“You see,” Connor said, “when Phillips first explained that simple system of rotation, it was immediately clear to me that there might have been a switch. The question was how to prove it.”

His voice echoed in the concrete stairwell. Connor continued down, taking the steps two at a time. I hurried to keep up.

Connor said, “If somebody switched the tapes, how would they go about it? They would be working hastily, under pressure. They’d be terrified of making a mistake. They certainly wouldn’t want to leave any incriminating tapes behind. So probably they’d switch an entire set, and replace it. But replace it with what? They can’t just put in the next set. Since there are only nine sets of tapes all together, it would be too easy for someone to notice that one set was missing, and the total was now eight. There would be an obvious empty drawer. No, they would have to replace the set they were taking away with an entirely new set. Twenty brand-new tapes. And that meant I ought to check the trash.”

“That’s why you threw your pen away?”

“Yes. I didn’t want Phillips to know what I was doing.”

“And?”

“The trash was full of crumpled plastic wrappers. The kind that new videotapes come wrapped in.”

“I see.”

“Once I knew the tapes had been replaced, the only remaining question was, which set? So I played dumb, and looked in all the drawers. You probably noticed that set C, the set Phillips removed when he came on duty, had slightly whiter labels than the other sets. It was subtle, because the office has only been active two months, but you could tell.”

“I see.” Somebody had come into the security room, taken out twenty fresh tapes, unwrapped them, written new labels, and popped them into the video machines, replacing the original tapes that had recorded the murder.

I said, “If you ask me, Phillips knows more about this than he was telling us.”

“Maybe,” Connor said, “but we have more important things to do. Anyway, there’s a limit to what he knows. The murder was phoned in about eight-thirty. Phillips arrived at quarter to nine. So he never saw the murder. We can assume the previous guard, Cole, did. But by a quarter of nine, Cole was gone, and an unknown Japanese man was in the security room, closing up a briefcase.”

“You think he’s the one who switched the tapes?”

Connor nodded. “Very possibly. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if this man was the killer himself. I hope to find that out at Miss Austin’s apartment.” He threw open the door, and we went into the garage.

A line of party guests waited for valets to bring their cars. I saw Ishiguro chatting up Mayor Thomas and his wife. Connor steered me toward them. Standing alongside the mayor, Ishiguro was so cordial he was almost obsequious. He gave us a big smile. “Ah, gentlemen. Is your investigation proceeding satisfactorily? Is there anything more I can do to help?”

I didn’t get really angry until that moment: until I saw the way he toadied up in front of the mayor. It made me so mad I began to turn red. But Connor took it in stride.

“Thank you, Ishiguro-san,” he said, with a slight bow. “The investigation is going well.”

“You’re receiving all the help you requested?” Ishiguro said.

“Oh, yes,” Connor said. “Everyone has been very cooperative.”

“Good, good. I’m glad.” Ishiguro glanced at the mayor, and smiled at him, too. He was all smiles, it seemed.

“But,” Connor said, “there is just one thing.”

“Just name it. If there is anything we can do…”

“The security tapes seem to have been removed.”

“Security tapes?” Ishiguro frowned, clearly caught off guard.

“Yes,” Connor said. “Recordings from the security cameras.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Ishiguro said. “But let me assure you, if any tapes exist, they are yours to examine.”

“Thank you,” Connor said. “Unfortunately, it seems the crucial tapes have been removed from the Nakamoto security office.”

“Removed? Gentlemen, I believe there must be some mistake.”

The mayor was watching this exchange closely.

Connor said, “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. It would be reassuring, Mr. Ishiguro, if you were to look into this matter yourself.”

“I certainly will,” Ishiguro said. “But I must say again. I can’t imagine, Captain Connor, that any tapes are missing.”

“Thank you for checking, Mr. Ishiguro,” Connor said.

“Not at all, Captain,” he said, still smiling. “It is my pleasure to assist you in whatever way I can.”

“The son of a bitch,” I said. We were driving west on the Santa Monica freeway. “The little prick looked us right in the eye and lied.”

“It’s annoying,” Connor said. “But you see, Ishiguro takes a different view. Now that he is beside the mayor, he sees himself in another context, with another set of obligations and requirements for his behavior. Since he is sensitive to context, he’s able to act differently, with no reference to his earlier behavior. To us, he seems like a different person. But Ishiguro feels he’s just being appropriate.”

“What burns me is he acted so confident.”

“Of course he did,” Connor said. “And he would be quite surprised to learn that you’re angry with him. You consider him immoral. He considers you naive. Because for a Japanese, consistent behavior is not possible. A Japanese becomes a different person around people of different rank. He becomes a different person when he moves through different rooms of his own house.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s fine, but the fact is he’s a lying son of a bitch.”

Connor looked at me. “Would you talk that way to your mother?”

“Of course not.”

“So you change according to context, too,” Connor said. “The fact is we all do. It’s just that Americans believe there is some core of individuality that doesn’t change from one moment to the next. And the Japanese believe context rules everything.”

“It sounds to me,” I said, “like an excuse for lying.”

“He doesn’t see it as lying.”

“But that’s what it is.”

Connor shrugged. “Only from your point of view, kōhai. Not from his.”

“The hell.”

“Look, it’s your choice. You can understand the Japanese and deal with them as they are, or you can get pissed off. But our problem in this country is that we don’t deal with the Japanese the way they really are.” The car hit a deep pothole, bouncing so hard that the car phone fell off the receiver. Connor picked it up off the floor, and put it back on the hook.

Up ahead, I saw the exit for Bundy. I moved into the right lane. “One thing I’m not clear about,” I said. “Why do you think the man with the briefcase in the security room might be the killer?”

“It’s because of the time sequence. You see, the murder was reported at eight thirty-two. Less than fifteen minutes later, at eight forty-five, a Japanese man was down there switching the tapes, arranging a cover-up. That’s a very fast response. Much too fast for a Japanese company.”

“Why is that?”

“Japanese organizations are actually very slow to respond in a crisis. Their decision-making relies on precedents, and when a situation is unprecedented, people are uncertain how to behave. You remember the faxes? I am sure faxes have been flying back and forth to Nakamoto’s Tokyo headquarters all night. Undoubtedly the company is still trying to decide what to do. A Japanese organization simply cannot move fast in a new situation.”

“But an individual acting alone can?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

I said, “And that’s why you think the man with the briefcase may be the killer.”

Connor nodded. “Yes. Either the killer, or someone closely connected with the killer. But we should learn more at Miss Austin’s apartment. I believe I see it up ahead, on the right.”