Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  "Of course not."

  "So you change according to context, too," Connor said. "The fact is we all do. It's just that Americans believe there is some core of individuality that doesn't change from one moment to the next. And the Japanese believe context rules everything."

  "It sounds to me," I said, "like an excuse for lying."

  "He doesn't see it as lying."

  "But that's what it is."

  Connor shrugged. "Only from your point of view, kōhai. Not from his."

  "The hell."

  "Look, it's your choice. You can understand the Japanese and deal with them as they are, or you can get pissed off. But our problem in this country is that we don't deal with the Japanese the way they really are." The car hit a deep pothole, bouncing so hard that the car phone fell off the receiver. Connor picked it up off the floor, and put it back on the hook.

  Up ahead, I saw the exit for Bundy. I moved into the right lane. "One thing I'm not clear about," I said. "Why do you think the man with the briefcase in the security room might be the killer?"

  "It's because of the time sequence. You see, the murder was reported at eight thirty-two. Less than fifteen minutes later, at eight forty-five, a Japanese man was down there switching the tapes, arranging a cover-up. That's a very fast response. Much too fast for a Japanese company."

  "Why is that?"

  "Japanese organizations are actually very slow to respond in a crisis. Their decision-making relies on precedents, and when a situation is unprecedented, people are uncertain how to behave. You remember the faxes? I am sure faxes have been flying back and forth to Nakamoto's Tokyo headquarters all night. Undoubtedly the company is still trying to decide what to do. A Japanese organization simply cannot move fast in a new situation."

  "But an individual acting alone can?"

  "Yes. Exactly."

  I said, "And that's why you think the man with the briefcase may be the killer."

  Connor nodded. "Yes. Either the killer, or someone closely connected with the killer. But we should learn more at Miss Austin's apartment. I believe I see it up ahead, on the right."

  ☼

  The Imperial Arms was an apartment building on a tree-lined street a kilometer from Westwood Village. Its fake Tudor beams needed a paint job, and the whole building had a run-down appearance. But that was not unusual in this middle-class section of apartments inhabited by graduate students and young families. In fact, the chief characteristic of the Imperial Arms seemed to be its anonymity: you could drive by the building every day and never notice it.

  "Perfect," Connor said, as we walked up the steps to the entrance. "It's just what they like."

  "What who likes?"

  We came into the lobby, which had been renovated in the most bland California style: pastel wallpaper with a flower print, overstuffed couches, cheap ceramic lamps, and a chrome coffee table. The only thing to distinguish it from a hundred other apartment lobbies was the security desk in the corner, where a heavyset Japanese doorman looked up from his comic book with a distinctly unfriendly manner. "Help you?"

  Connor showed his badge. He asked where Cheryl Austin's apartment was.

  "I announce you," the doorman said, reaching for the phone.

  "Don't bother."

  "No. I announce. Maybe she have company now."

  "I'm sure she doesn't," Connor said. "Kore wa keisatsu no shigoto da." He was saying we were on official police business.

  The doorman gave a tense bow. "Kyugo shitu." He handed Connor a key.

  We went through a second glass door, and down a carpeted corridor. There were small lacquer tables at each end of the corridor, and in its simplicity, the interior was surprisingly elegant.

  "Typically Japanese," Connor said, with a smile.

  I thought: a run-down, fake Tudor apartment building in Westwood? Typically Japanese? From a room to the left, I heard faint rap music: the latest Hammer hit.

  "It's because the outside gives no clue to the inside," Connor explained. "That's a fundamental principle of Japanese thinking. The public facade is unrevealing — in architecture, the human face, everything. It's always been that way. You look at old samurai houses in Takayama or Kyoto. You can't tell anything from the outside."

  "This is a Japanese building?"

  "Of course. Why else would a Japanese national who hardly speaks English be the doorman? And he is a yakuza. You probably noticed the tattoo."

  I hadn't. The yakuza were Japanese gangsters. I didn't know there were yakuza here in America, and said so.

