Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  Connor was silent. Up ahead, I saw the airplanes coming down over the freeway. We were approaching the airport.

  "Anyway," I said. "I was glad when the liaison job came along. Because it works out better for the hours, and for the money. And that's how I got to be here. In this car with you. That's it."

  "Kōhai," he said quietly. "We're in this together. Just tell me. What is the problem?"

  "There isn't any problem."

  "Kōhai."

  "There isn't."

  "Kōhai . . ."

  "Hey, John," I said, "let me tell you something. When you apply for Special Services liaison, five different committees go over your record. To get a liaison job, you have to be clean. The committees went over my record. And they found nothing substantial."

  Connor nodded. "But they found something."

  "Christ," I said, "I was a detective for five years. You can't work that long without a few complaints. You know that."

  "And what were the complaints against you?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing. Little stuff. I arrested a guy my first year, he accused me of undue force. That charge was dropped after inquiry. I arrested a woman for armed robbery, she claimed I planted a gram on her. Charge dropped; it was her gram. Murder suspect claimed I beat and kicked him during questioning. But other officers were present at all times. A drunken woman on a domestic violence call later claimed I molested her child. She dropped the charge. Teenage gang leader arrested for murder said I made a homosexual pass at him. Charge withdrawn. That's it."

  If you're a cop you know that complaints like these are background noise, like traffic on the street. There's nothing you can do about them. You're in an adversarial environment, accusing people of crimes all the time. They accuse you back. That's just the way it works. The department never pays any attention unless there's a pattern or repetition. If a guy has three or four complaints of undue force over a couple of years, then he gets an inquiry. Or a string of racial complaints, he gets an inquiry. But otherwise, as the assistant chief Jim Olson always says, being a cop is a job for the thick-skinned.

  Connor didn't say anything for a long time. He frowned, thinking it over. Finally he said, "What about the divorce? Problems there?"

  "Nothing unusual."

  "You and your ex are on speaking terms?"

  "Yes. We're okay. Not great. But okay."

  He was still frowning. Still looking for something. "And you left the detective division two years ago?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "I already told you."

  "You said that you couldn't work the hours."

  "That was most of it, yeah."

  "That, and what else?"

  I shrugged. "After the divorce, I just didn't want to work homicide any more. I felt like — I don't know. Disillusioned. I had this little infant and my wife had moved out. She was going on with her life, dating some hotshot attorney. I was left holding the kid. I just felt flat. I didn't want to be a detective any more."

  "You seek counseling at that time? Therapy?"

  "No."

  "Trouble with drugs or alcohol?"

  "No."

  "Other women?"

  "Some."

  "During the marriage?"

  I hesitated.

  "Farley? In the mayor's office?"

  "No. That was later."

  "But there was somebody during the marriage."

  "Yes. But she lives in Phoenix now. Her husband got transferred."

  "She was in the department?"

  I shrugged.

  Connor sat back in his seat. "Okay, kōhai," he said. "If this is all there is, you're fine." He looked at me.

  "That's all."

  "But I have to warn you," he said. "I've been through this kind of thing before, with the Japanese. When the Japanese play hardball, they can make things unpleasant. Really unpleasant."

  "You trying to scare me?"

  "No. Just telling you the way things are."

  "Fuck the Japanese," I said. "I've got nothing to hide."

  "Fine. Now I think you better call your friends at the network, and tell them we'll be over, after our next stop."

  ☼

  A 747 roared low overhead, its landing lights flaring in the fog. It passed the sputtering neon sign that read Girls! Girls! All Nude! Girls! It was around eleven-thirty when we went inside.

  To call the Club Palomino a strip joint was to flatter it. It was a converted bowling alley with cactus and horses painted on the walls. It seemed smaller inside than it appeared from the outside. A woman in a silver tassled G-string who looked close to forty danced listlessly in orange light. She seemed as bored as the customers hunched over tiny pink tables. Topless waitresses moved through the smoky air. The tape-recorded music had a loud hiss.

  A guy just inside the door said, "Twelve bucks. Two drink minimum." Connor flipped his badge. The guy said, "Okay, fine."

