Rising Sun: A Novel (47 page)

On the other side of the atrium, a meeting was being held in the large conference room. Sunlight streamed in through the glass walls on forty people sitting on both sides of a long table covered in green felt. Japanese on one side, Americans on the other. Everyone had a neat stack of documents in front of them. Prominent among the Americans, I noticed the lawyer, Bob Richmond.

Standing beside me, Connor sighed.

“What is it?”

“The Saturday meeting,
kōhai.
”

“You mean
that
’s the Saturday meeting Eddie was talking about?”

Connor nodded. “The meeting to conclude the MicroCon sale.”

There was a receptionist seated near the elevators. She
watched us staring for a moment, then said politely, “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Thank you,” Connor said. “But we’re waiting for someone.”

I frowned. From where we were standing, I could clearly see Ishiguro inside the conference room, seated near the center of the table on the Japanese side, smoking a cigarette. The man to his right leaned over to whisper something to him; Ishiguro nodded and smiled.

I glanced over at Connor.

“Just wait,” Connor said.

Several minutes passed, and then a young Japanese aide hurried across the atrium and entered the conference room. Once inside, he moved more slowly, circling the table unobtrusively until he was standing behind the chair of a distinguished, gray-haired man seated toward the far end of the table. The aide bent and whispered something to the older man.

“Iwabuchi,” Connor said.

“Who is he?”

“Head of Nakamoto America. Based in New York.”

Iwabuchi nodded to the young aide, and got up from the table. The aide pulled his chair out for him. Iwabuchi moved down the line of Japanese negotiators. As he passed one man, he brushed him lightly on the shoulder. Iwabuchi continued to the end of the table, then opened the glass doors and walked outside, onto a terrace beyond the conference room.

A moment later, the second man stood to leave.

“Moriyama,” Connor said. “Head of the Los Angeles office.”

Moriyama also went outside onto the terrace. The two men stood in the sun and smoked cigarettes. The aide joined them, speaking quickly, his head bobbing. The senior men listened intently, then turned away. The aide remained standing there.

After a moment, Moriyama turned back to the aide and said something. The aide bowed quickly and returned to the
conference room. He moved to the seat of another man, darkhaired with a mustache, and whispered in his ear.

“Shirai,” Connor said. “Head of finance.”

Shirai stood up, but did not go onto the terrace. Instead, he opened the inner door, crossed the atrium, and disappeared into an office on the far side of the floor.

In the conference room, the aide went to still a fourth man, whom I recognized as Yoshida, the head of Akai Ceramics. Yoshida also slipped out of the room, going into the atrium.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“They’re distancing themselves,” Connor said. “They don’t want to be there when it happens.”

I looked back at the terrace, and saw the two Japanese men outside moving casually along the length of the terrace, toward a door at the far end.

I said, “What are we waiting for?”

“Patience,
kōhai.
”

The young aide departed. The meeting in the conference room proceeded. But in the atrium, Yoshida pulled the young aide over and whispered something.

The aide returned to the conference room.

“Hmmm,” Connor said.

This time the aide went to the American side of the table, and whispered something to Richmond. I couldn’t see Richmond’s face, because his back was to us, but his body jerked. He twisted and leaned back to whisper something to the aide. The aide nodded and left.

Richmond remained seated at the table, shaking his head slowly. He bent over his notes.

And then he passed a slip of paper across the table to Ishiguro.

“That’s our cue,” Connor said. He turned to the receptionist, showed her his badge, and we walked quickly across the atrium toward the conference room.

A young American in a pinstripe suit was standing in front of the table and saying, “Now, if you will direct your
attention to Rider C, the summary statement of assets and—”

Connor came into the room first. I was right after him.

Ishiguro looked up, showing no surprise. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” His face was a mask.

Richmond said smoothly, “Gentlemen, if this can wait, we’re in the middle of something rather complicated here—”

Connor interrupted him. “Mr. Ishiguro, you are under arrest for the murder of Cheryl Lynn Austin,” and then he read him his Miranda rights, while Ishiguro stared fixedly at him. The others in the room were entirely silent. Nobody moved at the long table. It was like a still life.

Ishiguro remained seated. “This is an absurdity.”

“Mr. Ishiguro,” Connor said, “would you please stand?”

Richmond said softly, “I hope you guys know what you are doing.”

Ishiguro said, “I know my rights, gentlemen.”

Connor said, “Mr. Ishiguro, would you please stand?”

Ishiguro did not move. The smoke from his cigarette curled up in front of him.

There was a long silence.

Then Connor said to me, “Show them the tape.”

One wall of the conference room consisted of video equipment. I found a playback machine like the one I had used, and plugged the tape in. But no image came up on the big central monitor. I tried pushing various buttons, but couldn’t get a picture.

From a rear corner, a Japanese secretary who had been taking notes hurried up to help me. Bowing apologetically, she pushed the proper buttons, bowed again, and returned to her place.

“Thank you,” I said.

On the screen, the image came up. Even in the bright sunlight, it was clear. It was right at the moment we had seen in Theresa’s room. The moment where Ishiguro approaches the girl and holds the struggling body down.

Richmond said, “What is this?”

“It’s a fake,” Ishiguro said. “It’s a fraud.”

Connor said, “This is a tape taken by Nakamoto security cameras on the forty-sixth floor Thursday night.”

Ishiguro said, “It’s not legal. It’s a fraud.”

But nobody was listening. Everybody was looking at the monitor. Richmond’s mouth was open. “Jesus,” he said.

On the tape, it seemed to take a long time for the girl to die.

