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.”

“I see. Six years altogether.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must like it.”

“Well, I tell you, it’s a secure job. That’s something in America. I know they don’t think much of black folks, but they always treated me okay. And hell, before this I worked for GM in Van Nuys, and that’s… you know, that’s gone.”

“Yes,” Connor said sympathetically.

“That place,” Phillips said, shaking his head at the memory. “Christ. The management assholes they used to send down to the floor. You couldn’t believe it. M.B. fucking A., out of Detroit, little weenies didn’t know shit. They didn’t know how the line worked. They didn’t know a tool from a die. But they’d still order the foremen around. They’re all pulling in two hundred fucking thousand a year and they didn’t know shit. And nothing ever worked right. The cars were all a piece of shit. But here,” he said, tapping the counter. “Here, I got a problem, or something doesn’t work, I tell somebody. And they come right down, and they know the system—how it works—and we go over the problem together, and it gets fixed. Right away. Problems get fixed here. That’s the difference. I tell you: these people pay attention.”

“So you like it here.”

“They always treated me okay,” Phillips said, nodding.

That didn’t exactly strike me as a glowing endorsement. I had the feeling this guy wasn’t committed to his employers and a few questions could drive the wedge. All we had to do was encourage the break.

“Loyalty is important,” Connor said, nodding sympathetically.

“It is to them,” he said. “They expect you to show all this enthusiasm for the company. So you know, I always come in fifteen or twenty minutes early, and stay fifteen or twenty minutes after the shift is over. They like you to put in the extra time. I did the same at Van Nuys, but nobody ever noticed.”

“And when is your shift?”

“I work nine to seven.”

“And tonight? What time did you come on duty?”

“Quarter to nine. Like I said, I come in fifteen minutes early.”

The original call had been recorded about eight-thirty. So if this man came at a quarter to nine, he would have arrived almost fifteen minutes too late to see the murder. “Who was on duty before you?”

“Well, usually it’s Ted Cole. But I don’t know if he worked tonight.”

“Why is that?”

The guard wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and looked away.

“Why is that, Mr. Phillips?” I said, with a little more force.

The guard blinked and frowned, saying nothing.

Connor said quietly, “Because Ted Cole wasn’t here when Mr. Phillips arrived tonight, was he, Mr. Phillips?”

The guard shook his head. “No, he wasn’t,”

I started to ask another question, but Connor raised his hand. “I imagine, Mr. Phillips, you must have been pretty surprised when you came in this room, at a quarter to nine.”

“You damn right I was,” Phillips said.

“What did you do when you saw the situation?”

“Well. Right away, I said to the guy, ‘Can I help you?’ Very polite but still firm. I mean, this is the security room. And I don’t know who this guy is, I’ve never seen him before. And the guy is tense. Very tense. He says to me, ‘Get out of my way.’ Real pushy, like he owns the world. And he shoves past me, taking his briefcase with him.

“I say, ‘Excuse me, sir, I’ll have to see some identification.’ He don’t answer me, he just keeps going. Out the lobby and down the stairs.”

“You didn’t try and stop him?”

“No, sir. I didn’t.”

“Because he was Japanese?”

“You got that right. But I called up to central security—it’s up on the ninth floor—to say I found a man in the room. And they say, ‘Don’t worry, everything is fine.’ But I can hear they’re tense, too. Everybody is tense. And then I see on the monitor… the dead girl. So that’s the first I knew what it was about.”