  Connor looked around and said, "I didn't know Japanese came here." I saw three businessmen in blue suits, sitting at a corner table.

  "Hardly ever," the bouncer said. "They like the Star Strip downtown. More glitz, more tits. You ask me, those guys got lost from their tour."

  Connor nodded, "I'm looking for Ted Cole."

  "At the bar. Guy with the glasses."

  Ted Cole was sitting at the bar. His windbreaker covered his Nakamoto Security uniform. He stared at us dully when we came up and sat beside him.

  The bartender came over. Connor said, "Two Buds."

  "No Bud. Asahi okay?"

  "Okay."

  Connor flipped his badge. Cole shook his head and turned away from us. He looked studiously at the stripper.

  "I don't know anything."

  Connor said, "About what?"

  "About anything. I'm just minding my own business. I'm off duty." He was a little drunk.

  Connor said, "When did you get off duty?"

  "I got off early tonight."

  "Why is that?"

  "Stomach trouble. I got an ulcer, it acts up sometimes. So I got off early."

  "What time?"

  "I got off at eight-fifteen at the latest."

  "Do you punch a time clock?"

  "No. We don't do that. No time clock."

  "And who took over for you?"

  "I got relieved."

  "By whom?"

  "My supervisor."

  "Who is that?"

  "I don't know him. Japanese guy. Never seen him before."

  "He's your supervisor, and you never saw him before?"

  "New guy. Japanese. I don't know him. What do you want from me, anyway?"

  "Just to ask a few questions," Connor said.

  "I got nothing to hide," Cole said.

  One of the Japanese men sitting at the table came up to the bar. He stood near us and said to the bartender, "What kind of cigarettes you got?"

  "Marlboro," the bartender said.

  "What else?"

  "Maybe Kools. I have to check. But I know we got Marlboro. You want Marlboro?"

  Ted Cole stared at the Japanese man. The Japanese seemed not to notice him as he stood at the bar. "Kent?" the Japanese said. "You got any Kent lights?"

  "No. No Kent."

  "Okay then, Marlboro," the Japanese man said. "Marlboro is okay." He turned and smiled at us. "This is Marlboro country, right?"

  "That's right," Connor said.

  Cole picked up his beer and sipped it. We were all silent. The Japanese man beat the bar with his hands, in time to the music. "Great place," he said. "Lot of atmosphere."

  I wondered what he was talking about. This place was a dump.

  The Japanese slid onto the bar stool next to us. Cole studied his beer bottle as if he'd never seen one before. He turned it in his hands, making rings on the bar top.

  The bartender brought cigarettes, and the Japanese man tossed a five-dollar bill on the table. "Keep the change." He tore open the pack, and took out a cigarette. He smiled at us.

  Con
nor took out his lighter to light the man's cigarette. As the man leaned over the flame, he said, "Doko kaisha ittenno?"

  The man blinked. "Sorry?"

  "Wakannē no?" Connor said. "Doko kaisha ittenno?"

  The man smiled, and slipped off the bar stool. "Soro soro ikanakutewa. Shitsurei shimasu." He gave a little wave, and he went back to his friends across the room.

  "Dewa mata," Connor said. He moved around to sit on the stool where the Japanese man had been sitting.

  Cole said, "What was that all about?"

  "I just asked him what company he worked for," Connor said. "But he didn't want to talk. I guess he wanted to get back to his friends." Connor ran his hands under the bar, feeling. "Feels clean."

  Connor turned back to Cole and said, "Now then, Mr. Cole. You were telling me that a supervisor took over for you. At what time was that?"

  "Eight-fifteen."

  "And you didn't know him?"

  "No."

  "And before that time, while you were on duty, were you taping from the video cameras?"

  "Sure. The security office always tapes from the cameras."

  "And did the supervisor remove the tapes?"

  "Remove them? I don't think so. The tapes are still there, as far as I know."

  He looked at us in a puzzled way.

  "You fellows are interested in the tapes?"

  "Yes," Connor said.

