One by one, the other meditators finished, made their bow to the rashi, and left, until only Masuto and the old man remained. Masuto’s half-closed eyes were fixed on the floor in front of him. He heard the rashi move, and then the old man’s feet, encased in straw slippers, appeared in front of him. Masuto looked up.
“You bring violence with you,” the rashi said, speaking Japanese.
“It met me on the street outside.”
“Ask yourself where it came from.”
“I am deeply sorry. I disturbed the peace of this place.”
“Are you all right?”
“I am not hurt, if that’s what you mean.”
“I can see that you’re not hurt.”
“Then I must answer no.”
“Then look into yourself. Even a policeman can know why he is a policeman.”
“I will try, honorable rashi.”
Leaving the Zendo, Masuto realized that he was ravenously hungry, and he pulled into a short order place on Olympic. Bacon and eggs and fried potatoes and four slices of bread and two cups of coffee helped to restore his equanimity. It was ten minutes to nine when he arrived at the station house. Beckman was waiting for him, along with Frank Keller, the FBI man.
“Your hunch was pretty good,” Keller said to Masuto. “And this is confidential as hell, but we’ve been running an investigation on Hennesy for the past seven months. The Coast Guard grabbed a boat off San Diego and picked up a kilo of cocaine. Hennesy’s name was in the boat’s log. It could be another Roy Hennesy, because the name’s not that uncommon, but when you put it together with the other tidbits about Hennesy’s moral stance, it could mean something. The department’s cooking up a move against a number of public officials who are a little less than kosher, and they don’t want anything to upset the apple cart. So unless you tie him in directly to kidnap or murder, they’d just as soon let him be.”
“Have you ever known the goddamn feds not to tell you to keep hands off?” Beckman said with annoyance.
“Forget it,” Masuto said.
“I’ll be at my office downtown,” Keller said, his feelings bruised. He stalked out.
“You don’t have to lean on him,” Masuto told Beckman. “He’s a decent kid, for a fed.”
“What have you been drinking, the milk of human kindness? Anyway, the captain wants to see you right off. He’s in his office with Dr. Haddam-the one who came to see the Angel.”
“Out at Malibu,” Masuto asked him, “what kind of a dress was Netty Cooper wearing?”
“What?”
“Come on, think.”
“It was sort of like a kimono, pale green.”
“Yes. Long sleeves? Enough to hide needle marks?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Wait for me. This can’t take too long.”
In Wainwright’s office Dr. Haddam was protesting. He was a neat, stout little man, with steel-rimmed glasses, bald, and a high-pitched voice that proclaimed his irritation. “I find this whole thing highly annoying, if not unethical. Why didn’t you call me when Mrs. Barton died? I’m the family physician. The family-”
“I told you before, Doctor, there is no family. They are both dead. We have no indication of family beyond that. This is Detective Sergeant Masuto.”
“Then I wash my hands of the whole matter.”
“Yes, if you wish. But we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t have to answer any questions. Indeed, I don’t intend to. I’m a busy man. Call my nurse, make an appointment, and if I can find the time, I will talk to you.”
He started to leave, and Wainwright said evenly, “A hypodermic syringe which contained something that was apparently the cause of Mrs. Barton’s death was found beside her. Since you were the doctor in attendance, this puts you in an awkward position. Surely you realize that.”
The doctor stopped short, turned slowly to face Wainwright, and growled-a valid growl for so short a man. “How dare you! That, sir, is actionable! I’m a practicing physician and a resident of Beverly Hills for twenty-five years, and you dare-”
“Please, sir,” Masuto said, spreading his hands, “you read an implication that was not there. We found the hypodermic and Mrs. Barton is dead. We simply must ask you the circumstances of your visit to her.”
“You found a hypodermic!” he snorted. “What was in it? What caused her death? Why didn’t you call me then?”
“We don’t know what caused her death,” Wainwright said. “The autopsy is being performed right now at All Saints Hospital.”
“You don’t know! And you call yourselves police!”
“What did you do for Mrs. Barton?” Masuto asked. “What condition was she in? What did you prescribe?”
“I prescribed nothing.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you examine her?”
“No. She wouldn’t let me near her. In fact, that ill-natured woman drove me out of the room.”
“But you were her physician.”
“I was Mr. Barton’s physician. Now I shall tell you what happened, and that’s the end of it. Mr. McCarthy asked me to see her. I went into her bedroom, and she snarled at me to get out-and used very abusive language, I may add. There are sides to that Angel the public never saw. Then Mr. McCarthy went into the room, and I heard her snapping at him. She threw a shoe at him as he left. She slammed the door after him. Then the maid appeared with a tall glass of ice and apparently Scotch whisky. I would presume at least four ounces of whisky over the ice. She said that their butler or chauffeur, what is his name?”
“Kelly.”
“Kelly. Yes, he had sent it up. Then Angel opened the door, took the glass, and so help me God, drained down most of it.”
“You were standing in the hall?” Masuto asked.
“Yes, with McCarthy. The maid was at the door. Mrs. Barton handed her the glass and slammed the door in our faces. Then I left. She did not strike me as a woman who required either a sedative or an examination. A psychiatrist, perhaps. Now you have my story, and I would like to leave.”
“Of course,” Masuto said. “You’ve been very helpful. We are most grateful.”
“Well, there you are,” Wainwright said, after the doctor had departed. “Unless he’s lying.”
“No, he’s telling the truth. He knows we can check it out with McCarthy. He’s a doctor, not an actor, and that beautiful indignation could not be manufactured.”
“Do you suppose Kelly killed her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. When this thing was ten minutes old, you told me you knew who killed Barton. Has your Chinese crystal ball collapsed?”
“Even Sweeney no longer classes all Orientals as Chinese-”
“Get off your high horse, Masao. They’re all leaning on me, like we were Scotland Yard instead of a two-bit small-town police force.”
“It was only yesterday. We’re making progress.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What the good doctor told us helps.”
“That’s bullshit, Masao, and you know it, and I know how you work. You got something, and you’re not opening your mouth about it. Now, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to search that Barton house from cellar to attic, and I’m going to find that million dollars.”
“It’s not there.”
“How the hell do you know?”