"You must understand," Connor said, "there is a shadow world – here in Los Angeles, in Honolulu, in New York. Most of the time you're never aware of it. We live in our regular American world, walking on our American streets, and we never notice that right alongside our world is a second world. Very discreet, very private. Perhaps in New York you will see Japanese businessmen walking through an unmarked door, and catch a glimpse of a club behind. Perhaps you will hear of a small sushi bar in Los Angeles that charges twelve hundred dollars a person, Tokyo prices. But they are not listed in the guidebooks. They are not a part of our American world. They are part of the shadow world, available only to the Japanese."
"And this place?"
"This is a bettaku. A love residence where mistresses are kept. And here is Miss Austin's apartment."
Connor unlocked the door with the key the doorman had given him. We went inside.
It was a two-bedroom unit, furnished with expensive oversized rental pieces in pastel pink and green. The oil paintings on the walls had been rented, too; a label on the side of one frame said Breuner's Rents. The kitchen counter was bare, except for a bowl of fruit. The refrigerator contained only yogurt and cans of Diet Coke. The couches in the living room didn't look as if anybody had ever sat on them. On the coffee table was a picture book of Hollywood star portraits and a vase of dried flowers. Empty ashtrays scattered around.
One of the bedrooms had been converted to a den, with a couch and a television, and an exercise bike in the corner. Everything was brand-new. The television still had a sticker that said DIGITAL TUNING FEATURE diagonally across one corner. The handlebars of the exercise bike were covered in plastic wrap.
In the master bedroom, I finally found some human clutter. One mirrored closet door stood open, and three expensive party dresses were thrown across the bed. Evidently she had been trying to decide what to wear. On the dresser top were bottles of perfume, a diamond necklace, a gold Rolex, framed photographs, and an ashtray with stubbed-out Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes. The top dresser drawer, containing panties and undergarments, was partially open. I saw her passport stuck in the corner, and thumbed through it. There was one visa for Saudi Arabia, one for Indonesia, and three entry stamps for Japan.
The stereo in the corner was still turned on, an ejected tape in the player. I pushed it in and Jerry Lee Lewis sang, "You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, too much love drives a man insane. . . ." Texas music, too old for a young girl like this. But maybe she liked golden oldies.
I turned back to the dresser. Several framed color enlargements showed Cheryl Austin smiling in front of Asian backgrounds – the red gates of a shrine, a formal garden, a street with gray skyscrapers, a train station. The pictures seemed to be taken in Japan. In most of the pictures Cheryl was alone, but in a few she was accompanied by an older Japanese man with glasses and a receding hairline. A final shot showed her in what looked like the American West. Cheryl was standing near a dusty pickup truck, smiling beside a frail, grandmotherly woman in sunglasses. The older woman wasn't smiling and looked uncomfortable.
Tucked in beside the dresser were several large paper rolls, standing on end. I opened one. It was a poster showing Cheryl in a bikini, smiling and holding up a bottle of Asahi beer. All the writing on the poster was in Japanese.
I went into the bathroom.
I saw a pair of jeans kicked in the corner. A white sweater tossed on the countertop. A wet towel on a hook by the shower stall. Beads of water inside the stall. Electric haircurlers unplugged by the counter. Stuck in the mirror frame, photos of Cheryl standing with another Japanese man on the Malibu pier. This man was in his midthirties, and handsome. In one photograph, he had draped his arm familiarly over her shoulder. I could clearly see the scar on his hand.
"Bingo," I said.
Connor came into the room. "Find something?"
"Our man with the scar."
"Good." Connor studied the picture carefully. I looked back at the clutter of the bathroom. The stuff around the sink. "You know," I said, "something bothers me about this place."
"What's that?"
"I know she hasn't lived here long. And I know everything is rented . . . but still . . . I can't get over the feeling that this place has a contrived look. I can't quite put my finger on why."
Connor smiled. "Very good, Lieutenant. It does have a contrived look. And there's a reason for it."
He handed me a Polaroid photo. It showed the bathroom we were standing in. The jeans kicked in the corner. The towel hanging. The curlers on the counter. But it was taken with one of those ultra-wide-angle cameras that distort everything. The SID teams sometimes used them for evidence.
"Where did you get this?"
"From the trash bin in the hall, by the elevators."
"So it must have been taken earlier tonight."
"Yes. Notice anything different about the room?"
I examined the Polaroid carefully. "No, it looks the same . . . wait a minute. Those pictures stuck in her mirror. They aren't in the Polaroid. Those pictures have been added."
"Exactly." Connor walked back into the bedroom. He picked up one of the framed pictures on the dresser. "Now look at this one," he said. "Miss Austin and a Japanese friend in Shinjuku Station in Tokyo. She was probably drawn to the Kabukicho section – or perhaps she was just shopping. Notice the right-hand edge of the picture. See the narrow strip that's lighter in color?"
"Yes." And I understood what that strip meant: there had been another picture on top of this one. The edge of this picture had stuck out, and was sun-faded. "The overlying picture has been removed."
"Yes," Connor said.
"The apartment has been searched."
"Yes," Connor said. "A very thorough job. They came in earlier tonight, took Polaroids, searched the rooms, and then put things back the way they were. But it's impossible to do that exactly. The Japanese say artlessness is the most difficult art. And these men can't help themselves, they're obsessive. So they leave the picture frames a little too squared-off on the counter, and the perfume bottles a little too carefully cluttered. Everything is a little forced. Your eye can see it even if your brain doesn't register it."
I said, "But why search the room? What pictures did they remove? Her with the killer?"
"That's not clear," Connor said. "Evidently her association with Japan, and with Japanese men, was not objectionable. But there was something they had to get right away, and it can only be—"
Then, from the living room, a tentative voice said, "Lynn? Honey? You here?"
¤
She was silhouetted in the doorway, looking in. Barefooted, wearing shorts and a tank top. I couldn't see her face well, but she was obviously what my old partner Anderson would call a snake charmer.
Connor showed his badge. She said her name was Julia Young. She had a Southern accent, and a slight slur to her speech. Connor turned on the light and we could see her better. She was a beautiful girl. She came into the room hesitantly.
"I heard the music – is she here? Is Cherylynn okay? I know she went to that party tonight."
"I haven't heard anything," Connor said, with a quick glance at me. "Do you know Cherylynn?"
"Well, sure. I live right across the hall, in number eight. Why is everybody in her room?"
"Everybody?"
"Well, you two. And the two Japanese guys."