Read The Case of the Murdered MacKenzie: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Seven) for Free Online

Baxter had to be handled gently and with a certain degree of humility if one desired anything in return, and Masuto told him that he was pleased to be back, and being back, was interested in the Mackenzie case.
    â€œWell, bless your heart. Can’t stand it that one got away from you.”
    â€œI’m curious. Where’s the body?”
    â€œThe body. Now, what did you imagine, my Oriental friend, that I’d have it sitting here in the icebox against the possibility that you’d return one day and ask to contemplate it?”
    â€œI merely asked.”
    â€œIndeed. Well, I have to inform you that Mr. Robert Mackenzie, having gone to his reward, whatever that may be, is reposing quietly about six feet below the surface of that Rolls Royce of all cemeteries, namely Forest Lawn, where the Mackenzies have a family plot. Ah, thus liveth and dieth the rich.”
    â€œWhen you did the autopsy,” Masuto said, “did you notice anything unusual—some birthmark or such—on the body where the clothes would have covered it.”
    Baxter looked at him shrewdly. “You got some smarts, Masuto. I give you credit for that. You’re wondering why she took one look and said it wasn’t her husband. But suppose nothing was there?”
    â€œThen it was the absence of something, which amounts to the same thing. Suppose it was an operation. What’s most likely?”
    â€œAppendectomy.”
    Masuto sighed and shook his head.
    â€œYou could cover the L.A. hospitals,” Baxter said. “That’s not impossible. Of course, it could have been done twenty years ago. How old was Mackenzie—fifty-three? It might have been done when he was a kid. And I can assure you that the corpse, had no surgery—large or small.”
    Masuto shook his head again. “It’s pretty hopeless. But one other thing. There was a blow to the head.”
    â€œSkull fracture.”
    â€œWould the blow have rendered him unconscious?”
    â€œAbsolutely. In fact, odds are that it killed him.”
    â€œThe blow was on the right side?”
    â€œYou’re a real smartass detective, aren’t you, Masuto. And Mackenzie was sitting with his right side against the wall. So if his wife knocked him out, she had to lean over behind him. I told that to your brainless partner, but he has imagination. He said that if Mackenzie had twisted around to talk to his wife, she could have hit him there. Just turn around a little more, sweetheart, and bend your head so I can knock your brains out. Cops! God help us with that kind of law and order! Tell you something, they subpoenaed me as a witness and I’m going to blow this case right out of the courtroom.”
    â€œI’m sure you will,” Masuto agreed. “Very grateful. Thank you.”
    It was good to be out of there, back in the fresh air, away from the stink of open bodies and formaldehyde. Masuto drove to the police station at Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills. After parking at the station, he sat in his car for a few minutes brooding over as essentially wrong a situation as he had ever encountered. Then he stepped into the sunshine that almost always bathed Beverly Hills, and then he went into the police station.
    Captain Wainwright had locked his office door, enjoying his after-lunch cigar in premises where smoking was forbidden. Masuto could smell it seeping under the door, whereby he knocked and named himself at the same time. Wainwright opened the door and asked what his business was. “I’m still out to lunch,” he said.
    â€œWe have to talk.”
    â€œYou were out in Santa Monica. I told you to take the day and sit in court and hold Beckman’s hand. You going to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
    â€œThat’s right. This horse has three legs.”
    â€œI do declare, Masuto, that you can make my life as miserable as a dog’s hind side on an anthill, and I damn well do know what