Rising Sun: A Novel (4 page)

I took a deep breath. “No, sir, I wouldn’t agree. Not without an investigation.” I took another breath. “Mr. Ishiguro, I appreciate your concerns, but—”

“I wonder if you do,” Ishiguro said, interrupting me again. “I insist that you appreciate the position of the Nakamoto company tonight. This is a very significant evening for us, a very
public
evening. We are naturally distressed by the prospect that our function might be marred
by unfounded allegations of a woman’s death, especially this, a woman of no importance …”

“A woman of no importance?”

Ishiguro made a dismissing wave. He seemed to be tired of talking to me. “It’s obvious, just look at her. She’s no better than a common prostitute. I can’t imagine how she came to be in this building at all. And for this reason, I strongly protest the intention of Detective Graham to interrogate the guests at the reception downstairs. That’s entirely unreasonable. We have many senators, congressmen, and officials of Los Angeles among our guests. Surely you agree that such prominent people will find it awkward—”

I said, “Just a minute. Detective Graham told you he was going to interrogate everybody at the reception?”

“That is what he said to me. Yes.”

Now, at last, I began to understand why I’d been called. Graham didn’t like the Japanese and he had threatened to spoil their evening. Of course it was never going to happen. There was no way Graham was going to interrogate United States senators, let alone the district attorney or the mayor. Not if he expected to come to work tomorrow. But the Japanese annoyed him, and Graham had decided to annoy them back.

I said to Ishiguro, “We can set up a registration desk downstairs, and your guests can sign out as they leave.”

“I am afraid that will be difficult,” Ishiguro began, “because surely you will admit—”

“Mr. Ishiguro, that’s what we’re going to do.”

“But what you ask is extremely difficult—”

“Mr. Ishiguro.”

“You see, for us this is going to cause—”

“Mr. Ishiguro, I’m sorry. I’ve just told you what police procedure is going to be.”

He stiffened. There was a pause. He wiped some sweat from his upper lip and said, “I am disappointed, Lieutenant, not to have greater cooperation from you.”

“Cooperation?” That was when I started to get pissed off. “Mr. Ishiguro, you’ve got a dead woman in there, and it is our job to investigate what happened to—”

“But you must acknowledge our special circumstances—”

Then I heard Graham say, “Aw, Christ,
what is this
?”

Looking over my shoulder, I saw a short, bookish Japanese man twenty meters beyond the yellow tape. He was taking pictures of the crime scene. The camera he held was so small it was nearly concealed in the palm of his hand. But he wasn’t concealing the fact that he had crossed the tape barrier to take his pictures. As I watched, he moved slowly back toward us, raising his hands for a moment to snap a picture, then blinking behind his wire-frame spectacles as he selected his next shot. He was deliberate in his movements.

Graham went up to the tape and said, “For Christ’s sake, get out of there. This is a crime scene. You can’t take pictures in there.” The man didn’t respond. He kept moving backward. Graham turned away. “Who is this guy?”

Ishiguro said, “This is our employee, Mr. Tanaka. He works for Nakamoto Security.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The Japanese had their own employee wandering around inside the yellow tapes, contaminating the crime scene. It was outrageous. “Get him out of there,” I said.

“He is taking pictures.”

“He can’t do that.”

Ishiguro said, “But this is for our corporate use.”

I said, “I don’t care, Mr. Ishiguro. He can’t be inside the yellow tape, and he can’t take pictures. Get him out of there. And I want his film, please.”

“Very well.” Ishiguro said something quickly in Japanese. I turned, just in time to see Tanaka slip under the yellow tape, and disappear among the blue-suited men clustered by the elevator. Behind their heads, I saw the elevator doors open and close.

Son of a bitch.
I was getting angry. “Mr. Ishiguro, you are now obstructing an official police investigation.”

Ishiguro said calmly, “You must try to understand our position, Detective Smith. Of course we have complete confidence in the Los Angeles Police Department, but we must
be able to undertake our own private inquiry, and for that we must have—”

Their own private inquiry?
The
son of a bitch.
I suddenly couldn’t speak. I clenched my teeth, seeing red. I was furious. I wanted to arrest Ishiguro. I wanted to spin him around, shove him up against the wall, and snap the cuffs around his fucking wrists and—

“Perhaps I can be of assistance, Lieutenant,” a voice behind me said.

