Rising Sun: A Novel (22 page)

And so on.

You had to read four paragraphs before you discovered that a murder had occurred. That particular detail seemed to be almost irrelevant.

I looked back at the lead. The story was from the City News Service, which meant there was no byline.

I felt angry enough to call my old contact at the
Times
, Kenny Shubik. Ken was the leading Metro reporter. He had been at the paper forever, and he knew everything that was going on. Since it was still eight in the morning, I called him at home.

“Ken. Pete Smith.”

“Oh, hi,” he said. “Glad you got my message.”

In the background, I heard what sounded like a teenage girl: “Oh,
come on
, Dad. Why can’t I go?”

Ken said, “Jennifer, let me talk here for a minute.”

“What message?” I said.

Ken said, “I called you last night, because I thought you ought to know right away. He’s obviously working off a tip. But do you have any idea what’s behind it?”

“Behind what?” I said. I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I’m sorry, Ken, I didn’t get your message.”

“Really?” he said. “I called you about eleven-thirty last night. The DHD dispatcher said you had rolled out on a case but you had a car phone. I told her it was important, and for you to call me at home if necessary. Because I felt sure you’d want to know.”

In the background, the girl said, “Dad,
come on
, I have to decide what to
wear.
”

“Jennifer, damn it,” he said. “Chill out.” To me he said, “You have a daughter, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But she’s only two.”

“Just wait,” Ken said. “Look, Pete. You really didn’t get my message?”

“No,” I said. “I’m calling about something else: the story in this morning’s paper.”

“What story?”

“The Nakamoto coverage on page eight. The one about ‘callous and racist police’ at the opening.”

“Jeez, I didn’t think we had a Nakamoto story yesterday. I know Jodie was doing the party, but that won’t run until tomorrow. You know, Japan draws the glitterati. Jeff didn’t have anything on the scheds in Metro yesterday.”

Jeff was the Metro editor. I said, “There’s a story in the paper this morning about the murder.”

“What murder?” he said. His voice sounded odd.

“There was a murder at Nakamoto last night. About eight-thirty. One of the guests was killed.”

Ken was silent at the other end of the line. Putting things together. Finally he said, “Were you involved?”

“Homicide called me in as Japanese liaison.”

“Hmmm,” Ken said. “Listen. Let me get to my desk and see what I can find out. Let’s talk in an hour. And give me your numbers so I can call you direct.”

“Okay.”

He cleared his throat. “Listen, Pete,” he said. “Just between us. Do you have any problems?”

“Like what?”

“Like a morals problem, or a problem with your bank account. Discrepancy about reported income … anything I should know about? As your friend?”

“No,” I said.

“I don’t need the details. But if there’s something that isn’t quite right …”

“Nothing, Ken.”

“ ’Cause if I have to go to bat for you, I don’t want to discover I have stepped in shit.”

“Ken. What’s going on?”

“I don’t want to go into detail right now. But offhand I would say somebody is trying to fuck you in the ass,” Ken said.

The girl said, “
Dad
dy, that’s dis
gu
sting.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to be listening. Pete?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here.”

“Call me in an hour,” Ken said.

“You’re a pal,” I said. “I owe you.”

“Fucking right you do,” Ken said.

He hung up.

I looked around the apartment. Everything still looked the same. Morning sunlight was still streaming into the room. Michelle was sitting in her favorite chair, watching cartoons and sucking her thumb. But somehow everything felt different. It was creepy. It was like the world had tilted.

But I had things to do. It was also getting late; I had to get her dressed before Elaine came to take her to day care. I told her that. She started to cry. So I turned off the television set, and she threw herself on the floor and began to kick and scream. “No, Daddy! Car
toons
, Daddy!”

I picked her up and slung her underarm to the bedroom to get her changed. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. The phone rang again. This time it was the division dispatcher.

“Morning, Lieutenant. I have your uncleared messages.”

“Let me get a pencil,” I said. I put Michelle down. She cried even louder. I said, “Can you go pick out which shoes you want to wear today?”

“Sounds like you got a murder there,” the dispatcher said.

“She doesn’t want to get dressed for school.”

Michelle was tugging at my leg. “No, Daddy. No school, Daddy.”

“Yes, school,” I said firmly. She bawled. “Go ahead,” I said to the dispatcher.

“Okay, eleven forty-one last night, you had a call from a Ken Subotik or Subotnick,
L.A. Times
, he said please call him. Message reads ‘The Weasel is checking up on you.’ He said you would know what that meant. You can call him at home. You have the number?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. One forty-two a.m. this morning, you had a call from a Mr. Eddie Saka—looks like Sakamura. He said it’s
urgent, please call him at home, 555-8434. It’s about the missing tape. Okay?”

Shit.

I said, “What time was that call?”

“One forty-two a.m. The call was forwarded to County General and I guess their switchboard couldn’t locate you. You were at the morgue or something?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, but once you’re out of your car, we have to go through intermediates.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Then at six forty-three a.m., Captain Connor left a beeper number for you to call. He said he’s playing golf this morning.”

“Okay.”

“And at seven-ten, we had a call from Robert Woodson, who is with Senator Morton’s office. Senator Morton wants to meet you and Captain Connor at one o’clock today at the Los Angeles Country Club. He asked that you call and confirm that you will attend the meeting with the senator. I tried to reach you but your phone was busy. Will you call the senator?”

I said I would call the senator. I told the dispatcher to page Connor for me at the golf course, and have him call me in the car.

I heard the front door unlock. Elaine came in. “Good morning,” she said.

“I’m afraid Shelly isn’t dressed yet.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. What time is Mrs. Davis coming to pick her up?”

