“Helms ties into police stations,” Masuto said. “Was this tied into yours?”
“You’re damn right, Sergeant.”
“You tested it? It was working?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you had someone on duty?” Masuto persisted.
“Even if we didn’t, there’s an alarm bell attached that can be heard a mile away on this beach.”
“In other words,” said Beckman, “she never turned on the alarm.”
“Come inside.”
They stood in the living room of the attractively furnished cottage-grass rug, wicker furniture with bright blue upholstery, good prints on the walls. Masuto stood staring, captivated. Two of the prints were askew, a lamp was knocked over and smashed, a chair was turned over, and the grass rug was pulled out of place.
“I want you to see the bedroom,” Cominsky said.
“In a moment.” He was trying to recreate a struggle in his mind and to fit it into what had happened in the room. Beckman, who knew him well, watched with interest. “All right,” Masuto said.
“There are three bedrooms.” Cominsky led the way. “This is the master.”
The bedclothes were rumpled, a nightgown on the floor. As Masuto studied the scene, Cominsky walked over and touched a switch next to the bed. Above the switch, a red light glowed.
“This is the alarm switch. The light’s on when the switch is off.”
“I should think it would be the other way,” Beckman said.
“No, this makes sense. You put out the lights, and then the red light reminds you about the alarm.”
“What time did she leave the party?” Masuto asked.
“About one P.M. When they all live in the Colony, the parties tend to run late.”
“But it was a weekday. Most of them would have to be in the studios very early.”
“Yeah. She was one of the last to leave.”
“And Barton got the call at three A.M. That leaves two hours. Unless they were stupid enough to make the call from here, they had to break in and take her somewhere. If they were watching her, why didn’t they intercept her? Why break in at all? And if she went straight to bed, why didn’t she reach out and turn on the alarm?”
“You tell me,” Cominsky said.
“And if she wasn’t asleep, why didn’t she reach out and turn on the alarm when she heard the door go?”
“Was the bedside lamp on?” Masuto asked.
“It was.”
“You had the place dusted?”
“Early this morning. We don’t look for anything there.”
“Can I use the phone?”
“Be my guest.”
He called Beverly Hills and got through to Wainwright. “It’s one o’clock,” Masuto said. “What do you hear from Barton?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he pay the ransom?”
“According to Ranier he got the call from the kidnappers over an hour ago and left just before noon, taking the million dollars with him.”
“Never said where he was going?”
“Not a word.”
“Did Ranier listen in on an extension?” Masuto asked.
“He says he didn’t. He’s there with McCarthy, waiting for Barton to show. Where are you?”
“At Barton’s beach house.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Confusion. I’d like to talk to Netty Cooper while I’m out here.”
“Why not? Aside from the confusion, you got any ideas, Masuto?”
“Too many. If you want me, you can call the Malibu station. They’re right outside the Colony.”
He put down the phone and turned to Cominsky, who asked him if he had seen enough.
“I think so.” He picked up the nightgown and looked at it-white silk, white lace. He put it to his face to smell it. Cominsky grinned. Beckman said, “I never knew you went in for that, Masao.”
“Only lately.”
Cominsky padlocked the cottage door again.
“If the system is turned on with the bedside switch,” Masuto said, “then what happens when you open the door from the outside?”
“There’s a switch in the lock that turns it off. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a damn hard lock to pick.”
“Does your screen at the police station tell you when the alarm systems are on or off?”
“Yes. The officer on duty says it was off.”
“Here on this part of the old road,” Masuto said, “what kind of people live here?”
“Mostly the same kind you find in the Colony down the road, only with less money for the most part. Of course, some of them, like Barton, use their houses only on weekends, and some of the houses, like this one, are as classy as the houses in the Colony. Some people don’t want to live in the Colony, and then the houses at the Colony aren’t for sale very often. You get writers, actors, directors, lawyers-you name it.”
Masuto turned toward the ocean, staring at the incoming waves, apparently lost in thought. “I’d like to live here,” Beckman said. “I guess I’d rather live here than anywhere else.”
“Time was, and not so long ago,” Cominsky told them, “that you could buy one of these houses for forty, fifty thousand dollars. Now there isn’t one you can touch for less than half a million.”
Masuto smiled thinly and shrugged. “Let’s go back to the station house.” He had been thinking that Malibu Beach was very beautiful. But most of the world was very beautiful until men touched it.
3
Back at the Malibu police station, Masuto found a message to call Wainwright at the Beverly Hills station. He made the call and was put through to Wainwright, who said, “What was taken has been returned.”
“Very cryptic and interesting.”
“I got a room full of reporters. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
Masuto put down the telephone and asked Cominsky, “How much has this leaked?”
“Who knows, Masuto? I did my best. The local news people were here. They always are when there’s a break-in on the beach, but I didn’t say word one about the kidnapping. They wanted to know were any of the Bartons in the house. I had no comment for that.”
“What about Netty Cooper?”
“She had to know something was going on when I got the list of her guests. But I didn’t mention the kidnapping. That won’t help. It’ll come out before the day’s over.”
“Angel’s back.”
“How do you know?” Beckman asked him.
“I spoke to Wainwright. He had a room full of reporters. I guess that means it’ll be out. The chief’s right. You can’t sit on something like that.”
“Well, thank God,” Cominsky said. “She’s a nice lady. I’d hate to think that anything happened to her. Is she all right? Did they rough her up?”
“I don’t know. Wainwright didn’t fill me in on any details.”
“I’m starved,” Beckman said.
“You can grab a bite at the drugstore in the shopping center across the road. It’s not great, but it’s all right. Or you can drive down to the pier and eat fancy.”
“We have to wait for Wainwright to call back.”
A few minutes later the call from Wainwright came through. “Masao,” he said, “I’ll be leaving for Mike Barton’s place in about an hour, and I want you to meet me there.”
“You said his wife is back?”
“Right. No harm done except some tape marks on her mouth and wrists. She says she was snatched out of her Malibu house by two men who wore stocking masks, taken somewhere, and finally dumped on Mulholland Drive, just to the west of Coldwater Canyon. She walked to the fire-house and they drove her home. McCarthy’s with her, and that’s the story he tells me. I got to meet with the mayor and city manager again, because they think they can sit on this and I got to tell them they’re crazy.”
“What about Mike Barton?”
“No sign of him yet.”
“Did you put out anything on him? He should be back by now.”
“Not yet, Masao. You know, he could have made the drop fifty miles from here. The kidnappers could have split up. One takes Angel, one goes to pick up the money. What are you thinking?”