I turned. It was John Connor, smiling cheerfully.

I stepped aside.

Connor faced Ishiguro, bowed slightly, and presented his card. He spoke rapidly.
“Totsuzen shitsurei desuga, jikoshōkai wo shitemo yoroshii desuka. Watashi wa John Connor to mōshimasu. Meishi o dōzo. Dōzo yoroshiku.
”

“John Connor?” Ishiguro said. “
The
John Connor?
Omeni kakarete kōei desu. Watashi wa Ishiguro desu. Dōzo yoroshiku.”
He was saying he was honored to meet him.

“Watashi no meishi desu. Dōzo.”
A graceful thank you.

But once the formalities were completed, the conversation went so quickly I caught only an occasional word. I was obliged to appear interested, watching and nodding, when in fact I had no idea what they were talking about. Once I heard Connor refer to me as
wakaimono
, which I knew meant his protégé or apprentice. Several times, he looked at me severely, and shook his head like a regretful father. It seemed he was apologizing for me. I also heard him refer to Graham as
bushitsuke
, a disagreeable man.

But these apologies had their effect. Ishiguro calmed down, dropping his shoulders. He began to relax. He even smiled. Finally he said, “Then you will not check identification of our guests?”

“Absolutely not,” Connor said. “Your honored guests are free to come and go as they wish.”

I started to protest. Connor shot me a look.

“Identification is unnecessary,” Connor continued, speaking formally, “because I am sure that no guest of the
Nakamoto Corporation could ever be involved in such an unfortunate incident.”

“Fucking A,” Graham said, under his breath.

Ishiguro was beaming. But I was furious. Connor had contradicted me. He had made me look like a fool. And on top of that, he wasn’t following police procedure—we could all be in trouble for that later on. Angrily, I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked away.

“I am grateful for your delicate handling of this situation, Captain Connor,” Ishiguro said.

“I have done nothing at all,” Connor replied, making another formal bow. “But I hope you will now agree it is appropriate to clear the floor, so the police may begin their investigation.”

Ishiguro blinked. “Clear the floor?”

“Yes,” Connor said, taking out a notebook. “And please assist me to know the names of the gentlemen standing behind you, as you ask them to leave.”

“I am sorry?”

“The names of the gentlemen behind you, please.”

“May I ask why?”

Connor’s face darkened, and he barked a short phrase in Japanese. I didn’t catch the words, but Ishiguro turned bright red.

“Excuse me, Captain, but I see no reason for you to speak in this—”

And then, Connor lost his temper. Spectacularly and explosively. He moved close to Ishiguro, making sharp stabbing motions with his finger while he shouted:
“Iikagen ni shiro! Soko o doke! Kiiterunoka!”

Ishiguro ducked and turned away, stunned by this verbal assault.

Connor leaned over him, his voice hard and sarcastic: “
Doke! Doke! Wakaranainoka?”
He turned, and pointed furiously toward the Japanese men by the elevator. Confronted with Connor’s naked anger, the Japanese looked away, and puffed anxiously on their cigarettes. But they did not leave.

“Hey, Richie,” Connor said, calling to the crime unit
photographer Richie Walters. “Get me some IDs of these guys, will you?”

“Sure, Captain,” Richie said. He raised his camera and began moving down the line of men, firing his strobe in quick succession.

Ishiguro suddenly got excited, stepping in front of the camera, holding up his hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, what is this?”

But the Japanese men were already leaving, wheeling away like a school of fish from the strobe flash. In a few seconds they were gone. We had the floor to ourselves. Alone, Ishiguro looked uncomfortable.

He said something in Japanese. Apparently it was the wrong thing.

“Oh?” Connor said. “
You
are to blame here,” he said to Ishiguro. “
You
are the cause of all these troubles. And
you
will see that my detectives get any assistance they need. I want to speak to the person who discovered the body, and the person who called in the original report. I want the name of every person who has been on this floor since the body was discovered. And I want the film from Tanaka’s camera.
Ore wa honkida.
I will arrest you if you obstruct this investigation further.”

