The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) (6 page)

“I never liked that little bastard.”

“What little bastard?”

“Sal Monti. Someone just takes the keys out of his box. Horseshit.”

“It can happen. What about the fat man?”

“This is what I got from the F.B.I. I told you they're sending a special man out here. I hate those bastards. I guess every cop in America hates them. Anyway, according to the Feds, the dead man's name is Peter Litovsky. He's attached to the Soviet embassy in Washington as cultural attaché, whatever that means.”

“It's a very minor post. I imagine his job would be to effect cultural exchanges, keep us posted on what is happening in the Russian theater, concert stage, and so on. And the same thing in the other direction.”

“That may be, except that this Litovsky is not what he seems to be. The Feds say that he's one of the top men in Soviet Intelligence, whatever their equivalent of the C.I.A. is, and that he uses the cultural attaché job as a cover, and what I can't understand is that if they know all this, why in hell do they let him operate?”

“I suppose because we do the same thing.”

“And instead of being pleased that he's dead, they're in a lather over it. Goddamn it, Masao, they talked to me like I'm their errand boy. Hell, I don't work for them. We're not to mess it up. We're not to louse up any evidence. We're not to give out anything to the press. They will take over the inquiry. They are conferring with the Soviets. This is classified.”

“Who did you talk to there?”

“The top man. A half hour after we sent them the picture, they telephoned me.”

“And?”

Wainwright looked at Masuto and grinned. “I told them that a murder had taken place in Beverly Hills, and as chief of the plainclothes division of the Beverly Hills police force, I was following routine procedure.”

“He must have loved that.” Masuto permitted himself a slight smile.

“He loved it.”

They were at the police station now. Masuto stopped to talk to Joyce. She looked pleased with herself.

“The yellow Cadillac,” she told Masuto, “is a Carway rental. It's a two-door 1976 convertible, the only one they have, and they had a fit when I told them it was a police inquiry. I told them not to worry about their car.”

“You told them that?”

“Indeed I did. Because just before I called them, the L.A.P.D. phoned in that they had found the car.”

“Where?”

“Parked downtown at a meter in front of the public library. Not a scratch on it, but it was ticketed for overtime.”

“But you didn't tell them to do a fingerprint search?”

“Sergeant Masuto, it just happens that I did. Now what do you think of that?”

“I think you're wonderful, and you also have blond hair and blue eyes. And I'd guess you're about five feet eight inches?”

“I am, but what has that got to do with anything?”

“That is what I'd like to know,” Masuto said.

In his office, the phone was ringing. It was his wife, Kati, and he was suddenly worried. It was rarely that she called him at police headquarters.

“Masao,” Kati said unhappily, “they sent Ana home from school with a sore throat.”

“Is that all?”

Illness in one of the children terrified Kati. “All?” she cried. “She has a hundred and one degrees of fever.”

“Then perhaps you should call the doctor.”

“I want to, but it's so expensive. Twenty dollars for a house call.”

“Don't worry about the money. Call the doctor.”

“Trouble?” Wainwright asked, coming over to Masuto's desk.

“Ana's sick. When I was a kid, a doctor made a house call for three dollars. Now it's twenty.”

“A different world, Masao.”

“L.A.P.D. found the yellow Cadillac.”

“Where?”

“Downtown L.A. They're dusting it.”

“Why don't we talk about this, Masao?” Wainwright demanded. “I get nervous as hell when you're holding back.”

“I'm not holding back. I just have a package of wild guesses that don't fit. As soon as something fits, I'll let you know. I asked Gellman to have them shake down the hotel until he finds the fat man's clothes.”

“He won't. He's so damn nervous already that he's not going to do anything to shake the place. Anyway, we know who he is. What's so important about his clothes?”

“Where they are.”

“Well, we don't know that. What about Stillman's wife?”

Masuto picked up the phone and asked Joyce to put him through to police headquarters in Las Vegas. “Who do you know there?” he asked Wainwright.

“I know Brady, the chief. I'll talk to him.” He took the phone from Masuto, and a moment later he was asking for Chief Brady. Masuto watched him thoughtfully as he said, “Tom, this is Wainwright in Beverly Hills. One of your citizens, feller by the name of Jack Stillman, was shot to death at the Beverly Glen Hotel this morning.” Pause. “No, we got nothing, no motive, no suspects, absolutely nothing. He's married to Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer.” Pause. “Yeah, at the Sands, you say. Good. Get someone to break it to her, will you? We'll hold the body until we get her instructions. Thanks.”

As he put down the phone, Officer Bailey came in and informed them that a man called Boris Gritchov was outside in the waiting room. He handed Wainwright a card, which stated that Boris Gritchov was consul general in San Francisco of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

“Bring him in here,” Wainwright said. “And be damned nice to him, and then keep your mouth shut about his being here.”

Gritchov was a tall man, well-dressed, in his early forties, with iron-gray hair and pale gray eyes. He did not offer to shake hands with either of the policemen, and when Wainwright offered him a chair near Masuto's desk, he appeared to accept it reluctantly. His eyes traveled around the room with its bare walls, its pale green paint, and its painted steel furniture. When he spoke, it was with barely a trace of an accent, and he wasted no time with formalities.

“I would like to see a picture of this man who you say drowned.”

Masuto opened his desk drawer, took out a picture of the drowned man, and handed it to the Russian. He stared at it thoughtfully, but with no change of expression that Masuto could detect. Masuto gave him points for that. If the Russian had anything to give, it would not come by accident or through an emotional lapse.

“I would like to see the body,” he said slowly. “Is it in your morgue?”

