"Aw, Christ," Graham said, letting the girl go. He coughed and sat down hard. I went back to the living room. The redhead had her high heels on but nothing else.
I said, "Where is he?"
"You bastards," she said. "You fucking bastards."
I went past her toward a door at the far end of the room. It was locked. The redhead ran up and began to hit me on the back with her fists. "Leave him alone! Leave him alone!" I was trying to open the locked door while she pounded on me. I thought I heard voices from the other side of the door. In the next moment Graham's big bulk slammed into the door and the wood splintered. The door opened. I saw the kitchen, lit by the green light of the pool outside. The room was empty. The back door was open.
"Shit."
By now the redhead had jumped on my back, and locked her legs around my waist. She was pulling my hair, screaming obscenities. I spun around in circles, trying to throw her off me. It was one of those strange moments where in the middle of all the chaos I was thinking, be careful, don't hurt her, because it would look bad for a pretty young girl to end up with a broken arm or cracked ribs, it would mean police brutality even though right now she was tearing my hair out by the roots. She bit my ear and I felt pain. I slammed myself back against the wall, and I heard her grunt as the breath was knocked out of her. She let go.
Out the window, I saw a dark figure running down the stairs. Graham saw it, too.
"Fuck," he said. He ran. I ran, too. But the girl must have tripped me because I fell over, landing hard. When I got to my feet I heard the sirens of the black and whites and their engines starting up.
Then I was back outside, running down the steps. I was maybe ten meters behind Graham, about thirty feet, when Eddie's Ferrari backed out of the garage, ground the gears, and roared down the street.
The black and whites immediately took up pursuit. Graham ran for his sedan. He had pulled out to follow while I was still running for my own car, parked farther down the road. As his car flashed past me, I could see his face, grim and angry.
I got into my car and followed.
* * *
You can't drive fast in the hills and talk on the phone. I didn't even try. I estimated I was half a kilometer behind Graham, and he was some distance behind the two patrol cars. When I got to the bottom of the hill, the 101 overpass, I saw the flashing lights going down the freeway. I had to back up and pull around to the entrance below Mulholland, and then I joined traffic heading south.
When the traffic began to slow up, I stuck my flasher on the roof, and pulled into the right-hand breakdown lane. I got to the concrete embankment about thirty seconds after the Ferrari hit it flat out at a hundred and sixty kilometers an hour. I guess the gas tank had exploded on impact, and the flames were jumping fifteen meters into the air. The heat was tremendous. It looked like the trees up on the hill might catch on fire. You couldn't get anywhere near the twisted wreck of the car.
The first of the fire trucks pulled up, with three more black and whites. There were sirens and flashing lights everywhere.
I backed up my car to make room for the trucks, then walked over to Graham. He smoked a cigarette as the firemen began to spray the wreck with foam.
"Christ," Graham said. "What a fucking cockup."
"Why didn't the backup patrolmen stop him when he was in the garage?"
"Because," Graham said, "I told them not to shoot at him. And we weren't there. They were trying to decide what to do when the guy drove away." He shook his head. "This is going to look like shit in the report."
I said, "Still, it's probably better you didn't shoot him."
"Maybe." He ground out his cigarette.
By now, the firemen had gotten the fire out. The Ferrari was a smoking hulk crumpled against the concrete. There was a harsh smell in the air.
"Well," Graham said. "No point staying around here. I'll go back up to the house. See if those girls are still there."
"You need me for anything else?"
"No. You might as well go. Tomorrow is another day. Shit, it'll be paperwork until we drop." He looked at me. He hesitated. "We in sync about this? About what happened?"
"Hell, yes," I said.
"No way to handle it differently," he said. "Far as I can see.
"No," I said. "Just one of those things."
"Okay, buddy. See you tomorrow."
"Good night, Tom."
We got into our cars.
I drove home.
