Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

"I am grateful for your delicate handling of this situation, Captain Connor," Ishiguro said.

"I have done nothing at all," Connor replied, making another formal bow. "But I hope you will now agree it is appropriate to clear the floor, so the police may begin their investigation."

Ishiguro blinked. "Clear the floor?"

"Yes," Connor said, taking out a notebook. "And please assist me to know the names of the gentlemen standing behind you, as you ask them to leave."

"I am sorry?"

"The names of the gentlemen behind you, please."

"May I ask why?"

Connor's face darkened, and he barked a short phrase in Japanese. I didn't catch the words, but Ishiguro turned bright red.

"Excuse me, Captain, but I see no reason for you to speak in this– "

And then, Connor lost his temper. Spectacularly and explosively. He moved close to Ishiguro, making sharp stabbing motions with his finger while he shouted: " Iikagen ni shiro! Soko o doke! Kiiterunoka! "

Ishiguro ducked and turned away, stunned by this verbal assault.

Connor leaned over him, his voice hard and sarcastic: " Doke! Doke! Wakaranainoka? " He turned, and pointed furiously toward the Japanese men by the elevator. Confronted with Connor's naked anger, the Japanese looked away, and puffed anxiously on their cigarettes. But they did not leave.

"Hey, Richie," Connor said, calling to the crime unit photographer Richie Walters. "Get me some IDs of these guys, will you?"

"Sure, Captain," Richie said. He raised his camera and began moving down the line of men, firing his strobe in quick succession.

Ishiguro suddenly got excited, stepping in front of the camera, holding up his hands. "Wait a minute, wait a minute, what is this?"

But the Japanese men were already leaving, wheeling away like a school of fish from the strobe flash. In a few seconds they were gone. We had the floor to ourselves. Alone, Ishiguro looked uncomfortable.

He said something in Japanese. Apparently it was the wrong thing.

"Oh?" Connor said. " You are to blame here," he said to Ishiguro. " You are the cause of all these troubles. And you will see that my detectives get any assistance they need. I want to speak to the person who discovered the body, and the person who called in the original report. I want the name of every person who has been on this floor since the body was discovered. And I want the film from Tanaka's camera. Ore wa honkida . I will arrest you if you obstruct this investigation further."

"But I must consult my superiors– "

" Namerunayo ." Connor leaned close. "Don't fuck with me, Ishiguro-san. Now leave, and let us work."

"Of course, Captain," he said. With a tight, brief bow he left, his face pinched and unhappy.

Graham chuckled. "You told him off pretty good."

Connor spun. "What were you doing, telling him you were going to interrogate everybody at the party?"

"Aw, shit, I was just winding him up," Graham said. "There's no way I'm going to interrogate the mayor. Can I help it if these assholes have no sense of humor?"

"They have a sense of humor," Connor said. "And the joke is on you. Because Ishiguro had a problem, and he solved it with your help."

" My help?" Graham was frowning. "What're you talking about?"

"It's clear the Japanese wanted to delay the investigation," Connor said. "Your aggressive tactics gave them the perfect excuse – to call for the Special Services liaison."

"Oh, come on," Graham said. "For all they know, the liaison could have been here in five minutes."

Connor shook his head. "Don't kid yourself: they knew exactly who was on call tonight. They knew exactly how far away Smith would be, and exactly how long it would take him to get here. And they managed to delay the investigation an hour and a half. Nice work, detective."

Graham stared at Connor for a long moment. Then he turned away. "Fuck," he said. "That's a load of bullshit, and you know it. Fellas, I'm going to work. Richie? Mount up. You got thirty seconds to document before my guys come in and step on your tail. Let's go, everybody. I want to get finished before she starts to smell too bad."

And he lumbered off toward the crime scene.

With their suitcases and evidence carts, the SID team trailed after Graham. Richie Walters led the way, shooting left and right as he worked his way forward into the atrium, then going through the door into the conference room. The walls of the conference room were smoked glass, which dimmed his flash. But I could see him inside, circling the body. He was shooting a lot: he knew this was a big case.

I stayed behind with Connor. I said, "I thought you told me it was bad form to lose your temper with the Japanese."

"It is," Connor said.

"Then why did you lose yours?"

"Unfortunately," he said, "it was the only way to assist Ishiguro."

"To assist Ishiguro?"

"Yes. I did all that for Ishiguro – because he had to save face in front of his boss. Ishiguro wasn't the most important man in the room. One of the Japanese standing by the elevator was the juyaku , the real boss."

"I didn't notice," I said.

"It's common practice to put a lesser man in front, while the boss stays in the background, where he is free to observe progress. Just as I did with you, kohai ."

"Ishiguro's boss was watching all the time?"

"Yes. And Ishiguro clearly had orders not to allow the investigation to begin. I needed to start the investigation. But I had to do it in such a way that he would not look incompetent. So I played the out-of-control gaijin . Now he owes me a favor. Which is good, because I may need his help later on."

"He owes you a favor?" I said, having trouble with this idea. Connor had just screamed at Ishiguro – thoroughly humiliating him, as far as I was concerned.

Connor sighed. "Even if you don't understand what happened, believe me: Ishiguro understands very well. He had a problem, and I helped him."

I still didn't really understand, and I started to say more, but Connor held up his hand. "I think we better take a look at the scene, before Graham and his men screw things up any more than they already have."

It'd been almost two years since I worked the detective division, and it felt good to be around a homicide again. It brought back memories: the nighttime tension, the adrenaline rush of bad coffee in paper cups, and all the teams working around you – it's a kind of crazy energy, circling the center where somebody is lying, dead. Every homicide crime scene has that same energy, and that finality at the center. When you look at the dead person, there is a kind of obviousness, and at the same time there is an impossible mystery. Even in the simplest domestic brawl, where the woman finally decided to shoot the guy, you'd look at her, all covered in scars and cigarette burns, and you had to ask, why tonight? What was it about tonight? It's always clear what you are seeing, and there's always something that doesn't add up. Both things at once.

And at a homicide you have the sense of being right down to the basic truths of existence, the smells and the defecation and the bloating. Usually somebody's crying, so you're listening to that. And the usual bullshit stops; somebody died, and it's an unavoidable fact, like a rock in the road that makes all the traffic go around it. And in that grim and real setting, this camaraderie springs up, because you're working late with people you know, and actually know very well because you see them all the time. L.A. has four homicides a day; there's another one every six hours. And every detective at the crime scene already has ten homicides dragging on his backlog, which makes this new one an intolerable burden, so he and everybody else is hoping to solve it on the spot, to get it out of the way. There is that kind of finality and tension and energy all mixed together.