7

   As I pulled into the parking circle at the Sunset Hills Country Club, I saw Connor standing in front of the big stucco clubhouse. He bowed to the three Japanese golfers standing with him, and they bowed back. Then he shook hands with them all, tossed the clubs into the back seat, and got into my car.
   “You’re late, kōhai.”
   “Sorry. It’s only a few minutes. I was held up at U.S.C.”
   “Your lateness inconvenienced everyone. As a matter of politeness, they felt obliged to keep me company in front of the club while I waited for you. Men of their position are not comfortable standing around. They are busy. But they felt obligated and could not leave me there. You embarrassed me very much. And you reflected poorly on the department.”
   “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
   “Start to realize, kōhai. You’re not alone in the world.”
   I put the car in gear, and drove out. I looked at the Japanese in the rearview mirror. They were waving as we left. They did not appear unhappy, or in a rush to leave. “Who were you playing with?”
   “Aoki-san is the head of Tokio Marine in Vancouver. Hanada-san is a vice-president of Mitsui Bank in London. And Kenichi Asaka runs all of Toyota’s Southeast Asian plants from K.L. to Singapore. He’s based in Bangkok.”
   “What are they doing here?”
   “They’re on vacation,” Connor said. “A short holiday in the States for golf. They find it pleasant to relax in a slower-paced country like ours.”
   I drove up the winding drive to Sunset Boulevard, and stopped to wait for the light. “Where to?”
   “The Four Seasons Hotel.”
   I turned right, heading toward Beverly Hills. “And why are these men playing golf with you?”
   “Oh, we go way back,” he said. “A few favors here and there, over the years. I’m nobody important. But relationships must be maintained. A phone call, a small gift, a game when you’re in town. Because you never know when you will need your network. Relationships are your source of information, your safety valve, and your early warning system. In the Japanese way of seeing the world.”
   “Who asked for this game?”
   “Hanada-san was already intending to play. I just joined him. I’m quite a good golfer, you know.”
   “Why did you want to play?”
   “Because I wanted to know more about the Saturday meetings,” Connor said.
   I remembered the Saturday meetings. On the video we had seen at the newsroom, Sakamura had grabbed Cheryl Austin and said: You don’t understand, this is all about the Saturday meetings.
   “And did they tell you?”
   Connor nodded. “Apparently they began a long time ago,” he said. “Nineteen eighty or so. First they were held in the Century Plaza, and later in the Sheraton, and finally in the Biltmore.”
   Connor stared out the window. The car jounced over the potholes on Sunset Boulevard.
   “For several years, the meetings were a regular event. Prominent Japanese industrialists who happened to be in town would attend an ongoing discussion of what should be done about America. Of how the American economy should be managed.”
   “What?”
   “Yes.”
   “That’s outrageous!”
   “Why?” Connor said.
   “Why? Because this is our country. You can’t have a bunch of foreigners sitting around in secret meetings and deciding how to manage it!”
   “The Japanese don’t see it that way,” Connor said.
   “I’m sure they don’t! I’m sure they think they have a goddamn right!”
   Connor shrugged. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what they think. And the Japanese believe they have earned the right to decide—“
   “Christ—“
   “Because they have invested heavily in our economy. They have lent us a lot of money, Peter; a lot of money. Hundreds of billions of dollars. For most of the last fifteen years, the United States has run a billion dollars of trade deficit a week with Japan. That’s a billion dollars every week that they must do something with. A torrent of money roaring toward them. They don’t especially want so many dollars. What can they do with all their excess billions?
   “They decided to lend the money back to us. Our government was running a budget deficit, year after year. We weren’t paying for our own programs. So the Japanese financed our budget deficit. They invested in us. And they lent their money, based on certain assurances from our government. Washington assured the Japanese that we would set our house in order. We would cut our deficit. We would improve education, rebuild our infrastructure, even raise taxes if necessary. In short, we would clean up our act. Because only then does an investment in America make sense.”
   “Uh-huh,” I said.
   “But we did none of those things. We let the deficit get worse, and we devalued the dollar. We cut its value in half in 1985. You know what that did to Japanese investments in America? It fucked them. Whatever they invested in 1984 now paid half its previous return.”
   I vaguely remembered something about this. I said, “I thought we did that to help our trade deficit, to boost exports.”
   “We did, but it didn’t work. Our trade balance with Japan got worse. Normally, if you devalue your currency by half, the cost of everything imported doubles. But the Japanese slashed prices on their VCRs and copiers, and held their market share. Remember, business is war.
   “All we really accomplished was to make American land and American companies cheap for the Japanese to buy, because the yen was now twice as strong as it had been. We made the biggest banks in the world all Japanese. And we made America a poor country.”
   “What does this have to do with the Saturday meetings?”
   “Well,” Connor said, “suppose you have an uncle who is a drunk. He says if you lend him money he’ll stop drinking. But he doesn’t stop drinking. And you’d like to get your money. You want to salvage what you can from your bad investment. Also, you know that your uncle, being a drunk, is likely to get loaded and hurt somebody. Your uncle is out of control. So something has to be done. And the family sits down together to decide what to do about their problem uncle. That’s what the Japanese decided to do.”
   “Uh-huh.” Connor must have heard the skepticism in my voice.
   “Look,” he said, “Get this conspiracy stuff out of your head. Do you want to take over Japan? Do you want to run their country? Of course not. No sensible country wants to take over another country. Do business, yes. Have a relationship, yes. But not take over. Nobody wants the responsibility. Nobody wants to be bothered. Just like with the drunken uncle—you only have those meetings when you’re forced to. It’s a last resort.”
   “So that’s how the Japanese see it?”
   “They see billions and billions of their dollars, kōhai. Invested in a country that’s in deep trouble. That’s filled with strange individualistic people who talk constantly. Who confront each other constantly. Who argue all the time. People who aren’t well educated, who don’t know much about the world, who get their information from television. People who don’t work very hard, who tolerate violence and drug use, and who don’t seem to object to it. The Japanese have billions of dollars in this peculiar land and they would like a decent return on their investment. And even though the American economy is collapsing—it will soon be third in the world after Japan and Europe—it’s still important to try and hold it together. Which is all they’re trying to do.”
   “That’s it?” I said. “They’re just doing the good work of saving America?”
   “Somebody needs to do it,” Connor said. “We can’t go on this way.”
   “We’ll manage.”
   “That’s what the English always said.” He shook his head. “But now England is poor. And America is becoming poor, too.”
   “Why is it becoming poor?” I said, speaking louder than I intended.
   “The Japanese say it’s because America has become a land without substance. We let our manufacturing go. We don’t make things anymore. When you manufacture products, you add value to raw materials, and you literally create wealth. But America has stopped doing that. Americans make money now by paper manipulation, which the Japanese say is bound to catch up to us because paper profits don’t reflect real wealth. They think our fascination with Wall Street and junk bonds is crazy.”
   “And therefore the Japanese ought to manage us?”
   “They think someone ought to manage us. They’d prefer we do it ourselves.”
   “Jesus.”
   Connor shifted in his seat. “Save your outrage, kōhai. Because according to Hanada-san, the Saturday meetings stopped in 1991.”
   “Oh?”
   “Yes. That was when the Japanese decided not to worry about whether America would clean up its act. They saw advantages in the present situation: America is asleep, and inexpensive to buy.”
   “So there aren’t Saturday meetings any more?”
   “There are occasional ones. Because of nichibei kankei: the ongoing Japanese-American relationship. The economies of the two countries are interlocked by now. Neither country can pull out, even if they wanted to. But the meetings are no longer important. They are basically social functions. So what Sakamura said to Cheryl Austin is wrong. And her death had nothing to do with the Saturday meetings.”
   “What does it have to do with?”
   “My friends seemed to think it was personal. A chijou no motsure, a crime of passion. Involving a beautiful, irokichigai woman and a jealous man.”
   “And you believe them?”
   “Well, the thing is, they were unanimous. All three of these businessmen. Of course Japanese are reluctant to express disagreement among themselves, even on the golf course of an underdeveloped peasant country. But I have learned that unanimity toward a gaijin may cover a multitude of sins.”
   “You think they were lying?”
   “Not exactly.” Connor shook his head. “But I had the impression they were telling me something by not telling me. This morning was a game of hara no saguriai. My friends were not forthcoming.”

   Connor described his golf game. There had been long silences all morning. Everyone in the foursome was polite and considerate, but spoken comments were rare and reserved. Most of the time, the men walked over the course in complete silence.
   “And you had gone there for information?” I said. “How could you stand it?”
   “Oh, I was getting information.” But as he explained it, it was all unspoken. Basically, the Japanese have an understanding based on centuries of shared culture, and they are able to communicate feelings without words. It’s the closeness that exists in America between a parent and child—a child often understands everything, just from a parent’s glance. But Americans don’t rely on unspoken communication as a general rule, and the Japanese do. It is as if all Japanese are members of the same family, and they can communicate without words. To a Japanese, silences have meaning.
   “It’s nothing mystical or wonderful,” Connor said. “For the most part it is because the Japanese are so hemmed in by rules and conventions, they end up unable to say anything at all. For politeness, to save face, the other person is obliged to read the situation, the context, and the subtle signs of body posture and unstated feeling. Because the first person feels he can’t actually put anything into words. Any speaking at all would be indelicate. So the point must be gotten across in other ways.”
   I said, “And that’s how your morning was spent? Not talking?”
   Connor shook his head. He felt he had quite clear communication with the Japanese golfers, and wasn’t troubled by the silences at all.
   “Because I was asking them to talk about other Japanese—members of their family—I had to frame my questions with great delicacy. Just as I would if I were asking whether your sister was in jail or any subject that was painful or awkward for you. I would be attentive to how long it took you to answer, and the pauses between your statements, the tone of your voice—all sorts of things. Beyond the literal communication. Okay?”
   “Okay.”
   “It means you get the feeling by an intuition.”
   “And what was the intuition you got?”
   “They said, ‘We are mindful that you have performed services for us in the past. We feel a desire to help you now. But this murder is a Japanese matter and thus we are unable to tell you everything that we might like to. From our reticence, you may draw useful conclusions about the underlying issue.’ That’s what they said to me.”
   “And what is the underlying issue?”
   “Well,” Connor said. “They mentioned MicroCon several times.”
   “That high-tech company?”
   “Yes. The one that’s being sold. Apparently it’s a small company in Silicon Valley that makes specialized computer machinery. And there are political problems about the sale. They referred to those problems several times.”
   “So this murder has something to do with MicroCon?”
   “I think so.” He shifted in his chair. “By the way, what did you learn at U.S.C. about the tapes?”
   “For one thing, that they were duplicated.”
   Connor nodded. “I assumed that,” he said.
   “You did?”
   “Ishiguro would never give us the originals. The Japanese think everybody who is not Japanese is a barbarian, They mean it, literally: barbarian. Stinking, vulgar, stupid barbarian. They’re polite about it, because they know you can’t help the misfortune of not being born Japanese. But they still think it.”
   I nodded. That was more or less what Sanders had said, too.
   “The other thing,” Connor said, “is that the Japanese are extremely successful, but they are not daring. They are plotters and plodders. So they’re not going to give us the originals because they don’t want to take any chances. Now. What else did you learn about the tapes?”
   “What makes you think there was something else?” I said.
   “When you looked at the tapes,” he said, “I’m sure you noticed an important detail that—“
   And then we were interrupted by the telephone.