“We’re waiting to hear.”

Elaine had been through this routine many times before. “Come on, Michelle. Let’s pick your clothes for today. Time to get ready for school.”

I looked at my watch, and was on my way to get another cup of coffee when the phone rang. “Lieutenant Peter Smith, please.”

It was the assistant chief, Jim Olson.

* * *

“Hi, Jim.”

“Morning, Pete.” He sounded friendly. But Jim Olson never called anybody before ten o’clock in the morning unless there was a big problem. Olson said, “Looks like we got ourselves a rattlesnake by the tail. You see the papers today?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“You happen to catch the morning news?”

“Some of it.”

“The chief’s been calling me for damage control. I wanted to get where you stand before I make a recommendation. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I just got off the phone with Tom Graham. He admits last night was a prime screwup. Nobody is covered in glory.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Couple of naked broads impeded two able-bodied police officers and prevented apprehension of the suspect? Is that about it?”

It sounded ridiculous. I said, “You had to be there, Jim.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, one good thing so far. I’ve been checking if correct pursuit procedures were followed. Apparently they were. We have recordings off the computers, and we have voice recordings off the radio, and it’s all strictly by the book. Thank God. Nobody even swears. We can release those records to the media if this thing gets any worse. So we’re covered there. But it’s very unfortunate that Sakamura is dead.”

“Yes.”

“Graham went back to get the girls, but the house was deserted. The girls were gone.”

“I see.”

“In all the rush, nobody got the names of the girls?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“That means we have no witnesses to the events in the house. So we’re a little vulnerable.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They’re cutting Sakamura’s body out of the wreck this morning to ship what’s left to the morgue. Graham tells me as far as he’s concerned, the case is wrapped up. I gather there are videotapes that show Sakamura killed the girl. Graham says he is ready to file his concluding five-seven-nine report. Is that how you see it? The case closed?”

“I guess so, Chief. Sure.”

“Then we can shut this fucker down,” the chief said. “The Japanese community finds the Nakamoto inquiry irritating and offensive. They don’t want it to continue any longer than necessary. So if we can call it a day, it would help.”

“It’s okay with me,” I said. “Let’s call it a day.”

“Well that’s good, Pete,” the chief said. “I’m going to speak to the chief, see if we can head off any disciplinary action.”

“Thanks, Jim.”

“Try not to worry. Myself, I don’t see a disciplinary issue. As long as we have videos that show Sakamura did it.”

“Yeah, we do.”

“About those videos,” he said. “I’ve had Marty looking in the evidence locker. He can’t seem to find ’em.”

I took a deep breath and said, “No, I have them.”

“You didn’t log them in the evidence locker last night?”

“No. I wanted to get copies made.”

He coughed. “Pete. It’d be better if you had followed procedure on that.”

“I wanted to get copies made,” I said.

“Tell you what,” Jim said, “get your copies made, and get the originals onto my desk by ten o’clock. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“It can take that long to locate the material from the evidence locker. You know how it is.”

He was saying he would cover for me. “Thanks, Jim.”

“Don’t thank me, because I didn’t do anything,” he said. “Far as I know, procedure has been followed.”

“Right.”

“But just between you and me: get it done right away. I can hold the fort for a couple of hours. But something’s
going on down here. I don’t know exactly where it’s coming from. So don’t push it, okay?”

“Okay, Jim. I’m on my way now.”

I hung up the phone, and went to get copies made.

Pasadena looked like a city at the bottom of a glass of sour milk. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory, on the outskirts of town, was nestled in the foothills near the Rose Bowl. But even at eight-thirty in the morning, you couldn’t see the mountains through the yellow-white haze.

I tucked the box of tapes under my arm, showed my badge, signed the guard’s clipboard, and swore I was an American citizen. The guard sent me to the main building, across an inner courtyard.

For decades, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory had served as the command center for American spacecraft that photographed Jupiter and the rings of Saturn, and sent pictures back to earth as video images. JPL was the place where modern videoimage processing had been invented. If anybody could copy these tapes, they could.

Mary Jane Kelleher, the press secretary, took me up to the third floor. We walked down a lime green corridor, past several doors that opened into empty offices. I mentioned it.

“It’s true,” she said, nodding. “We’ve been losing some good people, Peter.”

“Where are they going?” I said.

“Mostly to industry. We always lost a few to IBM in Armonk, or Bell Labs in New Jersey. But those labs don’t have the best equipment or funding any more. Now it’s the Japanese research labs like Hitachi in Long Beach, Sanyo in Torrance, Canon in Inglewood. They’re hiring a lot of American researchers now.”

“Is JPL concerned about it?”

“Sure,” she said. “Everybody knows the best way to
transfer technology is inside somebody’s head. But what can you do?” She shrugged. “Researchers want to do research. And America doesn’t do so much R and D anymore. Budgets are tighter. So it’s better to work for the Japanese. They pay well, and they genuinely respect research. If you need a piece of equipment, you get it. Anyway, that’s what my friends tell me. Here we are.”

She took me into a laboratory crammed with video equipment. Black boxes stacked on metal shelves and on metal tables; cables snaking across the floor; a variety of monitors and display screens. In the center of all this was a bearded man in his midthirties named Kevin Howzer. He had an image on his monitor of a gear mechanism, in shifting rainbow colors. The desk was littered with Coke cans and candy wrappers; he had been up all night, working.

“Kevin, this is Lieutenant Smith from the L.A.P.D. He’s got some unusual videotapes he needs copied.”

“Just copied?” Howzer sounded disappointed. “You don’t want anything
done
to them?”

“No, Kevin,” she said. “He doesn’t.”