Rising Sun: A Novel (10 page)

“He mentioned the Arakawa case.”

Connor sighed. “That old thing.” We walked toward the car. “You want to know that story? It’s simple. Two Japanese nationals get killed. The department puts detectives on the case who can’t speak Japanese. Finally, after a week, they give the case to me.”

“And what did you do?”

“The Arakawas were staying at the New Otani Hotel. I got the phone records of the calls they made to Japan. I called those numbers, and spoke to some people in Osaka. Then I called Osaka and talked to the police there. Again, in Japanese. They were surprised to hear we didn’t know the whole story.”

“I see.”

“Not quite,” Connor said. “Because the police department here was very embarrassed. The press had gone out on a limb, criticizing the department. All sorts of people had sent flowers. There had been a big show of sympathy for what turned out to be gangsters. A lot of people were embarrassed. So the whole thing became my fault. I had done something underhanded to solve the case. Pissed me off, I can tell you.”

“That’s why you went to Japan?”

“No. That’s another story.”

We came to the car. I looked back at the Imperial Arms, and saw Julia Young standing at the window, staring down at us. “She’s seductive,” I said.

“The Japanese call women like that
shirigaru onna.
They say she has a light ass.” He opened the car door, and got in. “But she’s on drugs. We can’t trust anything she told us. Even so, there’s starting to be a pattern I don’t like.” He glanced at his watch, and shook his head. “Damn. We’re taking too long. We’d better go to the Palomino, to see Mr. Cole.”

I started driving south, toward the airport. Connor sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at his feet, looking unhappy.

“Why do you say there’s a pattern you don’t like?”

Connor said, “The wrappers in the wastebasket. The Polaroid in the trash. Those things shouldn’t have been left behind.”

“You said yourself, they’re in a hurry.”

“Maybe. But you know the Japanese think American police are incompetent. This sloppiness is a sign of their disdain.”

“Well, we’re not incompetent.”

Connor shook his head. “Compared to the Japanese, we
are
incompetent. In Japan, every criminal gets caught. For major crimes, convictions run ninety-nine percent. So any criminal in Japan knows from the outset he is going to get caught. But here, the conviction rate is more like seventeen percent. Not even one in five. So a criminal in the States knows he probably
isn’t
going to get caught—and if he’s
caught, he won’t be convicted, thanks to all his legal safeguards. And you know every study of police effectiveness shows that American detectives either solve the case in the first six hours, or they never solve it at all.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that a crime occurred here with the expectation that it won’t be solved. And I want to solve it,
kōhai.
”

Connor was silent for the next ten minutes. He sat very still, with his arms folded and his chin sunk on his chest. His breathing was deep and regular. I might have thought he had fallen asleep, except his eyes were open.

I just drove the car, and listened to him breathe.

Finally, he said: “Ishiguro.”

“What about him?”

“If we knew what made Ishiguro behave as he did, we’d understand this case.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s hard for an American to see him clearly,” Connor said. “Because in America, you think a certain amount of error is normal. You expect the plane to be late. You expect the mail to be undelivered. You expect the washing machine to break down. You expect things to go wrong all the time.

“But Japan is different. Everything
works
in Japan. In a Tokyo train station, you can stand at a marked spot on the platform and when the train stops, the doors will open right in front of you. Trains are on time. Bags are not lost. Connections are not missed. Deadlines are met. Things happen as planned. The Japanese are educated, prepared, and motivated. They get things done. There’s no screwing around.”

“Uh-huh …”

“And tonight was a very big night for the Nakamoto Corporation. You can be sure they planned everything down to the smallest detail. They have the vegetarian hors d’oeuvres that Madonna likes and the photographer she prefers. Believe me: they’re prepared. They have planned for every exigency. You know how they are: they sit around and discuss endless possibilities—what if there’s a fire? What if there’s an earthquake? A bomb scare? Power failure? Endlessly
going over the most unlikely events. It’s obsessive, but when the final night arrives, they’ve thought of everything and they’re in complete control. It’s very bad form not to be in control. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“But there is our friend Ishiguro, the official representative of Nakamoto, standing in front of a dead girl, and he’s clearly not in control. He’s
yōshiki nō
, doing Western-style confrontation, but he isn’t comfortable—I’m sure you noticed the sweat on his lip. And his hand is damp; he keeps wiping it on his trousers. He is
rikutsuppoi
, too argumentative. He’s talking too much.

“In short, he’s behaving as if he doesn’t really know what to do, as if he doesn’t even know who this girl is—which he certainly does, since he knows everybody invited to that party—and pretending he doesn’t know who killed her. When he almost certainly knows that, too.”

The car bounced in a pothole, and jolted back up. “Wait a minute. Ishiguro knows who killed the girl?”

“I’m sure of it. And he’s not the only one. At least three people must know who killed her, at this point. Didn’t you say you used to be in press relations?”

“Yes. Last year.”

“You keep any contacts in TV news?”

“A few,” I said. “They might be rusty. Why?”

“I want to look at some tape that was shot tonight.”

“Just look? Not subpoena?”

“Right. Just look.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. I was thinking I could call Jennifer Lewis at KNBC, or Bob Arthur at KCBS. Probably Bob.

Connor said, “It has to be somebody you can approach personally. Otherwise the stations won’t help us. You noticed there were no TV crews at the crime scene tonight. At most crime scenes, you have to fight your way past the cameras just to get to the tape. But tonight, no TV crews, no reporters. Nothing.”

I shrugged. “We were on land lines. The press couldn’t monitor radio transmissions.”

“They were already there,” Connor said, “covering the party with Tom Cruise and Madonna. And then a girl gets murdered on the floor above. So where were the TV crews?”