   “Captain Connor,” said a cheerful voice, over the speaker phone. “This is Jerry Orr. Over at Sunset Hills Country Club? You left without taking the papers with you.”
   “The papers?”
   “The application,” Orr said. “You need to fill it out, Captain. Of course it’s just routine. I can assure you, there won’t be any problem with it, considering who your sponsors are.”
   “My sponsors,” Connor said.
   “Yes, sir,” Orr said. “And congratulations. As you know, it’s almost impossible to obtain a membership at Sunset these days. But Mr. Hanada’s company had already bought a corporate membership some time ago, and they have decided to put it in your name. I must say, it’s a very nice gesture from your friends.”
   “Yes, it is,” Connor said, frowning.
   I was looking at him.
   “They know how fond you are of playing golf here,” Orr said. “You know the terms, of course. Hanada will purchase the membership over five years, but after that time, it’ll be transferred to your name. So when you retire from club membership, you’re free to sell it. Now: will you be picking up the paperwork here, or should I send it to your home?”
   Connor said, “Mr. Orr, please convey my heartfelt appreciation to Mr. Hanada for his very great generosity. I hardly know what to say. But I will have to call you back about this.”
   “That’s fine. You just let us know where to send it.”
   “I’ll call you back,” Connor said.
   He pushed the button to end the call, and stared forward, frowning. There was a long silence.
   I said, “How much is a membership at that club worth?”
   “Seven fifty. Maybe a million.”
   I said, “Pretty nice gift from your friends.” I was thinking again of Graham, and the way Graham had always implied that Connor was in the pocket of the Japanese. There didn’t seem to be much doubt of it now.
   Connor was shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”
   “What’s not to get?” I said. “Jesus, Captain. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
   “No, I don’t get it,” Connor said.
   And then the phone rang again. This time, it was for me.

   “Lieutenant Smith? It’s Louise Gerber. I’m so glad I was able to reach you.”
   I didn’t recognize her name. I said, “Yes?”
   “Since tomorrow is Saturday, I was wondering if you had any time to look at a house.”
   Then I remembered who she was. A month earlier I had gone out with a broker to look at houses. Michelle is getting older, and I wanted to get her out of an apartment. To get her a backyard if I could. It was pretty discouraging. Even with a real estate slump, the smallest houses were four and five hundred thousand. I couldn’t possibly qualify for that, on my salary.
   “This is a very special situation,” she said, “and I thought of you and your little girl. It’s a small house in Palms—very small—but it’s a corner lot and it has a charming backyard. Flowers and a lovely lawn. The asking is three hundred. But the reason I thought of you is that the seller is willing to take back all the paper on it. I think you could get it for very little down. Do you want to see it?”
   I said, “Who is the seller?”
   “I don’t really know. It’s a special situation. The house is owned by an elderly woman who has gone into a nursing home and her son who lives in Topeka intends to sell it, but he wants an income flow instead of an outright sale. The property’s not formally listed yet, but I know the seller is motivated. If you could get in tomorrow, you might be able to do something. And the backyard is charming. I can just see your little girl there.”
   Now Connor was looking at me. I said, “Miss Gerber, I’d have to know more about it. Who the seller is, and so on.
   She sounded surprised. “Gee, I thought you’d jump at it. A situation like this doesn’t come along very often. Don’t you want to look at it?”
   Connor was looking at me, nodding. He mouthed, say yes.
   “I’ll have to get back to you about this,” I said.
   “All right, Lieutenant,” she said. She sounded reluctant. “Please let me know.”
   “I will.”
   I hung up.
   “What the hell is going on?” I said. Because there wasn’t any way to get around it. Between us, we had just been offered a lot of money. A lot of money.
   Connor shook his head. “I don’t know.”
   “Is it to do with MicroCon?”
   “I don’t know. I thought MicroCon was a small company. This doesn’t make sense.” He looked very uneasy. “What exactly is MicroCon?”
   I said, “I think I know who to ask.”

