Rising Sun
Page 29

Finally, Yoshida said, "Captain, I wish no misunderstanding. Akai Ceramics is an honorable company. We have no part in any... complications that have occurred. Our position is difficult. But I will assist you in whatever way I can."
Connor said, "I am grateful."
"Not at all."
Then Yoshida stood up. Connor stood up. I stood up. We all bowed, and then we all shook hands.
"Please do not hesitate to contact me again, if I can be of assistance."
"Thank you," Connor said.
Yoshida led us to the door to his office. We bowed again, and he opened the door.
Outside was a fresh-faced American man in his forties. I recognized him at once. He was the blond man who had been in the car with Senator Rowe the night before. The man who hadn't introduced himself.
"Ah, Richmond-san," Yoshida said. "Very good luck you are here. These gentlemen are just asking about MicroCon baish." He turned to us. "Perhaps you will like to talk to Mr. Richmond. His English is much better than mine. He can give you many more details you may wish to know."
"Bob Richmond. Myers, Lawson, and Richmond." His handshake was firm. He was suntanned, and looked as though he played a lot of tennis. He smiled cheerfully. "Small world, isn't it?"
Connor and I introduced ourselves. I said, "Did Senator Rowe get back all right?"
"Oh yes," Richmond said. "Thanks for your help." He smiled. "I hate to think how he's feeling this morning. But I guess it's not the first time." He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, like a tennis player waiting for a serve. He looked slightly concerned. "I must say, you two are the last people I ever expected to see here. Is there anything I should know about? I represent Akai in the MicroCon negotiations."
"No," Connor said mildly. "We're just getting general background."
"Is this to do with what happened at Nakamoto last night?"
Connor said, "Not really. Just background."
"If you like, we can talk in the conference room."
"Unfortunately," Connor said, "we're late for an appointment. But perhaps we can talk later."
"You bet," Richmond said. "Happy to. I'll be back in my office in about an hour." He gave us his card.
"That's fine," Connor said.
But Richmond still seemed worried. He walked with us to the elevator. "Mr. Yoshida is from the old school," he said. "I'm sure he was polite. But I can tell you he is furious about what happened with this MicroCon thing. He's taking a lot of heat from Akai Tokyo. And it's very unfair. He really was sandbagged by Washington. He got assurances there would be no objection to the sale, and then Morton pulled the rug out from under him."
Connor said, "Is that what happened?"
"No question about it," Richmond said. "I don't know what Johnny Morton's problem is, but he came right out of left field on this. We made all the proper filings. CFIUS registered no objection until long after the negotiations were concluded. You can't do business like this. I just hope John sees the light, and lets this thing go through. Because at the moment it looks pretty racist."
"Racist? Really?"
"Sure. It's exactly like the Fairchild case. Remember that one? Fujitsu tries to buy Fairchild Semiconductor in eighty-six, but Congress blocks the sale, saying it's against national security. Congress doesn't want Fairchild sold to a foreign company. Couple of years later Fairchild is going to be sold to a French company, and this time there's not a peep from Congress. Apparently, it's okay to sell to a foreign company - just not a Japanese company. I'd say that's racist policy, pure and simple." We came to the elevator. "Anyway, call me. I'll make myself available."
"Thank you," Connor said.
We got on the elevator. The doors closed.
"Asshole," Connor said.
Chapter 12
I was driving north toward the Wilshire exit, to meet Senator Morton. I said, "Why is he an asshole?"
"Bob Richmond was the assistant trade negotiator for Japan under Amanda Marden until last year. He was privy to all the strategy meetings of the American government. One year later, he turns around and starts working for the Japanese. Who now pay him five hundred thousand a year plus bonuses to close this deal. And he's worth it, because he knows everything there is to know."
"Is that legal?"
"Sure. It's standard procedure. They all do it. If Richmond worked for a high-tech company like Microsoft, he'd have to sign an agreement that he wouldn't work for a competing company for five years. Because you shouldn't be able to peddle trade secrets to the opposition. But our government has easier rules."
"Why is he an asshole?"
