"Yes. Actually he's just a part owner. Don't let the valet take the car. Park it in the red. We may need to leave quickly."
The Bora Bora was this week's hot L.A. restaurant. The decor was a jumble of Polynesian masks and shields. Lime green wooden outriggers jutted out over the bar like teeth. Above the open kitchen, a Prince video played ghostlike on an enormous five-meter screen. The menu was Pacific Rim; the noise deafening; the clientele movie-industry hopeful. Everyone was dressed in black.
Connor smiled. "It looks like Trader Vic's after a bomb went off, doesn't it? Stop staring. Don't they let you out enough?"
"No, they don't," I said. Connor turned to speak to the Eurasian hostess. I looked at the bar, where two women kissed briefly on the lips. Farther down, a Japanese man in a leather bomber jacket had his arm around a huge blonde. They were both listening to a man with thinning hair and a pugnacious manner whom I recognized as the director of -
"Come on," Connor said to me. "Let's go."
"What?"
"Eddie's not here."
"Where is he?"
"At a party in the hills. Let's go."
Chapter 15
The address was on a winding road in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. We would have had a good view of the city up here, but the mist had closed in. As we approached, the street was lined on both sides with luxury cars: mostly Lexus sedans, with a few Mercedes convertibles and Bentleys. The parking attendants looked surprised as we pulled up in our Chevy sedan, and headed up to the house.
Like other residences on the street, the house was surrounded by a three-meter wall, the driveway closed off with a remote-controlled steel gate. There was a security camera mounted above the gate, and another at the path leading up to the house itself. A private security guard stood by the path and checked our badges.
I said, "Whose house is this?"
Ten years ago, the only people in Los Angeles who maintained such elaborate security were either Mafioso, or stars like Stallone whose violent roles attracted violent attention. But lately it seemed everybody in wealthy residential areas had security. It was expected, almost fashionable. We walked up steps through a cactus garden toward the house, which was modern, concrete, and fortresslike. Loud music played.
"This house belongs to the man who owns Maxim Noir." He must have seen my blank look. "It's an expensive clothing store famous for its snotty salespeople. Jack Nicholson and Cher shop there."
"Jack Nicholson and Cher," I said, shaking my head. "How do you know about it?"
"Many Japanese shop at Maxim Noir now. It's like most expensive American stores - it'd go out of business without visitors from Tokyo. It's dependent on the Japanese."
As we approached the front door a large man in a sport coat appeared. He had a clipboard with names. "I'm sorry. It's by invitation only, gentlemen."
Connor flashed his badge. "We'd like to speak to one of your guests," he said.
"Which guest is that, sir?"
"Mr. Sakamura."
He didn't look happy. "Wait here, please."
From the entryway, we could see into the living room. It was crowded with party-goers, who at a quick glance seemed to be many of the same people who had been at the Nakamoto reception. As in the restaurant, almost everyone was wearing black. But the room itself caught my attention: it was stark white, entirely unadorned. No pictures on the wall. No furniture. Just bare white walls and a bare carpet. The guests looked uncomfortable. They were holding cocktail napkins and drinks, looking around for someplace to put them.
A couple passed us on their way to the dining room. "Rod always knows what to do," she said.
"Yes," he said. "So elegantly minimalist. The detail in executing that room. I don't know how he ever got that paint job. It's absolutely perfect. Not a brush stroke, not a blemish. A perfect surface."
"Well, it has to be," she said. "It's integral to his whole conception."
"It's really quite daring," the man said.
"Daring?" I said. "What are they talking about? It's just an empty room."
Connor smiled. "I call it faux zen. Style without substance."
I scanned the crowd.
"Senator Morton's here." He was standing in the corner, holding forth. Looking very much like a presidential candidate.
"So he is."
The guard hadn't returned, so we stepped a few feet into the room. As I approached Senator Morton, I heard him say, "Yes, I can tell you exactly why I'm disturbed about the extent of Japanese ownership of American industry. If we lose the ability to make our own products, we lose control over our destiny. It's that simple. For example, back in 1987 we learned that Toshiba sold the Russians critical technology that allowed the Soviets to silence their submarine propellers. Russian nuclear subs now sit right off the coast and we can't track them, because they got technology from Japan. Congress was furious, and the American people were up in arms. And rightly so, it was outrageous. Congress planned economic retaliation against Toshiba. But the lobbyists for American companies pleaded their case for them, because American companies like Hewlett-Packard and Compaq were dependent on Toshiba for computer parts. They couldn't stand a boycott because they had no other source of supply. The fact was, we couldn't afford to retaliate. They could sell vital technology to our enemy, and there wasn't a damned thing we could do about it. That's the problem. We're now dependent on Japan - and I believe America shouldn't be dependent on any nation."
