Читать книгу The Emerald Cat Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

The Berkeley Police Department had got its new headquarters building at last. After the creaky old structure on McKinley Avenue, the nearby replacement looked modern and efficient from the outside. From the inside it resembled a medieval dungeon. Well, progress was progress.

Lindsey had phoned ahead and he was met by a uniformed sergeant who could have passed for a shaving lotion model. If there were such things any more. Blond, blue-eyed, clean-shaven, and wearing a uniform that must have been custom-fitted. He looked like a private eye from a Richard Prather paperback, suddenly drafted into the official police force.

“Olaf Strombeck,” the shaving lotion model introduced himself. They shook hands, exchanged business cards, and proceeded to Strombeck’s office, Lindsey now wearing a visitor’s badge on his jacket pocket. You would have thought they were a couple of Japanese businessmen meeting to cut a billion dollar deal for some futuristic electronic gadget, not an insurance man and a detective sitting down to discuss a murder.

Strombeck had pulled a file and laid it on his desk, but before opening it he said, “Mr. Lindsey, I don’t understand why you’re here, sir. This is a police matter. This is an open case. I’m not sure just how much information I can give you.”

He laid his hand, palm down, on top of the file folder.

Lindsey nodded. “Candidly, I’m just getting started on this. International Surety held a life policy on Mr. Simmons. We paid his widow. As far as we’re concerned, that aspect of the case is over.”

“Then—what?”

“There’s a lawsuit, Mrs. Simmons and the Marston and Morse Publishing Company are suing Gordian House. International Surety has an indemnity policy with Gordian, and I’m gathering information to help us deal with that.”

“I don’t get it.” Strombeck stood up. He took three steps to a hot plate where a pot of coffee was giving off its fragrance. “Like a cup, Mr. Lindsey?”

Lindsey accepted. Drinking coffee wasn’t exactly breaking bread, but it was close. Anything to establish a bond. You could never tell when it would come in handy.

Strombeck held his cup in front of his face, savored the odor rising from it, then lowered it to his desk. His uniform was severe. Midnight blue shirt, polished badge, a little enamel rectangle that Lindsey recognized as the Medal of Valor. Those didn’t come easy, and in his experience, officers who received them seldom cared to talk about the reason.

“I don’t get it, Mr. Lindsey. I’m afraid this is getting to be a cold case. It’s been a year. The official line, of course, is that we never close a homicide case until we’ve solved it. But it’s also true that most murders are resolved quickly. And most of them are pretty straightforward. Domestic violence cases that get out of hand, vehicular homicides. Take away those two and we’d be down to a small fraction of our caseload. The longer a case goes unsolved, the less likely it is that we’ll find the perpetrator. And after a year—unless we catch a break through a DNA sample or—well, never mind the or. I’m afraid the solve rate of older homicides is not very good.”

“I understand. Even so, I think these two cases are one, Sergeant.”

Strombeck lifted blond eyebrows, then nodded encouragingly.

“I’ve been talking with Mrs. Simmons.”

“Be careful, Mr. Lindsey.” Strombeck was suddenly serious, more serious than he had been. “You’re treading on dangerous ground. This is still a police case.” He paused. “And you are not a licensed investigator anyway, are you?”

Lindsey shook his head. “I’m an insurance adjuster. Or was. Thought I had a great career going until I got downsized into early retirement.”

Strombeck did a magic trick and made Lindsey’s business card reappear in his hand. “I don’t see retired anywhere on this.”

“Old card.”

The eyebrows and the encouraging nod again.

“I’m too young for Social Security. It’s nice to be too young for anything, these days. I get a modest pension from International Surety. In return for that they pull me back in every now and then as a kind of superannuated temp. That’s why I’m working this case.”

“Okay, that’s good.”

The concrete block walls of Strombeck’s office were starting to look like a jail cell. Lindsey squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again.

Strombeck went on, “But what does a squabble between two publishers—what were their names again?”

Lindsey told him.

