Read The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) for Free Online

drawers emptied and dumped on the floor. Three deputies, a fingerprint man, a county photographer, two morgue men, and Wainwright crowded the living room. The morgue men had their rubber sheet still folded, evidently waiting for Masuto to see the body.
    It was not a pretty sight. Haber lay in a corner, as if he had been flung there.
    â€œBeaten to death,” Wainwright said to Masuto.
    â€œAnimals,” said one of the deputies. “This place is lousy with animals.”
    â€œCan we take him away, Sergeant?” one of the morgue men asked Masuto. He nodded. They put Haber’s body on a stretcher, covered it with the rubber sheet, and marched out. Masuto stood silently, his eyes wandering around the room.
    â€œWell?” Wainwright demanded.
    Masuto shrugged. “Violence is the disease of our times. The sickness is not restricted to West Hollywood.”
    â€œI’m not asking for your damn philosophy.”
    â€œHe’s dead.”
    â€œGreat! Brilliant! How does it tie in? It’s sure as hell a different M.O.”
    â€œMurderers are not required to be consistent.”
    â€œYou give me a pain in the ass,” Wainwright said. “I ask you to clean up one lousy killing and now we got two.”
    â€œThis one’s in West Hollywood — theirs.” Masuto nodded at the deputies.
    â€œThat’s sweet.”
    â€œYou gave me until tomorrow. It’s not tomorrow yet.”
    â€œTomorrow’s today,” Wainwright said. “All right. I’m sorry. This happened at about three A.M., SO I got no sleep at all. I’m edgy. For God’s sake, Masao, what have we got here?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Masuto said thoughtfully.
    One of the deputies said to Masuto, “Captain Wainwright here tells me that Haber worked for the dealer who was shot in Beverly Hills yesterday. Do you have a connection?”
    Masuto was prompted to assure the deputy that there was a connection between every living creature and every event on earth; but he thought better of it and simply shook his head.
    â€œHell, Sergeant, you’re not telling me it’s a coincidence? Because if you are …”
    â€œIt’s not a coincidence.”
    â€œYou just said …”
    â€œYou asked me whether I have a connection. I shook my head,” Masuto interrupted, almost with irritation. He disliked deputies, not out of any specific behavior on their part but simply because he did not have a high opinion of their intelligence, and it irritated him that he should be disturbed by something that was almost a common affliction of mankind. “I did not say there was no connection. There is. But what the connection is, I don’t know.”
    Grinning, the fingerprint man said, “I got some beauts, Sarge. You want to see them?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe prints. I took a set of Haber’s. I got a dozen that don’t belong to him.”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Masuto muttered.
    â€œHe’s a lover,” the fingerprint man said to the deputy at the door. Hurt, he was on his way out.
    â€œDidn’t you know, Billy,” said the deputy, “they got nothing but smartass cops in Beverly Hills. All class. It ain’t no asshole, like this place.”
    The fingerprint man departed. Another deputy said to the deputy at the door, “Just keep your mouth shut and stop being a horse’s ass.” Then he went over to Masuto. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. But a night detail’s lousy, and around this time everyone gets edgy. My name’s Williams, and I’m on night Homicide. Any help you and Captain Wainwright can give us, we appreciate.”
    â€œBalls,” the deputy at the door muttered.
    Williams gave him a stony look. Wainwright said nothing. He was watching Masuto with interest. They had worked together for too long for him to question anything Masuto said or did.
    â€œYou questioned the neighbors?”