Somebody asked a question, and Morton nodded. "Yes, it's true that our industry is not doing well. Real wages in this country are now at 1962 levels. The purchasing power of American workers is back where it was thirty-odd years ago. And that matters, even to the well-to-do folks that I see in this room, because it means American consumers don't have the money to see movies, or buy cars, or clothing, or whatever you people have to sell. The truth is, our nation is sliding badly."
A woman asked another question I couldn't hear, and Morton said, "Yes, I said 1962 levels. I know it's hard to believe, but think back to the fifties, when American workers could own a house, raise a family, and send the kids to college, all on a single paycheck. Now both parents work and most people still can't afford a house. The dollar buys less, everything is more expensive. People struggle just to hold on to what they have. They can't get ahead."
I found myself nodding as I listened. About a month before, I had gone looking for a house, hoping to get a backyard for Michelle. But housing prices were just impossible in L.A. I was never going to be able to afford one, unless I remarried. Maybe not even then, considering -
I felt a sharp jab in the ribs. I turned around and saw the doorman. He jerked his head toward the front door. "Back, fella."
I was angry. I glanced at Connor, but he just quietly moved back to the entrance.
In the entryway, the doorman said, "I checked. There's no Mr. Sakamura here."
"Mr. Sakamura," Connor said, "is the Japanese gentleman standing at the back of the room, to your right. Talking to the redhead."
The doorman shook his head. "I'm sorry, fellas. Unless you have a search warrant, I'll have to ask you to leave."
"There isn't a problem here," Connor said. "Mr. Sakamura is a friend of mine. I know he'd like to talk to me."
"I'm sorry. Do you have a search warrant?"
"No," Connor said.
"Then you're trespassing. And I'm asking you to leave."
Connor just stood there.
The doorman stepped back and planted his feet wide. He said, "I think you should know I'm a black belt."
"Are you really?" Connor said.
"So is Jeff," the doorman said, as a second man appeared.
"Jeff;" Connor said. "Are you the one who'll be driving your friend here to the hospital?"
Jeff laughed meanly. "Hey. You know, I like humor. It's funny. Okay, Mr. Wise Guy. You're in the wrong place. You've had it explained. Move out. Now." He poked Connor in the chest with a stubby finger.
Connor said quietly, "That's assault."
Jeff said, "Hey. Fuck you, buddy. I told you you're in the wrong place - "
Connor did something very fast, and Jeff was suddenly down on the floor, moaning in pain. Jeff rolled away, coming to rest against a pair of black trousers. Looking up, I saw that the man wearing the trousers was dressed entirely in black: black shirt, black tie, black satin jacket. He had white hair and a dramatic Hollywood manner. "I'm Rod Dwyer. This is my home. What seems to be the problem?"
Connor introduced us politely and showed his badge. "We're here on official business. We asked to speak to one of your guests, Mr. Sakamura, who is the man standing over there in the corner."
"And this man?" Dwyer asked, pointing to Jeff, who was gasping and coughing on the floor.
Connor said calmly, "He assaulted me."
"I didn't f**king assault him!" Jeff said, sitting up on his elbow, coughing.
Dwyer said, "Did you touch him?"
Jeff was silent, glowering.
Dwyer turned back to us. "I'm sorry this happened. These men are new. I don't know what they were thinking of. Can I get you a drink?"
"Thanks, we're on duty," Connor said.
"Let me ask Mr. Sakamura to come over and talk to you. Your name again?"
"Connor."
Dwyer walked away. The first man helped Jeff to his feet. As Jeff limped away, he muttered, "Fucking a**holes."
I said, "Remember when police were respected?"
But Connor was shaking his head, looking down at the floor. "I am very ashamed," he said.
"Why?"
He wouldn't explain further.
