The Case of the Murdered MacKenzie: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Seven) (7 page)

“What price could justify her lying to cover up for a murder?”

“My dear Kati, all women are not like you. She might have desired to divorce so desperately she would tell any lie to get it. She may want money. What do we know about her—or about any film star? The image we see on the screen is not the person.”

“Masao?”

“Yes?”

“May I be permitted a doubt?”

Masuto smiled and nodded.

“Of course it was on the news today. She said that the dead, man was not her husband. She did not keep a promise of silence. Then what happened to the deal you say she made?”

“I don't know. She might have been frightened, she might have felt that the others would double-cross her. Perhaps she feels it is time to look after herself.”

“None of it makes sense to, me,” Kati said. “Does it make sense to you, Masao?”

“No, not much.”

“And if the case is dismissed, as you say, if it's thrown out of court, will you go on looking for the murderer?”

“I don't know. That's up to Captain Wainwright, and my guess is that he doesn't know either.”

“I must do the dishes,” Kati said. “I feel that I have been with you into one of thóse horrible investigations, but still I must do the dishes.”

Masuto bathed, put on his saffron terry-cloth robe, and went into the tiny sun room at the back of his cottage which he somewhat abashedly called his meditation room. There was on the floor only a mat and a small round pillow. Masuto had found that even a half hour of Zen meditation cleared his mind and renewed his body. But tonight he was not to have a half hour of meditation. He had been sitting there for only minutes when he heard the doorbell ring. The house was small, and the hearing of a meditating person is very keen, and to his astonishment, Masuto heard the voice of Geffner, the district attorney, asking for him.

“You come at an unfortunate time,” Kati protested.

“It's all right,” Masuto called out. “Put Mr. Geffner in the living room. I'll be right there.”

Masuto put on his street clothes before he went into the living room. It would embarrass Geffner to face him with a saffron robe, and Geffner was embarrassed enough. “It's almost eleven o'clock,” he said to Masuto, “and I just can't tell you how awkward I feel about barging in here like this. But I had to see you, Masuto, and it was on my way.”

“On your way?” Masuto asked, puzzled. “The court is in Santa Monica and you live in Encino, so how can Culver City be on your way?”

“I was downtown, Masuto. The judge asked me to come to his chambers down there. He's going to throw out the case tomorrow. I agree with him. But then, while I was there, we got the news that Eve Mackenzie is dead.”

“What? No—Eve Mackenzie?”

Geffner nodded.

“I've been a fool—a total, stupid fool!” Masuto exclaimed. “A woman is dead. She was murdered.”

“Oh?” Geffner stared at him. “Why do you say that?”

“How did she die?”

“A car accident.”

“Where?”

Geffner stared at him thoughtfully. “Why murder?”

“First tell me where she died and how.”

“Malibu Canyon. You know the road—one of the most dangerous in the county. The story is that she was driving too fast and she went over the edge, through the guardrail, and into a seventy-foot ravine.”

“Whose story? Who did you talk to?”

“The California Highway Patrol.”

“Mental giants.”

“Masuto, they're pretty good with accidents.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I think what you're thinking—that it was no accident.”

“And you ask me why I think so?” Masuto said angrily. “This is the most idiotic frame and contrivance I have ever heard of. And you lent yourself to it, and now the woman is dead. Of course I said murder. The moment she blurted out that the man in the tub was not her husband, she was doomed.”

“Don't come down on me, Masuto. I didn't lend myself to it. I was told what to do, and at that point I didn't know what was valid evidence and what was not.”

Masuto nodded. “Sorry. I should not have said that. Tell me, what was Eve Mackenzie doing at night on the Malibu Canyon Road?”

“I don't know. I would guess she was at the Fenwick Works. That appears to be the source of everything in this insane case. I want you to come with me to Malibu Canyon tonight, Masuto. I want to look at the wreck, and I want you with me.”

“You can't be serious. I'm a Beverly Hills policeman. The accident belongs to the highway patrol, and they're there already. If there's any suggestion of criminal action, they'll turn to the Malibu Sheriff's Station. The sheriffs are not very nice people to begin with, and if they see a Beverly Hills cop putting his nose into things, they'll skin me.”

“It's in the county and I have jurisdiction,” Geffner said, “and if they can prove I haven't, we'll be out of there before they find the right page in the book. I won't introduce you as a Beverly Hills cop. Joe Hendricks is waiting outside in my car. He's the L.A.P.D. accident consultant, and I'll introduce you as his assistant.”

“I work for a living,” Masuto said. “All I know is being a cop and growing roses. If Wainwright hears about this—”

“Damn it, Masuto, you're doing nothing wrong. I'm asking for your help as a private citizen.”

Masuto sighed. “All right. Wait for me outside. I'll talk to my wife.”

But Kati did nothing to soften Masuto's doubts. “I didn't want to listen, Masao,” she said, “but in this house you can't help overhearing. It's eleven o'clock, and you're doing something that isn't right, and I won't sleep—”

“What I'm doing is perfectly all right.”

“Is it? The story you told me tonight makes me terribly afraid.”

Masuto understood that. There was a thread of madness running through it that would make any normal person afraid.

