"Okay, Captain."

"Any questions?"

"What's a sempai?"

Connor smiled.

We drove past the searchlights, down the ramp into the underground garage.

"In Japan," he said, "a sempaiis a senior man who guides a junior man, known as a kohai. The sempai-kohairelationship is quite common. It's often assumed to exist whenever a younger man and an older man are working together. They will probably assume it of us."

I said, "Sort of a mentor and apprentice?"

"Not exactly," Connor said. "In Japan, sempai-kohaihas a different quality. More like a fond parent: the sempaiis expected to indulge his kohai, and put up with all sorts of youthful excesses and errors from the junior man." He smiled. "But I'm sure you won't do that to me."

We came to the bottom of the ramp, and saw the flat expanse of the parking garage ahead of us. Connor stared out the window and frowned. "Where is everybody?"

The garage of the Nakamoto Tower was full of limousines, the drivers leaning against their cars, talking and smoking. But I saw no police cars. Ordinarily, when there's a homicide, the place is lit up like Christmas, with lights flashing from a half-dozen black and whites, the medical examiner, paramedics, and all the rest.

But there was nothing tonight. It just looked like a garage where somebody was having a party: elegant people standing in clusters, waiting for their cars.

"Interesting," I said.

We came to a stop. The parking attendants opened the doors, and I stepped out onto plush carpet, and heard soft music. I walked with Connor toward the elevator. Well-dressed people were coming the other way: men in tuxedos, women in expensive gowns. And standing by the elevator, wearing a stained corduroy sport coat and furiously smoking a cigarette, was Tom Graham.