
   “But the report wasn’t delayed,” Connor said. “On the contrary, somebody called it in at eight thirty-two, just as the party was getting under way. Thus putting the whole evening at risk. And our question has always been: who called it in?”
   I said, “You told Ishiguro to find the person who called. And he hasn’t done it yet.”
   “Correct. Because he can’t.”
   “He doesn’t know who called it in?”
   “Correct.”
   “You don’t think anybody from the Nakamoto Corporation made the call?”
   “Correct.”
   “An enemy of Nakamoto called?”
   “Almost certainly.”
   I said, “So how do we find out who called the report in?”
   Connor laughed. “That’s why I checked the lobby phone. It’s crucial to that question.”
   “Why is it crucial?”
   “Suppose you work for a competing corporation, and you want to know what’s going on inside Nakamoto. You can’t find out, because Japanese corporations hire their executives for life. The executives feel they are part of a family. And they’d never betray their own family. So Nakamoto Corporation presents an impenetrable mask to the rest of the world, which makes even the smallest details meaningful: which executives are in town from Japan, who is meeting with whom, comings and goings, and so on. And you might be able to learn those details, if you strike up a relationship with an American security guard who sits in front of monitors all day. Particularly if that guard has been subjected to Japanese prejudice against blacks.”
   “Go on,” I said.
   “The Japanese often try to bribe local security officers from rival firms. The Japanese are honorable people, but their tradition allows such behavior. All’s fair in love and war, and the Japanese see business as war. Bribery is fine, if you can manage it.”
   “Okay.”
   “Now, in the first few seconds after the murder, we can be certain of only two people who knew a girl had been killed. One is the killer himself. The other is the security guard, Ted Cole, who watched it on the monitors.”
   “Wait a minute. Ted Cole watched it on the monitors? He knows who the killer is?”
   “Obviously.”
   “He said he left at eight-fifteen.”
   “He was lying.”
   “But if you knew that, then why didn’t we—“
   “He’ll never tell us,” Connor said. “The same way Phillips won’t tell us. That’s why I didn’t arrest Cole, bring him down for questioning. In the end it would be a waste of time—and time is of the essence here. We know he won’t tell us. My question is, did he tell anyone else?”
   I began to see what he was driving at. “You mean, did he walk out of the security office to the lobby pay phone, and call somebody to tell them that a murder had occurred?”
   “Correct. Because he wouldn’t use the phone in his office. He’d use the pay phone, and call somebody—an enemy of Nakamoto, a competing corporation. Somebody.”
   I said, “But now we know that no calls were made from that phone.”
   “Correct,” Connor said.
   “So your whole line of reasoning collapses.”
   “Not at all. It is clarified. If Cole didn’t notify anybody, then who phoned in the murder? Clearly, the source can only be the murderer himself.”
   I felt a chill.
   “He called it in to embarrass Nakamoto?”
   “Presumably,” Connor said.
   “Then where did he call from?”
   “That’s not clear yet. I assume from somewhere inside the building. And there are a few other confusing details that we have not begun to consider.”
   “Such as?”
   The car phone rang. Connor answered it, and handed the receiver to me. “It’s for you.”

   “No, no,” Mrs. Ascenio said. “The baby is fine. I checked on her a few minutes ago. She is fine. Lieutenant, I wanted you to know Mrs. Davis called.” That was how she referred to my ex-wife.
   “When?”
   “I think ten minutes ago.”
   “Did she leave a number?”
   “No. She say she can’t be reached tonight. But she want you to know: something has come up, and maybe she go out of town. So she say maybe she don’t take the baby this weekend.”
   I sighed. “Okay.”
   “She say she call you tomorrow and let you know for sure.”
   “Okay.”
   I wasn’t surprised. It was typical Lauren. Last-minute changes. You could never make plans involving Lauren because she was always changing her mind. Probably this latest change meant that she had a new boyfriend and she might go away with him. She wouldn’t know until tomorrow.
   I used to think all this unpredictability was bad for Michelle, that it would make her insecure. But kids are practical. Michelle seems to understand that’s the way her mother is, and she doesn’t get upset.
   I’m the one who gets upset.
   Mrs. Ascenio said, “You coming back soon, Lieutenant?”
   “No. It looks like I’ll be out all night. Can you stay?”
   “Yes, but I have to leave by nine in the morning. You want I pull out the couch’?”
   I had a couch bed in the living room. She used it when she stayed over. “Yes, sure.”
   “Okay, good-bye, Lieutenant.”
   “Good-bye, Mrs. Ascenio.”

   Connor said, “Anything wrong?” I was surprised to hear tension in his voice.
   “No. Just my ex pulling her usual shit. She’s not sure she’ll take the baby this weekend. Why?”
   Connor shrugged. “Just asking.”
   I didn’t think that was all there was to it. I said, “What did you mean earlier, when you said that this case could turn ugly?”
   “It may not,” Connor said. “Our best solution is to wrap it up in the next few hours. And I think we can. Here’s the restaurant up ahead on the left.”
   I saw the neon sign. Bora Bora.
   “This is the restaurant owned by Sakamura?”
   “Yes. Actually he’s just a part owner. Don’t let the valet take the car. Park it in the red. We may need to leave quickly.”

   The Bora Bora was this week’s hot L.A. restaurant. The decor was a jumble of Polynesian masks and shields. Lime green wooden outriggers jutted out over the bar like teeth. Above the open kitchen, a Prince video played ghostlike on an enormous five-meter screen. The menu was Pacific Rim; the noise deafening; the clientele movie-industry hopeful. Everyone was dressed in black.
   Connor smiled. “It looks like Trader Vic’s after a bomb went off, doesn’t it? Stop staring. Don’t they let you out enough?”
   “No, they don’t,” I said. Connor turned to speak to the Eurasian hostess. I looked at the bar, where two women kissed briefly on the lips. Farther down, a Japanese man in a leather bomber jacket had his arm around a huge blonde. They were both listening to a man with thinning hair and a pugnacious manner whom I recognized as the director of—
   “Come on,” Connor said to me. “Let’s go.”
   “What?”
   “Eddie’s not here.”
   “Where is he?”
   “At a party in the hills. Let’s go.”

