The Case of the Murdered MacKenzie: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Seven) (11 page)

Taking his wife and his uncle aside, away from the charming white cottage and into the edge of the grove, Masuto summed up the events of the past twenty-four hours.

“I think you must know about the danger,” he said. “If the danger is too great, I can take Kati and the children somewhere else. I was impetuous in exposing you to the danger. I had no right to do that.”

“You had every right, and I am too old to worry about danger,” Toda told him.

“We are safe, and they will kill you,” Kati said bleakly.

“They will not kill us. Rest assured.”

“How can I?”

He took her in his arms and held her very tight. “You are my dear wife. I was almost insane before with the thought that they might get to you first. Now you are safe, and I promise you that I will put an end to this thing.”

But driving back to Los Angeles, Masuto wondered whether the odds were not greater on their putting an end to him. For the most part, he accepted the world as it was, with all its horrors and obscenities. That was a policeman's world. Either one accepted that or one did not become a policeman, yet there were times when he could not help longing for a limit to reality. Such longings were not very Zen-like, but neither, he felt, was he a very good Zen Buddhist. He could remember as a small child spending lazy summer weeks at his Uncle Toda's grove. The San Fernando Valley was like a Garden of Eden then—pecan groves, orange groves, peach orchards, the wind full of perfume, the sky blue and clear. Today Uncle Toda's place was one of the last large groves in the Valley. Half a million tract houses covered the Valley like an ugly carpet; the sky was yellow with smog; and “Valley girl” had become a national symbol for insularity and ignorance.

It was after three before Masuto reached Judge Simpkins's chambers in Santa Monica, and fortunately Geffner was with the judge.

“Tying up the loose ends,” Geffner explained. “I heard about what happened in Beverly Hills this morning. They don't give up, do they? They weren't warning us. They're dead serious.”

“I took a dim view of Geffner's accusations concerning what happened to both of you last night,” the judge said. “In light of this morning's events—well—well, for the love of God, Sergeant, who do you think is behind all this?”

“I don't know.”

“Fenwick? They're a company. Yes, they do Pentagon work, but so do a thousand other companies.”

“I was thinking about that,” Masuto said. “There were two black limousines and two large, hard-looking men employed as drivers. We leaped to the conclusion that they had cut our brake lines—deciding that they looked like men who would do a thing like that. It was late and we were tired and frightened and had just almost died. That's what our judgment was worth. When Beckman gets back from Santa Barbara, and if we're lucky, the sister will permit an autopsy. Maybe we'll know something then.”

“We're going to clear Eve Mackenzie,” Geffner said. “There was no case against her, and speaking for myself, my face is red as hell. I suppose it's no comfort to Eve Mackenzie, but if anyone does care, it was an innocent person who died last night.”

Masuto said nothing to that, and a few minutes later, both documents countersigned, he left. The whole business of rehabilitating the dead woman left him cold and not a little disgusted, and it was only after he was well on his way toward All Saints Hospital that he remembered the precautions he had not taken. He had not looked under his car or under the hood for another bomb, and why should he imagine that they did not know about his substitute car—a Ford—and his itinerary. He shook his head unhappily, provoked with himself, with his inability to accept the danger he was in, once he felt satisfied that his wife and children were safe.

He had often said that where professional killers were engaged there was actually no way to protect their potential victim. His only security, he felt, was in moving quickly, very quickly, and unraveling the knot of this very strange case. But why himself as a target? Actually, his first real involvement in the case had been when he met Geffner the previous day, and why should they try to kill him rather than Geffner? What did Geffner know? Whatever it was, Geffner had not told him. They might well imagine that Geffner had told him, and of course it had to be their belief that Geffner had talked. It could be nothing else.

His speed slowed. Driving east on Wilshire Boulevard, he had just about reached the veterans cemetery, where thousands of crosses bore witness to the virtue of war. He pulled over to the curb and sat for a long moment with his chin on his clenched fist. Then he turned the Ford around and drove back to Santa Monica. Judge Simpkins was surprised to see him.

“Mr. Geffner?” Masuto asked him.

“Gone. Left here right after you.”

“Do you know where he went, Your Honor?”

“I'm afraid not?”

“Do you know where his home is?”

“Why don't you talk to my secretary, Sergeant. She has that kind of information.”

Outside in the anteroom, the secretary, a bright-eyed Chicano lady of about thirty, said pleasantly, “You're a Nisei, aren't you, Sergeant. And me a Chicano—almost makes you feel we're going somewhere. Why do you want to know about Mark Geffner? Going to arrest him?”

“I want to keep him alive.”

“Somebody want to waste him?”

“Possibly.”

“Why? He's a sweetheart. Why should anyone want to kill him? I will tell you something, Sergeant Masuto, the whole world has gone bonkers. I'll tell you something else. Nobody needs a reason to kill anyone. They just do it. How about this lunatic who took his rifle up over Sepulveda and spent a whole hour shooting motorists until the cops got him. He killed five people.”

“About Mr. Geffner, where does he live?”

“He lives in Mandeville Canyon, but he's not there now. He's on his way to Santa Barbara.”

“Do you know why?”

“I think he's got a lady there. But, look, Sergeant, you're not getting anything from me, and if you really have to find Mr. Geffner before someone gets to him, you should talk to his secretary. She knows a lot more about him than I do.”

“He's not married, is he?”

“No. Let me try his office. His secretary's name is Lucy Sussman.” She dialed the number, and then told Lucy Sussman, “Honey, this is Rosita, over at Judge Simpkins's office. I got a Sergeant Masuto from the Beverly Hills cops who thinks your boss is in trouble.” She paused and listened. “No, not that kind of trouble. Yeah—” She turned to Masuto. “You were with Mr. Geffner last night?”