  "You must understand," Connor said, "there is a shadow world — here in Los Angeles, in Honolulu, in New York. Most of the time you're never aware of it. We live in our regular American world, walking on our American streets, and we never notice that right alongside our world is a second world. Very discreet, very private. Perhaps in New York you will see Japanese businessmen walking through an unmarked door, and catch a glimpse of a club behind. Perhaps you will hear of a small sushi bar in Los Angeles that charges twelve hundred dollars a person, Tokyo prices. But they are not listed in the guidebooks. They are not a part of our American world. They are part of the shadow world, available only to the Japanese."

  "And this place?"

  "This is a bettaku. A love residence where mistresses are kept. And here is Miss Austin's apartment."

  Connor unlocked the door with the key the doorman had given him. We went inside.

  It was a two-bedroom unit, furnished with expensive oversized rental pieces in pastel pink and green. The oil paintings on the walls had been rented, too; a label on the side of one frame said Breuner's Rents. The kitchen counter was bare, except for a bowl of fruit. The refrigerator contained only yogurt and cans of Diet Coke. The couches in the living room didn't look as if anybody had ever sat on them. On the coffee table was a picture book of Hollywood star portraits and a vase of dried flowers. Empty ashtrays scattered around.

  One of the bedrooms had been converted to a den, with a couch and a television, and an exercise bike in the corner. Everything was brand-new. The television still had a sticker that said DIGITAL TUNING FEATURE diagonally across one corner. The handlebars of the exercise bike were covered in plastic wrap.

  In the master bedroom, I finally found some human clutter. One mirrored closet door stood open, and three expensive party dresses were thrown across the bed. Evidently she had been trying to decide what to wear. On the dresser top were bottles of perfume, a diamond necklace, a gold Rolex, framed photographs, and an ashtray with stubbed-out Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes. The top dresser drawer, containing panties and undergarments, was partially open. I saw her passport stuck in the corner, and thumbed through it. There was one visa for Saudi Arabia, one for Indonesia, and three entry stamps for Japan.

  The stereo in the corner was still turned on, an ejected tape in the player. I pushed it in and Jerry Lee Lewis sang, "You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, too much love drives a man insane. . . ." Texas music, too old for a young girl like this. But maybe she liked golden oldies.

  I turned back to the dresser. Several framed color enlargements showed Cheryl Austin smiling in front of Asian backgrounds — the red gates of a shrine, a formal garden, a street with gray skyscrapers, a train station. The pictures seemed to be taken in Japan. In most of the pictures Cheryl was alone, but in a few she was accompanied by an older Japanese man with glasses and a receding hairline. A final shot showed her in what looked like the American West. Cheryl was standing near a dusty pickup truck, smiling beside a frail, grandmotherly woman in sunglasses. The older woman wasn't smiling and looked uncomfortable.

  Tucked in beside the dresser were several large paper rolls, standing on end. I opened one. It was a poster showing Cheryl in a bikini, smiling and holding up a bottle of Asahi beer. All the writing on the poster was in Japanese.

  I went into the bathroom.

  I saw a pair of jeans kicked in the corner. A white sweater tossed on the countertop. A wet towel on a hook by the
shower stall. Beads of water inside the stall. Electric haircurlers unplugged by the counter. Stuck in the mirror frame, photos of Cheryl standing with another Japanese man on the Malibu pier. This man was in his midthirties, and handsome. In one photograph, he had draped his arm familiarly over her shoulder. I could clearly see the scar on his hand.

  "Bingo," I said.

  Connor came into the room. "Find something?"

  "Our man with the scar."

  "Good." Connor studied the picture carefully. I looked back at the clutter of the bathroom. The stuff around the sink. "You know," I said, "something bothers me about this place."

  "What's that?"

  "I know she hasn't lived here long. And I know everything is rented . . . but still . . . I can't get over the feeling that this place has a contrived look. I can't quite put my finger on why."

  Connor smiled. "Very good, Lieutenant. It does have a contrived look. And there's a reason for it."

