The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (6 page)

“Where does Hennesy live?”

“A few miles from here.”

“Is he wealthy?”

“That's hard to say. You see, a public servant is always so ready to sell at almost any price that it's difficult to say whether poverty or larceny is the motivating factor.”

Masuto nodded, repressing a smile. “Thank you. You've been very helpful and informative.”

“How often do we get two good-looking city detectives out here in Malibu?”

“Even if you do look Jewish,” Masuto said to Beckman when they were outside in the car.

“She's a tough little lady. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her.”

“Still, it's puzzling,” Masuto said. “One loves Angel, one hates Angel. Nobody gives any reason why.”

“You're going to look for reasons why a dumbbell falls in love, you got to be crazy.”

“You think he's a dumbbell?”

“She does. She may love him like a son, but she don't give him even passing marks. Anyway, Masao, I think that as far as we're concerned, the case is closed. The feds will step in, and they want all the cards where a kidnapping is involved. Anyway, the break-in part of it and the snatch itself was in Malibu, so it drops into the lap of the Malibu cops. We might as well head back to Beverly Hills to Barton's place, and then I can tell my wife I actually saw Mike Barton in the flesh. That'll give her meat for the coffee klatch for the next two weeks. Unless you want to talk to Lee?”

“He's a screenwriter, isn't he?”

Beckman consulted his notes. “That's right. Cominsky says he's the hottest writer in the business.”

“We'll skip him. I don't want any more imagination. I already have too many notions of what happened here last night.”

They were on Sunset Boulevard, heading east toward Beverly Hills, when Masuto's radio lit up. It was Polly at the switchboard at the station house.

“Where are you?” she asked him.

“Just east of Sepulveda.”

“Let me try to patch you through to the captain. He's been trying to get you.”

“Masao?” Wainwright's voice was flat and bleak. “Where the hell are you?”

“Just passing the university.”

“Well, get your ass over here to San Yisidro, just up from Tower.”

“Why?”

“Because Mike Barton is sitting here in his car with a bullet through his head.”

San Yisidro

San Yisidro is a road that winds up into the Santa Monica Hills, branching off from Tower Road a short distance from Benedict Canyon. For about a mile and a quarter San Yisidro is within the city limits of Beverly Hills, and then the road goes on into Los Angeles. It must be noted that Beverly Hills itself is an island, entirely surrounded, not by water but by the City of Los Angeles. San Yisidro is a very elegant neighborhood, but there are spots where the cactus and the mesquite still grow untouched as they have for the past hundreds of years.

It was at one such spot that Mike Barton's black Mercedes was parked, drawn up on the shoulder of the road, the central attraction for two Beverly Hills police cars, Wainwright's car and Dr. Sam Baxter's car. A uniformed policeman stood in the road, waving the curious by. Masuto and Beckman parked behind a prowl car and then joined Wainwright at the Mercedes. The door was open, and Baxter was examining the body of what had been Mike Barton. On the other side of the seat Sweeney, the Beverly Hills fingerprint man, was dusting the car and the dashboard.

“When did you find it?” Masuto asked Wainwright.

“Half hour. Officer Comdon was patrolling the road, and he saw the car. Barton looked alive just sitting there, which is why, I guess, other cars passed it by, but Comdon figured he might be lost or something.”

“When was he killed?”

Wainwright nodded at Sam Baxter, and Masuto went over to the doctor and asked him.

“How the hell do I know?” Baxter snapped. “Was I here? All right, we'll play the guessing game.” He looked at his watch. “It's four-thirty now. I'd say he's been dead four hours, and that's just a guess, and if you put me on a witness stand, I'll say it's a guess.”

“Thank you, Doc. Next to your skill I admire your sweet nature most. What killed him?”

“A gun. What in hell do you think killed him?”

“Yes, of course,” Masuto said humbly. “I thought perhaps you could tell us what kind of a gun.”

“The bullet's still in his skull. When I open him up and take it out, I'll give you all the details. Meanwhile, from the entry hole, I'd guess it was a twenty-two, and since the bullet didn't go through, I'd say it was a twenty-two short. A guess, you understand? But what the hell, if I did my work the way you people do yours, my whole life would be guesses.”

“Yes, our work is hardly as precise. How far away was the gun when the bullet was fired?”

“You're sure you don't want the name of the killer?”

“Only if you have it.”

“The gun was no more than twelve inches away. Powder burns. If you want me to do all your work for you, I'd say that his killer was sitting in the car with him. Barton turned away, and the killer put the gun to the back of his head and fired.”

“And then wiped every print from the inside of the car,” Sweeney said. “Took his time and polished the inside and the door handles like he was working in a car wash.”

An ambulance drew up now, and two attendants pulled a stretcher out. Beverly Hills was not large or violent enough to require its own morgue and pathology room, and they had a long-standing arrangement with All Saints Hospital for the use of both facilities. Sam Baxter, chief pathologist at All Saints, doubled as medical examiner when his services were required.

The ambulance pulled away, Baxter following it, and Wainwright, studying the car thoughtfully, asked Masuto whether he had any ideas.

“Too many.” He had squatted down by the rear wheel, feeling the dirt. “It rained day before yesterday. If the killer was parked here waiting for him, there should be tracks on the shoulder in front.”

Beckman anticipated him. “Right here, Masao.” Wainwright and Masuto joined him. “Do you know,” Masuto said wryly, “television has become an enemy. It gives the criminal the benefit of a writer's imagination.” The tracks had been there, but they were deliberately scuffed out.

“Still,” Beckman said, “he was parked here, which means that two cars were sitting here, and maybe people don't remember one car, but somebody's got to remember two of them.”

