“Maria Constanza-she’s a good girl, a Chicano. I don’t want no trouble for her. She’s a waitress. She works in the lanai. In the lanai we have waitresses. She works three years here.”
“Is she here?”
“Yes.”
“Get her in here.”
“All right, I bring her.”
As he left, the handyman entered carrying his tool box-a middle-aged man whose blue eyes peered inquiringly at Masuto from behind gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Are you the cop?” he wanted to know.
“Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. Open this locker for me.”
“You sure you got the right?”
“I’m damn sure. Now open it.”
He took out his hammer and gave the padlock a couple of sharp blows. It was a combination lock. Nothing happened. “Sometimes you can spring them, sometimes you can’t.” Then he took out a hacksaw and went to work. He was sawing away at the lock when Fritz returned with Maria Constanza.
She was a slender, pretty girl, with wide brown eyes and a look of fear on her face.
“Maria Constanza?” Masuto asked.
She nodded.
“Sit down please,” he said, indicating the bench. “Don’t be afraid.”
She sat down tentatively, staring at him.
“Would it be better if we talked in Spanish? Would it be easier for you?”
“
Then he spoke in Spanish. “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. But if you can help me, a little girl’s life might be saved.”
“I will try to help you.”
“That locker,” he said, pointing to where the handyman was sawing away, “belonged to a man called Frank Franco. Fritz tells me that you were friendly with him.”
She nodded again. “Yes.”
“How friendly?”
“What did he do?” she whispered.
“I don’t know-yet.”
While they were speaking, Beckman came into the room. He exchanged glances with Masuto, shook his head, and then noticed the handyman sawing away. He stood silently.
“We talked to each other,” Maria said. “We had one date. He took me to the movies. We saw the picture called
“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”
“A little. He was lonely. He lived with his brother.”
“His name was not Frank Franco.”
“You know that?”
“What was his real name?” Masuto asked gently.
“Issa.”
“Issa what?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “He never told me. But he said I might call him Issa, not in the restaurant, but when we were alone. He made me promise that I would never reveal his name. Now I’ve broken my promise.”
“You’re an illegal immigrant?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Don’t be afraid, please. The fact that you’re an illegal immigrant is no business of mine. Nothing will happen to you. I promise you.”
“Please. I must work. I have a little boy who will starve if I don’t work. My husband is in Mexico. This is the first man-I can’t lose my job, please.”
“You will not lose your job.” He turned to Fritz. “She’s done nothing, Fritz. I don’t what her to lose her job.”
“She’s a good girl. Maria,” Fritz said to her, “tell him whatever he wants to know. You won’t lose your job.”
“This man, Issa,” Masuto said in Spanish, “is he an Arab?”
“I don’t know. When I asked him where he was from, he just shrugged and said it was far away. He and his brother were students at the University of Nevada. Then they came here.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
She nodded. “We stopped by his house that night. He wanted to put on a clean shirt. I sat in the car.”
“Where? What address?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I didn’t see the address. It was on Fountain Avenue, a few blocks east of Western.”
“Would you recognize the house?”
“I think so.”
“What kind of car did he drive?”
“The locker’s open,” the handyman said.
“Can I go?” Maria asked tremulously.
“No. Please. Stay here.”
“I must go back to the room,” Fritz said.
“Yes. Fritz, find someone to take over for her. I want her with us for a few hours.”
Beckman was at the locker. “What did she say, Masao? My Spanish is lousy. You asked her if she knew where he lives.”
“She thinks she could recognize the house.” He opened the locker. There, neatly folded, were a suit of blue worsted, shoes, socks, underwear, shirt and tie, and on top of them a wallet, a notebook, a wristwatch, and a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles.
“You can go now,” Masuto said to the handyman. “And just keep your mouth shut about this.”
“I got to tell Mr. Gellman that I opened the locker.”
“All right. Tell him to talk to Sergeant Masuto about it. And you tell no one else.”
He left, and they were alone in the room with the girl, who sat forlornly on the bench.
“Put it all together, Sy,” he said to Beckman. “We’ll take it with us. Handle the glasses and the watch with your handkerchief. Sweeney may be able to take some prints from them.”
Then he turned to the girl. “I want you to help us, Maria. I want you to come with us-just for a half hour or so, and then you can come back here to work.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to show us the house where Issa lives.”
“What will happen to him?”
“Whatever he makes happen.”
“Will you hurt him?”
“I hope not.”
“Should I change my clothes?”
“No, we have no time for that. Just as you are is fine. Come on, Sy.”
Beckman, carrying the bundle of clothes, followed them out of the room.
10
