“I think I know the spot. But I don’t remember a perpendicular drop.”
“I don’t mean absolutely perpendicular, Sergeant. There is a slight slope that’s covered with chaparral, but it might just as well be perpendicular for anything that goes over there. Now this Addison kid’s car was coining from the east, from Laurel Canyon, and she must have lost control, because instead of making the curve she went straight ahead and over.”
“At what speed?”
“You know that’s only an estimate,” Commager said. “But we get pretty good at that kind of thing. I got down here in my notes that she was moving at thirty miles an hour.”
“Were there brake marks where she went over?”
“No.”
“How did you account for that? Was her brakeline cut or broken? Was her brake fluid gone?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you telling me that there were no skid marks and you didn’t come up with an explanation? Or a question?”
“Now hold on, Sergeant. We’re not halfwits. We knew she didn’t try to break her speed. If she had, then the car would have tumbled over the edge of the road and there would have been broken brush from there on down. But there wasn’t any broken brush under the road. She went over the side like the car was shot out of a catapult. That’s the way we figured the thirty miles an hour. It maybe don’t sound like much speed on a highway, but over the side of a cliff, it’s a hell of a lot of speed.”
“It could have been fifteen or twenty miles an hour?”
“I suppose so.”
“A man who knows a little mechanics can wire a throttle down. Then he throws the car into gear and jumps out. Did you look for that kind of a device?”
“We had no reason to. It went down as an accidental death.”
“What did the autopsy show?”
“My God, Sergeant, that car tumbled down maybe over a hundred feet and then burst into flames. There wasn’t much left of the car or the kid inside of it.”
“How was she identified?”
“Her purse was thrown clear. Then her rings, dental work, the usual thing.”
“Did her mother make an identification?”
“I can’t tell you that, Sergeant. That would happen down-town. But in the normal course of events they would call her in for an I.D.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“Not to the crash. People saw the flames and called us.”
“What kind of a car was it?”
“A little red car. It must have been a beauty, one of those little convertible Mercedes.”
“Red?”
“That’s right, red.”
For a long moment of silence, Masuto sat with the telephone in his hand.
“You still there, Sergeant?”
“One more point, Officer Commager. You’ve been very helpful, and now I’m going to ask you to do the impossible. Close your eyes and go back to that night. You’re in a radio car, a black-and-white. You get the call. Where are you when that call comes in?”
“Southbound on Laurel, going up the hill.”
“All right-up the hill, and you turn right onto Mulholland. Now between that point and the place where the car is, did you see a man on foot?”
Now the silence was on Officer Commager’s end. Kati watched Masuto’s tense face as he listened and waited. She did not often see him at moments like this, and she was not sure she liked him like this, his nostrils quivering slightly, his ordinarily placid brown face suddenly the face of the hunter.
“Jesus Christ,” Commager burst out, “this is crazy. I see these characters on the witness stand giving testimony from five, six years ago-this is only three years ago and it’s like a dream. I think I saw a man on foot, and then I don’t know. If you put me on the witness stand, a lawyer could tear it to shreds. I think so, but I can’t swear to it. It was nighttime, and I was responding to a call.”
“You’ve done nobly,” Masuto said. “Thank you. Maybe this will save some lives.”
He put down the phone and sat and stared at the notes he had made.
“Masao?” Kati said.
“Yes?”
“Whose lives will be saved?”
“Three women-if I am lucky, if something breaks in this lunatic puzzle. I keep moving, but he moves faster.”
“Will you be careful?”
He kissed her again and went out to his car.
During the short ride from his house to the sprawling Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lot, Masuto speculated on whether he should have called the studio and made an appointment with Billy Fuller, the director. Then he shrugged it off. He had no time for second thoughts. He’d manage.
The guard at the gate said, “Mister, if you don’t have a pass, if nobody put your name on my list, I don’t let you in.”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto of the Beverly Hills Police.” He showed his badge.
“That cuts no ice here. This is Culver City.”
“What would cut ice? Suppose I took you in for obstructing justice?”
“Here? In Culver City?”
“Now look, this is a homicide investigation. If you don’t think I can arrest you right here in Culver City, I suggest you pick up your phone and call the local cops. Meanwhile, I’ll be talking to whoever runs this place. Or we can settle it cool and civilized. Which is it?”
“Okay. You win. Billy Fuller?”
“That’s right”
“He’s shooting on Stage Three. That’s the trouble, Sergeant. I can get my ass burned right off if he wants to be nasty.”
“Lay it on me.”
Masuto parked his car. Then he walked through the gate and found Stage Three. A red light was swinging lazily outside the door of the sound stage, an indication that inside filming was in progress. Masuto knew enough about film studios to know that no take, as they called it, lasted more than a few minutes at most; and when the red light went out, he entered the dark, cavernous interior. Coming out of the brilliant sunshine, the comparative darkness was impenetrable at first, and he stood for a minute or two, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Bit by bit, he made out the jungle of wires and cables that confronted him. The scene was being shot at the other end of the sound stage, the view blocked by a set of flats. Masuto walked carefully toward it, and then, coming around in a circle, he was confronted by a brightly-lit New York summer street scene, a Greenwich Village cafe, tables, actors, cameramen, grips, electricians-and a man who barred his way and told him that this was a closed set.
“I’m looking for William Fuller.”
“He’s on the set, mister. We’re shooting, and he can’t be disturbed. And like I said, this set is closed. So I suggest you call his office and make an appointment.”
“I have to see him now,” Masuto said.
“Buzz off, yes? Don’t give us a hard time. Or do I have to call the studio cops?”
“I’m Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. I suggest you let me talk to Mr. Fuller.”
By now, a circle of people had gathered around. A small man, about five feet seven inches in height, energetic, tight, with long hair and a lean, birdlike face, dressed in blue jeans and a blue work shirt, pushed into the circle and demanded, “What in hell goes on here? I’m trying to make a movie.”
“This clown says he’s a cop and he wants to talk to you.”
“This clown,” Masuto said coldly, “is used to being addressed as Detective Sergeant Masuto.” He took out his badge. “Now here’s my badge. I’m investigating a homicide. If you’re William Fuller, I’d like ten minutes of your time, in a place where we can talk privately.”
Evidently, it was Fuller. “Are you nuts?” he demanded. “We’re in the middle of shooting. Do you know what it’s going to cost if we close shop now?”
“I’m not asking you to close shop. I’m asking for ten minutes of your time.”
“It’s impossible. Forget it. I don’t know one goddamn thing about any homicide, so forget it.”
“All right.” Masuto nodded. “I get a warrant and I pull you in as a material witness. We hold you twenty-four hours. What will that cost?”
“You wouldn’t dare. Jesus, I live in Beverly Hills. I pull some weight there. God damn it, you’re going to hear about this.”