Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

Masuto pushed the papers aside. “Come on, Sy, let’s go for a ride.”

“Where?”

“San Fernando.”

“What makes you think this is a connection? I don’t see it.”

“Neither do I, but I am sick and tired of sitting here. Anyway, it is time I saw my uncle, Toda.”

“Who the hell is your Uncle Toda?

“My father’s younger brother. He has ten acres of oranges outside of San Fernando. Do you know, the land’s worth about forty thousand dollars an acre now. That would make my uncle a rich man, but he says that until he dies, the orchard will not be disturbed.”

“You grew up around there, didn’t you?”

“Before the war. The Valley was like a garden then, no subdivisions, no tract houses, just miles of pecan groves and avocado groves and orange groves. My father used to compare it to Japan. He would say that a place like the San Fernando Valley could feed half the population of Japan. Of course, that was an exaggeration, but that’s the way the people from the old country felt about the Valley.”

They were on their way out when Masuto caught Wainwright’s eye. The captain was talking to a neatly dressed man, gray suit, blue tie, pink cheeks, blue eyes, sandy hair, a man in his forties whose face retained the bland shapelessness of a teenager’s. Wainwright motioned to Masuto.

“This is Mr. Clinton, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Since Clinton did not extend his hand, Masuto made no offer of his. As he examined Masuto, the old gray flannels, the shapeless tweed jacket, the tieless shirt, his cold blue eyes belied the blandness of his face.

“This is Masuto?” he asked Wainwright.

“Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“I hear you grilled Mr. Gritchov?”

“Grilled? No, sir, that’s hardly the word. I asked him a few questions.”

“Where in hell do you get your nerve? Gritchov is a diplomatic representative of a foreign country, with which at the moment we are in process of most delicate negotiations. He has immunity. How dare you question him.”

“So sorry,” said Masuto. “It simply happens that another representative of the Soviet Union was murdered in a city which employs me as the chief of its homicide division.”

“Peter Litovsky drowned. The kind of loose talk and thoughtless statements you just indulged in could have the most serious consequences.”

“Yes, he was drowned,” Masuto admitted. “He did not drown, he was drowned. There is a specific semantic difference. I would like you to note that, Mr. Clinton. I am not accustomed to loose or thoughtless statements.”

“Who the devil do you think you’re talking to, Masuto?”

“A federal agent. I’m quite aware of that. But you are in Beverly Hills in the State of California. The fact that Peter Litovsky was a Soviet intelligence agent makes him your problem. The fact that he was murdered in Beverly Hills makes him mine.”

“How do you know he was an intelligence agent?” Clinton demanded.

“I told him,” Wainwright said.

“Who gave you the right to? The information given to you was classified.”

“Masuto’s the head of Homicide. Beckman works with him. I felt they ought to know.”

“You felt?”

“That’s right. I felt. And what are you going to do about it, mister?”

“All right. I know the kind of people I’m dealing with. But let me tell you this, and these instructions come from the top. Litovsky drowned-an accidental death. That’s what the newspapers will print, and that’s what you will back up. And Mr. Gritchov will stand on the same ground.”

“All right,” Wainwright agreed. “We cooperate with the federal authorities. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what the newspapers print or what you tell them. But I do give a damn when people come into my city and murder, and as far as I am concerned, Litovsky was murdered and I intend to find out who did it.”

“We are taking over the investigation. I’ll expect your cooperation.”

“I’m honored,” said Wainwright.

“We can do without the sarcasm. I’ll see you later, Captain Wainwright.”

He stalked out of the room, and Wainwright muttered, “That shithead. That miserable shithead.” When Masuto and Beckman started to follow, he snapped, “Where are you two going?”

“To San Fernando.”

“What for? The country air?”

“You don’t need us, Captain. You have the whole F.B.I. working for you. In fact, you don’t even have a crime. You have an accidental drowning.”

“Don’t get cute with me, Masao. I’ve had just about all I can take today.”

“I think we’re on to something-maybe.”

“You don’t want to tell me. I might know what’s happening in this department if you did.”

“I don’t know myself. Something about some explosive that was ripped off in San Fernando a few days ago. I don’t even know how it connects. I just have a feeling that it does.”

“Why don’t you call the San Fernando cops and talk to them?”

“I need the fresh air.”

“The cutes. Everyone has them today. What about this Binnie Vance? Do you want us to find her and tell her?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather tell her myself. I’ll do that tonight.”

“For Christ’s sake, Masao, her husband’s dead.”

“I imagine she knows that by now.”

“Where do you think she is, in that new hotel downtown?”

“Probably.”

“Well, we got to inform her. It’s procedure. You know that.”

“Right.”

“When can I expect you back?”

“Two hours. No more than that.”

As they walked out to Masuto’s car, Beckman said to him, “I sure as hell admire your control, Masao. Maybe it’s Oriental or something. That second-rate putz!”

“I try not to respond to fools.”

“You know, Masao, these shmucks who work for the F.B.I., they get maybe double what we do.”

“I suppose I have heard that word a hundred times. Sy, just what is a shmuck?”

“It’s Yiddish for a flaccid penis.”

“And a putz?”

“Yiddish for an erect penis.”

“A remarkable language,” Masuto said thoughtfully.

People who have spent half their lives in Los Angeles are still unable to solve the jigsawlike relationship between the City of Los Angeles, the County of Los Angeles, and the dozens of independent communities that exist both within the city and within the county. Like Beverly Hills, the City of San Fernando is an independent community, but it lies in the San Fernando Valley, entirely surrounded by the City of Los Angeles, an arrangement that succumbs to reason only because it is factual. By freeway, it is some fourteen miles north of Beverly Hills, and all the way there, Masuto remained silent, lost in his own thoughts, grappling with a puzzle that was no more susceptible to reason than the civic arrangements that existed in Los Angeles County. Intermittently, he remembered that he had not called Kati to inquire about Ana’s sore throat, and that caused him small twinges of guilt.

They were almost in San Fernando when Beckman, who knew Masuto well enough to respect his silences, asked where they were going, to the Felcher Company or to the cops?

“I imagine the company’s closed for the day. We’ll talk to the cops.”

“Masao, this clown from the F.B.I., he never asked one word about Stillman.”

“Perhaps no one told him.”

“That’s not very patriotic.”

“No, I guess it isn’t.”

“Masao, do you know any of the San Fernando cops?”

“I don’t think so.”

“There’s a fellow called Gonzales who used to be with the Hollywood Division. He switched to a better job with the San Fernando cops. I think he’s the chief of detectives or something like that.”