by Howard Fast
“That’s enough,” Laura Crombie snapped.
“And you, Mrs. Fuller?” Masuto asked Mitzie.
“I’ve insulted you and kissed you, so no more of that Mrs. Fuller stuff. Mitzie. I’ve decided you remind me of Richard Boone, only you’re better looking. As for a picture, I wouldn’t have that little bastard’s picture within a mile of me. But all you have to do is call the studio.”
“Metro?”
“That’s right. That’s where sonnyboy is shooting his new picture.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“You will? I knew it! I knew it! I knew that little son of a bitch is the one. Oh, I hope you get him, Masuto. And I hope they have public seating at the gas chamber. I want to be there, right in front.”
“Mitzie, how can you!” Nancy cried.
“It’s easy.”
“I’ll get the picture for you,” Laura Crombie said.
On the way out of the house, Beckman slid the picture of Catherine Addison into Masuto’s side pocket.
“There’s a possibility that Polly will put a call in to here,” Masuto said to Beckman, “from an L.A. cop. I’m going to stop off at my house and then I’m going on to Metro. So you’ll catch up with me in either place.”
The Director and the Producer
Long ago, it was said that no one knows Brooklyn, the suggestion implicit being that even if one set out to master such knowledge, the quest would be fruitless. The same might be said of Los Angeles. Long, long ago, the vast California county of Los Angeles contained dozens and dozens of separate towns and villages and cities, Los Angeles City being the largest. Through the years, under the impetus of urban sprawl and enormous population growth, these dozens of cities had come together, the way cookie dough placed too close on the cookie sheet will spread and join. Masuto worked in Beverly Hills, which was almost entirely surrounded by metropolitan Los Angeles; he lived in Culver City, which was another enclave into Los Angeles, and the studios of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer were also in Culver City.
But there was no non-urban countryside to be crossed between Culver City and Beverly Hills, or between the two of them and Los Angeles. The streets of one merged into the streets of the other, and even the oldest citizens would have been hard pressed to tell you what constituted the border between one place and another.
Usually, driving from work to his home, Masuto would take Motor Avenue or Overland Avenue south from the Twentieth-Century Fox Studios on Pico Boulevard. Both routes were in the direction of the MGM Studios, which were less than a mile from Masuto’s home. Perhaps Motor Avenue passed closer to his house. Masuto drove that way, and a few minutes before one, he parked in the driveway of his house.
Kati, who was vacuuming the living room, let out a squeal of surprise as he entered. “Masao, what is it? What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“You’re afraid to tell me. I don’t care. I’m just so happy to see you. I don’t care.”
“What don’t you care about?”
“You’ve been fired. All right. Good. I never enjoyed having a policeman for a husband.”
“I haven’t been fired. I’m going to MGM, and this is on the way, and I’m tired of eating junk food. I thought that if I stopped off here, I’d get a decent lunch. But maybe with the consciousness-raising, you haven’t got the time or inclination, and if that’s the case I’ll understand.”
“Stop teasing me. I have tempura all prepared for tonight, but you may just call me and tell me that you’re having dinner with four more women—”
“I might.”
“I have shrimp and string beans and sweet potato and zucchini all cleaned and ready.”
“It sounds incredible.”
He sat at the kitchen table, while the room filled with the delicious smell of deep-fried shrimp and vegetables. He had the pictures spread out in front of him, the three men and the girl.
“What do you think of Monte Sweet?” he asked Kati.
“Monte Sweet?”
“The comic. You’ve seen him on television.”
“The one who hates everyone. Oh, no, I can’t bear to watch him, he’s so filled with hatred and rage. How can a man be so terrible?”
“It’s his stock in trade.”
“Why is it funny to say terrible things about other people?”
“Perhaps all humor consists of a kind of hatred. We laugh at the suffering of others.”
“I don’t.”
“Because you, Kati, are a very special person.”
She placed the platter of tempura and a bowl of rice in front of him, and Masuto picked up his ivory chopsticks, reflecting on what a pleasure it was to eat with these beautiful artifacts rather than with the barbaric knife and fork, which turned an approach to food into an attack.
“What are those pictures?” Kati asked him.
“The men were once married to the women whose lives are threatened.”
“And the lovely girl?”
“Tell me, Kati. What do you see in her face?”, “Very open, very trusting.”
“Yes, I think so. Your tempura, as always, is brilliant.”
“How can tempura be brilliant?”
“Ah, believe me. Why don’t you sit down and eat with me?”
“Because I ate an hour ago,” Kati said. “Now that my consciousness has been raised at least a little bit, I can enjoy the position of the Japanese housewife who serves her husband hand and foot. I don’t mean that I really enjoy it, but I can see what I am doing objectively and I know something about what a male chauvinist pig actually is.”
“You mean all that in one session?”
“I don’t think you are a male chauvinist pig, Masao. That’s a terrible thing to say. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“And you’re not a Japanese housewife.”
“You mean they don’t have vacuum cleaners?”
“No. I understand Japan is quite advanced. But you happen to be a very beautiful American woman.”
