The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) Read Free

I’ll talk about it. Meanwhile, keep an eye out for my car.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, keep an eye out for your car?”
    â€œMy car was stolen. Didn’t Beckman tell you? My car—right here in Beverly Hills, standing in the driveway of my house.”
    â€œThat is adding insult to injury. Still, Captain, if you insist on driving a Mercedes, you take the risk that goes with it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Mercedes? The car’s twelve years old. I bought it for nine hundred dollars and put three thousand into it. Sure it’s a Mercedes—ah, the hell with it! We’ll find it. Meanwhile, get into some old clothes and look like a gardener.”
    â€œI am a gardener,” Masuto replied as he opened the door to leave. “I grow the best roses, the best tomatoes, and the best cucumbers in Los Angeles. It’s a relief to pretend to be something I understand.”
    Masuto stopped to look into his office, where Beckman still labored over the files. “I hear you’ve turned gardener,” Beckman said.
    â€œI wish it were permanent. What have you got?”
    â€œNot much, but Mike Barton is an interesting guy. Angel isn’t her name and Barton isn’t his.”
    â€œWhat is his name?”
    â€œI’m not absolutely certain, but maybe it’s Brannigan. Also, he gambles.”
    â€œEveryone gambles.”
    â€œBig. Also, which I’m not sure about either, cocaine, and maybe the Angel sniffs a bit as well.”
    â€œCan you find anything on her?”
    â€œI’m looking.”
    â€œKeep looking. From what I’m told, the drop will take place at twelve noon. This has to be kept very quiet, but the big brass convinced Wainwright to leave him uncovered when he makes the drop.”
    â€œThat’s crazy!” Beckman exclaimed.
    â€œMaybe yes, maybe no. I don’t think it makes much difference. I’ll see you later.”
    The gardener’s truck was downstairs, an old Ford pickup with two lawnmowers sitting in the loading area. There were also picks, shovels, two bags of lime and a rolled-up hose. It had a cranky clutch and it bucked as Masuto backed out of the parking area.
    It was just nine o’clock when he parked the pickup in front of his house in Culver City. Unlike New York City, there was no regulation requiring Beverly Hills policemen to live in Beverly Hills. If there had been, they would have to have been very wealthy policemen indeed. The small cottage in Culver City, only a few miles from Beverly Hills, was Masuto’s base, his retreat, his argument that the world he lived in was not entirely insane and bloodthirsty. There was his home, his wife, his children, his tiny meditation room and his rose garden. Now his children were at school, the teen-age burglar had departed and evidently his wife, Kati, was out shopping, for the house was empty. He changed into old shoes, work pants, and a blue shirt, and as he was ready to leave, Kati entered, her arms full. Masuto took the bags of groceries from her and carried them into the kitchen, while Kati told him how delighted she was that he had been given the day off and was prepared to work in his garden.
    â€œI am not going to work in the garden. In two minutes, I shall drive off in that truck parked in front of the house.”
    â€œThe gardener’s truck?”
    â€œYes.”
    Kati shook her head bewilderedly.
    â€œI have not become a gardener. It’s a costume for my assignment. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Until then—” He spread his hands.
    â€œAh, so. We are man and wife, but still I’m not to be trusted. Very old Japanese, Masao,” she said, shaking her head. Kati was the gentlest of souls, but since she had joined a group of nisei women in the process of consciousness raising, she had developed a vocabulary of protest and disapproval. “Old Japanese” was a part of it. Masuto kissed her, refused to argue the