Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

Connor was listening with his eyes closed. "Yes . . ."

"I don't see why all this matters. She left two years ago. And after that, I couldn't – I didn't want to work detective hours any more, because now I had to raise the kid, so I took the tests and transferred to Special Services, and I worked the press office. No problems there. Everything went fine. Then last year this Asian liaison job came up, and it paid better. Another couple hundred a month. So I applied for that."

"Uh-huh."

"I mean, I can really use the money. I have extra expenses now, like Michelle's day care. You know what day care costs for two-year-olds? And I have full-time housekeeping, and Lauren doesn't make her child-support payments more than half the time. She says she can't manage on her salary, but she just bought a new BMW, so I don't know. I mean, what am I going to do, take her to court? She works for the fucking D.A."

Connor was silent. Up ahead, I saw the airplanes coming down over the freeway. We were approaching the airport.

"Anyway," I said. "I was glad when the liaison job came along. Because it works out better for the hours, and for the money. And that's how I got to be here. In this car with you. That's it."

" Kohai ," he said quietly. "We're in this together. Just tell me. What is the problem?"

"There isn't any problem."

" Kohai ."

"There isn't."

" Kohai . . ."

"Hey, John," I said, "let me tell you something. When you apply for Special Services liaison, five different committees go over your record. To get a liaison job, you have to be clean . The committees went over my record. And they found nothing substantial."

Connor nodded. "But they found something ."

"Christ," I said, "I was a detective for five years. You can't work that long without a few complaints. You know that."

"And what were the complaints against you?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. Little stuff. I arrested a guy my first year, he accused me of undue force. That charge was dropped after inquiry. I arrested a woman for armed robbery, she claimed I planted a gram on her. Charge dropped; it was her gram. Murder suspect claimed I beat and kicked him during questioning. But other officers were present at all times. A drunken woman on a domestic violence call later claimed I molested her child. She dropped the charge. Teenage gang leader arrested for murder said I made a homosexual pass at him. Charge withdrawn. That's it."

If you're a cop you know that complaints like these are background noise, like traffic on the street. There's nothing you can do about them. You're in an adversarial environment, accusing people of crimes all the time. They accuse you back. That's just the way it works. The department never pays any attention unless there's a pattern or repetition. If a guy has three or four complaints of undue force over a couple of years, then he gets an inquiry. Or a string of racial complaints, he gets an inquiry. But otherwise, as the assistant chief Jim Olson always says, being a cop is a job for the thick-skinned.

Connor didn't say anything for a long time. He frowned, thinking it over. Finally he said, "What about the divorce? Problems there?"

"Nothing unusual."

"You and your ex are on speaking terms?"

"Yes. We're okay. Not great. But okay."

He was still frowning. Still looking for something. "And you left the detective division two years ago?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I already told you."

"You said that you couldn't work the hours."

"That was most of it, yeah."

"That, and what else?"

I shrugged. "After the divorce, I just didn't want to work homicide any more. I felt like – I don't know. Disillusioned. I had this little infant and my wife had moved out. She was going on with her life, dating some hotshot attorney. I was left holding the kid. I just felt flat. I didn't want to be a detective any more."

"You seek counseling at that time? Therapy?"

"No."

"Trouble with drugs or alcohol?"

"No."

"Other women?"

"Some."

"During the marriage?"

I hesitated.

"Farley? In the mayor's office?"

"No. That was later."

"But there was somebody during the marriage."

"Yes. But she lives in Phoenix now. Her husband got transferred."

"She was in the department?"

I shrugged.

Connor sat back in his seat. "Okay, kohai ," he said. "If this is all there is, you're fine." He looked at me.

"That's all."

"But I have to warn you," he said. "I've been through this kind of thing before, with the Japanese. When the Japanese play hardball, they can make things unpleasant. Really unpleasant."

"You trying to scare me?"

"No. Just telling you the way things are."

"Fuck the Japanese," I said. "I've got nothing to hide."

"Fine. Now I think you better call your friends at the network, and tell them we'll be over, after our next stop."

A 747 roared low overhead, its landing lights flaring in the fog. It passed the sputtering neon sign that read Girls! Girls! All Nude! Girls! It was around eleven-thirty when we went inside.

To call the Club Palomino a strip joint was to flatter it. It was a converted bowling alley with cactus and horses painted on the walls. It seemed smaller inside than it appeared from the outside. A woman in a silver tassled G-string who looked close to forty danced listlessly in orange light. She seemed as bored as the customers hunched over tiny pink tables. Topless waitresses moved through the smoky air. The tape-recorded music had a loud hiss.

A guy just inside the door said, "Twelve bucks. Two drink minimum." Connor flipped his badge. The guy said, "Okay, fine."

Connor looked around and said, "I didn't know Japanese came here." I saw three businessmen in blue suits, sitting at a corner table.

"Hardly ever," the bouncer said. "They like the Star Strip downtown. More glitz, more tits. You ask me, those guys got lost from their tour."

Connor nodded, "I'm looking for Ted Cole."

"At the bar. Guy with the glasses."

Ted Cole was sitting at the bar. His windbreaker covered his Nakamoto Security uniform. He stared at us dully when we came up and sat beside him.

The bartender came over. Connor said, "Two Buds."

"No Bud. Asahi okay?"

"Okay."

Connor flipped his badge. Cole shook his head and turned away from us. He looked studiously at the stripper.

"I don't know anything."

Connor said, "About what?"

"About anything. I'm just minding my own business. I'm off duty." He was a little drunk.

Connor said, "When did you get off duty?"

"I got off early tonight."

"Why is that?"

"Stomach trouble. I got an ulcer, it acts up sometimes. So I got off early."

"What time?"

"I got off at eight-fifteen at the latest."

"Do you punch a time clock?"

"No. We don't do that. No time clock."

"And who took over for you?"

"I got relieved."

"By whom?"

"My supervisor."

"Who is that?"

"I don't know him. Japanese guy. Never seen him before."

"He's your supervisor, and you never saw him before?"

"New guy. Japanese. I don't know him. What do you want from me, anyway?"

"Just to ask a few questions," Connor said.

"I got nothing to hide," Cole said.

One of the Japanese men sitting at the table came up to the bar. He stood near us and said to the bartender, "What kind of cigarettes you got?"

"Marlboro," the bartender said.

"What else?"

"Maybe Kools. I have to check. But I know we got Marlboro. You want Marlboro?"

Ted Cole stared at the Japanese man. The Japanese seemed not to notice him as he stood at the bar. "Kent?" the Japanese said. "You got any Kent lights?"