Rising Sun: A Novel by Michael Crichton Page B

to say that Connor was my idea, and not his own.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I—”
    “I understand,” the chief said. “You probably thought you couldn’t handle the case yourself. Wanted some help. But I’m afraid you bought more trouble than help. Because the Japanese don’t like Connor. And I got to tell you. I go way back with John. We entered the academy together back in fifty-nine. He’s always been a loner and a troublemaker. You know, anybody who goes to live in some foreign country, it’s because he can’t fit in here at home. I don’t want him screwing up this investigation now.”
    “Chief—”
    “This is how I see it, Peter. You got a homicide here, wrap it up and get it over with. Do it quick and do it neat. I’m looking to you and you alone. You hearing me?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “The connection is good?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said.
    “Wrap it up, Pete,” the chief said. “I don’t want anybody else calling me on this.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Finish it by tomorrow latest. That’s it.” And he hung up.
    I put the phone back in the cradle.
    “Yes,” Connor said. “I’d say pressure is being applied.”

I drove south on the 405 freeway, toward the airport. It was foggier here. Connor stared out the window.
    “In a Japanese organization, you’d never get a call like that. The chief just hung you out to dry. He takes no responsibility—it’s all your problem. And he’s blaming you for things that have nothing to do with you, like Graham, and me.” Connor shook his head. “The Japanese don’t do that. The Japanese have a saying: fix the problem, not the blame. In American organizations it’s all about
who
fucked up. Whose head will roll. In Japanese organizations it’s about
what’s
fucked up, and how to fix it. Nobody gets blamed. Their way is better.”
    Connor was silent, staring out the window. We were driving past Slauson, the Marina freeway a dark curve arcing above us in the fog.
    I said, “The chief was in the bag, that’s all.”
    “Yes. And uninformed, as usual. But even so, it sounds like we’d better have this case solved before he gets out of bed tomorrow.”
    “Can we do that?”
    “Yes. If Ishiguro delivers those tapes.”
    The phone rang again. I answered it.
    It was Ishiguro.
    I handed the phone to Connor.
    I could hear Ishiguro faintly through the receiver. He sounded tense, speaking rapidly.
“A, moshi moshi, Connor-sandesuka? Keibi no heyani denwa shitan desuga ne. Daremo denain desuyo.”
    Connor cupped his hand over the phone and translated. “He called the security guard but no one was there.”
    “Sorede, chuōkeibishitsu ni renraku shite, hito wo okutte moraimashite, issho ni tēpu o kakunin shite kimashita.”
    “Then he called the main security office and asked them to come down with him to check the tapes.”
    “Tēpu wa subete rekōdā no naka ni arimasu. Nakunattemo torikaeraretemo imasen. Subete daijōbu desu.”
    “The tapes are all in the recorders. No tapes are missing or switched.” Connor frowned and replied.
“Iya, tēpu wa surikaerarete iru hazu nanda. Tēpu o sagase!”
    “Dakara, daijōbu nandesu, Connor-san. Dōshiro to iun desuka?”
    “He insists everything is in order.”
    Connor said,
“Tēpu o sagase!”
To me, he said, “I told him I wanted the damn tapes.”
    “Daijōbuda to itterudeshou. Dōshite sonnaini tēpu ni kodawarun desuka?”
    “Ore niwa wakatte irunda. Tēpu wa nakunatte iru.
I know more than you think, Mr. Ishiguro.
Mōichido iu, tēpu o sagasunda!”
    Connor banged the phone in the cradle, and sat back, snorting angrily. “Bastards. They’re taking the position that there are no missing tapes.”
    “What does that mean?” I said.
    “They’ve decided to play hardball.” Connor stared out the window at the traffic, and tapped his teeth with his finger. “They’d never do it unless they felt they had a strong position. An unassailable position. Which means …”
    Connor drifted off into