Strombeck jotted notes. “Marston and Morse, Gordian House. I’ve heard of them both.”

“I didn’t know you were a literary man,” Lindsey smiled. “Is it true that every police officer has a novel in his desk drawer?”

“Not so. You’ve been watching too many Barney Miller reruns.”

Lindsey sipped his coffee. For office hot plate brew it was well above average. He waited for Strombeck to give him something and Strombeck waited for Lindsey to ask. What a fine game for two grown men to be playing. Finally Lindsey yielded.

“Simmons wrote paperbacks for Marston and Morse. Under a pseudonym. Had to do that to stay out of trouble at his day job. They all had the same hero, a private eye named.…” He reached for his pocket organizer and flipped pages until he found what he wanted. “…private eye named Tony Clydesdale. All the books had the same pattern for their title, Named for animals, Blue Gazelle, Pink Elephant, like that.”

“I’ve heard of that. Didn’t MacDonald use colors? And that Grafton woman uses the alphabet?”

This guy must be a reader! “That’s right.”

“So—I’m still looking for a connection, Mr. Lindsey.”

“So this other company, Gordian House, brought out a book with a similar title. The Emerald Cat. Different hero, if you can call him that, different byline. But Mrs. Simmons says that it was her husband’s last book, somebody just went over it and changed a few names and sold it to Gordian.”

“Ahah, the plot thickens.” Strombeck grinned. He had perfect teeth. Then the grin faded. “This sounds like a plagiarism case. I’m not an attorney, you understand, but all cops have to be at least jack-lawyers, and I don’t see any crime here. Sounds like a civil matter.”

Lindsey put away his pocket organizer. “That may be so. But I remember something Lieutenant Yamura used to say. Is she till on the force, Sergeant?”

The grin came back. Apparently Strombeck was fond of Dorothy Yamura. “She’s a captain now. Fine cop.”

“I’m sure that coincidences really happen, but they make me nervous,” Lindsey quoted.

Strombeck smiled and nodded, up and down, three times, precisely. “That’s Dorothy all right!”

“And another officer. The Berkeley Police Department was very helpful to me in resolving several cases, and I like to think I helped the police as well.”

Strombeck grunted encouragingly.

Lindsey said, “Marvia Plum. Sergeant Plum.” Oh, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. If Strombeck had X-ray vision he’d see Lindsey quivering inside when he spoke the name. How long had it been since he’d last worked with Marvia, last seen her, last touched her? But he managed to ask about her as if it were a passing thought.

Strombeck paused, then shook his head, left and right, three times, precisely. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. This is a small police force, Mr. Lindsey. Everybody knows everybody. We’re not quite Mayberry RFD but we’re small enough. Maybe Sergeant Plum is on the University of California force. They’re about as big as we are.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe Oakland or Emeryville. Or Alameda County Sheriff?”

Strombeck sounded like a man trying to be helpful or at least sound helpful when he knew he wasn’t really offering anything.

Lindsey said, “I can see I have a lot of work to do. Thank you for your time, Sergeant Strombeck.”

“Any time, sir.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” Lindsey pushed back his chair and turned toward the doorway.

Strombeck said, “Remember, sir, you stick to that insurance claim. Stay out of homicide.”

Lindsey headed down the hallway. Coming toward him, captain’s bars shining on her uniform collar, was Dorothy Yamura. Her hair was no longer the glossy sable it had been when last Lindsey had seen her. Now it was streaked with gray. But otherwise she appeared unchanged.

Lindsey wondered if she would recognize him. He did not wonder long.

“Mr. Lindsey! I heard you were in the building. Is this a social call?”

Had Strombeck alerted Yamura that Lindsey was poking around in police matters again? Or was their encounter a coincidence? Dorothy Yamura did not look nervous.

“I thought I was retired,” Lindsey told her, “but here I am back in harness after all this time.”

“I hope Sergeant Strombeck was helpful.”

