is red as hell. I suppose itâs no comfort to Eve Mackenzie, but if anyone does care, it was an innocent person who died last night.â
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 carâa Fordâand 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.
âMr. Geffner?â Masuto asked him.
âGone. Left here right after you.â
âDo you know where he went, Your Honor?â
âIâm afraid not?â
âDo you know where his home is?â
âWhy donât you talk to my secretary, Sergeant. She has that kind of information.â
Outside in the anteroom, the secretary, a bright-eyed Chicano lady of about thirty, said pleasantly, âYouâre a Nisei, arenât you, Sergeant. And me a Chicanoâalmost makes you feel weâre going somewhere. Why do you want to know about Mark Geffner? Going to arrest him?â
âI want to keep him alive.â
âSomebody want to waste him?â
âPossibly.â
âWhy? Heâs a sweetheart. Why should anyone want to kill him? I will tell you something, Sergeant Masuto, the whole world has gone bonkers. Iâll 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
âAbout Mr. Geffner, where does he live?â
âHe lives in Mandeville Canyon, but heâs not there now. Heâs on his way to Santa Barbara.â
âDo you know why?â
âI think heâs got a lady there. But, look, Sergeant, youâre 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
âHeâs not married, is he?â
âNo. Let me try his office. His secretaryâs name is Lucy Sussman.â She dialed the number, and then told Lucy Sussman, âHoney, this is Rosita, over at Judge Simpkinsâs office. I got a Sergeant Masuto from the Beverly Hills cops who thinks your boss is in trouble.â She paused and listened. âNo, not that kind of trouble. Yeahââ She turned to Masuto. âYou were with Mr. Geffner last night?â
Masuto nodded.
âSame guy, yes.â She handed the telephone to Masuto.
âSergeant,â Lucy Sussman said, âI donât know what to
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