by Howard Fast
“I envy you. If you’ve got to be a cop, I suppose Malibu’s got everything else beat.”
“It has its points. Glad to meet you, Sergeant,” he said to Masuto. “Maybe you’re just what we need on this, because this Barton thing is sure as hell a Chinese puzzle.”
“The sergeant’s not Chinese. He’s nisei.”
“I know, I know. Just an expression. No offense.”
“Forget it,” Masuto said. “I know what you mean. I’d like to look at their beach house, and then I’d like to talk to Netty Cooper. I’m sure you’ve been talking to her.”
“Just got back from there.”
“Then you have a list of the guests last night?”
“It’s a Who’s Who of the film business. You know the kind of people we got out here in the Malibu Colony. Top directors, top stars, top producers. The thought of a couple of them sneaking down the road after the party to kidnap Angel Barton is just bananas.”
“Were there no people from outside the Colony?”
“Fred Simmons, the producer, and his wife. Simmons is sixty-seven with a bad ticker. They left about eleven. Fred Simmons has more millions than you could shake a stick at. He’s no candidate.”
“How many people were there?”
“About twenty altogether.”
“I’d like to talk to Mrs. Cooper.”
“Absolutely,” Cominsky said.
“And to have a look at the Bartons’ beach house.”
“Sure. Suppose we go along there now. I’d like another opinion. When I said Chinese puzzle before, I wasn’t making an ethnic crack. I meant the puzzle part of it. It’s just a mile down old Malibu Road. I’ll drive you there.”
“Then Angel never had to touch the highway. She just drove down Malibu Road. I suppose someone could have been waiting, watching for her car.”
When they reached the Barton beach house, Cominsky pointed to the slope on the inland side facing the house. “Nothing there but mustard grass. No place to hide.”
“On top?”
“Maybe. There’s a road up there, between here and the Pacific Coast Highway, so I guess they could have parked there and watched. But let’s look at the house.”
The house was one-story and brown-shingled, presenting a blank wall to the road. The entrance was on the beach side, and alongside the house, nestled between the Barton house and the adjoining house, an alley led through to the beach. Cominsky opened the door to the alley, explaining, “Most of the people here leave passkeys with us.”
“No garage?” Masuto asked.
“Not here. Very few of them. People park in the space in front of their houses.”
“I don’t see her car?”
“They took it—a yellow two-seat Mercedes. Worth over forty grand. We put out an APB on it, but no word yet.”
“And when they left, was the gate open?”
“Right. Hold that thought, Sergeant. The gate wasn’t jimmied. Either they opened it with a passkey, or they came around from the beach. And the nearest public pass-through to the beach is a quarter of a mile away. Just follow me through here.”
The passageway was no more than three feet wide, the house directly on the left making a windowless wall. In the Bartons’ house there were several side windows, all of them covered with fretted iron grillwork.
“What about these people next door?” Masuto asked.
“Divorced actor. He does westerns in Spain. Been there three months and not expected back until next month.”
They emerged into the blazing sunlight of Malibu Beach, the white sand stretching in front of them, a man walking a dog, a youngster in a wet suit trying to surf, and four pretty girls playing volleyball. The Barton house had a broad shaded porch facing the ocean, and in front of it and three steps down, a wooden terrace enclosed by a picket fence. On the terrace were tables under striped beach umbrellas—folded now—lounge chairs, and dining chairs. Cominsky opened the gate at the side of the picket fence and led them across the terrace.
“Barred on the road side, but not the beach side.”
“The water kills thoughts of evil,” Masuto said, and Cominsky glanced at him strangely.
“Yet the evil persists,” Masuto added, smiling. “Only the sand is washed clean. Forgive me, Chief. I’m also puzzled.”
“Oh? Yeah,” Cominsky agreed. “Just take a look at this front door.” He unlocked a police padlock that had been bolted to the door and stood aside. Masuto and Beckman stared at the door, which had been attacked in two places by a jimmy and forced open. In the lower corner of the window, next to the door, was a stick-on label with the legend HELMS SECURITY.
“Helms ties into police stations,” Masuto said. “Was this tied into yours?”
“You’re damn right, Sergeant.”
“You tested it? It was working?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you had someone on duty?” Masuto persisted.
“Even if we didn’t, there’s an alarm bell attached that can be heard a mile away on this beach.”
“In other words,” said Beckman, “she never turned on the alarm.”
“Come inside.”
