The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (14 page)

“Your hunch was pretty good,” Keller said to Masuto. “And this is confidential as hell, but we've been running an investigation on Hennesy for the past seven months. The Coast Guard grabbed a boat off San Diego and picked up a kilo of cocaine. Hennesy's name was in the boat's log. It could be another Roy Hennesy, because the name's not that uncommon, but when you put it together with the other tidbits about Hennesy's moral stance, it could mean something. The department's cooking up a move against a number of public officials who are a little less than kosher, and they don't want anything to upset the apple cart. So unless you tie him in directly to kidnap or murder, they'd just as soon let him be.”

“Have you ever known the goddamn feds not to tell you to keep hands off?” Beckman said with annoyance.

“Forget it,” Masuto said.

“I'll be at my office downtown,” Keller said, his feelings bruised. He stalked out.

“You don't have to lean on him,” Masuto told Beckman. “He's a decent kid, for a fed.”

“What have you been drinking, the milk of human kindness? Anyway, the captain wants to see you right off. He's in his office with Dr. Haddam—the one who came to see the Angel.”

“Out at Malibu,” Masuto asked him, “what kind of a dress was Netty Cooper wearing?”

“What?”

“Come on, think.”

“It was sort of like a kimono, pale green.”

“Yes. Long sleeves? Enough to hide needle marks?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Wait for me. This can't take too long.”

In Wainwright's office Dr. Haddam was protesting. He was a neat, stout little man, with steel-rimmed glasses, bald, and a high-pitched voice that proclaimed his irritation. “I find this whole thing highly annoying, if not unethical. Why didn't you call me when Mrs. Barton died? I'm the family physician. The family—”

“I told you before, Doctor, there is no family. They are both dead. We have no indication of family beyond that. This is Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“Then I wash my hands of the whole matter.”

“Yes, if you wish. But we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“I don't have to answer any questions. Indeed, I don't intend to. I'm a busy man. Call my nurse, make an appointment, and if I can find the time, I will talk to you.”

He started to leave, and Wainwright said evenly, “A hypodermic syringe which contained something that was apparently the cause of Mrs. Barton's death was found beside her. Since you were the doctor in attendance, this puts you in an awkward position. Surely you realize that.”

The doctor stopped short, turned slowly to face Wainwright, and growled—a valid growl for so short a man. “How dare you! That, sir, is actionable! I'm a practicing physician and a resident of Beverly Hills for twenty-five years, and you dare—”

“Please, sir,” Masuto said, spreading his hands, “you read an implication that was not there. We found the hypodermic and Mrs. Barton is dead. We simply must ask you the circumstances of your visit to her.”

“You found a hypodermic!” he snorted. “What was in it? What caused her death? Why didn't you call me then?”

“We don't know what caused her death,” Wainwright said. “The autopsy is being performed right now at All Saints Hospital.”

“You don't know! And you call yourselves police!”

“What did you do for Mrs. Barton?” Masuto asked. “What condition was she in? What did you prescribe?”

“I prescribed nothing.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you examine her?”

“No. She wouldn't let me near her. In fact, that ill-natured woman drove me out of the room.”

“But you were her physician.”

“I was Mr. Barton's physician. Now I shall tell you what happened, and that's the end of it. Mr. McCarthy asked me to see her. I went into her bedroom, and she snarled at me to get out—and used very abusive language, I may add. There are sides to that Angel the public never saw. Then Mr. McCarthy went into the room, and I heard her snapping at him. She threw a shoe at him as he left. She slammed the door after him. Then the maid appeared with a tall glass of ice and apparently Scotch whisky. I would presume at least four ounces of whisky over the ice. She said that their butler or chauffeur, what is his name?”

“Kelly.”

“Kelly. Yes, he had sent it up. Then Angel opened the door, took the glass, and so help me God, drained down most of it.”

“You were standing in the hall?” Masuto asked.

“Yes, with McCarthy. The maid was at the door. Mrs. Barton handed her the glass and slammed the door in our faces. Then I left. She did not strike me as a woman who required either a sedative or an examination. A psychiatrist, perhaps. Now you have my story, and I would like to leave.”

“Of course,” Masuto said. “You've been very helpful. We are most grateful.”

“Well, there you are,” Wainwright said, after the doctor had departed. “Unless he's lying.”

“No, he's telling the truth. He knows we can check it out with McCarthy. He's a doctor, not an actor, and that beautiful indignation could not be manufactured.”

“Do you suppose Kelly killed her?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know. When this thing was ten minutes old, you told me you knew who killed Barton. Has your Chinese crystal ball collapsed?”

“Even Sweeney no longer classes all Orientals as Chinese—”

“Get off your high horse, Masao. They're all leaning on me, like we were Scotland Yard instead of a two-bit small-town police force.”

“It was only yesterday. We're making progress.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What the good doctor told us helps.”

“That's bullshit, Masao, and you know it, and I know how you work. You got something, and you're not opening your mouth about it. Now, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to search that Barton house from cellar to attic, and I'm going to find that million dollars.”

“It's not there.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because I think I know where it is. Now, wait a moment,” he said as Wainwright began to explode. “Just hold on. That doesn't mean I know where it is.”

“Then what in hell does it mean?”

“It means that I could make a guess, and then if we act on my guess and go ahead and get a search warrant and search the place and find nothing, we'd be in for a lawsuit that would make your year's budget look like peanuts.”

