The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (17 page)

“Death is always terrible. But this is a sickness.”

“Why do they do it, Masao?”

“Money, hatred, revenge.”

“It frightens me so,” Kati said. “Not because I expect anything to happen to me. I'm not afraid of such things. I wasn't afraid of that skinny Chicano boy who was such a foolish burglar. But because I lose my faith in the whole world.”

“One should neither have faith nor lose faith. What is faith? This is the way things are.”

“But why? Why are things this way?”

“Because we lose touch with what is real and then we invent what is not real.”

“That's Zen talk,” Kati said with irritation. “I don't understand it.”

“Perhaps I don't understand it myself,” Masuto said gently. “I need a few minutes to myself, a few minutes to sit and meditate.”

But Kati's food helped more than the meditation, and driving back to Beverly Hills, he felt better, reflecting on what a primitive thing a man is, that a bellyful of good food could color the whole world differently. When he entered the police station, Beckman was waiting for him.

“Bingo,” Beckman said to him. “Do you want to hear about it?”

“In a few minutes. First, where's Wainwright?”

“In his office. I got something for both of you to hear.”

In Wainwright's office Masuto closed the door and faced Beckman and Wainwright.

“You're getting them tonight—all of them,” Wainwright growled. “And so help me, Masao, you'd better come through!”

“Ah, so,” Masuto said. “Would the honorable captain listen and stop shouting at me?”

“Not if you give me that shogun crap.”

“I am trying to inject a note of lightness into a very miserable affair. I have been to All Saints Hospital, and I have been lectured to by our Dr. Baxter. It would appear that the Angel was a heroin addict. The glass of whisky that was handed to her when she returned was laced with chloral hydrate—”

“A Mickey,” Beckman said.

“Exactly. And when she passed out, someone came into her room and shot her full of heroin.”

“That would do it,” Beckman agreed.

“More to come. The Angel was a man.”

When Masuto had finished giving them every detail of Baxter's story, they still were unwilling to accept the facts.

“I just don't buy it,” Wainwright said. “You can't turn a man into a woman—yeah, maybe into some kind of freak, but the Angel was no freak. She was one of the most beautiful dames I ever saw. She's been photographed and interviewed.”

“She was stacked,” Beckman said. “Those weren't falsies. Hell, that dressing gown didn't half cover her. She was all woman and built like something out of a
Playboy
centerfold.”

“And she started out as a man. We may hate Baxter, but he's no fool. I saw the autopsy. So let's not waste time arguing about it. Now we know what she held over Mike Barton and what she blackmailed him with. As he saw it, if word got out that he had married a man, and that's the way they would have put it, he was done, finished as a star.”

“No question about that,” Beckman said.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But that's the way he saw it.”

“Didn't he know? I mean, when he married her?”

“Would you know?”

“You mean they could have slept together?” Wainwright asked.

“So Baxter tells me.”

“I'll be damned.”

“Do you think they knew?” Beckman asked. “I mean, the others.”

“Maybe. If they did, they all lied. But maybe they didn't know—except—”

“Except who?”

“Kelly,” Masuto said. “Well, we'll see. You said they're all coming?”

“That's right.”

“Sy and I will get there by eight-thirty. We still have a few things to do.”

Back in his own office Masuto said to Beckman, “All right, Sy, let's have it.”

Beckman was still bemused. “What was she, a man or a woman?”

“Baxter calls it sexual reassignment. It's a long, complicated operative and hormonal procedure, and he says it's been done thousands of times.”

“But how could Barton—”

“Come on, Sy. How could you? How could everyone else?”

“You tell me. It gives me the creeps. Was she an addict?”

“Yes.”

“Heroin?”

“Yes.”

“You know, Masao,” Beckman said, “if anyone else was working with you, and you say to him, go out and search, he might just ask you what he was searching for.”

“All right, you found it,” Masuto said, looking at his watch.

“Well, why the hell didn't you tell me what I was looking for?”

“Because I didn't know what you were looking for.”

“And now you know?”

“That's right.”

“You are one weird son of a bitch, Masao. All right. I turned that place upside down. I found these in a jar of cold cream.” He took three small ampules, each covered with a stretched rubber top, out of his pocket and placed them on Masuto's desk. “You know what they are?”

“Heroin?”

“Prepared stuff. I had Sweeney run a test. High grade, pure heroin, medicinally prepared, according to Sweeney, and legally imported from England.”

“Illegal. I don't think a doctor can prescribe it in California, but I suppose that if you pay enough, you can get it. Well, that's what killed her, that and the whisky and the chloral hydrate.”

“Where's the fourth ampule?”

“In the garbage at the Barton place, I imagine, or in a garbage dump somewhere. It wouldn't help us. Everyone's too smart about fingerprints these days. That was good work, Sy, damn good. Now what about the war records?”

“I unloaded that one on Keller. You were very nice to him, so he was very glad that we don't hate the FBI the way the L.A. cops and the New York cops do. I explained that we were a very small outfit and that we appreciated what the FBI could do for us. He said he'd call in the information as soon as Washington worked it up.”

“Today?”

“That's what he said, this afternoon.”

Masuto looked at his watch again. It was twenty minutes to three. “How long to get to the bank from here?”

“Our bank? Five minutes.”

Masuto dialed the number of the Barton house. Elaine Newman answered, and Masuto said to her, “About that suitcase of money—did you see it open? Did you see the money?”

“Yes.”