15

   The address was on a winding road in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. We would have had a good view of the city up here, but the mist had closed in. As we approached, the street was lined on both sides with luxury cars: mostly Lexus sedans, with a few Mercedes convertibles and Bentleys. The parking attendants looked surprised as we pulled up in our Chevy sedan, and headed up to the house.
   Like other residences on the street, the house was surrounded by a three-meter wall, the driveway closed off with a remote-controlled steel gate. There was a security camera mounted above the gate, and another at the path leading up to the house itself. A private security guard stood by the path and checked our badges.
   I said, “Whose house is this?”
   Ten years ago, the only people in Los Angeles who maintained such elaborate security were either Mafioso, or stars like Stallone whose violent roles attracted violent attention. But lately it seemed everybody in wealthy residential areas had security. It was expected, almost fashionable. We walked up steps through a cactus garden toward the house, which was modern, concrete, and fortresslike. Loud music played.
   “This house belongs to the man who owns Maxim Noir.” He must have seen my blank look. “It’s an expensive clothing store famous for its snotty salespeople. Jack Nicholson and Cher shop there.”
   “Jack Nicholson and Cher,” I said, shaking my head. “How do you know about it?”
   “Many Japanese shop at Maxim Noir now. It’s like most expensive American stores—it’d go out of business without visitors from Tokyo. It’s dependent on the Japanese.”
   As we approached the front door a large man in a sport coat appeared. He had a clipboard with names. “I’m sorry. It’s by invitation only, gentlemen.”
   Connor flashed his badge. “We’d like to speak to one of your guests,” he said.
   “Which guest is that, sir?”
   “Mr. Sakamura.”
   He didn’t look happy. “Wait here, please.”
   From the entryway, we could see into the living room. It was crowded with party-goers, who at a quick glance seemed to be many of the same people who had been at the Nakamoto reception. As in the restaurant, almost everyone was wearing black. But the room itself caught my attention: it was stark white, entirely unadorned. No pictures on the wall. No furniture. Just bare white walls and a bare carpet. The guests looked uncomfortable. They were holding cocktail napkins and drinks, looking around for someplace to put them.
   A couple passed us on their way to the dining room. “Rod always knows what to do,” she said.
   “Yes,” he said. “So elegantly minimalist. The detail in executing that room. I don’t know how he ever got that paint job. It’s absolutely perfect. Not a brush stroke, not a blemish. A perfect surface.”
   “Well, it has to be,” she said. “It’s integral to his whole conception.”
   “It’s really quite daring,” the man said.
   “Daring?” I said. “What are they talking about? It’s just an empty room.”
   Connor smiled. “I call it faux zen. Style without substance.”
   I scanned the crowd.
   “Senator Morton’s here.” He was standing in the corner, holding forth. Looking very much like a presidential candidate.
   “So he is.”
   The guard hadn’t returned, so we stepped a few feet into the room. As I approached Senator Morton, I heard him say, “Yes, I can tell you exactly why I’m disturbed about the extent of Japanese ownership of American industry. If we lose the ability to make our own products, we lose control over our destiny. It’s that simple. For example, back in 1987 we learned that Toshiba sold the Russians critical technology that allowed the Soviets to silence their submarine propellers. Russian nuclear subs now sit right off the coast and we can’t track them, because they got technology from Japan. Congress was furious, and the American people were up in arms. And rightly so, it was outrageous. Congress planned economic retaliation against Toshiba. But the lobbyists for American companies pleaded their case for them, because American companies like Hewlett-Packard and Compaq were dependent on Toshiba for computer parts. They couldn’t stand a boycott because they had no other source of supply. The fact was, we couldn’t afford to retaliate. They could sell vital technology to our enemy, and there wasn’t a damned thing we could do about it. That’s the problem. We’re now dependent on Japan—and I believe America shouldn’t be dependent on any nation.”
   Somebody asked a question, and Morton nodded. “Yes, it’s true that our industry is not doing well. Real wages in this country are now at 1962 levels. The purchasing power of American workers is back where it was thirty-odd years ago. And that matters, even to the well-to-do folks that I see in this room, because it means American consumers don’t have the money to see movies, or buy cars, or clothing, or whatever you people have to sell. The truth is, our nation is sliding badly.”
   A woman asked another question I couldn’t hear, and Morton said, “Yes, I said 1962 levels. I know it’s hard to believe, but think back to the fifties, when American workers could own a house, raise a family, and send the kids to college, all on a single paycheck. Now both parents work and most people still can’t afford a house. The dollar buys less, everything is more expensive. People struggle just to hold on to what they have. They can’t get ahead.”
   I found myself nodding as I listened. About a month before, I had gone looking for a house, hoping to get a backyard for Michelle. But housing prices were just impossible in L.A. I was never going to be able to afford one, unless I remarried. Maybe not even then, considering—
   I felt a sharp jab in the ribs. I turned around and saw the doorman. He jerked his head toward the front door. “Back, fella.”
   I was angry. I glanced at Connor, but he just quietly moved back to the entrance.
   In the entryway, the doorman said, “I checked. There’s no Mr. Sakamura here.”
   “Mr. Sakamura,” Connor said, “is the Japanese gentleman standing at the back of the room, to your right. Talking to the redhead.”
   The doorman shook his head. “I’m sorry, fellas. Unless you have a search warrant, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
   “There isn’t a problem here,” Connor said. “Mr. Sakamura is a friend of mine. I know he’d like to talk to me.”
   “I’m sorry. Do you have a search warrant?”
   “No,” Connor said.
   “Then you’re trespassing. And I’m asking you to leave.”
   Connor just stood there.
   The doorman stepped back and planted his feet wide. He said, “I think you should know I’m a black belt.”
   “Are you really?” Connor said.
   “So is Jeff,” the doorman said, as a second man appeared.
   “Jeff;” Connor said. “Are you the one who’ll be driving your friend here to the hospital?”
   Jeff laughed meanly. “Hey. You know, I like humor. It’s funny. Okay, Mr. Wise Guy. You’re in the wrong place. You’ve had it explained. Move out. Now.” He poked Connor in the chest with a stubby finger.
   Connor said quietly, “That’s assault.”
   Jeff said, “Hey. Fuck you, buddy. I told you you’re in the wrong place—“
   Connor did something very fast, and Jeff was suddenly down on the floor, moaning in pain. Jeff rolled away, coming to rest against a pair of black trousers. Looking up, I saw that the man wearing the trousers was dressed entirely in black: black shirt, black tie, black satin jacket. He had white hair and a dramatic Hollywood manner. “I’m Rod Dwyer. This is my home. What seems to be the problem?”
   Connor introduced us politely and showed his badge. “We’re here on official business. We asked to speak to one of your guests, Mr. Sakamura, who is the man standing over there in the corner.”
   “And this man?” Dwyer asked, pointing to Jeff, who was gasping and coughing on the floor.
   Connor said calmly, “He assaulted me.”
   “I didn’t fucking assault him!” Jeff said, sitting up on his elbow, coughing.
   Dwyer said, “Did you touch him?”
   Jeff was silent, glowering.
   Dwyer turned back to us. “I’m sorry this happened. These men are new. I don’t know what they were thinking of. Can I get you a drink?”
   “Thanks, we’re on duty,” Connor said.
   “Let me ask Mr. Sakamura to come over and talk to you. Your name again?”
   “Connor.”
   Dwyer walked away. The first man helped Jeff to his feet. As Jeff limped away, he muttered, “Fucking assholes.”
   I said, “Remember when police were respected?”
   But Connor was shaking his head, looking down at the floor. “I am very ashamed,” he said.
   “Why?”
   He wouldn’t explain further.

