by Howard Fast
“I’m a Buddhist.”
She shook her head. “I think I heard about it, but I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s a way of living, acting, being, of knowing who you are.”
She poured the tea and placed it in front of him. “Sugar?”
Masuto shook his head.
“So tell me, please, how do Buddhists feel about Jews?”
“The same way they would feel about any other people.”
“And none of them hate Jews?”
“Buddhists try not to hate.”
“That’s nice.” She sat at the table, facing him, a shapeless woman whose lined face was etched with suffering. “That’s very nice, Mr. Masuto. Hate is so crazy, so unreasonable. Someone like Kelly, he has to hate Jews, he has to hate colored people, he has to make life miserable for poor Lena.”
“I thought he was very fond of Mr. Barton.”
Mrs. Holtz shrugged. “Not so fond. Sure, Mike was good to him. Maybe nobody was ever so good to Kelly as Mike. And Kelly liked his job. But he’d get mad at Lena and yell, ‘Get that lousy Jew nigger out of here.’ Then he’d complain about the Jew food I cooked. Not with Mike where Mike could hear him. And I’ll tell you something else. He has a gun.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Lena was cleaning his room and she saw it.”
“Perhaps Mr. Barton wanted him to have a gun.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“We think,” Masuto said, “that Mrs. Barton was blackmailing her husband. Miss Newman seems to feel that strongly. Do you have any notion of what she might have held over him?”
Mrs. Holtz shook her head. “They had terrible fights at first, and then, about a year ago, they stopped fighting.”
“Do you know what the fights were about?”
“I wouldn’t listen. I liked Mr. Barton too much. I couldn’t bear to listen.”
“Did Lena listen?”
“Lena’s a good girl. She wouldn’t listen.”
“No, of course not,” Masuto said, his tone easy and without threat. “But you yourself, Mrs. Holtz, you live here, you must have known what went on in this house.”
“I’m not a spy,” she said with annoyance.
“No, of course not. And I’m not talking about ordinary blackmail on Mrs. Barton’s part. It was something she knew about him, or something about herself. Miss Newman indicated that it would wreck Mr. Barton’s film career if it came out-and that this was the reason he stayed married to Angel.”
“He must have had a reason. They weren’t like a man and a wife. They had separate rooms. Sometimes for days they didn’t even talk to each other.”
“Was he in love with Elaine Newman?”
“You think Elaine killed Angel? You’re crazy, Mr. Policeman.”
“No, I don’t think she killed Angel.”
“She loved him, he loved her, that’s a sin?”
“Did Angel know?”
“What do you think? She knew and she didn’t care. She had Mike’s money. She lived like a queen.”
“Who do you think killed Mike Barton?”
Mrs. Holtz answered without hesitation. “Kelly. He killed both of them, and now Lena and me, we’re here alone with him. Why don’t you do something about that, Mr. Policeman?”
“I don’t think you’re in any danger, Mrs. Holtz. We’ll have a policeman in the front hall all night, and tomorrow we’ll go into the question of whether Kelly has a permit for the gun. Only one more question. Who were Angel Barton’s friends?”
“Who could want to be her friend?”
“I’m sure she had friends. She was a beautiful woman. Who did she go out of her way to see?”
Mrs. Holtz thought about it for a while, her face set. Then she shrugged. “Maybe they were her friends.”
“Who?”
“That congressman, Hennesy, and Netty Cooper.”
Masuto had finished his tea. “Thank you,” he said to her. “You’ve been helpful. Try to get a good night’s sleep.”
In the hallway, Officer Voorhis was dozing over a copy of Sports Illustrated. He blinked sleepily at Masuto. “I wasn’t really asleep,” he explained.
“Try being really awake.”
It was a cold night for southern California, the temperature down to forty-five degrees. Masuto drove through a Beverly Hills as dark and empty as a city long forgotten and deserted, as dark and empty as a graveyard. Too much had happened in a single day; he couldn’t cope with it or digest it properly, and he did what Zen had trained him to do. He emptied his mind of all thought and conjecture and let himself become one with his car, the dark streets and the night, along Olympic Boulevard and south on Motor Avenue to Culver City. It was a half hour past midnight when he pulled into the little driveway alongside his cottage, entered his house, and embraced Kati.
“It’s so late. Why did you wait up for me?”
“Because my day doesn’t finish until I see you. I have good things for tempura. It will only take a few minutes.”
“I couldn’t face real food now,” Masuto said. “A boiled egg and some toast and tea.”
“Then have your bath and it will be ready. The tub is full, and there are hot towels.”
“The children are all right?”
“The children are fine. Ana won a prize for her ecology poster. She drew a beautiful picture of a deer. Do you think she will grow up to be an artist?”
Masuto laughed. It was good to be back in this world. “She is an artist,” he said to Kati. “Perhaps we all begin as artists. Then it leaves us.”
“Must it?”
“Perhaps not with Ana, if we are wise.”
“It’s very hard to be wise,” Kati said.
“The hardest thing of all, yes.”
“But much easier to be helpful. Have your bath and I’ll prepare some food.”
“In a moment. I want to step outside and look at the roses.”
“In the dark?”
“There’s a moon, and the smell is best at night. It’s some small consolation, Kati. November is the best month for roses, and I’ve hardly looked at mine.”
Of course they showed no color, even in the moonlight, but the air was full of the odor, subtly threading its way through the stronger scent of night-blooming jasmine. The rose garden was Masuto’s hobby, his delight, his own proof that even as a policeman he retained some small trace of the artist. His backyard was small, thirty feet wide and forty feet deep, but he needed no more space than that. Except for the explosive climbers that made a fence around the yard, the roses were spare, skeletonlike stems that burst into a variety of glory. That appealed to Masuto-the thorny stems and the marvelous blooms of color and scent.
He stayed with the rosebushes a few minutes, but it was enough. Then he went into the house and had his bath.
9
The Zendo
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 Mas
uto’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.”