The Case of the Russian Diplomat

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At precisely twenty minutes after three on a Monday morning in November, Detective Sergeant Masao Masuto’s telephone rang shrilly, awakening him from an otherwise untroubled sleep. Still half asleep, he pulled the telephone to him and heard Captain Alex Wainwright’s rasping voice.

“Masao?”

“I’m here, Captain.”

“What in hell are you whispering for? I can’t hear you.”

“I’m whispering because it’s the middle of the night and Kati is asleep.”

“I’m not asleep,” Kati said.

“I know what time it is,” Wainwright snapped. “I’m at the Beverly Glen Hotel, and I want you to get your ass over here. Now.”

“Thank you,” Masuto said. “You are always considerate of your employees.”

“You don’t work for me, you work for the city.”

Masuto put down the phone, turned on the light, and looked at his wife; he reflected that even awakened rudely from her sleep, Kati managed to give the impression that she had just stepped out of a Japanese print, her black hair held neatly with a ribbon, her face like a lovely, worried ivory cameo.

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