with us.”
“No garage?” Masuto asked.
“Not here. Very few of them. People park in the space in front of their houses.”
“I don’t see her car?”
“They took it-a yellow two-seat Mercedes. Worth over forty grand. We put out an APB on it, but no word yet.”
“And when they left, was the gate open?”
“Right. Hold that thought, Sergeant. The gate wasn’t jimmied. Either they opened it with a passkey, or they came around from the beach. And the nearest public pass-through to the beach is a quarter of a mile away. Just follow me through here.”
The passageway was no more than three feet wide, the house directly on the left making a windowless wall. In the Bartons’ house there were several side windows, all of them covered with fretted iron grillwork.
“What about these people next door?” Masuto asked.
“Divorced actor. He does westerns in Spain. Been there three months and not expected back until next month.”
They emerged into the blazing sunlight of Malibu Beach, the white sand stretching in front of them, a man walking a dog, a youngster in a wet suit trying to surf, and four pretty girls playing volleyball. The Barton house had a broad shaded porch facing the ocean, and in front of it and three steps down, a wooden terrace enclosed by a picket fence. On the terrace were tables under striped beach umbrellas-folded now-lounge chairs, and dining chairs. Cominsky opened the gate at the side of the picket fence and led them across the terrace.
“Barred on the road side, but not the beach side.”
“The water kills thoughts of evil,” Masuto said, and Cominsky glanced at him strangely.
“Yet the evil persists,” Masuto added, smiling. “Only the sand is washed clean. Forgive me, Chief. I’m also puzzled.”
“Oh? Yeah,” Cominsky agreed. “Just take a look at this front door.” He unlocked a police padlock that had been bolted to the door and stood aside. Masuto and Beckman stared at the door, which had been attacked in two places by a jimmy and forced open. In the lower corner of the window, next to the door, was a stick-on label with the legend HELMS SECURITY.
“Helms ties into police stations,” Masuto said. “Was this tied into yours?”
“You’re damn right, Sergeant.”
“You tested it? It was working?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you had someone on duty?” Masuto persisted.
“Even if we didn’t, there’s an alarm bell attached that can be heard a mile away on this beach.”
“In other words,” said Beckman, “she never turned on the alarm.”
“Come inside.”
They stood in the living room of the attractively furnished cottage-grass rug, wicker furniture with bright blue upholstery, good prints on the walls. Masuto stood staring, captivated. Two of the prints were askew, a lamp was knocked over and smashed, a chair was turned over, and the grass rug was pulled out of place.
“I want you to see the bedroom,” Cominsky said.
“In a moment.” He was trying to recreate a struggle in his mind and to fit it into what had happened in the room. Beckman, who knew him well, watched with interest. “All right,” Masuto said.
“There are three bedrooms.” Cominsky led the way. “This is the master.”
The bedclothes were rumpled, a nightgown on the floor. As Masuto studied the scene, Cominsky walked over and touched a switch next to the bed. Above the switch, a red light glowed.
“This is the alarm switch. The light’s on when the switch is off.”
“I should think it would be the other way,” Beckman said.
“No, this makes sense. You put out the lights, and then the red light reminds you about the alarm.”
“What time did she leave the party?” Masuto asked.
“About one P.M. When they all live in the Colony, the parties tend to run late.”
“But it was a weekday. Most of them would have to be in the studios very early.”
“Yeah. She was one of the last to leave.”
“And Barton got the call at three A.M. That leaves two hours. Unless they were stupid enough to make the call from here, they had to break in and take her somewhere. If they were watching her, why didn’t they intercept her? Why break in at all? And if she went straight to bed, why didn’t she reach out and turn on the alarm?”
“You tell me,” Cominsky said.
“And if she wasn’t asleep, why didn’t she reach out and turn on the alarm when she heard the door go?”
“Was the bedside lamp on?” Masuto asked.
“It was.”
“You had the place dusted?”
“Early this morning. We don’t look for anything there.”
“Can I use the phone?”
“Be my guest.”
He called Beverly Hills and got through to Wainwright. “It’s one o’clock,” Masuto said. “What do you hear from Barton?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he pay the ransom?”
“According to Ranier he got the call from the kidnappers over an hour ago and left just before noon, taking the million dollars with him.”
“Never said where he was going?”
“Not a word.”
“Did Ranier listen in on an extension?” Masuto asked.
“He says he didn’t. He’s there with McCarthy, waiting for Barton to show. Where are you?”
“At Barton’s beach house.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Confusion. I’d like to talk to Netty Cooper while I’m out here.”
“Why not? Aside from the confusion, you got any ideas, Masuto?”
“Too many. If you want me, you can call the Malibu station. They’re right outside the Colony.”
He put down the phone and turned to Cominsky, who asked him if he had seen enough.
“I think so.” He picked up the nightgown and looked at it-white silk, white lace. He put it to his face to smell it. Cominsky grinned. Beckman said, “I never knew you went in for that, Masao.”
“Only lately.”
Cominsky padlocked the cottage door again.
“If the system is turned on with the bedside switch,” Masuto said, “then what happens when you open the door from the outside?”
“There’s a switch in the lock that turns it off. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a damn hard lock to pick.”
“Does your screen at the police station tell you when the alarm systems are on or off?”
“Yes. The officer on duty says it was off.”
“Here on this part of the old road,” Masuto said, “what kind of people live here?”
“Mostly the same kind you find in the Colony down the road, only with less money for the most part. Of course, some of them, like Barton, use their houses only on weekends, and some of the houses, like this one, are as classy as the houses in the Colony. Some people don’t want to live in the Colony, and then the houses at the Colony aren’t for sale very often. You get writers, actors, directors, lawyers-you name it.”
Masuto turned toward the ocean, staring at the incoming waves, apparently lost in thought. “I’d like to live here,” Beckman said. “I guess I’d rather live here than anywhere else.”
“Time was, and not so long ago,” Cominsky told them, “that you could buy one of these houses for forty, fifty thousand dollars. Now there isn’t one you can touch for less than half a million.”
Masuto smiled thinly and shrugged. “Let’s go back to the station house.” He had been thinking that Malibu Beach was very beautiful. But most of the world was very beautiful until men touched it.
