The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

9

When Masuto’s universe was too greatly askew, when the face of reality dissolved into too many grotesques, he would rise early in the morning and drive to the Zendo for meditation. Ordinarily, he did his meditation each morning in his tiny room in the house; but to meditate with others in a place given to meditation was more gratifying. Now, dressed, he kissed Kati gently. She opened her eyes and complained that it was still dark.

“It’s half past six. I go to the Zendo first.”

“The children won’t see you,” she said plaintively.

“Perhaps I can get home early this evening. I promise to try.”

The Zendo was in downtown Los Angeles, a cluster of half a dozen once-dilapidated California bungalows that the students and monks who lived there had restored. All around it was the decay and disintegration of the inner city. The dawn light was just beginning when Masuto parked his car in front of the Zendo, and then as he stepped out, he felt himself grabbed in a tight embrace from behind. A second young man appeared in front of him, put a knife to his stomach, and said, “Just take it easy, turkey.” Then, still holding the knife to Masuto’s stomach, he pulled aside his jacket and saw Masuto’s gun. “Son of a bitch, the chink’s a cop! We got us a fuzz!”

Masuto felt the grip around his arms slacken for just an instant, enough for him to drive his elbow into the ribcage of the man behind him, at the same time, pivoting, so that the knife thrust intended for him took the man who was holding him in the side. The wounded man screamed and let go of him, and Masuto leaped away with his gun out.

Fifteen minutes later, a squad car drove away with one of the muggers, while an ambulance carried off the second one, and Masuto found himself abashedly and uncomfortably facing a group of monks in their brown robes. They made no comment, and Masuto, who was trying to frame an explanation or apology in his own mind, found none that would do. Whereupon, he bent his head and walked into the meditation hall. Half a dozen people were still there, sitting cross-legged on cushions on the two slightly raised platforms that ran the length of the room. At one end of the room, the old rashi, the Japanese Zen master, sat in meditation. The half dozen included two monks, a young, pretty woman, and three middle-aged men who looked like business executives. Masuto took off his shoes and joined them, his folded hands still shaking from his experience. He tried to fall into the meditation, but after what had happened outside, it was very difficult.

One by one, the other meditators finished, made their bow to the rashi, and left, until only Masuto and the old man remained. Masuto’s half-closed eyes were fixed on the floor in front of him. He heard the rashi move, and then the old man’s feet, encased in straw slippers, appeared in front of him. Masuto looked up.

“You bring violence with you,” the rashi said, speaking Japanese.

“It met me on the street outside.”

“Ask yourself where it came from.”

“I am deeply sorry. I disturbed the peace of this place.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am not hurt, if that’s what you mean.”

“I can see that you’re not hurt.”

“Then I must answer no.”

“Then look into yourself. Even a policeman can know why he is a policeman.”

“I will try, honorable rashi.”

Leaving the Zendo, Masuto realized that he was ravenously hungry, and he pulled into a short order place on Olympic. Bacon and eggs and fried potatoes and four slices of bread and two cups of coffee helped to restore his equanimity. It was ten minutes to nine when he arrived at the station house. Beckman was waiting for him, along with Frank Keller, the FBI man.

“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.”