“I don’t know exactly what I’m thinking,” Masuto said. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just a smell. It doesn’t smell right.”
“No, it stinks, and I don’t know why either, except when there’s a crime and people tell the cops to keep hands off, well, that stinks for me.”
“Who else is at his house?”
“Ranier’s still there, and there’s a uniformed cop I just sent over and told to sit in his car on the street, and if they don’t like that, they can stuff it. What did you find in their beach house?”
“Puzzles. Questions.”
“You might go straight to Barton’s place.”
“Well, we’re here, so we might as well talk to Netty Cooper who had the party here last night. It’s one-thirty now. I should be able to get to Barton’s place by three or a little later.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
“Try to hold McCarthy and Ranier there. Also the three servants and a woman called Elaine Newman. She’s his secretary.”
“Hold on, Masao. We can’t detain anyone. You know that.”
“Just ask them, politely.”
“I’ll try. But we got nothing to detain anyone on.”
“We’re not arresting them. All I want to do is talk to them.”
“I’ll try.”
They stopped at the drugstore where Masuto ordered a bacon and tomato sandwich and Beckman ordered ham and cheese on rye. “Didn’t you just eat lunch at my house?” Masuto asked him.
“Sure, but that was a long time ago.”
“Yes, I suppose it was.”
It was only a couple of hundred yards from the police station to the gate to Malibu Colony. At that point, where one turns off the Pacific Coast Highway to the old Malibu Road, the Colony is directly to one’s left, a manned gate, and then beyond it a row of some of the most expensive houses in southern California. Masuto had frequently reflected on the lot of a detective trying to juggle the payment of bills, mortgage, doctor, dentist, grocery, insurance, etc., on a policeman’s salary while protecting people who earned more in one year than a policeman could earn in a lifetime.
At the Colony gate, the guard looked at Masuto’s identification and shook his head. “Heavy today-heaviest day we had in a long time. First the local fuzz and now fancy Beverly Hills cops. What goes on?”
Masuto shrugged.
“Come on, I’m on your side.”
“The creature came out of the sea,” Beckman said.
“Funny, funny.”
“Which is Mrs. Cooper’s house?”
“Down there. You can’t miss it, painted bright yellow.”
They drove through and parked in front of the yellow house. A Chicano maid opened the door and asked them to wait. In a few minutes she returned and asked them to follow her. Unlike the Barton house, this one had a proper entrance facing the road. It was two stories, had striped awnings, an entrance way, a huge living room-dining room with baroque furniture painted white, and, facing the sea, tall glass sliding doors. Netty Cooper was sitting on the deck-terrace with a man-a tall, elegant, good-looking man of about fifty. He was dressed in gray flannels, sported a carefully combed and barbered head of iron gray hair with pale gray eyes to match-and a face that was vaguely familiar.
“Two Beverly Hills detectives,” Netty Cooper said with obvious relish. “I never knew they had any detectives on the Beverly Hills police force, only those handsome men in uniform with the pale blue eyes, and so polite, so very polite. But you do have to be polite to be a policeman in Beverly Hills, don’t you?” Her own eyes were very pale blue. She was a slender, attenuated woman in her middle forties, with a long face, long neck, long trunk, and long legs. Her dyed yellow hair was piled on her head, and her nail polish was so dark it was almost black. She wore a beach dress of pale green, and her sandals revealed toenails painted the same color as her fingernails.
“Yes, ma’am-very polite,” Beckman said. Those who didn’t know Beckman and took him at his appearance, that of an oversized running back, were often surprised by his irony. Masuto was watching the man. He recognized him now, Congressman Roy Hennesy.
“And of course you’ve come about poor Angel’s kidnapping.”
“How do you know that Angel Barton was kidnapped?”
“Oh, one knows. This is a very small place. What has happened to our Angel?”
“She has been returned unharmed.”
There was a pause, and then Hennesy said, “Thank God. Kidnapping is a horrible thing.”
“I am Detective Sergeant Masuto. This is Detective Beckman.”
“How nice! How very nice! And this is Congressman Hennesy, a dear friend. Masuto. How nice to think that we have a Japanese detective on the Beverly Hills police force. I spent three months in Japan, and I would love to chat about it. So many things I didn’t understand. You could be so helpful.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve never been to Japan.”
“Really? Then you must go.”
“Yes. Thank you for the suggestion. Meanwhile, I’m much more interested in the Barton kidnapping.”
“Oh? Are we on the list of suspects?”
“So sorry,” Masuto said, “we have no suspects but would appreciate information.”
Beckman watched him narrowly. Masuto rarely displayed anger, but when he fell into what Wainwright called his Charlie Chan routine, he was provoked and dangerous.
“How disappointing! I always wanted to be a suspect.”
“Were you at the party last night?” he asked Hennesy.
“I was. But I assure you, I did not kidnap the Angel. If I had, I would never return her. I would give up my seat in Congress and find a desert island somewhere-a place where she and I could live out our lives in idyllic ecstasy.”
“Ah, so. And does she feel that way about you?”
“Sergeant, must you be so literal? Half the men in Los Angeles are in love with the Angel,” Mrs. Cooper said, and then to Hennesy, “but you are a very heartless man to sit there and tell me you dream of running off with the Angel.”
“My apologies, and the disclaimer must include the fact that I am here with you, while the Angel snuggles in the arms of her devoted husband. How devoted, I wonder? How much was the ransom, Sergeant?”
“I have no idea,” Masuto said.
“Close-mouthed-ah, well, an officer in pursuit of his duty.”
“Did you leave the party before or after Mrs. Barton?”
“I really don’t know.”
“You mean with all your talk about a desert island, you didn’t notice whether she was gone or not?”
“She left before Mr. Hennesy did,” Mrs. Cooper told him. “I don’t think any of my guests were candidates for a kidnapping-Jack Fellows and his wife, more millions than they know what to do with, the Tudors-well, a star does not dash around kidnapping people-Kennedy, only the most successful director in town, the Butterworths and the Goldbergs and the Lees. Not a very large party, Mr. Detective, and no one who is a potential for your kidnapper. If you think that any of my guests walked out of here and went over to the Barton place and kidnapped Angel Barton, you are absolutely out of your mind.”
Masuto stared at her for a long moment; then he nodded. “We’ll be going now-oh, one thing. Which of your guests live here in the Colony?”
“The Lees and the Goldbergs. Are you going to grill them as well?”
“I haven’t grilled you, Mrs. Cooper.”
“The Goldbergs are four houses down, the Lees are the sixth house.”
“And, Congressman, when did you first learn about the kidnapping?”
“About two minutes before you arrived, Sergeant. I’ve been here about an hour, but Mrs. Cooper was upstairs doing her bath and things. I walked around to the beach side and made myself comfortable on the terrace. We’re old pals. And, by the way, I didn’t think you were serious about who left first, and I was rather put off by your questioning me. I did leave before Angel, if that matters.”
“Thank you,” Masuto said coldly.
Outside, Beckman let out his breath and shook his head. “They are a pair. She’s a normal Beverly Hills type phony. The congressman’s a fuckin’ pain in the ass. They almost had an indictment out on him once, and then it was squashed, and they go on reelecting him. You want to keep your hands in your pockets if you get too close to him.”