“Order sandwiches and coffee,” Masuto said with some irritation.
“What’s bugging you?”
“This whole thing. No motive, no reason, no clue, no sanity, and the fat man’s clothes.”
“Masao, you know Freddie Comstock’s a bonehead. Let’s you and me shake down that place ourselves.”
“Maybe later.” He took the tissue-wrapped packet out of his jacket. “Here’s the bullet that killed Stillman. Send it down to ballistics and see what they make out of it. I’ll order the sandwiches. And then come back with the past ten days of the L.A. Times. What kind of a sandwich do you want?”
“Anything that chews.”
Masuto ordered the sandwiches, and Beckman returned with a foot-high pile of the Los Angeles Times. He had learned from experience not to question Masuto’s methods, however far out in left field they happened to be.
“We go through them,” Masuto said, dividing the pile in two. “Page by page.”
“That will take a month.”
“No. Skip the classified and the ads.” He thought about it for a moment. “Skip the sports, theater and financial. Stick to the news. Never mind the columns and the editorials, just the news.”
“What are we looking for? The Russians again?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not sure. Something that connects.”
“Goddamn it, Masao, I go along with you, but this is crazy. What connects?”
“I don’t know, but there has to be something. An important Russian secret agent is murdered. The call comes from Stillman’s room. Stillman is murdered. They both knew something, and whatever they knew is going to happen very soon.”
“So we look for something that connects. Great.”
“Let’s say something as meaningless as all the rest of it. Odd. Different. Then we’ll try to fit it together.”
“You’re the boss.” He grinned suddenly. “Masao, suppose it happened already? That lets us off the hook.”
“That’s a thought,” Masuto agreed. He picked up the phone and asked Joyce to get him Mike Hennesy in the city room at the Los Angeles Times.
“Mike,” he said, “this is Masuto over in Beverly Hills.”
“Great!” Hennesy exclaimed. “Masao, what in hell goes on up there at the Beverly Glen Hotel? We got a drowning and a murder-”
“Hold on!”
“Masao,” came Hennesy’s pleading voice, “it’s the big story today. Come on-”
Masuto put down the phone, and shook his head. “Start on the papers.” The phone rang again. It was Hennesy. “You know I can’t peddle information, Mike. Talk to the captain.”
“Four fires in a single day in West Covina,” Beckman said. “The police suspect arson. Nothing else even shows signs of anything. Here’s another one about the agronomists. The leader of the group is Ilya Moskvich. Leading agronomist in the Soviet Union. Nobel Prize four years ago.”
“Interesting.”
Wainwright walked in and stared at the pile of newspapers. “Never mind, I won’t ask,” he said. “This is what the city pays you for.”
Masuto nodded without replying.
“I heard from Vegas,” Wainwright said.
“Oh?”
“They can’t locate his wife. Stillman’s wife.”
“I thought she was performing at the Sands.”
Beckman looked up and said, “Binnie Vance?”
“That’s right. Stillman’s wife.”
“They got a great police force there in Vegas. Almost as good as ours. They can’t locate Binnie Vance, who’s only opening tomorrow night here in L.A.”
“How do you know that?” Wainwright demanded.
“I’m reading the papers. She opens tomorrow night at the Ventura, that new hotel downtown with the round glass towers.” He turned to Masuto. “Does that connect? It’s true it’s in the theater section, but what the hell, you notice things-”
He paused. Masuto was there and yet not there. He was sitting rigidly, his eyes half closed, and Beckman and Wainwright exchanged glances. Then Masuto said quietly, smiling slightly, “Captain, how do you feel about murders in Beverly Hills?”
“You know damn well how I feel about murders anywhere.”
“Yes. The Russian was unpleasant. They apparently have a very centralized system, and they have a low opinion of underpaid policemen like myself. However, if you insist that this is our case, I think that Sy and I can clear it up in the next twenty-four hours.”
“You got it.”
“And what about Stillman’s prints?”
“He was clean as a whistle,” Wainwright said, “which don’t mean a thing except that he’s never been caught.”
“And the prints on the yellow Cadillac?”
“They’re working on it.” At the door, he paused and said forlornly, “The F.B.I. character should be at the airport about now. It’s been one beautiful day, and it’s not over.”
“It’s not over,” Masuto agreed.
“Did it connect?” Beckman asked.
“What?”
“Binnie Vance.”
“Keep looking.”
“Two German shepherd attack dogs found dead, poisoned, in the Altra Kennels at Azuza?”
“No.”
“Masao, give me a clue.”
“I haven’t any.”
“How about this: ‘Jewish Defense League denies theft of four ounces of lead azide, stolen from the Felcher Company in San Fernando.’”
Masuto was suddenly alert. “What date?”
“Four days ago. What’s lead azide?”
“Read the rest of it.”
“Yeah, here it is. Lead azide, a volatile form of detonator explosive. They reported the theft to the San Fernando police. Whoever took it scratched the letters J.D.L. on the metal container.”
“Convenient.”
“Well, it made ten lines on page eight. What the hell-four ounces of explosive.”
Masuto pushed the papers aside. “Come on, Sy, let’s go for a ride.”
“Where?”
“San Fernando.”
“What makes you think this is a connection? I don’t see it.”
“Neither do I, but I am sick and tired of sitting here. Anyway, it is time I saw my uncle, Toda.”
“Who the hell is your Uncle Toda?
“My father’s younger brother. He has ten acres of oranges outside of San Fernando. Do you know, the land’s worth about forty thousand dollars an acre now. That would make my uncle a rich man, but he says that until he dies, the orchard will not be disturbed.”
“You grew up around there, didn’t you?”
“Before the war. The Valley was like a garden then, no subdivisions, no tract houses, just miles of pecan groves and avocado groves and orange groves. My father used to compare it to Japan. He would say that a place like the San Fernando Valley could feed half the population of Japan. Of course, that was an exaggeration, but that’s the way the people from the old country felt about the Valley.”
They were on their way out when Masuto caught Wainwright’s eye. The captain was talking to a neatly dressed man, gray suit, blue tie, pink cheeks, blue eyes, sandy hair, a man in his forties whose face retained the bland shapelessness of a teenager’s. Wainwright motioned to Masuto.
“This is Mr. Clinton, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Since Clinton did not extend his hand, Masuto made no offer of his. As he examined Masuto, the old gray flannels, the shapeless tweed jacket, the tieless shirt, his cold blue eyes belied the blandness of his face.
“This is Masuto?” he asked Wainwright.
“Detective Sergeant Masuto.”
“I hear you grilled Mr. Gritchov?”
“Grilled? No, sir, that’s hardly the word. I asked him a few questions.”
“Where in hell do you get your nerve? Gritchov is a diplomatic representative of a foreign country, with which at the moment we are in process of most delicate negotiations. He has immunity. How dare you question him.”
“So sorry,” said Masuto. “It simply happens that another representative of the Soviet Union was murdered in a city which employs me as the chief of its homicide division.”
“Peter Litovsky drowned. The kind of loose talk and thoughtless statements you just indulged in could have the most serious consequences.”