The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

11

The Director and the Producer

Long ago, it was said that no one knows Brooklyn, the suggestion implicit being that even if one set out to master such knowledge, the quest would be fruitless. The same might be said of Los Angeles. Long, long ago, the vast California county of Los Angeles contained dozens and dozens of separate towns and villages and cities, Los Angeles City being the largest. Through the years, under the impetus of urban sprawl and enormous population growth, these dozens of cities had come together, the way cookie dough placed too close on the cookie sheet will spread and join. Masuto worked in Beverly Hills, which was almost entirely surrounded by metropolitan Los Angeles; he lived in Culver City, which was another enclave into Los Angeles, and the studios of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer were also in Culver City.

But there was no non-urban countryside to be crossed between Culver City and Beverly Hills, or between the two of them and Los Angeles. The streets of one merged into the streets of the other, and even the oldest citizens would have been hard pressed to tell you what constituted the border between one place and another.

Usually, driving from work to his home, Masuto would take Motor Avenue or Overland Avenue south from the Twentieth-Century Fox Studios on Pico Boulevard. Both routes were in the direction of the MGM Studios, which were less than a mile from Masuto’s home. Perhaps Motor Avenue passed closer to his house. Masuto drove that way, and a few minutes before one, he parked in the driveway of his house.

Kati, who was vacuuming the living room, let out a squeal of surprise as he entered. “Masao, what is it? What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“You’re afraid to tell me. I don’t care. I’m just so happy to see you. I don’t care.”

“What don’t you care about?”

“You’ve been fired. All right. Good. I never enjoyed having a policeman for a husband.”

“I haven’t been fired. I’m going to MGM, and this is on the way, and I’m tired of eating junk food. I thought that if I stopped off here, I’d get a decent lunch. But maybe with the consciousness-raising, you haven’t got the time or inclination, and if that’s the case I’ll understand.”

“Stop teasing me. I have tempura all prepared for tonight, but you may just call me and tell me that you’re having dinner with four more women-”

“I might.”

“I have shrimp and string beans and sweet potato and zucchini all cleaned and ready.”

“It sounds incredible.”

He sat at the kitchen table, while the room filled with the delicious smell of deep-fried shrimp and vegetables. He had the pictures spread out in front of him, the three men and the girl.

“What do you think of Monte Sweet?” he asked Kati.

“Monte Sweet?”

“The comic. You’ve seen him on television.”

“The one who hates everyone. Oh, no, I can’t bear to watch him, he’s so filled with hatred and rage. How can a man be so terrible?”

“It’s his stock in trade.”

“Why is it funny to say terrible things about other people?”

“Perhaps all humor consists of a kind of hatred. We laugh at the suffering of others.”

“I don’t.”

“Because you, Kati, are a very special person.”

She placed the platter of tempura and a bowl of rice in front of him, and Masuto picked up his ivory chopsticks, reflecting on what a pleasure it was to eat with these beautiful artifacts rather than with the barbaric knife and fork, which turned an approach to food into an attack.

“What are those pictures?” Kati asked him.

“The men were once married to the women whose lives are threatened.”

“And the lovely girl?”

“Tell me, Kati. What do you see in her face?”, “Very open, very trusting.”

“Yes, I think so. Your tempura, as always, is brilliant.”

“How can tempura be brilliant?”

“Ah, believe me. Why don’t you sit down and eat with me?”

“Because I ate an hour ago,” Kati said. “Now that my consciousness has been raised at least a little bit, I can enjoy the position of the Japanese housewife who serves her husband hand and foot. I don’t mean that I really enjoy it, but I can see what I am doing objectively and I know something about what a male chauvinist pig actually is.”

“You mean all that in one session?”

“I don’t think you are a male chauvinist pig, Masao. That’s a terrible thing to say. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“And you’re not a Japanese housewife.”

“You mean they don’t have vacuum cleaners?”

“No. I understand Japan is quite advanced. But you happen to be a very beautiful American woman.”

“Ah so! Really!”

She was blushing, Masuto realized, and as he finished eating and stood up and kissed her, the telephone rang.

“Not in the middle of the day,” Kati said. She pulled away from him and picked up the phone. “For you, Masao.”

“Yes, this is Masuto,” he said.