Ishiguro was glaring at Connor. “This is nothing but a sensational publicity stunt,” he said. “It is a fabrication. It means
nothing.
”

“Jesus Christ,” Richmond said, staring at the screen.

Ishiguro said, “It has no legal basis. It is not admissible. It will never stand up. This is just a disruption—”

He broke off. For the first time, he had looked down to the other end of the table. And he saw that Iwabuchi’s chair was empty.

He looked the other way. His eyes darted around the room.

Moriyama’s chair was empty.

Shirai’s chair.

Yoshida’s chair.

Ishiguro’s eyes twitched. He looked at Connor in astonishment. Then he nodded, gave a guttural grunt, and stood. Everyone else was staring at the screen.

He walked up to Connor. “I’m not going to watch this, Captain. When you are through with your charade, you will find me outside.” He lit a cigarette, squinting at Connor. “Then we will talk.
Kicchiirito na.
” He opened the door and walked onto the terrace. He left the door open behind him.

I started to follow him out, but Connor caught my eye. He shook his head fractionally. I remained where I was.

I could see Ishiguro outside, standing at the railing. He smoked his cigarette and turned his face to the sun. Then he glanced back at us and shook his head pityingly. He leaned against the railing, and put his foot on it.

In the conference room, the tape continued. One of the American lawyers, a woman, stood up, snapped her briefcase shut, and walked out of the room. Nobody else moved.

And finally, the tape ended.

I popped it out of the machine.

There was silence in the room. A slight wind ruffled the papers of the people at the long table.

I looked out at the terrace.

It was empty.

By the time we got out to the railing, we could hear the sirens faintly, on the street below.

Down on ground level, the air was dusty and we heard the deafening sound of jackhammers. Nakamoto was building an annex next door, and construction was in full swing. A line of big cement trucks was pulled up along the curb. I pushed my way through the cluster of Japanese men in blue suits, and broke through to look down into the pit.

Ishiguro had landed in a wet concrete pouring. His body lay sideways, just the head and one arm sticking above the soft concrete surface. Blood ran in spreading fingers across the gray surface. Workmen in blue hardhats were trying to fish him out, using bamboo poles and ropes. They weren’t having much success. Finally a workman in thigh-high rubber boots waded in to pull the body out. But it proved more difficult than he expected. He had to call for help.

Our people were already there, Fred Perry and Bob Wolfe. Wolfe saw me and walked up the hill. He had his notebook out. He shouted over the din of the jackhammers. “You know anything about this, Pete?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Got a name?”

“Masao Ishiguro.”

Wolfe squinted. “Spell that?”

I started to try to spell it, talking over the sound of the construction. Finally I just reached in my pocket and fished out his card. I gave it to Wolfe.

“This is him?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Long story,” I said. “But he’s wanted for murder.”

Wolfe nodded. “Let me get the body out and we’ll talk.”

“Fine.”

Eventually, they used the construction crane to pull him out. Ishiguro’s body, sagging and heavy with concrete, was lifted into the air, and swung past me, over my head.

Bits of cement dripped down on me, and spattered on the sign at my feet. The sign was for the Nakamoto Construction Company, and it said in bold letters: B
UILDING FOR A NEW
T
OMORROW.
And underneath, P
LEASE
E
XCUSE THE
In
CONVENIENCE.

It took another hour to get everything settled at the site. And the chief wanted our reports by the end of the day, so afterward we had to go down to Parker to do the paperwork.

It was four o’clock before we went across the street to the coffee shop next to Antonio’s bail bond shop. Just to get away from the office. I said, “Why did Ishiguro kill the girl in the first place?”

Connor sighed. “It’s not clear. The best I can understand it is this. Eddie was working for his father’s
kaisha
all along. One of the things he did was supply girls for visiting dignitaries. He’d been doing that for years. It was easy—he was a party guy; he knew the girls; the congressmen wanted to meet the girls, and he got a chance to make friends with the congressmen. But in Cheryl he had a special opportunity, because Senator Morton, head of the Finance Committee, was attracted to her. Morton was smart enough to break off the affair, but Eddie kept sending her in private jets to meet him unexpectedly, keeping the thing alive. Eddie liked her, too: he had sex with her that afternoon. And it was Eddie who arranged for her to come to the party at Nakamoto, knowing that Morton would be there. Eddie was pushing Morton to block the sale, so Eddie was preoccupied with the Saturday meeting. By the way, on the news-station tape you thought he said ‘no cheapie’ to Cheryl. He was saying
nichibei.
The Japanese–American relationship.

“But I think Eddie just intended for Cheryl to meet Morton. I doubt he had any idea about the forty-sixth floor. He certainly didn’t expect her to go up there with Morton. The
idea of going there must have been suggested during the party by someone from Nakamoto. The company left the floor accessible for a very simple reason: there’s a bedroom suite up there that executives sometimes use. Somewhere in the back.”

I said, “How did you know that?”

Connor smiled. “Hanada-san mentioned he had once used it. Apparently it’s quite luxurious.”

“So you
do
have contacts.”

“I have a few. I imagine Nakamoto was probably just being accommodating, too. They may have installed cameras up there with the idea of blackmail, but I’m told there were no cameras in the bedroom suite. And the fact that they had a camera right in the conference room suggests to me that Phillips was right—the cameras were placed to
kaizen
the office workers. Certainly they couldn’t have expected the sexual encounter to occur where it did.

“Anyway, when Eddie saw Cheryl going off with Morton to another part of the Nakamoto building, it must have alarmed the hell out of him. So he followed them. He witnessed the murder, which I believe was probably accidental. And Eddie then helped out his friend Morton, calling him over, getting him out of there. Eddie went back to the party with Morton.”

“What about the tapes?”