"This racist stuff." Connor snorted. "He knows better. Richmond knows exactly what happened with the Fairchild sale. And it had nothing to do with racism."
"No?"
"And there's another thing Richmond knows: the Japanese are the most racist people on earth."
"They are?"
"Absolutely. In fact, when the Japanese diplomats - "
The car phone rang. I pushed the speaker button and said, "Lieutenant Smith."
Over the speaker, a man said, "Jesus, finally. Where the hell have you guys been? I want to get to sleep."
I recognized the voice: Fred Hoffmann, the watch commander from the night before.
Connor said, "Thanks for getting back to us, Fred."
"What is it you wanted?"
"Well, I'm curious," Connor said, "about the Nakamoto calls you got last night."
"You and everybody else in this town," Hoffmann said. "I got half the department on my ass about this. Jim Olson is practically camping on my desk, going through the paperwork. Even though it was all routine at the time."
"If you'd just review what happened..."
"Sure. First thing, I got the transmittal from metro. That was the original phone-in. Metro wasn't sure what it meant, because the caller had an Asian accent and sounded confused. Or maybe on drugs. He kept talking about 'problems with the disposition of the body.' They couldn't get it clear what he was talking about. Anyway, I dispatched a black and white about eight-thirty. Then when they confirmed a homicide, I assigned Tom Graham and Roddy Merino - for which I got all kinds of shit later."
"Uh-huh."
"But what the hell, they were up on the roster next. You know we're supposed to stay in strict rotation for detective assignments. To avoid the appearance of special treatment. That's policy. I was just following it."
"Uh-huh."
"Anyway. Then Graham calls in at nine o'clock, and reports there's trouble at the scene, and there is a request for the Special Services liaison. Again, I check the list. Pete Smith is the SSO on call. So I give Graham his number at home. And I guess he called you, Pete."
"Yes," I said. "He did."
"All right," Connor said. "What happened after that?"
"About two minutes after Graham calls, maybe nine oh-five, I get a call from somebody with an accent. I would say it sounds like an Asian accent, but I don't know for sure. And the guy says that on behalf of Nakamoto he is requesting Captain Connor be assigned to the case."
"The caller didn't identify himself?"
"Sure he did. I made him identify himself. And I wrote down the name. Koichi Nishi."
"And he was from Nakamoto?"
"That's what he said," Hoffmann said. "I'm just sitting there, working the phone, what the hell do I know. I mean, this morning Nakamoto is formally protesting the fact that Connor was assigned to the case and saying they have nobody named Koichi Nishi employed by them. They're claiming it's all a fabrication. But let me tell you, somebody called me. I'm not making it up."
"I'm sure you're not," Connor said. "You say the caller had an accent?"
"Yeah. His English was pretty good, you know, almost hip, but there was a definite accent. The only thing I thought was funny was that he seemed to know a hell of a lot about you.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. First thing he says to me, do I know your phone number or should he give it to me. I say I know the number. I'm thinking, I don't need some Japanese to tell me the phone numbers of people on the force. Then he says, you know, Captain Connor doesn't always answer his phone. Be sure to send somebody down there to pick him up."
"Interesting," Connor said.
"So I called Pete Smith, and told him to swing by and pick you up. And that's all I knew. I mean, this is all in the context of some political problem they're having at Nakamoto. I knew Graham was unhappy. I figured other people were unhappy, too. And everybody knows Connor has special relationships with the community, so I put it through. And now there is all this shit coming down. Fucking beats me."
"Tell me about the shit," Connor said.
"It starts maybe eleven o'clock last night, when the chief called me about Graham. Why did I assign Graham. I tell him why. But he's still not happy. Then right at the end of my watch, maybe five a.m., there is the business about how Connor got brought in. How did it happen, why did it happen. And now there's a story in the Times and this whole thing about racism by the police. I don't know which way to turn here. I keep explaining I did the routine thing. By the book. Nobody is buying that. But it's true."
"I'm sure it is," Connor said. "Just one more thing, Fred. Did you ever listen to the original metro call?"
"Damn right I did. I heard it about an hour ago. Why?"
