Connor looked at the cards. “How do you want to handle this situation, Lieutenant? Have you negotiated with the Japanese before?”

I said, “Not really, no. Couple of drunk driving arrests.”

Connor said politely, “Then perhaps I can suggest a strategy for us to follow.”

“That’s fine with me,” I said. “I’d be grateful for your help.”

“All right. Since you’re the liaison, it’s probably best if you take charge of the scene when we arrive.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t bother to introduce me, or refer to me in any way. Don’t even look in my direction.”

“Okay.”

“I am a nonentity. You alone are in charge.”

“Okay, fine.”

“It’ll help to be formal. Stand straight, and keep your suit jacket buttoned at all times. If they bow to you, don’t bow back—just give a little head nod. A foreigner will never master the etiquette of bowing. Don’t even try.”

“Okay,” I said.

“When you start to deal with the Japanese, remember that they don’t like to negotiate. They find it too confrontational. In their own society they avoid it whenever possible.”

“Okay.”

“Control your gestures. Keep your hands at your sides. The Japanese find big arm movements threatening. Speak slowly. Keep your voice calm and even.”

“Okay.”

“If you can.”

“Okay.”

“It may be difficult to do. The Japanese can be irritating. You’ll probably find them irritating tonight. Handle it as best you can. But whatever happens, don’t lose your temper.”

“All right.”

“That’s extremely bad form.”

“All right,” I said.

Connor smiled. “I’m sure you’ll do well,” he said. “You probably won’t need my help at all. But if you get stuck, you’ll hear me say ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance.’ That will be the signal that I’m taking over. From that point on, let me do the talking, I’d prefer you not speak again, even if you are spoken to directly by them. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You may want to speak, but don’t be drawn out.”

“I understand.”

“Furthermore, whatever I do, show no surprise. Whatever I do.”

“Okay.”

“Once I take over, move so that you’re standing slightly behind me and to my right. Never sit. Never look around. Never appear distracted. Remember that although you come from an MTV video culture, they do not. They are Japanese. Everything you do will have meaning to them. Every aspect of your appearance and behavior will reflect on you, on the police department, and on me as your superior and sempai.”

“Okay, Captain.”

“Any questions?”

“What’s a sempai?”

Connor smiled.

We drove past the searchlights, down the ramp into the underground garage.

“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.

1

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?”