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

nothing.
    â€œGoddamn it, Sergeant, how did you know where that was?”
    â€œI didn’t know. I tried to crawl into Haber’s mind — a little.”
    â€œIs that what they were after? That stamp?”
    Masuto took the stamp out of the envelope carefully and examined it. “No.”
    â€œMasao, how do you know?” Wainwright demanded.
    It’s a ten-cent black 1847 George Washington, and it’s worth about three thousand dollars. They weren’t after this and they weren’t after three thousand dollars, because if they were he would have given it to them.”
    â€œWhat are you, a stamp expert?” Williams snorted.
    â€œI don’t know a thing about stamps. Haber told me about this stamp yesterday. He invented some cock-and-bull story.” He turned to Wainwright. “Either Haber knew the stamp was in Gaycheck’s pocket and took it before he called us, or it was in the safe and he knew the combination of the safe and he was lying.”
    â€œHow about him killing Gaycheck for the stamp, and then we let the sheriff worry about it.”
    â€œNo way,” said Masuto.
    â€œAnything else here?”
    Masuto shook his head, replaced the stamp in the plastic envelope, and gave it to Williams. “I guess it belongs to Gaycheck, and he’s dead. What about it, Captain?”
    â€œHold it for evidence. Let’s see what happens. Anyway, I’m hungry. Let’s get some breakfast, Masao.”
    â€œAll right. But I want to talk to Cindy Lang.”
    Masuto called his wife first. It was almost seven o’clock, and she had not slept since the telephone awakened both of them. “Masao,” she said, “you must have a night’s sleep and you must rest and we don’t even see you anymore.”
    He tried to soothe her.
    â€œMasao, I was reading a book on Women’s Liberation, and first I was provoked, but now I am not sure. Not at all.”
    He put down the phone and told Wainwright that his wife was reading books on Women’s Lib. “I always felt I should have married a Japanese girl. Now you’re shaking my dream,” Wainwright said. “Let’s find Cindy Lang.”
    They walked down the hall and knocked at the door of apartment F. It opened the width of the safety chain, and Masuto had the impression of straight blond hair and suspicious blue eyes.
    â€œWe’re from the Beverly Hills police,” he said. “This is Captain Wainwright. I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto.”
    â€œWell, this is not Beverly Hills. I talked to the local fuzz. I told them what I know, which is nothing. I don’t know Haber.”
    â€œIf you could spare us a few minutes,” Masuto said gently. He showed her his badge.
    She thought about it for a moment or two. Then, “Okay — but I got to get to work. I’m due in at seven-thirty.” She dropped the chain and opened the door, and they entered the apartment: one room, a studio bed still unmade, some bright prints on the wall, and a rag rug. Cindy Lang was in her twenties, a slight, pretty girl wearing blue jeans and a blouse — a girl little different, Masuto thought from a hundred others he would see on the streets of West Hollywood — where blue jeans and loose yellow hair, dyed or real, were almost required uniform.
    â€œYou called the sheriff last night?” Masuto asked her.
    â€œThat’s right. It sounded like they were killing someone, so I called the fuzz. Does that make me anything?”
    â€œIt makes you part of the human race. No one else called them.”
    â€œAll right, so I’m part of the human race. Now can I go to work?”
    â€œYou told the deputy that three people ran past here. How did you know it was three?”
    â€œIt sounded like three.”
    â€œWhat sounds like three?”
    â€œThree people. Why don’t you do your thing, Sergeant, and I’ll do mine. I’m a waitress, and