8

   “MicroCon?” Ron Levine said, lighting a big cigar. “Sure, I can tell you about MicroCon. It’s an ugly story.”
   We were sitting in the newsroom of American Financial Network, a cable news operation located near the airport. Through the window of Ron’s office, I could see the white satellite dishes on the roof of the adjacent garage. Ron puffed on his cigar and grinned at us. He had been a financial reporter at the Times before taking an on-camera job here. AFN was one of the few television operations where the on-camera people weren’t scripted; they had to know what they were talking about, and Ron did.
   “MicroCon,” he said, “was formed five years ago by a consortium of American computer manufacturers. The company was intended to develop the next generation of X-ray lithography machines for computer chips. At the time MicroCon started up, there were no American manufacturers of lithography machines—they’d all been put out of business in the eighties, under intense competition from the Japanese. MicroCon developed new technology, and has been building machines for American companies. Okay?”
   “Okay,” I said.
   “Two years ago, MicroCon was sold to Darley-Higgins, a management company in Georgia. Darley’s other operations were foundering; the company decided to sell MicroCon to raise cash. They found a buyer in Akai Ceramics, an Osaka company that already made lithography machines in Japan. Akai had plenty of cash, and was willing to acquire the American company for a high price. Then Congress moved to stop the sale.”
   “Why?”
   “The decline of American business is starting to disturb even Congress. We’ve lost too many basic industries to Japan—steel and shipbuilding in the sixties, television and computer chips in the seventies, machine tools in the eighties. One day somebody wakes up and realizes these industries are vital for American defense. We’ve lost the ability to make components essential to our national security. We’re entirely dependent on Japan to supply them. So Congress starts to worry. But I hear the sale is going through, anyway. Why? Do you guys have something to do with the sale?”
   “In a sense,” Connor said.
   “Lucky you,” Ron said, puffing on his cigar. “If you’re involved in a sale to the Japanese, it’s like striking oil. Everybody gets rich. You two are looking at some pretty big gifts, I imagine.”
   Connor nodded. “Very big.”
   “I’m sure,” Ron said. “They’ll take care of you: buy you a house or a car, get you cheap financing, something like that.”
   I said, “Why would they do that?”
   Ron laughed. “Why would they eat sushi? It’s the way they conduct business.”
   Connor said, “But isn’t MicroCon a small sale?”
   “Yeah, pretty small. The company’s worth a hundred million. Akai’s buying it for a hundred and fifty. On top of that, they probably have another twenty million in incentives to the current corporate officers, maybe ten million in legal, ten million in consultant fees spread around Washington, and ten million in miscellaneous gifts for people like you. So call it two hundred million, in total.”
   I said, “Two hundred million for a hundred-million company? Why are they paying more than it’s worth?”
   “They’re not,” Ron said. “As far as they’re concerned, they’re getting a bargain.”
   “Why”
   “Because,” Ron said, “if you own the machines that are used to make something, like computer chips, you own the downstream industries that depend on those machines. MicroCon will give them control over the American computer industry. And as usual, we’re allowing it to happen. Just the way we lost our television industry, and our machine-tool industry.”
   “What happened to the TV industry?” I said.
   He glanced at his watch. “After World War II, America was the world’s leading manufacturer of televisions. Twenty-seven American companies like Zenith, RCA, GE, and Emerson had a solid technological lead over foreign manufacturers. American companies were successful around the world, except in Japan. They couldn’t penetrate the closed Japanese market. They were told if they wanted to sell in Japan, they had to license their technology to Japanese companies. And they did, reluctantly, under pressure from the American government, which wanted to keep Japan as a friendly ally against Russia. Okay?”
   “Okay…”
   “Now, licensing is a bad idea. It means Japan gets our technology for their own use, and we lose Japan as an export market. Pretty soon Japan begins to make cheap black-and-white TVs and exports them to America—something we can’t do in Japan, right? By 1972, sixty percent of American black-and-white sales are imports. By 1976, one hundred percent are imports. We’ve lost the black-and-white market. American workers don’t make those sets any more. Those jobs are gone from America.
   “We say it doesn’t matter: our companies have moved on to color. But the Japanese government starts an intensive program to develop a color-television industry. Once again, Japan licenses American technology, refines it in their protected markets, and floods us with exports. Once again, exports drive out American companies. Exactly the same story. By 1980 only three American companies still make color TVs. By 1987, there’s only one, Zenith.”
   “But Japanese sets were better and cheaper,” I said.
   “They may have been better,” Ron said, “but they were only cheaper because they were sold below production cost, to wipe out American competitors. That’s called dumping. It’s illegal under both American and international law.”
   “Then why didn’t we stop it?”
   “Good question. Especially since dumping was only one of many illegal Japanese marketing techniques. They also fixed prices: they had something called the Tenth-Day Group. Japanese managers met every ten days in a Tokyo hotel to set prices in America. We protested, but the meetings continued. They also pushed distribution of their products by collusive arrangements. The Japanese allegedly paid millions in kickbacks to American distributors like Sears. They engaged in massive customs fraud. And they destroyed the American industry, which could not compete.
   “Of course, our companies protested, and sued for relief—there were dozens of cases of dumping, fraud, and antitrust brought against Japanese companies in federal court. Dumping cases are usually resolved within a year. But our government provided no help—and the Japanese are skilled foot-draggers. They paid American lobbyists millions to plead their case. By the time the suits came to trial twelve years later, the battle was over in the marketplace. And of course all during this time, American companies could never fight back in Japan. They couldn’t even get a foot in the door in Japan.”
   “You’re saying the Japanese took over the television industry illegally?”
   Ron shrugged. “They couldn’t have done it without our help,” he said. “Our government was coddling Japan, which they saw as a tiny emerging country. And American industry was perceived as not needing government help. There’s always been a strain of antibusiness sentiment in America. But our government never seemed to realize, it’s just not the same here. When Sony develops the Walkman, we don’t say, ‘Nice product. Now you have to license it to GE and sell it through an American company.’ If they seek distribution, we don’t tell them, ‘I’m sorry, but American stores all have preexisting arrangements with American suppliers. You’ll have to distribute through an American company here.’ If they seek patents, we don’t say, ‘Patents take eight years to be awarded, during which time your application will be publicly available so that our companies can read what you’ve invented and copy it free of charge, so that by the time we issue a patent our companies will already have their own version of your technology.’
   “We don’t do any of those things. Japan does all of them. Their markets are closed. Our markets are wide open. It’s not a level playing field. In fact, it’s not a playing field at all. It’s a one-way street.
   “And by now we have a defeatist business climate in this country. American companies got their asses handed to them in black-and-white television. They got their asses handed to them in color television. The U.S. government refused to help our companies fight illegal Japanese trade practices. So when Ampex invented the VCR, they didn’t even try to make a commercial product. They just licensed the technology to Japan and moved on. And pretty soon you find that American companies don’t do research. Why develop new technology if your own government is so hostile to your efforts that you won’t be able to bring it to market?”
   “But isn’t American business weak and badly managed?”
   “That’s the standard line,” Ron said. “As promoted by the Japanese and their American spokesmen. It’s only with a few episodes that people ever glimpsed how outrageous the Japanese really were. Like the Houdaille case. You know that one? Houdaille was a machine-tool company that claimed its patents and licenses were being violated by companies in Japan. A federal judge sent Houdaille’s lawyer to Japan to gather evidence. But the Japanese refused to issue him a visa.”
   “You’re kidding.”
   “What do they care?” Ron said. “They know we’ll never retaliate. When the Houdaille case came before the Reagan administration, it did nothing. So Houdaille got out of machine tools. Because nobody can compete against dumped products—that’s the whole point of doing it.”
   “Don’t you lose money if you dump?”
   “For a while, yes. But you’re selling millions of units, so you can refine your production lines, and get your costs down. A couple of years later, you really can make the products for a lower cost. Meanwhile you’ve wiped out the competition and you control the market. You see, the Japanese think strategically—they’re in for the long haul, for how things will look fifty years from now. An American company has to show a profit every three months or the CEO and the officers will be out on the street. But the Japanese don’t care about short-term profits at all. They want market share. Business is like warfare to them. Gaining ground. Wiping out the competition. Getting control of a market. That’s what they’ve been doing for the last thirty years.
   “So the Japanese dumped steel, televisions, consumer electronics, computer chips, machine tools—and nobody stopped them. And we lost those industries. Japanese companies and the Japanese government target specific industries, which they take over. Industry after industry, year after year. While we sit around and spout off about free trade. But free trade is meaningless unless there is also fair trade. And the Japanese don’t believe in fair trade at all. You know, there’s a reason the Japanese love Reagan. They cleaned up during his presidency. In the name of free trade, he spread our legs real wide.”
   “Why don’t Americans understand this?” I said.
   Connor laughed. “Why do they eat hamburgers? It’s the way they are, kōhai.”
   From the newsroom, a woman called, “Somebody named Connor here? Call for you from the Four Seasons Hotel.”
   Connor glanced at his watch and stood up. “Excuse me.” He walked out into the newsroom. Through the glass I saw him talking on the phone, making notes.
   “You realize,” Ron said, “it’s all still going on. Why is a Japanese camera cheaper in New York than in Tokyo? You ship it halfway around the world, pay import duty and distribution costs, and it’s still cheaper? How is that possible? Japanese tourists buy their own products here because they’re cheaper. Meanwhile, American products in Japan cost seventy percent more than here. Why doesn’t the American government get tough? I don’t know. Part of the answer is up there.”
   He pointed to the monitor in his office; a distinguished-looking man was talking above a running tickertape. The sound was turned low. “You see that guy? That’s David Rawlings. Professor of business at Stanford. Specialist in the Pacific Rim. He’s a typical—turn that up, will you? He might be talking about MicroCon.”
   I turned the knob on the set. I heard Rawlings say: “…think American attitudes are completely irrational. After all, Japanese companies are providing jobs for Americans, while American companies are moving jobs offshore, taking them away from their own people. The Japanese can’t understand what the complaints are about.”
   Ron sighed. “Typical bullshit,” he said.
   On the screen, Professor Rawlings was saying, “I think the American people are rather ungrateful for the help our country is getting from foreign investors.”
   Ron laughed. “Rawlings is part of the group we call the Chrysanthemum Kissers. Academic experts who deliver the Japanese propaganda line. They don’t really have a choice, because they need access to Japan to work, and if they start to sound critical, their contacts in Japan dry up. Doors are closed to them. And in America, the Japanese will whisper in certain ears that the offending person is not to be trusted, or that their views are ‘out of date.’ Or worse—that they’re racist. Anybody who criticizes Japan is a racist. Pretty soon these academics begin to lose speaking engagements and consulting jobs. They know that’s happened to their colleagues who step out of line. And they don’t make the same mistake.”
   Connor came back into the room. He said, “Is there anything illegal about this MicroCon sale?”
   “Sure,” Ron said. “Depending on what Washington decides to do. Akai Ceramics already has sixty percent of the American market. MicroCon will give it a virtual monopoly. If Akai were an American company, the government would block the sale on antitrust grounds. But since Akai is not an American company, the sale isn’t scrutinized closely. In the end, it’ll probably be allowed.”
   “You mean a Japanese company can have a monopoly in America but an American company can’t?”
   “That’s the usual outcome these days,” Ron said. “But American laws often promote the sale of our companies to foreigners. Like Matsushita buying Universal Studios. Universal’s been for sale for years. Several American companies tried to buy it, but couldn’t. Westinghouse tried in 1980. No deal: violates antitrust. RCA tried. No deal: violates conflict of interest. But when Matsushita came in, there were no laws against it at all. Recently our laws changed. Under present law, RCA could buy Universal. But back then, no. MicroCon is just the latest example of crazy American regulations.”
   I said, “But what do American computer companies say about the MicroCon sale?”
   Ron said, “American companies don’t like the sale. But they don’t oppose it, either.”
   “Why not?”
   “Because American companies feel over-regulated by the government already. Forty percent of all American exports are covered by security regulations. Our government doesn’t allow our computer companies to sell to Eastern Europe. The cold war is over but the regulations still exist. Meanwhile the Japanese and Germans are selling products like mad. So the Americans want less regulation. And they see any attempt to block the MicroCon sale as government interference.”
   I said, “It still doesn’t make sense to me.”
   “I agree,” Ron said. “The American companies are going to get killed in the next few years. Because if Japan is the sole source of chip-making machines, they’re in a position to withhold the machines from American companies.”
   “Would they do that?”
   “They’ve done it before,” Ron said. “Ion implanters and other machines. But the American companies can’t get together. They squabble among themselves. And meanwhile the Japanese are buying high-tech companies at the rate of about one every ten days. For the last six years. We’re being disemboweled. But our government doesn’t pay attention, because we have something called CFIUS—the Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States—that monitors the sale of high-tech companies. Except CFIUS never does anything. Of the last five hundred sales, only one was blocked. Company after company gets sold, and nobody in Washington says boo. Finally, Senator Morton makes a stink, and says ‘Wait a minute here.’ But nobody’s listening to him.”
   “The sale is going through anyway?”
   “That’s what I heard today. The Japanese PR machine is hard at work, cranking out favorable publicity. And they are tenacious. They are on top of everything. I mean everything—“
   There was a knock at the door, and a blond woman stuck her head in. “Sorry to disturb you, Ron,” she said, “but Keith just got a call from the Los Angeles representative for NHK, Japanese national television. He wants to know why our reporter is bashing Japan.”
   Ron frowned. “Bashing Japan? What’s he talking about?”
   “He claims our reporter said on air, ‘The damn Japanese are taking over this country.’ “
   “Come on,” Ron said. “Nobody would say that—on air. Who’s supposed to have said that?”
   “Lenny. In New York. Over the backhaul,” the woman said.
   Ron shifted in his chair. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Did you check the tapes?”
   “Yeah,” she said. “They’re tracing the download now in the main control room. But I assume it’s true.”
   “Hell.”
   I said, “What’s the backhaul?”
   “Our satellite feed. We pick up segments from New York and Washington every day, and replay them. There’s always about a minute before and after that isn’t aired. We cut it out, but the raw transmission can be picked up by anybody with a private dish who wants to hunt for our signal. And people do. We warn the talent to be careful what they do in front of a camera, But last year, Louise unbuttoned her blouse and miked herself—and we got calls from all over the country.”
   Ron’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, and said, “Okay. I understand,” and hung up. “They checked the tape. Lenny was talking on camera before the feed, and he said to Louise, ‘The goddamn Japanese are going to own this country if we don’t wise up.’ It wasn’t on air, but he did say it.” He shook his head ruefully. “The NHK guy knows we didn’t run it?”
   “Yeah. But he’s saying it can be picked up and he’s protesting on that basis.”
   “Hell,” Ron said. “So they even monitor our backhaul. Jesus. What does Keith want to do?”
   “Keith says he’s tired of warning New York talent. He wants you to handle it.”
   “Does he want me to call the NHK guy?”
   “He says use your judgment, but we have a deal with NHK for the half-hour show we send them every day and he doesn’t want that risked. He thinks you should apologize.”
   Ron sighed. “Now I have to apologize for what wasn’t even on air. God damn it.” He looked at us. “Guys, I have to go. Was there anything else?”
   “No,” I said, “Good luck.”
   “Listen,” Ron said. “We all need good luck. You know NHK is starting Global News Network with a billion dollars in capitalization. They’re going to take on Ted Turner’s CNN around the world. And if past history is any guide…” He shrugged. “Kiss the American media goodbye.”
   As we were leaving, I heard Ron say on the phone, “Mr. Akasaka? Ron Levine, over here at AFN. Yes, sir. Yes, Mr. Akasaka. Sir, I wanted to express my concern and deep apologies about what our reporter said over the satellite—“
   We closed the door, and left.
   “Where now?” I said.

9

   The Four Seasons Hotel is favored by stars and politicians, and it has a graceful entrance, but we were parked around the corner by the service entrance. A large dairy truck was pulled up to a loading dock, and kitchen staff was unloading cartons of milk. We had been waiting here for five minutes. Connor glanced at his watch.
   I said, “Why are we here?”
   “We’re complying with the Supreme Court, kōhai.”
   At the loading dock, a woman in a business suit came out, looked around, and waved. Connor waved back. She disappeared again. Connor got out his billfold and took out a couple of twenties.
   “One of the first things I learned as a detective,” Connor said, “is that hotel staff can be extremely helpful. Particularly since the police have so many restrictions these days. We can’t go into a hotel room without a warrant. If we did, whatever we found in a search would be inadmissible, right?”
   “Right.”
   “But the maids can go in. Valet and housekeeping and room service can go in.”
   “Uh-huh.”
   “So I’ve learned to maintain contacts at all the big hotels.” He opened the door. “I’ll only be a moment.”
   He walked to the loading dock and waited. I tapped the steering wheel with my hands, The words came into my head:

   I changed my mind, this love is fine.
   Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire.

   On the loading dock, a maid in uniform came out, and talked to Connor briefly. He took notes. She held something golden in the palm of her hand. He didn’t touch it, he just looked at it, and nodded. She slipped it back in her pocket. Then he gave her money. She went away.

   You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain.
   Too much love drives a man insane.
   You broke my will, but what a thrill—

   A valet came out onto the loading dock, carrying a man’s blue suit on a hanger. Connor asked a question, and the valet looked at his watch before he answered. Then Connor crouched down and peered closely at the lower edges of the suit coat. He opened the jacket and examined the trousers on the hanger.
   The valet took away the first suit, and brought a second one out onto the dock. This one was a blue pinstripe suit. Connor repeated his inspection. He seemed to find something on the coat, and scraped it carefully into a small glassine bag. Then he paid the valet and walked back to the car.
   I said, “Checking Senator Rowe?”
   “Checking a number of things,” he said. “But, yes, Senator Rowe.”
   “Rowe’s aide had white panties in his pocket last night. But Cheryl was wearing black panties.”
   “That’s true,” Connor said. “But I think we are making progress.”
   “What’ve you got in the bag?”
   He took the little glassine bag out, and held it to the light. I saw small dark strands through the plastic. “Carpet fibers, I think. Dark, like the carpet at the Nakamoto conference room. Have to check with the lab to be sure. Meanwhile, we have another problem to solve. Start the car.”
   “Where are we going?”
   “Darley-Higgins. The company that owns MicroCon.”

10

   In the lobby beside the receptionist, a workman was mounting large gold letters on the wall:


Darley-Higgins Inc.

