“Correct.”

“You don’t think anybody from the Nakamoto Corporation made the call?”

“Correct.”

“An enemy of Nakamoto called?”

“Almost certainly.”

I said, “So how do we find out who called the report in?”

Connor laughed. “That’s why I checked the lobby phone. It’s crucial to that question.”

“Why is it crucial?”

“Suppose you work for a competing corporation, and you want to know what’s going on inside Nakamoto. You can’t find out, because Japanese corporations hire their executives for life. The executives feel they are part of a family. And they’d never betray their own family. So Nakamoto Corporation presents an impenetrable mask to the rest of the world, which makes even the smallest details meaningful: which executives are in town from Japan, who is meeting with whom, comings and goings, and so on. And you might be able to learn those details, if you strike up a relationship with an American security guard who sits in front of monitors all day. Particularly if that guard has been subjected to Japanese prejudice against blacks.”

“Go on,” I said.

“The Japanese often try to bribe local security officers from rival firms. The Japanese are honorable people, but their tradition allows such behavior. All’s fair in love and war, and the Japanese see business as war. Bribery is fine, if you can manage it.”

“Okay.”

“Now, in the first few seconds after the murder, we can be certain of only two people who knew a girl had been killed. One is the killer himself. The other is the security guard, Ted Cole, who watched it on the monitors.”

“Wait a minute. Ted Cole watched it on the monitors? He knows who the killer is?”

“Obviously.”

“He said he left at eight-fifteen.”

“He was lying.”

“But if you knew that, then why didn’t we—“

“He’ll never tell us,” Connor said. “The same way Phillips won’t tell us. That’s why I didn’t arrest Cole, bring him down for questioning. In the end it would be a waste of time—and time is of the essence here. We know he won’t tell us. My question is, did he tell anyone else?”

I began to see what he was driving at. “You mean, did he walk out of the security office to the lobby pay phone, and call somebody to tell them that a murder had occurred?”

“Correct. Because he wouldn’t use the phone in his office. He’d use the pay phone, and call somebody—an enemy of Nakamoto, a competing corporation. Somebody.”

I said, “But now we know that no calls were made from that phone.”

“Correct,” Connor said.

“So your whole line of reasoning collapses.”

“Not at all. It is clarified. If Cole didn’t notify anybody, then who phoned in the murder? Clearly, the source can only be the murderer himself.”

I felt a chill.

“He called it in to embarrass Nakamoto?”

“Presumably,” Connor said.

“Then where did he call from?”

“That’s not clear yet. I assume from somewhere inside the building. And there are a few other confusing details that we have not begun to consider.”

“Such as?”

The car phone rang. Connor answered it, and handed the receiver to me. “It’s for you.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Ascenio said. “The baby is fine. I checked on her a few minutes ago. She is fine. Lieutenant, I wanted you to know Mrs. Davis called.” That was how she referred to my ex-wife.

“When?”

“I think ten minutes ago.”

“Did she leave a number?”

“No. She say she can’t be reached tonight. But she want you to know: something has come up, and maybe she go out of town. So she say maybe she don’t take the baby this weekend.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

“She say she call you tomorrow and let you know for sure.”

“Okay.”

I wasn’t surprised. It was typical Lauren. Last-minute changes. You could never make plans involving Lauren because she was always changing her mind. Probably this latest change meant that she had a new boyfriend and she might go away with him. She wouldn’t know until tomorrow.

I used to think all this unpredictability was bad for Michelle, that it would make her insecure. But kids are practical. Michelle seems to understand that’s the way her mother is, and she doesn’t get upset.

I’m the one who gets upset.

Mrs. Ascenio said, “You coming back soon, Lieutenant?”

“No. It looks like I’ll be out all night. Can you stay?”

“Yes, but I have to leave by nine in the morning. You want I pull out the couch’?”

I had a couch bed in the living room. She used it when she stayed over. “Yes, sure.”

“Okay, good-bye, Lieutenant.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Ascenio.”

Connor said, “Anything wrong?” I was surprised to hear tension in his voice.

“No. Just my ex pulling her usual shit. She’s not sure she’ll take the baby this weekend. Why?”

Connor shrugged. “Just asking.”

I didn’t think that was all there was to it. I said, “What did you mean earlier, when you said that this case could turn ugly?”

“It may not,” Connor said. “Our best solution is to wrap it up in the next few hours. And I think we can. Here’s the restaurant up ahead on the left.”

I saw the neon sign. Bora Bora.

“This is the restaurant owned by Sakamura?”

“Yes. Actually he’s just a part owner. Don’t let the valet take the car. Park it in the red. We may need to leave quickly.”

The Bora Bora was this week’s hot L.A. restaurant. The decor was a jumble of Polynesian masks and shields. Lime green wooden outriggers jutted out over the bar like teeth. Above the open kitchen, a Prince video played ghostlike on an enormous five-meter screen. The menu was Pacific Rim; the noise deafening; the clientele movie-industry hopeful. Everyone was dressed in black.

Connor smiled. “It looks like Trader Vic’s after a bomb went off, doesn’t it? Stop staring. Don’t they let you out enough?”

“No, they don’t,” I said. Connor turned to speak to the Eurasian hostess. I looked at the bar, where two women kissed briefly on the lips. Farther down, a Japanese man in a leather bomber jacket had his arm around a huge blonde. They were both listening to a man with thinning hair and a pugnacious manner whom I recognized as the director of—

“Come on,” Connor said to me. “Let’s go.”

“What?”

“Eddie’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“At a party in the hills. Let’s go.”

The address was on a winding road in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. We would have had a good view of the city up here, but the mist had closed in. As we approached, the street was lined on both sides with luxury cars: mostly Lexus sedans, with a few Mercedes convertibles and Bentleys. The parking attendants looked surprised as we pulled up in our Chevy sedan, and headed up to the house.

Like other residences on the street, the house was surrounded by a three-meter wall, the driveway closed off with a remote-controlled steel gate. There was a security camera mounted above the gate, and another at the path leading up to the house itself. A private security guard stood by the path and checked our badges.

I said, “Whose house is this?”

Ten years ago, the only people in Los Angeles who maintained such elaborate security were either Mafioso, or stars like Stallone whose violent roles attracted violent attention. But lately it seemed everybody in wealthy residential areas had security. It was expected, almost fashionable. We walked up steps through a cactus garden toward the house, which was modern, concrete, and fortresslike. Loud music played.

“This house belongs to the man who owns Maxim Noir.” He must have seen my blank look. “It’s an expensive clothing store famous for its snotty salespeople. Jack Nicholson and Cher shop there.”

“Jack Nicholson and Cher,” I said, shaking my head. “How do you know about it?”