I said, “You really think she knows who the girl is?”

“Damn right she does,” Graham said. “You know why the mayor likes her. She stands by his side and whispers everybody’s name to him. People she hasn’t seen for years. Husbands, wives, children, everyone. Farley knows who this girl is.”

“Then why didn’t she tell us?”

“Fuck,” Graham said. “Must be important to somebody. She took off like a shot, didn’t she? I tell you, we better figure out who this dead girl is. Because I fucking hate being the last one in town to know.”

Connor was across the room, waving to us.

“What does he want now?” Graham said. “Waving like that. What’s he got in his hand?”

“Looks like a purse,” I said.

“Cheryl Lynn Austin,” Connor said, reading. “Born Midland, Texas, graduate of Texas State. Twenty-three years old. Got an apartment in Westwood, but hasn’t been here long enough to change her Texas driver’s license.”

The contents of the purse were spread out on a desk. We pushed them around with pencils.

“Where’d you find this purse?” I asked. It was a small, dark, beaded clutch with a pearl clasp. A vintage forties purse. Expensive.

“It was in the potted palm near the conference room.” Connor unzipped a tiny compartment. A tight roll of crisp hundred-dollar bills tumbled onto the table. “Very nice. Miss Austin is well taken care of.”

I said, “No car keys?”

“No.”

“So she came with somebody.”

“And evidently intended to leave with somebody, too. Taxis can’t break a hundred-dollar bill.”

There was also a gold American Express Card. Lipstick and a compact. A pack of Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes, a Japanese brand. A card for the Daimatsu Night Club in Tokyo. Four small blue pills. That was about it.

Using his pencil, Connor upended the beaded purse. Small green flecks spilled out onto the table. “Know what that is?”

“No,” I said. Graham looked at it with a magnifying glass.

Connor said, “It’s wasabi–covered peanuts.”

Wasabi is green horseradish served in Japanese restaurants. I had never heard of wasabi–covered peanuts.

“I don’t know if they’re sold outside Japan.”

Graham grunted. “I’ve seen enough. So what do you think now, John? Is Ishiguro going to get those witnesses you asked for?”

“I wouldn’t expect them soon,” Connor said.

“Fucking right,” Graham said. “We won’t see those witnesses until day after tomorrow, after their lawyers have briefed them on exactly what to say.” He stepped away from the table. “You realize why they’re delaying us. A Japanese killed this girl. That’s what we’re dealing with.”

“It’s possible,” Connor said.

“Hey, buddy. More than possible. We’re here. This is their building. And that girl is just the type they go for. The American beauty long-stemmed rose. You know all those little guys want to fuck a volleyball player.”

Connor shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Come on,” Graham said. “You know those guys eat shit all day long at home. Crammed into subways, working in big companies. Can’t say what they think. Then they come over here, away from the constraints of home, and suddenly they’re rich and free. They can do whatever they want. And sometimes one of them goes a little crazy. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Connor looked at Graham for a long time. Finally he said, “So as you see it, Tom, a Japanese killer decided to dispatch this girl on the Nakamoto boardroom conference table?”

“Right.”

“As a symbolic act?”

Graham shrugged. “Christ, who knows? We’re not talking normality here. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m going to get the fucker who did this, if it’s the last goddamned thing I do.”

The elevator descended rapidly. Connor leaned against the glass. “There are many reasons to dislike the Japanese,” he said, “but Graham knows none of them.” He sighed. “You know what they say about us?”

“What?”

“They say Americans are too eager to make theories. They say we don’t spend enough time observing the world, and so we don’t know how things actually are.”

“Is that a Zen idea?”

“No,” he laughed. “Just an observation. Ask a computer salesman what he thinks of his American counterparts, and he’ll tell you that. Everyone in Japan who deals with Americans thinks it. And when you look at Graham, you realize they’re right. Graham has no real knowledge, no first-hand experience. He just has a collection of prejudices and media fantasies. He doesn’t know anything about the Japanese—and it never occurs to him to find out.”

I said, “Then you think he’s wrong? The girl wasn’t killed by a Japanese?”

“I didn’t say that, kōhai,” Connor replied. “It’s very possible Graham is right. But at the moment—“

The doors opened and we saw the party, heard the band playing “Moonlight Serenade.” Two party-going couples stepped into the elevator. They looked like real estate people: the men silver-haired and distinguished looking, the women pretty and slightly tacky. One woman said, “She’s smaller than I thought.”

“Yes, tiny. And that… was that her boyfriend?”

“I guess. Wasn’t he the one in the video with her?”

“I think that was him.”

One of the men said, “You think she had her boobs done?”

“Hasn’t everybody?”

The other woman giggled. “Except me, of course.”

“Right, Christine.”

“But I’m thinking about it. Did you see Emily?”

“Oh, she did hers so big.”

“Well, Jane started it, blame her. Now everyone wants them big.”

The men turned and looked out the window. “Hell of a building,” one said. “Detailing is fantastic. Must have cost a fortune. You doing much with the Japanese now, Ron?”

“About twenty percent,” the other man said. “That’s way down from last year. It’s made me work on my golf game, because they always want to play golf.”

“Twenty percent of your business?”

“Yeah. They’re buying up Orange County now.”

“Of course. They already own Los Angeles,” one of the women said, laughing.

“Well, just about. They have the Arco building over there,” the man said, pointing out the window. “I guess by now they have seventy, seventy-five percent of downtown Los Angeles.”

“And more in Hawaii.”

“Hell, they own Hawaii—ninety percent of Honolulu, a hundred percent of the Kona coast. Putting up golf courses like mad.”

One woman said, “Will this party be on ET tomorrow? They had enough cameras here.”

“Let’s remember to watch.”

The elevator said, “Mōsugu de gozaimasu.”

We came to the garage floor, and the people got off. Connor watched them go, and shook his head. “In no other country in the world,” he said, “would you hear people calmly discussing the fact that their cities and states were sold to foreigners.”

“Discussing?” I said. “They’re the ones doing the selling.”

“Yes. Americans are eager to sell. It amazes the Japanese. They think we’re committing economic suicide. And of course they’re right.” As he spoke, Connor pressed a button on the elevator panel marked EMERGENCY ONLY.

A soft pinging alarm sounded.

“What’d you do that for?”

Connor looked at a video camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling and waved cheerfully. A voice on the intercom said, “Good evening, officers. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Connor said. “Am I speaking to building security?”

“That’s right, sir. Is something wrong with your elevator?”

“Where are you located?”

“We’re on the lobby level, southeast corner, behind the elevators.”

“Thank you very much,” Connor said. He pushed the button for the lobby.