"Listen, Pete," she said. "I don't know what's going on here, but the mayor's been hearing some pretty strong complaints from a Mr. Ishiguro– "
"I can imagine– "
"And the mayor asked me to remind you that there is no excuse for officials of this city to be rude to foreign nationals."
Graham said loudly, "Especially when they make such large campaign contributions."
"Foreign nationals can't contribute to American political campaigns," Farley said. "You know that." She lowered her voice. "This is a sensitive case, Pete. I want you to be careful. You know the Japanese have a special concern about how they are treated in America."
"Okay, fine."
She looked through the glass walls of the conference room, toward the atrium. "Is that John Connor?"
"Yes."
"I thought he was retired. What's he doing here?"
"Helping me on the case."
Farley frowned. "You know the Japanese have mixed feelings about him. They have a term for it. For somebody who is a Japan lover and goes to the other extreme, and turns into a basher."
"Connor isn't a basher."
"Ishiguro felt roughly treated."
"Ishiguro was telling us what to do," I said. "And we have a murdered girl here, which everybody seems to be forgetting– "
"Come on, Pete," she said, "nobody's trying to tell you how to do your job. All I'm saying is you have to take into account the special– "
She stopped.
She was looking at the body.
"Ellen?" I said. "Do you know her?"
"No." She turned away.
"You sure?"
I could see she was rattled.
Graham said, "You saw her downstairs earlier?"
"I don't– maybe. I think so. Listen, fellas, I've got to get back."
"Ellen. Come on."
"I don't know who she is, Pete. You know I'd tell you if I did. Just keep it cordial with the Japanese. That's all the mayor wanted me to say. I've got to go now."
She hurried back toward the elevators. I watched her leave, feeling uneasy.
Graham came over and stood beside me. "She's got a great ass," he said. "But she ain't leveling, buddy, even with you."
I said, "What do you mean, even with me?"
"Everybody knows you and Farley were an item."
"What are you talking about?"
Graham punched me on the shoulder. "Come on. You're divorced now. Nobody gives a shit."
I said, "It's not true, Tom."
"You can do what you want. Handsome guy like you."
"I'm telling you, it's not true."
"Okay, fine." He held up his hands. "My mistake."
I watched Farley at the other end of the atrium, ducking under the tape. She pressed the elevator button, and waited for it to come, tapping her foot impatiently.
I said, "You really think she knows who the girl is?"
"Damn right she does," Graham said. "You know why the mayor likes her. She stands by his side and whispers everybody's name to him. People she hasn't seen for years. Husbands, wives, children, everyone. Farley knows who this girl is."
"Then why didn't she tell us?"
"Fuck," Graham said. "Must be important to somebody. She took off like a shot, didn't she? I tell you, we better figure out who this dead girl is. Because I fucking hate being the last one in town to know."
Connor was across the room, waving to us.
"What does he want now?" Graham said. "Waving like that. What's he got in his hand?"
"Looks like a purse," I said.
"Cheryl Lynn Austin," Connor said, reading. "Born Midland, Texas, graduate of Texas State. Twenty-three years old. Got an apartment in Westwood, but hasn't been here long enough to change her Texas driver's license."
The contents of the purse were spread out on a desk. We pushed them around with pencils.
"Where'd you find this purse?" I asked. It was a small, dark, beaded clutch with a pearl clasp. A vintage forties purse. Expensive.
"It was in the potted palm near the conference room." Connor unzipped a tiny compartment. A tight roll of crisp hundred-dollar bills tumbled onto the table. "Very nice. Miss Austin is well taken care of."
I said, "No car keys?"
"No."
"So she came with somebody."
"And evidently intended to leave with somebody, too. Taxis can't break a hundred-dollar bill."
There was also a gold American Express Card. Lipstick and a compact. A pack of Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes, a Japanese brand. A card for the Daimatsu Night Club in Tokyo. Four small blue pills. That was about it.
Using his pencil, Connor upended the beaded purse. Small green flecks spilled out onto the table. "Know what that is?"
"No," I said. Graham looked at it with a magnifying glass.
Connor said, "It's wasabi–covered peanuts."
Wasabiis green horseradish served in Japanese restaurants. I had never heard of wasabi–covered peanuts.
"I don't know if they're sold outside Japan."
Graham grunted. "I've seen enough. So what do you think now, John? Is Ishiguro going to get those witnesses you asked for?"
"I wouldn't expect them soon," Connor said.
"Fucking right," Graham said. "We won't see those witnesses until day after tomorrow, after their lawyers have briefed them on exactly what to say." He stepped away from the table. "You realize why they're delaying us. A Japanese killed this girl. That's what we're dealing with."
"It's possible," Connor said.
"Hey, buddy. More than possible. We're here. This is their building. And that girl is just the type they go for. The American beauty long-stemmed rose. You know all those little guys want to fuck a volleyball player."
Connor shrugged. "Possibly."
"Come on," Graham said. "You know those guys eat shit all day long at home. Crammed into subways, working in big companies. Can't say what they think. Then they come over here, away from the constraints of home, and suddenly they're rich and free. They can do whatever they want. And sometimes one of them goes a little crazy. Tell me I'm wrong."
Connor looked at Graham for a long time. Finally he said, "So as you see it, Tom, a Japanese killer decided to dispatch this girl on the Nakamoto boardroom conference table?"
"Right."
"As a symbolic act?"
Graham shrugged. "Christ, who knows? We're not talking normality here. But I'll tell you one thing. I'm going to get the fucker who did this, if it's the last goddamned thing I do."
¤
The elevator descended rapidly. Connor leaned against the glass. "There are many reasons to dislike the Japanese," he said, "but Graham knows none of them." He sighed. "You know what they say about us?"
"What?"
"They say Americans are too eager to make theories. They say we don't spend enough time observing the world, and so we don't know how things actually are."
"Is that a Zen idea?"
"No," he laughed. "Just an observation. Ask a computer salesman what he thinks of his American counterparts, and he'll tell you that. Everyone in Japan who deals with Americans thinks it. And when you look at Graham, you realize they're right. Graham has no real knowledge, no first-hand experience. He just has a collection of prejudices and media fantasies. He doesn't know anything about the Japanese – and it never occurs to him to find out."