“At this point, nothing,” Masuto said unhappily. “I saw no reason to question his friends concerning the securities.”
“So we don’t know how much of that million was his, but we can accept the fact that a substantial part was. He would have to clean out his bank accounts. Anyway, he needs money quickly and desperately. What to do? He and whoever was in it with him concoct a plan. Fake a kidnapping. Pay out a million dollars in ransom, which he can claim was his own money, and then take a million-dollar deduction on his income tax. If the entire million is in the seventy percent bracket, he nets a cool seven hundred thousand dollars of clear profit-plus his original million. But even if it’s all in the fifty percent bracket, he has a very neat half a million dollars in profit. Of course, since the bills would be recorded, he’d have to launder the money. But no difficulty there. He pays the ten percent fee. It’s regular big business south of the border and in the Bahamas.”
“And the treasury allows it?”
“Masao, when a child is kidnapped, people bankrupt themselves to pay the ransom, and most kidnappings are not faked. Internal Revenue is pretty damned heartless, but this is America, and you know how people’s hearts go out to a kidnap victim.”
“And it’s more or less foolproof, isn’t it?”
“Except for stupidity, which you tell me this is laced with. However, considering that he would have paid ten percent to the launderers, Mike Barton would be holding nine hundred thousand dollars in cash. That’s a lot of cash. What would he have done with it?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? When I know that, I’ll have all the other answers.”
“How’s that?”
“Just a guess that whoever killed Mike Barton did it for the money. I find the money, I find a killer-or killers.”
5
North of Sunset Boulevard, in Beverly Hills, the land rolls up to the Santa Monica Mountains. The gentle slopes and hillocks are cut by several canyons, and the real estate in this area constitutes one of the most expensive residential neighborhoods in the entire country. The Barton home was on a hilltop just high enough to look out over the Beverly Hills Hotel, a Spanish colonial house on an acre of ground.
It was dark when Masuto pulled into the driveway, and four cars were already standing in the parking area. Beckman was waiting outside the front door, talking to a uniformed Beverly Hills cop, and he greeted Masuto with relief. “You got a houseful of angry citizens,” he told Masuto, “especially McCarthy and Ranier, who insist that we got no right whatsoever to keep them here.”
“We haven’t. Why do they stay?”
“They tell it that the only reason they’re here is to protect the rights of the Angel and to keep her from being bullied by the cops.”
“Why do they think we’d bully her?” Masuto wondered.
“Because when they asked Wainwright whether they were suspects, he said that he had to take the position that everyone who knew about the kidnapping was to some degree suspect. He said it more diplomatically, but McCarthy blew his top anyway. Barton’s secretary-her name’s Elaine Newman-went to pieces when she heard about the murder.”
“Oh? And how did Mrs. Barton take it?”
“I don’t know. She’s been in her room since she got back. The doctor’s been here to see her.”
“What doctor?”
“Their family doctor, name of Haddam. He’s gone now.”
“And what about the FBI?”
“That kid, Frank Keller, was here. He nosed around and asked a few questions. Didn’t seem to know what the hell he was doing.”
“And the captain?”
“The captain went home to have dinner. McCarthy told him that any harassment of Angel Barton would result in an action, and that he’d sue the hell out of the city, and you know how the captain reacts when one of the wealthy citizens threatens to sue the city. He says that you can handle it, because since you know all about who murdered Barton, you can go easy on everyone else. What about it, Masao? Do you know?”
“Sort of.”
“What the devil does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“I know and I don’t know.”
“Sure. That clears it all up.”
Beckman led the way into the house. “What about the press?” Masuto asked him.
“They were here, also the TV guys. Wainwright and McCarthy spoke to them. I told Frank, the officer at the door, not to let anyone in, except first he talks to you.”
Masuto was studying the house thoughtfully. Earlier in the day he had seen it only from the outside. Inside, it displayed the slightly insane baronial overbuilding of a film star’s house of the nineteen thirties-tile floor, huge center staircase, stained glass windows, light fixtures like chateau lanterns, mahogany doors and trim and white plaster between heavy wooden beams.
“They’re in the living room-or were-over there.” He nodded at an archway.
Masuto went down two steps, through the archway, and opened a heavy door. The living room was at least forty feet long, with a high, beamed ceiling, an overstuffed couch, some easy chairs, and an enormous fireplace with a box large enough to take five-foot logs. No fire burned there now. The three people in the room were almost lost in its immensity-McCarthy talking on the telephone, Ranier at a long deal table with papers spread in front of him, and in one of the big, overstuffed chairs, her legs drawn up under her, her eyes staring sightlessly into space, a very pretty, slender young woman who, Masuto surmised, was Elaine Newman. She had dark hair and dark eyes and wore almost no makeup, and her face had a chiseled quality that Masuto responded to immediately. After he and Beckman had entered the room and stood just inside the door for a long moment, the girl turned to look at him, but without curiosity. Ranier glanced up from his papers and McCarthy finished his phone conversation.
“We met this morning,” Masuto said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto.”
“Yes.” McCarthy nodded. “I suggest you get on with your inquisition and let us get out of here. I already informed Wainwright that you have no damned right even to suggest that we stay and be questioned.”
“Only for you to help us,” Masuto replied gently, “as citizens and as friends of the murdered man.”
“They weren’t his friends,” Elaine Newman said unexpectedly and tiredly. “Don’t call them his friends.”
“Shut up, Elaine!” Ranier snapped.
“Why? Are you going to kill me too, you blood-sucking son of a bitch?”
Ranier leaped to his feet and came around the table. “I won’t stand for that! I don’t have to stand for that! I don’t have to listen to that foul-mouthed cunt!”
Beckman interposed himself, blocking Ranier’s advance. “Let’s all of us just take it easy,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Ranier?”
For a moment or two Ranier faced up to Beckman’s enormous bulk; then he retreated and dropped into a chair. Beckman turned to Elaine Newman and said, “Why don’t we go inside for a little while, Miss Newman. Suppose we find the kitchen and make us some coffee. I can use some, and I guess you can too.” He glanced at Masuto, who nodded, and then he helped the girl out of her chair and led her to the door. “Can I go home?” she asked Masuto plaintively.
“In a little while. After we’ve talked. Go along with Detective Beckman and try to relax.”
After Beckman and the girl had left the room, Ranier turned to Masuto and told him angrily, “I resent this. I resent having to stand here and be accused of murder by that little bitch.”
“Bill, Bill,” McCarthy said, “no one is accusing you of murder. Elaine is just shooting off her grief, and it’s a relief to have some grief around here. Anyway”-he turned to Masuto-“Bill doesn’t have enough guts to kill anyone.”