A security car pulled up. The uniformed guard leaned out. "Hey, is there a problem at the party up there?"
"Like what?"
"Couple of guys get in a fight? Some kind of fight? We had a report phoned in."
"I don't know," Connor said. "Maybe you better go up and check."
The guard climbed out of his car, hefted a big gut, and started up the stairs. Connor looked back at the high walls. "You know we have more private security than police, now? Everyone's building walls and hiring guards. But in Japan, you can walk into a park at midnight and sit on a bench and nothing will happen to you. You're completely safe, day or night. You can go anywhere. You won't be robbed or beaten or killed. You're not always looking behind you, not always worrying. You don't need walls or bodyguards. Your safety is the safety of the whole society. You're free. It's a wonderful feeling. Here, everybody has to lock themselves up. Lock the door. Lock the car. People who spend their whole lives locked up are in prison. It's crazy. It kills the spirit. But it's been so long now that Americans have forgotten what it's like to really feel safe. Anyway. Here's our car. Let's get down to the division."
We had started driving down the street when the DHD operator called. "Lieutenant Smith," she said, "we have a request for Special Services."
"I'm pretty busy," I said. "Can the backup take it?"
"Lieutenant Smith, we have patrol officers requesting Special Services for a vee dig in area nineteen."
She was telling me there was a problem with a visiting dignitary. "I understand," I said, "but I've already rolled out on a case. Give it to the backup."
"But this is on Sunset Plaza Drive," she said. "Aren't you located– "
"Yes," I said. Now I understood why she was insistent. The call was only a few blocks away. "Okay," I said. "What's the problem?"
"It's a vee dig DUI. Reported in as G-level plus one. Last name is Rowe."
"Okay," I said. "We're going." I hung up the phone, and turned the car around.
"Interesting," Connor said. "G-level plus one is American government?"
"Yes," I said.
"It's Senator Rowe?"
"Sounds like it," I said. "Driving under the influence."
¤
The black Lincoln sedan had come to a stop on the lawn of a house along the steep part of Sunset Plaza Drive. Two black and whites were pulled up at the curb, red lights flashing. Up on the lawn, a half-dozen people were standing beside the Lincoln. A man in his bathrobe, arms folded across his chest. A couple of girls in short glittery sequin dresses, a very handsome blond man about forty in a tuxedo, and a younger man in a blue suit, whom I recognized as the young man who had gotten on the elevator with Senator Rowe earlier.
The patrolmen had the video camera out, shining the bright light on Senator Rowe. He was propping himself up against the front fender of the Lincoln, holding his arm up to cover his face against the light. He was swearing loudly as Connor and I walked up.
The man in the bathrobe came toward us and said, "I want to know who's going to pay for this."
"Just a minute, sir." I kept walking.
"He can't just ruin my lawn like this. It has to be paid for."
"Just give me a minute, sir."
"Scared the hell out of my wife, too, and she has cancer."
I said, "Sir, please give me a minute, and then I'll talk to you.
"Cancer of the ear," he said emphatically. "The ear."
"Yes, sir. All right, sir." I continued toward the Lincoln, and the bright light.
As I passed the aide, he fell into step beside me and said, "I can explain everything, Detective." He was about thirty, with the bland good looks of a congressional staffer. "I'm sure I can resolve everything."
"Just a minute," I said. "Let me talk to the senator."
"The senator's not feeling well," the aide said. "He's very tired." He stepped in front of me. I just walked around him. He hurried to catch up. "It's jet lag, that's the problem. The senator has jet lag."
"I have to talk to him," I said, stepping into the bright light. Rowe was still holding up his arm. I said, "Senator Rowe?"
"Turn that fucking thing off, for fuck's sake," Rowe said. He was heavily intoxicated; his speech so slurred it was difficult to understand him.
"Senator Rowe," I said, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to– "
"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on."
"Senator Rowe," I said.
"Turn that fucking camera off."
I looked back to the patrolman and signaled to him. He reluctantly turned the camera off. The light went out.
"Jesus Christ," Rowe said, finally dropping his arm. He looked at me with bleary eyes. "What the fuck is going on here."
I introduced myself.
"Then why don't you dosomething about this fucking zoo," Rowe said. "I'm just driving to my fucking hotel."
"I understand that, Senator."
"Don't know . . ." He waved his hand, a sloppy gesture. "What the fucking problemis around here."
"Senator, you were driving this car?"
"Fuck. Driving." He turned away. "Jerry? Explain it to them. Christ's sake."
The aide came up immediately. "I'm sorry about all this," he said smoothly. "The senator isn't feeling at all well. We just came back from Tokyo yesterday evening. Jet lag. He's not himself. He's tired."
"Who was driving the car?" I said.
"I was," the aide said. "Absolutely."
One of the girls giggled.
"No, he wasn't," the man in the bathrobe shouted, from the other side of the car. "Hewas driving it. And he couldn't get out of the car without falling down."
"Christ, fucking zoo," Senator Rowe said, rubbing his head.
"Detective," the aide said, "I was driving the car and these two women here will testify that I was." He gestured to the girls in party dresses. Giving them a look.
"That's a goddamn lie," the man in the bathrobe said.
"No, that's correct," the handsome man in the tuxedo said, speaking for the first time. He had a suntan and a relaxed manner, like he was used to having his orders obeyed. Probably a Wall Street guy. He didn't introduce himself.
"I was driving the car," the aide said.
"All gone to shit," Rowe muttered. "Want to go to my hotel."
"Was anyone hurt here?" I said.
"Nobody was hurt," the aide said. "Everybody is fine."
I asked the patrolmen behind me, "You got a one-ten to file?" That was the report of property damage for vehicular accident.
"We don't need to," a patrolman said to me. "Single car, and the amount doesn't qualify." You only had to fill it out if the damage was more than two hundred dollars. "All we got is a five-oh-one. If you want to run with that."
I didn't. One of the things you learned about in Special Services was SAR, situational appropriate response. SAR meant that in the case of elected officials and celebrities, you let it go unless somebody was going to press charges. In practice, that meant that you didn't make an arrest short of a felony.
I said to the aide, "You get the property owner's name and address, so you can deal with the damage to the lawn."
"He already got my name and address," the man in the bathrobe said. "But I want to know what's going to be done."