"All right," I said. "What do you want me to do?"

"You bring tape to us."

I looked at Connor. He nodded. Yes.

"All right," I said. "But first get your people back."

"I am sorry?"

Connor made a fist. His face turned to a snarl. He wanted me to be angry. He covered the phone and whispered in my ear. A Japanese phrase.

"Pay attention!" I said. "Yoku kike!"

At the other end, there was a grunt. Surprise.

"Wakatta. The men come away. And now, you come, Lieutenant."

"Okay," I said. "I'm coming."

I hung up the phone.

Connor whispered, "Thirty seconds," and disappeared out the front door. I was still buttoning up my shirt around the vest. Kevlar is bulky and hot. Immediately I started to sweat.

I waited thirty seconds, staring at the face of my watch. Watching the hand go around. And then I went outside.

Someone had turned the lights out in the hallway. I tripped over a body. I got to my feet, and looked at a slender Asian face. It was just a kid, surprisingly young. A teenager. He was unconscious, breathing shallowly.

I moved slowly down the stairs.

There wasn't anybody on the second-floor landing. I kept going down. I heard canned laughter from a television, behind one of the doors on the second floor. A voice said, "So tell us, where did you go on this first date?"

I continued down to the ground floor. The front door of the apartment building was glass. I looked out and saw only parked cars, and a hedge. A short section of lawn in front of the building. The men and the cars were somewhere off to the left.

I waited. I took a breath. My heart was pounding. I didn't want to go out there, but all I could think was to get them away from my daughter. To move the action away from my -

I stepped out into the night.

The air was cold on my sweating face and neck.

I took two steps forward.

Now I could see the men. They stood about ten meters away, beside their cars. I counted four men. One of them waved to me, beckoning me over. I hesitated.

Where were the others?

I couldn't see anybody except the men by the cars. They waved again, beckoning me. I started toward them when suddenly a heavy thumping blow from behind knocked me flat onto my face on the wet grass.

It was a moment before I realized what had happened.

I had been shot in the back.

And then the gunfire erupted all around me. Automatic weapons. The street was lit up like lightning from the gunfire. The sound echoed off the apartment buildings on both sides of the street. Glass was shattering. I heard people shouting all around me. More gunfire. I heard the sound of ignitions, cars roaring down the street past me. Almost immediately there was the sound of police sirens and tires squealing, and the glare of searchlights. I stayed where I was, face down on the grass. I felt like I was there for about an hour. Then I realized that the shouts now were all in English.

Finally someone came and crouched over me and said, "Don't move, Lieutenant. Let me look first." I recognized Connor's voice. His hand touched my back, probing. Then he said, "Can you turn over, Lieutenant?"

I turned over.

Standing in the harsh light of the searchlights, Connor looked down at me. "They didn't penetrate," he said. "But you're going to have a hell of a sore back tomorrow."

He helped me to my feet.

I looked back to see the man who had shot me. But there was nobody there: just a few shell casings, glinting dull yellow in the green grass, by the front door.

Third Day

Chapter 1

The headline read:

Vietnamese Gang Violence Erupts on Westside.

The story reported that Peter Smith, an L.A.P.D. Special Services officer, was the target of a vicious grudge attack by an Orange County gang known as the Bitch Killers. Lieutenant Smith had been shot twice before backup police units arrived on the scene to disperse the attacking youths. None of the suspects had been apprehended alive. But two had been killed in the shooting.

I read the papers in the bathtub, soaking my aching back. I had two large, ugly bruises on either side of my spine. It hurt to breathe.

I had sent Michelle to stay with my mother in San Diego for the weekend, until things were sorted out. Elaine had driven her down, late last night.

I continued reading.

According to the story, the Bitch Killers was thought to be the same gang that had walked up to a black two-year-old boy, Rodney Howard, and shot the child in the head while he was playing on his tricycle in the front yard of his Inglewood home a week earlier. That incident was rumored to be an initiation into the gang, and the viciousness of it had touched off a furor about whether the L.A.P.D. was able to handle gang violence in southern California.

There were a lot of reporters outside my door again, but I wasn't talking to any of them. The phone rang constantly, but I let the answering machine take it. I just sat in the tub, and tried to decide what to do.

In the middle of the morning I called Ken Shubik at the Times.

"I wondered when you'd check in," he said. "You must be pleased."

"About what?"

"About being alive," Ken said. "These kids are murder."

"You mean the Vietnamese kids last night?" I said. "They spoke Japanese."

"No."

"Yes, Ken."

"We didn't get that story right?"

"Not really."

"That explains it," he said.

"Explains what?"

"That was the Weasel's story. And the Weasel is in bad odor today. There's even talk of firing him. Nobody can figure it out, but something's happening around here," he said. "Somebody high in editorial all of a sudden has a bug up his ass about Japan. Anyway, we're starting a series investigating Japanese corporations in America."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Of course you'd never know it from today's paper. You see the business section?"

"No, why?"

"Darley-Higgins announced the sale of MicroCon to Akai. It's on page four of the business section. Two-centimeter story."

"That's it?"

"Not worth any more, I guess. Just another American company sold to the Japanese. I checked. Since 1987, there have been a hundred and eighty American high-tech and electronics companies bought by the Japanese. It's not news any more."

"But the paper is starting to investigate?"

"That's the word. It won't be easy, because all the emotional indicators are down. The balance of payments with Japan is dropping. Of course it only looks better because they don't export so many cars to us now. They make them here. And they've farmed out production to the little dragons, so the deficits appear in their columns, not Japan's. They've stepped up purchases of oranges and timber, to make things look better. Basically, they treat us as an under-developed country. They import our raw materials. But they don't buy our finished goods. They say we don't make anything they want."

"Maybe we don't, Ken."

