Read The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) for Free Online Page B

the kidnapping?”
    â€œAbout two minutes before you arrived, Sergeant. I’ve been here about an hour, but Mrs. Cooper was upstairs doing her bath and things. I walked around to the beach side and made myself comfortable on the terrace. We’re old pals. And, by the way, I didn’t think you were serious about who left first, and I was rather put off by your questioning me. I did leave before Angel, if that matters.”
    â€œThank you,” Masuto said coldly.
    Outside, Beckman let out his breath and shook his head. “They are a pair. She’s a normal Beverly Hills type phony. The congressman’s a fuckin’ pain in the ass. They almost had an indictment out on him once, and then it was squashed, and they go on reelecting him. You want to keep your hands in your pockets if you get too close to him.”
    â€œWhat now?” Masuto asked him. “The Lees or the Goldbergs?”
    â€œLet’s give the Goldbergs a shot.”
    The Goldberg house was painted pink. Mrs. Goldberg was small, with dark hair, dark eyes, fiftyish, and had a schoolgirl figure and a good coat of tan. Her house was furnished in beach baroque, apparently de rigueur in the Colony, but with accents of pink. She asked them to sit down on the pink chairs on the terrace and poured Cokes for each of them.
    â€œHow exciting to have two real live detectives here. Wait until Joe gets home and I give him a blow by blow. Only poor Angel—”
    â€œShe’s safe, Mrs. Goldberg. She’s home, unharmed.”
    â€œOh? Then I’ll be bitchy and rescind my sympathy.”
    â€œI take it you don’t like her?”
    â€œUgh! You see, I don’t hide my feelings.”
    â€œThat sounds like very strong feeling.”
    â€œIt is. You see, Detective Masuto—that is it, Masuto?”
    â€œYes, indeed. And this is Detective Beckman.”
    â€œYou see, I wasn’t born to this sun-drenched, orange-ridden, never-never land. Joe and I made it the hard way, and he’s just about the best producer in the business, so I don’t have to be a diplomat, or an ass-licker, whichever you prefer. Now this is not a place without its gonifs and stinkers, as I’m sure you know, but this Angel is a beauty. Yes, indeed—even for the film business.” She stopped and shook her head. “But I’m sure you’re not interested in Angel.”
    â€œBut we are. Please go on.”
    â€œWhere do I start and where do I stop? Don’t ask me to go into Angel Barton on my own. Ask me questions.”
    â€œAll right. We’ve just come from Netty Cooper’s house. She told us that you and your husband were at the party last night.”
    â€œWe were. Netty’s all right. She just keeps hurting all over with rejected-woman syndromes, three divorces—but since we’re a community-property state, she’s done brilliantly financially. Joe says she’s worth at least five million.”
    She has fangs and she’s no one’s fool, Masuto reflected, asking her, “How did you find out about the kidnapping?”
    â€œSergeant, Joe, my husband, is producing Mikey’s new film. In this kind of trouble, he would tell Joe before he told his own mother. Mikey isn’t poor, but to put together a million dollars in a few hours is not easy. Joe always maintains a large liquid position, just in case he wants to tie up some literary property or a director. Joe was able to put his hands on two hundred thousand or so, and with Bill Ranier and Jack McCarthy pitching in, they were able to supply what Mikey needed for the ransom. But a million dollars for the Angel—ah well—”
    â€œYou keep saying Mikey,” Beckman put in. “You must be very close to Mike Barton.”
    â€œHe’s like a son to us. Joe ran into him over in West Hollywood one day, pumping gas. You see—” She paused. “You see, I want to tell you this because I just