“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
“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
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.