   Beneath that it read EXCELLENCE IN MANAGEMENT. More workmen were laying carpet in the hallway.
   We showed our badges and asked to see the head of Darley-Higgins, Arthur Greiman.
   The receptionist had a Southern accent and an upturned nose. “Mr. Greiman is in meetings all day. Is he expecting you?
   “We’re here about the MicroCon sale.”
   “Then you want Mr. Enders, our vice-president for publicity. He speaks to people about MicroCon.”
   “All right,” Connor said.
   We sat down on a couch in the reception area. On a couch across the room sat a pretty woman in a tight skirt. She had a roll of blueprints under her arm. The workmen continued to hammer. I said, “I thought the company was in financial trouble. Why’re they redecorating?”
   Connor shrugged,
   The secretary answered the phone, routing the calls. “Darley-Higgins, one moment, please. Darley-Higgins… Oh, please hold, Senator… Darley-Higgins, yes, thank you…”
   I picked up a brochure from the coffee table. It was the annual report of Darley-Higgins Management Group, with offices in Atlanta, Dallas, Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. I found a picture of Arthur Greiman. He looked happy and self-satisfied. The report included an essay signed by him entitled, “A Commitment to Excellence.”
   The secretary said to us, “Mr. Enders will be right with you.”
   “Thank you,” Connor said.
   A moment later, two men in business suits walked out into the hallway. The woman with the blueprints stood. She said, “Hello, Mr. Greiman.”
   “Hello, Beverly,” the older man said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
   Connor stood up, too. The secretary immediately said, “Mr. Greiman, these men—“
   “Just a minute,” Greiman said. He turned to the man with him, who was younger, in his early thirties. “Just make sure you get it straight with Roger,” Greiman said.
   The younger man was shaking his head. “He won’t like it.”
   “I know he won’t. But tell him anyway. Six million four in direct compensation for the CEO is the minimum.”
   “But Arthur—“
   “Just tell him.”
   “I will, Arthur,” the younger man said, smoothing his tie. He lowered his voice. “But the board may balk at raising you above six when company earnings are down so much—“
   “We’re not talking about earnings,” Greiman said. “We’re talking about compensation. It has nothing to do with earnings. The board has to match current compensation levels for chief executives. If Roger can’t bring the board into line on this, I’m going to cancel the March meeting and ask for changes. You tell him that.’
   “Okay, I will, Arthur, but—“
   “Just do it. Call me tonight.”
   “Right, Arthur.”
   They shook hands. The younger man walked off unhappily. The receptionist said, “Mr. Greiman, these gentlemen—“
   Greiman turned to us. Connor said, “Mr. Greiman, we’d like to speak to you for a minute about MicroCon.” And he turned slightly aside, and showed his badge.
   Greiman exploded in rage. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Not again. This is goddamned harassment.”
   “Harassment?”
   “What would you call it? I’ve had senatorial staffers here, I’ve had the F.B.I. here. Now I have the L.A. police? We’re not criminals. We own a company and we have the right to sell it. Where is Louis?”
   The receptionist said, “Mr. Enders is coming.”
   Connor said calmly, “Mr. Greiman, I’m sorry to disturb you. We have only one question. It’ll just take a minute.”
   Greiman glowered. “What’s your question?”
   “How many bidders were there for MicroCon?”
   “That’s none of your business,” he said. “Anyway, our agreement with Akai stipulates that we can’t discuss the sale publicly in any way.”
   Connor said, “Was there more than one bidder?”
   “Look, you have questions, you talk to Enders. I’m busy.” He turned to the woman with blueprints. “Beverly? What have you got for me?”
   “I have a revised layout for the boardroom, Mr. Greiman, and tile samples for the washroom. A very nice gray I think you’ll like.”
   “Good, good.” He led her down the hallway away from us.
   Connor watched them go, and then abruptly turned toward the elevator. “Come on, kōhai. Let’s get some fresh air.”

11

   “Why does it matter if there were other bidders?” I said, when we were back in the car.
   “It goes back to the original question we had,” Connor said. “Who wants to embarrass Nakamoto? We know the sale of MicroCon has strategic significance. That’s why Congress is upset. But that almost certainly means other parties are upset, too.”
   “In Japan?”
   “Exactly.”
   “Who will know that?”
   “Akai.”

   The Japanese receptionist tittered when she saw Connor’s badge. Connor said, “We would like to see Mr. Yoshida.” Yoshida was the head of the company.
   “One moment, please.” She got up and hurried away, almost running.
   Akai Ceramics was located on the fifth floor of a bland office-block in El Segundo. The decor was spare and industrial-looking. From the reception area, we could see into a large space, which was not partitioned: lots of metal desks and people at the phones. The soft click of word processors.
   I looked at the office. “Pretty bare.”
   “All business,” Connor said, nodding. “In Japan, ostentation is frowned on. It means you are not serious. When old Mr. Matsushita was the head of the third biggest company in Japan, he still took the regular commercial jet between his head offices in Osaka and Tokyo. He was the head of a fifty-billion-dollar company. But no private jets for him.”
   As we waited, I looked at the people working at the desks. A handful were Japanese. Most were Caucasian. Everyone wore blue suits. There were almost no women.
   “In Japan,” Connor said, “if a company is doing poorly, the first thing that happens is the executives cut their own salaries. They feel responsible for the success of the company, and they expect their own fortunes to rise and fall as the company succeeds or fails.”
   The woman came back, and sat at her desk without speaking. Almost immediately, a Japanese man wearing a blue suit came toward us. He had gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a solemn manner. He said, “Good morning. I am Mr. Yoshida.”
   Connor made the introductions. We all bowed and exchanged business cards. Mr. Yoshida took each card with both hands, bowing each time, formally. We did the same. I noticed that Connor did not speak Japanese to him.
   Yoshida led us to his office. It had windows looking toward the airport. The furnishings were austere.
   “Would you like coffee, or tea?”
   “No, thank you,” Connor said. “We are here in an official capacity.”
   “I understand.” He gestured for us to sit down.
   “We would like to talk to you about the purchase of MicroCon.”
   “Ah, yes. A troubling matter. But I am not aware that it should involve the police.”
   “Perhaps it doesn’t,” Connor said. “Can you tell us about the sale, or is the agreement sealed?”
   Mr. Yoshida looked surprised. “Sealed? Not at all. It is all very open, and has been from the beginning. We were approached by Mr. Kobayashi, representing Darley-Higgins in Tokyo, in September of last year. That was the first we learned the company was for sale. Frankly, we were surprised that it would be offered. We began negotiations in early October. The negotiating teams had the basis of a rough agreement by mid-November. We proceeded to the final stage of negotiations. But then the Congress raised objections, on November sixteenth.”
   Connor said, “You said you were surprised that the company would be offered for sale?”
   “Yes. Certainly.”
   “Why is that?”
   Mr. Yoshida spread his hands on his desk and spoke slowly. “We understood that MicroCon was a government-owned company. It had been financed in part by funds from the American government. Thirteen percent of capitalization, if I remember. In Japan, that would make it a government-owned company. So naturally we were cautious to enter into negotiations. We do not want to offend. But we received assurance from our representatives in Washington there would be no objection to the purchase.”
   “I see.”
   “But now there are difficulties, as we feared. I think now we make a cause for Americans. In Washington, some people are upset. We do not wish this.”
   “You didn’t expect Washington would make objections?”
   Mr. Yoshida gave a diffident shrug. “The two countries are different. In Japan we know what to expect. Here, there is always an individual who may have another opinion, and speak it. But Akai Ceramics does not wish a high profile. It is awkward now.”
   Connor nodded sympathetically. “It sounds as if you want to withdraw.”
   “Many in the home office criticize me, for not knowing what would happen. But I tell them, it is impossible to know. Washington has no firm policy. It changes every day, according to the politics.” He smiled and added. “Or, I would say, that is how it seems to us.”
   “But you expect the sale to go forward?”
   “This I cannot say. Perhaps the criticism from Washington will be too much. And you know the Tokyo government wants to be friends with America. They give pressure on business, not to make purchases that will upset America. Rockefeller Center and Universal Studios, these purchases that make criticism for us. We are told to be yōjinbukai. It means…”
   “Discreet,” Connor said.
   “Careful. Yes. Wary.” He looked at Connor. “You speak Japanese?”
   “A little.”
   Yoshida nodded. For a moment he seemed to consider switching to Japanese, but did not. “We wish to have friendly relations,” he said. “These criticisms of us, we feel they are not fair. The Darley-Higgins company has many financial difficulties. Perhaps bad management, perhaps some other reason. I cannot say. But that is not our fault. We are not responsible for that. And we did not seek MicroCon. It was offered to us. Now we are criticized for trying to help.” He sighed.
   Outside, a big jet took off from the airport. The windows rattled.
   Connor said, “And the other bidders for MicroCon? When did they drop out?”
   Mr. Yoshida frowned. “There were no other bidders. The company was privately offered. Darley-Higgins did not wish to make known their financial difficulties. So we cooperated with them. But now… the press makes many distortions about us. We feel very… kizu tsuita. Wounded?”
   “Yes.”
   He shrugged. “That is how we feel. I hope you understand my poor English.”
   There was a pause. In fact, for the next minute or so, nobody said anything. Connor sat facing Yoshida. I sat beside Connor. Another jet took off, and the windows vibrated again. Still nobody spoke. Yoshida gave a long sigh. Connor nodded. Yoshida shifted in his chair, and folded his hands over his belly. Connor sighed, and grunted. Yoshida sighed. Both men seemed to be entirely focused. Something was taking place, but I was not clear what. I decided it must be this unspoken intuition.
   Finally, Yoshida said, “Captain, I wish no misunderstanding. Akai Ceramics is an honorable company. We have no part in any… complications that have occurred. Our position is difficult. But I will assist you in whatever way I can.”
   Connor said, “I am grateful.”
   “Not at all.”
   Then Yoshida stood up. Connor stood up. I stood up. We all bowed, and then we all shook hands.
   “Please do not hesitate to contact me again, if I can be of assistance.”
   “Thank you,” Connor said.
   Yoshida led us to the door to his office. We bowed again, and he opened the door.
   Outside was a fresh-faced American man in his forties. I recognized him at once. He was the blond man who had been in the car with Senator Rowe the night before. The man who hadn’t introduced himself.
   “Ah, Richmond-san,” Yoshida said. “Very good luck you are here. These gentlemen are just asking about MicroCon baishū.” He turned to us. “Perhaps you will like to talk to Mr. Richmond. His English is much better than mine. He can give you many more details you may wish to know.”

   “Bob Richmond. Myers, Lawson, and Richmond.” His handshake was firm. He was suntanned, and looked as though he played a lot of tennis. He smiled cheerfully. “Small world, isn’t it?”
   Connor and I introduced ourselves. I said, “Did Senator Rowe get back all right?”
   “Oh yes,” Richmond said. “Thanks for your help.” He smiled. “I hate to think how he’s feeling this morning. But I guess it’s not the first time.” He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, like a tennis player waiting for a serve. He looked slightly concerned. “I must say, you two are the last people I ever expected to see here. Is there anything I should know about? I represent Akai in the MicroCon negotiations.”
   “No,” Connor said mildly. “We’re just getting general background.”
   “Is this to do with what happened at Nakamoto last night?”
   Connor said, “Not really. Just background.”
   “If you like, we can talk in the conference room.”
   “Unfortunately,” Connor said, “we’re late for an appointment. But perhaps we can talk later.”
   “You bet,” Richmond said. “Happy to. I’ll be back in my office in about an hour.” He gave us his card.
   “That’s fine,” Connor said.
   But Richmond still seemed worried. He walked with us to the elevator. “Mr. Yoshida is from the old school,” he said. “I’m sure he was polite. But I can tell you he is furious about what happened with this MicroCon thing. He’s taking a lot of heat from Akai Tokyo. And it’s very unfair. He really was sandbagged by Washington. He got assurances there would be no objection to the sale, and then Morton pulled the rug out from under him.”
   Connor said, “Is that what happened?”
   “No question about it,” Richmond said. “I don’t know what Johnny Morton’s problem is, but he came right out of left field on this. We made all the proper filings. CFIUS registered no objection until long after the negotiations were concluded. You can’t do business like this. I just hope John sees the light, and lets this thing go through. Because at the moment it looks pretty racist.”
   “Racist? Really?”
   “Sure. It’s exactly like the Fairchild case. Remember that one? Fujitsu tries to buy Fairchild Semiconductor in eighty-six, but Congress blocks the sale, saying it’s against national security. Congress doesn’t want Fairchild sold to a foreign company. Couple of years later Fairchild is going to be sold to a French company, and this time there’s not a peep from Congress. Apparently, it’s okay to sell to a foreign company—just not a Japanese company. I’d say that’s racist policy, pure and simple.” We came to the elevator. “Anyway, call me. I’ll make myself available.”
   “Thank you,” Connor said.
   We got on the elevator. The doors closed.
   “Asshole,” Connor said.