   “Hey, John! John Connor! Hisashiburi dana! Long time no see! How they hanging, guy? Hey!” He punched Connor in the shoulder.
   Up close, Eddie Sakamura wasn’t so handsome. His complexion was gray, with pock-marked skin, and he smelled like day-old scotch. His movements were edgy, hyperactive, and he spoke quickly. Fast Eddie was not a man at peace.
   Connor said, “I’m pretty good, Eddie. How about you? How you doing?”
   “Hey, can’t complain, Captain. One or two things only. Got a five-oh-one, drunk driving, try to beat that, but you know, with my record, it’s getting hard. Hey! Life goes on! What’re you doing here? Pretty wild place, huh? Latest thing: no furniture! Rod sets new style. Great! Nobody can sit down any more!” He laughed. “New style! Great!”
   I had the feeling he was on drugs. He was too manic. I got a good look at the scar on his left hand. It was purple-red, roughly four centimeters by three. It appeared to be an old burn.
   Connor lowered his voice and said, “Actually, Eddie, we’re here about the yakkaigoto at Nakamoto tonight.”
   “Ah, yes,” Eddie said, lowering his voice, too. “No surprise she came to a bad end. That’s one henntai.”
   “She was perverted? Why do you say that?”
   Eddie said, “Want to step outside? Like to smoke cigarette and Rod doesn’t allow smoking in the house.”
   “Okay, Eddie.”
   We went outside and stood by the edge of the cactus garden. Eddie lit a Mild Seven Menthol. “Hey, Captain, I don’t know what you heard already so far. But that girl. She fucked some of the people in there. She fucked Rod. Some of the other people. So. We can talk easier out here, okay with you?”
   “Sure.”
   “I know that girl real well. Real well. You know I’m hipparidako, hey? I can’t help it. Popular guy! She’s all over me. All the time.”
   “I know that, Eddie. But you say she had problems?”
   “Big problems, amigo. Grande problemos. I tell you. She was a sick girl, this girl. She got off on pain.”
   “World’s full of ‘em, Eddie.”
   He sucked on his cigarette. “Hey, no,” he said. “I’m talking something else. I’m talking, how she gets off. When you hurt her real bad she comes. She’s always asking, more, more. Do it more. Squeeze harder.”
   Connor said, “Her neck?”
   “Yeah. Her neck. Right. Squeeze her neck. Yeah. You heard? And sometimes a plastic bag. You know, dry-cleaning bag? Put it over her head and clamp it, hold it around her neck while you fuck her and she sucks the plastic against her mouth and turns blue in the face. Claws at your back. Gasp and wheeze. Christ Almighty. Don’t care for that, myself. But I’m telling you, this girl has a pussy. I mean she gets off, it’s wild ride. You remember afterwards. I’m telling you. But for me, too much. Always on the edge, you know? Always a risk. Always pushing the edge. Maybe this time. Maybe this is the last time. You know what I’m saying?” He flicked his cigarette away. It sputtered among the cactus thorns. “Sometimes it’s exciting. Like Russian roulette. Then I couldn’t take it, Captain. Seriously. I couldn’t. And you know me, I like a wild time.”
   I decided that Eddie Sakamura gave me the creeps. I tried to make notes while he talked, but his words were tumbling out, and I couldn’t keep up. He lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. He kept talking fast, swinging the glowing tip in the air for emphasis.
   “And I mean, this girl, it’s a problem,” Eddie said. “Okay, pretty girl. She’s pretty. But sometimes she can’t go out, looks too bad. Sometimes, she needs lot of makeup, because neck is sensitive skin, man. And hers is bruised. Ring around the collar. Bad. You saw that, maybe. You see her dead, Captain?”
   “Yeah, I saw her.”
   “So then…” he hesitated. He seemed to step back, reconsider something. He flicked ash from the cigarette. “So. Was she strangled, or what?”
   “Yes, Eddie. She was strangled.”
   He inhaled. “Yeah. Figures.”
   “Did you see her, Eddie?”
   “Me? No. What are you talking about? How could I see her, Captain?” He exhaled, blowing smoke into the night.
   “Eddie. Look at me.”
   Eddie turned toward Connor.
   “Look in my eyes. Now tell me. Did you see the body?”
   “No. Captain, come on.” Eddie gave a nervous little laugh, and looked away. He flicked the cigarette so it tumbled in the air, dripping sparks. “What is this? Third degree? No. I didn’t see the body.”
   “Eddie.”
   “I swear to you, Captain.”
   “Eddie. How are you involved in this?”
   “Me? Shit. Not me, Captain. I know the girl, sure. I see her sometimes. I fuck her, sure. What the hell. She’s little weird, but she’s fun. A fun girl. Great pussy. That’s it, man. That’s all of it.” He looked around, lit another cigarette, “This’s a nice cactus garden, huh? Xeriscape, they call it. It’s the latest thing. Los Angeles goes back to desert life. It’s hayatterunosa: very fashionable.”
   “Eddie.”
   “Come on, Captain. Give me break here. We know each other long time.”
   “Sure, Eddie. But I have some problems. What about the security tapes?”
   Eddie looked blank, innocent. “Security tapes?”
   “A man with a scar on his hand and a tie with triangles on it came into the Nakamoto security office and took the security videotapes.”
   “Fuck. What security office? What’re you doing, Captain?”
   “Eddie.”
   “Who said that to you? That’s not true, man. Take the security tapes? I never did thing like that. What’re you, crazy?” He twisted his tie, looked at the label. “This is Polo tie, Captain. Ralph Lauren. Polo. Lot of these ties, bet you.”
   “Eddie. What about the Imperial Arms?”
   “What about it?”
   “You go there tonight?”
   “No.”
   “You clean up Cheryl’s room?”
   “What?” Eddie appeared shocked. “What? No. Clean up her room? Where you getting all this shit, Captain?”
   “The girl across the hall… Julia Young,” Connor said. “She told us she saw you tonight, with another man. In Cheryl’s room at the Imperial Arms.”
   Eddie threw his arms in the air. “Jesus. Captain. You listen. That girl wouldn’t know, she saw me last night or last month, man. That girl is a fucking hophead. You look between her toes you find the marks. You look under her tongue. Look on her pussylips. You find ‘em. That’s a dream girl, man. She doesn’t know when things happen. Man. You come here, give me this. I don’t like this.” Eddie tossed his cigarette away, and immediately lit another. “I don’t like this one bit. You don’t see what’s going on?”
   “No,” Connor said. “Tell me, Eddie. What’s going on?”
   “This shit’s not true, man. None of this true.” He puffed rapidly. “You know what this is about? It’s not about some fucking girl, man. It’s about Saturday meetings. The Doyou kai, Connor-san. The secret meetings. That’s what it’s about.”
   Connor snapped, “Sonna bakana.”
   “No bakana, Connor-san. Not bullshit.”
   “What does a girl from Texas know about Doyou kai?”
   “She knows something. Hontō nanda. And she likes to cause trouble, this girl. She likes to make turmoil.”
   “Eddie, I think maybe you better come in with us.”
   “Fine. Perfect. You do their job for them. For the kuromaku.” He spun to Connor. “Shit, Captain. Come on. You know how it works. This girl killed at Nakamoto. You know my family, my father, is Daimatsu. Now in Osaka they will read that a girl is killed at Nakamoto and I am arrested in connection. His son.”
   “Detained.”
   “Detained. Whatever. You know what that will mean. Taihennakoto ni naru zo. My father resign, his company must make apologies to Nakamoto. Perhaps reparations. Give some advantage in business. It is powerful ōsawagi ni naruzo. You will do this, if you take me into your custody.” He flicked his cigarette away. “Hey. You think I did this murder, you arrest me. Fine. But you are just covering your ass, you maybe do a lot of damage to me. Captain: you know this.”
   Connor said nothing for a long time. There was a long silence. They walked around the garden, in circles.
   Finally, Eddie said, “Na,Connor-san. Tanomuyo…” His voice sounded pleading. It seemed like he was asking for a break.
   Connor sighed. “You got your passport, Eddie?”
   “Yeah, sure. Always.”
   “Let’s have it.”
   “Yeah, sure. Okay, Captain. Here goes.”
   Connor glanced at it, handed it to me. I slipped it in my pocket.
   “Okay, Eddie. But this better not be murina koto. Or you’ll be declared persona non grata, Eddie. And I will personally put you on the next plane for Osaka. Wakattaka?”
   “Captain, you protect the honor of my family. On ni kiru yo.” And he bowed formally, both hands at his sides.
   Connor bowed back.
   I just stared. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Connor was going to let him go. I thought he was crazy to allow it. I handed Eddie my business card and gave my usual speech about how he could call me later if he thought of anything. Eddie shrugged and slipped the card into his shirt pocket, as he lit another cigarette. I didn’t count: he was dealing with Connor.
   Eddie started back toward the house, paused. “I have this redhead here, very interesting,” he said. “When I leave the party, I go to my house in the hills. You need me, I will be there. Good night, Captain. Good night, Lieutenant.”
   “Good night, Eddie.”
   We went back down the steps.

