Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  "In Japan," he said, "a sempai is a senior man who guides a junior man, known as a kōhai. The sempai-kōhai relationship is quite common. It's often assumed to exist whenever a younger man and an older man are working together. They will probably assume it of us."

  I said, "Sort of a mentor and apprentice?"

  "Not exactly," Connor said. "In Japan, sempai-kōhai has a different quality. More like a fond parent: the sempai is expected to indulge his kōhai, and put up with all sorts of youthful excesses and errors from the junior man." He smiled. "But I'm sure you won't do that to me."

  We came to the bottom of the ramp, and saw the flat expanse of the parking garage ahead of us. Connor stared out the window and frowned. "Where is everybody?"

  The garage of the Nakamoto Tower was full of limousines, the drivers leaning against their cars, talking and smoking. But I saw no police cars. Ordinarily, when there's a homicide, the place is lit up like Christmas, with lights flashing from a half-dozen black and whites, the medical examiner, paramedics, and all the rest.

  But there was nothing tonight. It just looked like a garage where somebody was having a party: elegant people standing in clusters, waiting for their cars.

  "Interesting," I said.

  We came to a stop. The parking attendants opened the doors, and I stepped out onto plush carpet, and heard soft music. I walked with Connor toward the elevator. Well-dressed people were coming the other way: men in tuxedos, women in expensive gowns. And standing by the elevator, wearing a stained corduroy sport coat and furiously smoking a cigarette, was Tom Graham.

  ☼

  When Graham played halfback at U.S.C. he never made first string. That bit of history stuck like a character trait: all his life he seemed to miss the crucial promotion, the next step up a detective's career. He had transferred from one division to another, never finding a precinct that suited him, or a partner that worked well with him. Always too outspoken, Graham had made enemies in the chief's office, and at thirty-nine, further advancement was unlikely. Now he was bitter, gruff, and putting on weight — a big man who had become ponderous, and a pain in the ass: he just rubbed people the wrong way. His idea of personal integrity was to be a failure, and he was sarcastic about anybody who didn't share his views.

  "Nice suit," he said to me, as I walked up. "You look fucking beautiful, Peter." He flicked imaginary dust off my lapel.

  I ignored it. "How's it going, Tom?"

  "You guys should be attending this party, not working it." He turned to Connor and shook his hand. "Hello, John. Whose idea was it to get you out of bed?"

  "I'm just observing," Connor said mildly.

  I said, "Fred Hoffmann asked me to bring him down."

  "Hell," Graham said. "It's okay with me that you're here. I can use some help. It's pretty tense up there."

  We followed him toward the elevator. I still saw no other police officers. I said, "Where is everybody?"

  "Good question," Graham said. "They've managed to keep all of our people around back at the freight entrance. They claim the service elevator gives fastest access. And they keep talking about the importance of their grand opening, and how nothing must disrupt it."

  By the elevators, a uniformed Japanese private security guard looked us over carefully. "These two are with me," Graham said. The security man nodded, but squinted at us suspiciously.

  We got on the elevator.

  "Fucking Japanese," Graham said, as the doors closed. "This is still our country. We're still the fucking police in our own country."

  The elevator was glass walled and we looked out on downtown Los Angeles as it went up into the light mist. Directly across was the Arco building. All lit up at night.

  "You know these elevators are illegal," Graham said. "According to code, no glass elevators past ninety floors, and this building is ninety-seven floors, the highest building in L.A. But then this whole building is one big special case. And they got it up in six months. You know how? They brought in prefab units from Nagasaki, and slapped them together here. Didn't use American construction workers. Got a special permit to bypass our unions because of a so-called technical problem that only Japanese workers could handle. You believe that shit?"

  I shrugged. "They got it past the American unions."

  "Hell, they got it past the city council," Graham said. "But of course that's just money. And if there's one third we know, the Japanese have money. So they got variances on the zoning restrictions, the earthquake ordinances. They got everything they wanted."

  I shrugged. "Politics."

  "My ass. You know they don't even pay tax? That's right: they got an eight-year break on property taxes from the city. Shit: we're giving this country away."

  We rode for a moment in silence. Graham stared out the windows. The elevators were high-speed Hitachis, using the latest technology. The fastest and smoothest elevators in the world. We moved higher into the mist.

  I said to Graham, "You want to tell us about this homicide, or do you want it to be a surprise?"

  "Fuck," Graham said. He flipped open his notebook. "Here you go. The original call was at eight thirty-two. Somebody saying there is a 'problem of disposition of a body.' Male with a thick Asian accent, doesn't speak good English. The operator couldn't get much out of him, except an address. The Nakamoto Tower. Black and white goes over, arrives at eight thirty-nine p.m., finds it's a homicide. Forty-sixth floor, which is an office floor in this building. Victim is Caucasian female, approximately twenty-five years old. Hell of a good-looking girl. You'll see.

  "The blue suits stretch the tape and call the division. I go over with Merino, arriving at eight fifty-three. Crime scene IU and SID show up about the same time for PE, prints, and pics. Okay so far?"

  "Yes," Connor said, nodding.

  Graham said, "We're just getting started when some Jap from the Nakamoto Corporation comes up in a thousand-dollar blue suit and announces that he is entitled to a fucking conversation with the L.A.P.D. liaison officer before anything is done in their fucking building. And he's saying things like we got no probable cause.

  "I go, what the fuck is this. We got an obvious homicide here. I think this guy should get back. But this Jap speaks excellent fucking English and he seems to know a lot of law. And everybody at the scene becomes, you know, concerned. I mean, there's no point in pushing to start an investigation if it's going to invalidate due process, right? And this Jap fucker is insisting the liaison must be present before we do anything. Since he speaks such fucking good English I don't know what the problem is. I thought the whole idea of a liaison was for people who don't speak the language and this fucking guy has Stanford law school written all over him. But anyway." He sighed.