“Ah so! Really!”
She was blushing, Masuto realized, and as he finished eating and stood up and kissed her, the telephone rang.
“Not in the middle of the day,” Kati said. She pulled away from him and picked up the phone. “For you, Masao.”
“Yes, this is Masuto,” he said.
“This is Officer Commager, L.A.P.D. Lieutenant Bones said you wanted to talk to me.”
“About the Catherine Addison case?” Masuto asked.
“That’s right.”
“Good! Great! How did he find you so quickly?”
“He put the word into the Hollywood and North Hollywood Stations. I guess he found out that it happened on Mulholland Drive.”
“Did you say Mulholland Drive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Do you have the exact date?” He covered the phone. “Kati—pen and paper.”
She brought him a pad and a pen.
“Yes, sir. It was March third, nineteen seventy-five.”
“Time?”
“We estimated that she went over the cliffside at about eight o’clock. It would be dark at that time of the year.”
“You’ve got a good memory, Commager.”
“No, sir. The truth is that I barely recalled the case at first. But Lieutenant Bones had them pull my report from the files. I have it right here in front of me.”
“Good, good. Now exactly where did this happen?”
“You know, Sergeant, we got to draw maps for this kind of thing. On Mulholland, for anything between Laurel Canyon and Coldwater Canyon, we take our measurements from the crossroads. In this case, from the point where Laurel Canyon Boulevard crosses Mulholland Drive. Measuring west from there—you really want this exactly? You know, it was three years ago.”
“As precisely as you can give it to me.”
“Okay, Sergeant. Measuring west from the Laurel Canyon crossover, you drive exactly one mile and seven twentieths. There the road curves to the
left. On the left you have the high shoulder of the hill, on the right a sheer drop of about a hundred feet.”
“I think I know the spot. But I don’t remember a perpendicular drop.”
“I don’t mean absolutely perpendicular, Sergeant. There is a slight slope that’s covered with chaparral, but it might just as well be perpendicular for anything that goes over there. Now this Addison kid’s car was coining from the east, from Laurel Canyon, and she must have lost control, because instead of making the curve she went straight ahead and over.”
“At what speed?”
“You know that’s only an estimate,” Commager said. “But we get pretty good at that kind of thing. I got down here in my notes that she was moving at thirty miles an hour.”
“Were there brake marks where she went over?”
“No.”
“How did you account for that? Was her brakeline cut or broken? Was her brake fluid gone?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you telling me that there were no skid marks and you didn’t come up with an explanation? Or a question?”
“Now hold on, Sergeant. We’re not halfwits. We knew she didn’t try to break her speed. If she had, then the car would have tumbled over the edge of the road and there would have been broken brush from there on down. But there wasn’t any broken brush under the road. She went over the side like the car was shot out of a catapult. That’s the way we figured the thirty miles an hour. It maybe don’t sound like much speed on a highway, but over the side of a cliff, it’s a hell of a lot of speed.”
“It could have been fifteen or twenty miles an hour?”
“I suppose so.”
“A man who knows a little mechanics can wire a throttle down. Then he throws the car into gear and jumps out. Did you look for that kind of a device?”
“We had no reason to. It went down as an accidental death.”
“What did the autopsy show?”
“My God, Sergeant, that car tumbled down maybe over a hundred feet and then burst into flames. There wasn’t much left of the car or the kid inside of it.”
“How was she identified?”
“Her purse was thrown clear. Then her rings, dental work, the usual thing.”
“Did her mother make an identification?”
“I can’t tell you that, Sergeant. That would happen down-town. But in the normal course of events they would call her in for an I.D.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“Not to the crash. People saw the flames and called us.”
“What kind of a car was it?”
“A little red car. It must have been a beauty, one of those little convertible Mercedes.”
“Red?”
“That’s right, red.”
For a long moment of silence, Masuto sat with the telephone in his hand.
“You still there, Sergeant?”
“One more point, Officer Commager. You’ve been very helpful, and now I’m going to ask you to do the impossible. Close your eyes and go back to that night. You’re in a radio car, a black-and-white. You get the call. Where are you when that call comes in?”
“Southbound on Laurel, going up the hill.”
“All right—up the hill, and you turn right onto Mulholland. Now between that point and the place where the car is, did you see a man on foot?”
Now the silence was on Officer Commager’s end. Kati watched Masuto’s tense face as he listened and waited. She did not often see him at moments like this, and she was not sure she liked him like this, his nostrils quivering slightly, his ordinarily placid brown face suddenly the face of the hunter.
“Jesus Christ,” Commager burst out, “this is crazy. I see these characters on the witness stand giving testimony from five, six years ago—this is only three years ago and it’s like a dream. I think I saw a man on foot, and then I don’t know. If you put me on the witness stand, a lawyer could tear it to shreds. I think so, but I can’t swear to it. It was nighttime, and I was responding to a call.”
“You’ve done nobly,” Masuto said. “Thank you. Maybe this will save some lives.”
He put down the phone and sat and stared at the notes he had made.
“Masao?” Kati said.
“Yes?”
