“Yes, he was drowned,” Masuto admitted. “He did not drown, he was drowned. There is a specific semantic difference. I would like you to note that, Mr. Clinton. I am not accustomed to loose or thoughtless statements.”
“Who the devil do you think you’re talking to, Masuto?”
“A federal agent. I’m quite aware of that. But you are in Beverly Hills in the State of California. The fact that Peter Litovsky was a Soviet intelligence agent makes him your problem. The fact that he was murdered in Beverly Hills makes him mine.”
“How do you know he was an intelligence agent?” Clinton demanded.
“I told him,” Wainwright said.
“Who gave you the right to? The information given to you was classified.”
“Masuto’s the head of Homicide. Beckman works with him. I felt they ought to know.”
“You felt?”
“That’s right. I felt. And what are you going to do about it, mister?”
“All right. I know the kind of people I’m dealing with. But let me tell you this, and these instructions come from the top. Litovsky drowned-an accidental death. That’s what the newspapers will print, and that’s what you will back up. And Mr. Gritchov will stand on the same ground.”
“All right,” Wainwright agreed. “We cooperate with the federal authorities. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what the newspapers print or what you tell them. But I do give a damn when people come into my city and murder, and as far as I am concerned, Litovsky was murdered and I intend to find out who did it.”
“We are taking over the investigation. I’ll expect your cooperation.”
“I’m honored,” said Wainwright.
“We can do without the sarcasm. I’ll see you later, Captain Wainwright.”
He stalked out of the room, and Wainwright muttered, “That shithead. That miserable shithead.” When Masuto and Beckman started to follow, he snapped, “Where are you two going?”
“To San Fernando.”
“What for? The country air?”
“You don’t need us, Captain. You have the whole F.B.I. working for you. In fact, you don’t even have a crime. You have an accidental drowning.”
“Don’t get cute with me, Masao. I’ve had just about all I can take today.”
“I think we’re on to something-maybe.”
“You don’t want to tell me. I might know what’s happening in this department if you did.”
“I don’t know myself. Something about some explosive that was ripped off in San Fernando a few days ago. I don’t even know how it connects. I just have a feeling that it does.”
“Why don’t you call the San Fernando cops and talk to them?”
“I need the fresh air.”
“The cutes. Everyone has them today. What about this Binnie Vance? Do you want us to find her and tell her?”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather tell her myself. I’ll do that tonight.”
“For Christ’s sake, Masao, her husband’s dead.”
“I imagine she knows that by now.”
“Where do you think she is, in that new hotel downtown?”
“Probably.”
“Well, we got to inform her. It’s procedure. You know that.”
“Right.”
“When can I expect you back?”
“Two hours. No more than that.”
As they walked out to Masuto’s car, Beckman said to him, “I sure as hell admire your control, Masao. Maybe it’s Oriental or something. That second-rate putz!”
“I try not to respond to fools.”
“You know, Masao, these shmucks who work for the F.B.I., they get maybe double what we do.”
“I suppose I have heard that word a hundred times. Sy, just what is a shmuck?”
“It’s Yiddish for a flaccid penis.”
“And a putz?”
“Yiddish for an erect penis.”
“A remarkable language,” Masuto said thoughtfully.
5
People who have spent half their lives in Los Angeles are still unable to solve the jigsawlike relationship between the City of Los Angeles, the County of Los Angeles, and the dozens of independent communities that exist both within the city and within the county. Like Beverly Hills, the City of San Fernando is an independent community, but it lies in the San Fernando Valley, entirely surrounded by the City of Los Angeles, an arrangement that succumbs to reason only because it is factual. By freeway, it is some fourteen miles north of Beverly Hills, and all the way there, Masuto remained silent, lost in his own thoughts, grappling with a puzzle that was no more susceptible to reason than the civic arrangements that existed in Los Angeles County. Intermittently, he remembered that he had not called Kati to inquire about Ana’s sore throat, and that caused him small twinges of guilt.
They were almost in San Fernando when Beckman, who knew Masuto well enough to respect his silences, asked where they were going, to the Felcher Company or to the cops?
“I imagine the company’s closed for the day. We’ll talk to the cops.”
“Masao, this clown from the F.B.I., he never asked one word about Stillman.”
“Perhaps no one told him.”
“That’s not very patriotic.”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
“Masao, do you know any of the San Fernando cops?”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s a fellow called Gonzales who used to be with the Hollywood Division. He switched to a better job with the San Fernando cops. I think he’s the chief of detectives or something like that.”
They turned off the freeway at San Fernando Road, and a few minutes later they parked at the police station, an old, battered building in the Spanish style. It was almost six o’clock now, but the summer sun was still high, and the shimmering valley heat was only now beginning to break. The cop at the desk told them that Lieutenant Gonzales was down the hall, second door to the right.
They knocked and entered. Gonzales, a heavy-set, dark-skinned man, had his feet up on the desk. He was smoking a cigar and reading a copy of Playboy. He grinned at Beckman and shook hands with Masuto.
“Still working for the rich?”
“The pay is regular,” Beckman said.
“What brings you up this way? I hear you run a busy little hotel down there, with a drowning and a murder.”
“Already?”
“The news gets around. What can I do for you?”
“Four days ago, someone broke into the Felcher Company and stole four ounces of lead azide. We’re curious.”
“Why?”
“The truth is, I don’t really know,” Masuto confessed. “We’re groping in the dark. We have a situation where nothing connects, and I’m trying to connect it. Maybe it’s a gut feeling more than anything else. What about this Felcher Company?”
“They’re a small outfit on the edge of town, a chemical company that specializes in detonator explosives.”
“Are they clean?”
“As clean as mother’s wash. If you’re gonna fault them on anything, it’s their security system. That stinks. They never had any trouble, so they just coasted along on the proposition that they never would. Not even a night watchman.”
“How did it happen?”
“Someone snipped the padlock on the wire fence around the building and forced a window. No alarm system, would you believe that?”
“I’d believe it.”
“All that was taken were the four ounces of lead azide.”
“Just what is lead azide?” Masuto asked him. “I know it’s some kind of explosive, but what exactly? You don’t hear about it.”
“It’s a son of a bitch. The way it was explained to me, a detonator explosive is sensitive. It goes off easily. And this lead azide is nasty. According to the manager, even a contamination by dust could set it off. Just take a stone and let it drop on this lead azide-bang, off it goes.”
“And what could four ounces do?”
“Blow us out of this room. They tell me that they use a single grain for a detonator.”
“How much is a grain?” Beckman asked.
“Seven thousand in a pound, I think,” Masuto said.
“God almighty.”