12

   I was driving north toward the Wilshire exit, to meet Senator Morton. I said, “Why is he an asshole?”
   “Bob Richmond was the assistant trade negotiator for Japan under Amanda Marden until last year. He was privy to all the strategy meetings of the American government. One year later, he turns around and starts working for the Japanese. Who now pay him five hundred thousand a year plus bonuses to close this deal. And he’s worth it, because he knows everything there is to know.”
   “Is that legal?”
   “Sure. It’s standard procedure. They all do it. If Richmond worked for a high-tech company like Microsoft, he’d have to sign an agreement that he wouldn’t work for a competing company for five years. Because you shouldn’t be able to peddle trade secrets to the opposition. But our government has easier rules.”
   “Why is he an asshole?”
   “This racist stuff.” Connor snorted. “He knows better. Richmond knows exactly what happened with the Fairchild sale. And it had nothing to do with racism.”
   “No?”
   “And there’s another thing Richmond knows: the Japanese are the most racist people on earth.”
   “They are?”
   “Absolutely. In fact, when the Japanese diplomats—“
   The car phone rang. I pushed the speaker button and said, “Lieutenant Smith.”
   Over the speaker, a man said, “Jesus, finally. Where the hell have you guys been? I want to get to sleep.”
   I recognized the voice: Fred Hoffmann, the watch commander from the night before.
   Connor said, “Thanks for getting back to us, Fred.”
   “What is it you wanted?”
   “Well, I’m curious,” Connor said, “about the Nakamoto calls you got last night.”
   “You and everybody else in this town,” Hoffmann said. “I got half the department on my ass about this. Jim Olson is practically camping on my desk, going through the paperwork. Even though it was all routine at the time.”
   “If you’d just review what happened…”
   “Sure. First thing, I got the transmittal from metro. That was the original phone-in. Metro wasn’t sure what it meant, because the caller had an Asian accent and sounded confused. Or maybe on drugs. He kept talking about ‘problems with the disposition of the body.’ They couldn’t get it clear what he was talking about. Anyway, I dispatched a black and white about eight-thirty. Then when they confirmed a homicide, I assigned Tom Graham and Roddy Merino—for which I got all kinds of shit later.”
   “Uh-huh.”
   “But what the hell, they were up on the roster next. You know we’re supposed to stay in strict rotation for detective assignments. To avoid the appearance of special treatment. That’s policy. I was just following it.”
   “Uh-huh.”
   “Anyway. Then Graham calls in at nine o’clock, and reports there’s trouble at the scene, and there is a request for the Special Services liaison. Again, I check the list. Pete Smith is the SSO on call. So I give Graham his number at home. And I guess he called you, Pete.”
   “Yes,” I said. “He did.”
   “All right,” Connor said. “What happened after that?”
   “About two minutes after Graham calls, maybe nine oh-five, I get a call from somebody with an accent. I would say it sounds like an Asian accent, but I don’t know for sure. And the guy says that on behalf of Nakamoto he is requesting Captain Connor be assigned to the case.”
   “The caller didn’t identify himself?”
   “Sure he did. I made him identify himself. And I wrote down the name. Koichi Nishi.”
   “And he was from Nakamoto?”
   “That’s what he said,” Hoffmann said. “I’m just sitting there, working the phone, what the hell do I know. I mean, this morning Nakamoto is formally protesting the fact that Connor was assigned to the case and saying they have nobody named Koichi Nishi employed by them. They’re claiming it’s all a fabrication. But let me tell you, somebody called me. I’m not making it up.”
   “I’m sure you’re not,” Connor said. “You say the caller had an accent?”
   “Yeah. His English was pretty good, you know, almost hip, but there was a definite accent. The only thing I thought was funny was that he seemed to know a hell of a lot about you.
   “Oh?”
   “Yeah. First thing he says to me, do I know your phone number or should he give it to me. I say I know the number. I’m thinking, I don’t need some Japanese to tell me the phone numbers of people on the force. Then he says, you know, Captain Connor doesn’t always answer his phone. Be sure to send somebody down there to pick him up.”
   “Interesting,” Connor said.
   “So I called Pete Smith, and told him to swing by and pick you up. And that’s all I knew. I mean, this is all in the context of some political problem they’re having at Nakamoto. I knew Graham was unhappy. I figured other people were unhappy, too. And everybody knows Connor has special relationships with the community, so I put it through. And now there is all this shit coming down. Fucking beats me.”
   “Tell me about the shit,” Connor said.
   “It starts maybe eleven o’clock last night, when the chief called me about Graham. Why did I assign Graham. I tell him why. But he’s still not happy. Then right at the end of my watch, maybe five a.m., there is the business about how Connor got brought in. How did it happen, why did it happen. And now there’s a story in the Times and this whole thing about racism by the police. I don’t know which way to turn here. I keep explaining I did the routine thing. By the book. Nobody is buying that. But it’s true.”
   “I’m sure it is,” Connor said. “Just one more thing, Fred. Did you ever listen to the original metro call?”
   “Damn right I did. I heard it about an hour ago. Why?”
   “Did the voice that called in sound like Mr. Nishi?”
   Hoffmann laughed. “Christ. Who knows, Captain. Maybe. You’re asking me if one Asian voice sounds like another Asian voice I heard earlier. Honestly, I don’t know. The original voice on the call sounded pretty confused. Maybe in shock. Maybe on drugs. I’m not sure. All I know is, whoever Mr. Nishi actually was, he knew a hell of a lot about you.”
   “Well, that’s very helpful. Get some rest.” Connor thanked him, and hung up. I pulled off the freeway and headed down Wilshire, to our meeting with Senator Morton.

13

   “Okay, Senator, now look this way, please… a little more… that’s it, that’s very strong, very masculine, I like it a lot. Yes, bloody good. Now I will need three minutes, please.” The director, a tense man wearing a bomber jacket and a baseball cap, climbed down off the camera and barked orders in a British accent. “Jerry, get a scrim there, the sun is too bright. And can we do something about his eyes? I need a little fill in the eyes, please. Ellen? You see the shine on his right shoulder. Flag it, love. Pull the collar smooth. The microphone is visible on his tie. And I can’t see the gray in his hair. Bring it up. And straighten out the carpeting on the ground so he doesn’t trip when he walks, people. Please. Come on now. We’re losing our lovely light.”
   Connor and I were standing to one side, with a cute production assistant named Debbie who held a clipboard across her breasts and said meaningfully, “The director is Edgar Lynn.”
   “Should we recognize that name?” Connor said.
   “He’s the most expensive and most sought-after commercial director in the world. He is a great artist. Edgar did the fantastic Apple 1984 commercial, and… oh, lots of others. And he has directed famous movies, too. Edgar is just the best.” She paused. “And not too crazy. Really.”
   Across from the camera, Senator John Morton stood patiently while four people fussed with his tie, his jacket, his hair, his makeup. Morton was wearing a suit. He was standing under a tree with the rolling golf course and the skyscrapers of Beverly Hills in the background. The production crew had laid down a strip of carpet for him to walk on as he approached the camera.
   I said, “And how is the senator?”
   Debbie nodded. “Pretty good. I think he has a shot.”
   Connor said, “You mean a chance for the presidency?”
   “Yeah. Especially if Edgar can do his magic. I mean, let’s face it, Senator Morton is not exactly Mel Gibson, you know what I mean? He’s got a big nose, and he’s a little bald, and those freckles are a problem because they photograph so prominently. They distract you from his eyes. And the eyes are what sell a candidate.”
   “The eyes,” Connor said.
   “Oh, yeah. People get elected on their eyes.” She shrugged, as if it was common knowledge. “But if the senator puts himself in Edgar’s hands… Edgar is a great artist. He can make it happen.”
   Edgar Lynn walked past us, huddled with the cameraman. “Christ, clean up the luggage under his eyes,” Lynn said. “And get the chin. Firm that chin with a hard inky low and up.”
   “Okay,” the cameraman said.
   The production assistant excused herself and we waited, watching. Senator Morton was still some distance away, being worked over by the makeup and wardrobe people.
   “Mr. Connor? Mr. Smith?” I turned. A young man in a blue pinstripe suit was standing beside us. He looked like a Senate staffer: well turned-out, attentive, polite. “I’m Bob Woodson. With the senator’s office. Thank you for coming.”
   “You’re welcome,” Connor said.
   “I know the senator is eager to talk to you,” Woodson said. “I’m sorry, this seems to be running a little late. We were supposed to finish shooting by one.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, I guess it may be quite a while. But I know the senator wants to talk to you.”
   Connor said, “Do you know what about?”
   Someone shouted, “Run-through! Run-through for sound and camera, please!”
   The cluster around Senator Morton vanished, and Woodson turned his attention to the camera.
   Edgar Lynn was back looking through the lens. “There still isn’t enough gray. Ellen? You will have to add gray to his hair. It isn’t reading now.”
   Woodson said, “I hope he doesn’t make him look too old.”
   Debbie, the production assistant, said, “It’s just for the shot. It isn’t reading for the shot, so we add some gray. See, Ellen is just putting it at the temples. It’ll make him distinguished.”
   “I don’t want him old. Especially when he’s tired, he sometimes looks old.”
   “Don’t worry,” the assistant said.
   “All right now,’ Lynn said. ‘That’s enough for now. Senator? Shall we try a run-through?”
   Senator Morton said, “Where does this begin?”
   “Line?”
   A script girl said, “ ‘Perhaps like me…’ “
   Morton said, “Then we’ve already done the first part?”
   Edgar Lynn said, “That’s right, love. We start here with your turn to the camera, and you give us a very strong, very direct masculine look, and begin ‘Perhaps like me.’ Right?”
   “Okay,” Morton said.
   “Remember. Think masculine. Think strong. Think in control.”
   Morton said, “Can we shoot it?”
   Woodson said, “Lynn’s going to piss him off.”
   Edgar Lynn said, “All right. Shoot the rehearsal. Here we go.”

