The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) (17 page)

He walked off with the two uniformed police. When he returned, he looked at his watch and said, “Four-ten. The Russians will be arriving in the next ten minutes or so. The plane boards at four thirty-five. Suppose she doesn't show?”

“Then we'll put them on another plane and go through every piece of baggage.”

“That won't be easy.”

“It's easier than dying, isn't it?”

“All I got is your say-so, Masuto.”

“You got mine,” Beckman whispered. “Over there.”

A taxi had pulled up to the curb, about thirty feet short of where they were standing. A smartly dressed woman in a black pants suit got out and reached into the cab. The cab driver came around the cab to help.

She gave him a bill. “I'll do it. Keep the change.”

She reached into the cab again and drew out a medium-sized Gucci suitcase.

“Is that her, Masao?” Beckman asked softly.

“That's our girl. Let her check the suitcase through. Then we'll take it.” Masuto turned his back to her. “She knows me,” he explained.

“She's giving it to the luggage porter,” Beckman said.

Masuto heard her say, “The five o'clock flight to Miami. Will it be leaving on time?”

“Usually does, ma'am. Could I see your ticket?”

She gave him the ticket, and he wrote her baggage check and handed it to her. Then he took the suitcase and put it on his cart.

“Get the suitcase,” Masuto said to Phillips. “We'll take care of her.”

“Okay.”

“And then have one of your men call the bomb squad.”

As Masuto turned around, she was entering the airline terminal. Masuto and Beckman followed her. “Now?” Beckman wanted to know.

Masuto shook his head. “Let's see what she does.”

Keeping their distance, they followed and saw her enter the ladies' room. They stood at the ticket counter, waiting; a few minutes later she emerged and walked to the exit and out to the sidewalk. She went to the curb and waved to a cab. Then they closed in.

“You don't need a cab, Miss Vance,” Masuto said. “We'll give you transportation.”

Two airport policemen, about forty feet away, stood on either side of the Gucci bag. Phillips strolled toward them.

“Detective Masuto,” she said. “How odd—” She noticed the bag and broke off. Beckman cuffed her wrists.

“Damn you, what are you doing?”

“I'm sorry. You're dangerous, lady.”

Masuto said, “Mrs. Stillman, I am arresting you for the murder of your husband, Jack Stillman, for the murder of Peter Litovsky, for conspiracy to destroy an interstate airliner, and for the transportation of dangerous explosives. Sy, read her her rights.”

“You're crazy!” she cried shrilly. “You're all insane. I'm opening at the Ventura tonight.”

“Not tonight. Not any night.”

“This is an admonition of rights,” Beckman was droning. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Oh, shut up!” she screamed at him.

Beckman droned on.

“She's a tough cookie,” Phillips said. “I bet she's something on the stage. I never saw her dance. Now I guess I never will.”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Where you taking her, Masuto?”

“Back to our place. When the bomb squad finds out what's in the bag, give me a call and tell me.”

“Okay. Sure. I got to take off.”

“Why?”

“The agronomists. I got to stay with them.”

Masuto, Beckman, and Binnie Vance turned to watch Phillips. Two enormous black Cadillac limousines had drawn up at the curb, and from them emerged the agronomists, their interpreter, several county officials, and Boris Gritchov, the consul general.

“Well, we finally caught up with the agronomists,” Beckman said.

“Let's get out of here,” Masuto told him.

Beckman took Binnie Vance's arm. She turned on him suddenly and screamed, “Let go of me! Keep your hands off me, you lousy Jew bastard!”

Her shrill cry attracted the attention of the arriving delegation, and they turned to watch Beckman, who, ignoring his injured hand, practically lifted Binnie Vance into the car. Gritchov met Masuto's eyes, and Masuto smiled, bowed ever so slightly, and said, “So very sorry, Consul General.”

They were in the car, driving north on the San Diego Freeway toward Beverly Hills, with Binnie Vance huddled in the back seat next to Beckman. Beckman leaned forward and whispered to Masuto, “Do I look that Jewish, Masao?”

“Do I look Japanese?” Masuto said.

12

THE
QUIET WOMAN
AGAIN

It was five-thirty and Masuto sat at his desk, staring at his typewriter. Beckman sat facing him and rubbing his hand.

“I can't write this,” Masuto said. “I don't know where to start. There was too much yesterday and too much today.”

“Can you move your fingers if your hand is broken?” Beckman asked.

“Suppose you write the report, Sy.”

“How can I type with this hand? Do you think I ought to have it X-rayed?”

“The hell with it,” Masuto said. “I'll do it tomorrow. I'm going home. I need a bath. You know, we don't eat anymore. Did you have lunch today?”

“When?” Beckman asked sourly.

Wainwright came into the room then and stood there, staring at them bleakly.

“Something wrong?” Beckman asked.

“You two give me a pain.”

“That's understandable,” Masuto agreed.

“You got a kidnapping, and you treat it like a personal affair. You bust into a house in Los Angeles and maim two suspects, and you operate like this wasn't a police department and like you studied to be a pair of lunatics. This Clinton from the F.B.I. says you are arrogant and unreliable, and I'm inclined to agree with him.”

“We couldn't reach you,” Masuto said lamely.

“That's one lousy excuse. Suddenly you don't have a radio in your car. You knew goddamn well that I was over in the hotel with this Clinton guy, but you couldn't take five minutes to phone me. Oh, no. Now what the hell am I supposed to tell this guy? You got us involved in an international incident with these creeps from Washington crawling all over the place, and it don't help one bit for me to tell them that you kept their five lousy agronomists and a lot of plain citizens from being blown out of the sky. Oh, no. All they want to know is why they weren't informed of what was absolutely an F.B.I. matter, and what kind of a lousy, insubordinate police department do I run, and how come one of my cops nearly beats a suspect to death out of his own personal animosity?”

