The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (5 page)

“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.”

“What now?” Masuto asked him. “The Lees or the Goldbergs?”

“Let's give the Goldbergs a shot.”

The Goldberg house was painted pink. Mrs. Goldberg was small, with dark hair, dark eyes, fiftyish, and had a schoolgirl figure and a good coat of tan. Her house was furnished in beach baroque, apparently de rigueur in the Colony, but with accents of pink. She asked them to sit down on the pink chairs on the terrace and poured Cokes for each of them.

“How exciting to have two real live detectives here. Wait until Joe gets home and I give him a blow by blow. Only poor Angel—”

“She's safe, Mrs. Goldberg. She's home, unharmed.”

“Oh? Then I'll be bitchy and rescind my sympathy.”

“I take it you don't like her?”

“Ugh! You see, I don't hide my feelings.”

“That sounds like very strong feeling.”

“It is. You see, Detective Masuto—that is it, Masuto?”

“Yes, indeed. And this is Detective Beckman.”

“You see, I wasn't born to this sun-drenched, orange-ridden, never-never land. Joe and I made it the hard way, and he's just about the best producer in the business, so I don't have to be a diplomat, or an ass-licker, whichever you prefer. Now this is not a place without its gonifs and stinkers, as I'm sure you know, but this Angel is a beauty. Yes, indeed—even for the film business.” She stopped and shook her head. “But I'm sure you're not interested in Angel.”

“But we are. Please go on.”

“Where do I start and where do I stop? Don't ask me to go into Angel Barton on my own. Ask me questions.”

“All right. We've just come from Netty Cooper's house. She told us that you and your husband were at the party last night.”

“We were. Netty's all right. She just keeps hurting all over with rejected-woman syndromes, three divorces—but since we're a community-property state, she's done brilliantly financially. Joe says she's worth at least five million.”

She has fangs and she's no one's fool, Masuto reflected, asking her, “How did you find out about the kidnapping?”

“Sergeant, Joe, my husband, is producing Mikey's new film. In this kind of trouble, he would tell Joe before he told his own mother. Mikey isn't poor, but to put together a million dollars in a few hours is not easy. Joe always maintains a large liquid position, just in case he wants to tie up some literary property or a director. Joe was able to put his hands on two hundred thousand or so, and with Bill Ranier and Jack McCarthy pitching in, they were able to supply what Mikey needed for the ransom. But a million dollars for the Angel—ah well—”

“You keep saying Mikey,” Beckman put in. “You must be very close to Mike Barton.”

“He's like a son to us. Joe ran into him over in West Hollywood one day, pumping gas. You see—” She paused. “You see, I want to tell you this because I just don't like the smell of what's happening here, and both of you look like decent men. But please don't blow it all over town. Joe went to great effort to give Mikey a certain aura. So if this can be just among us?”

“I'll try,” Masuto agreed. “We're involved with a crime, so I can't promise anything. But we'll try.”

“Good enough. Mikey's father had a grocery store in Flatbush. That's in Brooklyn. We knew his father and we knew Mikey as a kid. His name then was Bernstein.”

“You're kidding,” Beckman said. “You mean he's Jewish?”

“What's so strange? You're Jewish, aren't you?”

“I look it.”

“No law says you have to.”

“And what about this rumor that his real name was Brannigan and that he came from upstate New York?”

“If you read Gloria Adams, you'll find a lot of rumors. When Joe and I were living in Flatbush and trying to make it the hard way, I saw Mikey every day, the sweetest, most willing, most decent kid I ever knew. The only kinkiness in him was that he wanted to be an actor. Then we came out to the Coast and lost touch with him, and then one day, about sixteen years ago, Joe met him at a gas pump. He brought the kid home, and we fed him and made him stay with us. Joe got him a part in a TV film, and he liked what he saw and got him an acting coach. From there on it was step by step, until he became the Mike Barton of today. We love Mikey, so I don't want to put Joe on a pedestal as Mr. Good Guy, but without Joe he would be another of the ten thousand unemployed actors around town. I don't say Joe didn't profit. He made eight films with Mikey, and six were enormous money-makers. But that's not why he did it.”

