I drove up San Pedro and turned left onto Second, heading toward the Nakamoto building. There was a light mist at street level. Connor stared out the window. He said, "How good is your memory?"

"Pretty good, I guess."

"I wonder if you could repeat for me the telephone conversations you had tonight," he said. "Give them to me in as much detail as possible. Word for word, if you can."

"I'll try."

I recounted my phone calls. Connor listened without interruption or comment. I didn't know why he was so interested, and he didn't tell me. When I finished, he said, "Hoffmann didn't tell you who called for land lines?"

"No."

"Well, it's a good idea in any case. I never use a car phone if I can help it. These days, too many people listen in."

I turned onto Figueroa. Up ahead I saw searchlights shining in front of the new Nakamoto Tower. The building itself was gray granite, rising up into the night. I got into the right lane and flipped open the glove box to grab a handful of business cards.

The cards said Detective Lieutenant Peter J. Smith, Special Services Liaison Officer, Los Angeles Police Department. Printed in English on one side, in Japanese on the back.

Connor looked at the cards. "How do you want to handle this situation, Lieutenant? Have you negotiated with the Japanese before?"

I said, "Not really, no. Couple of drunk driving arrests."

Connor said politely, "Then perhaps I can suggest a strategy for us to follow."

"That's fine with me," I said. "I'd be grateful for your help."

"All right. Since you're the liaison, it's probably best if you take charge of the scene when we arrive."

"Okay."