Free Rising Sun: A Novel by Michael Crichton

Connor walked back into the bedroom. He picked up one of the framed pictures on the dresser. “Now look at this one,” he said. “Miss Austin and a Japanese friend in Shinjuku Station in Tokyo. She was probably drawn to the Kabukichō section—or perhaps she was just shopping. Notice the right-hand edge of the picture. See the narrow strip that’s lighter in color?”
    “Yes.” And I understood what that strip meant: there had been another picture on top of this one. The edge of this picture had stuck out, and was sun-faded. “The overlying picture has been removed.”
    “Yes,” Connor said.
    “The apartment has been searched.”
    “Yes,” Connor said. “A very thorough job. They came in earlier tonight, took Polaroids, searched the rooms, and then put things back the way they were. But it’s impossible to do that exactly. The Japanese say artlessness is the most difficult art. And these men can’t help themselves, they’re obsessive. So they leave the picture frames a little too squared-off on the counter, and the perfume bottles a little too carefully cluttered. Everything is a little forced. Your eye can see it even if your brain doesn’t register it.”
    I said, “But why search the room? What pictures did they remove? Her with the killer?”
    “That’s not clear,” Connor said. “Evidently her association with Japan, and with Japanese men, was not objectionable. But there was something they had to get right away, and it can only be—”
    Then, from the living room, a tentative voice said, “Lynn? Honey? You here?”

She was silhouetted in the doorway, looking in. Barefooted, wearing shorts and a tank top. I couldn’t see her face well, but she was obviously what my old partner Anderson would call a snake charmer.
    Connor showed his badge. She said her name was Julia Young. She had a Southern accent, and a slight slur to her speech. Connor turned on the light and we could see her better. She was a beautiful girl. She came into the room hesitantly.
    “I heard the music—is she here? Is Cheryl Lynn okay? I know she went to that party tonight.”
    “I haven’t heard anything,” Connor said, with a quick glance at me. “Do you know Cheryl Lynn?”
    “Well, sure. I live right across the hall, in number eight. Why is everybody in her room?”
    “Everybody?”
    “Well, you two. And the two Japanese guys.”
    “When were they here?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe half an hour ago. Is it something about Cheryl Lynn?”
    I said, “Did you get a look at the men, Miss Young?” I was thinking she might have been looking out of the peephole of her door.
    “Well, I
guess.
I said hello to them.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I know one of them pretty well. Eddie.”
    “Eddie?”
    “Eddie Sakamura. We all know Eddie. Fast Eddie.”
    I said, “Can you describe him?”
    She gave me a funny look. “He’s the guy in the pictures—the young guy with the scar on his hand. I thought everybody knew Eddie Sakamura. He’s in the newspaper all the time. Charities and stuff. He’s a big party guy.”
    I said, “Do you have any idea how I could find him?”
    Connor said, “Eddie Sakamura is part owner of a Polynesian restaurant in Beverly Hills called Bora Bora. He hangs out there.”
    “That’s him,” Julia said. “That place is like his office. I can’t stand it myself, it’s too noisy. But Eddie’s just running around, chasing those big blondes. He loves to look up to a girl.”
    She leaned against a table, and pushed her full brown hair back from her face seductively. She looked at me and gave a little pout. “You two guys partners?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “He showed me his badge. But you didn’t show me yours.”
    I took out my wallet. She looked at it. “Peter,” she said, reading. “My very first boyfriend was named Peter. But he wasn’t as handsome as you.” She smiled at me. Connor cleared his throat and said, “Have you been in Cheryl Lynn’s apartment before?”
    “Well,