  "Because I never paid much attention to the tapes. I was interested in the cameras."

  "How's that?"

  "They were getting the building ready for the big party, and there were lots of last-minute details. But you still had to wonder why they pulled so many security cameras off other parts of the building and put them up on that floor."

  I said, "They what?"

  "Those cameras weren't on the forty-sixth floor yesterday morning," Cole said. "They were scattered all around the building. Somebody moved them during the day. They're easy to move, you know, because there's no wires attached."

  "The cameras have no wires?"

  "No. It's all cellular transmission inside the building itself. Built that way. That's why they don't have audio: they can't transmit full bandwidth on cellular. So they just send an image. But they can move those cameras around to suit their purposes. See whatever they want to see. You didn't know that?"

  "No," I said.

  "I'm surprised nobody told you. It's one of the features of the building they're most proud of." Cole drank his beer. "Only question I have is why somebody would take five cameras and install them on the floor above the party. 'Cause there's no security reason. You can lock off the elevators above a certain floor. So for security, you'd want your cameras on the floors below the party. Not above."

  "But the elevators weren't locked off."

  "No. I thought that was kind of unusual, myself." He looked at the Japanese across the room. "I got to be going soon," he said.

  "Well," Connor said. "You've been very helpful, Mr. Cole. We may want to question you again— "

  "I'll write down my phone number for you," Cole said, scribbling on a bar napkin.

  "And your address?"

  "Yeah, right. But actually, I'm going out of town for a few days. My mother's been feeling sick, and she asked me to take her down there to Mexico for a few days. Probably go this weekend."

  "Long trip?"

  "Week or so. I got vacation days coming up, it seems like a good time to take it."

  "Sure," Connor said. "I can see how it would. Thanks again for your help." He shook hands with Cole, and punched him lightly on the shoulder. "And you take care of your health."

  "Oh, I will."

  "Stop drinking, and have a safe drive home." He paused. "Or wherever you may decide to go tonight, instead."

  Cole nodded. "I think you're right. That's not a bad idea."

  "I know I'm right."

  Cole shook my hand. Connor was heading out the door. Cole said, "I don't know why you guys are bothering."

  "With the tapes?"

  "With the Japanese. What can you do? They're ahead of us every step of the way. And they have the big guys in their pocket. We can't beat 'em now. You two guys'll never beat 'em. They're just too good."

  Outside, beneath the crackling neon sign, Connor said, "Come on, time is wasting."

  We got in the car. He handed me the bar napkin. On it was scrawled in block letters:

  THEY STOLE THE TAPES

  "Let's get going," .Connor said.

  I started the car.

  ☼

  The eleven o'clock news was finished for the night, and the newsroom was nearly deserted. Connor and I went down the hall to the sound stage where the Action News set was still lit up.

  On the set, the evening broadcast was being replayed with the sound off. The anchorman pointed to the monitor. "I'm not stupid, Bobby. I watch these things. She did the lead-in and the wrap-up the last three nights." He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I'm waiting to hear what you have to say, Bobby."

  My friend Bob Arthur, the heavyset, tired producer of the eleven o'clock news, sipped a tumbler of straight scotch as big as his fist. He said, "Jim, it just worked out that way."

  "Worked out that way my ass," the anchorman said.

  The anchorwoman was a gorgeous redhead with a killer figure. She was taking a long time to shuffle through her notes, making sure she stayed to overhear the conversation between Bob and her coanchor.

  "Look," the anchorman said. "It's in my contract. Half the lead-ins and half the wraps. It's contractual."

  "But Jim," the producer said. "The lead tonight was Paris fashions and the Nakamoto party. That's human interest stuff."

  "It should have been the serial killer."

  Bob sighed. "His arraignment was postponed. Anyway, the public is tired of serial killers."

  The anchorman looked incredulous. "The public is tired of serial killers? Now, where'd you get that?"

  "You can read it yourself in the focus groups, Jim. Serial killers are overexposed. Our audience is worried about the economy. They don't want any more serial killers."

  "Our audience is worried about the economy so we lead off with Nakamoto and Paris fashions?"

