I didn't get really angry until that moment: until I saw the way he toadied up in front of the mayor. It made me so mad I began to turn red. But Connor took it in stride.
"Thank you, Ishiguro-san," he said, with a slight bow. "The investigation is going well."
"You're receiving all the help you requested?" Ishiguro said.
"Oh, yes," Connor said. "Everyone has been very cooperative."
"Good, good. I'm glad." Ishiguro glanced at the mayor, and smiled at him, too. He was all smiles, it seemed.
"But," Connor said, "there is just one thing."
"Just name it. If there is anything we can do . . ."
"The security tapes seem to have been removed."
"Security tapes?" Ishiguro frowned, clearly caught off guard.
"Yes," Connor said. "Recordings from the security cameras."
"I don't know anything about that," Ishiguro said. "But let me assure you, if any tapes exist, they are yours to examine."
"Thank you," Connor said. "Unfortunately, it seems the crucial tapes have been removed from the Nakamoto security office."
"Removed? Gentlemen, I believe there must be some mistake."
The mayor was watching this exchange closely.
Connor said, "Perhaps, but I don't think so. It would be reassuring, Mr. Ishiguro, if you were to look into this matter yourself."
"I certainly will," Ishiguro said. "But I must say again. I can't imagine, Captain Connor, that any tapes are missing."
"Thank you for checking, Mr. Ishiguro," Connor said.
"Not at all, Captain," he said, still smiling. "It is my pleasure to assist you in whatever way I can."
"The son of a bitch," I said. We were driving west on the Santa Monica freeway. "The little prick looked us right in the eye and lied."
"It's annoying," Connor said. "But you see, Ishiguro takes a different view. Now that he is beside the mayor, he sees himself in another context, with another set of obligations and requirements for his behavior. Since he is sensitive to context, he's able to act differently, with no reference to his earlier behavior. To us, he seems like a different person. But Ishiguro feels he's just being appropriate."
"What burns me is he acted so confident."
"Of course he did," Connor said. "And he would be quite surprised to learn that you're angry with him. You consider him immoral. He considers you naive. Because for a Japanese, consistent behavior is not possible. A Japanese becomes a different person around people of different rank. He becomes a different person when he moves through different rooms of his own house."
"Yeah," I said. "That's fine, but the fact is he's a lying son of a bitch."
Connor looked at me. "Would you talk that way to your mother?"
"Of course not."
"So you change according to context, too," Connor said. "The fact is we all do. It's just that Americans believe there is some core of individuality that doesn't change from one moment to the next. And the Japanese believe context rules everything."
"It sounds to me," I said, "like an excuse for lying."
"He doesn't see it as lying."
"But that's what it is."
Connor shrugged. "Only from your point of view, kohai. Not from his."
"The hell."
"Look, it's your choice. You can understand the Japanese and deal with them as they are, or you can get pissed off. But our problem in this country is that we don't deal with the Japanese the way they really are." The car hit a deep pothole, bouncing so hard that the car phone fell off the receiver. Connor picked it up off the floor, and put it back on the hook.
Up ahead, I saw the exit for Bundy. I moved into the right lane. "One thing I'm not clear about," I said. "Why do you think the man with the briefcase in the security room might be the killer?"
"It's because of the time sequence. You see, the murder was reported at eight thirty-two. Less than fifteen minutes later, at eight forty-five, a Japanese man was down there switching the tapes, arranging a cover-up. That's a very fast response. Much too fast for a Japanese company."
"Why is that?"
"Japanese organizations are actually very slow to respond in a crisis. Their decision-making relies on precedents, and when a situation is unprecedented, people are uncertain how to behave. You remember the faxes? I am sure faxes have been flying back and forth to Nakamoto's Tokyo headquarters all night. Undoubtedly the company is still trying to decide what to do. A Japanese organization simply cannot move fast in a new situation."
"But an individual acting alone can?"
"Yes. Exactly."
I said, "And that's why you think the man with the briefcase may be the killer."
Connor nodded. "Yes. Either the killer, or someone closely connected with the killer. But we should learn more at Miss Austin's apartment. I believe I see it up ahead, on the right."
¤
The Imperial Arms was an apartment building on a tree-lined street a kilometer from Westwood Village. Its fake Tudor beams needed a paint job, and the whole building had a run-down appearance. But that was not unusual in this middle-class section of apartments inhabited by graduate students and young families. In fact, the chief characteristic of the Imperial Arms seemed to be its anonymity: you could drive by the building every day and never notice it.
"Perfect," Connor said, as we walked up the steps to the entrance. "It's just what they like."
"What who likes?"
We came into the lobby, which had been renovated in the most bland California style: pastel wallpaper with a flower print, overstuffed couches, cheap ceramic lamps, and a chrome coffee table. The only thing to distinguish it from a hundred other apartment lobbies was the security desk in the corner, where a heavyset Japanese doorman looked up from his comic book with a distinctly unfriendly manner. "Help you?"
Connor showed his badge. He asked where Cheryl Austin's apartment was.
"I announce you," the doorman said, reaching for the phone.
"Don't bother."
"No. I announce. Maybe she have company now."
"I'm sure she doesn't," Connor said. "Kore wa keisatsu no shigoto da." He was saying we were on official police business.
The doorman gave a tense bow. "Kyugo shitu." He handed Connor a key.
We went through a second glass door, and down a carpeted corridor. There were small lacquer tables at each end of the corridor, and in its simplicity, the interior was surprisingly elegant.
"Typically Japanese," Connor said, with a smile.
I thought: a run-down, fake Tudor apartment building in Westwood? Typically Japanese? From a room to the left, I heard faint rap music: the latest Hammer hit.
"It's because the outside gives no clue to the inside," Connor explained. "That's a fundamental principle of Japanese thinking. The public facade is unrevealing – in architecture, the human face, everything. It's always been that way. You look at old samurai houses in Takayama or Kyoto. You can't tell anything from the outside."
"This is a Japanese building?"
"Of course. Why else would a Japanese national who hardly speaks English be the doorman? And he is a yakuza. You probably noticed the tattoo."
I hadn't. The yakuzawere Japanese gangsters. I didn't know there were yakuzahere in America, and said so.