“But I must consult my superiors—”

“
Namerunayo.
” Connor leaned close. “Don’t fuck with me, Ishiguro-san. Now leave, and let us work.”

“Of course, Captain,” he said. With a tight, brief bow he left, his face pinched and unhappy.

Graham chuckled. “You told him off pretty good.”

Connor spun. “What were you doing, telling him you were going to interrogate everybody at the party?”

“Aw, shit, I was just winding him up,” Graham said. “There’s no way I’m going to interrogate the mayor. Can I help it if these assholes have no sense of humor?”

“They have a sense of humor,” Connor said. “And the joke is on you. Because Ishiguro had a problem, and he solved it with your help.”

“
My
help?” Graham was frowning. “What’re you talking about?”

“It’s clear the Japanese wanted to delay the investigation,” Connor said. “Your aggressive tactics gave them the perfect excuse—to call for the Special Services liaison.”

“Oh, come on,” Graham said. “For all they know, the liaison could have been here in five minutes.”

Connor shook his head. “Don’t kid yourself: they knew exactly who was on call tonight. They knew exactly how far away Smith would be, and exactly how long it would take him to get here. And they managed to delay the investigation an hour and a half. Nice work, detective.”

Graham stared at Connor for a long moment. Then he turned away. “Fuck,” he said. “That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. Fellas, I’m going to work. Richie? Mount up. You got thirty seconds to document before my guys come in and step on your tail. Let’s go, everybody. I want to get finished before she starts to smell too bad.”

And he lumbered off toward the crime scene.

With their suitcases and evidence carts, the SID team trailed after Graham. Richie Walters led the way, shooting left and right as he worked his way forward into the atrium, then going through the door into the conference room. The walls of the conference room were smoked glass, which dimmed his flash. But I could see him inside, circling the body. He was shooting a lot: he knew this was a big case.

I stayed behind with Connor. I said, “I thought you told me it was bad form to lose your temper with the Japanese.”

“It is,” Connor said.

“Then why did you lose yours?”

“Unfortunately,” he said, “it was the only way to assist Ishiguro.”

“To
assist
Ishiguro?”

“Yes. I did all that for Ishiguro—because he had to save face in front of his boss. Ishiguro wasn’t the most important man in the room. One of the Japanese standing by the elevator was the
jūyaku
, the real boss.”

“I didn’t notice,” I said.

“It’s common practice to put a lesser man in front, while
the boss stays in the background, where he is free to observe progress. Just as I did with you,
kōhai.
”

“Ishiguro’s boss was watching all the time?”

“Yes. And Ishiguro clearly had orders not to allow the investigation to begin. I needed to start the investigation. But I had to do it in such a way that he would not look incompetent. So I played the out-of-control
gaijin.
Now he owes me a favor. Which is good, because I may need his help later on.”

“He owes you a favor?” I said, having trouble with this idea. Connor had just screamed at Ishiguro—thoroughly humiliating him, as far as I was concerned.

Connor sighed. “Even if you don’t understand what happened, believe me: Ishiguro understands very well. He had a problem, and I helped him.”

I still didn’t really understand, and I started to say more, but Connor held up his hand. “I think we better take a look at the scene, before Graham and his men screw things up any more than they already have.”

It’d been almost two years since I worked the detective division, and it felt good to be around a homicide again. It brought back memories: the nighttime tension, the adrenaline rush of bad coffee in paper cups, and all the teams working around you—it’s a kind of crazy energy, circling the center where somebody is lying, dead. Every homicide crime scene has that same energy, and that finality at the center. When you look at the dead person, there is a kind of obviousness, and at the same time there is an impossible mystery. Even in the simplest domestic brawl, where the woman finally decided to shoot the guy, you’d look at her, all covered in scars and cigarette burns, and you had to ask, why tonight? What was it about tonight? It’s always clear what you are seeing, and there’s always something that doesn’t add up. Both things at once.