Read Online Rising Sun: A Novel by Michael Crichton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Crichton
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coffee table was a picture book of Hollywood star portraits and a vase of dried flowers. Empty ashtrays scattered around.
One of the bedrooms had been converted to a den, with a couch and a television, and an exercise bike in the corner. Everything was brand-new. The television still had a sticker that said DIGITAL TUNING FEATURE diagonally across one corner. The handlebars of the exercise bike were covered in plastic wrap.
In the master bedroom, I finally found some human clutter. One mirrored closet door stood open, and three expensive party dresses were thrown across the bed. Evidently she had been trying to decide what to wear. On the dresser top were bottles of perfume, a diamond necklace, a gold Rolex, framed photographs, and an ashtray with stubbed-out Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes. The top dresser drawer, containing panties and undergarments, was partially open. I saw her passport stuck in the corner, and thumbed through it. There was one visa for Saudi Arabia, one for Indonesia, and three entry stamps for Japan.
The stereo in the corner was still turned on, an ejected tape in the player. I pushed it in and Jerry Lee Lewis sang, “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, too much love drives a man insane.…” Texas music, too old for a young girl like this. But maybe she liked golden oldies.
I turned back to the dresser. Several framed color enlargements showed Cheryl Austin smiling in front of Asian backgrounds—the red gates of a shrine, a formal garden, a street with gray skyscrapers, a train station. The pictures seemedto be taken in Japan. In most of the pictures Cheryl was alone, but in a few she was accompanied by an older Japanese man with glasses and a receding hairline. A final shot showed her in what looked like the American West. Cheryl was standing near a dusty pickup truck, smiling beside a frail, grandmotherly woman in sunglasses. The older woman wasn’t smiling and looked uncomfortable.
Tucked in beside the dresser were several large paper rolls, standing on end. I opened one. It was a poster showing Cheryl in a bikini, smiling and holding up a bottle of Asahi beer. All the writing on the poster was in Japanese.
I went into the bathroom.
I saw a pair of jeans kicked in the corner. A white sweater tossed on the countertop. A wet towel on a hook by the shower stall. Beads of water inside the stall. Electric hair-curlers unplugged by the counter. Stuck in the mirror frame, photos of Cheryl standing with another Japanese man on the Malibu pier. This man was in his midthirties, and handsome. In one photograph, he had draped his arm familiarly over her shoulder. I could clearly see the scar on his hand.
“Bingo,” I said.
Connor came into the room. “Find something?”
“Our man with the scar.”
“Good.” Connor studied the picture carefully. I looked back at the clutter of the bathroom. The stuff around the sink. “You know,” I said, “something bothers me about this place.”
“What’s that?”
“I know she hasn’t lived here long. And I know everything is rented … but still … I can’t get over the feeling that this place has a contrived look. I can’t quite put my finger on why.”
Connor smiled. “Very good, Lieutenant. It does have a contrived look. And there’s a reason for it.”
He handed me a Polaroid photo. It showed the bathroom we were standing in. The jeans kicked in the corner. The towel hanging. The curlers on the counter. But it was taken with one of those ultra-wide-angle cameras that distort everything. The SID teams sometimes used them for evidence.
“Where did you get this?”
“From the trash bin in the hall, by the elevators.”
“So it must have been taken earlier tonight.”
“Yes. Notice anything different about the room?”
I examined the Polaroid carefully. “No, it looks the same … wait a minute. Those pictures stuck in her mirror. They aren’t in the Polaroid. Those pictures have been added.”
“Exactly.”
One of the bedrooms had been converted to a den, with a couch and a television, and an exercise bike in the corner. Everything was brand-new. The television still had a sticker that said DIGITAL TUNING FEATURE diagonally across one corner. The handlebars of the exercise bike were covered in plastic wrap.
In the master bedroom, I finally found some human clutter. One mirrored closet door stood open, and three expensive party dresses were thrown across the bed. Evidently she had been trying to decide what to wear. On the dresser top were bottles of perfume, a diamond necklace, a gold Rolex, framed photographs, and an ashtray with stubbed-out Mild Seven Menthol cigarettes. The top dresser drawer, containing panties and undergarments, was partially open. I saw her passport stuck in the corner, and thumbed through it. There was one visa for Saudi Arabia, one for Indonesia, and three entry stamps for Japan.
The stereo in the corner was still turned on, an ejected tape in the player. I pushed it in and Jerry Lee Lewis sang, “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, too much love drives a man insane.…” Texas music, too old for a young girl like this. But maybe she liked golden oldies.
I turned back to the dresser. Several framed color enlargements showed Cheryl Austin smiling in front of Asian backgrounds—the red gates of a shrine, a formal garden, a street with gray skyscrapers, a train station. The pictures seemedto be taken in Japan. In most of the pictures Cheryl was alone, but in a few she was accompanied by an older Japanese man with glasses and a receding hairline. A final shot showed her in what looked like the American West. Cheryl was standing near a dusty pickup truck, smiling beside a frail, grandmotherly woman in sunglasses. The older woman wasn’t smiling and looked uncomfortable.
Tucked in beside the dresser were several large paper rolls, standing on end. I opened one. It was a poster showing Cheryl in a bikini, smiling and holding up a bottle of Asahi beer. All the writing on the poster was in Japanese.
I went into the bathroom.
I saw a pair of jeans kicked in the corner. A white sweater tossed on the countertop. A wet towel on a hook by the shower stall. Beads of water inside the stall. Electric hair-curlers unplugged by the counter. Stuck in the mirror frame, photos of Cheryl standing with another Japanese man on the Malibu pier. This man was in his midthirties, and handsome. In one photograph, he had draped his arm familiarly over her shoulder. I could clearly see the scar on his hand.
“Bingo,” I said.
Connor came into the room. “Find something?”
“Our man with the scar.”
“Good.” Connor studied the picture carefully. I looked back at the clutter of the bathroom. The stuff around the sink. “You know,” I said, “something bothers me about this place.”
“What’s that?”
“I know she hasn’t lived here long. And I know everything is rented … but still … I can’t get over the feeling that this place has a contrived look. I can’t quite put my finger on why.”
Connor smiled. “Very good, Lieutenant. It does have a contrived look. And there’s a reason for it.”
He handed me a Polaroid photo. It showed the bathroom we were standing in. The jeans kicked in the corner. The towel hanging. The curlers on the counter. But it was taken with one of those ultra-wide-angle cameras that distort everything. The SID teams sometimes used them for evidence.
“Where did you get this?”
“From the trash bin in the hall, by the elevators.”
“So it must have been taken earlier tonight.”
“Yes. Notice anything different about the room?”
I examined the Polaroid carefully. “No, it looks the same … wait a minute. Those pictures stuck in her mirror. They aren’t in the Polaroid. Those pictures have been added.”
“Exactly.”
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