"Did the voice that called in sound like Mr. Nishi?"
Hoffmann laughed. "Christ. Who knows, Captain. Maybe. You're asking me if one Asian voice sounds like another Asian voice I heard earlier. Honestly, I don't know. The original voice on the call sounded pretty confused. Maybe in shock. Maybe on drugs. I'm not sure. All I know is, whoever Mr. Nishi actually was, he knew a hell of a lot about you."
"Well, that's very helpful. Get some rest." Connor thanked him, and hung up. I pulled off the freeway and headed down Wilshire, to our meeting with Senator Morton.
Chapter 13
"Okay, Senator, now look this way, please... a little more... that's it, that's very strong, very masculine, I like it a lot. Yes, bloody good. Now I will need three minutes, please." The director, a tense man wearing a bomber jacket and a baseball cap, climbed down off the camera and barked orders in a British accent. "Jerry, get a scrim there, the sun is too bright. And can we do something about his eyes? I need a little fill in the eyes, please. Ellen? You see the shine on his right shoulder. Flag it, love. Pull the collar smooth. The microphone is visible on his tie. And I can't see the gray in his hair. Bring it up. And straighten out the carpeting on the ground so he doesn't trip when he walks, people. Please. Come on now. We're losing our lovely light."
Connor and I were standing to one side, with a cute production assistant named Debbie who held a clipboard across her breasts and said meaningfully, "The director is Edgar Lynn."
"Should we recognize that name?" Connor said.
"He's the most expensive and most sought-after commercial director in the world. He is a great artist. Edgar did the fantastic Apple 1984 commercial, and... oh, lots of others. And he has directed famous movies, too. Edgar is just the best." She paused. "And not too crazy. Really."
Across from the camera, Senator John Morton stood patiently while four people fussed with his tie, his jacket, his hair, his makeup. Morton was wearing a suit. He was standing under a tree with the rolling golf course and the skyscrapers of Beverly Hills in the background. The production crew had laid down a strip of carpet for him to walk on as he approached the camera.
I said, "And how is the senator?"
Debbie nodded. "Pretty good. I think he has a shot."
Connor said, "You mean a chance for the presidency?"
"Yeah. Especially if Edgar can do his magic. I mean, let's face it, Senator Morton is not exactly Mel Gibson, you know what I mean? He's got a big nose, and he's a little bald, and those freckles are a problem because they photograph so prominently. They distract you from his eyes. And the eyes are what sell a candidate."
"The eyes," Connor said.
"Oh, yeah. People get elected on their eyes." She shrugged, as if it was common knowledge. "But if the senator puts himself in Edgar's hands... Edgar is a great artist. He can make it happen."
Edgar Lynn walked past us, huddled with the cameraman. "Christ, clean up the luggage under his eyes," Lynn said. "And get the chin. Firm that chin with a hard inky low and up."
"Okay," the cameraman said.
The production assistant excused herself and we waited, watching. Senator Morton was still some distance away, being worked over by the makeup and wardrobe people.
"Mr. Connor? Mr. Smith?" I turned. A young man in a blue pinstripe suit was standing beside us. He looked like a Senate staffer: well turned-out, attentive, polite. "I'm Bob Woodson. With the senator's office. Thank you for coming."
"You're welcome," Connor said.
"I know the senator is eager to talk to you," Woodson said. "I'm sorry, this seems to be running a little late. We were supposed to finish shooting by one." He glanced at his watch. "Now, I guess it may be quite a while. But I know the senator wants to talk to you."
Connor said, "Do you know what about?"
Someone shouted, "Run-through! Run-through for sound and camera, please!"
The cluster around Senator Morton vanished, and Woodson turned his attention to the camera.
Edgar Lynn was back looking through the lens. "There still isn't enough gray. Ellen? You will have to add gray to his hair. It isn't reading now."
Woodson said, "I hope he doesn't make him look too old."
Debbie, the production assistant, said, "It's just for the shot. It isn't reading for the shot, so we add some gray. See, Ellen is just putting it at the temples. It'll make him distinguished."