“In short, he’s behaving as if he doesn’t really know what to do, as if he doesn’t even know who this girl is—which he certainly does, since he knows everybody invited to that party—and pretending he doesn’t know who killed her. When he almost certainly knows that, too.”

The car bounced in a pothole, and jolted back up. “Wait a minute. Ishiguro knows who killed the girl?”

“I’m sure of it. And he’s not the only one. At least three people must know who killed her, at this point. Didn’t you say you used to be in press relations?”

“Yes. Last year.”

“You keep any contacts in TV news?”

“A few,” I said. “They might be rusty. Why?”

“I want to look at some tape that was shot tonight.”

“Just look? Not subpoena?”

“Right. Just look.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. I was thinking I could call Jennifer Lewis at KNBC, or Bob Arthur at KCBS. Probably Bob.

Connor said, “It has to be somebody you can approach personally. Otherwise the stations won’t help us. You noticed there were no TV crews at the crime scene tonight. At most crime scenes, you have to fight your way past the cameras just to get to the tape. But tonight, no TV crews, no reporters. Nothing.”

I shrugged. “We were on land lines. The press couldn’t monitor radio transmissions.”

“They were already there,” Connor said, “covering the party with Tom Cruise and Madonna. And then a girl gets murdered on the floor above. So where were the TV crews?”

I said, “Captain, I don’t buy it.”

One of the things I learned as a press officer is that there aren’t any conspiracies. The press is too diverse, and in a sense too disorganized. In fact, on the rare occasions when we needed an embargo—like a kidnapping with ransom negotiations in progress—we had a hell of a time getting cooperation. “The paper closes early. The TV crews have to make the eleven o’clock news. They probably went back to edit their stories.”

“I disagree. I think the Japanese expressed concern about their kigyō image, their company image, and the press cooperated with no coverage. Trust me, kōhai: the pressure is being applied.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Take my word for it,” Connor said. “The pressure is on.”

Just then, the car phone rang.

“God damn it, Peter,” a familiar rough voice said. “What the fuck’s going on with that homicide investigation?” It was the chief. It sounded like he had been drinking.

“How do you mean, Chief?”

Connor looked at me, and punched the speaker phone button so he could hear.

The chief said: “You guys harassing the Japanese? We going to have another set of racial allegations against the department here?”

“No sir,” I said. “Absolutely not. I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

“I heard that dumb fuck Graham was making insults as usual,” the chief said.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say insults, Chief—”

“Look, Peter. Don’t shit me. I already reamed out Fred Hoffmann for sending Graham in the first place. I want that racist turd off the case. We’ve all got to get along with the Japanese from now on. It’s the way the world is. You hearing me, Peter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now about John Connor. You got him with you, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you bring him into this?”

I thought: why did I bring him in? Fred Hoffmann must have decided to say that Connor was my idea, and not his own.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I—”

“I understand,” the chief said. “You probably thought you couldn’t handle the case yourself. Wanted some help. But I’m afraid you bought more trouble than help. Because the Japanese don’t like Connor. And I got to tell you. I go way back with John. We entered the academy together back in fifty-nine. He’s always been a loner and a troublemaker. You know, anybody who goes to live in some foreign country, it’s because he can’t fit in here at home. I don’t want him screwing up this investigation now.”

“Chief—”

“This is how I see it, Peter. You got a homicide here, wrap it up and get it over with. Do it quick and do it neat. I’m looking to you and you alone. You hearing me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The connection is good?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Wrap it up, Pete,” the chief said. “I don’t want anybody else calling me on this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Finish it by tomorrow latest. That’s it.” And he hung up.

I put the phone back in the cradle.

“Yes,” Connor said. “I’d say pressure is being applied.”

I drove south on the 405 freeway, toward the airport. It was foggier here. Connor stared out the window.

“In a Japanese organization, you’d never get a call like that. The chief just hung you out to dry. He takes no responsibility—it’s all your problem. And he’s blaming you for things that have nothing to do with you, like Graham, and me.” Connor shook his head. “The Japanese don’t do that. The Japanese have a saying: fix the problem, not the blame. In American organizations it’s all about who fucked up. Whose head will roll. In Japanese organizations it’s about what’s fucked up, and how to fix it. Nobody gets blamed. Their way is better.”

Connor was silent, staring out the window. We were driving past Slauson, the Marina freeway a dark curve arcing above us in the fog.

I said, “The chief was in the bag, that’s all.”

“Yes. And uninformed, as usual. But even so, it sounds like we’d better have this case solved before he gets out of bed tomorrow.”

“Can we do that?”

“Yes. If Ishiguro delivers those tapes.”

The phone rang again. I answered it.

It was Ishiguro.

I handed the phone to Connor.

I could hear Ishiguro faintly through the receiver. He sounded tense, speaking rapidly. “A, moshi moshi, Connor-san desuka? Keibi no heyani denwa shitan desuga ne. Daremo denain desuyo.”

Connor cupped his hand over the phone and translated. “He called the security guard but no one was there.”

“Sorede, chuōkeibishitsu ni renraku shite, hito wo okutte moraimashite, issho ni tēpu o kakunin shite kimashita.”

“Then he called the main security office and asked them to come down with him to check the tapes.”

“Tēpu wa subete rekōdā no naka ni arimasu. Nakunattemo torikaeraretemo imasen. Subete daijōbu desu.”

“The tapes are all in the recorders. No tapes are missing or switched.” Connor frowned and replied. “Iya, tēpu wa surikaerarete iru hazu nanda. Tēpu o sagase!”

“Dakara, daijōbu nandesu, Connor-san. Dōshiro to iun desuka?”

“He insists everything is in order.”

Connor said, “Tēpu o sagase!” To me, he said, “I told him I wanted the damn tapes.”

“Daijōbuda to itterudeshou. Dōshite sonnaini tēpu ni kodawarun desuka?”

“Ore niwa wakatte irunda. Tēpu wa nakunatte iru. I know more than you think, Mr. Ishiguro. Mōichido iu, tēpu o sagasunda!”

Connor banged the phone in the cradle, and sat back, snorting angrily. “Bastards. They’re taking the position that there are no missing tapes.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

“They’ve decided to play hardball.” Connor stared out the window at the traffic, and tapped his teeth with his finger. “They’d never do it unless they felt they had a strong position. An unassailable position. Which means…”

Connor drifted off into his private thoughts. I saw his face intermittently reflected in the glass under passing street lamps. Finally he said, “No, no, no,” as if he were talking to someone.

“No, what?”

“It can’t be Graham.” He shook his head. “Graham is too risky—too many ghosts from the past. And it’s not me, either. I’m old news. So it must be you, Peter.”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

“Something has happened,” Connor said, “to make Ishiguro think he has leverage. And I’d guess it’s something to do with you.”