“Thank you,” Ranier said sourly.
“And Mike was his meal ticket. Who kills the goose that lays the five percent?”
“He was your meal ticket too!” Ranier shouted. “Talk about bloodsuckers-you soaked him with fees that were unreal.”
“Which eliminates both of us as murder suspects. That ought to please you.”
“That’s enough of that,” Masuto said sharply. “The fact of the matter is that Mike Barton is dead and someone killed him, and I have to make some sense out of this. All this talk of suspects is meaningless. We have no suspects. We have every reason to believe that Mr. Barton was killed for the million dollars of ransom money. Why whoever received the ransom found it necessary to kill him, we don’t know. I’m hoping that one of you gentlemen can enlighten me.”
“Have you spoken to Angel?” McCarthy asked. “She saw the kidnappers.”
“You spoke to her?”
“We both spoke to her,” Ranier said, “but she wouldn’t talk about it-”
“She couldn’t,” McCarthy interposed.
“Then she couldn’t. The doctor said she was in shock. Then when she heard about Mike’s death, she went to pieces completely.”
“Where is she now?”
“In her room.”
“We have reason to believe,” Masuto said, “that the person who killed Mr. Barton was known to him, perhaps a good friend.”
“Mike had lots of friends.”
“And no friends,” McCarthy put in. “You have friends when you earn less than two hundred thousand a year. Above that, you have appendages. When you’re a star, you have the star-fuckers, and the woods are full of them.”
“Were you his friend?” Masuto asked gently.
“I’m going to ignore the insinuation. I was his lawyer. Bill here was his business agent.”
“Yes, of course.” Masuto studied them thoughtfully. “Mr. Barton, it appears, was killed some time between twelve-thirty and one o’clock. Without any insinuations, believe me, I must ask you gentlemen where each of you were at that time?”
“Right here,” Ranier replied.
“Well,” McCarthy said, “you did run back to your office.”
“Later. Much later.”
“Come on, Bill, it was not much later.”
“What in hell are you trying to do?” Ranier demanded angrily. “Set me up?”
“I’m not setting you up. For Christ’s sake, what are you so jumpy about? No one’s accusing you of killing Mike. You’re the last person in the world who had any reason to kill him. But the plain truth of the matter is that Mike got the ransom call at twelve noon on the button, and he bombed out of here with the money two minutes later. You left about ten minutes after that, and it was half-past one when you came back.”
“I drove straight to my office.”
“And where is your office?” Masuto asked.
“On Camden. My secretary keeps a log. She logs me in and she logs me out. She can bear witness to that. I had some work that had to be attended to. I didn’t stay to finish it. I brought it back here with me.”
“And when did you get back here?”
“It was about one-forty-five, I think. “Lena Jones-she’s the maid-she let me in.”
“And while he was gone, for an hour and forty-five minutes, where were you, Mr. McCarthy?”
“You know you have no damned right to ask me any questions.”
“I know that. You don’t have to answer.”
“I was right here, in this room. I made some phone calls, but I was right here.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone. But Mrs. Holtz brought me a sandwich and coffee.”
“When was that?”
McCarthy shrugged.
“You know damn well when it was,” Ranier said. “You were eating the sandwich when I got back. You offered me the other one. I didn’t even take time for lunch,” he told Masuto.
“So what? I never left this room. Right now I would like to leave it. I’ve been cooped up here all day.”
“You are both free to leave whenever you wish,” Masuto said.
“If you’re going to subject the Angel to questioning, I think I’ll stay,” McCarthy told him. “I’m her attorney.”
“As you wish. And if you think of anything more you would like to tell me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“I’ll take you there,” Ranier said.
“I’m sure I can find the kitchen, and I would like to talk with Miss Newman privately.”
“Can he do that?” Ranier demanded of McCarthy.
“Why not? I’m not her attorney and you’re not her business manager.”
“You know what she’s going to say.”
“I have no idea,” Masuto said. He walked out of the room and through the hallway into what was apparently a butler’s pantry. A sallow-faced man in his sixties sat there, reading a copy of Sports Illustrated, and he looked at Masuto inquiringly but without speaking.
“Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police.”
“I’m Kelly, the chauffeur.”
“You live here?”
“Over the garage.”
“I’d like you to stay in the house tonight. I want to talk to you later.”
“Where would I go?”
Masuto went past him and opened a swinging door into the kitchen. It was an old-fashioned kitchen in size, better than twenty feet square, and recently modernized into the glittering perfection that most Beverly Hills homes required of their kitchens-but with the color scheme, perfection fled. The floors were yellow tile. The refrigerator, stove, and sink were finished in pink, and the walls in tile of mauve and tan. In the center of the room, at a large butcher-block worktable, Beckman sat with three women: the secretary, Elaine Newman; a stout, middle-aged woman whom he introduced as Mrs. Holtz, the cook; and a thin black girl who dabbed at her swollen eyes and who was introduced as Lena Jones, the parlormaid. Beckman himself was finishing a plate of stew and the last of a large mug of beer, and imagining she saw a look of disapproval on Masuto’s face, Mrs. Holtz said, “Let him eat. Better the food shouldn’t go to waste. Nobody has any appetite today.”
“You hungry, Masao?” Beckman asked him.
He shook his head, thinking nevertheless that it was past his dinnertime and that he’d hardly get home much before midnight.
Mrs. Holtz pressed him, and Masuto relented to the extent of a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Then he asked the maid and the cook to wait in the dining room, telling them that he would like to talk to them later. When they had gone, he said to Beckman, “Get the chauffeur’s full name and phone into L.A.P.D. See if they have any priors on him.”
“His name is Joseph. Joseph Kelly,” Elaine said. “He has a record, if that’s what you’re looking for. But he wouldn’t kill Mike. Mike’s the only one who’s ever been decent to him. He was just a drifter without a hope in the world when Mike picked him up and gave him a job.”
Masuto nodded at Beckman, who left the room. Sitting opposite the girl, he studied her thoughtfully.
“You’re a nisei?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re the cop assigned to this case?”
“Yes.”
“That means you have to find out who killed Mike.”
“I hope to.”
“Well, it’s no big deal. I know who killed Mike.”
“Oh? Who?”
“The Angel.” She said it with loathing.
“Inside, you suggested that Ranier killed Mr. Barton.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Both of them?”
“They’re both worthless bloodsuckers.”
“You hate people.”
“Some people. But I loved Mike. I was the only one around him who did, aside from Mrs. Holtz and Lena and Joe Kelly. All the rest”-her voice sank to a whimper-“oh, my God, it’s like killing a kid, like killing a little boy. Why? Why did they do it?”
Masuto waited until she had regained control of herself, and then he asked her, “What about Joe and Della Goldberg? Did they love Mike?”
“I guess so. But after he married Angel-”
“The relationship cooled?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you worked for Mike Barton?”
“Two years. Since right after he married Angel.”
“What did your work consist of?”