  "That's right, Jim," Bob Arthur said. "In hard times, you do star parties. That's what people want to see: fashion and fantasy."

  The anchor looked sullen. "I'm a journalist, I'm here to do hard news, not fashion."

  "Right, Jim," the producer said. "That's why Liz did the intros tonight. We want to keep your image hard news."

  "When Teddy Roosevelt led this country out of the Great Depression, he didn't do it with fashion and fantasy."

  "Franklin Roosevelt."

  "Whatever. You know what I'm saying. If people are worried, let's do the economy. Let's do the balance of payments or whatever it is."

  "Right, Jim. But this is the eleven o'clock news in the local market, and people don't want to hear— "

  "And that's what's wrong with America," the anchorman pronounced, stabbing the air with his finger. "People don't want to hear the real news."

  "Right, Jim. You're absolutely right." He put his arm over the anchorman's shoulder. "Get some rest, okay? We'll talk tomorrow."

  That seemed to be a signal of some kind, because the anchorwoman finished with her notes and strode off.

  "I'm a journalist," the anchor said. "I just want to do the job I was trained for."

  "Right, Jim. More tomorrow. Have a good night."

  "Stupid dickhead," Bob Arthur said, leading us down a corridor. "Teddy Roosevelt. Jesus. They're not journalists. They're actors. And they count their lines, like all actors." He sighed, and took another drink of scotch. "Now tell me again, what do you guys want to see?"

  "Tape from the Nakamoto opening."

  "You mean the air tapes? The story we ran tonight?"

  "No, we want to see the original footage from the camera."

  "The field tapes. Jeez. I hope we still have them. They may have
been bulked."

  "Bulked?"

  "Bulk degaussed. Erased. We shoot forty cassettes a day here. Most of them get erased right away. We used to save field tapes for a week, but we're cutting costs, you know."

  On one side of the newsroom were shelves of stacked Betamax cartridges. Bob ran his finger along the boxes. "Nakamoto . . . Nakamoto . . . No, I don't see them." A woman went past. "Cindy, is Rick still here?"

  "No, he's gone home. You need something?"

  "The Nakamoto field tapes. They aren't on the shelf."

  "Check Don's room. He cut it."

  "Okay." Bob led us across the newsroom to the editing bays on the far side. He opened a door, and we entered a small, messy room with two monitors, several tape decks, and an editing console. Tapes in boxes were scattered around the floor. Bob rummaged through them. "Okay, you guys are in luck. Camera originals. There's a lot of it. I'll get Jenny to run you through them. She's our best spotter. She knows everybody." He stuck his head out the door. "Jenny? Jenny!"

  "Okay, let's see," Jenny Gonzales said, a few minutes later. She was a bespectacled, heavyset woman in her forties. She scanned the editor's notes and frowned. "It doesn't matter how many times I tell them, they just will not put things in proper . . . Finally. Here we are. Four tapes. Two limo driveups. Two roving inside, at the party. What do you want to see?"

  Connor said, "Start with the driveups." He glanced at his watch. "Is there any way to do this fast? We're in a hurry."

  "Fast as you want. I'm used to it. Let's see it at high speed.

  She hit a button. At high speed, we saw the limousines pulling up, the doors jumping open, the people getting out, jerkily walking away.

  "Looking for anyone in particular? Because I see somebody marked footages for celebrities during the edit."

  "We're not looking for a celebrity," I said.

  "Too bad. It's probably all we shot." We watched the tape. Jenny said, "There's Senator Kennedy. He's lost some weight, hasn't he. Oops, gone. And Senator Morton. Looking very fit. No surprise. That creepy assistant of his. He makes my teeth shiver. Senator Rowe, without his wife, as usual. There's Tom Hanks. I don't know this Japanese guy.

  Connor said, "Hiroshi Masukawa, vice-president of Mitsui."

  "There you go. Senator Chalmers, hair transplant looking good. Congressman Levine. Congressman Daniels. Sober for a change. You know, I'm surprised Nakamoto got so many of these Washington people to attend."