☼
Mrs. Ascenio was snoring loudly on the sofa. It was three forty-five in the morning. I tiptoed past her and looked in Michelle's room. My daughter lay on her back, her covers tossed aside, her arms flung over her head. Her feet stuck through the bars of the crib. I tucked the covers around her and went into my own room.
The television was still on. I turned it off. I pulled off my tie and sat down on the bed to remove my shoes. I suddenly realized how tired I was. I took off my coat and trousers and threw them onto the television set. I lay down on my back and thought I should take off my shirt. It felt sweaty and grimy on my body. I closed my eyes for a moment and let my head sink back into the pillow. Then I felt a pinching, and something tugging at my eyelids. I heard a chirping sound and thought in a moment of horror that birds were pecking at my eyes.
I heard a voice saying, "Open your eyes, Daddy. Open your eyes." And I realized that it was my daughter, trying to pull my eyelids up with small fingers.
"Yuuuh," I said. I glimpsed daylight, rolled away, and buried my face in the pillow.
"Daddy? Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Daddy."
I said, "Daddy was out late last night. Daddy is tired."
She paid no attention. "Daddy, open your eyes. Open your eyes. Daddy? Open your eyes, Daddy."
I knew that she would continue saying the same thing, over and over, until I lost my mind, or opened my eyes. I rolled onto my back and coughed. "Daddy is still tired, Shelly. Go see what Mrs. Ascenio is doing."
"Daddy, open your eyes."
"Can't you let Daddy sleep a while? Daddy wants to sleep a little longer this morning."
"It's morning now, Daddy. Open your eyes. Open your eyes."
I opened my eyes. She was right.
It was morning.
What the hell.
SECOND DAY
☼
"Eat your pancakes."
"I don't want any more."
"Just one more bite, Shelly." Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. I yawned. It was seven o'clock in the morning.
"Is Mommy coming today?"
"Don't change the subject. Come on, Shel. One more bite. Please?"
We were sitting at her kid-size table in the corner of the kitchen. Sometimes I can get her to eat at the little table when she won't eat at the big table. But I wasn't having much luck today. Michelle stared at me.
"Is Mommy coming?"
"I think so. I'm not sure." I didn't want to disappoint her. "We're waiting to hear."
"Is Mommy going out of town again?"
I said, "Maybe." I wondered what "going out of town" meant to a two-year-old, what sort of image she would have of it.
"Is she going with Uncle Rick?"
Who is Uncle Rick? I held the fork in front of her face. "I don't know, Shel. Come on, open up. One more bite."
"He has a new car," Michelle said, nodding solemnly, the way she did whenever she was informing me of important news.
"Is that right?"
"Uh-huh. Black one."
"I see. What kind of car is it?"
"Sades."
"A Sades?"
"No. Sades."
"You mean Mercedes?"
"Uh-huh. Black one."
"That's nice," I said.
"When is Mommy coming?"
"One more bite, Shel."
She opened her mouth, and I moved the fork toward her. At the last moment she turned her head aside, pursing her lips. "No, Daddy."
"All right," I said. "I give up."
"I'm not hungry, Daddy."
"I can see that."
Mrs. Ascenio was cleaning up the kitchen before she went back to her own apartment. There was another fifteen minutes before my housekeeper Elaine came to take Michelle to day care. I still had to get her dressed. I was putting her pancakes in the sink when the phone rang. It was Ellen Farley, the mayor's press aide.
"Are you watching?"
"Watching what?"
"The news. Channel seven. They're doing the car crash right now."
"They are?"
"Call me back," she said.
