Rising Sun: A Novel (12 page)

“No,” I said.

“I’m surprised nobody told you. It’s one of the features of the building they’re most proud of.” Cole drank his beer. “Only question I have is why somebody would take five cameras and install them on the floor
above
the party. ’Cause there’s no security reason. You can lock off the elevators above a certain floor. So for security, you’d want your cameras on the floors below the party. Not above.”

“But the elevators weren’t locked off.”

“No. I thought that was kind of unusual, myself.” He looked at the Japanese across the room. “I got to be going soon,” he said.

“Well,” Connor said. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Cole. We may want to question you again—”

“I’ll write down my phone number for you,” Cole said, scribbling on a bar napkin.

“And your address?”

“Yeah, right. But actually, I’m going out of town for a few days. My mother’s been feeling sick, and she asked me to take her down there to Mexico for a few days. Probably go this weekend.”

“Long trip?”

“Week or so. I got vacation days coming up, it seems like a good time to take it.”

“Sure,” Connor said. “I can see how it would. Thanks again for your help.” He shook hands with Cole, and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “And you take care of
your
health.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Stop drinking, and have a safe drive home.” He paused. “Or wherever you may decide to go tonight, instead.”

Cole nodded. “I think you’re right. That’s not a bad idea.”

“I know I’m right.”

Cole shook my hand. Connor was heading out the door. Cole said, “I don’t know why you guys are bothering.”

“With the tapes?”

“With the Japanese. What can you do? They’re ahead of us every step of the way. And they have the big guys in their pocket. We can’t beat ’em now. You two guys’ll never beat ’em. They’re just too good.”

Outside, beneath the crackling neon sign, Connor said, “Come on, time is wasting.”

We got in the car. He handed me the bar napkin. On it was scrawled in block letters:

THEY STOLE THE TAPES

“Let’s get going,” Connor said.

I started the car.

The eleven o’clock news was finished for the night, and the newsroom was nearly deserted. Connor and I went down the hall to the sound stage where the
Action News
set was still lit up.

On the set, the evening broadcast was being replayed with the sound off. The anchorman pointed to the monitor. “I’m not stupid, Bobby. I watch these things. She did the lead-in and the wrap-up the last three nights.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say, Bobby.”

My friend Bob Arthur, the heavyset, tired producer of the eleven o’clock news, sipped a tumbler of straight scotch as big as his fist. He said, “Jim, it just worked out that way.”

“Worked out that way my ass,” the anchorman said.

The anchorwoman was a gorgeous redhead with a killer figure. She was taking a long time to shuffle through her notes, making sure she stayed to overhear the conversation between Bob and her coanchor.

“Look,” the anchorman said. “It’s in my contract. Half the lead-ins and half the wraps. It’s contractual.”

“But Jim,” the producer said. “The lead tonight was Paris fashions and the Nakamoto party. That’s human interest stuff.”

“It should have been the serial killer.”

Bob sighed. “His arraignment was postponed. Anyway, the public is tired of serial killers.”

The anchorman looked incredulous. “The public is tired of serial killers? Now, where’d you get that?”

“You can read it yourself in the focus groups, Jim. Serial
killers are overexposed. Our audience is worried about the economy. They don’t want any more serial killers.”

“Our audience is worried about the economy so we lead off with Nakamoto and Paris fashions?”

“That’s right, Jim,” Bob Arthur said. “In hard times, you do star parties. That’s what people want to see: fashion and fantasy.”

The anchor looked sullen. “I’m a journalist, I’m here to do hard news, not fashion.”

“Right, Jim,” the producer said. “That’s why Liz did the intros tonight. We want to keep your image hard news.”

“When Teddy Roosevelt led this country out of the Great Depression, he didn’t do it with fashion and fantasy.”

“Franklin Roosevelt.”

“Whatever. You know what I’m saying. If people are worried, let’s
do
the economy. Let’s
do
the balance of payments or whatever it is.”

“Right, Jim. But this is the eleven o’clock news in the local market, and people don’t want to hear—”

“And that’s what’s wrong with America,” the anchorman pronounced, stabbing the air with his finger. “People don’t want to hear the real news.”