"Hey, John! John Connor! Hisashiburi dana! Long time no see! How they hanging, guy? Hey!" He punched Connor in the shoulder.
Up close, Eddie Sakamura wasn't so handsome. His complexion was gray, with pock-marked skin, and he smelled like day-old scotch. His movements were edgy, hyperactive, and he spoke quickly. Fast Eddie was not a man at peace.
Connor said, "I'm pretty good, Eddie. How about you? How you doing?"
"Hey, can't complain, Captain. One or two things only. Got a five-oh-one, drunk driving, try to beat that, but you know, with my record, it's getting hard. Hey! Life goes on! What're you doing here? Pretty wild place, huh? Latest thing: no furniture! Rod sets new style. Great! Nobody can sit down any more!" He laughed. "New style! Great!"
I had the feeling he was on drugs. He was too manic. I got a good look at the scar on his left hand. It was purple-red, roughly four centimeters by three. It appeared to be an old burn.
Connor lowered his voice and said, "Actually, Eddie, we're here about the yakkaigoto at Nakamoto tonight."
"Ah, yes," Eddie said, lowering his voice, too. "No surprise she came to a bad end. That's one henntai."
"She was perverted? Why do you say that?"
Eddie said, "Want to step outside? Like to smoke cigarette and Rod doesn't allow smoking in the house."
"Okay, Eddie."
We went outside and stood by the edge of the cactus garden. Eddie lit a Mild Seven Menthol. "Hey, Captain, I don't know what you heard already so far. But that girl. She f**ked some of the people in there. She f**ked Rod. Some of the other people. So. We can talk easier out here, okay with you?"
"Sure."
"I know that girl real well. Real well. You know I'm hipparidako, hey? I can't help it. Popular guy! She's all over me. All the time."
"I know that, Eddie. But you say she had problems?"
"Big problems, amigo. Grande problemos. I tell you. She was a sick girl, this girl. She got off on pain."
"World's full of 'em, Eddie."
He sucked on his cigarette. "Hey, no," he said. "I'm talking something else. I'm talking, how she gets off. When you hurt her real bad she comes. She's always asking, more, more. Do it more. Squeeze harder."
Connor said, "Her neck?"
"Yeah. Her neck. Right. Squeeze her neck. Yeah. You heard? And sometimes a plastic bag. You know, dry-cleaning bag? Put it over her head and clamp it, hold it around her neck while you f**k her and she sucks the plastic against her mouth and turns blue in the face. Claws at your back. Gasp and wheeze. Christ Almighty. Don't care for that, myself. But I'm telling you, this girl has a p**sy. I mean she gets off, it's wild ride. You remember afterwards. I'm telling you. But for me, too much. Always on the edge, you know? Always a risk. Always pushing the edge. Maybe this time. Maybe this is the last time. You know what I'm saying?" He flicked his cigarette away. It sputtered among the cactus thorns. "Sometimes it's exciting. Like Russian roulette. Then I couldn't take it, Captain. Seriously. I couldn't. And you know me, I like a wild time."
I decided that Eddie Sakamura gave me the creeps. I tried to make notes while he talked, but his words were tumbling out, and I couldn't keep up. He lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. He kept talking fast, swinging the glowing tip in the air for emphasis.
"And I mean, this girl, it's a problem," Eddie said. "Okay, pretty girl. She's pretty. But sometimes she can't go out, looks too bad. Sometimes, she needs lot of makeup, because neck is sensitive skin, man. And hers is bruised. Ring around the collar. Bad. You saw that, maybe. You see her dead, Captain?"
"Yeah, I saw her."
"So then..." he hesitated. He seemed to step back, reconsider something. He flicked ash from the cigarette. "So. Was she strangled, or what?"
"Yes, Eddie. She was strangled."
He inhaled. "Yeah. Figures."
"Did you see her, Eddie?"
"Me? No. What are you talking about? How could I see her, Captain?" He exhaled, blowing smoke into the night.
"Eddie. Look at me."
Eddie turned toward Connor.
"Look in my eyes. Now tell me. Did you see the body?"
"No. Captain, come on." Eddie gave a nervous little laugh, and looked away. He flicked the cigarette so it tumbled in the air, dripping sparks. "What is this? Third degree? No. I didn't see the body."