I went into the bedroom and turned on the television. A voice was saying, "— reported a high-speed chase on the Hollywood freeway southbound, which ended when the suspect drove his Ferrari sportscar into the Vine Street overpass, not far from the Hollywood Bowl. Observers say the car hit the concrete embankment at more than a hundred miles an hour, instantly bursting into flames. Fire trucks were called to the scene but there were no survivors. The driver's body was so badly burned that his glasses melted. The officer in charge of the pursuit, Detective Thomas Graham, said that the driver, Mr. Edward Sakamura, was wanted in connection with the alleged murder of a woman at a downtown location. But today, friends of Mr. Sakamura expressed disbelief at this charge, and claimed that police strong-arm tactics panicked the suspect and caused him to flee. There are complaints that the incident was racially motivated. It is not clear whether police intended to charge Mr. Sakamura with the murder, and observers noted that this was the third high-speed pursuit on the 101 freeway in the last two weeks. Questions of police judgment in these pursuits have arisen after a Compton woman was killed in a high-speed pursuit last January. Neither Detective Graham nor his assistant Lieutenant Peter Smith was available to be interviewed, and we are waiting to hear if the officers will be disciplined or suspended by the department."
Jesus.
"Daddy . . ."
"Just a minute, Shel."
The image showed the crumpled, smoking wreckage being loaded onto a flatbed truck for removal from the side of the highway. There was a black smear on the concrete where the car had struck the wall.
The station cut back to the studio, where the anchorwoman faced the camera and said, "In other developments, KNBC has learned that two police officers interviewed Mr. Sakamura earlier in the evening in connection with the case, but did not arrest him at that time. Captain John Connor and Lieutenant Smith may face disciplinary review by the department, with questions being raised of possible procedural violations. However, the good news is there are no longer delays for traffic moving southbound on the 101. Now over to you, Bob."
I stared numbly at the TV. Disciplinary review?
The phone rang. It was Ellen Farley again. "You get all that?"
"Yeah, I did. I can't believe it. What's it about, Ellen?"
"None of this is coming from the mayor's office, if that's what you're asking. But the Japanese community has been unhappy with Graham before. They think he's a racist. It looks like he played right into their hands."
"I was there. Graham acted correctly."
"Yeah, I know you were there, Pete. Frankly, it's unfortunate. I don't want to see you tarred by the same brush."
I said, "Graham acted correctly."
"Are you listening, Pete?"
"What about this suspension and disciplinary review?"
"That's the first I heard of it," Ellen said. "But that would be internally generated. It's coming from your own department. By the way, is it true? Did you and Connor see Sakamura last night?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't arrest him?"
"No. We didn't have probable cause to arrest him when we talked to him. Later on, we did."
Ellen said, "Do you really think he could have done this murder?"
"I know he did. We have it on tape."
"On tape? Are you serious?"
"Yeah. We have the murder on videotape from one of the Nakamoto security cameras."
She was silent for a while. I said, "Ellen?"
"Look," Ellen said. "Off the record, okay?"
"Sure."
"I don't know what's going on here, Pete. There's more than I understand."
"Why didn't you tell me who the girl was, last night?"
"I'm sorry about that. I had a lot to take care of."
"Ellen."
A silence. Then: "Pete, this girl got around. She knew a lot of people."
"Did she know the mayor?"
Silence.
"How well did she know him?"
"Listen," Ellen said, "Let's just say she was a pretty girl and she knew a lot of people in this town. Personally, I thought she was unbalanced, but she was good-looking and she had a hell of an effect on men. You had to see it to believe it. Now there's a lot of irons in the fire. You saw the Times today?"
"No."
"Take a look. If you ask me, you want to be very correct, the next couple of days. Dot your i's and cross your t's. Do everything by the book. And watch your back, okay?"
"Okay. Thanks, Ellen."
"Don't thank me. I didn't call." Then her voice got softer. "Take care of yourself, Peter."
I heard a dial tone.
"Daddy?"
"Just a minute, Shel."
"Can I watch cartoons?"
"Sure, honey."
I found her a station with some cartoons and walked into the living room. I opened the front door and picked up the Times from the mat. It took me a while to find the story on the last page of the Metro section.
