“Konbanwa. Hajimemashite, Sumisu-san. Ishiguro desu. Dōzo yoroshiku.” A formal greeting, although perfunctory. No wasted time. His name was Ishiguro. He already knew my name.

I said, “Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Sumisu desu. Dōzo yoroshiku.” How do you do. Glad to meet you. The usual.

“Watashi no meishi desu. Dōzo.” He gave me his business card. He was quick in his movements, brusque.

“Dōmo arigatō gozaimasu. “ I accepted his card with both hands, which wasn’t really necessary, but taking Connor’s advice, I wanted to do the most formal thing. Next I gave him my card. The ritual required us both to look at each other’s cards, and to make some minor comment, or to ask a question like “Is this your office telephone number?”

Ishiguro took my card with one hand and said, “Is this your home phone, Detective?” I was surprised. He spoke the kind of unaccented English you can only learn by living here for a long time, starting when you’re young. He must have gone to school here. One of the thousands of Japanese who studied in America in the seventies. When they were sending 150,000 students a year to America, to learn about our country. And we were sending 200 American students a year to Japan.

“That’s my number at the bottom, yes,” I said.

Ishiguro slipped my card into his shirt pocket. I started to make a polite comment about his card, but he interrupted me. “Look, Detective. I think we can dispense with the formalities. The only reason there’s a problem here tonight is that your colleague is unreasonable.”

“My colleague?”

Ishiguro gave a head jerk. “The fat one there. Graham. His demands are unreasonable, and we strongly object to his intention to carry out an investigation tonight.”

I said, “Why is that, Mr. Ishiguro?”

“You have no probable cause to conduct one.”

“Why do you say that?”

Ishiguro snorted. “I would think it’s obvious, even to you.”

I stayed cool. Five years as a detective, and then a year in the press section had taught me to stay cool.

I said, “No, sir, I’m afraid it’s not obvious.”

He looked at me disdainfully. “The fact is, Lieutenant, you have no reason to connect this girl’s death to the party we’re holding downstairs.”

“It looks like she’s wearing a party dress—‘

He interrupted me rudely. “My guess is you’ll probably discover that she has died of an accidental drug overdose. And therefore her death has nothing to do with our party. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I took a deep breath. “No, sir, I wouldn’t agree. Not without an investigation.” I took another breath. “Mr. Ishiguro, I appreciate your concerns, but—“

“I wonder if you do,” Ishiguro said, interrupting me again. “I insist that you appreciate the position of the Nakamoto company tonight. This is a very significant evening for us, a very public evening. We are naturally distressed by the prospect that our function might be marred by unfounded allegations of a woman’s death, especially this, a woman of no importance…”

“A woman of no importance?”

Ishiguro made a dismissing wave. He seemed to be tired of talking to me. “It’s obvious, just look at her. She’s no better than a common prostitute. I can’t imagine how she came to be in this building at all. And for this reason, I strongly protest the intention of Detective Graham to interrogate the guests at the reception downstairs. That’s entirely unreasonable. We have many senators, congressmen, and officials of Los Angeles among our guests. Surely you agree that such prominent people will find it awkward—”

I said, “Just a minute. Detective Graham told you he was going to interrogate everybody at the reception?”

“That is what he said to me. Yes.”

Now, at last, I began to understand why I’d been called. Graham didn’t like the Japanese and he had threatened to spoil their evening. Of course it was never going to happen. There was no way Graham was going to interrogate United States senators, let alone the district attorney or the mayor. Not if he expected to come to work tomorrow. But the Japanese annoyed him, and Graham had decided to annoy them back.

I said to Ishiguro, “We can set up a registration desk downstairs, and your guests can sign out as they leave.”

“I am afraid that will be difficult,” Ishiguro began, “because surely you will admit—“

“Mr. Ishiguro, that’s what we’re going to do.”

“But what you ask is extremely difficult—“

“Mr. Ishiguro.”

“You see, for us this is going to cause—“

“Mr. Ishiguro, I’m sorry. I’ve just told you what police procedure is going to be.”

He stiffened. There was a pause. He wiped some sweat from his upper lip and said, “I am disappointed, Lieutenant, not to have greater cooperation from you.”

“Cooperation?” That was when I started to get pissed off. “Mr. Ishiguro, you’ve got a dead woman in there, and it is our job to investigate what happened to—“

“But you must acknowledge our special circumstances—“

Then I heard Graham say, “Aw, Christ, what is this?”

Looking over my shoulder, I saw a short, bookish Japanese man twenty meters beyond the yellow tape. He was taking pictures of the crime scene. The camera he held was so small it was nearly concealed in the palm of his hand. But he wasn’t concealing the fact that he had crossed the tape barrier to take his pictures. As I watched, he moved slowly back toward us, raising his hands for a moment to snap a picture, then blinking behind his wire-frame spectacles as he selected his next shot. He was deliberate in his movements.

Graham went up to the tape and said, “For Christ’s sake, get out of there. This is a crime scene. You can’t take pictures in there.” The man didn’t respond. He kept moving backward. Graham turned away. “Who is this guy?”

Ishiguro said, “This is our employee, Mr. Tanaka. He works for Nakamoto Security.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The Japanese had their own employee wandering around inside the yellow tapes, contaminating the crime scene. It was outrageous. “Get him out of there,” I said.

“He is taking pictures.”

“He can’t do that.”

Ishiguro said, “But this is for our corporate use.”

I said, “I don’t care, Mr. Ishiguro. He can’t be inside the yellow tape, and he can’t take pictures. Get him out of there. And I want his film, please.”

“Very well.” Ishiguro said something quickly in Japanese. I turned, just in time to see Tanaka slip under the yellow tape, and disappear among the blue-suited men clustered by the elevator. Behind their heads, I saw the elevator doors open and close.

Son of a bitch. I was getting angry. “Mr. Ishiguro, you are now obstructing an official police investigation.”

Ishiguro said calmly, “You must try to understand our position, Detective Smith. Of course we have complete confidence in the Los Angeles Police Department, but we must be able to undertake our own private inquiry, and for that we must have—“

Their own private inquiry? The son of a bitch. I suddenly couldn’t speak. I clenched my teeth, seeing red. I was furious. I wanted to arrest Ishiguro. I wanted to spin him around, shove him up against the wall, and snap the cuffs around his fucking wrists and—

“Perhaps I can be of assistance, Lieutenant,” a voice behind me said.

I turned. It was John Connor, smiling cheerfully. I stepped aside.

Connor faced Ishiguro, bowed slightly, and presented his card. He spoke rapidly. “Totsuzen shitsurei desuga, jiko-shōkai wo shitemo yoroshii desuka. Watashi wa John Connor to mōshimasu. Meishi o dōzo. Dōzo yoroshiku.”

“John Connor?” Ishiguro said. “The John Connor? Omeni kakarete kōei desu. Watashi wa Ishiguro desu. Dōzo yoroshiku.” He was saying he was honored to meet him.

“Watashi no meishi desu. Dōzo.” A graceful thank you.