   “I hope you know what you are doing,” I said.
   “So do I,” Connor said.
   “‘Cause he seems guilty as hell to me.”
   “Maybe.”
   “If you ask me, it’d be better to take him in. Safer.”
   “Maybe.”
   “Want to go back and get him?”
   “No.” He shook his head. “My dai rokkan says no.”
   I knew that word: it meant sixth sense. The Japanese were big on intuition. I said, “Yeah, well, I hope you’re right.”
   We continued down the steps in the darkness.
   “Anyway,” Connor said. “I owe him.”
   “For what?”
   “There was a time, a few years ago, when I needed some information. You remember the fugu poisoning business? No? Well anyway, no one in the community would tell me. They stonewalled me. And I needed to know. It was… it was important. Eddie told me. He was scared to do it, because he didn’t want anyone to know. But he did it. I probably owe my life to him.”
   We came to the bottom of the stairs.
   “And did he remind you of that?”
   “He would never remind me. It is my job to remember.”
   I said, “That’s fine, Captain. All that obligation stuff is fine and noble. And I’m all for interracial harmony. But meanwhile, it’s possible that he killed her, stole the tapes, and cleaned up the apartment. Eddie Sakamura looks like a blown-out speedball to me. He acts like a suspect. And we’re just walking away. Letting him go.”
   “Right.”
   We kept walking. I thought it over and got more worried. I said, “You know, officially this is my investigation.”
   “Officially, it’s Graham’s investigation.”
   “Yeah, okay. But we’re going to look stupid if it turns out he did it.”
   Connor sighed, as if he was losing patience. “Okay. Let’s go over it the way you think it might have happened. Eddie kills the girl, right?”
   “Right.”
   “He can see her any time but he decides to fuck her on the boardroom table, and he kills her. Then he goes down to the lobby, and pretends to be a Nakamoto executive—even though the last thing Eddie Sakamura looks like is an executive. But let’s say he passes himself off. He manages to dismiss the guard. He takes the tapes. He walks out just as Phillips comes in. Then he goes to Cheryl’s apartment to clean that up, but somehow he adds a picture of himself, stuck in Cheryl’s mirror. Next he stops by the Bora Bora and tells everybody he’s going to a party in Hollywood. Where we find him, in a room without furniture, calmly chatting up a redhead. Is that how the evening lays out to you?”
   I said nothing. It didn’t make much sense, when he put it that way. On the other hand…
   “I just hope he didn’t do it.”
   “So do I.”
   We came down to the street level. The valet ran to get our car.
   “You know,” I said, “the blunt way he talks about things, like putting the bag over her head, it’s creepy.”
   “Oh, that doesn’t mean anything,” Connor said. “Remember, Japan has never accepted Freud or Christianity. They’ve never been guilty or embarrassed about sex. No problem with homosexuality, no problem with kinky sex. Just matter-of-fact. Some people like it a certain way, so some people do it that way, what the hell. The Japanese can’t understand why we get so worked up about a straightforward bodily function. They think we’re a little screwed up on the subject of sex. And they have a point.” Connor glanced at his watch.
   A security car pulled up. The uniformed guard leaned out. “Hey, is there a problem at the party up there?”
   “Like what?”
   “Couple of guys get in a fight? Some kind of fight? We had a report phoned in.”
   “I don’t know,” Connor said. “Maybe you better go up and check.”
   The guard climbed out of his car, hefted a big gut, and started up the stairs. Connor looked back at the high walls. “You know we have more private security than police, now? Everyone’s building walls and hiring guards. But in Japan, you can walk into a park at midnight and sit on a bench and nothing will happen to you. You’re completely safe, day or night. You can go anywhere. You won’t be robbed or beaten or killed. You’re not always looking behind you, not always worrying. You don’t need walls or bodyguards. Your safety is the safety of the whole society. You’re free. It’s a wonderful feeling. Here, everybody has to lock themselves up. Lock the door. Lock the car. People who spend their whole lives locked up are in prison. It’s crazy. It kills the spirit. But it’s been so long now that Americans have forgotten what it’s like to really feel safe. Anyway. Here’s our car. Let’s get down to the division.”
   We had started driving down the street when the DHD operator called. “Lieutenant Smith,” she said, “we have a request for Special Services.”
   “I’m pretty busy,” I said. “Can the backup take it?”
   “Lieutenant Smith, we have patrol officers requesting Special Services for a vee dig in area nineteen.”
   She was telling me there was a problem with a visiting dignitary. “I understand,” I said, “but I’ve already rolled out on a case. Give it to the backup.”
   “But this is on Sunset Plaza Drive,” she said. “Aren’t you located—“
   “Yes,” I said. Now I understood why she was insistent. The call was only a few blocks away. “Okay,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
   “It’s a vee dig DUI. Reported in as G-level plus one. Last name is Rowe.”
   “Okay,” I said. “We’re going.” I hung up the phone, and turned the car around.
   “Interesting,” Connor said. “G-level plus one is American government?”
   “Yes,” I said.
   “It’s Senator Rowe?”
   “Sounds like it,” I said. “Driving under the influence.”

