time arguing about it. Now we know what she held over Mike Barton and what she blackmailed him with. As he saw it, if word got out that he had married a man, and that’s the way they would have put it, he was done, finished as a star.”
“No question about that,” Beckman said.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But that’s the way he saw it.”
“Didn’t he know? I mean, when he married her?”
“Would you know?”
“You mean they could have slept together?” Wainwright asked.
“So Baxter tells me.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Do you think they knew?” Beckman asked. “I mean, the others.”
“Maybe. If they did, they all lied. But maybe they didn’t know-except-”
“Except who?”
“Kelly,” Masuto said. “Well, we’ll see. You said they’re all coming?”
“That’s right.”
“Sy and I will get there by eight-thirty. We still have a few things to do.”
Back in his own office Masuto said to Beckman, “All right, Sy, let’s have it.”
Beckman was still bemused. “What was she, a man or a woman?”
“Baxter calls it sexual reassignment. It’s a long, complicated operative and hormonal procedure, and he says it’s been done thousands of times.”
“But how could Barton-”
“Come on, Sy. How could you? How could everyone else?”
“You tell me. It gives me the creeps. Was she an addict?”
“Yes.”
“Heroin?”
“Yes.”
“You know, Masao,” Beckman said, “if anyone else was working with you, and you say to him, go out and search, he might just ask you what he was searching for.”
“All right, you found it,” Masuto said, looking at his watch.
“Well, why the hell didn’t you tell me what I was looking for?”
“Because I didn’t know what you were looking for.”
“And now you know?”
“That’s right.”
“You are one weird son of a bitch, Masao. All right. I turned that place upside down. I found these in a jar of cold cream.” He took three small ampules, each covered with a stretched rubber top, out of his pocket and placed them on Masuto’s desk. “You know what they are?”
“Heroin?”
“Prepared stuff. I had Sweeney run a test. High grade, pure heroin, medicinally prepared, according to Sweeney, and legally imported from England.”
“Illegal. I don’t think a doctor can prescribe it in California, but I suppose that if you pay enough, you can get it. Well, that’s what killed her, that and the whisky and the chloral hydrate.”
“Where’s the fourth ampule?”
“In the garbage at the Barton place, I imagine, or in a garbage dump somewhere. It wouldn’t help us. Everyone’s too smart about fingerprints these days. That was good work, Sy, damn good. Now what about the war records?”
“I unloaded that one on Keller. You were very nice to him, so he was very glad that we don’t hate the FBI the way the L.A. cops and the New York cops do. I explained that we were a very small outfit and that we appreciated what the FBI could do for us. He said he’d call in the information as soon as Washington worked it up.”
“Today?”
“That’s what he said, this afternoon.”
Masuto looked at his watch again. It was twenty minutes to three. “How long to get to the bank from here?”
“Our bank? Five minutes.”
Masuto dialed the number of the Barton house. Elaine Newman answered, and Masuto said to her, “About that suitcase of money-did you see it open? Did you see the money?”
“Yes.”
“Can you remember the bills on top? Tens, twenties, fifties?”
“They were twenties. I think-no, I’m pretty sure. I heard them talk about it after Mike left. Twenties.”
Masuto did some quick calculations, and then he said to Beckman, “Sy, Polly has a draft for a thousand dollars waiting for us at the desk. Take it to the bank and get fifty twenty-dollar bills. Then stop at a stationery supply place and get ten reams of twenty-pound bond paper.”
“How do I pay for the paper?”
“Tell them to bill us. Better hurry.”
After Beckman left, Masuto sat at his desk, his eyes half-closed, his hands folded in his lap, and began to put the pieces together. He assembled them in his mind and let them fall into place, like the bits and pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He was sitting like that when a cop opened his door and told him that Wainwright wanted to see him.
The city manager was in Wainwright’s office, and he offered Masuto a bleak nod. “The captain’s been telling me about tonight, Sergeant, and I don’t like it. I think you ought to call it off.”
“Why, if I may ask?”
“Because you’re playing with fire. Jack McCarthy is one of the most important lawyers in Los Angeles, and a resident of this town to boot. Joe Goldberg is one of the biggest producers in town, and Ranier is a damned important businessman. And Hennesy-Sergeant, he’s a member of the House of Representatives. You have money there and you have power, and sure as hell they’ll slap us with a lawsuit that’ll curl our hair.”
“On what grounds? No one’s being forced. No one’s being charged. They’re coming because they wouldn’t miss tonight for the world. They’re coming to see a killer exposed. I promise you that they will not be badgered or provoked. In fact, I won’t even question them.”
“Then what the devil do you want them for?”
“Because one of them murdered Joe Kelly, and because that man is an accessory to the murder of Mike Barton.”
“Sergeant, I have a lot of respect for you, and I know what your record is. But how do you know that?”
“What I know is meaningless and unimportant until I can prove it, and unless you let this take place tonight, I doubt that I’ll ever be able to prove it.”
“Captain Wainwright tells me you’re convinced that Angel killed Mike Barton.”
“I am, yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Possibly. Tonight.”
“And who killed Angel?”
“I think I know, but I have no evidence, none whatsoever.”
“I’d still like to know.”
Masuto shook his head. “Then it would be an empty accusation. I don’t do that. But about tonight, I can assure you that there’ll be no heavy-handed police methods. I think you should allow it to proceed.”
The city manager looked at Wainwright. “Captain?”
“I’ll be there,” Wainwright said, “so you can have my word that whatever is done will be done with a light touch.”
“All right. But I’m holding you responsible. This kind of thing, three murders in one household, does the city no good. The sooner it’s cleaned up and forgotten, the better off we’ll all be.”
Masuto’s phone was ringing as he entered his office. It was Frank Keller, the very young FBI man, obviously pleased with himself. “I got it all, Sergeant,” he told Masuto. “Shall I send the records over?”
“Can you give me the salient points over the phone?”
