Rising Sun: A Novel by Michael Crichton Page A

the final night arrives, they’ve thought of everything and they’re in complete control. It’s very bad form not to be in control. Okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “But there is our friend Ishiguro, the official representative of Nakamoto, standing in front of a dead girl, and he’s clearly not in control. He’s
yōshiki nō
, doing Western-style confrontation, but he isn’t comfortable—I’m sure you noticed the sweat on his lip. And his hand is damp; he keeps wiping it on his trousers. He is
rikutsuppoi
, too argumentative. He’s talking too much.
    “In short, he’s behaving as if he doesn’t really know what to do, as if he doesn’t even know who this girl is—which he certainly does, since he knows everybody invited to that party—and pretending he doesn’t know who killed her. When he almost certainly knows that, too.”
    The car bounced in a pothole, and jolted back up. “Wait a minute. Ishiguro knows who killed the girl?”
    “I’m sure of it. And he’s not the only one. At least three people must know who killed her, at this point. Didn’t you say you used to be in press relations?”
    “Yes. Last year.”
    “You keep any contacts in TV news?”
    “A few,” I said. “They might be rusty. Why?”
    “I want to look at some tape that was shot tonight.”
    “Just look? Not subpoena?”
    “Right. Just look.”
    “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. I was thinking I could call Jennifer Lewis at KNBC, or Bob Arthur at KCBS. Probably Bob.
    Connor said, “It has to be somebody you can approach personally. Otherwise the stations won’t help us. You noticed there were no TV crews at the crime scene tonight. At most crime scenes, you have to fight your way past the cameras just to get to the tape. But tonight, no TV crews, no reporters. Nothing.”
    I shrugged. “We were on land lines. The press couldn’t monitor radio transmissions.”
    “They were already there,” Connor said, “covering the party with Tom Cruise and Madonna. And then a girl gets murdered on the floor above. So where were the TV crews?”
    I said, “Captain, I don’t buy it.”
    One of the things I learned as a press officer is that there aren’t any conspiracies. The press is too diverse, and in a sense too disorganized. In fact, on the rare occasions when we needed an embargo—like a kidnapping with ransom negotiations in progress—we had a hell of a time getting cooperation. “The paper closes early. The TV crews have to make the eleven o’clock news. They probably went back to edit their stories.”
    “I disagree. I think the Japanese expressed concern about their
kigyō image
, their company image, and the press cooperated with no coverage. Trust me,
kōhai
: the pressure is being applied.”
    “I can’t believe that.”
    “Take my word for it,” Connor said. “The pressure is on.”
    Just then, the car phone rang.
    “God damn it, Peter,” a familiar rough voice said. “What the fuck’s going on with that homicide investigation?” It was the chief. It sounded like he had been drinking.
    “How do you mean, Chief?”
    Connor looked at me, and punched the speaker phone button so he could hear.
    The chief said: “You guys harassing the Japanese? We going to have another set of racial allegations against the department here?”
    “No sir,” I said. “Absolutely not. I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
    “I heard that dumb fuck Graham was making insults as usual,” the chief said.
    “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say insults, Chief—”
    “Look, Peter. Don’t shit me. I already reamed out Fred Hoffmann for sending Graham in the first place. I want that racist turd off the case. We’ve all got to get along with the Japanese from now on. It’s the way the world is. You hearing me, Peter?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Now about John Connor. You got him with you, is that right?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Why did you bring him into this?”
    I thought: why did
I
bring him in? Fred Hoffmann must have decided