16

   The black Lincoln sedan had come to a stop on the lawn of a house along the steep part of Sunset Plaza Drive. Two black and whites were pulled up at the curb, red lights flashing. Up on the lawn, a half-dozen people were standing beside the Lincoln. A man in his bathrobe, arms folded across his chest. A couple of girls in short glittery sequin dresses, a very handsome blond man about forty in a tuxedo, and a younger man in a blue suit, whom I recognized as the young man who had gotten on the elevator with Senator Rowe earlier.
   The patrolmen had the video camera out, shining the bright light on Senator Rowe. He was propping himself up against the front fender of the Lincoln, holding his arm up to cover his face against the light. He was swearing loudly as Connor and I walked up.
   The man in the bathrobe came toward us and said, “I want to know who’s going to pay for this.”
   “Just a minute, sir.” I kept walking.
   “He can’t just ruin my lawn like this. It has to be paid for.”
   “Just give me a minute, sir.”
   “Scared the hell out of my wife, too, and she has cancer.”
   I said, “Sir, please give me a minute, and then I’ll talk to you.
   “Cancer of the ear,” he said emphatically. “The ear.”
   “Yes, sir. All right, sir.” I continued toward the Lincoln, and the bright light.
   As I passed the aide, he fell into step beside me and said, “I can explain everything, Detective.” He was about thirty, with the bland good looks of a congressional staffer. “I’m sure I can resolve everything.”
   “Just a minute,” I said. “Let me talk to the senator.”
   “The senator’s not feeling well,” the aide said. “He’s very tired.” He stepped in front of me. I just walked around him. He hurried to catch up. “It’s jet lag, that’s the problem. The senator has jet lag.”
   “I have to talk to him,” I said, stepping into the bright light. Rowe was still holding up his arm. I said, “Senator Rowe?”
   “Turn that fucking thing off, for fuck’s sake,” Rowe said. He was heavily intoxicated; his speech so slurred it was difficult to understand him.
   “Senator Rowe,” I said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to—“
   “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
   “Senator Rowe,” I said.
   “Turn that fucking camera off.”
   I looked back to the patrolman and signaled to him. He reluctantly turned the camera off. The light went out.
   “Jesus Christ,” Rowe said, finally dropping his arm. He looked at me with bleary eyes. “What the fuck is going on here.”
   I introduced myself.
   “Then why don’t you do something about this fucking zoo,” Rowe said. “I’m just driving to my fucking hotel.”
   “I understand that, Senator.”
   “Don’t know…” He waved his hand, a sloppy gesture. “What the fucking problem is around here.”
   “Senator, you were driving this car?”
   “Fuck. Driving.” He turned away. “Jerry? Explain it to them. Christ’s sake.”
   The aide came up immediately. “I’m sorry about all this,” he said smoothly. “The senator isn’t feeling at all well. We just came back from Tokyo yesterday evening. Jet lag. He’s not himself. He’s tired.”
   “Who was driving the car?” I said.
   “I was,” the aide said. “Absolutely.”
   One of the girls giggled.
   “No, he wasn’t,” the man in the bathrobe shouted, from the other side of the car. “He was driving it. And he couldn’t get out of the car without falling down.”
   “Christ, fucking zoo,” Senator Rowe said, rubbing his head.
   “Detective,” the aide said, “I was driving the car and these two women here will testify that I was.” He gestured to the girls in party dresses. Giving them a look.
   “That’s a goddamn lie,” the man in the bathrobe said.
   “No, that’s correct,” the handsome man in the tuxedo said, speaking for the first time. He had a suntan and a relaxed manner, like he was used to having his orders obeyed. Probably a Wall Street guy. He didn’t introduce himself.
   “I was driving the car,” the aide said.
   “All gone to shit,” Rowe muttered. “Want to go to my hotel.”
   “Was anyone hurt here?” I said.
   “Nobody was hurt,” the aide said. “Everybody is fine.”
   I asked the patrolmen behind me, “You got a one-ten to file?” That was the report of property damage for vehicular accident.
   “We don’t need to,” a patrolman said to me. “Single car, and the amount doesn’t qualify.” You only had to fill it out if the damage was more than two hundred dollars. “All we got is a five-oh-one. If you want to run with that.”
   I didn’t. One of the things you learned about in Special Services was SAR, situational appropriate response. SAR meant that in the case of elected officials and celebrities, you let it go unless somebody was going to press charges. In practice, that meant that you didn’t make an arrest short of a felony.
   I said to the aide, “You get the property owner’s name and address, so you can deal with the damage to the lawn.”
   “He already got my name and address,” the man in the bathrobe said. “But I want to know what’s going to be done.”
   “I told him we’d repair any damage,” the aide said. “I assured him we would. He seems to be—“
   “Damn it, look: her planting is ruined. And she has cancer of the ear.”
   “Just a minute, sir.” I said to the aide, “Who’s going to drive the car now?”
   “I am,” the aide said.
   “He is,” Senator Rowe said, nodding. “Jerry. Drive the car.”
   I said to the aide, “All right. I want you to take a breatholyzer—“
   “Sure, yes—“
   “And I want to see your driver’s license.”
   “Of course.”
   The aide blew into the breatholyzer and handed me his driver’s license. It was a Texas license. Gerrold D. Hardin, thirty-four years old. Address in Austin, Texas. I wrote down the details, and gave it back.
   “All right, Mr. Hardin. I’m going to release the senator into your custody tonight.”
   “Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate it.”
   The man in the bathrobe said, “You’re going to let him go?”
   “Just a minute, sir.” I said to Hardin, “I want you to give this man your business card, and stay in contact with him. I expect the damage to his yard to be resolved to his satisfaction.”
   “Absolutely. Of course. Yes.” Hardin reached into his pocket for a card. He brought out something white in his hand, like a handkerchief. He stuffed it hastily back in his pocket, and then walked over to give his card to the man in the bathrobe.
   “You’re going to have to replace all her begonias.”
   “Fine, sir,” Hardin said.
   “All of ‘em.”
   “Yes. That’s fine, sir.”
   Senator Rowe pushed off the front fender, standing unsteadily in the night. “Fucking begonias,” he said. “Christ, what a fucking night this is. You got a wife?”
   “No,” I said.
   “I do,” Rowe said. “Fucking begonias. Fuck.”
   “This way, Senator,” Hardin said. He helped Rowe into the passenger seat. The girls climbed into the back seat, on either side of the handsome Wall Street guy. Hardin got behind the wheel and asked Rowe for the keys. I looked away to watch the black and whites as they pulled away from the curb. When I turned back, Hardin rolled down the window and looked at me. “Thank you for this.”
   “Drive safely, Mr. Hardin,” I said.
   He backed the car off the lawn, driving over a flower bed.
   “And the irises,” the man in the bathrobe shouted, as the car pulled away down the road. He looked at me. “I’m telling you, the other man was driving, and he was drunk.”
   I said, “Here’s my card. If things don’t turn out right, call me.”
   He looked at the card, shaking his head, and went back into his house. Connor and I got back into the car. We drove down the hill.
   Connor said, “You got information on the aide?”
   “Yes,” I said.
   “What was in his pocket?”
   “I’d say it was a pair of women’s panties.”
   “So would I,” Connor said.

