Connor bowed back.

I just stared. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Connor was going to let him go. I thought he was crazy to allow it. I handed Eddie my business card and gave my usual speech about how he could call me later if he thought of anything. Eddie shrugged and slipped the card into his shirt pocket, as he lit another cigarette. I didn’t count: he was dealing with Connor.

Eddie started back toward the house, paused. “I have this redhead here, very interesting,” he said. “When I leave the party, I go to my house in the hills. You need me, I will be there. Good night, Captain. Good night, Lieutenant.”

“Good night, Eddie.”

We went back down the steps.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” I said.

“So do I,” Connor said.

“‘Cause he seems guilty as hell to me.”

“Maybe.”

“If you ask me, it’d be better to take him in. Safer.”

“Maybe.”

“Want to go back and get him?”

“No.” He shook his head. “My dai rokkan says no.”

I knew that word: it meant sixth sense. The Japanese were big on intuition. I said, “Yeah, well, I hope you’re right.”

We continued down the steps in the darkness.

“Anyway,” Connor said. “I owe him.”

“For what?”

“There was a time, a few years ago, when I needed some information. You remember the fugu poisoning business? No? Well anyway, no one in the community would tell me. They stonewalled me. And I needed to know. It was… it was important. Eddie told me. He was scared to do it, because he didn’t want anyone to know. But he did it. I probably owe my life to him.”

We came to the bottom of the stairs.

“And did he remind you of that?”

“He would never remind me. It is my job to remember.”

I said, “That’s fine, Captain. All that obligation stuff is fine and noble. And I’m all for interracial harmony. But meanwhile, it’s possible that he killed her, stole the tapes, and cleaned up the apartment. Eddie Sakamura looks like a blown-out speedball to me. He acts like a suspect. And we’re just walking away. Letting him go.”

“Right.”

We kept walking. I thought it over and got more worried. I said, “You know, officially this is my investigation.”

“Officially, it’s Graham’s investigation.”

“Yeah, okay. But we’re going to look stupid if it turns out he did it.”

Connor sighed, as if he was losing patience. “Okay. Let’s go over it the way you think it might have happened. Eddie kills the girl, right?”

“Right.”

“He can see her any time but he decides to fuck her on the boardroom table, and he kills her. Then he goes down to the lobby, and pretends to be a Nakamoto executive—even though the last thing Eddie Sakamura looks like is an executive. But let’s say he passes himself off. He manages to dismiss the guard. He takes the tapes. He walks out just as Phillips comes in. Then he goes to Cheryl’s apartment to clean that up, but somehow he adds a picture of himself, stuck in Cheryl’s mirror. Next he stops by the Bora Bora and tells everybody he’s going to a party in Hollywood. Where we find him, in a room without furniture, calmly chatting up a redhead. Is that how the evening lays out to you?”

I said nothing. It didn’t make much sense, when he put it that way. On the other hand…

“I just hope he didn’t do it.”

“So do I.”

We came down to the street level. The valet ran to get our car.

“You know,” I said, “the blunt way he talks about things, like putting the bag over her head, it’s creepy.”

“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything,” Connor said. “Remember, Japan has never accepted Freud or Christianity. They’ve never been guilty or embarrassed about sex. No problem with homosexuality, no problem with kinky sex. Just matter-of-fact. Some people like it a certain way, so some people do it that way, what the hell. The Japanese can’t understand why we get so worked up about a straightforward bodily function. They think we’re a little screwed up on the subject of sex. And they have a point.” Connor glanced at his watch.

A security car pulled up. The uniformed guard leaned out. “Hey, is there a problem at the party up there?”

“Like what?”

“Couple of guys get in a fight? Some kind of fight? We had a report phoned in.”

“I don’t know,” Connor said. “Maybe you better go up and check.”

The guard climbed out of his car, hefted a big gut, and started up the stairs. Connor looked back at the high walls. “You know we have more private security than police, now? Everyone’s building walls and hiring guards. But in Japan, you can walk into a park at midnight and sit on a bench and nothing will happen to you. You’re completely safe, day or night. You can go anywhere. You won’t be robbed or beaten or killed. You’re not always looking behind you, not always worrying. You don’t need walls or bodyguards. Your safety is the safety of the whole society. You’re free. It’s a wonderful feeling. Here, everybody has to lock themselves up. Lock the door. Lock the car. People who spend their whole lives locked up are in prison. It’s crazy. It kills the spirit. But it’s been so long now that Americans have forgotten what it’s like to really feel safe. Anyway. Here’s our car. Let’s get down to the division.”

We had started driving down the street when the DHD operator called. “Lieutenant Smith,” she said, “we have a request for Special Services.”

“I’m pretty busy,” I said. “Can the backup take it?”

“Lieutenant Smith, we have patrol officers requesting Special Services for a vee dig in area nineteen.”

She was telling me there was a problem with a visiting dignitary. “I understand,” I said, “but I’ve already rolled out on a case. Give it to the backup.”

“But this is on Sunset Plaza Drive,” she said. “Aren’t you located—“

“Yes,” I said. Now I understood why she was insistent. The call was only a few blocks away. “Okay,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s a vee dig DUI. Reported in as G-level plus one. Last name is Rowe.”

“Okay,” I said. “We’re going.” I hung up the phone, and turned the car around.

“Interesting,” Connor said. “G-level plus one is American government?”

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s Senator Rowe?”

“Sounds like it,” I said. “Driving under the influence.”

The black Lincoln sedan had come to a stop on the lawn of a house along the steep part of Sunset Plaza Drive. Two black and whites were pulled up at the curb, red lights flashing. Up on the lawn, a half-dozen people were standing beside the Lincoln. A man in his bathrobe, arms folded across his chest. A couple of girls in short glittery sequin dresses, a very handsome blond man about forty in a tuxedo, and a younger man in a blue suit, whom I recognized as the young man who had gotten on the elevator with Senator Rowe earlier.

The patrolmen had the video camera out, shining the bright light on Senator Rowe. He was propping himself up against the front fender of the Lincoln, holding his arm up to cover his face against the light. He was swearing loudly as Connor and I walked up.

The man in the bathrobe came toward us and said, “I want to know who’s going to pay for this.”

“Just a minute, sir.” I kept walking.

“He can’t just ruin my lawn like this. It has to be paid for.”

“Just give me a minute, sir.”

“Scared the hell out of my wife, too, and she has cancer.”

I said, “Sir, please give me a minute, and then I’ll talk to you.

“Cancer of the ear,” he said emphatically. “The ear.”

“Yes, sir. All right, sir.” I continued toward the Lincoln, and the bright light.

As I passed the aide, he fell into step beside me and said, “I can explain everything, Detective.” He was about thirty, with the bland good looks of a congressional staffer. “I’m sure I can resolve everything.”