“Oh?”

“Yeah. First thing he says to me, do I know your phone number or should he give it to me. I say I know the number. I’m thinking, I don’t need some Japanese to tell me the phone numbers of people on the force. Then he says, you know, Captain Connor doesn’t always answer his phone. Be sure to send somebody down there to pick him up.”

“Interesting,” Connor said.

“So I called Pete Smith, and told him to swing by and pick you up. And that’s all I knew. I mean, this is all in the context of some political problem they’re having at Nakamoto. I knew Graham was unhappy. I figured other people were unhappy, too. And everybody knows Connor has special relationships with the community, so I put it through. And now there is all this shit coming down. Fucking beats me.”

“Tell me about the shit,” Connor said.

“It starts maybe eleven o’clock last night, when the chief called me about Graham. Why did I assign Graham. I tell him why. But he’s still not happy. Then right at the end of my watch, maybe five a.m., there is the business about how Connor got brought in. How did it happen, why did it happen. And now there’s a story in the Times and this whole thing about racism by the police. I don’t know which way to turn here. I keep explaining I did the routine thing. By the book. Nobody is buying that. But it’s true.”

“I’m sure it is,” Connor said. “Just one more thing, Fred. Did you ever listen to the original metro call?”

“Damn right I did. I heard it about an hour ago. Why?”

“Did the voice that called in sound like Mr. Nishi?”

Hoffmann laughed. “Christ. Who knows, Captain. Maybe. You’re asking me if one Asian voice sounds like another Asian voice I heard earlier. Honestly, I don’t know. The original voice on the call sounded pretty confused. Maybe in shock. Maybe on drugs. I’m not sure. All I know is, whoever Mr. Nishi actually was, he knew a hell of a lot about you.”

“Well, that’s very helpful. Get some rest.” Connor thanked him, and hung up. I pulled off the freeway and headed down Wilshire, to our meeting with Senator Morton.

“Okay, Senator, now look this way, please… a little more… that’s it, that’s very strong, very masculine, I like it a lot. Yes, bloody good. Now I will need three minutes, please.” The director, a tense man wearing a bomber jacket and a baseball cap, climbed down off the camera and barked orders in a British accent. “Jerry, get a scrim there, the sun is too bright. And can we do something about his eyes? I need a little fill in the eyes, please. Ellen? You see the shine on his right shoulder. Flag it, love. Pull the collar smooth. The microphone is visible on his tie. And I can’t see the gray in his hair. Bring it up. And straighten out the carpeting on the ground so he doesn’t trip when he walks, people. Please. Come on now. We’re losing our lovely light.”

Connor and I were standing to one side, with a cute production assistant named Debbie who held a clipboard across her breasts and said meaningfully, “The director is Edgar Lynn.”

“Should we recognize that name?” Connor said.

“He’s the most expensive and most sought-after commercial director in the world. He is a great artist. Edgar did the fantastic Apple 1984 commercial, and… oh, lots of others. And he has directed famous movies, too. Edgar is just the best.” She paused. “And not too crazy. Really.”

Across from the camera, Senator John Morton stood patiently while four people fussed with his tie, his jacket, his hair, his makeup. Morton was wearing a suit. He was standing under a tree with the rolling golf course and the skyscrapers of Beverly Hills in the background. The production crew had laid down a strip of carpet for him to walk on as he approached the camera.

I said, “And how is the senator?”

Debbie nodded. “Pretty good. I think he has a shot.”

Connor said, “You mean a chance for the presidency?”

“Yeah. Especially if Edgar can do his magic. I mean, let’s face it, Senator Morton is not exactly Mel Gibson, you know what I mean? He’s got a big nose, and he’s a little bald, and those freckles are a problem because they photograph so prominently. They distract you from his eyes. And the eyes are what sell a candidate.”

“The eyes,” Connor said.

“Oh, yeah. People get elected on their eyes.” She shrugged, as if it was common knowledge. “But if the senator puts himself in Edgar’s hands… Edgar is a great artist. He can make it happen.”

Edgar Lynn walked past us, huddled with the cameraman. “Christ, clean up the luggage under his eyes,” Lynn said. “And get the chin. Firm that chin with a hard inky low and up.”

“Okay,” the cameraman said.

The production assistant excused herself and we waited, watching. Senator Morton was still some distance away, being worked over by the makeup and wardrobe people.

“Mr. Connor? Mr. Smith?” I turned. A young man in a blue pinstripe suit was standing beside us. He looked like a Senate staffer: well turned-out, attentive, polite. “I’m Bob Woodson. With the senator’s office. Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” Connor said.

“I know the senator is eager to talk to you,” Woodson said. “I’m sorry, this seems to be running a little late. We were supposed to finish shooting by one.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, I guess it may be quite a while. But I know the senator wants to talk to you.”

Connor said, “Do you know what about?”

Someone shouted, “Run-through! Run-through for sound and camera, please!”

The cluster around Senator Morton vanished, and Woodson turned his attention to the camera.

Edgar Lynn was back looking through the lens. “There still isn’t enough gray. Ellen? You will have to add gray to his hair. It isn’t reading now.”

Woodson said, “I hope he doesn’t make him look too old.”

Debbie, the production assistant, said, “It’s just for the shot. It isn’t reading for the shot, so we add some gray. See, Ellen is just putting it at the temples. It’ll make him distinguished.”

“I don’t want him old. Especially when he’s tired, he sometimes looks old.”

“Don’t worry,” the assistant said.

“All right now,’ Lynn said. ‘That’s enough for now. Senator? Shall we try a run-through?”

Senator Morton said, “Where does this begin?”

“Line?”

A script girl said, “ ‘Perhaps like me…’ “

Morton said, “Then we’ve already done the first part?”

Edgar Lynn said, “That’s right, love. We start here with your turn to the camera, and you give us a very strong, very direct masculine look, and begin ‘Perhaps like me.’ Right?”

“Okay,” Morton said.

“Remember. Think masculine. Think strong. Think in control.”

Morton said, “Can we shoot it?”

Woodson said, “Lynn’s going to piss him off.”

Edgar Lynn said, “All right. Shoot the rehearsal. Here we go.”

Senator Morton walked toward the camera. “Perhaps like me,” he said, “you’re concerned about the erosion of our national position in recent years. America is still the greatest military power, but our security depends on our ability to defend ourselves militarily and economically. And it is economically that America has fallen behind. How far behind? Well, under the last two administrations, America has gone from the greatest creditor nation to the greatest debtor nation the world has ever seen. Our industries have fallen behind the rest of the world. Our workers are less educated than workers in other countries. Our investors demand short-term gain and cripple our industries’ ability to plan for the future. And as a result, our standard of living is declining rapidly. The outlook for our children is bleak.”

Connor murmured, “Somebody is actually saying it.”