Rising Sun: A Novel (30 page)

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.

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:

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.

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.”

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.”

“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.”