   Senator Morton walked toward the camera. “Perhaps like me,” he said, “you’re concerned about the erosion of our national position in recent years. America is still the greatest military power, but our security depends on our ability to defend ourselves militarily and economically. And it is economically that America has fallen behind. How far behind? Well, under the last two administrations, America has gone from the greatest creditor nation to the greatest debtor nation the world has ever seen. Our industries have fallen behind the rest of the world. Our workers are less educated than workers in other countries. Our investors demand short-term gain and cripple our industries’ ability to plan for the future. And as a result, our standard of living is declining rapidly. The outlook for our children is bleak.”
   Connor murmured, “Somebody is actually saying it.”
   “And in this time of national crisis,” Morton continued, “many Americans have another concern, as well. As our economic power fades, we are vulnerable to a new kind of invasion. Many Americans fear that we may become an economic colony of Japan, or Europe. But especially Japan. Many Americans feel that the Japanese are taking over our industries, our recreation lands, and even our cities.” He gestured to the golf course with skyscrapers in the background.
   “And in doing so, some fear that Japan now has the power to shape and determine the future of America.”
   Morton paused, beneath the tree. He gave the appearance of thinking.
   “How justified are these fears for the American future? How much should we be concerned? There are some who will tell you foreign investment is a blessing, that it helps our nation. Others take the opposite view, and feel we are selling our precious birthright. Which view is correct? Which should—which is—which—oh, fuck! What’s the line again?”
   “Cut, cut,” Edgar Lynn called. “Take five, everybody. I need to clean up a few things, and then we can do it for real. Very good, Senator. I liked it.”
   The script girl said, “ ‘Which should we believe for the future of America,’ Senator.”
   He repeated, “Which should we believe for the future of…” He shook his head. “No wonder I can’t remember it. Let’s change that line. Margie? Let’s change that line, please. Never mind, bring me a script, I’ll change it myself.”
   And the crowd of makeup and wardrobe people descended on him again, touching him up and fluffing him down.
   Woodson said, “Wait here, I’ll try and get you a few minutes with him.”

   We stood beside a humming trailer, with power cables coming out of it. As soon as Morton approached us, two aides came running up, brandishing thick books of computer printout. “John, you better look at this.”
   “John, you better consider this.”
   Morton said, “What is it?”
   “John, this is the latest Gallup and Fielding.”
   “John, this is the cross-referenced analysis by voter age-brackets.”
   “And?”
   “Bottom line, John, the president is right.”
   “Don’t tell me that. I’m running against the president.”
   “But John, he’s right about the C-word. You can’t say the C-word in your television ad.”
   “I can’t say ‘conservation’ ?”
   “You can’t say it, John.”
   “It’s death, John.”
   “The figures show it.”
   “You want us to run over the figures, John?”
   “No,” Morton said. He glanced at Connor and me. “I’ll be right with you,” he said, with a smile.
   “But look here, John.”
   “It’s very clear, John. Conservation means diminution of life-style. People are already experiencing diminution of life-style. They don’t want any more of it.”
   “But that’s wrong,” Morton said. “That’s not how it works.”
   “John, it’s what the voters think.”
   “But they’re wrong about this.”
   “John, you want to educate the voters, well and good.”
   “Yes, I do want to educate the voters. Conservation is not synonymous with diminution of life-style. It is synonymous with more wealth, power, and freedom. The idea is not to make do with less. The idea is to do all the things you are doing now—heat your house, drive your car—using less gas and oil. Let’s have more efficient heaters in our houses, more efficient cars on our streets. Let’s have cleaner air, better health. It can be done. Other countries have done it. Japan has done it.”
   “John, please.”
   “Not Japan.”
   “In the last twenty years,” Morton said. “Japan cut the energy cost of finished goods by sixty percent. America has done nothing. Japan can now make goods cheaper than we can, because Japan has pushed investment in energy-efficient technology. Conservation is competitive. And we aren’t being competitive—“
   “Fine, John. Conservation and statistics. Really boring.”
   “Nobody cares, John.”
   “The American people care,” Morton said.
   “John: they absolutely don’t.”
   “And they aren’t going to listen. Look, John. We have age-regressions here, particularly among the over fifty-fives, which is the most solid voting block, and they are straight ahead on this issue. They want no decreases. No conservation. The old people of America don’t want it.”
   “But older people have children, and grandchildren. They must care about the future.”
   “Older people don’t give a flying fuck, John. It’s right here in black and white. They think their kids don’t care about them, and they’re right. So they don’t care about their kids. It’s that simple.”
   “But certainly the children—“
   “Children don’t vote, John.”
   “Please, John. Listen to us.”
   “No conservation, John. Competitiveness, yes. Look to the future, yes. Face our problems, yes. A new spirit, yes. But no conservation. Just look at the numbers. Don’t do it.”
   “Please.”
   Morton said, “I’ll think about it, fellas.”
   The two aides seemed to realize that that was all they were going to get. They closed their printouts with a snap.
   “You want us to send Margie over to rewrite?”
   “No. I’m thinking about it.”
   “Maybe Margie should just rough out a few lines.”
   “No.”
   “Okay, John. Okay.”
   “You know,” Morton said, as they were leaving, “some day an American politician is going to do what he thinks is right, instead of what the polls tell him. And it’s going to look revolutionary.”
   The two aides turned back together. “John, come on. You’re tired.”
   “It’s been a long trip. We understand.”
   “John. Trust us on this, we have the figures. We are telling you with ninety-five percent confidence intervals how the people feel.”
   “I know damn well how they feel. They feel frustrated. And I know why. It’s been fifteen years since they’ve had any leadership.”
   “John. Let’s not do this one again. This is the twentieth century. Leadership is the quality of telling people what they want to hear.”
   They walked away.
   Immediately, Woodson came up, carrying a portable phone. He started to speak, but Morton held up his hand. “Not now, Bob.”
   “Senator, I think you need to take this—”
   “Not now.”
   Woodson backed away. Morton glanced at his watch. “You’re Mr. Connor and Mr. Smith?”
   “Yes,” Connor said.
   “Let’s walk,” Morton said. He started away from the film crew, toward a hill overlooking the rolling course. It was Friday. Not many people were playing. We stood about fifty meters from the crew.
   “I asked you to come,” Morton said, “because I understand you’re the officers in charge of the Nakamoto business.”
   I was about to protest that it wasn’t true, that Graham was the officer in charge, when Connor said, “That’s true, we are.”
   “I have some questions about that case. I gather it’s been resolved now?”
   “It seems to be.”
   “Is your investigation finished?”
   “For all practical purposes, yes,” Connor said. “The investigation is concluded.”
   Morton nodded. “I’m told you officers are particularly knowledgeable about the Japanese community, is that right? One of you has even lived in Japan?”
   Connor gave a slight bow,
   “You were the one playing golf with Hanada and Asaka today?” Morton said.
   “You’re well informed.”
   “I spoke with Mr. Hanada this morning. We have had contact in the past, on other matters.” Morton turned abruptly and said, “My question is this. Is the Nakamoto business related to MicroCon?”
   “How do you mean?” Connor said.
   “The sale of MicroCon to the Japanese has come before the Senate Finance Committee, which I chair. We’ve been asked for a recommendation by staff from the Committee on Science and Technology, which must actually authorize the sale. As you know, the sale is controversial. In the past I have gone on record as opposing the sale. For a variety of reasons. You’re familiar with all this?”
   “Yes,” Connor said.
   “I still have problems about it,” Morton said. “MicroCon’s advanced technology was developed in part with American taxpayer money. I’m outraged that our taxpayers should pay for research that is being sold to the Japanese—who will then use it to compete against our own companies. I feel strongly we should be protecting American capacity in high-tech areas. I feel we should be protecting our intellectual resources. I feel we should be limiting foreign investment in our corporations and our universities. But I seem to be alone in this. I can’t find support in the Senate or in industry. Commerce won’t help me. The trade rep’s worried it’ll upset the rice negotiations. Rice. Even the Pentagon is against me on this. And I just wondered, since Nakamoto is the parent company of Akai Ceramics, whether the events of last night had any relationship to the proposed sale.”
   He paused. He was looking at us in an intense way. It was almost as if he expected that we would know something.
   Connor said, “I’m not aware of any linkage.”
   “Has Nakamoto done anything unfair or improper to promote the sale?”
   “Not that I am aware, no.”
   “And your investigation is formally concluded?”
   “Yes.”
   “I just want to be clear. Because if I back down on my opposition to this sale, I don’t want to find that I’ve stuck my hand in a box of snakes. One could argue that the party at Nakamoto was an attempt to win over opponents to the sale. So a change of position can be worrisome. You know in Congress they can get you coming and going, with a thing like this.”
   Connor said, “Are you abandoning your opposition to the sale?”
   From across the lawn, an aide said, “Senator? They’re ready for you, sir.”
   “Well.” Morton shrugged. “I’m out on a limb with this thing. Nobody agrees with my position on MicroCon. Personally, I think it’s another Fairchild case. But if this battle can’t be won, I say, let’s not fight it. Plenty of other battles to be fought, anyway.” He straightened, smoothed his suit.
   “Senator? When you’re ready, sir.” And he added, “They’re concerned about the light.”
   “They’re concerned about the light,” Morton said, shaking his head.
   “Don’t let us keep you,” Connor said.
   “Anyway,” Morton said. “I wanted your input. I understand you to say that last night had nothing to do with MicroCon. The people involved had nothing to do with it. I’m not going to read next month that someone was working behind the scenes, trying to promote or block the sale. Nothing like that.”
   “Not as far as I know,” Connor said.
   “Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he said. He shook both of our hands, and started away. Then he came back. “I appreciate your treating this matter as confidential. Because, you know, we have to be careful. We are at war with Japan.” He smiled wryly. “Loose lips sink ships.”
   “Yes,” Connor said. “And remember Pearl Harbor.”
   “Christ, that too.” He shook his head. He dropped his voice, becoming one of the boys. “You know, I have colleagues who say sooner or later we’re going to have to drop another bomb. They think it’ll come to that.” He smiled. “But I don t feel that way. Usually.”
   Still smiling, he headed back to the camera crew. As he walked, he collected people, first a woman with script changes, then a wardrobe man, then a sound man fiddling with his microphone and adjusting the battery pack at his waist, and the makeup woman, until finally the senator had disappeared from view, and there was just a cluster of people moving awkwardly across the lawn.

14

   I said, “I like him.”
   I was driving back into Hollywood. The buildings were hazy in the smog.
   “Why shouldn’t you like him?” Connor said. “He’s a politician. It’s his job to make you like him.”
   “Then he’s good at his job.”
   “Very good, I think.”
   Connor stared out the window silently. I had the sense that something was troubling him.
   I said, “Didn’t you like what he was saying in the commercial? It sounded like all the things you say.”
   “Yes. It did.”
   “Then what’s the matter?”
   “Nothing,” Connor said. “I was just thinking about what he actually said.”
   “He mentioned Fairchild.”
   “Of course,” Connor said. “Morton knows the real story about Fairchild, very well.”
   I started to ask him what it was, but he was already telling me.
   “Have you ever heard of Seymour Cray? For years, he was the best designer of supercomputers in the world. Cray Research made the fastest computers in the world. The Japanese were trying to catch up with him, but they just couldn’t do it. He was too brilliant. But by the mid-eighties, Japanese chip dumping had put most of Cray’s domestic suppliers out of business. So Cray had to order his custom-designed chips from Japanese manufacturers. There was nobody in America to make them. And his Japanese suppliers experienced mysterious delays. At one point, it took them a year to deliver certain chips he had ordered—and during that time, his Japanese competitors made great strides forward. There was also a question of whether they had stolen his new technology. Cray was furious. He knew they were fucking with him. He decided that he had to form a liaison with an American manufacturer, and so he chose Fairchild Semiconductor, even though the company was financially weak, far from the best. But Cray couldn’t trust the Japanese anymore. He had to make do with Fairchild. So now Fairchild was making his next generation of custom chips for him—and then he learned that Fairchild was going to be sold to Fujitsu. His big competitor. It was concern about situations like that, and the national security implications, that led Congress to block the sale to Fujitsu.”
   “And then?”
   “Well, blocking the sale didn’t solve Fairchild’s financial problems. The company was still in trouble. And it eventually had to be sold. There was a rumor it was going to be bought by Bull, a French company that didn’t compete in supercomputers. That sale might have been permitted by Congress. But in the end, Fairchild was sold to an American company.”
   “And MicroCon is another Fairchild?”
   “Yes, in the sense that MicroCon will give the Japanese a monopoly on vital chip-making machinery. Once they have a monopoly, they can withhold the machines from American companies. But now I think—“
   That was when the phone rang. I left it on the speakerphone.
   It was Lauren. My ex-wife.

