The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (2 page)

McCarthy stared at Masuto thoughtfully for a long moment before answering. “They say you're good. Are you that good?”

“I'm a cop,” Masuto said. “I do my job.”

“That's fair enough. The Bartons have a place out at Malibu. Last night there was a party at the Malibu Colony. Mike felt rotten, headache, maybe a touch of the flu. He talked Angel into going without him, and he told her that if it got to be past midnight and she was enjoying herself, she shouldn't try to drive home but stay over at their Malibu place and come in today.”

“That sounds like an understanding husband.”

“They have a good relationship. Mike went to sleep. At three in the morning he was awakened by the kidnapper's call. The man told Mike he had Angel and that the ransom was a million.”

“Who gave the party?”

“Netty Cooper. She was married to Sam Cooper, the producer. They're divorced. She got the house at Malibu.”

“What did Barton do then?”

“He drove out to Malibu. His house had been broken into. There were signs of a struggle—broken lamps, overturned chairs.”

“Did he then go over to Cooper's place?”

“No. The kidnapper had warned him to keep it quiet. For all Mike knew, the party might still be going on.”

“Is his house in the Colony?”

“No, about a mile away.”

“He's a cool-headed man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“And what was his next move?” Masuto asked.

“He telephoned me from the beach house and I met him here at his home in Beverly Hills. It was about six o'clock in the morning then. I persuaded him to call Al Freeman. The kidnapper had been very emphatic about what would happen to Angel if he communicated with the police, but Al felt he must call in the feds. Then I talked to Bill Ranier. A million dollars in cash is a very large order, Sergeant. No one bank carries that kind of cash. Fortunately, both Bill and I have good connections with a number of banks.”

“But you found the cash?”

“It's promised. It's being put together and it will be delivered to the Central Bank of Los Angeles by nine-thirty. I'll pick it up there. The kidnapper said he'll call in his instructions for the drop at noon.”

“Did Barton talk to his wife when the kidnapper called?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She was frightened. Mike says she could hardly talk. What does a woman say in a situation like that?”

“If he repeated her exact words and if you can remember them, I'd like to hear them.”

“What difference does it make? Time is running out.”

“It might be important.”

McCarthy shook his head and knit his brow. “I don't know. ‘Help me.' I think. ‘Get me out of this, please, Mike.' Something like that. I didn't press him.”

“Do they have a security system in their house at Malibu?”

“I think so, yes.”

“It connects with the Malibu police?”

“I really don't know.” He looked at his watch. “Suppose you hold the rest of your questions for Mike when you get out there. I have to get over to the bank.”

Masuto nodded, and as McCarthy left, Wainwright entered the room. “The gardener's rig will be downstairs in a few minutes, Masao. I swear I don't like this. It's lousy police method, and the feds are leaning on us and screaming special privilege. What in hell do they expect? It's Beverly Hills not Hell's Kitchen. There's more weight in this town than at a fat farm, and it all leans on us.”

“When he goes to make the drop,” Masuto said, “should I try to follow him?”

“No. We have to leave him clear.”

“I don't like it. It's wrong.”

“I know. It's lousy police work.”

“I don't mean that,” Masuto said. “It's wrong on his end.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know. It just doesn't wash.”

“Sure. And when you get something more than one of your goddamn Oriental hunches, I'll talk about it. Meanwhile, keep an eye out for my car.”

“What do you mean, keep an eye out for your car?”

“My car was stolen. Didn't Beckman tell you? My car—right here in Beverly Hills, standing in the driveway of my house.”

“That is adding insult to injury. Still, Captain, if you insist on driving a Mercedes, you take the risk that goes with it.”

“What do you mean, Mercedes? The car's twelve years old. I bought it for nine hundred dollars and put three thousand into it. Sure it's a Mercedes—ah, the hell with it! We'll find it. Meanwhile, get into some old clothes and look like a gardener.”

“I am a gardener,” Masuto replied as he opened the door to leave. “I grow the best roses, the best tomatoes, and the best cucumbers in Los Angeles. It's a relief to pretend to be something I understand.”

Masuto stopped to look into his office, where Beckman still labored over the files. “I hear you've turned gardener,” Beckman said.

“I wish it were permanent. What have you got?”

“Not much, but Mike Barton is an interesting guy. Angel isn't her name and Barton isn't his.”

“What is his name?”

“I'm not absolutely certain, but maybe it's Brannigan. Also, he gambles.”

“Everyone gambles.”

“Big. Also, which I'm not sure about either, cocaine, and maybe the Angel sniffs a bit as well.”

“Can you find anything on her?”

“I'm looking.”

“Keep looking. From what I'm told, the drop will take place at twelve noon. This has to be kept very quiet, but the big brass convinced Wainwright to leave him uncovered when he makes the drop.”

“That's crazy!” Beckman exclaimed.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I don't think it makes much difference. I'll see you later.”

The gardener's truck was downstairs, an old Ford pickup with two lawnmowers sitting in the loading area. There were also picks, shovels, two bags of lime and a rolled-up hose. It had a cranky clutch and it bucked as Masuto backed out of the parking area.

It was just nine o'clock when he parked the pickup in front of his house in Culver City. Unlike New York City, there was no regulation requiring Beverly Hills policemen to live in Beverly Hills. If there had been, they would have to have been very wealthy policemen indeed. The small cottage in Culver City, only a few miles from Beverly Hills, was Masuto's base, his retreat, his argument that the world he lived in was not entirely insane and bloodthirsty. There was his home, his wife, his children, his tiny meditation room and his rose garden. Now his children were at school, the teen-age burglar had departed and evidently his wife, Kati, was out shopping, for the house was empty. He changed into old shoes, work pants, and a blue shirt, and as he was ready to leave, Kati entered, her arms full. Masuto took the bags of groceries from her and carried them into the kitchen, while Kati told him how delighted she was that he had been given the day off and was prepared to work in his garden.

