“Can do. Start with Joseph Goldberg. World War Two. Enlisted in 1942. Field artillery. Do you want the unit and battle record?”
“No. What about marksmanship citations?”
“Goldberg ended up a lieutenant, field commission. Small arms-that’s common in the field artillery. McCarthy was World War Two as well, tank driver-can you imagine, with that paunch of his? Also small arms. Ranier was in the Korean War, quartermaster corps, no citations, and also in the Korean War, Hennesy served with the Coast Guard, rank of midshipman. That’s it, very briefly. Should I send the records over?”
“I would appreciate that,” Masuto said. “And thank you for your efforts.”
Beckman came in while Masuto was speaking. “Anything?” he asked.
“Not much. They all know how to use a pistol.”
“The paper’s in my car. Ten reams-do you know what that weighs?”
“About the same as a million dollars in twenty-dollar bills, more or less.”
“And the money’s here,” patting his bulging pockets. “It’s a nice feeling to walk around with a thousand dollars in your pockets.”
“Do you know where there’s a paper cutter-one of those power jobs?”
“We could try City Hall. They should have one. I get the drift of what you’re going to try, but what about the suitcase?”
“Courtesy of Gucci.”
“Same one?”
“So Miss Newman says. I promised to return it, so we’ll handle it carefully. Now let’s try for the paper cutter.”
Beckman took a packet of currency wrappers out of his pocket. “You forgot about these.”
“So I did. I wonder what else I’ve forgotten.”
12
It was well after six o’clock before Masuto and Beckman finished cutting the paper and arranging the piles, topped by twenty-dollar bills, in the suitcase. While they were at work, Wainwright stopped by and watched them for a moment or two, and then said, “It’s an old trick. What makes you think it will work?”
Masuto shrugged. “It’s a shortcut. Maybe it won’t work.”
“You got anything else?”
“Something, not much.”
“Whoever it is, he was in it with Angel.”
“Yes.”
“Then he could have killed Mike Barton.”
“He could have, but I don’t think he did,” Masuto said.
“He could have killed Angel. One less to split.”
Masuto shrugged.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t think he killed Angel. I think he killed Kelly.”
“And what do we do about Angel?”
Masuto shook his head.
“You know,” Wainwright said, “you are one secretive bastard, Masao. You’re supposed to be part of this police force, not a goddamn supercop.”
“I never think of myself as a supercop,” Masuto replied, smiling. “I crawl through mazes and I try to guess what goes on in the minds of poor tortured madmen. Do you want me to drag you in with me every time I get some crazy notion.”
“All I want you to do is to level with me.”
“I try.”
“And just keep an eye on that suitcase. I want that thousand dollars back.”
“Not to mention the suitcase,” Beckman said, “which cost four hundred and twenty dollars at Gucci.”
“Goddamnit!” Wainwright snarled. “Who paid for it? Did you charge it to us?”
“Gucci lent it to us, as a gesture of goodwill toward the Beverly Hills cops.”
“Clowns,” Wainwright muttered as he stalked out.
They ate at Cantor’s on Fairfax Avenue. Beckman wanted tempura, but Masuto had eaten tempura for lunch and he had no great love for Los Angeles Japanese restaurants. He told Beckman that he had a craving for chicken and matzo-ball soup so they went to Cantor’s. Masuto would not talk about the case. He dodged Beckman’s question and talked about the TV version of
“Nothing to it.”
“All right. Tonight, after they arrive, if there’s a key in the car, put it into your pocket, and if there’s no key, break the connection. But I don’t want the cars damaged, I just want none of them able to start.”
“No sweat.”
“And if anything happens, just let it play out. No rough stuff, no daring moves, no jumping anyone. Just watch me and play my game.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Just being careful.”
It was eight o’clock when they got to Mike Barton’s house, and the only car in the parking space was Elaine Newman’s Mustang. Dempsy, still on duty, came out to meet them.
“No one here yet?”
“Only Miss Newman. She’s been here all afternoon. The cook and the maid-that’s all.”
“Good. Now, listen, Dempsy, if something happens tonight, no guns or rough stuff. If someone has a gun, no shooting if you can help it. Play it very cool.”
“What do you expect, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”
Beckman carried the suitcase into the house. “You know, Masao,” he said, “I never thought of money being heavy. This is heavy.”
Elaine Newman had opened the door for them, saying, “Thank God you’re here, Sergeant. This place is spooky. What have you got in there?”
“About nine and a half reams of bond paper and some twenty-dollar bills. Do you have a closet in the library where you can stow it until we need it?”
“Absolutely.” She was alive this evening. She had broken out of the torpor of her grief. “Get him,” she said eagerly. “Get him, please. Not only for Kelly, but for Mike too.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Angel killed Mike, didn’t she? That’s what you think?”
“How do you know I think that?”
“You sit in this library, and you can listen to half the house. It’s these old-fashioned hot-air vents. I overheard you talking to the captain. You know she killed Mike, but if she was in it with someone else, then that makes him guilty too, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps. I don’t decide matters of guilt or innocence.” He looked at her thoughtfully, reflecting that she was not beautiful, not even very pretty, but there was intelligence in the face and the wide-set, dark blue eyes were unusually striking. You saw the eyes before you saw anything else, and a head of rich thick brown hair framed them very well. She was an odd contrast to the woman Mike Barton had married and, very likely, Masuto decided, a complete reaction.