“Whose lives will be saved?”
“Three women—if I am lucky, if something breaks in this lunatic puzzle. I keep moving, but he moves faster.”
“Will you be careful?”
He kissed her again and went out to his car.
During the short ride from his house to the sprawling Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lot, Masuto speculated on whether he should have called the studio and made an appointment with Billy Fuller, the director. Then he shrugged it off. He had no time for second thoughts. He’d manage.
The guard at the gate said, “Mister, if you don’t have a pass, if nobody put your name on my list, I don’t let you in.”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto of the Beverly Hills Police.” He showed his badge.
“That cuts no ice here. This is Culver City.”
“What would cut ice? Suppose I took you in for obstructing justice?”
“Here? In Culver City?”
“Now look, this is a homicide investigation. If you don’t think I can arrest you right here in Culver City, I suggest you pick up your phone and call the local cops. Meanwhile, I’ll be talking to whoever runs this place. Or we can settle it cool and civilized. Which is it?”
“Okay. You win. Billy Fuller?”
“That’s right”
“He’s shooting on Stage Three. That’s the trouble, Sergeant. I can get my ass burned right off if he wants to be nasty.”
“Lay it on me.”
Masuto parked his car. Then he walked through the gate and found Stage Three. A red light was swinging lazily outside the door of the sound stage, an indication that inside filming was in progress. Masuto knew enough about film studios to know that no take, as they called it, lasted more than a few minutes at most; and when the red light went out, he entered the dark, cavernous interior. Coming out of the brilliant sunshine, the comparative darkness was impenetrable at first, and he stood for a minute or two, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Bit by bit, he made out the jungle of wires and cables that confronted him. The scene was being shot at the other end of the sound stage, the view blocked by a set of flats. Masuto walked carefully toward it, and then, coming around in a circle, he was confronted by a brightly-lit New York summer street scene, a Greenwich Village cafe, tables, actors, cameramen, grips, electricians—and a man who barred his way and told him that this was a closed set.
“I’m looking for William Fuller.”
“He’s on the set, mister. We’re shooting, and he can’t be disturbed. And like I said, this set is closed. So I suggest you call his office and make an appointment.”
“I have to see him now,” Masuto said.
“Buzz off, yes? Don’t give us a hard time. Or do I have to call the studio cops?”
“I’m Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. I suggest you let me talk to Mr. Fuller.”
By now, a circle of people had gathered around. A small man, about five feet seven inches in height, energetic, tight, with long hair and a lean, birdlike face, dressed in blue jeans and a blue work shirt, pushed into the circle and demanded, “What in hell goes on here? I’m trying to make a movie.”
“This clown says he’s a cop and he wants to talk to you.”
“This clown,” Masuto said coldly, “is used to being addressed as Detective Sergeant Masuto.” He took out his badge. “Now here’s my badge. I’m investigating a homicide. If you’re William Fuller, I’d like ten minutes of your time, in a place where we can talk privately.”
Evidently, it was Fuller. “Are you nuts?” he demanded. “We’re in the middle of shooting. Do you know what it’s going to cost if we close shop now?”
“I’m not asking you to close shop. I’m asking for ten minutes of your time.”
“It�
�s impossible. Forget it. I don’t know one goddamn thing about any homicide, so forget it.”
“All right.” Masuto nodded. “I get a warrant and I pull you in as a material witness. We hold you twenty-four hours. What will that cost?”
“You wouldn’t dare. Jesus, I live in Beverly Hills. I pull some weight there. God damn it, you’re going to hear about this.”
“Well, which is it? The easy way or the hard way?”
Billy Fuller stared at Masuto. Then he turned to the circle of people and snapped, “Take ten! But stay close!” Then he motioned to Masuto and led him past the set to a line of portable dressing rooms. “In here.” It was fitted out as a small office, with a desk and several chairs.
“Now what the hell is this all about?” Fuller wanted to know. He dropped into a chair. Masuto sat facing him.
“Last night a woman named Alice Greene was killed.”
“You mean that thing on Beverly Drive?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know the dame from Adam. Never met her.”
“She was a friend of your ex-wife, Mitzie.”
“I don’t know her either. The bitch doesn’t exist.”
“She exists,” Masuto assured him quietly. “I want her to continue to exist. She’s in very great danger. The same man who killed Alice Greene is trying to kill her.”
“Come on!”
“Believe me.”
“Look, you came to the wrong party. I don’t start any defense fund. If someone is looking to finish off Mitzie, he doesn’t get my help. But I don’t interfere either.”
“I see. Are you by any chance planning to kill her?” Masuto asked quietly.
“What are you, crazy? I’m in the middle of a picture, and you’re asking me am I planning to kill some miserable broad.” He shook his head. “Are we finished? I told you I don’t know this Greene woman. You want to know would I kill Mitzie? Maybe. If I could get away with it. If I could find enough time between pictures.”
“That’s a lot of hate. Why?”
“That, Mr. Detective, is none of your goddamn business.”
“Why did your marriage break up?”
“What are you, the Louella Parsons of the Beverly Hills cops?”
