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

tell you. He’s very disturbed. He’s frightened, too, so I can believe it when Rosita says he’s in danger. He’s in Santa Barbara, but I have no address or phone number for him there.”
    â€œDoes he go there often?”
    â€œNo, only the past two months—maybe less, maybe six, seven weeks.”
    â€œWould that coincide with his involvement with the Mackenzie case?”
    There was a long pause, and then the voice on the telephone said, “I don’t know that I should be giving you any information of this kind, and certainly I can’t give you confidential information of any kind.”
    â€œI’m not asking for confidential information. I simply want to reach Mr. Geffner.”
    â€œI can’t help you. I don’t know where he is.”

Masuto gave up hunting for Geffner and drove to All Saints Hospital. This time he looked under his car and under the hood, shrugging off the fact that from here on his behavior would be slightly paranoid. He was not the only one with a trace of paranoia. When he handed the court order to Dr. Baxter, the medical examiner snorted bitterly.
    â€œYou sweethearts spend your days thinking up ways to make my life impossible. In one hour from now the hearse from the Bethlehem Funeral Chapel will be here for her body. You have an order; they have an order. Just tell me, my brilliant Oriental swami, what do I do?”
    â€œThis order is countersigned by Judge Simpkins.”
    â€œTheir order will come from the sheriff’s office. They covered the accident. They sent the body here; they release it.”
    â€œOur order takes precedence.”
    â€œAnd for how long am I supposed to fight for possession of the body?”
    Masuto looked at his watch. “It’s four-twenty now. Beckman should be back from Santa Barbara no later than five. Well, let’s say that by five-thirty I should be able to tell you to go ahead with the autopsy or release the body.”
    â€œThat will make me reasonably happy.”
    â€œDid you examine Mrs. Mackenzie’s body at all, Doctor?”
    â€œI’m a pathologist, not a ghoul. If I’m instructed to do an autopsy, I do an autopsy. If I am not instructed to do one, I leave the body alone.”
    â€œYes, of course,” Masuto said. He had years of practice dealing with Dr. Baxter: Baxter was a part-time medical examiner who bitterly resented the fact that Beverly Hills, which he regarded as a somewhat wealthier place than Saudi Arabia, refused to employ him on a full-time basis, claiming that there were simply too few murders to justify it. But Baxter was very good—good enough for his fits of anger and contempt to be tolerated.
    â€œBut,” Masuto went on apologetically, “even without an autopsy I know how much you can deduce from a cadaver. You know, her car was not badly smashed at all. It was one of those lovely little two-seat Mercedes. The windshield was smashed, but not the car’s frame.”
    â€œReally?” Baxter’s interest was awakened. “Did the car fall through the air?”
    â€œNo. Oh, no. It rolled down a steep angle and crashed into a stand of mesquite.”
    Baxter thought for a while before saying, “She was out, if that’s what you’re looking for, Masuto. If she had been wearing a seat belt or hanging on to the wheel, her injuries would have been different.”
    â€œThanks. And just in the possibility that we may not be able to do an autopsy, how could she start to drive away and then pass out?”
    â€œThere are twenty answers to that question. She might have had a heart attack; she might have had a few drinks and some Nembutal on top of it. They might have slipped her something with an enteric coating, and just in case you don’t know what an enteric coating is, I’ll explain. It’s a coating for a pill that dissolves at a certain speed, depending on how thick you make it. You can take some