Rising Sun: A Novel (3 page)

“Nice suit,” he said to me, as I walked up. “You look fucking beautiful, Peter.” He flicked imaginary dust off my lapel.

I ignored it. “How’s it going, Tom?”

“You guys should be attending this party, not working it.” He turned to Connor and shook his hand. “Hello, John. Whose idea was it to get you out of bed?”

“I’m just observing,” Connor said mildly.

I said, “Fred Hoffmann asked me to bring him down.”

“Hell,” Graham said. “It’s okay with me that you’re here. I can use some help. It’s pretty tense up there.”

We followed him toward the elevator. I still saw no other police officers. I said, “Where is everybody?”

“Good question,” Graham said. “They’ve managed to keep all of our people around back at the freight entrance. They claim the service elevator gives fastest access. And they
keep talking about the importance of their grand opening, and how nothing must disrupt it.”

By the elevators, a uniformed Japanese private security guard looked us over carefully. “These two are with me,” Graham said. The security man nodded, but squinted at us suspiciously.

We got on the elevator.

“Fucking Japanese,” Graham said, as the doors closed. “This is still our country. We’re still the fucking police in our own country.”

The elevator was glass walled and we looked out on downtown Los Angeles as it went up into the light mist. Directly across was the Arco building. All lit up at night.

“You know these elevators are illegal,” Graham said. “According to code, no glass elevators past ninety floors, and this building is ninety-seven floors, the highest building in L.A. But then this whole building is one big special case. And they got it up in six months. You know how? They brought in prefab units from Nagasaki, and slapped them together here. Didn’t use American construction workers. Got a special permit to bypass our unions because of a so-called technical problem that only Japanese workers could handle. You believe that shit?”

I shrugged. “They got it past the American unions.”

“Hell, they got it past the
city council
,” Graham said. “But of course that’s just money. And if there’s one thing we know, the Japanese have money. So they got variances on the zoning restrictions, the earthquake ordinances. They got everything they wanted.”

I shrugged. “Politics.”

“My ass. You know they don’t even pay tax? That’s right: they got an eight-year break on property taxes from the city. Shit: we’re
giving
this country away.”

We rode for a moment in silence. Graham stared out the windows. The elevators were high-speed Hitachis, using the latest technology. The fastest and smoothest elevators in the world. We moved higher into the mist.

I said to Graham, “You want to tell us about this homicide, or do you want it to be a surprise?”

“Fuck,” Graham said. He flipped open his notebook. “Here you go. The original call was at eight thirty-two. Somebody saying there is a ‘problem of disposition of a body.’ Male with a thick Asian accent, doesn’t speak good English. The operator couldn’t get much out of him, except an address. The Nakamoto Tower. Black and white goes over, arrives at eight thirty-nine p.m., finds it’s a homicide. Forty-sixth floor, which is an office floor in this building. Victim is Caucasian female, approximately twenty-five years old. Hell of a good-looking girl. You’ll see.

“The blue suits stretch the tape and call the division. I go over with Merino, arriving at eight fifty-three. Crime scene IU and SID show up about the same time for PE, prints, and pics. Okay so far?”

“Yes,” Connor said, nodding.

Graham said, “We’re just getting started when some Jap from the Nakamoto Corporation comes up in a thousand-dollar blue suit and announces that he is entitled to a fucking conversation with the L.A.P.D. liaison officer before anything is done in their fucking building. And he’s saying things like we got no probable cause.

“I go, what the fuck is this. We got an obvious homicide here. I think this guy should get back. But this Jap speaks excellent fucking English and he seems to know a lot of law. And everybody at the scene becomes, you know, concerned. I mean, there’s no point in pushing to start an investigation if it’s going to invalidate due process, right? And this Jap fucker is insisting the liaison must be present before we do anything. Since he speaks such fucking good English I don’t know what the problem is. I thought the whole idea of a liaison was for people who don’t speak the language and this fucking guy has Stanford law school written all over him. But anyway.” He sighed.