   “Peter?”
   I said, “Hello, Lauren.”
   “Peter, I am calling to inform you that I’m going to pick up Michelle early today.” Her voice sounded tense, formal.
   “You are? I didn’t know you were picking her up at all.”
   “I never said that, Peter,” she answered quickly. “Of course I’m picking her up.”
   I said, “Okay, fine. By the way, who’s Rick?”
   There was a pause. “Really. That is beneath you, Peter.”
   “Why?” I said. “I’m just curious. Michelle mentioned it this morning. She said he has a black Mercedes. Is he the new boyfriend?”
   “Peter. I hardly think that is on the same level.”
   I said, “The same level as what?”
   “Let’s not play games,” she said. “This is difficult enough. I’m calling to tell you I have to pick up Michelle early because I’m taking her to the doctor.”
   “Why? She’s over her cold.”
   “I’m taking her for an examination, Peter.”
   “For what’?”
   “An examination.”
   “I heard you,” I said. “But—“
   “The physician who will examine her is Robert Strauss. He is an expert, I’m told. I have been asking people in the office who is the best person. I don’t know how this is going to turn out, Peter, but I want you to know I am concerned, particularly in the light of your history.”
   “Lauren, what are you talking about?”
   “I’m talking about child abuse,” she said. “I’m talking about sexual molestation.”
   “What?”
   “There’s no getting around it, at this point. You know you’ve been accused of it in the past.”
   I felt churning nausea. Whenever a relationship goes sour, there’s always some residue of resentment, some pockets of bitterness and anger—as well as lots of private things that you know about the other person, that you can use against them. If you choose to do that. Lauren never had.
   “Lauren, you know that abuse charge was trumped up, You know everything about that. We were married at the time.”
   “I only know what you told me.” Her voice sounded distant now, moralistic, a little sarcastic. Her prosecutor’s voice.
   “Lauren, for Christ’s sake. This is ridiculous. What’s going on?”
   “It is not ridiculous. I have my responsibilities as a mother.”
   “Well, for God’s sake, you’ve never been particularly worried about your responsibilities as a mother before. And now you—“
   “It’s true that I have a demanding career,” she said, in an icy tone, “but there has never been any question that my daughter comes first. And I deeply, deeply regret if my past behavior in any way contributed to this unpleasant circumstance now.” I had the feeling that she wasn’t talking to me. She was rehearsing. Trying out the words to see how they would sound before a judge. “Clearly, Peter, if there is child abuse, Michelle cannot continue to live with you. Or even to see you.”
   I felt pain in my chest. A wrenching.
   “What are you talking about? Who told you there was child abuse?”
   “Peter, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to comment at this point in time.”
   “Was it Wilhelm? Who called you, Lauren?”
   “Peter, there’s no point in going into this, I’m officially notifying you that I’m going to pick Michelle up at four p.m. I want her ready to go at four this afternoon.”
   “Lauren—“
   “I have my secretary, Miss Wilson, listening on the line and making stenographic notes of our conversation. I’m giving you formal notice of my intention to pick up my daughter and take her for a physical examination. Do you have any questions about my decision?”
   “No.”
   “Four o’clock, then. Thank you for your cooperation. And let me add on a personal note, Peter, I’m truly sorry that it has come to this.”
   And she hung up.

   I had been involved in sex abuse cases when I was a detective. I knew how it worked. The fact is, you usually can’t determine anything from a physical exam. It’s always equivocal. And if a kid is questioned by a psychologist who hammers her with questions, the kid will eventually start to go along, and make up answers to please the psychologist. Normal procedure requires the psychologist to videotape the kids, to prove that the questioning wasn’t leading. But the situation is almost always unclear when it finally comes before a judge. And the judge must therefore rule conservatively. Which means, if there is a possibility of abuse, to keep the child away from the accused parent. Or at least, not allow unsupervised visitation. No overnight visits. Or perhaps not even—
   “That’s enough,” Connor said, sitting beside me in the car. “Come back now.”
   “Sorry,” I said. “But it’s upsetting.”
   “I’m sure. Now: what haven’t you told me?”
   “About what?”
   “The molestation charge.”
   “Nothing. There’s nothing to it.”
   “Kōhai,” he said quietly. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”
   “It had nothing to do with sexual molestation,” I said, “It was something else entirely. It was about money.”
   Connor said nothing. He just waited. Looking at me.
   “Ah, hell,” I said.
   And I told him.

   You have these times in your life when you believe you know what you’re doing, but you really don’t. Later on, you can look back, and you see you weren’t acting right at all. You drifted into something, and you were completely screwed up. But at the time, you thought everything was fine.
   What happened to me was, I was in love. Lauren was one of those patrician-acting girls, lean and graceful and understated. She looked like she grew up with horses. And she was younger than me, and beautiful.
   I always knew it wouldn’t work between us, but I was trying to make it work anyway. We had gotten married and had begun living together and she was starting to be dissatisfied. Dissatisfied with my apartment, where it was located, how much money we had. All of that. She was throwing up, which didn’t help. She had crackers in the car, crackers by the bed, crackers everywhere. She was so miserable and so unhappy that I tried to please her in little ways. Get her things. Bring her things. Cook her meals. Do little domestic things. It wasn’t my usual way, but I was in love. I was drifting into this habit of pleasing her. Trying to please her.
   And there was constant pressure. More this, more that. More money. More, more.
   We also had a specific problem. Her health insurance through the D.A.’s office didn’t cover pregnancy and neither did mine. After we got married, we couldn’t get coverage in time to pay for the baby. It was going to cost eight thousand dollars and we had to come up with it. Neither of us had the money. Lauren’s father was a doctor in Virginia but she didn’t want to ask him for the money because he disapproved of her marrying me in the first place. My family doesn’t have any money. So. There wasn’t any money. She worked for the D.A. I worked for the department. She had a lot of debts on her MasterCard and owed money on her car. We had to come up with eight thousand dollars. It’s hanging over our heads. How we are going to do this. And it gets to be an unspoken thing, at least from her. That I should handle it.
   So one night in August I’m out on a domestic violence call in Ladera Heights. Hispanic couple. They’ve been drinking and going at it pretty good, she’s got a split lip and he’s got a black eye, and their kid’s screaming in the next room, but pretty soon we calm them down and we can see that nobody is seriously injured, so we’re about to leave. And the wife sees we’re about to leave. At that point she starts yelling that the husband has been fooling with the daughter. Physically abusing the daughter. When the husband hears this, he looks really pissed, and I think it’s bullshit, the wife is just doing something to harass him. But the wife insists we check the daughter, so I go into the kid’s room and the kid is about nine months old and screaming red in the face, and I pull the covers back to check for bruises and there I see a kilo of white brick. Under the covers with the kid.
   So.
   I don’t know, it’s one of those situations, they’re married so she’d have to testify against her husband, there’s no probable cause, the search is invalid, on and on. If he’s got a halfway decent lawyer he can beat this, no problem. So I go out and call the guy in. I know I can’t do anything. All I’m thinking is that if his kid ever got this brick in her mouth, chewed on it, it would kill her. I want to talk to him about that. I figure I’ll fuck him over a little. Scare him a little.
   So now it’s him and me in the kid’s room. The wife is still out in the living room with my partner, and suddenly the guy pulls out an envelope two centimeters thick. He cracks it open. I see hundred-dollar bills. An inch thick of hundred-dollar bills. And he says, “Thanks for your help, officer.” There’s got to be ten thousand dollars in that envelope. Maybe more. I don’t know. The guy holds out the envelope and looks at me. Expecting me to take it.
   I say something lame about how it’s dangerous to hide shit in a kid’s bed. Right away, the guy picks up the brick, puts it on the floor, kicks it out of sight under the bed. Then he says, “You are right. Thank you, officer. I would hate something happens to my daughter.” And he holds out the envelope.
   So.
   Everything is in turmoil. The wife is outside screaming at my partner. The kid is in here screaming at us. The guy is holding the envelope. He smiles and nods. Like, go ahead and take it. It’s yours. And I think… I don’t know what I thought.
   Next thing I know, I’m out in the living room and I say everything is fine with the kid, and now the woman starts to scream in her drunken way that I abused her child—now it’s me, not the husband—and that I am in a conspiracy with the husband, that we are both child abusers. My partner figures she’s crazy drunk and we leave, and that’s it. My partner says, “You were in that room a while.” And I say, “I had to check the kid,” And that’s it. Except the next day she comes in and makes a formal complaint that I abused her child. She’s hung over and she has a record, but even so it’s a serious charge and it goes through the system as far as the preliminary, where it gets thrown out as entirely without merit.
   That’s it.
   That’s what happened.
   That’s the whole story.

   “And the money?” Connor said.
   “I went to Vegas for the weekend. I won big. I paid taxes on thirteen thousand in unearned income that year.”
   “Whose idea was that?”
   “Lauren. She told me how to handle it.”
   “So she knows what happened?”
   “Sure.”
   “And the department investigation? Did the preliminary board issue a report?”
   “I don’t think it got that far. They just heard it orally and dismissed it. There’s probably a notation in the file, but not an actual report.”
   “All right,” Connor said. “Now tell me the rest.”

   So I told him about Ken Shubik, and the Times, and the Weasel. Connor listened silently, frowning. As I talked, he began to suck air through his teeth, which was the Japanese way of expressing disapproval.
   “Kōhai,” he said, when I finished, “you are making my life extremely difficult. And certainly you make me appear foolish when I should not. Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
   “Because it has nothing to do with you.”
   “Kōhai.” He was shaking his head. “Kōhai…”
   I was thinking about my daughter again. About the possibility—just the possibility—that I would not be able to see her—that I would not be able to—
   “Look,” Connor said, “I told you it could be unpleasant, Take my word for it. It can get much more unpleasant than this. This is only the beginning. It can get nasty. We must proceed quickly and try to wrap everything up.”
   “I thought everything was wrapped up.”
   Connor sighed, and shook his head. “It’s not,” he said. “And now we must resolve everything before you meet your wife at four o’clock. So let’s make sure we are done by then.”