"Tell it to the judge." He sighed. "But I don't know if the public gives a damn. That's the question. Even about the taxes."

I was feeling a little dull. "Taxes?"

"We're doing a big series on taxes. The government is finally noticing that Japanese corporations do a lot of business here, but they don't pay much tax in America. Some of them pay none, which is ridiculous. They control their profits by overpricing the Japanese subcomponents that their American assembly plants import. It's outrageous, but of course, the American government has never been too swift about penalizing Japan before. And the Japanese spend half a billion a year in Washington, to keep everybody calmed down."

"But you're going to do a tax story?"

"Yeah. And we're looking at Nakamoto. My sources keep telling me Nakamoto's going to get hit with a price-fixing suit. Price-fixing is the name of the game for Japanese companies. I pulled a list of who's settled lawsuits. Nintendo in 1991, price-fixing games. Mitsubishi that year, price-fixing TVs. Panasonic in 1989. Minolta in 1987. And you know that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"Then it's good you're doing the story," I said.

He coughed. "You want to go on record? About the Vietnamese who speak Japanese?"

"No," I said.

"We're all in this together," he said.

"I don't think it would do any good," I said.

I had lunch with Connor at a sushi bar in Culver City. As we were pulling up, someone was placing a CLOSED sign in the window. He saw Connor, and flipped it to say OPEN.

"They know me here," Connor said.

"You mean they like you?"

"It's hard to know about that."

"They want your business?"

"No," Connor said. "Probably Hiroshi would prefer to close. It won't be profitable for him to keep his people on, just for two gaijin customers. But I come here often. He is honoring the relationship. It doesn't really have to do with business or liking."

We got out of the car.

"Americans don't understand," he said. "Because the Japanese system is fundamentally different."

"Yeah, well, I think they're starting to understand," I said. I told him Ken Shubik's story about price-fixing.

Connor sighed. "It's a cheap shot to say the Japanese are dishonest. They're not - but they play by different rules. Americans just don't get it."

"That's fine," I said. "But price-fixing is illegal."

"In America," he said. "Yes. But it's normal procedure in Japan. Remember, kōhai: fundamentally different. Collusive agreements are the way things are done. The Nomura stock scandal showed that. Americans get moralistic about collusion, instead of just seeing it as a different way of doing business. Which is all it is."

We went into the sushi bar. There was a lot of bowing and greeting. Connor spoke Japanese and we sat at the bar. We didn't order.

I said, "Aren't we going to order?"

"No," Connor said. "It would be offensive. Hiroshi will decide for us what we would like."

So we sat at the bar and Hiroshi brought us dishes. I watched him cutting fish.

The phone rang. From the far end of the sushi bar, a man said, "Connor-san, onna no hito ga matteru to ittemashita yo."

"Dōmo," Connor said, nodding. He turned to me, and pushed back from the bar. "Guess we won't eat, after all. Time for us to go to our next appointment. You brought the tape with you?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Where are we going?"

"To see your friend," he said. "Miss Asakuma."

Chapter 2

We were bouncing along the potholes of the Santa Monica freeway, heading downtown. The afternoon sky was gray; it looked like rain. My back hurt. Connor was looking out the window, humming to himself,

In all the excitement, I had forgotten about Theresa's call the night before. She had said she was looking at the last part of the tape, and she thought there was a problem.

"Have you talked to her?"

"Theresa? Briefly. I gave her some advice."

"Last night, she said there was a problem with the tape."

"Oh? She didn't mention that to me."

I had the feeling he wasn't telling me the truth, but my back was throbbing and I wasn't in the mood to press him. There were times when I thought Connor had become Japanese himself. He had that reserve, that secretive manner.

I said, "You never told me why you left Japan."

"Oh, that." He sighed. "I had a job, working for a corporation. Advising on security. But it didn't work out."

"Why not?"

"Well, the job was all right. It was fine."

"Then what was it?"

He shook his head. "Most people who've lived in Japan come away with mixed feelings. In many ways, the Japanese are wonderful people. They're hardworking, intelligent, and humorous. They have real integrity. They are also the most racist people on the planet. That's why they're always accusing everybody else of racism. They're so prejudiced, they assume everybody else must be, too. And living in Japan... I just got tired, after a while, of the way things worked. I got tired of seeing women move to the other side of the street when they saw me walking toward them at night. I got tired of noticing that the last two seats to be occupied on the subway were the ones on either side of me. I got tired of the airline stewardesses asking Japanese passengers if they minded sitting next to a gaijin, assuming that I couldn't understand what they were saying because they were speaking Japanese. I got tired of the exclusion, the subtle patronizing, the jokes behind my back. I got tired of being a nigger. I just... got tired. I gave up."

"Sounds to me like you don't really like them."

"No," Connor said. "I do. I like them very much. But I'm not Japanese, and they never let me forget it." He sighed again. "I have many Japanese friends who work in America, and it's hard for them, too. The differences cut both ways. They feel excluded. People don't sit next to them, either. But my friends always ask me to remember that they are human beings first, and Japanese second. Unfortunately, in my experience that is not always true."

"You mean, they're Japanese first."

He shrugged. "Family is family."

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter 3

We were in a small room on the third floor of a boardinghouse for foreign students. Theresa Asakuma explained it was not her room; it belonged to a friend who was studying in Italy for a term. She had set up the small VCR and a small monitor on a table.

"I thought I should get out of the lab," she said, running the machine fast forward. "But I wanted you to see this. This is the end of one of the tapes you brought me. It begins right after the senator has left the room."

She slowed the tape, and I saw the wide view of the forty-sixth floor of the Nakamoto building. The floor was deserted. The pale body of Cheryl Austin lay on the dark conference table.

The tape continued to roll.

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