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

point, and left the house, reflecting that as a Zen Buddhist he was poorly developed indeed. He should have been able to see her point of view. Well, one day he would change all that—one day when he had completed his twenty-two years on the force and was in a position to receive his pension. When that time came, he would spend at least six hours a day in meditation in the Zendo in downtown Los Angeles. Until then, unfortunately, he was a policeman.
    Or was he just that, a policeman and no more? What was the point, the focus of his existence? With all his years of meditation, he had not experienced enlightenment, or satori, as the Japanese called it. He was more romantically inclined than people suspected. His wife, Kati, knew that her husband was a most unusual man, but even she did not suspect that there were times when he saw himself as a member of the ancient samurai. That was sheer fantasy. His family was not of the samurai, but out of plain peasant people, for all their success here in this new country; but at a moment in history Zen Buddhism had been the religion of the samurai, and for all of his failings, Masuto was a Zen Buddhist—and how so different from the samurai? The film the Japanese had made, which was titled The Seven Samurai, fascinated Masuto. He had seen it three times, brooding over the mentality of these seven men who must save a village, even at the cost of their lives, a village where they had no connection—except perhaps the human connection. That was very Zen.
    And was that why he lived out the role of a policeman?
    Or did he live simply for the occasional puzzle that broke up the dull routine of robberies? In all truth, he loved his work. That was his burden, his karma, to make his life out of the bleakest, the most horrifying aspects of what is euphemistically called civilization. Be that as it may, his problem now was to go disguised as a Japanese gardener, to the home of a film star, and to try to find out why said film star was unwilling to involve the police in the kidnapping of his wife. Wainwright would have seen it differently; he would have insisted that Masuto’s responsibility was to find the kidnapper and to protect Angel Barton—if, conceivably, she could be protected. Why, Masuto wondered, did a part of his own mind reject that notion?
    Then he put his thoughts aside. It was best not to think, not to speculate. More must happen.
    Mike Barton’s home was on Whittier Drive, north of Sunset Boulevard, at the extreme western edge of Beverly Hills. In a wealthy and elegant city, this was one of the wealthier and more elegant neighborhoods, enormous houses of twenty and thirty rooms sitting in manicured jungles of exotic tropical plantings. Barton’s house suited the neighborhood, a strange combination of oversized Irish cottage and French chateau, painted white, surrounded by a whitewashed stone wall. A high iron gate opened to the driveway, and as Masuto turned into the entrance, the gate opened, indicating that someone was expecting him and had noted his approach. He drove around to the back of the house, as a gardener would, and as he got out of the car, Bill Ranier, Barton’s business manager, came out of the back door to meet him.
    â€œAll right, Sergeant, you’re here,” Ranier said. “I don’t know how good this idea is, but since your people insist, Mike agreed to go along with it. Just remember that he’s pretty damn disturbed, so don’t try to break him down. He’s going to do this his own way, and any pressure or strongarm tactics can only hurt Angel—maybe kill her.”
    â€œI don’t use strongarm tactics,” Masuto said softly, “but it might be worth noting that in Italy, where the payment of ransom is forbidden by law, people have tried to operate this way, without the police. It doesn’t help. The same number of kidnap victims are killed. If Barton would cooperate, we might get both the