It’d been almost two years since I worked the detective division, and it felt good to be around a homicide again. It brought back memories: the nighttime tension, the adrenaline rush of bad coffee in paper cups, and all the teams working around you—it’s a kind of crazy energy, circling the center where somebody is lying, dead. Every homicide crime scene has that same energy, and that finality at the center. When you look at the dead person, there is a kind of obviousness, and at the same time there is an impossible mystery. Even in the simplest domestic brawl, where the woman finally decided to shoot the guy, you’d look at her, all covered in scars and cigarette burns, and you had to ask, why tonight? What was it about tonight? It’s always clear what you are seeing, and there’s always something that doesn’t add up. Both things at once.

And at a homicide you have the sense of being right down to the basic truths of existence, the smells and the defecation and the bloating. Usually somebody’s crying, so you’re listening to that. And the usual bullshit stops; somebody died, and it’s an unavoidable fact, like a rock in the road that makes all the traffic go around it. And in that grim and real setting, this camaraderie springs up, because you’re working late with people you know, and actually know very well because you see them all the time. L.A. has four homicides a day; there’s another one every six hours. And every detective at the crime scene already has ten homicides dragging on his backlog, which makes this new one an intolerable burden, so he and everybody else is hoping to solve it on the spot, to get it out of the way. There is that kind of finality and tension and energy all mixed together.

And after you do it for a few years, you get so you like it. And to my surprise, as I entered the conference room, I realized that I missed it.

The conference room was elegant: black table, black high-backed leather chairs, the lights of the nighttime skyscrapers beyond the glass walls. Inside the room, the technicians talked quietly, as they moved around the body of the dead girl.

She had blond hair cut short. Blue eyes, full mouth. She looked about twenty-five. Tall, with a long-limbed, athletic look. Her dress was black and sheer.

Graham was well into his examination; he was down at the end of the table, squinting at the girl’s black patent high heels, a penlight in one hand, his notebook in another.

Kelly, the coroner’s assistant, was taping the girl’s hands in paper bags to protect them. Connor stopped him. “Just a minute.” Connor looked at one hand, inspecting the wrist, peering closely under the fingernails. He sniffed under one nail. Then he flicked the fingers rapidly, one after another.

“Don’t bother,” Graham said laconically. “There’s no rigor mortis yet, and no detritus under the nails, no skin or cloth fibers. In fact, I’d say there aren’t many signs of a struggle at all.”

Kelly slipped the bag over the hand. Connor said to him, “You have a time of death?”

“I’m working on it.” Kelly lifted the girl’s buttocks to place the rectal probe. “The axillary thermocouples are already in place. We’ll know in a minute.”

Connor touched the fabric of the black dress, checked the label. Helen, part of the SID team, said, “It’s a Yamamoto.”

“I see that,” Connor said.

“What’s a Yamamoto?” I said.

Helen said, “Very expensive Japanese designer. This little black nothing is at least five thousand dollars. That’s assuming she bought it used. New, it’s maybe fifteen thousand.”

“Is it traceable?” Connor asked her.

“Maybe. Depends on whether she bought it here, or in Europe, or Tokyo. It’ll take a couple of days to check.”

Connor immediately lost interest. “Never mind. That’ll be too late.”

He produced a small, fiber-optic penlight, which he used to inspect the girl’s scalp and hair. Then he looked quickly at each ear, giving a little murmur of surprise at the right ear. I peered over his shoulder, and saw a drop of dried blood at the pierced hole for her earring. I must have been crowding Connor, because he glanced up at me. “Excuse me, kōhai.”

I stepped back. “Sorry.”

Next, Connor sniffed the girl’s lips, opened and closed her jaw rapidly, and poked around inside her mouth, using his penlight as a probe. Then he turned her head from side to side on the table, making her look left and right. He spent some time feeling gently along her neck, almost caressing it with his fingers.

And then, quite abruptly, he stepped away from the body and said, “All right, I’m finished.”

And he walked out of the boardroom.

Graham looked up. “He never was worth a damn at a crime scene.”

I said, “Why do you say that? I hear he’s a great detective.”

“Oh, hell,” Graham said. “You can see for yourself. He doesn’t even know what to do. Doesn’t know procedure. Connor’s no detective. Connor has connections. That’s how he solved all those cases he’s so famous for. You remember the Arakawa honeymoon shootings? No? I guess it was before your time, Petey-san. When was that Arakawa case, Kelly?”

“Seventy-six,” Kelly said.

“Right, seventy-six. Big fucking case that year. Mr. and Mrs. Arakawa, a young couple visiting Los Angeles on their honeymoon, are standing on the curb in East L.A. when they get gunned down from a passing car. Drive-by gang-style shooting. Worse, at autopsy it turns out Mrs. Arakawa was pregnant. The press has a field day: L.A.P.D. can’t handle gang violence, is the way the story goes. Letters and money come from all over the city. Everyone is upset about what happened to this fresh young couple. And of course the detectives assigned to the case don’t discover shit. I mean, a case involving murdered Japanese nationals: they’re getting nowhere.

“So, after a week, Connor is called in. And he solves it in one day. A fucking miracle of detection. I mean, it’s a week later. The physical evidence is long gone, the bodies of the honeymooners are back in Osaka, the street corner where it happened is piled high in wilted flowers. But Connor is able to show that the youthful Mr. Arakawa is actually quite a bad boy in Osaka. He shows that the street-corner gangland shooting is actually a yakuza killing contracted in Japan to take place in America. And he shows that the nasty husband is the innocent bystander: they were really gunning for the wife, knowing she was pregnant, because it’s her father they wanted to teach a lesson. So. Connor turns it all around. Pretty fucking amazing, huh?”

“And you think he did it all with his Japanese connections?”

“You tell me,” Graham said. “All I know is, pretty soon after that, he goes to Japan for a year.”

“Doing what?”

“I heard he worked as a security guy for a grateful Japanese company. They took care of him, is what it amounted to. He did a job for them, and they paid off. Anyway, that’s the way I figure it. Nobody really knows. But the man is not a detective. Christ: just look at him now.”

Out in the atrium, Connor was staring up at the high ceiling in a dreamy, reflective way. He looked first in one direction, and then another. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind. Suddenly, he walked briskly toward the elevators, as if he were leaving. Then without warning, he turned on his heel, and walked back to the center of the room, and stopped. Next, he began to inspect the leaves on the potted palm trees scattered around the room.

Graham shook his head. “What is this, gardening? I’m telling you, he’s a strange guy. You know he’s gone to Japan more than once. He always comes back. It never works out for him. Japan is like a woman that he can’t live with, and can’t live without, you know? Myself, I don’t fucking get it. I like America. At least, what’s left of it.”