“This is Officer Commager, L.A.P.D. Lieutenant Bones said you wanted to talk to me.”

“About the Catherine Addison case?” Masuto asked.

“That’s right.”

“Good! Great! How did he find you so quickly?”

“He put the word into the Hollywood and North Hollywood Stations. I guess he found out that it happened on Mulholland Drive.”

“Did you say Mulholland Drive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Do you have the exact date?” He covered the phone. “Kati-pen and paper.”

She brought him a pad and a pen.

“Yes, sir. It was March third, nineteen seventy-five.”

“Time?”

“We estimated that she went over the cliffside at about eight o’clock. It would be dark at that time of the year.”

“You’ve got a good memory, Commager.”

“No, sir. The truth is that I barely recalled the case at first. But Lieutenant Bones had them pull my report from the files. I have it right here in front of me.”

“Good, good. Now exactly where did this happen?”

“You know, Sergeant, we got to draw maps for this kind of thing. On Mulholland, for anything between Laurel Canyon and Coldwater Canyon, we take our measurements from the crossroads. In this case, from the point where Laurel Canyon Boulevard crosses Mulholland Drive. Measuring west from there-you really want this exactly? You know, it was three years ago.”

“As precisely as you can give it to me.”

“Okay, Sergeant. Measuring west from the Laurel Canyon crossover, you drive exactly one mile and seven twentieths. There the road curves to the left. On the left you have the high shoulder of the hill, on the right a sheer drop of about a hundred feet.”

“I think I know the spot. But I don’t remember a perpendicular drop.”

“I don’t mean absolutely perpendicular, Sergeant. There is a slight slope that’s covered with chaparral, but it might just as well be perpendicular for anything that goes over there. Now this Addison kid’s car was coining from the east, from Laurel Canyon, and she must have lost control, because instead of making the curve she went straight ahead and over.”

“At what speed?”

“You know that’s only an estimate,” Commager said. “But we get pretty good at that kind of thing. I got down here in my notes that she was moving at thirty miles an hour.”

“Were there brake marks where she went over?”

“No.”

“How did you account for that? Was her brakeline cut or broken? Was her brake fluid gone?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you telling me that there were no skid marks and you didn’t come up with an explanation? Or a question?”

“Now hold on, Sergeant. We’re not halfwits. We knew she didn’t try to break her speed. If she had, then the car would have tumbled over the edge of the road and there would have been broken brush from there on down. But there wasn’t any broken brush under the road. She went over the side like the car was shot out of a catapult. That’s the way we figured the thirty miles an hour. It maybe don’t sound like much speed on a highway, but over the side of a cliff, it’s a hell of a lot of speed.”

“It could have been fifteen or twenty miles an hour?”

“I suppose so.”

“A man who knows a little mechanics can wire a throttle down. Then he throws the car into gear and jumps out. Did you look for that kind of a device?”

“We had no reason to. It went down as an accidental death.”

“What did the autopsy show?”

“My God, Sergeant, that car tumbled down maybe over a hundred feet and then burst into flames. There wasn’t much left of the car or the kid inside of it.”

“How was she identified?”

“Her purse was thrown clear. Then her rings, dental work, the usual thing.”

“Did her mother make an identification?”

“I can’t tell you that, Sergeant. That would happen down-town. But in the normal course of events they would call her in for an I.D.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“Not to the crash. People saw the flames and called us.”

“What kind of a car was it?”

“A little red car. It must have been a beauty, one of those little convertible Mercedes.”

“Red?”

“That’s right, red.”

For a long moment of silence, Masuto sat with the telephone in his hand.

“You still there, Sergeant?”

“One more point, Officer Commager. You’ve been very helpful, and now I’m going to ask you to do the impossible. Close your eyes and go back to that night. You’re in a radio car, a black-and-white. You get the call. Where are you when that call comes in?”

“Southbound on Laurel, going up the hill.”

“All right-up the hill, and you turn right onto Mulholland. Now between that point and the place where the car is, did you see a man on foot?”

Now the silence was on Officer Commager’s end. Kati watched Masuto’s tense face as he listened and waited. She did not often see him at moments like this, and she was not sure she liked him like this, his nostrils quivering slightly, his ordinarily placid brown face suddenly the face of the hunter.