“Right, Jim. You’re absolutely right.” He put his arm over the anchorman’s shoulder. “Get some rest, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”

That seemed to be a signal of some kind, because the anchorwoman finished with her notes and strode off.

“I’m a journalist,” the anchor said. “I just want to do the job I was trained for.”

“Right, Jim. More tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“Stupid dickhead,” Bob Arthur said, leading us down a corridor. “Teddy Roosevelt. Jesus. They’re not journalists. They’re actors. And they count their lines, like all actors.” He sighed, and took another drink of scotch. “Now tell me again, what do you guys want to see?”

“Tape from the Nakamoto opening.”

“You mean the air tapes? The story we ran tonight?”

“No, we want to see the original footage from the camera.”

“The field tapes. Jeez. I hope we still have them. They may have been bulked.”

“Bulked?”

“Bulk degaussed. Erased. We shoot forty cassettes a day here. Most of them get erased right away. We used to save field tapes for a week, but we’re cutting costs, you know.”

On one side of the newsroom were shelves of stacked Betamax cartridges. Bob ran his finger along the boxes. “Nakamoto … Nakamoto … No, I don’t see them.” A woman went past. “Cindy, is Rick still here?”

“No, he’s gone home. You need something?”

“The Nakamoto field tapes. They aren’t on the shelf.”

“Check Don’s room. He cut it.”

“Okay.” Bob led us across the newsroom to the editing bays on the far side. He opened a door, and we entered a small, messy room with two monitors, several tape decks, and an editing console. Tapes in boxes were scattered around the floor. Bob rummaged through them. “Okay, you guys are in luck. Camera originals. There’s a lot of it. I’ll get Jenny to run you through them. She’s our best spotter. She knows everybody.” He stuck his head out the door. “Jenny? Jenny!”

“Okay, let’s see,” Jenny Gonzales said, a few minutes later. She was a bespectacled, heavyset woman in her forties. She scanned the editor’s notes and frowned. “It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them, they just will not put things in proper … Finally. Here we are. Four tapes. Two limo driveups. Two roving inside, at the party. What do you want to see?”

Connor said, “Start with the driveups.” He glanced at his watch. “Is there any way to do this fast? We’re in a hurry.”

“Fast as you want. I’m used to it. Let’s see it at high speed.”

She hit a button. At high speed, we saw the limousines pulling up, the doors jumping open, the people getting out, jerkily walking away.

“Looking for anyone in particular? Because I see somebody marked footages for celebrities during the edit.”

“We’re not looking for a celebrity,” I said.

“Too bad. It’s probably all we shot.” We watched the tape. Jenny said, “There’s Senator Kennedy. He’s lost some weight, hasn’t he. Oops, gone. And Senator Morton. Looking very fit. No surprise. That creepy assistant of his. He makes my teeth shiver. Senator Rowe, without his wife, as usual. There’s Tom Hanks. I don’t know this Japanese guy.”

Connor said, “Hiroshi Masukawa, vice-president of Mitsui.”

“There you go. Senator Chalmers, hair transplant looking good. Congressman Levine. Congressman Daniels. Sober for a change. You know, I’m surprised Nakamoto got so many of these Washington people to attend.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, when you get down to it, it’s just the opening of some new building. An ordinary corporate bash. It’s on the West Coast. And Nakamoto is pretty controversial right at the moment. Barbra Streisand. I don’t know who the guy is with her.”

“Nakamoto is controversial? Why?”

“Because of the MicroCon sale.”

I said, “What’s MicroCon?”

“MicroCon is an American company that makes computer equipment. A Japanese company named Akai Ceramics is trying to buy it. There’s opposition to the sale in Congress, because of worries about America losing technology to Japan.”

I said, “And what does this have to do with Nakamoto?”

“Nakamoto’s the parent company of Akai.” The first tape finished, and popped out. “Nothing there you wanted?”

“No. Let’s go on.”

