Michael Crichton: Rising Sun

"I go, what the fuck is this. We got an obvious homicide here. I think this guy should get back. But this Jap speaks excellent fucking English and he seems to know a lot of law. And everybody at the scene becomes, you know, concerned. I mean, there's no point in pushing to start an investigation if it's going to invalidate due process, right? And this Jap fucker is insisting the liaison must be present before we do anything. Since he speaks such fucking good English I don't know what the problem is. I thought the whole idea of a liaison was for people who don't speak the language and this fucking guy has Stanford law school written all over him. But anyway." He sighed.

"You called me," I said.

"Yeah."

I said, "Who is the man from Nakamoto?"

"Shit." Graham scowled at his notes. "Ishihara. Ishiguri. Something like that."

"You have his card? He must have given you his card."

"Yeah, he did. I gave it to Merino."

I said, "Any other Japanese there?"

"What are you, kidding?" Graham laughed. "The place is swarming with them. Fucking Disneyland up there."

"I mean the crime scene."

"So do I," Graham said. "We can't keep 'em out. They say it's their building, they have a right to be there. Tonight is the grand opening of the Nakamoto Tower. They have a right to be there. On and on."

I said, "Where is the opening taking place?"

"One floor below the murder, on the forty-fifth floor. They're having one hell of a bash. Must be eight hundred people there. Movie stars, senators, congressmen, you name it. I hear Madonna is there, and Tom Cruise. Senator Hammond. Senator Kennedy. Elton John. Senator Morton. Mayor Thomas's there. District Attorney Wyland's there. Hey, maybe your ex-wife is there, too, Pete. She still works for Wyland, doesn't she?"

"Last I heard."

Graham sighed. "Must be great to fuck a lawyer, instead of getting fucked by them. Must make for a nice change."

I didn't want to talk about my ex-wife. "We don't have a lot of contact any more," I said.

A little bell rang, then the elevator said, " Yonjusan kai ."

Graham glanced at the glowing numbers above the door. "Can you believe that shit?"

" Yonjuyon kai ," the elevator said. " Mosugu de gozaimasu ."

"What'd it say?"

" 'We're almost at the floor.' "

"Fuck," Graham said. "If an elevator's going to talk, it should be English. This is still America."

"Just barely," Connor said, staring out at the view.

" Youjugo kai ," the elevator said.

The door opened.

Graham was right: it was a hell of a party. The whole floor had been made into a replica forties ballroom. Men in suits. Women in cocktail dresses. The band playing Glenn Miller swing music. Standing near the elevator door was a gray-haired, suntanned man who looked vaguely familiar. He had the broad shoulders of an athlete. He stepped onto the elevator and turned to me. "Ground floor, please." I smelled whiskey.

A second, younger man in a suit instantly appeared by his side. "This elevator is going up, Senator."

"What's that?" the gray-haired man said, turning to his aide.

"This elevator's going up, sir."

"Well. I want to go down ." He was speaking with the careful, over-articulated speech of the drunk.

"Yes, sir. I know that, sir," the aide replied cheerfully. "Let's take the next elevator, Senator." He gripped the gray-haired man firmly by the elbow and led him off the elevator.

The doors closed. The elevator continued up.

"Your tax dollars at work," Graham said. "Recognize him? Senator Stephen Rowe. Nice to find him partying here, considering he's on the Senate Finance Committee, which sets all Japanese import regulations. But like his pal Senator Kennedy, Rowe is one of the great pussy patrollers."

"Oh, yeah?"

"They say he can drink pretty good, too."

"I noticed that."

"That's why he's got that kid with him. To keep him out of trouble."

The elevator stopped at the forty-sixth floor. There was a soft electronic ping. " Yonjuroku kai. Goriyo arigato gozaimashita ."

"Finally," Graham said. "Now maybe we can get to work."

The doors opened. We faced a solid wall of blue business suits, backs turned to us. There must have been twenty men jammed in the area just beyond the elevator. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.

"Coming through, coming through," Graham said, pushing his way roughly past the men. I followed, Connor behind me, silent and inconspicuous.

The forty-sixth floor had been designed to house the chief executive offices of Nakamoto Industries, and it was impressive. Standing in the carpeted reception area just beyond the elevators, I could see the entire floor – it was a gigantic open space. It was about sixty by forty meters, half the size of a football field. Everything added to the sense of spaciousness and elegance. The ceilings were high, paneled in wood. The furnishings were all wood and fabric, black and gray, and the carpet was thick. Sound was muted and lights were low, adding to the soft, rich quality. It looked more like a bank than a business office.

The richest bank you ever saw.

And it made you stop and look. I stood by the yellow crime-scene tape, which blocked access to the floor itself, and got my bearings. Directly ahead was the large atrium, a kind of open bullpen for secretaries and lower-level people. There were desks in clusters, and trees to break up the space. In the center of the atrium stood a large model of the Nakamoto Tower, and the complex of surrounding buildings still under construction. A spotlight shone on the model, but the rest of the atrium was relatively dark, with night lights.

Private offices for the executives were arranged around the perimeter of the atrium. The offices had glass walls facing the atrium, and glass walls on the outside walls as well, so that from where I was standing you could look straight out to the surrounding skyscrapers of Los Angeles. It made you think the floor was floating in midair.

There were two glass-walled conference rooms, on the left and right. The room on the right was smaller, and there I saw the body of the girl, lying on a long black table. She was wearing a black dress. One leg dangled down toward the floor. I didn't see any blood. But I was pretty far away from her, maybe sixty meters. It was hard to see much detail.

I heard the crackle of police radios, and I heard Graham saying, "Here's your liaison, gentlemen. Now maybe we can get started on our investigation. Peter?"

I turned to the Japanese men by the elevator. I didn't know which I should talk to; there was an awkward moment until one of them stepped forward. He was about thirty-five and wore an expensive suit. The man gave a very slight bow, from the neck, just a hint. I bowed back. Then he spoke.

" Konbanwa. Hajimemashite, Sumisu-san. Ishiguro desu. Dozo yoroshiku ." A formal greeting, although perfunctory. No wasted time. His name was Ishiguro. He already knew my name.

I said, " Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Sumisu desu. Dozo yoroshiku ." How do you do. Glad to meet you. The usual.

" Watashi no meishi desu. Dozo ." He gave me his business card. He was quick in his movements, brusque.

" Domo arigato gozaimasu . " I accepted his card with both hands, which wasn't really necessary, but taking Connor's advice, I wanted to do the most formal thing. Next I gave him my card. The ritual required us both to look at each other's cards, and to make some minor comment, or to ask a question like "Is this your office telephone number?"

Ishiguro took my card with one hand and said, "Is this your home phone, Detective?" I was surprised. He spoke the kind of unaccented English you can only learn by living here for a long time, starting when you're young. He must have gone to school here. One of the thousands of Japanese who studied in America in the seventies. When they were sending 150,000 students a year to America, to learn about our country. And we were sending 200 American students a year to Japan.