“What is it?”

“He is taking a last look. A look back at the room. See? The head is turning. There is his nose, and now, the nose is gone again, because he has turned completely. Now he is looking back at us.”

The silhouette was dense black.

“Lot of good it does us.”

“Watch.”

More controls.

“The detail is there,” she said. “It is like dark exposure on film. The detail has been recorded, but we cannot see it yet. So.… Now I have enhancement. And now I will get the shadow detail.… Now!”

And in a sudden, shocking moment, the dark silhouette blossomed, the wall behind flaring white, making a kind of halo around the head. The dark face became lighter, and we could see the face for the first time, distinctly and clearly.

“Huh, white man.” She sounded disappointed.

“My God,” I said.

“You know who he is?”

“Yes,” I said.

The features were twisted with tension, the lip turned up in a kind of snarl. But the identity was unmistakable.

I was looking at the face of Senator John Morton.

22

I sat back, staring at the frozen image. I heard the hum of the machinery. I heard water dripping into buckets, somewhere in the darkness of the laboratory. I heard Theresa breathing alongside me, panting like a runner who has finished a race.

I sat there and just stared at the screen. Everything fell into place, like a jigsaw puzzle that assembled itself before my eyes.

Julia Young: She has a boyfriend who travels a lot. She’s always traveling. New York, Washington, Seattle… she meets him. She’s madly in love with him.

Jenny, in the TV studio: Morton has a young girlfriend that’s driving him crazy. Makes him jealous. Some young girl.

Eddie: She likes to cause trouble, this girl. She likes to make turmoil.

Jenny: I’ve seen this girl hanging around at parties with some of the Washington types for about six months now.

Eddie: She was a sick girl. She liked pain.

Jenny: Morton heads the Senate Finance Committee. The one that’s been having hearings about this MicroCon sale.

Cole, the security guard, in the bar: They have the big guys in their pocket. They own ‘em. We can’t beat ‘em now.

And Connor: Somebody wants this investigation to be over. They want us to give it up.

And Morton: So your investigation is formally concluded?

“Hell,” I said.

She said, “Who is he?”

“He’s a senator.”

“Oh.” She looked at the screen. “And why do they care about him?”

“He has a powerful position in Washington. And I think he has something to do with the sale of a company. Maybe other reasons, too.”

She nodded.

I said, “Can we print a picture of this?”

“No. We don’t have equipment for hard copies. The lab can’t afford it.”

“Then what can we do? I need something to take with me.”

“I can take a Polaroid for you,” she said. “Not great, but okay for now.” She started poking around the lab, stumbling in the dark. Finally she came back with a camera. She moved close to the screen and shot several copies.

We waited for them to come out, standing in the blue light from the monitors.

“Thanks,” I said. “For all your help.”

“You are welcome. And I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I know you expected it would be a Japanese man.”

I realized she was speaking for herself. I didn’t answer her. The pictures darkened. They were good quality, the image clear. As I slipped them in my pocket, I felt something hard there. I brought it out.

“You have a Japanese passport?” she said.

“No. It’s not mine. It’s Eddie’s.” I put it back in my pocket. “I have to go,” I said. “I have to find Captain Connor.”

“All right.” She turned back to the monitors.

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“I will stay, and work more.”

I left her, went out the back door, and made my way down the dark passageway to the outside.

Blinking in the harsh daylight, I went to a pay phone and called Connor. He was in the car.

“Where are you?” I said.

“Back at the hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“The Four Seasons,” Connor said. “It’s Senator Morton’s hotel.”

“What are you doing there?” I said. “Do you know that—”

“Kōhai,” he said. “Open line, remember? Call yourself a taxi and meet me at 1430 Westwood Boulevard. We will meet there in twenty minutes.”

“But how—“

“No more questions.” And he hung up.

I looked at the building at 1430 Westwood Boulevard. It had a plain brown facade, just a door with a painted number. On one side was a French bookstore. On the other side was a watch repair place.

I went up and knocked on the door. I noticed a small sign in Japanese characters beneath the numbers.

Nothing happened, so I opened the door. I found myself in an elegant, tiny sushi bar. It had only four seats for customers. Connor was alone there, sitting at the far end. He waved to me. “Say hello to Imae. The best sushi chef in Los Angeles. Imae-san, Sumisu-san.”

The chef nodded and smiled. He put something on the shelf before my seat. “Kore o dōzo, Sumisu-san.”

I sat down. “Dōmo, Imae-san.”

“Hai.”

I looked at the sushi. It was some kind of pink fish eggs, with a raw yellow egg yolk sitting on top. I thought it looked revolting.

I turned to Connor.

He said “Kore o tabetakoto arukai?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. You lost me.”

“You’ll have to work on your Japanese, for your new girlfriend.”

“What new girlfriend?”

Connor said, “I thought you would thank me. I gave you all that time with her.”

“You mean Theresa?”

He smiled. “You can do much worse, kōhai. And I gather you have, in the past. Anyway, I asked you if you knew what that was.” He pointed to the sushi.

“No, I don’t.”

“Quail egg and salmon roe,” he said. “Good protein. Energy. You need it.”

I said, “Do I have to?”

Imae said, “Make you strong for girlfriend.” And he laughed. He said something quickly in Japanese to Connor.

Connor replied, and the two had a good laugh.

“What’s funny?” I said. But I wanted to change the subject, so I ate the first of the sushi. If you got past the slimy texture, it was actually very good.

Imae said, “Good?”

“Very good,” I said. I ate the second one, and turned to Connor. “You know what we found on those tapes? It’s unbelievable.”

Connor held up his hand. “Please. You must learn the Japanese way to have relaxation. Everything in its place. Oaisō onegai shimasu.”

“Hai, Connor-san.”

The sushi chef produced the bill, and Connor peeled off money. He bowed and there was a rapid exchange in Japanese.

“We’re leaving now?”

“Yes,” Connor said. “I’ve already eaten, and you, my friend, can’t afford to be late.”

“For what?”

“For your ex-wife, remember? We’d better go to your apartment now, and meet her.”

I was driving again. Connor was staring out the window. “How did you know it was Morton?”

“I didn’t,” Connor said. “At least, not until this morning. But it was clear to me last night that the tape had been altered.”

I thought of all the effort that Theresa and I had gone to, all the zooming and inspection and image manipulation. “You’re telling me you just looked at the tape, and you could tell?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“There was one glaring error. Remember when you met Eddie at the party? He had a scar on his hand.”

“Yes. It looked like an old burn scar.”

“Which hand was it on?”

“Which hand?” I frowned. I thought back to the meeting. Eddie in the cactus garden at night, smoking cigarettes, flicking them away. Eddie turning, moving nervously. Holding the cigarettes. The scar had been on… “His left hand,” I said.