   Of course there was nothing we could do. Personally, I would have liked to spin the smug bastard around, push him up against the car and search him, right there. But we both knew our hands were tied: we had no probable cause to search Hardin, or to arrest him. He was a young man driving with two young women in the back seat, either of whom might be without her panties, and a drunken United States senator in the front seat. The only sensible thing to do was to let them all go.
   But it seemed like an evening of letting people go.
   The phone rang. I pushed the speaker button. “Lieutenant Smith.”
   “Hey, buddy.” It was Graham. “I’m over here at the morgue, and guess what? I have some Japanese bugging me to attend the autopsy. Wants to sit in and observe, if you can believe that shit. He’s all bent out of shape because we started the autopsy without him. But the lab work is starting to come back. It is not looking good for Nippon Central. I’d say we have a Japanese perp. So: you coming here or what?”
   I looked at Connor. He nodded.
   “We’re heading there now,” I said.

   The fastest way to the morgue was through the emergency room at County General Hospital. As we went through, a black man covered in blood was sitting up on his gurney, screaming “Kill the pope! Kill the pope! Fuck him!” in a drug-crazed frenzy. A half-dozen attendants were trying to push him down. He had gunshot wounds in his shoulder and hand. The floors and walls of the emergency room were spattered with blood. An orderly went down the hall, cleaning it up with a mop. The hallways were lined with black and Hispanic people. Some of them held children in their laps. Everyone looked away from the bloody mop. From somewhere down the corridor, we heard more screams.
   We got onto the elevator. It was quiet.
   Connor said, “A homicide every twenty minutes. A rape every seven minutes. A child murdered every four hours. No other country tolerates these levels of violence.”
   The doors opened. Compared to the emergency room, the basement corridors of the county morgue were positively tranquil. There was a strong odor of formaldehyde. We went to the desk, where the thin, angular deaner, Harry Landon, was bent over some papers, eating a ham sandwich. He didn’t look up. “Hey, guys.”
   “Hey, Harry.”
   “What you here for? Austin prep?”
   “Yeah.”
   “They started about half an hour ago. Guess there’s a big rush on her, huh?”
   “How’s that?”
   “The chief called Dr. Tim out of bed and told him to do it pronto. Pissed him off pretty good. You know how particular Dr. Tim is.” The deaner smiled. “And they called in a lot of lab people, too. Who ever heard of pushing a full workup in the middle of the night? I mean, you know what this is going to cost in overtime?”
   I said, “And what about Graham?”
   “He’s around here someplace. He had some Japanese guy chasing after him. Dogging him like a shadow. Then every half hour, the Japanese asks me can he use the phone, and he makes a call. Speaks Japanese a while. Then he goes back to bothering Graham. He says he wants to see the autopsy, if you can believe that. Keeps pushing, pushing. But anyway, the Japanese makes his last call about ten minutes ago, and suddenly a big change comes over him. I was here at the desk. I saw it on his face. He goes mojo mojo like he can’t believe his ears. And then he runs out of here. I mean it: runs.”
   “And where’s the autopsy?”
   “Room two.”
   “Thanks, Harry.”