“We don't have a morgue,” Wainwright said. “We have an arrangement with All Saints Hospital, and we use their pathology room and morgue.”

“Isn't that strange for Los Angeles?” the Russian asked. “I always understood that Los Angeles had a large and efficient police force and sufficient violent death to warrant a morgue.” He underlined his question with a thinly concealed tone of contempt.

“We are not Los Angeles. This is the City of Beverly Hills.”

“But this is Los Angeles,” the Russian insisted.

“Los Angeles County, yes,” Masuto explained. “The county contains a number of cities, including Los Angeles. It's true that most of Beverly Hills is surrounded by the City of Los Angeles, but we are nevertheless an independent city with its own police force.” He felt almost like a character in
Alice in Wonderland
, explaining local geography to a man who has just discovered that a colleague and countryman of his was dead. “May I ask you whether you can identify the man in the photograph?”

“You are Japanese?” Gritchov asked.

“Nisei, which means an American born of Japanese parents.”

“And a policeman.”

Masuto directed a warning glance at Wainwright, who appeared ready to explode, and then said softly, “So very sorry, Consul General, but America is a place of ethnic diversity which, unlike your country, makes no claims to ethnic purity.”

Gritchov's face tightened slightly, but he kept his tone as polite as Masuto's. “You know very little of the Soviet Union.”

“Ah, so, I am sure. But I was not thinking of the Soviet Union but of Russia. But I may be mistaken. If so, you have my profound apologies. Nevertheless, would you be kind enough to tell us whether you know the man in the photograph?”

“I would prefer, if you will, to have this whole matter taken under the auspices of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“That's impossible,” Wainwright said shortly.

“Then I would like to see the body immediately. I also believe, Captain, that no formal request of the Soviet Union in a matter like this should be dismissed as impossible by a petty bureaucrat.”

“If you will wait outside for a moment or two, Mr. Gritchov,” Wainwright said slowly, as if each word choked him, “I will have Detective Sergeant Masuto take you to All Saints Hospital.”

Gritchov nodded and left the office, closing the door behind him, and Wainwright burst out, “That lousy son of a bitch! Petty bureaucrat!”

“I think we both behaved with admirable control, Captain.”

“And we continue to. And for Christ's sake, cut out that Charlie Chan stuff. He's no fool, and I don't want any backwash. Take him over to the hospital. I'm going up to talk with the city manager.”

“Right.”

“And don't push it. If the goddamn F.B.I. wants it, let them have it.” At the door he paused. “You still think that hooker in the hotel killed him?”

Masuto shrugged and nodded.

“Screw the F.B.I! Petty bureaucrat! That bastard!”

4

THE
F.B.I.
MAN

Riding the mile that separated the police station and All Saints Hospital, the Soviet consul general was rigidly silent, and Masuto made no effort to engage him in conversation. As they entered the pathology room, Dr. Baxter unbent from over the corpse of Jack Stillman, and grinned malevolently at Masuto.

“Back again with a live one,” he said.

“Got the bullet?”

“All wrapped up nice and neat. Thirty-caliber short. Pop, pop! Sounds like a stick breaking, so I guess you won't find anyone who heard it. Do you want it?”

“Please,” said Masuto.

Baxter handed him a little packet, the bullet wrapped in tissue, which Masuto placed in his jacket pocket. “This is Mr. Gritchov.”

Gritchov was observing the action with interest. He showed no signs of being disturbed by the contents of the pathology room.

“Oh?” Baxter raised a brow.

“I would like to take him into the morgue for identification.”

“You already know his name. You just told me.” Baxter grinned again.

“Very funny. Where's the body?”

Baxter led the way to the morgue door, but as he started to enter, Masuto barred his way. “We'd like to be alone, Doctor—if you don't mind.”

“Alone with the dead. How touching!”

“If you don't mind.”

“I have no objection, and I'm sure the corpse has none.”

Inside the morgue room, Gritchov said, “You're an interesting man, Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“All people are interesting, Consul General, if you regard them without judgment.”

“And do you?”

“I try to.” He pointed. “There is the body.”

Gritchov went to the table and drew back the sheet that covered the fat man. Masuto watched as he stood there, studying the face of the dead man. Then Gritchov replaced the sheet.

“You know him?” Masuto asked.

“Yes. His name is Peter Litovsky. He had a small post in the embassy in Washington. He was what we call a cultural attaché, one who maintains—”

“I understand the function of a cultural attaché.”

“Shocking,” said Gritchov, with nothing in his manner or tone to indicate that it actually was shocking. “I shall have to inform his family, and that will not be pleasant.”

“Then you know him personally?”

“Of course. I had dinner with him two nights ago.”

“Then he was in San Francisco? I thought he was attached to the embassy in Washington.”

“He is. Of course. He came to San Francisco with the Zlatov Dancers. That was entirely within his proper function as cultural attaché.”

Puzzled, wondering what had changed an angry, taciturn Russian official, who opened his mouth only to deliver thinly veiled insults, into this almost affable conversationalist, Masuto decided to press his advantage and confessed to being somewhat confused by the fact that Mr. Gritchov had refused to comment on the photograph.

“One wishes to make certain in a serious matter like this.”

“Naturally. Do you know what Mr. Litovsky was doing in Los Angeles?”

“In Beverly Hills, as you pointed out to me, Detective Sergeant. Beverly Hills is very much spoken of, even in our country. I suppose he seized this opportunity to see how the very rich live in a capitalist country. We have no equivalent of Beverly Hills in our country, so it is quite natural for a visitor from the Soviet Union to be curious about it. What an unhappy thing that he had to pay such a price for his curiosity.”