eyebrows are singed, Masao. It’s no use. She’s dead.”
“Why didn’t I stop her? Why?”
“Because you didn’t know.”
People were beginning to come out of their houses, to stand watching. A prowl car pulled up, then a second one. In the distance the siren of a fire engine sounded.
“Get inside with the women,” Masuto told Beckman. “Keep them in the house and keep the door closed. They’ll be hysterical by now, so quiet them down.”
People were crowding onto the driveway, and one of the uniformed policemen was ordering them back. The fire truck screamed its way into the street, and a moment later a fire hose opened up on the burning car.
“Twenty-seven grand for that heap,” Masuto heard someone in the crowd say. Evidently no price was put on the human life. The uniformed officer who had come in the second prowl car said, “For Christ’s sake, Sarge, what in hell goes on here?”
“Get on your radio and patch it through to downtown. I want the L.A. bomb squad up here, and tell them to bring their truck.”
“Okay.”
“Are you in charge here?” a fireman asked Masuto. “We’d like to move those two cars,” pointing to the Seville and the Porsche. “You got the keys?”
“Don’t touch them. They may be wired. Can you get the woman out?”
The fire was out now, the car a blackened, smoking heap.
“We’ll try. The ambulance will be here any minute. But she’s dead. No question about that. That heat would kill her in ten seconds if the blast didn’t.”
Another police car with two more officers pulled up. “I want those people back in their houses,” Masuto said to them. “There’s nothing they can do and there’s nothing for them to see.”
“Who’s in the car, Sarge?”
“A woman,” Masuto said shortly. “Does the captain know about this?”
“They called him from the station. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Well, get those people back into their homes. If they ask, tell them it was an accident and that’s all you know.”
“That
The firemen had pried open the door of the smoking car, and Masuto walked over and forced himself to look at the charred figure that a few moments ago had been a vital, living woman. The metal of the Mercedes was still hot and the firemen were wetting it down with a soft stream of water. At that moment, the rescue ambulance arrived, and a moment later, Wainwright in his shirtsleeves.
“My God,” one of the rescue men said, “that poor woman.”
“Where shall we take her, Sarge?”
“Take her to the morgue at All Saints,” Masuto said. “We don’t need an autopsy. Tell them to hold the body until we inform the family.”
Wainwright stood there in silence, his face glum and unhappy. From somewhere inside the house, Beckman remembered to switch on the driveway lights. The sudden blaze of illumination made the scene even more grotesque.
“It’s over now,” the fire captain told Masuto. “Do you want us to call the tow truck?”
“No, just leave it there. I’ve called the L.A. bomb squad.”
The rescue people wrapped Alice Greene’s body in a rubber sheet, put it on a stretcher and into the ambulance. The firemen climbed into their truck and drove off. By now, most of the curious had been ushered back into their houses or on their way. The uniformed cops stood around uncertainly, and Beckman came out of the house.
Still, Wainwright had not said a word.
“How are they?” Masuto asked Beckman.
“They got it under control. They were pretty hysterical at first, and I don’t blame them. But we talked.”
“No more booze?”
“I was hard about that,” Beckman said.
“Go back and stay with them,” Masuto told him. “Until I come in. Tell them I must talk to them tonight.”
“How long?”
Masuto shrugged, and Beckman went back into the house.
“All right,” Wainwright finally said, “tell me about it.”
“I was talking to the women and she wouldn’t have any of it.”
“Who? I don’t even know who.”
“Alice Greene.”
“The one who got the poisoned candy? The dog?”
“That’s right. She had a few drinks and she said she was going home. I couldn’t stop her.”
“Did you try?” Wainwright asked.
“Short of using force. I didn’t want her on the street and I didn’t want her in her house. I told Beckman to follow her, and the moment she did anything that could be called a violation to pull her in for drunk driving. If I had dreamed that the car was wired-”
“We don’t dream those things. What then?”
“She turned the key in the ignition, and the car blew.”
“No chance to get her out?”
“In two seconds, the car was a ball of flame.”
“Yes.” Wainwright nodded at the Seville and the Porsche.
“Nancy Legett and Mitzie Fuller.”
“They could be wired too.”
“I thought of that. The men from the bomb squad can look at them. I don’t know what’s in her garage. That could be wired too. This murderous bastard we’re dealing with doesn’t do anything by halves. He’s thorough.”
“I want him, Masao,” Wainwright said, “and I want him quick. We’re a small town, and we can’t have this. If the media start putting two and two together, they’re going to tie this whole package in to Beverly Hills. We got four murders now. You say the other three women are inside?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to them, Masao. If anything does, I am going to be one angry son of a bitch. I got enough to explain. They’re going to come down on me like a ton of bricks over what happened here tonight.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You talk those women into spending the night here. I’m going to leave two men here, one in front and one in back, and when the bomb squad people come, I want them to go through the basement of the house as well as the cars and the garage. God only knows what that lunatic is up to.”
A few minutes after Wainwright left, the bomb squad arrived, their big armored truck grinding into the driveway. Kelp, the head of the squad, looked at the remains of the Mercedes and shook his head. “You hate to see it with a car like that.” He had worked with Masuto before. “Anyone in it?” he asked.
“A lady.”
“God help her.”
“Those two cars might also be wired,” Masuto said, pointing to the Seville and the Porsche.
“They’re classy cars. Do you have the keys?”
“I’ll get them for you.”
“Do you want us to be careful of prints? Are you going to dust the cars?” Kelp asked.
Masuto shook his head. “Not with this one. He doesn’t leave prints. What do you think it is?” nodding at the burned Mercedes.
“Just a guess. Dynamite and a detonator. She turned the ignition key and it blew, is that it?”
“That’s it.”
His men were already working on the burned car. “Dynamite,” one of them called out.
“Does a job like that take skill?” Masuto asked.