   “Close the door.”
   “Hi; Tim,” I said, as we came into the autopsy room. Tim Yoshimura, known to everyone as Dr. Tim, was leaning over the stainless-steel table. Even though it was one-forty in the morning, he was as usual immaculate. Everything was in place. His hair was neatly combed. His tie was perfectly knotted. The pens were lined up in the pocket of his starched lab coat.
   “Did you hear me?”
   “I’m closing it, Tim.” The door had a pneumatic self-closing mechanism, but apparently that wasn’t fast enough for Dr. Tim.
   “It’s only because I don’t want that Japanese individual looking in.”
   “He’s gone, Tim.”
   “Oh, is he? But he may be back. He’s been unbelievably persistent and irritating. The Japanese can be a real pain in the ass.”
   I said, “Sounds funny coming from you, Tim.”
   “Oh, I’m not Japanese,” he said seriously. “I’m Japanese-American, which means in their eyes I’m gaijin. If I go to Japan, they treat me like any other foreigner. It doesn’t matter how I look, I was born in Torrance—and that’s the end of it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Who’s that with you? Not John Connor? Haven’t seen you in ages, John.”
   “Hi, Tim.” Connor and I approached the table. I could see the dissection was already well advanced, that the Y-shaped incision had been made, and the first organs removed and placed neatly on stainless steel trays.
   “Now maybe somebody can tell me, what is the big deal about this case?” Tim said. “Graham is so pissed off he won’t say anything. He went next door to the lab to see the first of the results. But I still want to know why I got called out of bed to do this one. Mark’s on duty, but he is apparently not senior enough to do it. And of course the M.E. is out of town at a conference in San Francisco. Now that he has that new girlfriend he is always out of town. So I get called. I can’t remember the last time I got called out of bed.”
   “You can’t?” I said. Dr. Tim was precise in all ways, including his memory.
   “The last time was January three years ago. But that was to cover. Most of the staff was out with the flu, and the cases were backing up. Finally one night we ran out of lockers. They had these bodies lying around on the floor in bags. Stacked up in piles. Something had to be done. The smell was terrible. But no, I can’t remember being called out just because a case was politically tense. Like this one.”
   Connor said, “We’re not sure why it is tense, either.”
   “Maybe you better find out. Because there’s a lot of pressure here. The M.E. calls me from San Francisco, and he keeps saying, ‘Do it now, do it tonight, and get it done.’ I say, ‘Okay, Bill.’ Then he says, ‘Listen, Tim. Do this one right. Go slow, take lots of pictures and lots of notes. Document your ass off. Shoot with two cameras. Because I got a feeling that anybody who has anything to do with this case could get into deep shit.’ So. It’s natural to wonder what the big deal is.”
   Connor said, “What time was that call to you?”
   “About ten-thirty, eleven.”
   “The M.E. say who called him?”
   “No. But it’s usually only one of two people: the chief of police or the mayor.”
   Tim looked at the liver, pulling apart the lobes, then placed it on a steel tray. The assistant was taking flash pictures of each organ and then setting it aside.
   “So? What’ve you found?”
   “Frankly, the most interesting findings so far are external,” Dr. Tim said. “She had heavy makeup on her neck, to cover a pattern of multiple contusions. Bruises of different ages. Without a spectroscopic curve for the hemoglobin breakdown products at the bruise sites, I’d still say these bruises are of variable age, up to two weeks old. Perhaps older. Consistent with a pattern of repeated, chronic cervical trauma. I don’t think there’s any question: we’re looking at a case of sexual asphyxia.”
   “She’s a gasper?”
   “Yeah. She is.”
   Kelly thought so. For once Kelly was right.
   “It’s more common in men, but it is certainly reported in women. The syndrome is the individual is sexually aroused only by the hypoxia of near-strangulation. These individuals ask their sexual partners to strangle them, or put a plastic bag over their head. When they’re alone, they sometimes tie a cord around their neck, and hang themselves while they masturbate. Since the effect requires that they are strangled almost to the point of passing out, it’s easy to make a mistake and go too far. They do, all the time.”
   “And in this case?”
   Tim shrugged. “Well. She has physical findings consistent with a sexual asphyxia syndrome of long standing. And she has ejaculate in her vagina and abrasions on her external vaginal labia, consistent with a forced sexual episode on the same night of her death.”
   Connor said, “You’re sure the vaginal abrasions occurred before death?”
   “Oh, yes. They are definitely antemortem injuries. There’s no question she had forced sex sometime before she died.”
   “Are you saying she was raped?”
   “No. I wouldn’t go that far. As you see, the abrasions are not severe, and there are no associated injuries to other parts of her body. In fact, there are no signs of physical struggle at all. So I would consider the findings consistent with premature vaginal entry with insufficient lubrication of the external labia.”
   I said, “You’re saying she wasn’t wet.”
   Tim looked pained. “Well. In crude layman’s terms.”
   “How long before death did these abrasions occur?”
   “It could be as much as an hour or two. It wasn’t near the actual time of death. You can tell that from the extravasation and swelling of the affected areas. If death occurs soon after the injury, blood flow stops, and therefore the swelling is limited or absent. In this case, as you see, swelling is quite pronounced.”
   “And the sperm?”
   “Samples have gone to the lab. Along with all her usual fluids.” He shrugged. “Have to wait and see. Now, are you two going to fill me in? Because it looks to me like this little girl was going to get in trouble, sooner or later. I mean, she’s cute, but she’s screwed up. So… what is the big deal? Why am I out of bed in the middle of the night to do a careful, documented post on some little gasper?”
   I said, “Beats me.”
   “Come on. Fair is fair,” Dr. Tim said. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”
   “Why, Tim,” Connor said. “You made a joke.”
   “Fuck you,” Tim said. “You guys owe me. Come on.”
   “I’m afraid Peter is telling you the truth,” Connor said. “All we know is that this murder occurred at the time of a big public Japanese reception, and they are eager to get it cleared up right away.”
   “That makes sense,” Tim said. “The last time the shit hit the fan around here, it was because of that thing involving the Japanese consulate. Remember, the Takashima kidnapping case? Maybe you don’t remember: it never made the papers. The Japanese managed to keep it very quiet. But anyway, a guard was killed under odd circumstances, and for two days, they put a hell of a pressure on our office. I was amazed what they could do. We had Senator Rowe calling us in person, telling us what to do. The governor calling in person. Everybody calling us. You’d think it was the president’s kid. I mean, these people have influence.”
   “Of course they do. They’ve paid handsomely for it,” Graham said, coming into the room.
   “Close the door,” Tim said.
   “But this time, all their fucking influence won’t help,” Graham said. “Because this time, we have them by the short and curlies. We have a murder: and based on the lab results so far, we can say without question that the murderer was Japanese.”

