There was a pause, and then Hennesy said, “Thank God. Kidnapping is a horrible thing.”
“I am Detective Sergeant Masuto. This is Detective Beckman.”
“How nice! How very nice! And this is Congressman Hennesy, a dear friend. Masuto. How nice to think that we have a Japanese detective on the Beverly Hills police force. I spent three months in Japan, and I would love to chat about it. So many things I didn’t understand. You could be so helpful.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve never been to Japan.”
“Really? Then you must go.”
“Yes. Thank you for the suggestion. Meanwhile, I’m much more interested in the Barton kidnapping.”
“Oh? Are we on the list of suspects?”
“So sorry,” Masuto said, “we have no suspects but would appreciate information.”
Beckman watched him narrowly. Masuto rarely displayed anger, but when he fell into what Wainwright called his Charlie Chan routine, he was provoked and dangerous.
“How disappointing! I always wanted to be a suspect.”
“Were you at the party last night?” he asked Hennesy.
“I was. But I assure you, I did not kidnap the Angel. If I had, I would never return her. I would give up my seat in Congress and find a desert island somewhere-a place where she and I could live out our lives in idyllic ecstasy.”
“Ah, so. And does she feel that way about you?”
“Sergeant, must you be so literal? Half the men in Los Angeles are in love with the Angel,” Mrs. Cooper said, and then to Hennesy, “but you are a very heartless man to sit there and tell me you dream of running off with the Angel.”
“My apologies, and the disclaimer must include the fact that I am here with you, while the Angel snuggles in the arms of her devoted husband. How devoted, I wonder? How much was the ransom, Sergeant?”
“I have no idea,” Masuto said.
“Close-mouthed-ah, well, an officer in pursuit of his duty.”
“Did you leave the party before or after Mrs. Barton?”
“I really don’t know.”
“You mean with all your talk about a desert island, you didn’t notice whether she was gone or not?”
“She left before Mr. Hennesy did,” Mrs. Cooper told him. “I don’t think any of my guests were candidates for a kidnapping-Jack Fellows and his wife, more millions than they know what to do with, the Tudors-well, a star does not dash around kidnapping people-Kennedy, only the most successful director in town, the Butterworths and the Goldbergs and the Lees. Not a very large party, Mr. Detective, and no one who is a potential for your kidnapper. If you think that any of my guests walked out of here and went over to the Barton place and kidnapped Angel Barton, you are absolutely out of your mind.”
Masuto stared at her for a long moment; then he nodded. “We’ll be going now-oh, one thing. Which of your guests live here in the Colony?”
“The Lees and the Goldbergs. Are you going to grill them as well?”
“I haven’t grilled you, Mrs. Cooper.”
“The Goldbergs are four houses down, the Lees are the sixth house.”
“And, Congressman, when did you first learn about the kidnapping?”
“About two minutes before you arrived, Sergeant. I’ve been here about an hour, but Mrs. Cooper was upstairs doing her bath and things. I walked around to the beach side and made myself comfortable on the terrace. We’re old pals. And, by the way, I didn’t think you were serious about who left first, and I was rather put off by your questioning me. I did leave before Angel, if that matters.”
“Thank you,” Masuto said coldly.
Outside, Beckman let out his breath and shook his head. “They are a pair. She’s a normal Beverly Hills type phony. The congressman’s a fuckin’ pain in the ass. They almost had an indictment out on him once, and then it was squashed, and they go on reelecting him. You want to keep your hands in your pockets if you get too close to him.”
“What now?” Masuto asked him. “The Lees or the Goldbergs?”
“Let’s give the Goldbergs a shot.”
The Goldberg house was painted pink. Mrs. Goldberg was small, with dark hair, dark eyes, fiftyish, and had a schoolgirl figure and a good coat of tan. Her house was furnished in beach baroque, apparently de rigueur in the Colony, but with accents of pink. She asked them to sit down on the pink chairs on the terrace and poured Cokes for each of them.
“How exciting to have two real live detectives here. Wait until Joe gets home and I give him a blow by blow. Only poor Angel-”
“She’s safe, Mrs. Goldberg. She’s home, unharmed.”
“Oh? Then I’ll be bitchy and rescind my sympathy.”
“I take it you don’t like her?”
“Ugh! You see, I don’t hide my feelings.”
“That sounds like very strong feeling.”
“It is. You see, Detective Masuto-that is it, Masuto?”
“Yes, indeed. And this is Detective Beckman.”
“You see, I wasn’t born to this sun-drenched, orange-ridden, never-never land. Joe and I made it the hard way, and he’s just about the best producer in the business, so I don’t have to be a diplomat, or an ass-licker, whichever you prefer. Now this is not a place without its gonifs and stinkers, as I’m sure you know, but this Angel is a beauty. Yes, indeed-even for the film business.” She stopped and shook her head. “But I’m sure you’re not interested in Angel.”
“But we are. Please go on.”
“Where do I start and where do I stop? Don’t ask me to go into Angel Barton on my own. Ask me questions.”
“All right. We’ve just come from Netty Cooper’s house. She told us that you and your husband were at the party last night.”
“We were. Netty’s all right. She just keeps hurting all over with rejected-woman syndromes, three divorces- but since we’re a community-property state, she’s done brilliantly financially. Joe says she’s worth at least five million.”
She has fangs and she’s no one’s fool, Masuto reflected, asking her, “How did you find out about the kidnapping?”
“Sergeant, Joe, my husband, is producing Mikey’s new film. In this kind of trouble, he would tell Joe before he told his own mother. Mikey isn’t poor, but to put together a million dollars in a few hours is not easy. Joe always maintains a large liquid position, just in case he wants to tie up some literary property or a director. Joe was able to put his hands on two hundred thousand or so, and with Bill Ranier and Jack McCarthy pitching in, they were able to supply what Mikey needed for the ransom. But a million dollars for the Angel-ah well-”
“You keep saying Mikey,” Beckman put in. “You must be very close to Mike Barton.”
“He’s like a son to us. Joe ran into him over in West Hollywood one day, pumping gas. You see-” She paused. “You see, I want to tell you this because I just don’t like the smell of what’s happening here, and both of you look like decent men. But please don’t blow it all over town. Joe went to great effort to give Mikey a certain aura. So if this can be just among us?”
“I’ll try,” Masuto agreed. “We’re involved with a crime, so I can’t promise anything. But we’ll try.”
“Good enough. Mikey’s father had a grocery store in Flatbush. That’s in Brooklyn. We knew his father and we knew Mikey as a kid. His name then was Bernstein.”
“You’re kidding,” Beckman said. “You mean he’s Jewish?”
“What’s so strange? You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
“I look it.”
“No law says you have to.”
“And what about this rumor that his real name was Brannigan and that he came from upstate New York?”
“If you read Gloria Adams, you’ll find a lot of rumors. When Joe and I were living in Flatbush and trying to
