Rising Sun: A Novel (6 page)

I said, “What do you mean, even with me?”

“Everybody knows you and Farley were an item.”

“What are you talking about?”

Graham punched me on the shoulder. “Come on. You’re divorced now. Nobody gives a shit.”

I said, “It’s not true, Tom.”

“You can do what you want. Handsome guy like you.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not true.”

“Okay, fine.” He held up his hands. “My mistake.”

I watched Farley at the other end of the atrium, ducking under the tape. She pressed the elevator button, and waited for it to come, tapping her foot impatiently.

I said, “You really think she knows who the girl is?”

“Damn right she does,” Graham said. “You know why the mayor likes her. She stands by his side and whispers everybody’s name to him. People she hasn’t seen for years. Husbands, wives, children, everyone. Farley knows who this girl is.”

“Then why didn’t she tell us?”

“Fuck,” Graham said. “Must be important to somebody. She took off like a shot, didn’t she? I tell you, we better figure out who this dead girl is. Because I fucking hate being the last one in town to know.”

Connor was across the room, waving to us.

“What does he want now?” Graham said. “Waving like that. What’s he got in his hand?”

“Looks like a purse,” I said.

“Cheryl Lynn Austin,” Connor said, reading. “Born Midland, Texas, graduate of Texas State. Twenty-three years old. Got an apartment in Westwood, but hasn’t been here long enough to change her Texas driver’s license.”

The contents of the purse were spread out on a desk. We pushed them around with pencils.

“Where’d you find this purse?” I asked. It was a small, dark, beaded clutch with a pearl clasp. A vintage forties purse. Expensive.

“It was in the potted palm near the conference room.” Connor unzipped a tiny compartment. A tight roll of crisp hundred-dollar bills tumbled onto the table. “Very nice. Miss Austin is well taken care of.”

I said, “No car keys?”

“No.”

“So she came with somebody.”

“And evidently intended to leave with somebody, too. Taxis can’t break a hundred-dollar bill.”

There was also a gold American Express Card. Lipstick and a compact. A pack of Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes, a Japanese brand. A card for the Daimatsu Night Club in Tokyo. Four small blue pills. That was about it.

Using his pencil, Connor upended the beaded purse. Small green flecks spilled out onto the table. “Know what that is?”

“No,” I said. Graham looked at it with a magnifying glass.

Connor said, “It’s
wasabi
-covered peanuts.”

Wasabi
is green horseradish served in Japanese restaurants. I had never heard of
wasabi
-covered peanuts.

“I don’t know if they’re sold outside Japan.”

Graham grunted. “I’ve seen enough. So what do you think now, John? Is Ishiguro going to get those witnesses you asked for?”

“I wouldn’t expect them soon,” Connor said.

“Fucking right,” Graham said. “We won’t see those witnesses until day after tomorrow, after their lawyers have briefed them on exactly what to say.” He stepped away from the table. “You realize why they’re delaying us. A Japanese killed this girl. That’s what we’re dealing with.”

“It’s possible,” Connor said.

“Hey, buddy. More than possible. We’re
here.
This is their building. And that girl is just the type they go for. The
American beauty long-stemmed rose. You know all those little guys want to fuck a volleyball player.”

Connor shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Come on,” Graham said. “You know those guys eat shit all day long at home. Crammed into subways, working in big companies. Can’t say what they think. Then they come over here, away from the constraints of home, and suddenly they’re rich and free. They can do whatever they want. And sometimes one of them goes a little crazy. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Connor looked at Graham for a long time. Finally he said, “So as you see it, Tom, a Japanese killer decided to dispatch this girl on the Nakamoto boardroom conference table?”

“Right.”

“As a symbolic act?”

Graham shrugged. “Christ, who knows? We’re not talking normality here. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m going to get the fucker who did this, if it’s the last goddamned thing I do.”

The elevator descended rapidly. Connor leaned against the glass. “There are many reasons to dislike the Japanese,” he said, “but Graham knows none of them.” He sighed. “You know what they say about us?”

“What?”

“They say Americans are too eager to make theories. They say we don’t spend enough time observing the world, and so we don’t know how things actually
are.
”

“Is that a Zen idea?”

“No,” he laughed. “Just an observation. Ask a computer salesman what he thinks of his American counterparts, and he’ll tell you that. Everyone in Japan who deals with Americans thinks it. And when you look at Graham, you realize they’re right. Graham has no real knowledge, no first-hand experience. He just has a collection of prejudices and media fantasies. He doesn’t know anything about the Japanese—and it never occurs to him to find out.”

I said, “Then you think he’s wrong? The girl wasn’t killed by a Japanese?”

“I didn’t say that,
kōhai
,” Connor replied. “It’s very possible Graham is right. But at the moment—”

The doors opened and we saw the party, heard the band playing “Moonlight Serenade.” Two party-going couples stepped into the elevator. They looked like real estate people: the men silver-haired and distinguished looking, the women pretty and slightly tacky. One woman said, “She’s smaller than I thought.”

“Yes, tiny. And that … was that her boyfriend?”

“I guess. Wasn’t he the one in the video with her?”

“I think that was him.”

One of the men said, “You think she had her boobs done?”

“Hasn’t everybody?”

The other woman giggled. “Except me, of course.”

“Right, Christine.”

“But I’m thinking about it. Did you see Emily?”

“Oh, she did hers so
big.
”

“Well, Jane started it, blame her. Now everyone wants them big.”

