The Case of the Murdered MacKenzie: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Seven) Read Free

understand Beckman’s feelings, and recalling Eve Mackenzie’s beauty on the screen, he found that her films did not exaggerate the attraction of the living woman. How could one look at the comely and charming woman sitting at the defense table and think of her as a murderer? Beckman was outside in the witness room, which gave Masuto a chance to watch Eve Mackenzie undisturbed—the pale but good skin in this land of forced tan and sunburn, calm, wide gray eyes, ash-blond hair that might just have been natural, and no pretensions to less than her forty-one years. What would describe her? And then he caught an answer. Dignity. She was possessed of a calm and unusual dignity. Possibly she was playing a role, since she was a gifted actress; if so, she was playing it very well.
    Her lawyers arrived in court, one of them a heavyset, thick-featured man in his fifties—that would be either Cassell or Norman—and the other, one of those bright young men who finds a place in the best legal firms, cut from proper cardboard, with a proper head and nose and mouth, interchangeable with ten thousand others. As people filed into the courtroom, Masuto heard the name Cassell addressed to the heavyset man. But why Cassell? Why did the dead man’s attorneys choose to defend the accused murderer of their one-time client? Beckman’s explanation was that Cassell and Norman had been family attorneys; but that was hardly good enough to satisfy Masuto.
    The judge entered, Judge Harry Simpkins, firm but human as Masuto saw him. The jury was in place, eight women, four men—too many women, too many of them old and bitter. Everyone rose. The judge seated himself and the court sat down. The judge had white hair. Passion lay somewhere in his past.
    Today, Beckman was the first witness. “Call Seymour Beckman!” the clerk announced.
    It always gave Masuto a start to have Beckman identified as Seymour. The big, slope-shouldered detective went poorly with his name. He was big but not clumsy; he moved like an athlete as he came down the aisle and took his place in the witness box. The clerk took his oath, and then Mark Geffner, the district attorney, began the questioning. Masuto had worked with Geffner in the past. Geffner was not brilliant, but decent, straightforward, and honest.
    â€œState your name and position, please,” he said to Beckman.
    â€œSeymour Beckman, detective, Beverly Hills police force.”
    â€œHow long have you been with the Beverly Hills Police Department?”
    â€œSixteen years.”
    â€œAnd how long with homicide?”
    â€œWhen Detective Sergeant Masuto was assigned full-time to Homicide, I was given the assignment of working with him. When he needed me. That was nine years ago.”
    â€œAnd in the case of the Mackenzie murder, I take it that Detective Masuto was out of the country.”
    Cassell was on his feet with a bellow of objection.
    â€œOn what grounds?” the judge asked mildly.
    â€œThe state has not yet proven that Robert Mackenzie was murdered. We hold that his death was accidental.”
    â€œQuite so.” The judge nodded and said to Geffner, “Remember that, please, Mr. Geffner.” He then told the stenographer to strike it from the record. Masuto’s impression was that the judge would be meticulously fair. Since the courtroom was loaded with reporters and artists, everyone—judge, attorneys, defendant, and jury—must have been conscious of playing roles in a national drama.
    â€œNevertheless,” Geffner said, “you were in charge of the investigation.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWould you tell us, Detective Beckman, what happened on the day of June twenty-second.”
    Beckman took out his notebook but did not consult it immediately. “I signed in at the police station at a few minutes before eight A.M. At about eight-thirty, Captain Wainwright—”
    â€œWould you identify Captain