Читать книгу The Sepia Siren Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

Officer Mike Ng (“Pronounce it Eng, that’s all, like there’s an invisible E on the front”) seemed to control his anger with a major act of will. “Sir,” he said, “and Ma’am, what you did was very dangerous. Very irresponsible. I’m here to protect Mr. MacReedy. You thought it was clever to spirit him away when I was called away for a moment. And then you come scampering back like scared children.”

Lindsey said, “We were only looking at some things.” He felt like a schoolboy called onto the principal’s carpet. He’d be lucky to get off with a mere scolding.

Ms. Wilbur said, “Never mind that, Officer. There was a prowler down there in the cellar. He doused the lights down there and he was coming for us. It was just lucky that I had a flashlight and that Mr. MacReedy had a weapon. Who knows what might have happened if we hadn’t turned the tables.”

Ng was still short of breath from trying to chase down the intruder. The fugitive had got out the back exit of the Robeson Center, setting off an alarm as he went. From there he had proceeded on foot. There was no trail to follow, not in this environment. If he headed west, toward the Bay, he had reached Telegraph Avenue by now, and blended with the street people there. This is, if he hadn’t stopped first at People’s Park and disappeared among the homeless crazies, the drug dealers and common thugs who had driven out the flower children of an earlier age.

Mike Ng led them into the coffee lounge. Lindsey felt aged eyes tracking them across the lobby. In the lounge they took a table. Ng took out his notebook and said, “All right, he’s gone. We can’t seal off the rear of the center, that’s a fire regulation. I’ve called in and they’re going to assign a second officer.”

“For how long?” Lindsey wanted to know.

Ng shrugged. “You know we’re short of personnel. It’s all the budget. Mr. MacReedy, is there anyplace else you could go? Relatives, maybe? Somewhere you’d feel safe, sir?”

MacReedy sat silently. Beat, beat. Then, “I have nowhere else. No one else. I had Lola Mae and the Center. Now I have only the Center.”

Ng nodded. “I suppose we could take you into protective custody, but I don’t think that would be such a great idea.”

Mathilde Wilbur shook her head. “Not at his age, Mr. Ng. That would be a very bad idea.”

Ng said, “Now, let’s go over this once more.” He led them through the events in the cellar. After they described the contents of the wardrobe he asked what was in the trunk and the file cabinets.

Mr. MacReedy said, “Souvenirs. Just souvenirs. The wardrobe held our personal clothing. The trunk contained a few costumes and props. The file cabinets are old records, scripts, and stills.”

“Right.” Lindsey nodded. “Mathilde told me you used to be in movies.”

After the usual pause, MacReedy said, “I was, yes. But that was long ago. I am retired now. Lola and I had been retired for many years.”

“Yes, but before that you were in the industry.”

MacReedy’s face brightened slightly with a faraway smile, like a bright moon dimmed by layers of cloud. “We made films.”

Lindsey turned to Ng. “This has to be connected to the art museum case.”

Ng said nothing.

Lindsey said, “It was in the paper, I saw it in the Oakland Trib. At your party, Mathilde. It was on the desk under the flowers. It must have been on TV.”

Ng said, “I don’t know the case, sir.”

“That Italian girl was killed. That exchange student. Anna—Annabella Buonaventura, that’s her name.”

“That’s a homicide case, then.”

Lindsey managed to contain himself. “That’ s exactly what Iim saying. You have two fires. This woman is killed in one of them. There’ no apparent connection between the two, you’d think it was a coincidence. Nothing remarkable about that. Just two fires in the same town, a day or two apart So what, doesn’t mean a thing.”

Ng nodded. Ms. Wilbur watched. Mr. MacReedy had gone back into the past to be with his dead wife. His dead wife. There was something odd about his dead wife. Lindsey would have to remember that, try to figure out what was strange about MacReedy’s dead wife.

“Look,” Lindsey waved his hands, “the first fire, the Buonaventura fire, was at the University Art Museum. But it wasn’t at the main museum, it was at the Pacific Film Archive. That’s part of the museum, right? Or shares the building, whatever, right?”

Nobody disagreed.

“Then the second fire, Mr. MacReedy’s room is burned out, and then there’s an attempt on his belongings in the storage cellar. And why? Why? Because he’s a retired filmmaker.”

