“I suppose because we do the same thing.”
“And instead of being pleased that he’s dead, they’re in a lather over it. Goddamn it, Masao, they talked to me like I’m their errand boy. Hell, I don’t work for them. We’re not to mess it up. We’re not to louse up any evidence. We’re not to give out anything to the press. They will take over the inquiry. They are conferring with the Soviets. This is classified.”
“Who did you talk to there?”
“The top man. A half hour after we sent them the picture, they telephoned me.”
“And?”
Wainwright looked at Masuto and grinned. “I told them that a murder had taken place in Beverly Hills, and as chief of the plainclothes division of the Beverly Hills police force, I was following routine procedure.”
“He must have loved that.” Masuto permitted himself a slight smile.
“He loved it.”
They were at the police station now. Masuto stopped to talk to Joyce. She looked pleased with herself.
“The yellow Cadillac,” she told Masuto, “is a Carway rental. It’s a two-door 1976 convertible, the only one they have, and they had a fit when I told them it was a police inquiry. I told them not to worry about their car.”
“You told them that?”
“Indeed I did. Because just before I called them, the L.A.P.D. phoned in that they had found the car.”
“Where?”
“Parked downtown at a meter in front of the public library. Not a scratch on it, but it was ticketed for overtime.”
“But you didn’t tell them to do a fingerprint search?”
“Sergeant Masuto, it just happens that I did. Now what do you think of that?”
“I think you’re wonderful, and you also have blond hair and blue eyes. And I’d guess you’re about five feet eight inches?”
“I am, but what has that got to do with anything?”
“That is what I’d like to know,” Masuto said.
In his office, the phone was ringing. It was his wife, Kati, and he was suddenly worried. It was rarely that she called him at police headquarters.
“Masao,” Kati said unhappily, “they sent Ana home from school with a sore throat.”
“Is that all?”
Illness in one of the children terrified Kati. “All?” she cried. “She has a hundred and one degrees of fever.”
“Then perhaps you should call the doctor.”
“I want to, but it’s so expensive. Twenty dollars for a house call.”
“Don’t worry about the money. Call the doctor.”
“Trouble?” Wainwright asked, coming over to Masuto’s desk.
“Ana’s sick. When I was a kid, a doctor made a house call for three dollars. Now it’s twenty.”
“A different world, Masao.”
“L.A.P.D. found the yellow Cadillac.”
“Where?”
“Downtown L.A. They’re dusting it.”
“Why don’t we talk about this, Masao?” Wainwright demanded. “I get nervous as hell when you’re holding back.”
“I’m not holding back. I just have a package of wild guesses that don’t fit. As soon as something fits, I’ll let you know. I asked Gellman to have them shake down the hotel until he finds the fat man’s clothes.”
“He won’t. He’s so damn nervous already that he’s not going to do anything to shake the place. Anyway, we know who he is. What’s so important about his clothes?”
“Where they are.”
“Well, we don’t know that. What about Stillman’s wife?”
Masuto picked up the phone and asked Joyce to put him through to police headquarters in Las Vegas. “Who do you know there?” he asked Wainwright.
“I know Brady, the chief. I’ll talk to him.” He took the phone from Masuto, and a moment later he was asking for Chief Brady. Masuto watched him thoughtfully as he said, “Tom, this is Wainwright in Beverly Hills. One of your citizens, feller by the name of Jack Stillman, was shot to death at the Beverly Glen Hotel this morning.” Pause. “No, we got nothing, no motive, no suspects, absolutely nothing. He’s married to Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer.” Pause. “Yeah, at the Sands, you say. Good. Get someone to break it to her, will you? We’ll hold the body until we get her instructions. Thanks.”
As he put down the phone, Officer Bailey came in and informed them that a man called Boris Gritchov was outside in the waiting room. He handed Wainwright a card, which stated that Boris Gritchov was consul general in San Francisco of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
“Bring him in here,” Wainwright said. “And be damned nice to him, and then keep your mouth shut about his being here.”
Gritchov was a tall man, well-dressed, in his early forties, with iron-gray hair and pale gray eyes. He did not offer to shake hands with either of the policemen, and when Wainwright offered him a chair near Masuto’s desk, he appeared to accept it reluctantly. His eyes traveled around the room with its bare walls, its pale green paint, and its painted steel furniture. When he spoke, it was with barely a trace of an accent, and he wasted no time with formalities.
“I would like to see a picture of this man who you say drowned.”
Masuto opened his desk drawer, took out a picture of the drowned man, and handed it to the Russian. He stared at it thoughtfully, but with no change of expression that Masuto could detect. Masuto gave him points for that. If the Russian had anything to give, it would not come by accident or through an emotional lapse.
“I would like to see the body,” he said slowly. “Is it in your morgue?”
“We don’t have a morgue,” Wainwright said. “We have an arrangement with All Saints Hospital, and we use their pathology room and morgue.”
“Isn’t that strange for Los Angeles?” the Russian asked. “I always understood that Los Angeles had a large and efficient police force and sufficient violent death to warrant a morgue.” He underlined his question with a thinly concealed tone of contempt.
“We are not Los Angeles. This is the City of Beverly Hills.”
“But this is Los Angeles,” the Russian insisted.
“Los Angeles County, yes,” Masuto explained. “The county contains a number of cities, including Los Angeles. It’s true that most of Beverly Hills is surrounded by the City of Los Angeles, but we are nevertheless an independent city with its own police force.” He felt almost like a character in
“You are Japanese?” Gritchov asked.
“Nisei, which means an American born of Japanese parents.”
“And a policeman.”
Masuto directed a warning glance at Wainwright, who appeared ready to explode, and then said softly, “So very sorry, Consul General, but America is a place of ethnic diversity which, unlike your country, makes no claims to ethnic purity.”
Gritchov’s face tightened slightly, but he kept his tone as polite as Masuto’s. “You know very little of the Soviet Union.”
“Ah, so, I am sure. But I was not thinking of the Soviet Union but of Russia. But I may be mistaken. If so, you have my profound apologies. Nevertheless, would you be kind enough to tell us whether you know the man in the photograph?”
“I would prefer, if you will, to have this whole matter taken under the auspices of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“That’s impossible,” Wainwright said shortly.