“It’s a start.” Lindsey paused, then asked, “Is Sergeant Plum still on the force?”

Again a pause, but this time there was more information coming. More, but not much more. “Yes.”

“I’d love to say hello.” You bet I would!

“I’m afraid she’s out of the building just now.”

“When will she be back? Tomorrow morning?”

Yamura frowned. “Tell you what, Mr. Lindsey. I’ll get a message to her. Are you staying in Berkeley?”

“Emeryville. I’ll be at the Woodfin for a while.”

Yamura looked impressed. “Nice surroundings. I trust you’re on an expense account.” She smiled.

Lindsey found another International Surety card, scribbled Woodfin on the back and handed it to Yamura.

He handed in his visitor’s badge and stepped out of the building, into brilliant late-afternoon sunlight. He’d come into Berkeley on rapid transit and rented a car on International Surety’s dime. The Avenger was safely garaged. Feeling stale, Lindsey headed toward Berkeley’s modest downtown on foot. There were the usual changes, businesses coming and going, pedestrians’ fashions evolving along with the rest of the world. Business-suited professionals mingled with jeans-wearing high school and college students and ragged street people.

Berkeley had lost much of its fabled radicalism, but it was still a progressive town whose character was dominated by a huge university. Farther from police headquarters Lindsey came to fabled Telegraph Avenue. That street had changed little in the years since he’d first tackled a case there. A seemingly worthless cache of comic books had been burgled from a specialty shop, and when the owner filed a claim the local International Surety branch manager had turned pale, then bright red, then sent Hobart Lindsey to look into the matter.

The routine insurance matter had turned into a murder investigation and Lindsey had found himself working with then-Officer Marvia Plum, the first African American with whom he had had more than a passing acquaintance. That case had changed Lindsey’s career, made him a rising star at International Surety. And Marvia Plum had changed his life.

The biggest change on Telegraph Avenue was the disappearance of a landmark bookstore. Lindsey stood gazing at the vacant building. He asked a scholarly-looking individual what had happened and was rewarded with a wry smile. “General Motors got a bailout, Citibank got a bailout, Cody’s Books went belly up. Sometimes mismanagement pays, sometimes it doesn’t.”

Lindsey found a quiet restaurant near the campus. It was in an old building, had the atmosphere of a monastery’s refectory. He had a good meal, treated himself to a glass of red wine, and strolled back to the garage for the Avenger. Minutes later he was settled in his hotel room. He had a soothing view of San Francisco Bay, a big screen TV, and an internet connection.

He had nearly finished writing up his notes for the day, preparatory to sending them to SPUDS headquarters in Denver, when he heard the knock. He put his laptop to sleep and crossed the room.

For a breathless moment neither of them said a word or moved a muscle. Then they moved simultaneously, he toward her, she toward him. Then they were in his hotel room, the door closed behind her, their arms around each other. To Lindsey’s astonishment he found himself crying.

Then they dropped their arms as if embarrassed. Was it embarrassment, Lindsey wondered, or something else? What else? He had no idea. He was not an emotional man. Since his enforced early retirement from International Surety he had lived quietly in the house where he had grown up. His mother had remarried. The former Mrs. Joe Lindsey, widow, was now Mrs. Gordon Sloane. She lived with her husband in a senior community in the town of Carlsbad, California, near San Diego. Lindsey had spent his time reading, watching old motion pictures, filling his mental Rolodex with trivia about the entertainment world of Mother’s era, tending a modest garden, and waiting for middle age to turn into old age so he could move into a senior community near San Diego.

Instead—instead—he was breathless.

The two of them crossed the room hand in hand, like children taking courage from each other in the darkness, except that this room was by no means dark. They sat on a characterless hotel-room sofa holding hands.

Lindsey studied Marvia Plum. Her hair was cropped short. Her face—she might have gained a few pounds but her face was hardly changed.