“You know it makes no sense,” Wainwright said. “It's happened enough times that kidnappers kill the kidnapped person, but why kill the man who's making the drop?”

“Yeah, why?” Beckman added.

“It makes no sense only if there
was
a kidnapping,” Masuto said.

“Then what in hell was it?”

“Barton parks here to meet someone. He has a million dollars with him. The person he meets is parked in front of him. Is it a kidnapper? He doesn't tell Barton to drop the money and drive on. Instead, he leaves his car, gets into Barton's car, talks to him, and then kills him. No evidence of any struggle in the car, just a simple, friendly murder by your friendly kidnapper.”

“Just hold on,” Wainwright said. “If you're talking about a faked kidnapping, tell me how it makes sense. Sure Barton had to have some help to raise the million on short notice, but it's covered. He has over a million dollars in property and securities, so it's his money. Now what in hell does he gain by faking a kidnapping and paying out a million dollars of his own money?”

“I have a notion,” Masuto said, “but I don't know whether I'm right.”

“Suppose you let us in on your notion.”

“Let me find out whether it makes any sense, Captain. Then I'd like to talk to the lot of them at the Barton place, Ranier and McCarthy and the Angel and a lady by the name of Elaine Newman, and also the three servants. If any of them left the Barton house, I'd like you to get them back in there and have Sy sit on the place until I get there.”

“And that's going to help you find out who killed Barton?”

“I know who killed Barton.”

“What!”

Masuto spread his hands and shook his head. “Not your way. I have no evidence. I see some kind of a crazy jigsaw puzzle, and I don't know what it is or why it is. So don't ask me to name any names.”

“Why the hell not?” Wainwright demanded angrily.

“Because I can't do it that way. You know me a long time. This is like a dark tunnel and I'm feeling my way through.”

Wainwright stared at him for a long moment; then he nodded. “All right, Masao, I'll play it your way for the next twenty-four hours. Then I want the name.”

“Fair enough.”

“Now what time at Barton's?”

“It's five now. Suppose we say between seven and seven-thirty.”

Masuto left Beckman with Wainwright, and from San Yisidro he drove to Woodruff Avenue in Westwood, where his cousin, Alan Toyada, lived with his wife and three children. Toyada, who had been chief research analyst at Merrill Lynch for a number of years, had resigned to teach economics at U.C.L.A. and to conduct his own investment business. Masuto hoped to find him at home, and his hope was rewarded. After a series of polite greetings to the wife and the three children, he sat down in Toyada's study and explained that he had a problem.

“Which is why you're here, of course. What has happened to us since we nisei have become Americans? We abandon all the old ways. Family counts for so little. Do you know how many months it is since we have seen Kati and your children?”

“Too many. One lives with so much nonsense that the important things go by the board.”

“How is Kati?”

“Very well. She has joined a consciousness-raising group, all nisei women. I think I approve.”

“Do you? You might remember that one of the great advantages of being nisei is that one usually has a nisei wife. When you salt the kettle too much, it's very easy to spoil the stew.”

“Perhaps. But I think we should talk about women's rights another time. Right now I have a problem that I present to your superior knowledge.”

“Oh? Possibly the Barton kidnapping?”

“How do you know about the kidnapping?”

“Caught it on the radio driving home. The Angel was returned and the Bartons are happily reunited.”

“Not quite. Mike Barton is dead—murdered.”

“My God! When did that happen?”

“A few hours ago.”

“Do you know how, why?”

“How—yes. Shot in the head. But why—” Masuto shook his head. “That's why I come to you.”

“To tell you why Mike Barton was shot? I am overwhelmed, Masao. A simple investment counselor called upon to explain the evil that men do. Actually, I am very flattered.”

“You are by no means a simple investment counselor. You know more about the curious mythology of money than anyone else I might go to. So please try to help me.”

“How can I refuse?”

“Very well. I'll be as brief as possible. Angel Barton was kidnapped. The ransom was a million dollars. The ransom was paid and Angel was released unharmed. My guess is that whoever received the ransom payment murdered Mike Barton. But it is the kidnapping itself that puzzles me.”

“More than the fact of a crime?”

“Much more. In the first place, I don't believe that there ever was a kidnapping. I am convinced that Barton and his wife arranged a false kidnapping. But why?”

“Did he borrow the money?”

“No. But even if he had, his price is a million and a half dollars a film. But he didn't borrow the money. Of course, since he had only a few hours this morning to put together the million dollars, he had to go to the banks for cash, and he was helped by his producer, his lawyer, and his business manager. But every dollar was backed by securities Barton owned. Which means that he arranged a kidnapping and paid a million dollars of his own money to himself—or at least so he planned.”

“You're sure the kidnapping was fraudulent?” Toyada asked him.

“If not, I should put away my police credentials and spend my declining years pumping gasoline. It was not only faked but stupidly faked.”

“And your problem is to understand why it should have taken place at all?”

“Exactly. You see, early this morning, when Barton rejected any intervention on the part of the police or the FBI, I began to suspect the validity of the kidnapping. Then, as events unfolded, my suspicions were confirmed. The only thing that makes no sense whatsoever is the reason for the charade.”

“But, Masao, when you found Barton's body, did you also find the million dollars?”

“No.”

“Ah, so!”

“Yes, very Japanese. Do you do it purposely?”

“A habit of my father's.”

“You would have made a good policeman, but my disgraceful profession is enough for the family to endure. Of course the person who killed Barton had motives easily understood. He wanted a million dollars. And this person also knew about the kidnap plot, whether or not he was directly involved in it. But Barton—?”