“Beautiful-that’s just beautiful.” He stared at Masuto. “I never know when you’re telling me something you know or handing me a line of crap. You think you can clean this up tonight?”
“I think so, yes.”
“All right, who killed Angel and who killed Kelly?”
“I think I know who killed Angel. Kelly …” He shook his head. “But if you can get them here tonight, I think I can give it to you. Kelly and Angel both.”
“Who? Get who here? How do you get people here? Are you indulging in some goddamn literary detective fantasy?”
“McCarthy, Ranier, the Goldbergs, Mrs. Cooper, Miss Newman, and Hennesy.”
“Masao, have you lost your bearings. You don’t do such things.”
“It can be done.”
“How? Do I arrest them? Do I kidnap them?”
“Have someone reach each one of them and tell them that tonight we are going to expose the killers. You can’t force them to come, but they’ll come.”
“You read that in a book.”
“I don’t read murder mysteries,” Masuto said with some annoyance. “It’s bad enough that I live with it. Do you want me to read about it as well?”
“I read them,” Sweeney said. “You put them in one room and you get the killer. It’s pure bullshit. Every time I read one of them, I ask myself why those clowns don’t take a look at the way ordinary cops work. Like crawling around this place looking for fingerprints. From what I see, this Kelly never had a visitor. All the prints match up.”
“With what?” Wainwright demanded. “How the hell do you know that they match up?”
“Because,” Sweeney replied, smiling thinly, “when you tell me this joker has a record, which was yesterday, I pull a set of prints from the Los Angeles cops and I got it right here with me.”
“Yeah, you’re a real smartass cop,” Wainwright said and, turning to Masuto, “I don’t like it. Anyway, how can you be sure they’ll come?”
“I’m not sure. But look at it this way, Captain. There are two draws-curiosity and guilt. These people like to talk, and this is something to talk about, something to make them shine at a dinner party or whatever. On the other hand, the guilty ones will feel they’re pointing to themselves if they don’t show.”
“And how about this Angel business, Masao? Do you really think you know who killed her?”
“I’m guessing. I could be wrong.”
“And when you get them here, what then?”
“I think I know a way.”
“You’re sure it’s one of them?”
“Two of them,” Masuto said. “Will you give it a try?”
“All right. But I’ll be going way out on a limb, and so help me God, Masao, if you leave me hanging there, I’ll take it out of your hide. What time?”
“Let’s say nine o’clock. And I’ll need some money.”
“What do you mean, you’ll need some money?”
“You’ll get it back.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“All of it?” Wainwright asked suspiciously. “What the hell is it for if I get all of it back?”
“Trust me, please.”
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars.”
Wainwright regarded Masuto sourly. “All right. But I want it back, every cent of it. I’m going to the station house now, and I’ll pull a draft for you and you can cash it at the bank. Are you going to call these characters?”
“If you could do it,” Masuto said gently, “it would be much more meaningful. You’ve got the rank and they’ll be impressed with a call from you.”
Wainwright stared at him, shook his head, turned on his heel, and walked out. Sweeney, putting his equipment together, looked at Masuto with respect. “That was beautiful,” he said. “That was like Moses getting water from a rock. The captain will never be the same again.”
“I think he took it very well.”
“Look, Sarge, do you expect any significant prints from this place?”
“No.”
“Then why the hell do you let me work my ass off?”
“You’re fingerprints. If you don’t look for fingerprints, the captain would be very upset. You know that.”
“The hell with you!” Sweeney said, and stalked out. A minute or so later, Masuto followed him.
Downstairs in the kitchen Mrs. Holtz and Lena Jones sat at the kitchen table, depleted, their faces full of hopeless fear. Elaine Newman stood at a window, staring at the gardens behind the house. She had come there while Masuto was upstairs in Kelly’s quarters, and now as he entered the kitchen, she turned slowly to face him.
“Will it stop? Will you ever stop it?”
“It’s over now.”
“I didn’t know a thing like this could happen here-in America-in Beverly Hills. How can such a thing happen here?” Mrs. Holtz said.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Elaine said to Masuto. “What do you do? Do we keep the house going? Do we close it up? Who pays the wages of Mrs. Holtz and Lena-yes, and myself. I know it’s selfish and unfeeling to talk about such things, but what am I supposed to do?”
“Did you call McCarthy? Wasn’t he Barton’s lawyer?”
“I called him. He doesn’t return my calls. He isn’t very fond of me.”
Masuto went to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll finish it soon,” he said softly. “You’ve been through your own hell, but that will end.” Suddenly, her face was pressed into his jacket and she was sobbing uncontrollably. He held her like that for a moment or two, and then he said, “Will you help me? I need your help.”
“Yes.”
He took out his handkerchief and handed it to her, and she dried her eyes.
“Where do you work, Elaine? I mean in what room?” He quite deliberately called her by her first name. Masuto was not unaware of the fact that he was a very good-looking man, that women liked him and trusted him.
“Suppose we go there now. We’ll talk.” He turned to Mrs. Holtz and Lena Jones. “Don’t be afraid. We have a policeman in the front hall. Let him answer the door.”
“Will you be here?” Lena Jones asked desperately.
“For a little while. But the policeman will be here all day.”
“You can’t blame them,” Elaine said as they walked to the library. “They’re frightened. So am I. They live here. Where can they go?”
Dempsy was in the front hall. “Listen,” Masuto said to him. “There are two women in the house, in the kitchen. I want you to look in there every half hour or so, make them feel comfortable. They’re afraid.”
“Sure.”
“And no one else comes into the house-no one. Except Miss Newman here. If she leaves, she can return. But no one else. And if anyone gets nasty about it, call the captain.”
She led Masuto into the library. It was more or less a standard Beverly Hills library or den, with wood-paneled walls, shelves of leather-bound books, tufted leather furniture, and bad pictures. There was a large desk and a typewriter.
“Sit down, please,” Masuto said to her.
She curled up in one corner of the couch. Masuto sat facing her. “I’m all right now,” she said.
“I know. You’re a survivor.”