“Jesus Christ,” Commager burst out, “this is crazy. I see these characters on the witness stand giving testimony from five, six years ago-this is only three years ago and it’s like a dream. I think I saw a man on foot, and then I don’t know. If you put me on the witness stand, a lawyer could tear it to shreds. I think so, but I can’t swear to it. It was nighttime, and I was responding to a call.”

“You’ve done nobly,” Masuto said. “Thank you. Maybe this will save some lives.”

He put down the phone and sat and stared at the notes he had made.

“Masao?” Kati said.

“Yes?”

“Whose lives will be saved?”

“Three women-if I am lucky, if something breaks in this lunatic puzzle. I keep moving, but he moves faster.”

“Will you be careful?”

He kissed her again and went out to his car.

During the short ride from his house to the sprawling Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lot, Masuto speculated on whether he should have called the studio and made an appointment with Billy Fuller, the director. Then he shrugged it off. He had no time for second thoughts. He’d manage.

The guard at the gate said, “Mister, if you don’t have a pass, if nobody put your name on my list, I don’t let you in.”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto of the Beverly Hills Police.” He showed his badge.

“That cuts no ice here. This is Culver City.”

“What would cut ice? Suppose I took you in for obstructing justice?”

“Here? In Culver City?”

“Now look, this is a homicide investigation. If you don’t think I can arrest you right here in Culver City, I suggest you pick up your phone and call the local cops. Meanwhile, I’ll be talking to whoever runs this place. Or we can settle it cool and civilized. Which is it?”

“Okay. You win. Billy Fuller?”

“That’s right”

“He’s shooting on Stage Three. That’s the trouble, Sergeant. I can get my ass burned right off if he wants to be nasty.”

“Lay it on me.”

Masuto parked his car. Then he walked through the gate and found Stage Three. A red light was swinging lazily outside the door of the sound stage, an indication that inside filming was in progress. Masuto knew enough about film studios to know that no take, as they called it, lasted more than a few minutes at most; and when the red light went out, he entered the dark, cavernous interior. Coming out of the brilliant sunshine, the comparative darkness was impenetrable at first, and he stood for a minute or two, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Bit by bit, he made out the jungle of wires and cables that confronted him. The scene was being shot at the other end of the sound stage, the view blocked by a set of flats. Masuto walked carefully toward it, and then, coming around in a circle, he was confronted by a brightly-lit New York summer street scene, a Greenwich Village cafe, tables, actors, cameramen, grips, electricians-and a man who barred his way and told him that this was a closed set.

“I’m looking for William Fuller.”

“He’s on the set, mister. We’re shooting, and he can’t be disturbed. And like I said, this set is closed. So I suggest you call his office and make an appointment.”

“I have to see him now,” Masuto said.

“Buzz off, yes? Don’t give us a hard time. Or do I have to call the studio cops?”

“I’m Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. I suggest you let me talk to Mr. Fuller.”

By now, a circle of people had gathered around. A small man, about five feet seven inches in height, energetic, tight, with long hair and a lean, birdlike face, dressed in blue jeans and a blue work shirt, pushed into the circle and demanded, “What in hell goes on here? I’m trying to make a movie.”

“This clown says he’s a cop and he wants to talk to you.”

“This clown,” Masuto said coldly, “is used to being addressed as Detective Sergeant Masuto.” He took out his badge. “Now here’s my badge. I’m investigating a homicide. If you’re William Fuller, I’d like ten minutes of your time, in a place where we can talk privately.”

Evidently, it was Fuller. “Are you nuts?” he demanded. “We’re in the middle of shooting. Do you know what it’s going to cost if we close shop now?”

“I’m not asking you to close shop. I’m asking for ten minutes of your time.”

“It’s impossible. Forget it. I don’t know one goddamn thing about any homicide, so forget it.”

“All right.” Masuto nodded. “I get a warrant and I pull you in as a material witness. We hold you twenty-four hours. What will that cost?”

“You wouldn’t dare. Jesus, I live in Beverly Hills. I pull some weight there. God damn it, you’re going to hear about this.”

“Well, which is it? The easy way or the hard way?”

