Free The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) by Howard Fast

said.
    â€œI’m sure I can find the kitchen, and I would like to talk with Miss Newman privately.”
    â€œCan he do that?” Ranier demanded of McCarthy.
    â€œWhy not? I’m not her attorney and you’re not her business manager.”
    â€œYou know what she’s going to say.”
    â€œI have no idea,” Masuto said. He walked out of the room and through the hallway into what was apparently a butler’s pantry. A sallow-faced man in his sixties sat there, reading a copy of Sports Illustrated, and he looked at Masuto inquiringly but without speaking.
    â€œSergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police.”
    â€œI’m Kelly, the chauffeur.”
    â€œYou live here?”
    â€œOver the garage.”
    â€œI’d like you to stay in the house tonight. I want to talk to you later.”
    â€œWhere would I go?”
    Masuto went past him and opened a swinging door into the kitchen. It was an old-fashioned kitchen in size, better than twenty feet square, and recently modernized into the glittering perfection that most Beverly Hills homes required of their kitchens—but with the color scheme, perfection fled. The floors were yellow tile. The refrigerator, stove, and sink were finished in pink, and the walls in tile of mauve and tan. In the center of the room, at a large butcher-block worktable, Beckman sat with three women: the secretary, Elaine Newman; a stout, middle-aged woman whom he introduced as Mrs. Holtz, the cook; and a thin black girl who dabbed at her swollen eyes and who was introduced as Lena Jones, the parlormaid. Beckman himself was finishing a plate of stew and the last of a large mug of beer, and imagining she saw a look of disapproval on Masuto’s face, Mrs. Holtz said, “Let him eat. Better the food shouldn’t go to waste. Nobody has any appetite today.”
    â€œYou hungry, Masao?” Beckman asked him.
    He shook his head, thinking nevertheless that it was past his dinnertime and that he’d hardly get home much before midnight.
    Mrs. Holtz pressed him, and Masuto relented to the extent of a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Then he asked the maid and the cook to wait in the dining room, telling them that he would like to talk to them later. When they had gone, he said to Beckman, “Get the chauffeur’s full name and phone into L.A.P.D. See if they have any priors on him.”
    â€œHis name is Joseph. Joseph Kelly,” Elaine said. “He has a record, if that’s what you’re looking for. But he wouldn’t kill Mike. Mike’s the only one who’s ever been decent to him. He was just a drifter without a hope in the world when Mike picked him up and gave him a job.”
    Masuto nodded at Beckman, who left the room. Sitting opposite the girl, he studied her thoughtfully.
    â€œYou’re a nisei?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you’re the cop assigned to this case?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat means you have to find out who killed Mike.”
    â€œI hope to.”
    â€œWell, it’s no big deal. I know who killed Mike.”
    â€œOh? Who?”
    â€œThe Angel.” She said it with loathing.
    â€œInside, you suggested that Ranier killed Mr. Barton.”
    â€œMaybe he did.”
    â€œBoth of them?”
    â€œThey’re both worthless bloodsuckers.”
    â€œYou hate people.”
    â€œSome people. But I loved Mike. I was the only one around him who did, aside from Mrs. Holtz and Lena and Joe Kelly. All the rest”—her voice sank to a whimper—“oh, my God, it’s like killing a kid, like killing a little boy. Why? Why did they do it?”
    Masuto waited until she had regained control of herself, and then he asked her, “What about Joe and Della Goldberg? Did they love Mike?”
    â€œI guess so. But after he married Angel—”
    â€œThe relationship cooled?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow long have you worked for Mike