The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) Read Free Page B

bath.”
    â€œAnd what about me?”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œDo I get to sleep?”
    â€œTonight.”
    â€œIt is tonight,” Beckman said.
    â€œNot anymore. It’s tomorrow.”

2

    THE
SHOT
MAN
    Masuto lay steaming luxuriously in water as hot as he could bear. Kati, having just seen the children into their school bus, entered the bathroom with an enormous white towel and settled herself on the stool to await her husband’s completion of his bath. To Masuto, a hot bath was not simply a hot bath; it was the continuation of an ancient ritual without which life would have been considerably less tolerable.
    He had already told her about the incidents of the night, and now she said, rather plaintively, “You know that I have never been to the Beverly Glen Hotel. Wouldn’t it be pleasant if we could have dinner there some night and I could see that famous Rugby Room? My mother would be happy to stay with the children.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut she would.”
    â€œI was not referring to your excellent mother, but to the Beverly Glen Hotel.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œKati, darling, I dislike being judgmental about the City of Beverly Hills, since they pay me my wages. The hotel is another matter. It makes my skin crawl.”
    â€œBut why?”
    Masuto sighed and shook his head. “How can I explain why? Perhaps another time. Hand me the towel, please.”
    He meditated for half an hour before he left the house, sitting cross-legged, wrapped in a saffron-colored robe, silent and motionless until his mind was clear and alert. When he had finished he felt renewed and refreshed, and on his way to Rexford Drive, where police headquarters was, he thought a good deal about the drowned man. It promised to be a quiet day—so far, at nine-thirty, no robberies, no assaults, nothing of importance on his desk except an inquiry from the city manager concerning the drowned man.
    â€œWhat about the media?” Masuto asked Beckman.
    â€œI’m sitting on it until I hear from Wainwright. He’s not in yet.”
    â€œHow does Joe Haley know about it?” Haley was the city manager.
    â€œI told him.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust that there was a drowning.”
    â€œThat’s no good. Go up there and give him the whole story, the missing clothes, everything. I don’t want him to scream about us covering up anything. Let him decide whether he wants to keep a lid on it. Did you hear from Doc Baxter?”
    â€œI called his home just before you came in. He’s on his way to the hospital.”
    â€œYou didn’t find his clothes?” Masuto asked, almost as an afterthought.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOkay. If Wainwright wants me, tell him I’m at the hospital—down in the pathology room.”
    Beckman looked at him curiously. “Are you on to something, Masao?”
    â€œI don’t like a drowned man who undresses himself and then hides his own clothes. Do you?”
    Driving to the hospital, Masuto wondered whether he was unduly harsh with Beckman. Sy Beckman was a large, lumbering, slow-moving man, not stupid, but slow in his conclusions, and totally dependable. Given his choice, Masuto would rather have Beckman than any other man on the force. Yet there were times when Beckman irritated him, and reflecting on that now, he determined to go out of his way to be pleasant, even grateful. He felt better then. It was a lovely morning, and his car radio told him that there would be a minimum of smog. Well, that at least was something, not great but better than those hideous days when the Los Angeles basin filled up with the noxious yellow stuff. Masuto had been born in the San Fernando Valley, in the long, long ago when his father owned a four-acre produce farm outside of what was then the little village of San Fernando—a farm that he lost when he was interned during the madness of World War II. Then the Valley had