She wore civilian clothes. Nothing to draw the eye, nothing to attract attention to the outfit or the person. A lightweight jacket, a plaid shirt with a button-up front and a button-down collar, moderately faded jeans, flat shoes. In a town like Berkeley you passed a hundred Marvia Plums in an afternoon and didn’t really notice one of them. The only place where she’d be noticed was a town where anybody with black skin is noticed.

When they spoke they spoke at once.

“Dorothy Yamura told me you were looking for me.”

“Dorothy Yamura told me you were still on the force.”

“It’s funny.”

“It’s funny.”

Finally she put her hand on his mouth to stop him from speaking, to caress her onetime lover. He leaned forward, pressed his cheek to her head. He wasn’t as tall as he might have been, but he was tall enough to do this. After a moment he straightened.

“Hobart, it’s been a long time since we worked together.”

“That arms collector in Marin.” She’d dropped her hand back to her lap.

“What’s this about the Simmons homicide?”

“It’s an insurance matter.”

“Same as always.”

“What about—” he started to say us but his courage failed and instead he said, you. “What about you and your family? Your mother? Tyrone and Jamie?”

She managed a laugh. “My mother’s gone. Died two years ago. I warned her to calm down. She was a perfect candidate for a stroke and she had one. At least she went fast, that was a mercy. She could never have coped with being disabled.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “We never got along, you know. I think she was frustrated. I think she had dreams as a girl, wanted to—I don’t really know, Hobart. I’m not sure that she knew herself. But those were the old days. There wasn’t much chance for a black woman. She got out of the ghetto, made a decent living. She had a good husband. But forty years shuffling papers in a rabbit warren—she wanted more. I think so, anyway. And she laid her hopes on me.”

She made a funny sound, half moan and half grunt. “Do you have anything to drink, Bart?”

“You mean alcohol?”

She made a positive noise.

“I’ll call room service.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Let’s go out, then.”

“Yes, let’s.”

In the elevator Lindsey said, “I don’t really know this town. Not any more. Where should we go?”

“What’s your pick, noisy or quiet?”

He thought about it. “Noisy.”

She drove a battered Ford Falcon.

As Lindsey climbed in he said, “Your brother still in the mechanic business?”

“He’s got a shop on San Pablo. Takes customers only by referral, and there’s a waiting list.”

She tapped a button on the dashboard and the car was filled with the sound of a Bach harpsichord piece.

She guided the Falcon under the freeway and parked at a converted railroad station. The sign over the entrance said, Brennan’s—Since 1959. Marvia had told the truth. It was noisy. The bartender, a woman with short-cropped hair and a welcoming smile, greeted Marvia. Marvia introduced Lindsey and the bartender shook his hand. She had a warm, firm grip.

The bartender poured a straight shot for Marvia and shot an inquiring look at Lindsey. He said, “I’ll have the same.”

Marvia grinned at him. “Well, you’ve decided to drink like a man.”

He lifted his glass, they clicked them together and each tossed back a shot.

The bar was full. The air was heavy with the odors of alcohol and food. Lindsey looked for the source of the latter and spotted a serving line. He asked Marvia if she was hungry and she said she wasn’t. Neither was Lindsey.

When the bartender refilled their shot glasses Lindsey held his at eye level. Observed through the amber fluid, the scene at the bar looked like a moment in a film noir, an odd sepia print. In his mind’s eye the drinkers were transformed into William Bendix, Lizabeth Scott, Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer. The bartender was Mercedes McCambridge.

He lowered the shot glass and shook his head to clear it of the image. He said, “I’m glad Tyrone’s all right. I still remember that old Volvo he upgraded for me. Sometimes I wish I still had it but I decided to sell it when I.S. sent me to Europe.”

Marvia’s eyes widened. “Europe?”

“Had to go to Italy. Nasty case. One of my colleagues was murdered.”

“In Italy?”