“I am not going to work in the garden. In two minutes, I shall drive off in that truck parked in front of the house.”

“The gardener's truck?”

“Yes.”

Kati shook her head bewilderedly.

“I have not become a gardener. It's a costume for my assignment. I'll tell you about it tonight. Until then—” He spread his hands.

“Ah, so. We are man and wife, but still I'm not to be trusted. Very old Japanese, Masao,” she said, shaking her head. Kati was the gentlest of souls, but since she had joined a group of nisei women in the process of consciousness raising, she had developed a vocabulary of protest and disapproval. “Old Japanese” was a part of it. Masuto kissed her, refused to argue the point, and left the house, reflecting that as a Zen Buddhist he was poorly developed indeed. He should have been able to see her point of view. Well, one day he would change all that—one day when he had completed his twenty-two years on the force and was in a position to receive his pension. When that time came, he would spend at least six hours a day in meditation in the Zendo in downtown Los Angeles. Until then, unfortunately, he was a policeman.

Or was he just that, a policeman and no more? What was the point, the focus of his existence? With all his years of meditation, he had not experienced enlightenment, or satori, as the Japanese called it. He was more romantically inclined than people suspected. His wife, Kati, knew that her husband was a most unusual man, but even she did not suspect that there were times when he saw himself as a member of the ancient samurai. That was sheer fantasy. His family was not of the samurai, but out of plain peasant people, for all their success here in this new country; but at a moment in history Zen Buddhism had been the religion of the samurai, and for all of his failings, Masuto was a Zen Buddhist—and how so different from the samurai? The film the Japanese had made, which was titled
The Seven Samurai,
fascinated Masuto. He had seen it three times, brooding over the mentality of these seven men who must save a village, even at the cost of their lives, a village where they had no connection—except perhaps the human connection. That was very Zen.

And was that why he lived out the role of a policeman?

Or did he live simply for the occasional puzzle that broke up the dull routine of robberies? In all truth, he loved his work. That was his burden, his karma, to make his life out of the bleakest, the most horrifying aspects of what is euphemistically called civilization. Be that as it may, his problem now was to go disguised as a Japanese gardener, to the home of a film star, and to try to find out why said film star was unwilling to involve the police in the kidnapping of his wife. Wainwright would have seen it differently; he would have insisted that Masuto's responsibility was to find the kidnapper and to protect Angel Barton—if, conceivably, she could be protected. Why, Masuto wondered, did a part of his own mind reject that notion?

Then he put his thoughts aside. It was best not to think, not to speculate. More must happen.

Mike Barton's home was on Whittier Drive, north of Sunset Boulevard, at the extreme western edge of Beverly Hills. In a wealthy and elegant city, this was one of the wealthier and more elegant neighborhoods, enormous houses of twenty and thirty rooms sitting in manicured jungles of exotic tropical plantings. Barton's house suited the neighborhood, a strange combination of oversized Irish cottage and French chateau, painted white, surrounded by a whitewashed stone wall. A high iron gate opened to the driveway, and as Masuto turned into the entrance, the gate opened, indicating that someone was expecting him and had noted his approach. He drove around to the back of the house, as a gardener would, and as he got out of the car, Bill Ranier, Barton's business manager, came out of the back door to meet him.

“All right, Sergeant, you're here,” Ranier said. “I don't know how good this idea is, but since your people insist, Mike agreed to go along with it. Just remember that he's pretty damn disturbed, so don't try to break him down. He's going to do this his own way, and any pressure or strongarm tactics can only hurt Angel—maybe kill her.”

“I don't use strongarm tactics,” Masuto said softly, “but it might be worth noting that in Italy, where the payment of ransom is forbidden by law, people have tried to operate this way, without the police. It doesn't help. The same number of kidnap victims are killed. If Barton would cooperate, we might get both the kidnappers and his wife and a million dollars to boot.”

“Well, he won't. He's going to do it his way.”

“Is the money here?”

“Inside. McCarthy got here a few minutes ago.”

“In what form? What kind of bills?”

“Fifties and hundreds. We have the numbers, but hell, there's no problem with laundering it. Billions of petrodollars floating around the world, so I guess we can kiss it good-bye.”

“Possibly. I think now I'd like to talk to Barton. By the way, how many servants are in the house?”

“He keeps three in help, Joe Kelly chauffeurs and doubles as a butler when he has to, Freda Holtz—she's the cook—and Lena Jones, the maid.”

“Does Kelly do the gardening?”

“No, Mexican gardener comes in twice a week, not today. Now look, here's the scenario we worked out. I tell Mike you're here. He yells and puts up a fuss. I calm him and tell him he might as well talk to you. That's for any big ears. I tell him it will help to pass the time and ease the waiting. Then he comes outside and walks with you through the plantings. He's got a small greenhouse at the other end of the property, so you can go in there and talk. It should make some sense to anyone who might be listening.”

“You only mentioned the three in help. Are there any others?”

“Just his secretary, Elaine Newman.”

“Is she here today?”

“Not yet. She comes in around ten, but she could be early or late. Mike doesn't hold her to strict hours.”

“Does she know about the kidnapping?”

“No, and we decided not to tell her. When she comes in, I'll send her over to my office to get some papers and my secretary will keep her waiting there and then she has to pick up a manuscript for Mike. That will keep her out of it until noon. This is still off the record, and according to the kidnapper, we have to keep it that way.”

“All right.” Masuto nodded. “I'll wait right here for Barton.”