“In theory, any video can be changed.”

On the monitor, I watched the murder occurring a second time. This camera was from the far end of the room. It didn’t show the actual murder very well, but afterward, Sakamura was clearly visible as he walked toward the camera.

I said, “The image could be changed how?”

Sanders laughed. “These days, you can make any damn change you want.”

“Could you change the identity of the murderer?”

“Technically, yes,” Sanders said. “Mapping a face onto a complex moving object is now possible. Technically possible. But as a practical matter, it’d be a bitch to do.”

I said nothing. But it was just as well. Sakamura was our leading suspect and he was dead; the chief wanted the case finished. So did I.

“Of course,” Sanders said, “the Japanese have all sorts of fancy video algorithms for surface mapping and three-dimensional transformations. They can do things that we can’t begin to imagine.” He drummed his fingers on the table again. “What is the timetable of these tapes? What’s their history?”

I said, “The murder happened at eight-thirty last night, as shown on the clock. We were told the tapes were removed from the security office around eight forty-five p.m. We asked for them, and there was some back-and-forth with the Japanese.”

“As always. And when did you finally take possession?”

“They were delivered to division headquarters around one-thirty a.m.”

“Okay,” Sanders said. “That means they had the tapes from eight forty-five to one-thirty.”

“Right. A little less than five hours.”

Sanders frowned. “Five tapes, with five different camera angles, to change in five hours?” Sanders shook his head. “No way. It just can’t be done, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah,” Theresa said. “It’s impossible. Even for them. It’s just too many pixels to change.”

I said, “You’re sure about that.”

“Well,” Theresa said, “the only way it could be done that fast is with an automated program, and even the most sophisticated programs need you to polish the details by hand. Things like bad blur can give it all away.”

“Bad blur?” I said. I found I liked asking her questions. I liked looking at her face.

“Bad motion blur,” Sanders said. “Video runs at thirty frames a second. You can think of each frame of video as a picture that’s shot at a shutter speed of one-thirtieth of a second. Which is very slow—much slower than pocket cameras. If you film a runner at a thirtieth of a second, the legs are just streaks. Blurs.

“That’s called motion blur. And if you alter it by a mechanical process, it starts to look wrong. The image appears too sharp, too crisp. Edges look odd. It’s back to the Russians: you can see it’s been changed. For realistic motion, you need the right amount of blur.”

“I see.”

Theresa said, “And there’s the color shift.”

“Right,” Sanders said. “Inside the blur itself, there is a color shift. For example, look there on the monitor. The man is wearing a blue suit, and his coat is swinging out as he spins the girl around the room. Now. If you take a frame of that action, and blow it up to its pixels, you will find that the coat is navy, but the blur is progressive shades of lighter blue, until at the edge it seems almost transparent—you can’t tell from a single frame exactly where the coat ends and the background begins.”

I could vaguely imagine it. “Okay…”

“If the edge colors don’t blend smoothly, you will notice it immediately. It can take hours to clean up a few seconds of tape, as in a commercial. But if you don’t do it, you will see it like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“So even though they duplicated the tapes, they couldn’t have altered them?”

“Not in five hours,” Sanders said. “They just didn’t have time.”

“Then we are seeing what actually happened.”

“No doubt about it,” Sanders said. “But we’ll poke around with this image, anyway, after you go. Theresa wants to fiddle with it, I know she does. So do I. Check in with us later today. We’ll tell you if there’s anything funny. But basically, it can’t be done. And it wasn’t done here.”

7

As I pulled into the parking circle at the Sunset Hills Country Club, I saw Connor standing in front of the big stucco clubhouse. He bowed to the three Japanese golfers standing with him, and they bowed back. Then he shook hands with them all, tossed the clubs into the back seat, and got into my car.

“You’re late, kōhai.”

“Sorry. It’s only a few minutes. I was held up at U.S.C.”

“Your lateness inconvenienced everyone. As a matter of politeness, they felt obliged to keep me company in front of the club while I waited for you. Men of their position are not comfortable standing around. They are busy. But they felt obligated and could not leave me there. You embarrassed me very much. And you reflected poorly on the department.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Start to realize, kōhai. You’re not alone in the world.”

I put the car in gear, and drove out. I looked at the Japanese in the rearview mirror. They were waving as we left. They did not appear unhappy, or in a rush to leave. “Who were you playing with?”

“Aoki-san is the head of Tokio Marine in Vancouver. Hanada-san is a vice-president of Mitsui Bank in London. And Kenichi Asaka runs all of Toyota’s Southeast Asian plants from K.L. to Singapore. He’s based in Bangkok.”

“What are they doing here?”

“They’re on vacation,” Connor said. “A short holiday in the States for golf. They find it pleasant to relax in a slower-paced country like ours.”

I drove up the winding drive to Sunset Boulevard, and stopped to wait for the light. “Where to?”

“The Four Seasons Hotel.”

I turned right, heading toward Beverly Hills. “And why are these men playing golf with you?”

“Oh, we go way back,” he said. “A few favors here and there, over the years. I’m nobody important. But relationships must be maintained. A phone call, a small gift, a game when you’re in town. Because you never know when you will need your network. Relationships are your source of information, your safety valve, and your early warning system. In the Japanese way of seeing the world.”

“Who asked for this game?”

“Hanada-san was already intending to play. I just joined him. I’m quite a good golfer, you know.”

“Why did you want to play?”

“Because I wanted to know more about the Saturday meetings,” Connor said.

I remembered the Saturday meetings. On the video we had seen at the newsroom, Sakamura had grabbed Cheryl Austin and said: You don’t understand, this is all about the Saturday meetings.

“And did they tell you?”

Connor nodded. “Apparently they began a long time ago,” he said. “Nineteen eighty or so. First they were held in the Century Plaza, and later in the Sheraton, and finally in the Biltmore.”

Connor stared out the window. The car jounced over the potholes on Sunset Boulevard.

“For several years, the meetings were a regular event. Prominent Japanese industrialists who happened to be in town would attend an ongoing discussion of what should be done about America. Of how the American economy should be managed.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“Why?” Connor said.

“Why? Because this is our country. You can’t have a bunch of foreigners sitting around in secret meetings and deciding how to manage it!”

“The Japanese don’t see it that way,” Connor said.

“I’m sure they don’t! I’m sure they think they have a goddamn right!”

Connor shrugged. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what they think. And the Japanese believe they have earned the right to decide—“

“Christ—“

“Because they have invested heavily in our economy. They have lent us a lot of money, Peter; a lot of money. Hundreds of billions of dollars. For most of the last fifteen years, the United States has run a billion dollars of trade deficit a week with Japan. That’s a billion dollars every week that they must do something with. A torrent of money roaring toward them. They don’t especially want so many dollars. What can they do with all their excess billions?