  He handed me a Polaroid photo. It showed the bathroom we were standing in. The jeans kicked in the corner. The towel hanging. The curlers on the counter. But it was taken with one of those ultra-wide-angle cameras that distort everything. The SID teams sometimes used them for evidence.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "From the trash bin in the hall, by the elevators."

  "So it must have been taken earlier tonight."

  "Yes. Notice anything different about the room?"

  I examined the Polaroid carefully. "No, it looks the same . . . wait a minute. Those pictures stuck in her mirror. They aren't in the Polaroid. Those pictures have been added."

  "Exactly." Connor walked back into the bedroom. He picked up one of the framed pictures on the dresser. "Now look at this one," he said. "Miss Austin and a Japanese friend in Shinjuku Station in Tokyo. She was probably drawn to the Kabukichō section — or perhaps she was just shopping. Notice the right-hand edge of the picture. See the narrow strip that's lighter in color?"

  "Yes." And I understood what that strip meant: there had been another picture on top of this one. The edge of this picture had stuck out, and was sun-faded. "The overlying picture has been removed."

  "Yes," Connor said.

  "The apartment has been searched."

  "Yes," Connor said. "A very thorough job. They came in earlier tonight, took Polaroids, searched the rooms, and then put things back the way they were. But it's impossible to do that exactly. The Japanese say artlessness is the most difficult art. And these men can't help themselves, they're obsessive. So they leave the picture frames a little too squared-off on the counter, and the perfume bottles a little too carefully cluttered. Everything is a little forced. Your eye can see it even if your brain doesn't register it."

  I said, "But why search the room? What pictures did they remove? Her with the killer?"

  "That's not clear," Connor said. "Evidently her association with Japan, and with Japanese men, was not objectionable. But there was something they had to get right away, and it can only be—"

  Then, from the living room, a tentative voice said, "Lynn? Honey? You here?"

  ☼

  She was silhouetted in the doorway, looking in. Barefooted, wearing shorts and a tank top. I couldn't see her face well, but she was obviously what my old partner Anderson would call a snake charmer.

  Connor showed his badge. She said her name was Julia Young. She had a Southern accent, and a slight slur to her speech. Connor turned on the light and we could see her better. She was a beautiful girl. She came into the room hesitantly.

  "I heard the music — is she here? Is Cherylynn okay? I know she went to that party tonight."

  "I haven't heard anything," Connor said, with a quick glance at me. "Do you know Cherylynn?"

  "Well, sure. I live right across the hall, in number eight. Why is everybody in her room?"

  "Everybody?"

  "Well, you two. And the two Japanese guys."

  "When were they here?"

  "I don't know. Maybe half an hour ago. Is it something about Cherylynn?"

  I said, "Did you get a look at the men, Miss Young?" I was thinking she might have been looking out of the peephole of her door.

  "Well, I guess. I said hello to them."

  "How's that?"

  "I know one of them pretty well. Eddie."

  "Eddie?"

  "Eddie Sakamura. We all know Eddie. Fast Eddie."

  I said, "Can you describe him?"

  She gave me a funny look. "He's the guy in the pictures — the young guy with the scar on his hand. I thought everybody knew Eddie Sakamura. He's in the newspaper all the time. Charities and stuff. He's a big party guy."

  I said, "Do you have any idea how I could find him?"

  Connor said, "Eddie Sakamura is part owner of a Polynesian restaurant in Beverly Hills called Bora Bora. He hangs out there."

  "That's him," Julia said. "That place is like his office. I can't stand it myself, it's too noisy. But Eddie's just running around, chasing those big blondes. He loves to look up to a girl."

  She leaned against a table, and pushed her full brown hair back from her face seductively. She looked at me and gave a little pout. "You two guys partners?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "He showed me his badge. But you didn't show me yours."

  I took out my wallet. She looked at it. "Peter," she said, reading. "My very first boyfriend was named Peter. But he wasn't as handsome as you." She smiled at me.

  Connor cleared his throat and said, "Have you been in Cherylynn's apartment before?"

  "Well, I guess. I live right across the way. But she hasn't been in town much lately. Seems like she's always traveling."