“You called me,” I said.

“Yeah.”

I said, “Who is the man from Nakamoto?”

“Shit.” Graham scowled at his notes. “Ishihara. Ishiguri. Something like that.”

“You have his card? He must have given you his card.”

“Yeah, he did. I gave it to Merino.”

I said, “Any other Japanese there?”

“What are you, kidding?” Graham laughed. “The place is swarming with them. Fucking Disneyland up there.”

“I mean the crime scene.”

“So do I,” Graham said. “We can’t keep ’em out. They say it’s their building, they have a right to be there. Tonight is the grand opening of the Nakamoto Tower. They have a right to be there. On and on.”

I said, “Where is the opening taking place?”

“One floor below the murder, on the forty-fifth floor. They’re having one hell of a bash. Must be eight hundred people there. Movie stars, senators, congressmen, you name it. I hear Madonna is there, and Tom Cruise. Senator Hammond. Senator Kennedy. Elton John. Senator Morton. Mayor Thomas’s there. District Attorney Wyland’s there. Hey, maybe your ex-wife is there, too, Pete. She still works for Wyland, doesn’t she?”

“Last I heard.”

Graham sighed. “Must be great to fuck a lawyer, instead of getting fucked by them. Must make for a nice change.”

I didn’t want to talk about my ex-wife. “We don’t have a lot of contact any more,” I said.

A little bell rang, then the elevator said, “
Yonjūsan kai.
”

Graham glanced at the glowing numbers above the door. “Can you believe that shit?”

“
Yonjūyon kai,
” the elevator said. “
Mōsugu de gozaimasu.
”

“What’d it say?”

“ ‘We’re almost at the floor.’ ”

“Fuck,” Graham said. “If an elevator’s going to talk, it should be English. This is still America.”

“Just barely,” Connor said, staring out at the view.

“
Youjūgo kai,
” the elevator said.

The door opened.

Graham was right: it was a hell of a party. The whole floor had been made into a replica forties ballroom. Men in suits. Women in cocktail dresses. The band playing Glenn
Miller swing music. Standing near the elevator door was a gray-haired, suntanned man who looked vaguely familiar. He had the broad shoulders of an athlete. He stepped onto the elevator and turned to me. “Ground floor, please.” I smelled whiskey.

A second, younger man in a suit instantly appeared by his side. “This elevator is going up, Senator.”

“What’s that?” the gray-haired man said, turning to his aide.

“This elevator’s going up, sir.”

“Well. I
want
to go
down.
” He was speaking with the careful, over-articulated speech of the drunk.

“Yes, sir. I know that, sir,” the aide replied cheerfully. “Let’s take the next elevator, Senator.” He gripped the gray-haired man firmly by the elbow and led him off the elevator.

The doors closed. The elevator continued up.

“Your tax dollars at work,” Graham said. “Recognize him? Senator Stephen Rowe. Nice to find him partying here, considering he’s on the Senate Finance Committee, which sets all Japanese import regulations. But like his pal Senator Kennedy, Rowe is one of the great pussy patrollers.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“They say he can drink pretty good, too.”

“I noticed that.”

“That’s why he’s got that kid with him. To keep him out of trouble.”

The elevator stopped at the forty-sixth floor. There was a soft electronic ping.
“Yonjūroku kai. Goriyō arigatō gozaimashita.”

“Finally,” Graham said. “Now maybe we can get to work.”

The doors opened. We faced a solid wall of blue business suits, backs turned to us. There must have been twenty men jammed in the area just beyond the elevator. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

“Coming through, coming through,” Graham said, pushing his way roughly past the men. I followed, Connor behind me, silent and inconspicuous.

