The Case of the Murdered MacKenzie: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Seven) by Howard Fast Page A

is red as hell. I suppose it’s no comfort to Eve Mackenzie, but if anyone does care, it was an innocent person who died last night.”
    Masuto said nothing to that, and a few minutes later, both documents countersigned, he left. The whole business of rehabilitating the dead woman left him cold and not a little disgusted, and it was only after he was well on his way toward All Saints Hospital that he remembered the precautions he had not taken. He had not looked under his car or under the hood for another bomb, and why should he imagine that they did not know about his substitute car—a Ford—and his itinerary. He shook his head unhappily, provoked with himself, with his inability to accept the danger he was in, once he felt satisfied that his wife and children were safe.
    He had often said that where professional killers were engaged there was actually no way to protect their potential victim. His only security, he felt, was in moving quickly, very quickly, and unraveling the knot of this very strange case. But why himself as a target? Actually, his first real involvement in the case had been when he met Geffner the previous day, and why should they try to kill him rather than Geffner? What did Geffner know? Whatever it was, Geffner had not told him. They might well imagine that Geffner had told him, and of course it had to be their belief that Geffner had talked. It could be nothing else.
    His speed slowed. Driving east on Wilshire Boulevard, he had just about reached the veterans cemetery, where thousands of crosses bore witness to the virtue of war. He pulled over to the curb and sat for a long moment with his chin on his clenched fist. Then he turned the Ford around and drove back to Santa Monica. Judge Simpkins was surprised to see him.
    â€œMr. Geffner?” Masuto asked him.
    â€œGone. Left here right after you.”
    â€œDo you know where he went, Your Honor?”
    â€œI’m afraid not?”
    â€œDo you know where his home is?”
    â€œWhy don’t you talk to my secretary, Sergeant. She has that kind of information.”
    Outside in the anteroom, the secretary, a bright-eyed Chicano lady of about thirty, said pleasantly, “You’re a Nisei, aren’t you, Sergeant. And me a Chicano—almost makes you feel we’re going somewhere. Why do you want to know about Mark Geffner? Going to arrest him?”
    â€œI want to keep him alive.”
    â€œSomebody want to waste him?”
    â€œPossibly.”
    â€œWhy? He’s a sweetheart. Why should anyone want to kill him? I will tell you something, Sergeant Masuto, the whole world has gone bonkers. I’ll tell you something else. Nobody needs a reason to kill anyone. They just do it. How about this lunatic who took his rifle up over Sepulveda and spent a whole hour shooting motorists until the cops got him. He killed five people.”
    â€œAbout Mr. Geffner, where does he live?”
    â€œHe lives in Mandeville Canyon, but he’s not there now. He’s on his way to Santa Barbara.”
    â€œDo you know why?”
    â€œI think he’s got a lady there. But, look, Sergeant, you’re not getting anything from me, and if you really have to find Mr. Geffner before someone gets to him, you should talk to his secretary. She knows a lot more about him than I do.”
    â€œHe’s not married, is he?”
    â€œNo. Let me try his office. His secretary’s name is Lucy Sussman.” She dialed the number, and then told Lucy Sussman, “Honey, this is Rosita, over at Judge Simpkins’s office. I got a Sergeant Masuto from the Beverly Hills cops who thinks your boss is in trouble.” She paused and listened. “No, not that kind of trouble. Yeah—” She turned to Masuto. “You were with Mr. Geffner last night?”
    Masuto nodded.
    â€œSame guy, yes.” She handed the telephone to Masuto.
    â€œSergeant,” Lucy Sussman said, “I don’t know what to