“He had already changed his name to Barton when your husband met him?”

“Yes. He wanted it that way, and Joe let it stay. They decided on a mysterious past, and it worked, for what it's worth.”

“And how did he meet Angel?”

“That's another well-kept secret—” She hesitated, studying Masuto and Beckman thoughtfully.

“But you're going to tell me,” Masuto said deliberately. “You're not a chatterer, but you've decided to tell me a number of things. May I ask why?”

“Is why important?”

“I think so.”

“I'm afraid. There's something happening here ever since Mikey married her, and it frightens me. He's changed. A lot of stars and semi-stars in this town cat around like they're in competition. Mikey wasn't that way. There were a few girls in his life whom he really cared for, but he didn't marry until he met Angel. He lived with one lady for five years, and while they were together he never looked at another woman. He has one real weakness—one, maybe a dozen. Who hasn't? Mikey wouldn't win any prizes for smarts. He's sweet and kind, but not too bright. But the one real weakness I'm talking about is gambling. It's a sickness, and he's a big loser. He met Angel in Vegas, where she was dealing blackjack, and he fell for her like a ton of bricks. She had been on the job only a few days, and already she had the reputation of wanting nothing to do with any of the studs around the place. She walked off the job with him the next day and they came back to L.A. together and she moved in—and it didn't work, not one little bit. It was a rotten, screwed-up marriage from the word go.”

“Not according to the media,” Beckman said.

“You can talk to the media or you can talk to me. The Angel that the fan magazines write about—the sweet, gentle, compassionate creature—doesn't exist. The real Angel is by no means a sweet, warm woman. She's a controlled cake of ice.”

“They say she has a slight foreign accent.”

“She's French. She claims to have learned her English dealing at Collingwood's in London.”

“Which you don't believe?”

“Joe's been to Collingwood's. He says they don't have lady dealers.”

“If the marriage is so bad,” Masuto asked her, “why do they stay together?”

“You never met Mikey?”

“This morning. I talked with him at his house.”

“All right. He paid a million dollars for her. He adores her, pays his price, and gets nothing, absolutely nothing, in return. If you want reasons, talk to a psychiatrist. It's nothing I understand, nothing Joe understands. If she told Mikey to lay down at the front door so she could use him as a doormat, he'd do it. The one real fight Joe ever had with Mikey was when Mikey wanted him to put Angel into a picture.”

“Why?” Beckman asked. “She's beautiful.”

“Beautiful, Mr. Beckman,” she said patiently, “is a salable commodity in Grand Rapids or St. Louis. In Hollywood you can't give it away. On any street in West Hollywood, you'll see ten girls as beautiful as Angel, and if you walk through one of the studios, you'll see a hundred. Of course, they don't have her press, which comes from being married to Mikey.”

“Still, if Mike Barton wanted it—”

“When you have ten million dollars riding on a picture, you don't make gifts of starring roles. Anyway, Joe agrees with me. She can work her charm in a living room, but she's not enough of a woman to make it on the screen.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“I don't really know what I mean. I'm Jewish. I look at Detective Beckman here and decide that he's Jewish. Maybe if I wasn't Jewish I wouldn't know. I'm a woman, and when I look at Angel and talk to her—well, something's missing. It's just a feeling. I can be very nasty when I put my mind to it.”

“One more thing, if you can still put up with our questions. At the party last night, who left first, Angel or Congressman Hennesy?”

“They left together.”

“You're sure?”

“Quite sure. But if you think Hennesy's involved in the kidnapping—no. It's not his style. He's a white-collar crook—payoffs, bribes, influence peddling.”

“You seem to know him.”

“Ah, Detective Masuto, you live here in the Colony, and you know a great many people, some nice, some not nice at all.”