Billy Fuller stared at Masuto. Then he turned to the circle of people and snapped, “Take ten! But stay close!” Then he motioned to Masuto and led him past the set to a line of portable dressing rooms. “In here.” It was fitted out as a small office, with a desk and several chairs.

“Now what the hell is this all about?” Fuller wanted to know. He dropped into a chair. Masuto sat facing him.

“Last night a woman named Alice Greene was killed.”

“You mean that thing on Beverly Drive?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know the dame from Adam. Never met her.”

“She was a friend of your ex-wife, Mitzie.”

“I don’t know her either. The bitch doesn’t exist.”

“She exists,” Masuto assured him quietly. “I want her to continue to exist. She’s in very great danger. The same man who killed Alice Greene is trying to kill her.”

“Come on!”

“Believe me.”

“Look, you came to the wrong party. I don’t start any defense fund. If someone is looking to finish off Mitzie, he doesn’t get my help. But I don’t interfere either.”

“I see. Are you by any chance planning to kill her?” Masuto asked quietly.

“What are you, crazy? I’m in the middle of a picture, and you’re asking me am I planning to kill some miserable broad.” He shook his head. “Are we finished? I told you I don’t know this Greene woman. You want to know would I kill Mitzie? Maybe. If I could get away with it. If I could find enough time between pictures.”

“That’s a lot of hate. Why?”

“That, Mr. Detective, is none of your goddamn business.”

“Why did your marriage break up?”

“What are you, the Louella Parsons of the Beverly Hills cops?”

“It’s very important that you answer that question.”

“Not to me.” He got to his feet.

“A few more questions, Mr. Fuller. Were you in the service?”

“Yes, I spent a lousy year in Nam with an army film unit. But you know what occurs to me? I don’t have to answer any one of your damn questions. You blackmailed me out there, telling me you’d kill a day’s shooting if I didn’t talk to you. I think I’ll talk to my lawyer about that.”

“You could do that,” Masuto agreed. “But I think it would be easier to spend a few minutes more with me and not lose the day’s shooting. You can still take it up with your lawyer.”

“Okay, okay, let’s get it over with.”

“Do you own a pistol?”

“Four of them, and I got the papers on all of them.”

“What kind?”

“I have a Colt forty-five hogleg.” For the first time, his tight face relaxed slightly and he smiled thinly. “That’s a reproduction of the old frontier Colt, bring down a man at a hundred yards, blow a hole through you big as a saucer. I got a Browning thirty-caliber automatic and I own two target pistols, both of them twenty-two.”

“What kind of guns are the twenty-twos?”

He was relaxed now. He enjoyed talking about guns. “One is an old Smith and Wesson hand ejector. It’s got to be fifty years old, but perfect. A little pocket gun, but a beauty. That’s the one I carry when I carry a gun.”

“You carry a gun?”

“Not now. At night.”

“Why?”

“Man, you got to be kidding. Do you read the newspapers?”

“Sometimes. And the other twenty-two?”

“That’s a Browning target pistol. Automatic, and it fires twenty-two longs.”

“Where do you keep your guns?”

“Like I said, sometimes I carry the little piece at night. I keep the thirty-caliber in my desk, and the hogleg and the target gun have the usual plush-lined boxes. I keep both boxes in my study.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Fuller?”

“I don’t see where the hell all this fits in.”

“If you will bear with me just a few minutes more,” Masuto said softly, “we can finish this and you can go back to your work. I was asking where you live.”

“I rent a little house on Camden. I had a goddamn mansion on Palm Drive, but it went to that bitch. You know, this is the age of the ripoff and the land of the ripoff. But there’s one ripoff that cuts everything else down to size. Divorce. I pay that bitch four thousand clams a month. I had to give her the house. We’re talking about that target pistol. She gave me that. The one goddamn thing she ever gave me, except maybe a dose of the clap. Nah! I’m only talking. The only dose she gave me was a dose of herself, and that was plenty.”

“She gave you the target pistol?”

“So she did.”

“You said it came in a large, wooden box?”

“Right.”

“Who takes care of your house?”

“I got a housekeeper, a black lady. She comes in every morning, leaves at nine.”

“Then she’s there now?”

“Certainly.”

“When,” Masuto asked him, “did you last look at the target pistol?”