“Can you remember the bills on top? Tens, twenties, fifties?”

“They were twenties. I think—no, I'm pretty sure. I heard them talk about it after Mike left. Twenties.”

Masuto did some quick calculations, and then he said to Beckman, “Sy, Polly has a draft for a thousand dollars waiting for us at the desk. Take it to the bank and get fifty twenty-dollar bills. Then stop at a stationery supply place and get ten reams of twenty-pound bond paper.”

“How do I pay for the paper?”

“Tell them to bill us. Better hurry.”

After Beckman left, Masuto sat at his desk, his eyes half-closed, his hands folded in his lap, and began to put the pieces together. He assembled them in his mind and let them fall into place, like the bits and pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He was sitting like that when a cop opened his door and told him that Wainwright wanted to see him.

The city manager was in Wainwright's office, and he offered Masuto a bleak nod. “The captain's been telling me about tonight, Sergeant, and I don't like it. I think you ought to call it off.”

“Why, if I may ask?”

“Because you're playing with fire. Jack McCarthy is one of the most important lawyers in Los Angeles, and a resident of this town to boot. Joe Goldberg is one of the biggest producers in town, and Ranier is a damned important businessman. And Hennesy—Sergeant, he's a member of the House of Representatives. You have money there and you have power, and sure as hell they'll slap us with a lawsuit that'll curl our hair.”

“On what grounds? No one's being forced. No one's being charged. They're coming because they wouldn't miss tonight for the world. They're coming to see a killer exposed. I promise you that they will not be badgered or provoked. In fact, I won't even question them.”

“Then what the devil do you want them for?”

“Because one of them murdered Joe Kelly, and because that man is an accessory to the murder of Mike Barton.”

“Sergeant, I have a lot of respect for you, and I know what your record is. But how do you know that?”

“What I know is meaningless and unimportant until I can prove it, and unless you let this take place tonight, I doubt that I'll ever be able to prove it.”

“Captain Wainwright tells me you're convinced that Angel killed Mike Barton.”

“I am, yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Possibly. Tonight.”

“And who killed Angel?”

“I think I know, but I have no evidence, none whatsoever.”

“I'd still like to know.”

Masuto shook his head. “Then it would be an empty accusation. I don't do that. But about tonight, I can assure you that there'll be no heavy-handed police methods. I think you should allow it to proceed.”

The city manager looked at Wainwright. “Captain?”

“I'll be there,” Wainwright said, “so you can have my word that whatever is done will be done with a light touch.”

“All right. But I'm holding you responsible. This kind of thing, three murders in one household, does the city no good. The sooner it's cleaned up and forgotten, the better off we'll all be.”

Masuto's phone was ringing as he entered his office. It was Frank Keller, the very young FBI man, obviously pleased with himself. “I got it all, Sergeant,” he told Masuto. “Shall I send the records over?”

“Can you give me the salient points over the phone?”

“Can do. Start with Joseph Goldberg. World War Two. Enlisted in 1942. Field artillery. Do you want the unit and battle record?”

“No. What about marksmanship citations?”

“Goldberg ended up a lieutenant, field commission. Small arms—that's common in the field artillery. McCarthy was World War Two as well, tank driver—can you imagine, with that paunch of his? Also small arms. Ranier was in the Korean War, quartermaster corps, no citations, and also in the Korean War, Hennesy served with the Coast Guard, rank of midshipman. That's it, very briefly. Should I send the records over?”

“I would appreciate that,” Masuto said. “And thank you for your efforts.”

Beckman came in while Masuto was speaking. “Anything?” he asked.

“Not much. They all know how to use a pistol.”

“The paper's in my car. Ten reams—do you know what that weighs?”

“About the same as a million dollars in twenty-dollar bills, more or less.”

“And the money's here,” patting his bulging pockets. “It's a nice feeling to walk around with a thousand dollars in your pockets.”

“Do you know where there's a paper cutter—one of those power jobs?”

“We could try City Hall. They should have one. I get the drift of what you're going to try, but what about the suitcase?”

“Courtesy of Gucci.”

“Same one?”

“So Miss Newman says. I promised to return it, so we'll handle it carefully. Now let's try for the paper cutter.”

Beckman took a packet of currency wrappers out of his pocket. “You forgot about these.”

“So I did. I wonder what else I've forgotten.”

The Suitcase

It was well after six o'clock before Masuto and Beckman finished cutting the paper and arranging the piles, topped by twenty-dollar bills, in the suitcase. While they were at work, Wainwright stopped by and watched them for a moment or two, and then said, “It's an old trick. What makes you think it will work?”

Masuto shrugged. “It's a shortcut. Maybe it won't work.”

“You got anything else?”

“Something, not much.”

“Whoever it is, he was in it with Angel.”

“Yes.”

“Then he could have killed Mike Barton.”

“He could have, but I don't think he did,” Masuto said.

“He could have killed Angel. One less to split.”

Masuto shrugged.

“What does that mean?”

“I don't think he killed Angel. I think he killed Kelly.”

“And what do we do about Angel?”

Masuto shook his head.

“You know,” Wainwright said, “you are one secretive bastard, Masao. You're supposed to be part of this police force, not a goddamn supercop.”

“I never think of myself as a supercop,” Masuto replied, smiling. “I crawl through mazes and I try to guess what goes on in the minds of poor tortured madmen. Do you want me to drag you in with me every time I get some crazy notion.”

“All I want you to do is to level with me.”

“I try.”