They stood in the living room of the attractively furnished cottage—grass rug, wicker furniture with bright blue upholstery, good prints on the walls. Masuto stood staring, captivated. Two of the prints were askew, a lamp was knocked over and smashed, a chair was turned over, and the grass rug was pulled out of place.
“I want you to see the bedroom,” Cominsky said.
“In a moment.” He was trying to recreate a struggle in his mind and to fit it into what had happened in the room. Beckman, who knew him well, watched with interest. “All right,” Masuto said.
“There are three bedrooms.” Cominsky led the way. “This is the master.”
The bedclothes were rumpled, a nightgown on the floor. As Masuto studied the scene, Cominsky walked over and touched a switch next to the bed. Above the switch, a red light glowed.
“This is the alarm switch. The light’s on when the switch is off.”
“I should think it would be the other way,” Beckman said.
“No, this makes sense. You put out the lights, and then the red light reminds you about the alarm.”
“What time did she leave the party?” Masuto asked.
“About one P.M. When they all live in the Colony, the parties tend to run late.”
“But it was a weekday. Most of them would have to be in the studios very early.”
“Yeah. She was one of the last to leave.”
“And Barton got the call at three A.M. That leaves two hours. Unless they were stupid enough to make the call from here, they had to break in and take her somewhere. If they were watching her, why didn’t they intercept her? Why break in at all? And if she went straight to bed, why didn’t she reach out and turn on the alarm?”
“You tell me,” Cominsky said.
“And if she wasn’t asleep, why didn’t she reach out and turn on the alarm when she heard the door go?”
“Was the bedside lamp on?” Masuto asked.
“It was.”
“You had the place dusted?”
“Early this morning. We don’t look for anything there.”
“Can I use the phone?”
“Be my guest.”
He called Beverly Hills and got through to Wainwright. “It’s one o’clock,” Masuto said. “What do you hear from Barton?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he pay the ransom?”
“According to Ranier he got the call from the kidnappers over an hour ago and left just before noon, taking the million dollars with him.”
“Never said where he was going?”
“Not a word.”
“Did Ranier listen in on an extension?” Masuto asked.
“He says he didn’t. He’s there with McCarthy, waiting for Barton to show. Where are you?”
“At Barton’s beach house.”
“Did you find anything?
”
“Confusion. I’d like to talk to Netty Cooper while I’m out here.”
“Why not? Aside from the confusion, you got any ideas, Masuto?”
“Too many. If you want me, you can call the Malibu station. They’re right outside the Colony.”
He put down the phone and turned to Cominsky, who asked him if he had seen enough.
“I think so.” He picked up the nightgown and looked at it—white silk, white lace. He put it to his face to smell it. Cominsky grinned. Beckman said, “I never knew you went in for that, Masao.”
“Only lately.”
Cominsky padlocked the cottage door again.
“If the system is turned on with the bedside switch,” Masuto said, “then what happens when you open the door from the outside?”
“There’s a switch in the lock that turns it off. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a damn hard lock to pick.”
“Does your screen at the police station tell you when the alarm systems are on or off?”
“Yes. The officer on duty says it was off.”
“Here on this part of the old road,” Masuto said, “what kind of people live here?”
“Mostly the same kind you find in the Colony down the road, only with less money for the most part. Of course, some of them, like Barton, use their houses only on weekends, and some of the houses, like this one, are as classy as the houses in the Colony. Some people don’t want to live in the Colony, and then the houses at the Colony aren’t for sale very often. You get writers, actors, directors, lawyers—you name it.”
Masuto turned toward the ocean, staring at the incoming waves, apparently lost in thought. “I’d like to live here,” Beckman said. “I guess I’d rather live here than anywhere else.”
“Time was, and not so long ago,” Cominsky told them, “that you could buy one of these houses for forty, fifty thousand dollars. Now there isn’t one you can touch for less than half a million.”
Masuto smiled thinly and shrugged. “Let’s go back to the station house.” He had been thinking that Malibu Beach was very beautiful. But most of the world was very beautiful until men touched it.
Malibu Beach
Back at the Malibu police station, Masuto found a message to call Wainwright at the Beverly Hills station. He made the call and was put through to Wainwright, who said, “What was taken has been returned.”
“Very cryptic and interesting.”
“I got a room full of reporters. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
Masuto put down the telephone and asked Cominsky, “How much has this leaked?”
“Who knows, Masuto? I did my best. The local news people were here. They always are when there’s a break-in on the beach, but I didn’t say word one about the kidnapping. They wanted to know were any of the Bartons in the house. I had no comment for that.”
