I shrugged. "They got it past the American unions."
"Hell, they got it past the city council," Graham said. "But of course that's just money. And if there's one third we know, the Japanese have money. So they got variances on the zoning restrictions, the earthquake ordinances. They got everything they wanted."
I shrugged. "Politics."
"My ass. You know they don't even pay tax? That's right: they got an eight-year break on property taxes from the city. Shit: we're givingthis country away."
We rode for a moment in silence. Graham stared out the windows. The elevators were high-speed Hitachis, using the latest technology. The fastest and smoothest elevators in the world. We moved higher into the mist.
I said to Graham, "You want to tell us about this homicide, or do you want it to be a surprise?"
"Fuck," Graham said. He flipped open his notebook. "Here you go. The original call was at eight thirty-two. Somebody saying there is a 'problem of disposition of a body.' Male with a thick Asian accent, doesn't speak good English. The operator couldn't get much out of him, except an address. The Nakamoto Tower. Black and white goes over, arrives at eight thirty-nine p.m., finds it's a homicide. Forty-sixth floor, which is an office floor in this building. Victim is Caucasian female, approximately twenty-five years old. Hell of a good-looking girl. You'll see.
"The blue suits stretch the tape and call the division. I go over with Merino, arriving at eight fifty-three. Crime scene IU and SID show up about the same time for PE, prints, and pics. Okay so far?"
"Yes," Connor said, nodding.
Graham said, "We're just getting started when some Jap from the Nakamoto Corporation comes up in a thousand-dollar blue suit and announces that he is entitled to a fucking conversation with the L.A.P.D. liaison officer before anything is done in their fucking building. And he's saying things like we got no probable cause.
"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 wantto 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.