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

notion of who the real killer is, it would be a different ball game.”
    â€œAnd you don’t? Not even one small notion?”
    â€œI want you to stay out of this, Masao. It’s done with.”
    â€œYou know it’s a beauty, Captain. For some reason Eve Mackenzie knows what she shouldn’t know, so they frame a case around her and put their own lawyers in to defend her, and tell her that she takes her choice—keep her mouth shut and walk out of there a free woman or talk and sit in jail for ten years. Only it’s so damn stupid it has to fall apart. What happens then?”
    â€œWe’re cops. We don’t make laws and we don’t run the country. We’re just cops.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAnd now, suppose you get out of here. Lunch is over. I got work to do.”
    â€œWould you mind if I looked around the Mackenzie house?”
    â€œI sure as hell would mind. Stay out of there.”
    Angry, puzzled, and to a degree bewildered, Masuto returned to his car and drove down Lexington Road to the Mackenzie house. He parked his aging Datsun across the street from the big, expensive house, a two-story brick painted white, with a tile roof and high walls on either side to hide the grounds behind the house, and to the left of the house a gated driveway. While Masuto sat there the front door opened and a woman stepped out, a tall, well-built lady of about forty, her hair dark, her figure a bit heavy but still attractive. She stared directly at Masuto for a minute or so, and then she went back into the house.
    A few minutes later a Beverly Hills prowl car pulled up alongside Masuto, and the officer driving said, “I didn’t know it was you, Sergeant. The lady in the house called in a suspicious car. You got to admit that Datsun of yours is pretty suspicious in the neighborhood.”
    â€œI guess it is,” Masuto admitted.
    He drove back to the police station, studied the blotter, and found nothing to interest him. Sensible professional criminals, with some exceptions, steered shy of Beverly Hills. It was too heavily policed. Burglaries, house break-ins for the most part, were done by amateurs or kids. Car thefts led the list. Masuto was staring at the list without actually seeing it when Wainwright entered his office.
    â€œWhen Beckman finishes at court,” Wainwright said, “he’ll fill you in on the follow-ups. Today, you might as well knock off.”
    â€œI want to talk to Geffner.”
    â€œThat’s your affair, Masao. Do it on your own time.”
    Masuto drove back to Santa Monica and got into the crowded courtroom by flashing his badge. Beckman was still on the stand, being cross-examined by Cassell.
    â€œAnd you actually believe,” Cassell was saying to him, “that this woman, Eve Mackenzie, who weighs a hundred and fourteen pounds, could bend over her husband while he sat in the tub and knock him unconscious? Come on, Detective Beckman.”
    â€œIf she used a hammer—” Beckman began.
    Geffner interrupted with an objection. “The question calls for a conclusion,” he said. “Detective Beckman is not a physician.”
    â€œI’m going to allow it,” Judge Simpkins said. “I must say that I’m not thrilled by any of the evidence you’ve presented thus far, Mr. Geffner, and with this witness you’ve opened every door imaginable. Don’t ask me to close them. Anyway, it’s almost five o’clock. I think we’ll adjourn.”
    Beckman spotted Masuto and joined him, and Masuto told him that he intended to talk to Geffner and that it wouldn’t be possible if Geffner’s star witness listened in.
    â€œThis is one time I wish I could.” Beckman sighed. “It’s been a long, stupid day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Geffner was surrounded by reporters, and Masuto waited until he had worked his way out of them. Then Masuto fell in next to him as Geffner