The forty-sixth floor had been designed to house the chief executive offices of Nakamoto Industries, and it was impressive. Standing in the carpeted reception area just beyond the elevators, I could see the entire floor—it was a gigantic open space. It was about sixty by forty meters, half the size of a football field. Everything added to the sense of spaciousness and elegance. The ceilings were high, paneled in wood. The furnishings were all wood and fabric, black and gray, and the carpet was thick. Sound was muted and lights were low, adding to the soft, rich quality. It looked more like a bank than a business office.

The richest bank you ever saw.

And it made you stop and look. I stood by the yellow crime-scene tape, which blocked access to the floor itself, and got my bearings. Directly ahead was the large atrium, a kind of open bullpen for secretaries and lower-level people. There were desks in clusters, and trees to break up the space. In the center of the atrium stood a large model of the Nakamoto Tower, and the complex of surrounding buildings still under construction. A spotlight shone on the model, but the rest of the atrium was relatively dark, with night lights.

Private offices for the executives were arranged around the perimeter of the atrium. The offices had glass walls facing the atrium, and glass walls on the outside walls as well, so that from where I was standing you could look straight out to the surrounding skyscrapers of Los Angeles. It made you think the floor was floating in midair.

There were two glass-walled conference rooms, on the left and right. The room on the right was smaller, and there I saw the body of the girl, lying on a long black table. She was wearing a black dress. One leg dangled down toward the floor. I didn’t see any blood. But I was pretty far away from her, maybe sixty meters. It was hard to see much detail.

I heard the crackle of police radios, and I heard Graham saying, “Here’s your liaison, gentlemen. Now maybe we can get started on our investigation. Peter?”

I turned to the Japanese men by the elevator. I didn’t know which I should talk to; there was an awkward moment until one of them stepped forward. He was about thirty-five and wore an expensive suit. The man gave a very slight bow, from the neck, just a hint. I bowed back. Then he spoke.

“Konbanwa. Hajimemashite, Sumisu-san. Ishiguro desu. Dōzo yoroshiku.”
A formal greeting, although perfunctory. No wasted time. His name was Ishiguro. He already knew my name.

I said,
“Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Sumisu desu. Dōzo yoroshiku.”
How do you do. Glad to meet you. The usual.

“Watashi no meishi desu. Dōzo.”
He gave me his business card. He was quick in his movements, brusque.

“Dōmo arigatō gozaimasu.”
I accepted his card with both hands, which wasn’t really necessary, but taking Connor’s advice, I wanted to do the most formal thing. Next I gave him my card. The ritual required us both to look at each other’s cards, and to make some minor comment, or to ask a question like “Is this your office telephone number?”

Ishiguro took my card with one hand and said, “Is this your home phone, Detective?” I was surprised. He spoke the kind of unaccented English you can only learn by living here for a long time, starting when you’re young. He must have gone to school here. One of the thousands of Japanese who
studied in America in the seventies. When they were sending 150,000 students a year to America, to learn about our country. And we were sending 200 American students a year to Japan.

“That’s my number at the bottom, yes,” I said.

Ishiguro slipped my card into his shirt pocket. I started to make a polite comment about his card, but he interrupted me. “Look, Detective. I think we can dispense with the formalities. The only reason there’s a problem here tonight is that your colleague is unreasonable.”

“My colleague?”

Ishiguro gave a head jerk. “The fat one there. Graham. His demands are unreasonable, and we strongly object to his intention to carry out an investigation tonight.”

I said, “Why is that, Mr. Ishiguro?”

“You have no probable cause to conduct one.”

“Why do you say that?”

Ishiguro snorted. “I would think it’s obvious, even to you.”

I stayed cool. Five years as a detective, and then a year in the press section had taught me to stay cool.

I said, “No, sir, I’m afraid it’s not obvious.”

He looked at me disdainfully. “The fact is, Lieutenant, you have no reason to connect this girl’s death to the party we’re holding downstairs.”

“It looks like she’s wearing a party dress—”

He interrupted me rudely. “My guess is you’ll probably discover that she has died of an accidental drug overdose. And therefore her death has nothing to do with our party. Wouldn’t you agree?”