The men turned and looked out the window. “Hell of a building,” one said. “Detailing is fantastic. Must have cost a fortune. You doing much with the Japanese now, Ron?”

“About twenty percent,” the other man said. “That’s way down from last year. It’s made me work on my golf game, because they always want to play golf.”

“Twenty percent of your business?”

“Yeah. They’re buying up Orange County now.”

“Of course. They already own Los Angeles,” one of the women said, laughing.

“Well, just about. They have the Arco building over there,” the man said, pointing out the window. “I guess by now they have seventy, seventy-five percent of downtown Los Angeles.”

“And more in Hawaii.”

“Hell, they
own
Hawaii—ninety percent of Honolulu, a hundred percent of the Kona coast. Putting up golf courses like mad.”

One woman said, “Will this party be on
ET
tomorrow? They had enough cameras here.”

“Let’s remember to watch.”

The elevator said, “
Mōsugu de gozaimasu.
”

We came to the garage floor, and the people got off. Connor watched them go, and shook his head. “In no other country in the world,” he said, “would you hear people calmly discussing the fact that their cities and states were sold to foreigners.”

“Discussing?” I said. “They’re the ones doing the selling.”

“Yes. Americans are eager to sell. It amazes the Japanese. They think we’re committing economic suicide. And of course they’re right.” As he spoke, Connor pressed a button on the elevator panel marked
EMERGENCY ONLY
.

A soft pinging alarm sounded.

“What’d you do that for?”

Connor looked at a video camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling and waved cheerfully. A voice on the intercom said, “Good evening, officers. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Connor said. “Am I speaking to building security?”

“That’s right, sir. Is something wrong with your elevator?”

“Where are you located?”

“We’re on the lobby level, southeast corner, behind the elevators.”

“Thank you very much,” Connor said. He pushed the button for the lobby.

The security office of the Nakamoto Tower was a small room, perhaps five meters by seven. It was dominated by three large, flat video panels, each divided into a dozen smaller monitor views. At the moment, most of these were black rectangles. But one row showed images from the lobby and the garage; another row showed the party in progress. And a third row showed the police teams up on the forty-sixth floor.

Jerome Phillips was the guard on duty. He was a black man in his midforties. His gray Nakamoto Security uniform was soaked around the collar, and dark under the armpits. He asked us to leave the door open as we entered. He appeared noticeably uneasy to have us there. I sensed he was hiding something, but Connor approached him in a friendly way. We showed our badges and shook hands. Connor managed to convey the idea that we were all security professionals, having a little chat together. “Must be a busy night for you, Mr. Phillips.”

“Yeah, sure. The party and everything.”

“And crowded, in this little room.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Boy, you got that right. All of them packed in here. Jesus.”

I said, “All of who?”

Connor looked at me and said, “After the Japanese left the forty-sixth floor, they came down here and watched us on the monitors. Isn’t that right, Mr. Phillips?”

Phillips nodded. “Not all of ’em, but quite a few. Down here, smoking their damn cigarettes, staring and puffing and passing around faxes.”

“Faxes?”

“Oh, yeah, every few minutes, somebody’d bring in another fax. You know, in Japanese writing. They’d all pass it around, make comments. Then one of ’em would leave to send a fax back. And the rest would stay to watch you guys up on the floor.”

Connor said, “And listen, too?”

Phillips shook his head. “No. We don’t have audio feeds.”

“I’m surprised,” Connor said. “This equipment seems so up-to-date.”

“Up-to-date? Hell, it’s the most advanced in the world. These people, I tell you one thing. These people do it right. They have the best fire alarm and fire prevention system. The best earthquake system. And of course the best electronic security system: best cameras, detectors, everything.”

“I can see that,” Connor said. “That’s why I was surprised they don’t have audio.”

“No. No audio. They do high-resolution video only. Don’t ask me why. Something to do with the cameras and how they’re hooked up, is all I know.”

On the flat panels I saw five different views of the forty-sixth floor, as seen from different cameras. Apparently the Japanese had installed cameras all over the floor. I remembered how Connor had walked around the atrium, staring up at the ceiling. He must have spotted the cameras then.

Now I watched Graham in the conference room, directing the teams. He was smoking a cigarette, which was completely against regulations at a crime scene. I saw Helen stretch and yawn. Meanwhile, Kelly was getting ready to move the girl’s body off the table onto a gurney, before zipping it into the bag, and he was—

Then it hit me.

They had cameras up there.

Five different cameras.

Covering every part of the floor.

I said, “Oh my God” and I spun around, very excited. I was about to say something when Connor smiled at me in
an easy way, and placed his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed my shoulder—hard.

“Lieutenant,” he said.

The pain was incredible. I tried not to wince. “Yes, Captain?”

“I wonder if you’d mind if I asked Mr. Phillips one or two questions.”

“No, Captain. Go right ahead.”

“Perhaps you’d take notes.”

“Good idea, Captain.”

He released my shoulder. I got out my notepad.

Connor sat on the edge of the table and said, “Have you been with Nakamoto Security long, Mr. Phillips?”

“Yes, sir. About six years now. I started over in their La Habra plant, and when I hurt my leg—in a car accident—and couldn’t walk so good, they moved me to security. In the plant. Because I wouldn’t have to walk around, you see. Then when they opened the Torrance plant, they moved me over there. My wife got a job in the Torrance plant, too. They do Toyota subassemblies. Then, when this building opened, they brought me here, to work nights.”