“When? Jesus, I don’t know. This film you’re lousing up right now-I been with it three weeks. I know I haven’t touched the pistol in that time.”

“I suggest to you that it’s not there.”

“What’s not there?”

“The target pistol.”

“You got to be kidding. What are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m saying it was stolen.”

“What! How the hell would you know? You mean one of your guys picked up a target pistol? Who says it’s mine?”

Masuto shrugged.

Fuller picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed a number. Masuto could hear, faintly, the voice of the woman who answered. Fuller said, “Lanie, this is Mr. Fuller. I want you to go into my study and open the rosewood box on my desk and tell me what’s in it. You know, there are two boxes. There’s a black teak box that I keep locked. Look in the other box, the reddish one.” There was a pause. “Yes, I’ll hold the wire.”

He stood there with the telephone in his hand, watching Masuto. It had become a game, and it had caught his attention. “You know,” he said to Masuto, “they keep arguing, does art imitate life or does life imitate art-I mean if you can call movies art. I mean this kind of a ploy is exactly what one of those movie detectives would pull. Then, if the gun’s still there, all you got to say to me is, Sue me. So I’m wrong.”

The phone demanded his attention again. He listened. Then he said, “Thanks, Lanie. No, it’s okay.” He put down the telephone and stared at Masuto.

“The gun is gone,” Masuto said.

“How the devil did you know?”

Masuto shrugged.

“Stolen?”

“You didn’t give it to anyone?”

“What does that mean?”

Again, Masuto shrugged.

“So the gun is gone. What do I do now?”

“I suggest you call the Beverly Hills Police and report it. Give them the serial number and the registration number.”

“I’m reporting it to you.”

“That won’t do. By the way, where were you last night, between ten and eleven o’clock?”

“Come on, what in hell is this?”

“I told you. It’s a homicide investigation.”

“All right. I was home.”

“Alone?”

“Alone, in bed, reading a screenplay. After a day in this place, I don’t even want to get laid.”

“No witnesses, no one to vouch that you were there?”

“Just tell me one thing, mister-what are you trying to accuse me of? Of murdering this Alice Greene, who I never even laid eyes on? Or of planning to murder Mitzie? If it’s a crime to plan a murder, you can take me in right now. Oh, shit, the hell with it! I got a film to make.”

Masuto stood up. “All right, Mr. Fuller. Don’t forget to call in about the gun. By the way”-he held out the snapshot of Catherine Addison-“do you know this girl?”

He glanced at the picture without interest. “Should I?”

“I don’t know. Would you take a good look at it?”

Fuller stared at the picture for a moment. “Good-looking kid, but the woods are full of them. No, I don’t know her.”

Masuto nodded and put the picture back in his pocket. As he left the soundstage, the strident voice of Billy Fuller was calling the actors back to their places. Outside, the blazing sunlight blinded Masuto as much as the darkness had previously, and squinting, he walked back to the guard at the gate.

“How’d it come out?” the guard asked him.

“Not too bad. Tell me, isn’t Fulton Legett here on this lot?”

“Going down the list, huh?” The guard nodded and pointed. “Over there in the executive building.”

“Are you going to give me a hard time again?”

“You’re really a Beverly Hills cop?”

For the second time, Masuto took out his badge and exhibited it.

“I didn’t know they had plainclothes cops on the Beverly Hills force.”

“They even have them in uniform,” Masuto said. “I’ll step in there and have a word with Mr. Legett.”

Inside, there was another guard at the desk, and once again Masuto went through the routine.

“I’ll call up,” the guard said.

“Why don’t you let me surprise him?”

“What is this? Are you going to make some kind of arrest?”

“No arrest. But I have some questions for him. If you call up there, and he says he won’t see me, and then I go up there anyway, you’re in hot water. This way, you just figured it was okay for me to go up. You can’t get into trouble.”

“He’s in room six eleven.”

“Thanks.”

The girl in six eleven-Masuto decided she was receptionist and secretary-looked up at him in surprise and said that they were not casting. She was a very pretty girl, with blonde hair and wide blue eyes.

“I’m not here for casting. I wish to see Mr. Legett.”

“Oh? Did you have an appointment, mister-?”

“Detective Sergeant Masuto. Beverly Hills police.”