15

   “Christ, I’d say it’s pretty fucking wrapped up,” Graham said. He was walking around Sakamura’s house in the Hollywood hills. The last of the SID teams was packing up cases to leave.
   “I don’t know why the chief has such a bug up his ass on this,” Graham said. “The SID boys have been doing most of their work right here, on the spot, because he’s in such a rush. But thank God: everything ties up perfect. Sakamura is our boy. We combed his bed for pubic hair—it matches the pubic hair found on the girl. We got dried saliva off his toothbrush. It matches blood type and genetic markers for the sperm inside the dead girl. Matchup is ninety-seven percent sure. It’s his come inside her, and his pubic hair on her body. He fucked her and then he killed her. And when we came to arrest him, he panicked, made a break for it, and died as a result. Where is Connor?”
   “Outside,” I said.
   Through the windows, I could see Connor standing down by the garage, talking to policemen in a black-and-white patrol car. Connor was pointing up and down the street; they were answering questions.
   “What’s he doing down there?” Graham said.
   I said I didn’t know.
   “Damn, I don’t understand him. You can tell him the answer to his question is no.”
   “What question?”
   “He called me an hour ago,” Graham said. “Said he wanted to know how many pairs of reading glasses we found here. We checked. The answer is, no reading glasses. Lots of sunglasses. Couple of pairs of women’s sunglasses. But that’s it. I don’t know why he cared. Strange man, isn’t he? What the hell is he doing now?”
   We watched as Connor paced back and forth around the squad car, then pointed up and down the road again. One man was in the car, talking on the radio. “Do you understand him?” Graham said.
   “No, I don’t.”
   “He’s probably trying to track down the girls,” Graham said. “Christ, I wish we had gotten the ID on that redhead. Especially now it’s turned out this way. She must have fucked him, too. We could have gotten some sperm from her, and made an exact match with all the factors. And I look like a horse’s ass, letting the girls get away. But shit, who knew it was going to go that way. It was all so fast. Naked girls up here, prancing around. A guy gets a little confused. It’s natural. Shit, they were good-looking, weren’t they?”
   I said they were.
   “And there’s nothing left of Sakamura,” Graham said. “I talked to the PEO boys an hour ago. They’re downtown, cutting the corpse out of the car, but I guess he’s burned beyond identification. The M.E.’s office is going to try, but good luck.” He stared unhappily out the window. “You know what? We did the best we could with this fucking case,” he said. “And I think we did pretty good. We got the right guy. We did it fast, no fuss no muss. But all I hear now is a lot of Japan-bashing. Fuck. You can’t win.”
   “Uh-huh,” I said.
   “And Christ they have juice now,” Graham said. “The heat on my ass is terrific. I got the chief calling me, wanting this thing wrapped up. I got some reporter at the Times investigating me, hauling out some old shit about a questionable use of force on a Hispanic back in 1978. Nothing to it. But this reporter, he’s trying to show I’ve always been a racist. And what is the background of his story? That last night was a ‘racist’ incident. So I am now an example of racism rearing its ugly head again. I tell you. The Japanese are masters of the smear job. It’s fucking scary.”
   “I know,” I said.
   “They getting to you, too?”
   I nodded.
   “For what?”
   “Child abuse.”
   “Christ,” Graham said. “And you got a daughter.”
   “Yes.”
   “Doesn’t it piss you off? Innuendo and smear tactics, Petey-san. Nothing to do with reality. But try and tell that to a reporter.”
   “Who is it?” I asked. “The reporter talking to you.”
   “Linda Jensen, I think she said.”
   I nodded. Linda Jensen was the Weasel’s protégé. Somebody once said that Linda didn’t fuck her way to the top. She fucked other people’s reputations to the top. She had been a gossip columnist in Washington before graduating to the big time in Los Angeles.
   “I don’t know,” Graham said, shifting his bulk. “Personally, I think it’s not worth it. They’re turning this country into another Japan. You’ve already got people afraid to speak. Afraid to say anything against them. People just won’t talk about what’s happening.”
   “It would help if the government passed a few laws.”
   Graham laughed. “The government. They own the government. You know what they spend in Washington every year? Four hundred million fucking dollars a year. That’s enough to pay the campaign costs of everybody in the United States Senate and the House of Representatives. That is a lot of fucking money. Now you tell me. Would they spend all that money, year after year, if it wasn’t paying off for them? Of course they wouldn’t. Shit. The end of America, buddy. Hey. Looks like your boss wants you.”
   I looked out the window. Connor was waving to me.
   I said, “I better go.”
   “Good luck,” Graham said. “Listen. I may take a couple of weeks off.”
   “Yeah? When?”
   “Maybe later today,” Graham said. “The chief mentioned it. He said as long as the fucking Times is on my ass, maybe I should. I’m thinking of a week in Phoenix. I got family there. Anyway, I wanted you to know, I might be going.”
   “Okay, sure,” I said.
   Connor was still waving to me. He seemed impatient. I hurried down to see him. As I came down the steps, I saw a black Mercedes sedan pull up, and a familiar figure emerge.
   It was Weasel Wilhelm.

16

   By the time I got down there, the Weasel had his notepad and tape recorder out. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. “Lieutenant Smith,” he said. “I wonder if I could talk to you.”
   “I’m pretty busy,” I said.
   “Come on,” Connor called to me. “Time’s a’wasting.” He was holding the door open for me.
   I started toward Connor. The Weasel fell in step with me. He held a tiny black microphone toward my face. “I’m taping, I hope you don’t mind. After the Malcolm case, we have to be extra careful. I wonder if you would comment on racial slurs allegedly made by your associate Detective Graham during last night’s Nakamoto investigation?”
   “No,” I said. I kept walking.
   “We’ve been told he referred to them as ‘fucking Japs.’ “
   “I have no comment,” I said.
   “He also called them ‘little Nips.’ Do you think that kind of talk is appropriate to an officer on duty?”
   “Sorry. I don’t have a comment, Willy.”
   He held the microphone up to my face as we walked. It was annoying. I wanted to slap it away, but I didn’t. “Lieutenant Smith, we’re preparing a story on you and we have some questions about the Martinez case. Do you remember that one? It was a couple of years back.”
   I kept walking. “I’m pretty busy now, Willy,” I said.
   “The Martinez case resulted in accusations of child abuse brought by Sylvia Morelia, the mother of Maria Martinez. There was an internal affairs investigation. I wondered if you had any comment.”
   “No comment.”
   “I’ve already talked to your partner at that time, Ted Anderson. I wondered if you had any comment on that.”
   “Sorry. I don’t.”
   “Then you aren’t going to respond to these serious allegations against you? ‘
   “The only one I know that’s making allegations is you, Willy.”
   “Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he said, smiling at me. “I’m told the D.A.’s office has started an investigation.”
   I said nothing. I wondered if it was true.
   “Under the circumstances, Lieutenant, do you think the court made a mistake in granting you custody of your young daughter?”
   All I said was, “Sorry. No comment, Willy.” I tried to sound confident. I was starting to sweat.
   Connor said, “Come on, come on. No time.” I got into the car. Connor said to Wilhelm, “Son, I’m sorry, but we’re busy. Got to go.” He slammed the car door. I started the engine. “Let’s go,” Connor said.
   Willy stuck his head in the window. “Do you think that Captain Connor’s Japan-bashing represents another example of the department’s lack of judgment in racially sensitive cases?”
   “See you, Willy.” I rolled up the window, and started driving down the hill.
   “A little faster wouldn’t bother me,” Connor said.
   “Sure,” I said. I stepped on the gas.
   In the rearview mirror, I saw the Weasel running for his Mercedes. I took the turn faster, tires squealing. “How did that lowlife know where to find us? He monitoring the radio?”
   “We haven’t been on the radio,” Connor said. “You know I’m careful about the radio. But maybe the patrol car phoned in something when we arrived. Maybe we have a bug in this car. Maybe he just figured we’d turn up here. He’s a scumbag. And he’s connected to the Japanese. He’s their plant at the Times. Usually the Japanese are a little more classy about who they associate with. But I guess he’ll do everything they want done. Nice car, huh?”
   “I notice it’s not Japanese.”
   “Can’t be obvious,” Connor said. “He following us?”
   “No. I think we lost him. Where are we going now?”
   “U.S.C. Sanders has had enough time screwing around by now.”
   We drove down the street, down the hill, toward the 101 freeway. “By the way,” I said. “What was all that about the reading glasses?”
   “Just a small point to be verified. No reading glasses were found, right?”
   “Right. Just sunglasses.”
   “That’s what I thought,” Connor said.
   “And Graham says he’s leaving town. Today. He’s going to Phoenix.”
   “Uh-huh.” He looked at me. “You want to leave town, too?”
   “No,” I said.
   “Okay,” Connor said.
   I got down the hill and onto the 101 going south. In the old days it would be ten minutes to U.S.C. Now it was more like thirty minutes. Especially now, right at midday. But there weren’t any fast times, anymore. Traffic was always bad. The smog was always bad. I drove through haze.
   “You think I’m being foolish?” I said. “You think I should pick up my kid and run, too?”
   “It’s one way to handle it.” He sighed. “The Japanese are masters of indirect action. It’s their instinctual way to proceed. If someone in Japan is unhappy with you, they never tell you to your face. They tell your friend, your associate, your boss. In such a way that the word gets back. The Japanese have all these ways of indirect communication. That’s why they socialize so much, play so much golf, go drinking in karaoke bars. They need these extra channels of communication because they can’t come out and say what’s on their minds. It’s tremendously inefficient, when you think about it. Wasteful of time and energy and money. But since they cannot confront—because confrontation is almost like death, it makes them sweat and panic—they have no other choice. Japan is the land of the end run. They never go up the middle.”
   “Yeah, but…”
   “So behavior that seems sneaky and cowardly to Americans is just standard operating procedure to Japanese. It doesn’t mean anything special. They’re just letting you know that powerful people are displeased.”
   “Letting me know? That I could end up in court over my daughter? My relationship with my kid could be ruined? My own reputation could be ruined?”
   “Well, yes. Those are normal penalties. The threat of social disgrace is the usual way you’re expected to know of displeasure.”
   “Well, I think I know it, now,” I said. “I think I get the fucking picture.”
   “It’s not personal,” Connor said. “It’s just the way they proceed.”
   “Yeah, right. They’re spreading a lie.”
   “In a sense.”
   “No, not in a sense. It’s a fucking lie.”
   Connor sighed. “It took me a long time to understand,” he said, “that Japanese behavior is based on the values of a farm village. You hear a lot about samurai and feudalism, but deep down, the Japanese are farmers. And if you lived in a farm village and you displeased the other villagers, you were banished. And that meant you died, because no other village would take in a troublemaker. So. Displease the group and you die. That’s the way they see it.
   “It means the Japanese are exquisitely sensitive to the group. More than anything, they are attuned to getting along with the group. It means not standing out, not taking a chance, not being too individualistic. It also means not necessarily insisting on the truth. The Japanese have very little faith in truth. It strikes them as cold and abstract. It’s like a mother whose son is accused of a crime. She doesn’t care much about the truth. She cares more about her son. The same with the Japanese. To the Japanese, the important thing is relationships between people. That’s the real truth. The factual truth is unimportant.”
   “Yeah, fine,” I said. “But why are they pushing now? What’s the difference? This murder is solved, right?”
   “No, it’s not,” Connor said.
   “It’s not?”
   “No. That’s why we have all the pressure. Obviously, somebody badly wants it to be over. They want us to give it up.”
   “If they are squeezing me and squeezing Graham—how come they’re not squeezing you?”
   “They are,” Connor said.
   “How?”
   “By making me responsible for what happens to you.”
   “How are they making you responsible? I don’t see that.”
   “I know you don’t. But they do. Believe me. They do.”
   I looked at the line of cars creeping forward, blending into the haze of downtown. We passed electronic billboards for Hitachi (#1 IN COMPUTERS IN AMERICA), for Canon (AMERICA’S COPY LEADER), and Honda (NUMBER ONE RATED CAR IN AMERICA!). Like most of the new Japanese ads, they were bright enough to run in the daytime. The billboards cost thirty thousand dollars a day to rent; most American companies couldn’t afford them.
   Connor said, “The point is the Japanese know they can make it very uncomfortable. By raising the dust around you, they are telling me, ‘handle it.’ Because they think I can get this thing done. Finish it off.”
   “Can you?”
   “Sure. You want to finish it off now? Then we can go have a beer, and enjoy some Japanese truth. Or do you want to get to the bottom of why Cheryl Austin was killed?”
   “I want to get to the bottom.”
   “Me, too,” Connor said. “So let’s do it, kōhai. I think Sanders’s lab will have interesting information for us. The tapes are the key, now.”