The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with, and until we know something more, it’s not going to help to put cops outside their houses. Anyone who is crazy-smart enough to get hold of botulism toxin is smart enough to get around a cop standing outside a house.”
    â€œAll right, get on it,” the captain said to Masuto. “You’ll be talking to those women?”
    â€œTonight.”
    Beckman was waiting in Masuto’s office. His broad, heavy face had what Masuto thought of as his “mission accomplished” look.
    â€œYou found the bakery?” Masuto asked.
    â€œRight. La Consoler on Third Street,” Beckman answered.
    Masuto couldn’t help smiling.
    â€œThe owners of the bakery don’t think it’s funny. They’re sore as hell. They’re going to sue the city,” Beckman said.
    â€œI was smiling at the name. It means to console, to comfort.”
    â€œWell, that’s what they do. You could eat yourself into an early grave at the place. They’re the only outfit in this part of the city that makes those feul—what do you call them?”
    â€œFeuilletés.”
    â€œRight. First they couldn’t be bothered, and then I had to lean a little and tell them about the Fortez kid.”
    â€œI wish you hadn’t.”
    â€œMasao, there was no other way. They just brushed it off until I got serious. There were maybe twenty customers in the place. My God, don’t they eat nothing but cake in this town? Then the manager took me behind the store, and we called the clerks in one by one. One of them was an old lady of about seventy, and, believe it or not, she remembered. Do you know why?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause it was a Mexican kid and he just handed her a slip of paper which specified the pastry. It came to seven dollars and seventy-five cents for eight pieces of pastry, would you believe it? He gave her a ten-dollar bill.”
    â€œA Chicano kid. Just that. What did he look like?”
    â€œMaybe fourteen, fifteen years old. What does a Chicano kid of that age look like? Blue jeans, tee shirt, dark skin, dark eyes, black hair—”
    â€œThere are at least a thousand like that within five miles of here,” Masuto said with annoyance.
    â€œCan I help that, Masao? At least the old lady remembered.”
    â€œI’m sore at myself, not at you.”
    â€œThey’ll be calling the city manager,” Beckman said.
    â€œHe’ll have a busy day. Did the saleswoman keep the slip of paper on which the order was written?”
    â€œI thought of that. No. The kid asked to have it back. It’s open and shut, Masao. X drives up in his car, sees the kid, gives him the paper and a ten-dollar bill. Buy the cake and keep the change.”
    â€œIt could be. And that might just mean that the kid hangs out in the neighborhood. So get over there, Sy, and ask around. One Chicano kid knows another. Take a couple of bills from expenses, and buy a little information. It’s the only thread we have, and a damn thin one.”
    â€œI’ll try,” Beckman agreed. “Where will you be?”
    â€œDowntown with Omi. I’m curious about botulism.”
    Beverly Hills, like many other small cities in Los Angeles County, has limited police resources. The country tends to regard Los Angeles County as a single metropolitan area, but in reality it encloses more than seventy towns and cities, as well as a considerable unincorporated area. Most of the small cities in the county have their own police forces; some depend on the sheriff’s office, which polices the unincorporated areas of the county; and then to one degree or another, many of the small towns depend for additional resources on the police force of the city of Los Angeles, the largest metropolitan area in the county. Omi Saiku ran the poison laboratory for the Los Angeles Police Department. He was a small, cheerful man whose dark eyes