The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) Read Online Free PDF Page A

to have a look at the Bartons’ beach house.”
    â€œSure. Suppose we go along there now. I’d like another opinion. When I said Chinese puzzle before, I wasn’t making an ethnic crack. I meant the puzzle part of it. It’s just a mile down old Malibu Road. I’ll drive you there.”
    â€œThen Angel never had to touch the highway. She just drove down Malibu Road. I suppose someone could have been waiting, watching for her car.”
    When they reached the Barton beach house, Cominsky pointed to the slope on the inland side facing the house. “Nothing there but mustard grass. No place to hide.”
    â€œOn top?”
    â€œMaybe. There’s a road up there, between here and the Pacific Coast Highway, so I guess they could have parked there and watched. But let’s look at the house.”
    The house was one-story and brown-shingled, presenting a blank wall to the road. The entrance was on the beach side, and alongside the house, nestled between the Barton house and the adjoining house, an alley led through to the beach. Cominsky opened the door to the alley, explaining, “Most of the people here leave passkeys with us.”
    â€œNo garage?” Masuto asked.
    â€œNot here. Very few of them. People park in the space in front of their houses.”
    â€œI don’t see her car?”
    â€œThey took it—a yellow two-seat Mercedes. Worth over forty grand. We put out an APB on it, but no word yet.”
    â€œAnd when they left, was the gate open?”
    â€œRight. Hold that thought, Sergeant. The gate wasn’t jimmied. Either they opened it with a passkey, or they came around from the beach. And the nearest public pass-through to the beach is a quarter of a mile away. Just follow me through here.”
    The passageway was no more than three feet wide, the house directly on the left making a windowless wall. In the Bartons’ house there were several side windows, all of them covered with fretted iron grillwork.
    â€œWhat about these people next door?” Masuto asked.
    â€œDivorced actor. He does westerns in Spain. Been there three months and not expected back until next month.”
    They emerged into the blazing sunlight of Malibu Beach, the white sand stretching in front of them, a man walking a dog, a youngster in a wet suit trying to surf, and four pretty girls playing volleyball. The Barton house had a broad shaded porch facing the ocean, and in front of it and three steps down, a wooden terrace enclosed by a picket fence. On the terrace were tables under striped beach umbrellas—folded now—lounge chairs, and dining chairs. Cominsky opened the gate at the side of the picket fence and led them across the terrace.
    â€œBarred on the road side, but not the beach side.”
    â€œThe water kills thoughts of evil,” Masuto said, and Cominsky glanced at him strangely.
    â€œYet the evil persists,” Masuto added, smiling. “Only the sand is washed clean. Forgive me, Chief. I’m also puzzled.”
    â€œOh? Yeah,” Cominsky agreed. “Just take a look at this front door.” He unlocked a police padlock that had been bolted to the door and stood aside. Masuto and Beckman stared at the door, which had been attacked in two places by a jimmy and forced open. In the lower corner of the window, next to the door, was a stick-on label with the legend HELMS SECURITY.
    â€œHelms ties into police stations,” Masuto said. “Was this tied into yours?”
    â€œYou’re damn right, Sergeant.”
    â€œYou tested it? It was working?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œAnd you had someone on duty?” Masuto persisted.
    â€œEven if we didn’t, there’s an alarm bell attached that can be heard a mile away on this beach.”
    â€œIn other words,” said Beckman, “she never turned on the alarm.”
    â€œCome inside.”
    They stood in the living room of the attractively furnished