“That’s right,” Connor said.

“But the scar appears on the tape, too,” I said. “You see it clearly when he walks past the mirror. His hand touches the wall for a moment—“

I stopped.

On the tape, his right hand had touched the wall.

“Jesus,” I said.

“Yes,” Connor said. “They made a mistake. Maybe they got confused about what was a reflection and what wasn’t. But I imagine they were working hastily, and they couldn’t remember which hand it was, and they just added the scar anyway. Mistakes like that happen.”

“So last night, you saw the scar on the wrong hand…”

“Yes. And I knew at once that the tape was changed,” Connor said. “I had to prepare you to analyze the tape in the morning. So I sent you to SID, to get names of places that would work on the tape. And then I went home to bed.”

“But you allowed us to arrest Eddie. Why? You must have known that Eddie wasn’t the killer.”

“Sometimes, you have to let things play out,” Connor said. “It was clear we were meant to think that Eddie killed the girl. So: play it out.”

“But an innocent man died,” I said.

“I wouldn’t call Eddie innocent,” Connor said. “Eddie was in this up to his neck.”

“And Senator Morton? How did you know it was Morton?”

“I didn’t, until he called us in for that little meeting today. Then he gave himself away.”

“How?”

“He was smooth. You have to think about what he actually said,” Connor said. “Wedged in between all the bullshit, he asked us three times if our investigation was finished. And he asked us if the murder had anything to do with MicroCon. When you think about it, that’s a very peculiar question.”

“Why? He has contacts. Mr. Hanada. Other people. He told us that.”

“No,” Connor said, shaking his head. “If you take away all the bullshit, what Senator Morton told us was his train of thought: Is the investigation over? And can you connect it to MicroCon? Because I am now going to change my position on the MicroCon sale.”

“Okay…”

“But he never explained a crucial point. Why was he changing his position on the MicroCon sale?”

“He told us why,” I said. “He had no support, nobody cares.”

Connor handed me a Xerox. I glanced at it. It was a page from a newspaper. I gave it back. “I’m driving. Tell me.”

“This is an interview Senator Morton gave in The Washington Post. He repeats his stand on MicroCon. It’s against the interest of national defense and American competitiveness to sell the company. Blah blah. Eroding our technology base and selling off our future to the Japanese. Blah blah. That was his position on Thursday morning. On Thursday night he attends a party in California. By Friday morning, he has a different view of MicroCon. The sale is fine with him. Now you tell me why.”

“Jesus,” I said. “What are we going to do?”

Because there is a thing about being a policeman. Most of the time, you feel pretty good. But at certain points, it comes back to you that you are just a cop. The truth is, you’re pretty far down the ladder. And you are reluctant to take on certain kinds of people, certain kinds of power. It gets messy. It gets out of control. You can have your ass handed to you.

“What do we do?” I said again.

“One thing at a time,” Connor said. “Is this your apartment building up here?”

The TV minivans were lined up along the street. There were several sedans with PRESS signs behind the windshield. A knot of reporters stood outside the front door to my apartment, and along the street. Among the reporters I saw Weasel Wilhelm, leaning against his car. I didn’t see my ex-wife.

“Keep driving, kōhai,” Connor said. “Go to the end of the block and turn right.”

“Why?”

“I took the liberty of calling the D.A.’s office a while ago. I arranged for you to meet your wife in the park down here.”

“You did?”

“I thought it would be better for everybody.”

I drove around the corner. Hampton Park was adjacent to the elementary school. At this hour of the afternoon, kids were outside, playing baseball. I drove slowly along the street, looking for a parking place. I passed a sedan with two people inside. There was a man in the passenger seat, smoking a cigarette. There was a woman behind the wheel, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. It was Lauren.

I parked the car.

“I’ll wait here,” Connor said. “Good luck.”

23

She always favored pale colors. She was wearing a beige suit and a cream silk blouse. Her blond hair was pulled back. No jewelry. Sexy and businesslike at the same time, her particular talent.

We walked along the sidewalk on the edge of the park, looking at the kids playing ball. Neither of us said anything. The man who had come with her waited in the car. A block away, we could see the press clustered outside my apartment.

Lauren looked at them and said, “Jesus Christ, Peter. I can’t believe you, I really can’t. This is very badly handled. This is very insensitive to my position.”

I said, “Who told them?”

“Not me.”

“Someone did. Someone told them you were coming at four o’clock.”

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

“You just happened to show up with full makeup on?”

“I was in court this morning.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Fuck you, Peter.”

“I said, fine.”

“Such a fucking detective.”

She turned, and we walked back the way we had come. Moving away from the press.

She sighed. “Look,” she said. “Let’s try and be civil about this.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know how you managed to get yourself into this mess, Peter. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to give up custody. I can’t permit my daughter to be raised in a suspect environment. I can’t allow that. I have my position to think of. My reputation in the office.”

Lauren was always preoccupied with appearances. “Why is the environment suspect?”

“Why? Child abuse is an extremely serious allegation, Peter.”

“There’s no child abuse.”

“The allegations from your past must be dealt with.”

“You know all about those allegations,” I said. “You were married to me. You know everything about it.”

She said stubbornly, “Michelle has to be tested.”

“Fine. The exam will be negative.”

“At this point, I don’t really care what the exam shows. It’s gone beyond that, Peter. I’m going to have to get custody. For my peace of mind.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to raise a child. It’ll take too much time away from your career.”

“I have no choice, Peter. You have left me no choice.” Now she sounded long suffering. Martyrdom was always one of her strong suits.

I said, “Lauren, you know the past accusations are false. You’re just running with this thing because Wilhelm called you.”

“He didn’t call me. He called the assistant D.A. He called my boss.”

“Lauren.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. But you brought it on yourself.”

“Lauren.”

“I mean it.”

“Lauren, this is very dangerous.”

She laughed harshly. “Tell me. You think I don’t know how dangerous this is, Peter? This could be my ass.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’m talking about, you son of a bitch?” she said, furiously. “I’m talking about Las Vegas.”

I was silent. I didn’t follow her line of thought at all.

“Look,” she said. “How many times have you been to Las Vegas?”

“Just once.”

“And the one time you went, you won big?”

“Lauren, you know all about that—“

“Yes, I do. Clearly I do. And what is the timing of your big winning trip to Las Vegas, and the accusations against you of child abuse? A week apart? Two weeks apart?”

So that was it. She was worried that somebody could put those two things together, that it could be traced back, somehow. And that it would implicate her.