  "Traveling where?"

  "All over. New York, Washington, Seattle, Chicago . . . all over. She has this boyfriend who travels a lot. She meets him. Actually I think she just meets him when his wife isn't around."

  "This boyfriend is married?"

  "Well, there's something in the way. You know. Obstructing."

  "Do you know who he is?"

  "No. She once said he'd never come to her apartment. He's some big important guy. Real rich. They send the jet for her, and off she goes. Whoever he is, he drives Eddie crazy. But Eddie is the jealous type, you know. Got to be iro otoko to all the girls. The sexy lover."

  Connor said, "Is Cheryl's relationship a secret? With this boyfriend?"

  "I don't know. I never thought it was. It's just real intense. She's madly in love with the guy."

  "She's madly in love?"

  "You can't imagine. I've seen her drop everything to run and meet him. One night she comes over, gives me two tickets to the Springsteen concert, but she's all excited because she's going to Detroit. She's got her little carry-on in her hand. She's got her little nice-girl dress on. Because he just called ten minutes ago and said, 'Meet me.' Her face all bright, she looks about five years old. I don't know why she can't figure it out."

  "Figure what out?"

  "This guy is just using her."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Cherylynn is beautiful, and real sophisticated-looking. She's worked all over the world as a model, mostly in Asia. But deep down she's a small-town girl. I mean, Midland is an oil town, there's lots of money, but it's still a small town. And Cherylynn wants the ring on the finger and the kids and the dog in the yard. And this guy isn't going to do it. She hasn't figured it out."

  I said, "But you don't know who this man is?"

  "No, I don't." A sly look crossed her face. She shifted her body, dropping one shoulder so her breasts thrust forward. "But you're not really here because of some old boyfriend, are you?"

  Connor nodded. "Not really, no."

  Julia smiled in a knowing way. "It's Eddie, isn't it?"

  "Umm," Connor said.

  "I knew it," she said. "I knew he'd get in trouble sooner or later. We all talked about it, all the girls here in the Arms." She made a vague gesture. "Because he's just going too fast. Fast Eddie. You wouldn't think he was
Japanese. He's so flashy."

  Connor said, "He's from Osaka?"

  "His father's a big industrialist there, with Daimatsu. He's a nice old guy. When he comes over to visit, sometimes he sees one of the girls on the second floor. And Eddie. Eddie was supposed to get educated here for a few years, then go home to work for the kaisha, the company. But he won't go home. He loves it here. Why not? He's got everything. He buys a new Ferrari every time he bangs up the old one. He's got more money than God. He's lived here long enough, he's just like an American. Handsome. Sexy. And with all the drugs. You know, real party animal. What's in Osaka for him?"

  I said, "But you said you always knew . . ."

  "That he'd get in trouble? Sure. Because of that crazy side. That edge." She shrugged. "A lot of them have it. These guys come over from Tokyo, and even if they have a shōkai, an introduction, you still have to be careful. They think nothing of dropping ten or twenty thousand in a night. It's like a tip for them. Leave it on the dresser. But then, what they want to do — at least, some of them . . ."

  She drifted into silence. Her eyes had a vacant, unfocused look. I didn't say anything, I just waited. Connor was looking at her, nodding sympathetically.

  Abruptly, she began to speak again, as if unaware of the pause. "And to them," she said, "their wishes, their desires, it's just as natural as leaving the tip. It's completely natural to them. I mean, I don't mind a little golden shower or whatever, handcuffs, you know. Maybe a little spanking if I like the guy. But I won't let anybody cut me. I don't care how much money. None of those things with knives or swords . . . But they can be . . . A lot of them, they are so polite, so correct, but then they get turned on, they have this . . . this way . . ." She broke off, shaking her head. "They're strange people."

  Connor glanced at his watch. "Miss Young, you've been very helpful. We may need to speak to you again. Lieutenant Smith will take your phone number— "

  "Yes, of course."

  I flipped open my pad.

  Connor said, "I'm going to have a word with the doorman."

  "Shinichi," she said.