  "You called me," I said.

  "Yeah."

  I said, "Who is the man from Nakamoto?"

  "Shit." Graham scowled at his notes. "Ishihara. Ishiguri. Something like that."

  "You have his card? He must have given you his card."

  "Yeah, he did. I gave it to Merino."

  I said, "Any other Japanese there?"

  "What are you, kidding?" Graham laughed. "The place is swarming with them. Fucking Disneyland up there."

  "I mean the crime scene."

  "So do I," Graham said. "We can't keep 'em out. They say it's their building, they have a right to be there. Tonight is the grand opening of the Nakamoto Tower. They have a right to be there. On and on."

  I said, "Where is the opening taking place?"

  "One floor below the murder, on the forty-fifth floor. They're having one hell of a bash. Must be eight hundred people there. Movie stars, senators, congressmen, you name it. I hear Madonna is there, and Tom Cruise. Senator Hammond. Senator Kennedy. Elton John. Senator Morton. Mayor Thomas's there. District Attorney Wyland's there. Hey, maybe your ex-wife is there, too, Pete. She still works for Wyland, doesn't she?"

  "Last I heard."

  Graham sighed. "Must be great to fuck a lawyer, instead of getting fucked by them. Must ma
ke for a nice change."

  I didn't want to talk about my ex-wife. "We don't have a lot of contact any more," I said.

  A little bell rang, then the elevator said, "Yonjūsan kai."

  Graham glanced at the glowing numbers above the door. "Can you believe that shit?"

  "Yonjūyon kai," the elevator said. "Mōsugu de gozaimasu."

  "What'd it say?"

  " 'We're almost at the floor.' "

  "Fuck," Graham said. "If an elevator's going to talk, it should be English. This is still America."

  "Just barely," Connor said, staring out at the view.

  "Youjūgo kai," the elevator said.

  The door opened.

  Graham was right: it was a hell of a party. The whole floor had been made into a replica forties ballroom. Men in suits. Women in cocktail dresses. The band playing Glenn Miller swing music. Standing near the elevator door was a gray-haired, suntanned man who looked vaguely familiar. He had the broad shoulders of an athlete. He stepped onto the elevator and turned to me. "Ground floor, please." I smelled whiskey.

  A second, younger man in a suit instantly appeared by his side. "This elevator is going up, Senator."

  "What's that?" the gray-haired man said, turning to his aide.

  "This elevator's going up, sir."

  "Well. I want to go down." He was speaking with the careful, over-articulated speech of the drunk.

  "Yes, sir. I know that, sir," the aide replied cheerfully. "Let's take the next elevator, Senator." He gripped the gray-haired man firmly by the elbow and led him off the elevator.

  The doors closed. The elevator continued up.

  "Your tax dollars at work," Graham said. "Recognize him? Senator Stephen Rowe. Nice to find him partying here, considering he's on the Senate Finance Committee, which sets all Japanese import regulations. But like his pal Senator Kennedy, Rowe is one of the great pussy patrollers."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "They say he can drink pretty good, too."

  "I noticed that."

  "That's why he's got that kid with him. To keep him out of trouble."

  The elevator stopped at the forty-sixth floor. There was a soft electronic ping. "Yonjūroku kai. Goriyō arigatō gozaimashita."

  "Finally," Graham said. "Now maybe we can get to work."

  ☼

  The doors opened. We faced a solid wall of blue business suits, backs turned to us. There must have been twenty men jammed in the area just beyond the elevator. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

  "Coming through, coming through," Graham said, pushing his way roughly past the men. I followed, Connor behind me, silent and inconspicuous.

  The forty-sixth floor had been designed to house the chief executive offices of Nakamoto Industries, and it was impressive. Standing in the carpeted reception area just beyond the elevators, I could see the entire floor — it was a gigantic open space. It was about sixty by forty meters, half the size of a football field. Everything added to the sense of spaciousness and elegance. The ceilings were high, paneled in wood. The furnishings were all wood and fabric, black and gray, and the carpet was thick. Sound was muted and lights were low, adding to the soft, rich quality. It looked more like a bank than a business office.

  The richest bank you ever saw.

  And it made you stop and look. I stood by the yellow crime-scene tape, which blocked access to the floor itself, and got my bearings. Directly ahead was the large atrium, a kind of open bullpen for secretaries and lower-level people. There were desks in clusters, and trees to break up the space. In the center of the atrium stood a large model of the Nakamoto Tower, and the complex of surrounding buildings still under construction. A spotlight shone on the model, but the rest of the atrium was relatively dark, with night lights.

  Private offices for the executives were arranged around the perimeter of the atrium. The offices had glass walls facing the atrium, and glass walls on the outside walls as well, so that from where I was standing you could look straight out to the surrounding skyscrapers of Los Angeles. It made you think the floor was floating in midair.

  There were two glass-walled conference rooms, on the left and right. The room on the right was smaller, and there I saw the body of the girl, lying on a long black table. She was wearing a black dress. One leg dangled down toward the floor. I didn't see any blood. But I was pretty far away from her, maybe sixty meters. It was hard to see much detail.

  I heard the crackle of police radios, and I heard Graham saying, "Here's your liaison, gentlemen. Now maybe we can get started on our investigation. Peter?"

  I turned to the Japanese men by the elevator. I didn't know which I should talk to; there was an awkward moment until one of them stepped forward. He was about thirty-five and wore an expensive suit. The man gave a very slight bow, from the neck, just a hint. I bowed back. Then he spoke.

  "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 ima
gine 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.