“Right.” She slid the second tape in. “Anyway, I’m surprised how many of these senators and congressmen felt it was acceptable to show up here tonight. Okay, here we go. More driveups. Roger Hillerman, under secretary of state
for Pacific affairs. That’s his assistant with him. Kenichi Aikou, consul general of Japan, here in L.A. Richard Meier, architect. Works for Getty. Don’t know her. Some Japanese …”

Connor said, “Hisashi Koyama, vice-president of Honda U.S.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jenny said. “He’s been here about three years now. Probably going home soon. That’s Edna Morris, she heads the U.S. delegation to the GATT talks. You know, General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade. I can’t believe she showed up here, it’s an obvious conflict of interest. But there she is, all smiling and relaxed. Chuck Norris. Eddie Sakamura. Sort of a local playboy. Don’t know the girl with him. Tom Cruise, with his Australian wife. And Madonna, of course.”

On the accelerated tape, the strobes flashed almost continuously as Madonna stepped from her limousine and preened. “Want to slow it down? You interested in this?”

Connor said, “Not tonight.”

“Well, we probably have a lot on her,” Jenny said. She pushed the very high-speed fast-forward and the image streaked gray. When she punched back, Madonna was wiggling toward the elevator, leaning on the arm of a slender Hispanic boy with a mustache. The image blurred as the camera swung back toward the street. Then it stabilized again.

“There’s Daniel Okimoto. Expert on Japanese industrial policy. That’s Arnold, with Maria. And behind them is Steve Martin, with Arata Isozaki, the architect who designed the Museum—”

Connor said, “Wait.”

She punched the console button. The picture froze. Jenny seemed surprised. “You’re interested in Isozaki?”

“No. Back up, please.”

The tape ran backward, the frames flicking and blurring as the camera panned off Steve Martin, and went back to record the next arrival from the limousines. But for a moment in the pan, the camera swung past a group of people
who had already gotten out of their limousines, and were walking up the carpeted sidewalk.

Connor said, “There.”

The image froze. Slightly blurred, I saw a tall blonde in a black cocktail dress walking forward alongside a handsome man in a dark suit.

“Huh,” Jenny said. “You interested in him, or her?”

“Her.”

“Let me think,” Jenny said, frowning. “I’ve seen her at parties with the Washington types for about nine months now. She’s this year’s Kelly Emberg. The athletic modelly kind. But sophisticated, sort of a Tatiana look-alike. Her name is … Austin. Cindy Austin, Carrie Austin … Cheryl Austin. That’s it.”

I said, “You know anything else about her?”

Jenny shook her head. “Listen, I think getting a name is pretty good. These girls show up all the time. You see a new one everywhere for six months, a year, and then they’re gone. God knows where they go. Who can keep track of them?”

“And the man with her?”

“Richard Levitt. Plastic surgeon. Does a lot of big stars.”

“What’s he doing here?”

She shrugged. “He’s around. Like a lot of these guys, he’s a companion to the stars in their time of need. If his patients are getting divorced or whatever, he escorts the woman. When he’s not taking out clients, he takes out models like her. They certainly look good together.”

On the monitor, Cheryl and her escort walked toward us in intermittent jerks: one frame every thirty seconds. Stepping slow. I noticed they never looked at each other. She seemed tense, expectant.

Jenny Gonzales said, “So. Plastic surgeon and a model. Can I ask what’s the big deal about these two? Because at an evening like this, they’re just, you know, party favors.”

Connor said, “She was killed tonight.”

“Oh,
she
’s the one? Interesting.”

I said, “You’ve heard about the murder?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Was it on the news?”

“No, didn’t make the eleven o’clock,” Jenny said. “And it probably won’t be on tomorrow. I can’t see it myself. It’s not really a story.”

“Why is that?” I asked, glancing at Connor.

“Well, what’s the peg?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Nakamoto would say, it’s only news because it happened at their opening. They’d take the position that any reporting of it is a smear on them. But in a way they’re right. I mean, if this girl got killed on the freeway, it wouldn’t make the news. If she got killed in a convenience store robbery, it wouldn’t make the news. We have two or three of those every night. So the fact that she gets killed at a party … who cares? It’s still not news. She’s young and pretty, but she’s not special. It’s not as if she has a series or anything.”