“All right, tell me—no, the hell with you. Get out of here and make this thing make sense.”

“When will Baxter finish the autopsy?”

“He says by noon.” Masuto started for the door. “One thing,” Wainwright added, “how does Kelly figure?”

“I don't know.”

“He's a part of it?”

“I think so.”

As if he had heard the question, Beckman entered the office as Wainwright was saying, “Maybe I'm a cynical old cop, but I never trusted a reformed ex-con.”

“You mean Kelly?” Beckman asked.

“That's right. I mean Kelly.”

“Well, Dempsy just called. He took over at the Barton place from Voorhis, and he says that the ladies are worried because Kelly didn't show this morning and Kelly's place over the garage is locked, and what should he do?”

“Tell him to do nothing,” Wainwright said. “You two get over there, and let me know what you find. If Kelly skipped with that million, you will have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

“What did he mean by that?” Beckman asked Masuto as they left the building.

“He wants to search the Barton place. If Kelly skipped with the money, he'll blame us for not searching the place yesterday.”

“Do you think he did?”

“No.”

“Then where is he?”

“I imagine he's right there in his room.”

“Come on, you know Dempsy. He'd pound on the door and yell loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Nobody yells loud enough to wake the dead. Take your car, Sy. I'll follow you to the house.”

“Wait a minute, Masao—what are you trying to tell me? That Kelly is dead?”

“Perhaps. Civilization, or what we have of it, stops short at a million dollars. It's a strong inducement.”

The Loser

Officer Dempsy was waiting in the driveway when Masuto and Beckman pulled their cars up in front of the garage. A TV unit was there, photographing the house, and one of the men in the unit recognized Masuto and came over to ask whether there were any new developments.

“Not that I know of,” Masuto said. “Anyway, I don't do the P.R. You know that. They'll give you the story over at headquarters.”

“You know they give me nothing. Anyway, we want pictures. If I could talk to the servants?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don't have to talk to them. Let us photograph them.”

“No.”

He went back to his unit, and Dempsy said, “They've been driving me crazy, Sergeant. Anyway, the two ladies are too scared to come out of the house, and I wouldn't let them in.”

“Good. Now where's Voorhis?”

“Home, sleeping.”

“Wake him up and get him over here. Now, as I understand it, Kelly's place is over the garage.”

“That's right.”

“Two entrances,” Beckman said. “I checked it out yesterday. There's one door at the top of that staircase outside”—he pointed to the farther wall of the garage—”and another at the end of a passageway on the top floor of the house. Same passageway leads to Mrs. Holtz's room and the maid's room. Both doors have those locks with the little thing in the handle. You turn it, and then you can close the door from the outside and it's locked. No keys. I asked Kelly about that. He said there never were any keys while he worked here.”

“You tried both doors?” Masuto asked Dempsy.

“Sure. The doors are the kind you can kick in, but I didn't want to try that until you gave the word.”

“What do you think, Masao?” Beckman asked. “Can we force entrance, or will we be asking for trouble?”

“Who from? Both owners are dead, and if Kelly's alive, why would he lock the doors?”

“Do you have sufficient cause?”

“A man could be half dead in there. That's sufficient cause.”

Before they went into the house, Masuto said to Dempsy, “No media inside the house. If Ranier or McCarthy or any other friends of the Bartons show up, tell them to wait and get me. And when Voorhis arrives, I want to see him. Now get him over here.”

Masuto and Beckman went into the house and through to the kitchen. The two women turned from their work to stare woefully at the detectives.

“What happens now, Mr. Masuto?” Mrs. Holtz wanted to know.

“We'll see. I want to get into Kelly's room. I'm told there are no keys.”

“That's right. Kelly never asked for them. He said he didn't need them, so Mr. Barton never had them made.”

“Is it a single room?”

“No, two rooms, a bedroom and a little sitting room. The outside door is into the sitting room. Kelly always kept that locked, but he never locked the door into the hall upstairs.”

“But we hardly ever went into his rooms,” Lena said. “When we had to go in there and clean, it made him mad. He tell us to stay out, with a lot of badmouth talk.”

“Mrs. Holtz,” Masuto said, “I have to address you as the caretaker of the house, simply because there's no one else responsible. I'm informing you that I have good reason to believe that Kelly is injured and requires help. I want you to understand that considering these circumstances, I shall break down the door.”

Mrs. Holtz sighed and shrugged. “If you must, you must.”

“Servants' quarters,” Beckman said as he led Masuto up the kitchen stairs and into a shabby hallway. “Four rooms here, and Kelly's place. I guess they don't build them like this anymore. That's it,” he said, pointing to the door at the end of the hall.”

“Kick it in, Sy.”

Beckman raised his size fourteen shoe and let go at the door. It flew open, the bolt tearing out of the jamb, and they walked into Kelly's bedroom. There was a single bed, neatly made up, and pasted on the wall, several tear sheets from skin magazines.

“Super neat, some of these ex-cons,” Beckman said.

Masuto opened the door to the sitting room. Kelly sat in an ancient armchair, a crooked smile on his face, his eyes wide open. There was a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

“Poor bastard,” Beckman said. “Poor dumb loser.”

“It was his karma.”

“Spends the best years of his life in jail and ends up like this, hates the whole world, hates Jews, hates blacks, and the poor dumb bastard never knew what he was doing.”

“That's it. He never knew what he was doing.”

“Why?” Beckman wondered. “Why did they kill him?”