“Oh? Are you sure it’s Mr. Fulton Legett you wish to see?”

“Quite sure.”

“And you’re sure you’re a policeman? I never saw a Chinese policeman before.”

“I’m a policeman,” Masuto said, showing her his badge.

She pressed a button on her telephone and said unhappily, “F.L., there’s a policeman here to see you.” She listened for a moment and then said plaintively, “He asked me if I’m sure you’re a policeman and not one of the studio guards. He thinks I can’t tell the difference between a policeman and a studio guard. That’s hitting below the belt, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Through that door,” she said, pointing.

Masuto opened the door and went into a large, square carpeted and wood-paneled room. The furnishings were all chrome and leather, with glass-topped tables and non-objective paintings on the walls. Fulton Legett sat behind a very large desk. He was a short, overweight man who looked more than his fifty years. He had pudgy hands with well-manicured nails, nails polished to a high sheen, and he had a small cupid’s bow of a mouth.

“Are you sure you want to see me?” Legett asked.

Masuto nodded. “Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police.” He held out his badge.

“Ah, I see. I suppose it’s about that terrible thing at the Crombie house. Poor Alice. She deserved better.”

“Then you knew Mrs. Greene?”

“Oh, indeed, indeed. Knew her very well. I called Laura as soon as I saw it in the papers.”

“You knew Mrs. Crombie?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

“Do you know Mitzie Fuller?”

Legett’s eyes narrowed. He hesitated a moment too long. “No,” he said shortly.

“But you do know Billy Fuller?”

“Of course I know the little son of a bitch. We’re on the same lot. He’s got a head as big as the Goodyear balloon. I’ve showed him a few scripts, nothing good enough for the little king-” He had forgotten grief and the dead; he was a producer whose scripts had been turned down by a director.

Masuto interrupted. “Your ex-wife, Nancy-”

“Yes, I spoke to her.”

“When?”

“When I called Laura Crombie. Nancy told me about the situation there. I just can’t believe it-that there’s some bloodthirsty lunatic out to kill those women.”

“There is.”

“Well, damn it, it’s one of those things that are hard to believe. Who would want to kill Nancy?”

“I don’t know.” Masuto shrugged. “Would you?”

“Are you serious?”

“I only meant would you know anyone who might want to kill her. I didn’t mean to suggest that you might want to kill her. But since you appear to take it that way, I’ll ask you. Would you want to kill her?”

“That’s a hell of a question.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But Mrs. Legett suggested it.”

“What? You mean she said I wanted to kill her?”

“Not exactly. But when I asked her who might want her dead, she pointed to you.”

“That miserable, crazy woman!”

“Oh? Then I take it she was responding emotionally.”

“What a lousy thing to say! I give that woman blood. Practically every nickel I got goes to paying my alimony. She is loaded. Loaded. That house of mine-which is now hers-up on Lexington Road is one of the best pieces of property in Beverly Hills. It would fetch a million, and from an Arab or an Iranian, maybe a million and a half, and she’s got it and I eat at Hamburg Hamlet. And now she tells the cops that I’m out to murder her. You know something,” he snapped at Masuto, “it’s not a bad idea. If I knew where to buy one of those contracts you see in films, I wouldn’t mind putting it out on her.”

“That’s not anything to tell me.”

“The hell with it! Who gives a damn?”

“Do you own a gun?” Masuto asked him.

“A gun? What in hell would I do with a gun?”

“Then you don’t own one?”

“No, of course not.”

“I asked you about Mitzie Fuller before,” Masuto said.

“Yeah?”

“You said you don’t know her.”

“You’re sitting here,” Legett said, “because you bulled your way into my office and I let it be. I don’t have to answer one goddamn question. As a matter of fact, I can have you thrown out of here. You’re a small town cop who’s off his range.”

“You called Mitzie Fuller a number of times, asking for a date. Why deny it? You’re divorced.”

“You have got one stinking nerve.”

Masuto slid Catherine Addison’s picture across the desk. Legett glanced down at it. “What’s this? That’s Kelly. What has she got to do with all of this?”

“You knew her?”

“Of course I knew her. She was Laura’s kid.” He pushed the picture back at Masuto. “That’s enough. Get out.”

Masuto put the picture in his pocket and left.