“What about Netty Cooper?”
“She had to know something was going on when I got the list of her guests. But I didn’t mention the kidnapping. That won’t help. It’ll come out before the day’s over.”
“Angel’s back.”
“How do you know?” Beckman asked him.
“I spoke to Wainwright. He had a room full of reporters. I guess that means it’ll be out. The chief’s right. You can’t sit on something like that.”
“Well, thank God,” Cominsky said. “She’s a nice lady. I’d hate to think that anything happened to her. Is she all right? Did they rough her up?”
“I don’t know. Wainwright didn’t fill me in on any details.”
“I’m starved,” Beckman said.
“You can grab a bite at the drugstore in the shopping center across the road. It’s not great, but it’s all right. Or you can drive down to the pier and eat fancy.”
“We have to wait for Wainwright to call back.”
A few minutes later the call from Wainwright came through. “Masao,” he said, “I’ll be leaving for Mike Barton’s place in about an hour, and I want you to meet me there.”
“You said his wife is back?”
“Right. No harm done except some tape marks on her mouth and wrists. She says she was snatched out of her Malibu house by two men who wore stocking masks, taken somewhere, and finally dumped on Mulholland Drive, just to the west of Coldwater Canyon. She walked to the fire-house and they drove her home. McCarthy’s with her, and that’s the story he tells me. I got to meet with the mayor and city manager again, because they think they can sit on this and I got to tell them they’re crazy.”
“What about Mike Barton?”
“No sign of him yet.”
“Did you put out anything on him? He should be back by now.”
“Not yet, Masao. You know, he could have made the drop fifty miles from here. The kidnappers could have split up. One takes Angel, one goes to pick up the money. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know exactly what I’m thinking,” Masuto said. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just a smell. It doesn’t smell right.”
“No, it stinks, and I don’t know why either, except when there’s a crime and people tell the cops to keep hands off, well, that stinks for me.”
“Who else is at his house?”
“Ranier’s still there, and there’s a uniformed cop I just sent over and told to sit in his car on the street, and if they don’t like that, they can stuff it. What did you find in their beach house?”
“Puzzles. Questions.”
“You might go straight to Barton’s place.”
“Well, we’re here, so we might as well talk to Netty Cooper who had the party here last night. It’s one-thirty now. I should be able to get to Barton’s place by three or a little later.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
“Try to hold McCarthy and Ranier there. Also the three servants and a woman called Elaine Newman. She’s his secretary.”
“Hold on, Masao. We can’t detain anyone. You know that.”
“Just ask them, politely.”
“I’ll try. But we got nothing to detain anyone on.”
“We’re not arresting them. All I want to do is talk to them.”
“I’ll try.”
They stopped at the drugstore where Masuto ordered a bacon and tomato sandwich and Beckman ordered ham and cheese on rye. “Didn’t you just eat lunch at my house?” Masuto asked him.
“Sure, but that was a long time ago.”
“Yes, I suppose it was.”
It was only a couple of hundred yards from the police station to the gate to Malibu Colony. At that point, where one turns off the Pacific Coast Highway to the old Malibu Road, the Colony is directly to one’s left, a manned gate, and then beyond it a row of some of the most expensive houses in southern California. Masuto had frequently reflected on the lot of a detective trying to juggle the payment of bills, mortgage, doctor, dentist, grocery, insurance, etc., on a policeman’s salary while protecting people who earned more in one year than a policeman could earn in a lifetime.
At the Colony gate, the guard looked at Masuto’s identification and shook his head. “Heavy today—heaviest day we had in a long time. First the local fuzz and now fancy Beverly Hills cops. What goes on?”
Masuto shrugged.
“Come on, I’m on your side.”
“The creature came out of the sea,” Beckman said.
“Funny, funny.”
“Which is Mrs. Cooper’s house?”
“Down there. You can’t miss it, painted bright yellow.”
They drove through and parked in front of the yellow house. A Chicano maid opened the door and asked them to wait. In a few minutes she returned and asked them to follow her. Unlike the Barton house, this one had a proper entrance facing the road. It was two stories, had striped awnings, an entrance way, a huge living room-dining room with baroque furniture painted white, and, facing the sea, tall glass sliding doors. Netty Cooper was sitting on the deck-terrace with a man—a tall, elegant, good-looking man of about fifty. He
was dressed in gray flannels, sported a carefully combed and barbered head of iron gray hair with pale gray eyes to match—and a face that was vaguely familiar.
“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.