“I swear I only hit him once,” Beckman protested. “Look at my hand!”

“Well, he's outside,” Wainwright said.

“Who?”

“The F.B.I. guy, Clinton. And he wants to talk to you, Masao, and I don't want you giving him any lip or any of your goddamn Charlie Chan routine. You just listen to what he has to say, because we got trouble enough.”

Masuto nodded, rose, and walked outside. Clinton was sitting at a table, his attaché case open in front of him, writing. When he saw Masuto, he closed his notebook and rose to face the detective.

“So you finally condescend to speak to me, Sergeant Masuto. You had an appointment with me at eleven o'clock this morning, but you chose to ignore that—”

Now Wainwright and Beckman joined them, standing a few feet behind Masuto. Clinton went on talking.

“—and take matters into your own hand. You were involved in a kidnapping, but you saw no reason to report that to the F.B.I., and then you undertook an illegal search and seizure without a warrant or a court order, and then you and your partner gave a classic demonstration of police brutality. Well, just let me tell you this. That kind of thing is over. This matter is out of your hands. The man found dead in the pool at the Beverly Glen Hotel died of drowning accidentally. Both my government and the government of the Soviet Union concur in that decision, and you are to do nothing and say nothing to contradict this. Furthermore, Mrs. Stillman's murder of her husband will be treated and tried as an act of jealousy and revenge, and nothing will be said of her connection with the two Arabs. They will be deported, turned over to the German authorities, who have a prior claim and indictment against them. Nothing will be released on the attempt to destroy the airliner, and I have suggested to Captain Wainwright that he take measures concerning the insubordination of you and Detective Beckman. Now, do you understand this?”

Masuto nodded.

“Have you any comment?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Most humble apologies. So very sorry for long and painful list of my ineptitudes. But must make one comment. It seems to me that you are one of the most incompetent and stupid men I have ever encountered, and you can stuff that right up your bureaucratic federal asshole.”

And with that, Masuto turned on his heel and walked out. There was a long moment of silence, and then Beckman began to sputter.

“Get out of here!” Wainwright yelled.

Beckman fled. Clinton took a deep breath and said to Wainwright, “I want you to get rid of that man.”

“Oh?”

“How can you run a police force, even a force like yours, with men like that?”

“I manage,” Wainwright said.

“That insolent bastard! That damn Jap!”

“Hold on,” Wainwright said coldly. “You turn my stomach, mister.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he's an American, He's not Japanese. This is California, Mr. Clinton. We don't talk that way.”

Clinton stared and Wainwright stared back.

“He's also a damn good cop,” Wainwright said. “Maybe the best I got. I cooperated with you right down the line, and if you want to twist this filthy mess to your own ends, I got nothing to say about that. But right here you're on my turf. I don't come to Washington and tell you how to run your organization, and I'll thank you not to tell me how to run my police department. So let's finish up what we got and put this case away.”

Masuto drove home to Culver City. He was tired. His mind had stopped functioning. Rage had wiped out any sense of achievement, and he felt lifeless.

He came into the house, and his son and daughter ran to greet him. They were in their pajamas, ready for bed, and Ana appeared to be none the worse for her experience. She had evidently informed Uraga of all the details of her kidnapping, and they both chattered away, excitedly. Masuto embraced them mechanically and listened without hearing. He was also very conscious of the fact that Kati had not come to greet him as he entered. Usually she was so anxious about his coming home that she would look for him through the window or listen for the sound of his car.

“Where is your mother?” he asked Uraga.

“In the kitchen.”

“Go and play,” he said to them. “I must talk to her.”

He went into the kitchen. Kati stood at the sink, her back to him, cleaning shrimp and vegetables for tempura. She did not turn as he entered, and after a moment he went to her and kissed the bare spot on her shoulder.

“That will not help,” she said coldly, without turning around.

“What have I done?”

“It's not what you have done. It's what you haven't done. Do you know what I went through today?”

He took her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Don't you think I went thorugh the same thing?”

“Did you? Did you have to sit here and wait? And wait? Do you know what that is? Days go by and I don't see you and the children don't see you. Do you know what that is? I'm not Japanese. I'm Nisei, as you are, but you treat me the way the Japanese men treat their wives.”

“I don't. That's not fair.”

“It is true, and you know it.”

He shook his head helplessly. “I don't know what to say. I'm going to take a bath.”

He was lying in the hot tub, the water as hot as his skin could bear, half asleep, relaxed for the first time in hours, when the door opened and Kati entered, carrying two huge fluffly white towels. She sat down beside the tub, the towels in her lap.

“Do you know, you are right,” he said to her.

“I know I am.”

“I saw you preparing tempura, so you can't be too angry at me.”

“Ah, so. It's not because I am not angry, it's because I decided what to do.”

“And what is that?”

“It concerns tomorrow, Saturday. Tomorrow, I will prepare a picnic lunch, and we will take the children and our bathing suits and we will drive up to Malibu and have a picnic on the beach, and the children will play all day in the sand and the water, and you and I will have an opportunity to resume our acquaintance.”

“That would be wonderful.” Masuto sighed. “But I have to go into the office and prepare my report.”

“No,” Kati said calmly. “You will call Captain Wainwright and tell him you cannot come in tomorrow. You can even lie to him, if you wish, and tell him that you are sick. You never use any of your sick time.”