Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

According to observers, Mayor Thomas sent a staff member to deal with the police, but with little result. The police did not modify their behavior, despite the presence of the special Japanese liaison officer, Lieutenant Peter Smith, whose job is to defuse racially sensitive situations . . . .

And so on.

You had to read four paragraphs before you discovered that a murder had occurred. That particular detail seemed to be almost irrelevant.

I looked back at the lead. The story was from the City News Service, which meant there was no byline.

I felt angry enough to call my old contact at the Times , Kenny Shubik. Ken was the leading Metro reporter. He had been at the paper forever, and he knew everything that was going on. Since it was still eight in the morning, I called him at home.

"Ken. Pete Smith."

"Oh, hi," he said. "Glad you got my message."

In the background, I heard what sounded like a teenage girl: "Oh, come on , Dad. Why can't I go?"

Ken said, "Jennifer, let me talk here for a minute."

"What message?" I said.

Ken said, "I called you last night, because I thought you ought to know right away. He's obviously working off a tip. But do you have any idea what's behind it?"

"Behind what?" I said. I didn't know what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, Ken, I didn't get your message."

"Really?" he said. "I called you about eleven-thirty last night. The DHD dispatcher said you had rolled out on a case but you had a car phone. I told her it was important, and for you to call me at home if necessary. Because I felt sure you'd want to know."

In the background, the girl said, "Dad, come on , I have to decide what to wear ."

"Jennifer, damn it," he said. "Chill out." To me he said, "You have a daughter, don't you?"

"Yeah," I said. "But she's only two."

"Just wait," Ken said. "Look, Pete. You really didn't get my message?"

"No," I said. "I'm calling about something else: the story in this morning's paper."

"What story?"

"The Nakamoto coverage on page eight. The one about 'callous and racist police' at the opening."

"Jeez, I didn't think we had a Nakamoto story yesterday. I know Jodie was doing the party, but that won't run until tomorrow. You know, Japan draws the glitterati. Jeff didn't have anything on the scheds in Metro yesterday."

Jeff was the Metro editor. I said, "There's a story in the paper this morning about the murder."

"What murder?" he said. His voice sounded odd.

"There was a murder at Nakamoto last night. About eight-thirty. One of the guests was killed."

Ken was silent at the other end of the line. Putting things together. Finally he said, "Were you involved?"

"Homicide called me in as Japanese liaison."

"Hmmm," Ken said. "Listen. Let me get to my desk and see what I can find out. Let's talk in an hour. And give me your numbers so I can call you direct."

"Okay."

He cleared his throat. "Listen, Pete," he said. "Just between us. Do you have any problems?"

"Like what?"

"Like a morals problem, or a problem with your bank account. Discrepancy about reported income . . . anything I should know about? As your friend?"

"No," I said.

"I don't need the details. But if there's something that isn't quite right . . . . "

"Nothing, Ken."

" 'Cause if I have to go to bat for you, I don't want to discover I have stepped in shit."

"Ken. What's going on?"

"I don't want to go into detail right now. But offhand I would say somebody is trying to fuck you in the ass," Ken said.

The girl said, " Daddy , that's dis gu sting."

"Well, you're not supposed to be listening. Pete?"

"Yeah," I said. "I'm here."

"Call me in an hour," Ken said.

"You're a pal," I said. "I owe you."

"Fucking right you do," Ken said.

He hung up.

I looked around the apartment. Everything still looked the same. Morning sunlight was still streaming into the room. Michelle was sitting in her favorite chair, watching cartoons and sucking her thumb. But somehow everything felt different. It was creepy. It was like the world had tilted.

But I had things to do. It was also getting late; I had to get her dressed before Elaine came to take her to day care. I told her that. She started to cry. So I turned off the television set, and she threw herself on the floor and began to kick and scream. "No, Daddy! Car toons , Daddy!"

I picked her up and slung her underarm to the bedroom to get her changed. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. The phone rang again. This time it was the division dispatcher.

"Morning, Lieutenant. I have your uncleared messages."

"Let me get a pencil," I said. I put Michelle down. She cried even louder. I said, "Can you go pick out which shoes you want to wear today?"

"Sounds like you got a murder there," the dispatcher said.

"She doesn't want to get dressed for school."

Michelle was tugging at my leg. "No, Daddy. No school, Daddy."

"Yes, school," I said firmly. She bawled. "Go ahead," I said to the dispatcher.

"Okay, eleven forty-one last night, you had a call from a Ken Subotik or Subotnick, L.A. Times , he said please call him. Message reads 'The Weasel is checking up on you.' He said you would know what that meant. You can call him at home. You have the number?"

"Yes."

"Okay. One forty-two a.m. this morning, you had a call from a Mr. Eddie Saka– looks like Sakamura. He said it's urgent, please call him at home, 555-8434. It's about the missing tape. Okay?"

Shit .

I said, "What time was that call?"

"One forty-two a.m. The call was forwarded to County General and I guess their switchboard couldn't locate you. You were at the morgue or something?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry, Lieutenant, but once you're out of your car, we have to go through intermediates."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Then at six forty-three a.m., Captain Connor left a beeper number for you to call. He said he's playing golf this morning."

"Okay."

"And at seven-ten, we had a call from Robert Woodson, who is with Senator Morton's office. Senator Morton wants to meet you and Captain Connor at one o'clock today at the Los Angeles Country Club. He asked that you call and confirm that you will attend the meeting with the senator. I tried to reach you but your phone was busy. Will you call the senator?"

I said I would call the senator. I told the dispatcher to page Connor for me at the golf course, and have him call me in the car.

I heard the front door unlock. Elaine came in. "Good morning," she said.

"I'm afraid Shelly isn't dressed yet."

"That's okay," she said. "I'll do it. What time is Mrs. Davis coming to pick her up?"

"We're waiting to hear."

Elaine had been through this routine many times before. "Come on, Michelle. Let's pick your clothes for today. Time to get ready for school."

I looked at my watch, and was on my way to get another cup of coffee when the phone rang. "Lieutenant Peter Smith, please."

It was the assistant chief, Jim Olson.

* * *

"Hi, Jim."

"Morning, Pete." He sounded friendly. But Jim Olson never called anybody before ten o'clock in the morning unless there was a big problem. Olson said, "Looks like we got ourselves a rattlesnake by the tail. You see the papers today?"

"Yeah, I did."

"You happen to catch the morning news?"

"Some of it."

"The chief's been calling me for damage control. I wanted to get where you stand before I make a recommendation. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I just got off the phone with Tom Graham. He admits last night was a prime screwup. Nobody is covered in glory."

"I'm afraid not."

"Couple of naked broads impeded two able-bodied police officers and prevented apprehension of the suspect? Is that about it?"