“Sorry. No. In New York. Of course the police in New York weren’t happy to have this insurance man from Colorado—I was working out of Denver—poking around their case. But there was some hanky-panky with corporate funds, and I wound up having to work on that angle. Wound up in Rome. That didn’t last long but Corporate got wind of it and I wound up back there for a few years. Capeesh Italiano?”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Me neither. Not really, I picked up enough to take a taxi or order a meal. After a while I could even buy a pair of scarpe.”

Puzzled look.

“Shoes.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve forgotten most of it by now. Use it or lose it.” They were silent, surrounded by voices and activity. There were half a dozen TV’s playing. If you glanced around the saloon at one set after another you’d never guess what sport was in season. It seemed as if they all were.

Lindsey said, “What about your son?”

“Jamie’s made it. My mother would be happy, I think. He works at Pixar. Studied computer animation. He lived cartoons when he was a kid. Remember Jamie and his friend Hakeem?”

Lindsey said he did.

“I had a time keeping those kids out of trouble. Jamie smoked dope, stole a few things. Always pushing the envelope. Hakeem’s family were so strict, he couldn’t go to school without polishing his shoes and putting a knot in his tie.”

The bartender opened a bag of barbecued chips and filled a bowl with them. She put them down in front of Lindsey and Plum.

Lindsey said, “I remember.”

“They both made it, Hobart. For once in my life I think I did something right. They both made it. Jamie’s a manager at Pixar now. Hakeem runs a computer company in Oakland. They build systems to order and they do repairs. He and Jamie are talking about getting together and starting a company of their own. Jamie will do the creative work, Hakeem will be the tech man.”

She laughed. “I guess I did all right with Jamie. When his father dumped me the only thing I got out of him was a last name for my son. At least there was that. There was a time.…” Marvia downed her second drink, put her hand on Lindsey’s and said, “What about this case, Bart? What are you doing in Berkeley?”

“Same old thing. Nothing dramatic. Marvia, is this official? Are you on duty?”

“You mean the old, never drink on duty thing? That’s half a myth, you know. Undercover, developing a suspect, late at night in a saloon, and you tell the bartender, ‘I’ll have a right fresh glass of that thar sarsaparilla, ma’am.’ I don’t think so. But it just so happens that I’m officially off duty anyway.”

“Is that why you’re in civvies? I got a weird response from Strombeck when I asked about you. And from Dorothy Yamura, too.”

“Gordon Simmons was my friend’s husband. I have a little account where Angela works. We were acquaintances, then friends. When her husband was killed it broke her up.”

“I talked with her. She seems to be doing all right.”

“It’s been a year. BPD has a lot of other things on its plate, but I’m still working the Simmons case. Can we leave it at that?”

Lindsey shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m working on it too.”

“In a different way, Hobart. What are you really after?”

He felt sheepish. What was a copyright suit compared to a murder case? Still.… He explained it to Marvia. He concluded, “I think the answer is on that laptop.”

“I think we’ll crack this case from both angles if we find that computer,” Marvia agreed.

She offered him a ride back to his hotel in her battered Falcon. It didn’t run like an unrestored relic. When Lindsey commented on it Marvia said, “Protective coloration, Hobart. Tyrone’s magic. This is a Falcon on the outside but it’s a Vee-eight Mustang on the inside.”

At the Woodfin they exchanged cell phone numbers. “Strictly unofficial, Hobart. Anything official goes through Olaf Strombeck. He’s a good man. But keep me posted. I’ll do the same for you.”

Later in his hotel room, Lindsey turned on a late-night movie. He missed the opening credits but he recognized it anyway; he’d seen it half a dozen times. Rosalind Russell as Valerie Stanton, a Broadway comedienne with an itch to play Ibsen. Sydney Greenstreet as a middle-aged homicide detective. Massive, almost immobile, self-mocking, ironic, polite. And patient. Prodding, prodding, prodding. Ultimately invincible.

Somebody had been reading Rex Stout. Why Greenstreet’s character was Captain Danbury instead of Nero Wolfe was a greater mystery than who killed Gordon Simmons. Probably a copyright problem.