17

   The pathology lab next door was a large room lit by even banks of fluorescent lights. Rows of microscopes, neatly laid out. But late at night, only two technicians were working in the big space. And Graham was standing beside them, gloating.
   “Look for yourself. Pubic hair comb-through reveals male pubic hair, moderate curl, ovoid cross section, almost certainly Asian in origin. The first semen analysis is blood type: AB, relatively rare among Caucasians, but much more common among Asians. The first analysis of protein in the seminal fluid comes up negative for the genetic marker for… what’s it called?”
   “Ethanol dehydrogenase,” the technician said.
   “Right. Ethanol dehydrogenase. It’s an enzyme. Missing in Japanese. And missing in this seminal fluid. And there’s the Diego factor, which is a blood-group protein. So. We have more tests coming, but it seems clear that this girl had forced sex with a Japanese man before she was killed by him.”
   “It’s clear you’ve found evidence of Japanese semen in her vagina,” Connor said. “That’s all.”
   “Christ,” Graham said. “Japanese semen, Japanese pubic hair, Japanese blood factors. We are talking a Japanese perp here.”
   He had set out some pictures from the crime scene, showing Cheryl lying on the boardroom table. He started to pace back and forth in front of them.
   “I know where you guys have been, and I know you’ve been wasting your time,” Graham said. “You went for videotapes: but they’re gone, right? Then you went to her apartment: but it was cleaned up before you ever got there. Which is exactly what you’d expect if the perp is Japanese. It lays right out, plain as can be.”
   Graham pointed to the pictures. “There’s our girl. Cheryl Austin from Texas. She’s cute. Fresh. Good figure. She’s an actress, sort of. She does a few commercials. Maybe a Nissan commercial. Whatever. She meets some people. Makes some contacts. Gets on some lists. You with me?”
   “Yes,” I said to Graham. Connor was staring intently at the pictures.
   “One way or another, our Cheryl’s doing well enough to be wearing a black Yamamoto gown when she gets invited to the grand opening of the Nakamoto Tower. She comes with some guy, maybe a friend or a hairdresser. A beard. Maybe she knows other people at the party, and maybe not. But in the course of the evening, somebody big and powerful suggests they slip away for a while. She agrees to go upstairs. Why not? This girl likes adventure. She likes danger. She’s cruising for a bruising. So she goes upstairs—maybe with the other guy, maybe separately. But anyway, they meet upstairs, and they look around for a place to do it. A place that’s exciting. And they decide—him, probably, he decides—to do it right on the fucking boardroom table. So they start doing it, they’re whanging away but things get out of hand. Her loverboy gets a little too worked up, or else he’s kinky, and… he squeezes her neck a little too hard. And she’s dead. You with me so far?’”
   “Yes…”
   “So now loverboy has a problem. He’s come upstairs to fuck a girl, but unfortunately he’s killed her. So what does he do? What can he do? He goes back down, rejoins the party, and since he is a big samurai cocksman, he tells one of his underlings that he has this little problem. He has unfortunately snuffed out the life of a local whore. Very inconvenient for his busy schedule. So the underlings run around and clean up the boss’s mess. They clean up incriminating evidence from the floor upstairs. They remove the videotapes. They go to her apartment and remove evidence there. Which is all fine, except it takes time. So somebody has to stall the police. And that’s where their smoothie suckass lawyer Ishiguro comes in. He delays us a good hour and a half. So. How does that sound?”
   There was a silence when he had finished. I waited for Connor to speak.
   “Well,” Connor said, at last. “My hat is off to you, Tom. That sequence of events sounds correct in many respects.”
   “You’re damned right it does.” Graham puffed up. “Damn fucking right.”
   The telephone rang. The lab technician said, “Is there a Captain Connor here?”
   Connor went to answer the phone. Graham said to me, “I’m telling you. A Jap killed this girl, and we are going to find him and fucking flay him. Flay him.”
   I said, “Why do you have it in for them, anyway?”
   Graham gave me a sullen look. He said, “What are you talking about?”
   “I’m talking about how you hate the Japanese.”
   “Hey, listen,” Graham said. “Let’s get something straight, Petey-san. I don’t hate anybody. I do my job. Black man, white man, Japanese man, it makes no difference to me.”
   “Okay, Tom.” It was late at night. I didn’t want to argue.
   “No, hell. You fucking think I’m prejudiced.”
   “Let’s just drop it, Tom.”
   “No, hell. We’re not going to drop it. Not now. Let me tell you something, Petey-san. You got yourself this fucking liaison job, isn’t that right?”
   “That’s right, Tom.”
   “And how come you applied for it? Because of your great love of Japanese culture?”
   “Well, at the time, I was working in the press office—“
   “No, no, cut the shit. You applied for it,” Graham said, “because there was an extra stipend, isn’t that right? Two, three thousand a year. An educational stipend. It comes into the department from the Japan-America Amity Foundation. And the department allows it as an educational stipend, paid to members of the force so that they can further their education in Japanese language and culture. So. How’re those studies going, Petey-san?”
   “I’m studying.”
   “How often?”
   “One night a week.”
   “One night a week. And if you miss classes, do you lose your stipend?”
   “No.”
   “Fucking right you don’t. In fact, it doesn’t make any difference if you go to classes at all. The fact is, buddy, you got yourself a bribe. You got three thousand dollars in your pocket and it comes right from the land of the rising sun. Of course, it’s not that much. Nobody can buy you for three grand, right? Of course not.”
   “Hey, Tom—“
   “But the thing is, they aren’t buying you. They’re just influencing you. They just want you to think twice. To tend to look favorably upon them. And why not? It’s human nature. They’ve made your life a little better. They contribute to your well-being. Your family. Your little girl. They scratch your back, so why shouldn’t you scratch theirs? Isn’t that about it; Petey-san?”
   “No, it isn’t,” I said. I was getting angry.
   “Yes, it is,” Graham said. “Because that’s how influence works. It’s deniable. You say it isn’t there. You tell yourself it isn’t there—but it is. The only way you can be clean is to be clean, man. If you got no stake in it, if you got no income from it, then you can talk. Otherwise, man, they pay you and I say, they own you.”
   “Just a fucking minute—“
   “So don’t you talk to me about hating, man. This country is in a war and some people understand it, and some other people are siding with the enemy. Just like in World War II, some people were paid by Germany to promote Nazi propaganda. New York newspapers published editorials right out of the mouth of Adolf Hitler. Sometimes the people didn’t even know it. But they did it. That’s how it is in a war, man. And you are a fucking collaborator.”
   I was grateful when, at that moment, Connor came back to where we were standing. Graham and I were about to square off when Connor said calmly, “Now, just so I understand, Tom. According to your scenario, after the girl was murdered, what happened to the tapes?”
   “Oh, hell, those tapes are gone,” Graham said. “You’re never going to see those tapes again.”
   “Well, it’s interesting. Because that call was the division headquarters. It seems Mr. Ishiguro is there. And he’s brought a box of videotapes with him, for me to look at.”

   Connor and I drove over. Graham took his own car. I said, “Why did you say the Japanese would never touch Graham?”
   “Graham’s uncle,” Connor said. “He was a prisoner of war during World War II. He was taken to Tokyo, where he disappeared. Graham’s father went over after the war to find out what happened to him. There were unpleasant questions about what happened. You probably know that some American servicemen were killed in terminal medical experiments in Japan. There were stories about the Japanese feeding their livers to subordinates as a joke, things like that.”
   “No, I didn’t know,” I said.
   “I think everybody would prefer to forget that time,” Connor said, “and move on. And probably correctly. It’s a different country now. What was Graham going on about?”
   “My stipend as a liaison officer.”
   Connor said, “You told me it was fifty a week.”
   “It’s a little more than that.”
   “How much more?”
   “About a hundred dollars a week. Fifty-five hundred a year. But that’s to cover classes, and books, and commuting expenses, baby-sitters, everything.”
   “So you get five grand,” Connor said. “So what?”
   “Graham was saying I was influenced by it. That the Japanese had bought me.”
   Connor said, “Well, they certainly try to do that. And they’re extremely subtle.”
   “They tried it with you?”
   “Oh, sure.” He paused. “And often I accepted. Giving gifts to ensure that you will be seen favorably is something the Japanese do by instinct. And it’s not so different from what we do, when we invite the boss over for dinner. Goodwill is goodwill. But we don’t invite the boss over for dinner when we’re up for a promotion. The proper thing to do is to invite the boss early in the relationship, when nothing is at stake. Then it’s just goodwill. The same with the Japanese. They believe you should give the gift early, because then it is not a bribe. It is a gift. A way of making a relationship with you before there is any pressure on the relationship.”
   “And you think that’s okay?”
   “I think it’s the way the world works.”
   “Do you think it’s corrupting?”
   Connor looked at me and said, “Do you?”
   I took a long time to answer. “Yes. I think maybe so.”
   He started to laugh. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said. “Because otherwise, the Japanese would have wasted all their money on you.”
   “What’s so funny?”
   “Your confusion, kōhai.”
   “Graham thinks it’s a war.”
   Connor said, “Well, that’s true. We are definitely at war with Japan. But let’s see what surprises Mr. Ishiguro has for us in the latest skirmish.”