I said, “Captain, I don’t buy it.”

One of the things I learned as a press officer is that there aren’t any conspiracies. The press is too diverse, and in a sense too disorganized. In fact, on the rare occasions when we needed an embargo—like a kidnapping with ransom negotiations in progress—we had a hell of a time getting cooperation. “The paper closes early. The TV crews have to make the eleven o’clock news. They probably went back to edit their stories.”

“I disagree. I think the Japanese expressed concern about their
kigyō image
, their company image, and the press cooperated with no coverage. Trust me,
kōhai
: the pressure is being applied.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Take my word for it,” Connor said. “The pressure is on.”

Just then, the car phone rang.

“God damn it, Peter,” a familiar rough voice said. “What the fuck’s going on with that homicide investigation?” It was the chief. It sounded like he had been drinking.

“How do you mean, Chief?”

Connor looked at me, and punched the speaker phone button so he could hear.

The chief said: “You guys harassing the Japanese? We going to have another set of racial allegations against the department here?”

“No sir,” I said. “Absolutely not. I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

“I heard that dumb fuck Graham was making insults as usual,” the chief said.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say insults, Chief—”

“Look, Peter. Don’t shit me. I already reamed out Fred Hoffmann for sending Graham in the first place. I want that racist turd off the case. We’ve all got to get along with the Japanese from now on. It’s the way the world is. You hearing me, Peter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now about John Connor. You got him with you, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you bring him into this?”

I thought: why did
I
bring him in? Fred Hoffmann must have decided to say that Connor was my idea, and not his own.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I—”

“I understand,” the chief said. “You probably thought you couldn’t handle the case yourself. Wanted some help. But I’m afraid you bought more trouble than help. Because the Japanese don’t like Connor. And I got to tell you. I go way back with John. We entered the academy together back in fifty-nine. He’s always been a loner and a troublemaker. You know, anybody who goes to live in some foreign country, it’s because he can’t fit in here at home. I don’t want him screwing up this investigation now.”

“Chief—”

“This is how I see it, Peter. You got a homicide here, wrap it up and get it over with. Do it quick and do it neat. I’m looking to you and you alone. You hearing me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The connection is good?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Wrap it up, Pete,” the chief said. “I don’t want anybody else calling me on this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Finish it by tomorrow latest. That’s it.” And he hung up.

I put the phone back in the cradle.

“Yes,” Connor said. “I’d say pressure is being applied.”

I drove south on the 405 freeway, toward the airport. It was foggier here. Connor stared out the window.

“In a Japanese organization, you’d never get a call like that. The chief just hung you out to dry. He takes no responsibility—it’s all your problem. And he’s blaming you for things that have nothing to do with you, like Graham, and me.” Connor shook his head. “The Japanese don’t do that. The Japanese have a saying: fix the problem, not the blame. In American organizations it’s all about
who
fucked up. Whose head will roll. In Japanese organizations it’s about
what’s
fucked up, and how to fix it. Nobody gets blamed. Their way is better.”

Connor was silent, staring out the window. We were driving past Slauson, the Marina freeway a dark curve arcing above us in the fog.

I said, “The chief was in the bag, that’s all.”

“Yes. And uninformed, as usual. But even so, it sounds like we’d better have this case solved before he gets out of bed tomorrow.”

“Can we do that?”

“Yes. If Ishiguro delivers those tapes.”

The phone rang again. I answered it.

It was Ishiguro.

I handed the phone to Connor.

I could hear Ishiguro faintly through the receiver. He sounded tense, speaking rapidly.
“A, moshi moshi, Connor-san
desuka? Keibi no heyani denwa shitan desuga ne. Daremo denain desuyo.”

Connor cupped his hand over the phone and translated. “He called the security guard but no one was there.”

“Sorede, chuōkeibishitsu ni renraku shite, hito wo okutte moraimashite, issho ni tēpu o kakunin shite kimashita.”

“Then he called the main security office and asked them to come down with him to check the tapes.”

“Tēpu wa subete rekōdā no naka ni arimasu. Nakunattemo torikaeraretemo imasen. Subete daijōbu desu.”

“The tapes are all in the recorders. No tapes are missing or switched.” Connor frowned and replied.
“Iya, tēpu wa surikaerarete iru hazu nanda. Tēpu o sagase!”

“Dakara, daijōbu nandesu, Connor-san. Dōshiro to iun desuka?”

“He insists everything is in order.”

Connor said,
“Tēpu o sagase!”
To me, he said, “I told him I wanted the damn tapes.”

“Daijōbuda to itterudeshou. Dōshite sonnaini tēpu ni kodawarun desuka?”

“Ore niwa wakatte irunda. Tēpu wa nakunatte iru.
I know more than you think, Mr. Ishiguro.
Mōichido iu, tēpu o sagasunda!”

Connor banged the phone in the cradle, and sat back, snorting angrily. “Bastards. They’re taking the position that there are no missing tapes.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

“They’ve decided to play hardball.” Connor stared out the window at the traffic, and tapped his teeth with his finger. “They’d never do it unless they felt they had a strong position. An unassailable position. Which means …”

Connor drifted off into his private thoughts. I saw his face intermittently reflected in the glass under passing street lamps. Finally he said, “No, no, no,” as if he were talking to someone.

“No, what?”

“It can’t be Graham.” He shook his head. “Graham is too risky—too many ghosts from the past. And it’s not me, either. I’m old news. So it must be you, Peter.”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

“Something has happened,” Connor said, “to make Ishiguro think he has leverage. And I’d guess it’s something to do with you.”