"We'll see."
"Peter," she said. "You are going to lose everything. Your job, your career, your child, everything. Wake up. Don't do it."
She started back toward her car. I walked with her. We didn't say anything. I waited for her to ask how Michelle was, but she never did. It wasn't surprising. She had other things to think about. Finally we arrived at her car, and she went around to the driver's side to get in.
"Lauren."
She looked at me over the top of the car.
"Let's keep it clean for the next twenty-four hours, okay? No well-placed calls to anybody."
"Don't worry," she said. "I never heard any of this. Frankly, I wish I never heard of you."
And she got in the car and drove off. As I watched her go, I felt my shoulders drop, and a tension leave me. It was more than the fact that I'd done what I set out to do – I had talked her out of it, at least for a while. It was more than that. There was something else, finally gone.
¤
Connor and I went up the rear stairs of my apartment building, avoiding the press. I told him what had happened. He shrugged.
"This was a surprise to you? How the liaisons are chosen?"
"Yeah. I guess I never paid attention."
He nodded. "That's how it happens. The Japanese are very skilled at providing what they call incentives. Originally, the department had qualms about letting outsiders say anything about which officers would be chosen. But the Japanese said they simply wanted to be consulted. Their recommendations wouldn't be binding. And they pointed out that it made sense for them to have some input in the choice of liaisons."
"Uh-huh . . ."
"And just to show they were even-handed, they proposed a contribution to the officers' relief fund, to benefit the whole department."
"How much was that?"
"I think half a million. And the chief was asked to come to Tokyo and consult on criminal record-keeping systems. Three-week trip. One-week stopover in Hawaii. All first class. And lots of publicity, which the chief loves."
We got to the second-floor landing. Went up to the third.
"So," Connor said, "by the time it's all finished, it's rather difficult for the department to ignore the recommendations of the Asian community. Too much is at stake."
"I feel like quitting," I said.
"That's always an option," he said. "Anyway, you got your wife to back off?"
"My ex-wife. She got the point right away. She's a finely tuned political animal, Lauren is. But I had to tell her who the murderer was."
He shrugged. "There's not much she can do in the next couple of hours."
I said, "But what about these pictures? She says they won't stand up in court. And Sanders said the same thing: the day of photographic evidence is over. Do we have any other evidence?"
"I've been working on that," Connor said. "I think we're all right."
"How?"
Connor shrugged.
We came to the back entrance to my apartment. I unlocked the door, and we went into the kitchen. It was empty. I went down the corridor to the front hall. My apartment was quiet. The doors to the living room were closed. But there was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke.
Elaine, my housekeeper, was standing in the front hall, looking out the window at the reporters on the street below. She turned when she heard us. She looked frightened.
I said, "Is Michelle all right?"
"Yes."
"Where is she?"
"Playing in the living room."
"I want to see her."
Elaine said, "Lieutenant, there's something I have to tell you first."
"Never mind," Connor said. "We already know."
He threw open the door to the living room. And I had the biggest shock of my life.
¤
John Morton sat in the makeup chair at the television studio, a Kleenex tucked around his collar, while the girl powdered his forehead. Standing at his side, his aide Woodson said, "This is how they recommend you handle it." He handed a fax to Morton.
"The basic through-line," Woodson said, "is that foreign investment invigorates America. America is made stronger by the influx of foreign money. America has much to learn from Japan."
"And we aren't learning it," Morton said gloomily.
"Well, the argument can be made," Woodson said. "It's a viable position and as you can see, the way Marjorie shaped it, it doesn't read as a change of position so much as a refinement of your previous view. You can skate on this one, John. I don't think it is going to be an issue."
"Is the question even going to come up?"
"I think so. I've told the reporters you are prepared to discuss a modification of your position on MicroCon. How you now favor the sale."
"Who'll ask it?"
"Probably Frank Pierce of the Times."
Morton nodded. "He's okay."
"Yeah. Business orientation. Should be fine. You can talk about free markets, fair trade. Lack of national security issues on this sale. All that."
The makeup girl finished, and Morton stood up from the chair.
"Senator, I'm sorry to bother you, but could I have your autograph?"
"Sure," he said.
"It's for my son."
"Sure," he said.
Woodson said, "John, we have a rough assembly of the commercial if you want to see it. It's very rough, but you might like to give comments. I've set it up for you in the next room."
"How much time have I got?"
"Nine minutes to airtime."
"Fine."
He started out the door and saw us. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "You need me for anything?"
"Just a short conversation, Senator," Connor said.
"I've got to look at a tape," Morton said. "Then we can talk. But I've only got a couple of minutes . . ."
"That's all right," Connor said.
We followed him into another room, which overlooked the studio below. Down there, on a beige-colored set that said NEWSMAKERS, three reporters were shuffling through their notes and being fitted with microphones. Morton sat in front of a television set, and Woodson plugged in a cassette.
We saw the commercial that was shot earlier in the day. It had a timecode running at the bottom of the frame, and it opened with Senator Morton, looking determined, walking over the golf course.
The basic message was that America had lost its economic competitiveness, and that we had to get it back.
"It's time for all of us to pull together," Morton said, on the monitor. "Everyone from our politicians in Washington, to our leaders of business and labor, to our teachers and children, to all of us in our homes. We need to pay our bills as we go, and cut the government deficit. We need to increase savings. To improve our roads and education. We need a government policy of energy conservation – for our environment, for our children's lungs, and for our global competitiveness."
The camera moved close to the senator's face, for his closing remarks.
"There are some who say that we are entering a new era of global business," he said. "They say it no longer matters where companies are located, or where things are made. That ideas of national economies are old-fashioned and out of date. To those people, I say – Japan doesn't think so. Germany doesn't think so. The most successful countries in the world today maintain strong national policies for energy conservation, for the control of imports, for promotion of exports. They nourish their industries, protecting them against unfair competition from abroad. Business and government work together to look after their own people and their jobs. And those countries are doing better than America, because those economic policies reflect the real world. Their policies work. Ours don't. We do not live in an ideal world, and until we do, America had better face the truth. We had better build our own brand of hard-nosed economic nationalism. We had better take care of Americans. Because nobody else will.