The policeman who had escorted me now led me down a dim hallway and through an unmarked door. The room he took me to was dark and windowless, with only a small wooden table and three chairs. The walls were gray and plain, and one of the overhead bulbs had burned out. The table was scratched up, the chairs worn and uneven, and there were gashes in the wall encased with dark, dried stains. My shock at the sight of Tyler had now given way to the urgency of self-preservation. I circled the table, not knowing what to do with myself, and felt the first stirrings of panic. I wanted to get out of that room as quickly as I could. Just being there made me feel like a criminal.
In a few moments, the door opened and Captain Mills came inside, accompanied by two men in jackets and ties. Mills pointed to one of the chairs, and I sat down.
“Nakayama,” he said, “this is Detective Jones and Detective Hopkins. They’d like to ask you some questions.”
Mills left and shut the door behind him, and the two men turned to face me. The older detective, Jones, was tall and slightly stooped. His shoulders were drawn up and his hands lifted and poised—ready, it seemed, to fight at a moment’s notice. The other man, Hopkins, was young in the face but seemed older than his years. He looked as stoic as a farmer, and just as uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Hopkins took a seat across the table. Despite his casual, untidy appearance, his movements were sharp and quick, his eyes alert.
“Jun Nakayama, correct?” the older man asked.
I cleared my throat. “That’s correct.”
He sat on the table in front of me and curled his hands over the edge. “I understand you were at Ashley Tyler’s house this morning.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Now, what did you happen to be doing there?”
I looked up at his face, his watery blue eyes; a slight, unpleasant smile curled his lips. “Elizabeth Banks called me this morning and told me that Mr. Tyler was dead. She was very upset and wanted me to accompany her to the house.”
“Now why was she so upset?”
“She’d just heard that her friend and director was dead.”
“Were you upset?”
“Of course. He was my friend and director as well.”
Jones took his hands off the table and folded them together in his lap. “Well, he was your director, that much is true. But I’m assuming he was a different kind of friend.”
I inhaled quickly—I couldn’t help it—and knew that Jones was pleased by my reaction because he leaned in a bit closer. Hopkins leaned over too, and nodded reassuringly. “It’s okay, Mr. Nakayama. Just answer the questions. The truth is going to come out anyway.”
Detective Jones glanced over his shoulder, and there was a hint of irritation in his face. He pulled himself back from this distraction. “So many friends in this sticky business. So many little intrigues. Now why did Miss Banks call you?”
“I suppose she trusts me. We have known each other for many years.”
“Yes. I hear she’s a friend of yours as well.”
Hopkins leaned back in his chair now and crossed his arms. “Where were you when she called you?”
“At home.”
“Had you been there all night?”
“Yes. I stayed in yesterday evening.”
“Are you sure you weren’t with Miss Banks?”
I looked at the wall beyond them. “No, I wasn’t. In fact, she was with—” I stopped myself, not wanting to implicate her.
Jones stood now, smelling blood. “Yes, we know. She was with Tyler. And from there she came to you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you didn’t go over there together and shoot him?”
“No. Of course not. Why would we do that?”
“Maybe you knew she’d gone to see him and waited until she left, then went over there and shot him yourself.”
“No!”
“It bothered you that she saw him, didn’t it, Jun?”
I paused before responding. Jones had stepped closer and was hovering over me; Hopkins leaned forward again and put his elbows on the table. “Miss Banks can spend time with whomever she pleases.”
“But it bothers you just the same.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“You hate to think of it, don’t you?” Jones continued. “That fancy British asshole with the nice clothes and pretty accent, fucking the woman you love.”
“I don’t think about such things.”
“Sure you do, you little rat.” Jones’ body was taut, but his voice was growing softer and softer. “You have to work with the bastard, and probably all you can think about is him in the sack with your lady. It’s like torture, isn’t it? Seeing him every day, imagining them, and knowing all the time that no matter what you do, you’ll never be able to compete, because he’s a British gentleman and you’re a fucking greasy little Jap.”
My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the effect of Jones’ words. “I admired Ashley Tyler,” I said, looking down at the table. “I had no ill feeling toward him.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Jones, his raised voice like a cracking whip. He leaned over abruptly, his face inches from my own. Hopkins stood too, as if preparing to hold him back. “You’re just a damned liar, like the rest of them,” Jones hissed. “Too fucking big for your britches. Shit. If you want my opinion, the pictures started to stink as soon as they let foreigners in them. You should have stayed where you were and not shown your ugly face in California. You went over there and