Hendricks was a large, overweight man with the broad, heavy hands and splayed fingers of a garage mechanic. As a matter of fact, he had been a mechanic a good part of his life, and there was, as Geffner put it, nothing about cars that he did not know.

“I don't buy the perfect murder,” he said to Masuto as they drove north on the Pacific Coast Highway. “I don't buy it at all. You fix a car and somewhere it's got to show. You cut a brake line, it shows. You fix the wheel, it shows.”

“But suppose you do nothing to the car,” Masuto insisted. “You knock out a person and put her behind the wheel. Do it on a downhill stretch in a place like Malibu Canyon. She goes through the guardrail. What then?”

“Suppose the car burns,” Geffner said.

“Sure, those things can happen, but mostly they don't. Every time you turn on the television you see a car go out of control and burst into flames. You ever see a car in a highway crash burst into flame?”

“Once or twice,” Masuto said. “I didn't actually see it happen, but I was called in.”

“Never saw it myself,” Geffner admitted.

“Tell you how they do it, Mr. Geffner. They use a small incendiary charge. Sometimes they blow it by remote control, sometimes it's set to go off on contact.”

“The car didn't burn. I didn't talk to the highway patrol myself. Evidently, they phoned it in to the county sheriff in Hollywood and he called Judge Simpkins. I guess he felt that Simpkins ought to know as soon as possible.”

“What about the media?” Masuto asked.

“We'll know when we get there. I hope we get there first.”

“What are you going to tell the highway cops?” Masuto asked.

“We'll see what they tell us. The highway patrol likes to feel that they own the state. It's not exactly the truth.”

At the Malibu Colony, Geffner made a right turn off the Pacific Coast Highway and into the hills. Driving that way, they could see the night lights of the Fenwick Works, built on a low hill and facing the Pacific, a great, sprawling complex of buildings, with a lit sign that said:
TOMORROW IS TODAY AT FENWICK.
The Malibu Canyon Road ran eastward, connecting the Pacific coast with the San Fernando Valley, and in the course of its ten-mile journey from the coast to the Valley, it ran through some of the most splendidly scenic country in the West. While not unusually high, the mountains that bordered the road were precipitous, shelves of raw rock that climbed a thousand and fifteen hundred feet from a road frequently gouged out of the rock itself. Daytime, the road was as beautiful as it was dangerous; at night, it was simply dangerous.

They had come over thirty miles from Culver City, and Masuto wondered what compelled a district attorney who, at best, could only claim to have lost a comely defendant.

“No,” Geffner said. “I've been had. The state's been had. It stinks. Someone is playing dirty games, and for them the law means nothing and the court means nothing. Maybe I simply want to validate the way I earn a living.”

“It's not easy,” Masuto said. “I've tried.”

There were lights up ahead, enough light to make a glow over the road, and then there were the cars lined up on the narrow shoulder, CBS News and ABC News and NBC News and the press cars and the independent TV stations and some traffic and a tow truck trying to get through, and two long, sleek black limousines which, Masuto guessed, might be the property of Fenwick Works, and, their lights flashing, two highway patrol cars and a sheriff's car out of Malibu Station. It was a large company, but the violent death of a star is not an everyday occurrence, and the death of a star on trial for murder is worth everything the media can give it, and the media would certainly give it Masao Masuto among other things. Masuto felt that he should have realized this before he ever allowed Geffner to lure him out of his meditation chamber.

They squeezed onto the shoulder behind the two black limousines. The windows of the limousines, darkened glass, were quite opaque. The chauffeurs, men with hard, expressionless faces, stood by their cars. Masuto made a mental note of the license plate of the car in front of them. Masuto, Geffner, and Hendricks got out of their car and walked down the road to where a lieutenant in the highway patrol stood center-stage to a circle of news and television people.

“I know him,” Masuto told Geffner. “The lieutenant. That's Archie Delt. Not the sweetest man in the world. He'll be sore as hell to see a Beverly Hills cop out here in Malibu.”

“The hell with him!”

“I'll hold that thought,” Masuto said wryly.

The tow truck was trying to maneuver into a position near the break in the guardrail where it might drop a hook from its winch, and Masuto wondered why the haste to bring up the wrecked car, since the woman's body had been removed. Another part of his mind was following the questions and answers—questions thrown by the TV people and reporters.

“Who pronounced her dead?” a reporter asked. “Was there a doctor on the scene?”

“Patrolman Gilbert climbed down to the car. It was not entirely dark. As I said before, Mrs. Mackenzie's neck was broken. She had numerous other injuries and she had no pulse. Then Patrolman Anderson arrived on the scene and the two of them managed to remove Mrs. Mackenzie from the car and carry her up to the road.”

“Why was she sent to All Saints Hospital? Why not to a local hospital?”

Lieutenant Delt was patient with the questions, even though they tended to be repetitive. He was not unaware of the TV cameras fixed on him as he stood in the glare of the emergency lights.

“If Mrs. Mackenzie had not been dead, she would have been rushed immediately to the nearest hospital. But she was dead and had been dead for at least an hour before we brought her body up to the road. She was taken to All Saints because that's the Beverly Hills hospital and that's where her physician instructed us to take the body and she is a resident of Beverly Hills. Does that answer your question?”