“Wainwright’s going to yell like hell.”
“If he’s going to have murders, it’s got to cost,” said Beckman.
“Put it through to the cops in Bonn in Germany too. We might as well go the whole hog.”
“You’re the boss, Masao.”
“You got him eating out of your hand,” said Beckman, after Sweeney had gone. “Did the L.A. cops really say that about Sweeney?”
“I stretched it.”
“Well, they won’t tell him. It’s nine-thirty, Masao. What do you want me to do while you’re down there with the Feds?”
“Find Litovsky’s clothes.”
“I’ll give it a try. You think this Binnie Vance, being an exotic dancer and hotheaded and full of piss and vinegar, comes into Stillman’s room and finds him with that big blond hooker and loses all her cool and kills him?”
“Stillman was shaving. That doesn’t sound very passionate.”
“You think maybe Stillman invented the hooker?”
“Maybe.”
“Funny, in a place like the Beverly Glen Hotel, you don’t have to invent. You just reach out and take. So no hooker. Who was in the room and made the call, Binnie Vance?”
“Maybe. She claims she flew in from Las Vegas yesterday morning.”
The telephone rang. Beckman picked it up, listened for a moment, and then passed it to Masuto.
“Masao?” It was Kati’s voice, high-pitched, uncontrolled.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Ana’s gone!”
“Kati, get hold of yourself! What do you mean, Ana’s gone?”
“She isn’t here. She’s gone.”
“Where was she?”
“In the garden. She was there playing with her doll, Masao. Then I turned away for a few minutes. I went into the kitchen-” Her voice broke, and she began to sob.
“Kati! Kati, get hold of yourself!”
“I shouldn’t have left her alone. I looked out of the kitchen window, and she was gone.”
“Did you look for her? She may have wandered off.”
“Masao, it was only a minute or two.” She was sobbing uncontrollably now.
“Please, Kati, please. You must talk to me. Get hold of yourself.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Now just what happened?”
“I tried-I tried to see her from the kitchen window. Then I went out into the garden. I thought she was hiding. I thought she was playing a game. I didn’t know-”
“Kati!”
“So I looked everywhere. Then I began to call her. Then I went out on the street. I ran up and down the street. I looked everywhere. But she’s gone.”
“She didn’t go back into the house?”
“How could she, except through the kitchen?”
“All right. Now look, Kati dear, this is not your fault. I’m sure Ana is all right. I want you to stay in the house. Don’t go out looking for her again. Just stay in the house, and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t talk to anyone about this. Just stay there and be calm, do you understand?”
“You’ll find her, Masao, please.”
“I’ll find her.”
Then he turned to Beckman. “Come on, Sy.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you in the car. Let’s get moving.”
8
Driving through the streets of Beverly Hills, his car siren howling, Masuto knew only that his lovely, pleasant world of the morning had shattered, leaving an empty hole of sheer terror. He had always lived with a simple acceptance of the fact that fear was not a problem he had to face. An old Zen story told of the student who came to the Zen master and asked the question: “Why should I study Zen, Rashi?” to which the master replied, “Because then you will not be afraid to die.” Masuto was not afraid to die, but the world was full of many other things that were more terrible than death.
“If we pile up and end up in a hospital, Masao,” Beckman said quietly, “you won’t be helping the kid any.” They had just made a two-wheel braking turn into Motor Avenue off Pico Boulevard and were roaring south toward Culver City. “Anyway, we ought to think, and I can’t think at this speed.”
Masuto slowed down. “You’re right, Sy,” he muttered. “You’re right.”
“You’re sure it’s connected?”
“I have a gut feeling.”
“A kid could wander out of a back yard and drift away and just get disoriented, and then the kid is lost. It’s happened before. It happens every day.”
“Not a Japanese child. She wouldn’t leave the garden. I know Ana. Kati knows her. She just wouldn’t leave the garden.”
“Then if she was snatched, you face it and try to think it through. I can’t do your thinking for you,” Beckman told him, almost harshly. “All day yesterday you ran us in circles, with the damn oranges and the lead azide and all the rest of it. What does it add up to?”
Masuto made no reply, and Beckman said more softly, “I got kids, so don’t think I’m not feeling this. But you’re a cop, Masao. Now why would anyone snatch your kid? It’s not money; you don’t have any.”
“It’s a club.”
“Best damn club there is. But if they’re going to clobber you, they got to tell you why.”
“They will,” Masuto whispered. “They will.”
The quiet, cottage-lined, neat and sun-drenched street where Masuto lived belied the thought of violence. The houses were owned, for the most part, by Nisei and Chicano families. They were plain, hard-working people who had put their life effort into owning a home on a small plot of land and the houses and the flower-lined lawns underlined the care and pride that went into that ownership.
Beckman remained in the car when they reached Mas-uto’s house. “I’ll drift around and see if I can turn up anything,” Beckman said. “Just the streets around here. You go in to Kati.”
Masuto nodded and ran into the house. Beckman drove off. Kati had been watching for them, and after she let her husband in, she burst into tears. Masuto took her in his arms and rocked her gently.
“Easy, easy, Kati. Ana will be all right. I promise you that.”
“Who took her, Masao?”
“Stop crying. You must stop crying. We are going to be very calm, both of us.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, you must. Now go into the kitchen and make tea.”
“Tea? Now?”
“Yes, now,” he said firmly. “I will go with you, but I want you to make the tea. Mr. Beckman will be here in a moment, and we will give him tea and cake. Have you cake in the house?”
“Masao!”
“The tea now, please.”
She bowed her head and dried her tears on her apron and went into the kitchen. Masuto followed her. She filled the tea kettle.
“Now tell me again what happened.”
“But I told you.”
“Again, very carefully.”
“She was playing in the garden with her doll, sitting under the acacia tree. I went into the kitchen to do the breakfast dishes. I cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. Then I looked out of the window-” She choked up.
“Go on, Kati. Think. Exactly as it happened.”
“She wasn’t there. First I tried to see through the window. Then I ran outside.”
“How long was she out of your sight?”
“Maybe three minutes, no more. I had cleared the table before. Then, after you left, I had a cup of tea while Ana had her cereal and hot milk. Oh, Masao-”
The telephone rang.
“Stay here and finish the tea,” Masuto said. He went into the living room then and picked up the phone. It was a singsong voice with a curious accent, a man’s voice.
“This is Detective Sergeant Masuto?” the voice asked.
“Yes. Speaking.”
“Then you will listen to me very carefully, Detective Sergeant Masuto. She has not been harmed. She will not be harmed-so long as you obey our instructions.”
“How do I know you have her? How do I know she’s all right?”
As he said this, the doorbell rang. Kati ran through the living room to the door. It was Beckman. He took Kati’s hand, and the two of them stood there, watching Masuto.
“I will let you talk to her. But quickly.”
“Daddy, Daddy,” came Ana’s voice, “they broke my doll.”