CHARGES OF POLICE RACISM
CLOUD JAPANESE FETE
I skimmed the first paragraph. Japanese officials of the Nakamoto corporation complained about "callous and insensitive" police behavior, which they said detracted from a star-studded opening night at their new skyscraper on Figueroa. At least one Nakamoto official expressed the view that the police actions were "racially motivated." A spokesperson said: "We do not believe the Los Angeles Police Department would behave in this fashion if a Japanese corporation were not involved. We feel strongly that the actions of the police reflect a double standard for treatment of Japanese at the hands of American officials." Mr. Hiroshi Ogura, chairman of the board of Nakamoto, was present at the party, which drew such celebrities as Madonna and Tom Cruise, but he could not be reached for comment on the incident. A spokesman said, "Mr. Ogura is deeply disturbed that official hostility should mar this gathering. He very much regrets the unpleasantness that occurred."
According to observers, Mayor Thomas sent a staff member to deal with the police, but with little result. The police did not modify their behavior, despite the presence of the special Japanese liaison officer, Lieutenant Peter Smith, whose job is to defuse racially sensitive situations . . . .
And so on.
You had to read four paragraphs before you discovered that a murder had occurred. That particular detail seemed to be almost irrelevant.
I looked back at the lead. The story was from the City News Service, which meant there was no byline.
I felt angry enough to call my old contact at the Times, Kenny Shubik. Ken was the leading Metro reporter. He had been at the paper forever, and he knew everything that was going on. Since it was still eight in the morning, I called him at home.
"Ken. Pete Smith."
"Oh, hi," he said. "Glad you got my message."
In the background, I heard what sounded like a teenage girl: "Oh, come on, Dad. Why can't I go?"
Ken said, "Jennifer, let me talk here for a minute."
"What message?" I said.
Ken said, "I called you last night, because I thought you ought to know right away. He's obviously working off a tip. But do you have any idea what's behind it?"
"Behind what?" I said. I didn't know what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, Ken, I didn't get your message."
"Really?" he said. "I called you about eleven-thirty last night. The DHD dispatcher said you had rolled out on a case but you had a car phone. I to
ld her it was important, and for you to call me at home if necessary. Because I felt sure you'd want to know."
In the background, the girl said, "Dad, come on, I have to decide what to wear."
"Jennifer, damn it," he said. "Chill out." To me he said, "You have a daughter, don't you?"
"Yeah," I said. "But she's only two."
"Just wait," Ken said. "Look, Pete. You really didn't get my message?"
"No," I said. "I'm calling about something else: the story in this morning's paper."
"What story?"
"The Nakamoto coverage on page eight. The one about 'callous and racist police' at the opening."
"Jeez, I didn't think we had a Nakamoto story yesterday. I know Jodie was doing the party, but that won't run until tomorrow. You know, Japan draws the glitterati. Jeff didn't have anything on the scheds in Metro yesterday."
Jeff was the Metro editor. I said, "There's a story in the paper this morning about the murder."
"What murder?" he said. His voice sounded odd.
"There was a murder at Nakamoto last night. About eight-thirty. One of the guests was killed."
Ken was silent at the other end of the line. Putting things together. Finally he said, "Were you involved?"
"Homicide called me in as Japanese liaison."
"Hmmm," Ken said. "Listen. Let me get to my desk and see what I can find out. Let's talk in an hour. And give me your numbers so I can call you direct."
"Okay."
He cleared his throat. "Listen, Pete," he said. "Just between us. Do you have any problems?"
"Like what?"
"Like a morals problem, or a problem with your bank account. Discrepancy about reported income . . . anything I should know about? As your friend?"
"No," I said.
"I don't need the details. But if there's something that isn't quite right . . . . "
"Nothing, Ken."
" 'Cause if I have to go to bat for you, I don't want to discover I have stepped in shit."
"Ken. What's going on?"
"I don't want to go into detail right now. But offhand I would say somebody is trying to fuck you in the ass," Ken said.
Michael Crichton - Rising Sun Page 15