Masuto nodded.

“Same guy, yes.” She handed the telephone to Masuto.

“Sergeant,” Lucy Sussman said, “I don't know what to tell you. He's very disturbed. He's frightened, too, so I can believe it when Rosita says he's in danger. He's in Santa Barbara, but I have no address or phone number for him there.”

“Does he go there often?”

“No, only the past two months—maybe less, maybe six, seven weeks.”

“Would that coincide with his involvement with the Mackenzie case?”

There was a long pause, and then the voice on the telephone said, “I don't know that I should be giving you any information of this kind, and certainly I can't give you confidential information of any kind.”

“I'm not asking for confidential information. I simply want to reach Mr. Geffner.”

“I can't help you. I don't know where he is.”

Masuto gave up hunting for Geffner and drove to All Saints Hospital. This time he looked under his car and under the hood, shrugging off the fact that from here on his behavior would be slightly paranoid. He was not the only one with a trace of paranoia. When he handed the court order to Dr. Baxter, the medical examiner snorted bitterly.

“You sweethearts spend your days thinking up ways to make my life impossible. In one hour from now the hearse from the Bethlehem Funeral Chapel will be here for her body. You have an order; they have an order. Just tell me, my brilliant Oriental swami, what do I do?”

“This order is countersigned by Judge Simpkins.”

“Their order will come from the sheriff's office. They covered the accident. They sent the body here; they release it.”

“Our order takes precedence.”

“And for how long am I supposed to fight for possession of the body?”

Masuto looked at his watch. “It's four-twenty now. Beckman should be back from Santa Barbara no later than five. Well, let's say that by five-thirty I should be able to tell you to go ahead with the autopsy or release the body.”

“That will make me reasonably happy.”

“Did you examine Mrs. Mackenzie's body at all, Doctor?”

“I'm a pathologist, not a ghoul. If I'm instructed to do an autopsy, I do an autopsy. If I am not instructed to do one, I leave the body alone.”

“Yes, of course,” Masuto said. He had years of practice dealing with Dr. Baxter: Baxter was a part-time medical examiner who bitterly resented the fact that Beverly Hills, which he regarded as a somewhat wealthier place than Saudi Arabia, refused to employ him on a full-time basis, claiming that there were simply too few murders to justify it. But Baxter was very good—good enough for his fits of anger and contempt to be tolerated.

“But,” Masuto went on apologetically, “even without an autopsy I know how much you can deduce from a cadaver. You know, her car was not badly smashed at all. It was one of those lovely little two-seat Mercedes. The windshield was smashed, but not the car's frame.”

“Really?” Baxter's interest was awakened. “Did the car fall through the air?”

“No. Oh, no. It rolled down a steep angle and crashed into a stand of mesquite.”

Baxter thought for a while before saying, “She was out, if that's what you're looking for, Masuto. If she had been wearing a seat belt or hanging on to the wheel, her injuries would have been different.”

“Thanks. And just in the possibility that we may not be able to do an autopsy, how could she start to drive away and then pass out?”

“There are twenty answers to that question. She might have had a heart attack; she might have had a few drinks and some Nembutal on top of it. They might have slipped her something with an enteric coating, and just in case you don't know what an enteric coating is, I'll explain. It's a coating for a pill that dissolves at a certain speed, depending on how thick you make it. You can take some deadly poison that kills instantly, wrap it up in enteric coating, give it to someone, and have it kill them five minutes or an hour later. But maybe one day you'll develop some minimal intelligence in your own outfit, and I won't have to solve every problem you come up with.”

“Yes, possibly,” Masuto agreed. “Just one more thing, Doctor. You refer to what they gave her. You conclude it's murder?”

“I don't even have to be smart for that.”

“Smarter than the sheriff's deputies.”

“There you're dealing with real class.”

A TV sound truck was still parked outside the police station when Masuto returned, and a man with a microphone cornered him. He had been waiting for hours and he would not be put off.

“You are Detective Sergeant Masuto?”

“I have no comment,” Masuto said. “There's a public relations officer inside.”

“Were they trying to kill you instead of Officer Clint? Was it the wrong car and the right man? Come on, Officer, give me a break. I've been waiting five hours for you to return.”

Masuto pushed past him and went inside. Wainwright cornered him in the hall. “Abramson's burning mad about Clint being killed. He said we either bring the killer in or there'll be hell to pay with the whole department, and at this point he doesn't give one goddamn about what the State Department or the White House has to say. He went with me to see Clint's wife, and there's something I don't want to go through again. So be careful, Masao, be damn careful. And by the way, what did you say to Sweeney?”

“Can you imagine that he didn't have Mackenzie's prints?”

“We went over that. What did you say to him?”

“I told him he'd have to take the prints now.”

“Oh, I see. It didn't occur to me that Mackenzie's been in the ground two months. What in hell happens to a body in two months, Masao?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But we'll see.”

“Sweeney's sick. He's been throwing up. He never had a strong stomach, and I guess thinking about the corpse got to him. I sent him home.”

“Captain, I must have those prints.”

“You got the exhumation order?”

“Right here in my pocket.”

“Okay. Young Anderson spent a year with the paramedics before he became a cop, and he's been helping Sweeney and he's not afraid of cadavers. He'll go with you. Beckman telephoned out to Forest Lawn and they'll have gravediggers waiting for you. But try to do it quick.”