A second Berkeley police officer arrived. This one was a woman, taller than Ng and scrawny to the point of emaciation. The two officers spoke briefly, then the newcomer left the group. “She’s going to check out the premises, then post herself where she can see the cellar and the back door at all times.”

Lindsey said, “What if she has to go to the bathroom?”

Officer Ng said, “Necessity is necessity.” Then, without missing a beat, he resumed the prior conversation. “That’s pretty flimsy, Mr. Lindsey.”

Lindsey squirmed in his seat. “But it all adds up. How can you deny the connection?”

The coffee lounge was filling. Lindsey checked his watch. It was noon.

“We do not have separate dining facilities,” Mr. MacReedy said. “This is our dining room as well.?

Ng said, “I’ll stay with you during the meal, sir, if you don’t mind. And then what are your plans for the afternoon?”

Mr. MacReedy pondered for a while. Then he said, “I think I would like to take a little nap.”

* * * *

Lindsey talked Ms. Wilbur into going home for lunch. For himself he bought a sandwich at a fast-food joint, then drove back to Walnut Creek. He still had a desk in the International Surety office, and he wanted to tackle his accumulated paperwork.

A newcomer had settled in at Ms. Wilbur’s desk and was clicking away at her computer when Lindsey arrived. No, he told himself, not Ms. Wilbur’s any more. Just International Surety’s desk and computer, to be used by whomever the company assigned.

She was slim and tall, he could tell that even when she was sitting down. She looked away from the computer screen and said, “Yes, may I help you?”

He flushed. “I’m Hobart Lindsey. I used to be manager here.”

“You’re not any longer, are you? Isn’t Mr. Mueller manager?”

Mister Mueller, Lindsey thought, Mister Mueller. Isn’t that something? He said, “I work out of Denver now. You do know about SPUDS, don’t you?”

She shook her head. She wore her hair back in a modified pony-tail that made her look more fifteen than twenty-five. The hair was a honey-blonde shade that Lindsey, for some reason, assumed went with vivid green eyes. “You don’t mean potatoes.”

He shook his head. “Never mind. You’ll learn. That’s my desk over there. I have some work to do today.” In fact his desk had been covered to a depth of two feet with cartons, binders of computer printouts and miscellaneous small kipple.

“The old woman’s things,” the young woman explained. “You might as well put everything on the floor. It’s going in the garbage anyway.”

Lindsey cleared an area to work in. “My name is Hobart Lindsey,” he told her.

“You already told me that.”

“And your name is—?” He was being patient.

“Oh. Kari Fielding. Spelled K-A-R-I, but it rhymes with starry. I’m office manager now. I’ll handle your requisitions and phone bills. Please submit all requests in writing and please don’t interrupt me again when I’m working at the computer.” She turned away.

Lindsey thought, Maybe I’ll rent office space somewhere after all.

By mid afternoon he was able to calm down and lose himself in mindless paperwork. Then it hit him. The name listed as wife on Edward Joseph MacReedy’s insurance policy was Nola. He started browsing through computer files, trying to find the MacReedy policy and pull it up on his computer screen. Ms. Wilbur had found it, buried somewhere in the electronic stacks. He could do the same.

After half an hour he picked up the phone and dialed an Oakland number. A machine answered in a masculine voice. Lindsey had heard the voice many times but never met its owner. Lindsey started to ask Ms. Wilbur to call him at I.S. Halfway through the message the receiver clicked and Ms. Wilbur said, “I just came through the door and heard your voice, Hobart. Really creepy. What can I do for you?”

He told her he was looking for the MacReedy policy in International Surety’s computer net. Without success. She told him the path to follow and offered to wait on the line while he tried it.

It worked.

It worked, and there it was. Co-beneficiaries, Edward Joseph MacReedy, d-o-b 2/29/04, and Nola Elizabeth Rownes MacReedy, d-o-b 5/11/18.

Nola Elizabeth Rownes MacReedy.

Why had the old man referred to his wife as Lola? Was it a pet name, a love name? Or had MacReedy had more than one wife? Had Nola MacReedy divorced her husband, or died years before he showed up at the International Surety office? Or was his mind merely wandering, perhaps to a onetime girlfriend, a childhood playmate, a fantasy companion, a character from a book he’d read decades before Lindsey was born?

Lindsey made a notation in his pocket organizer and another on the computer file.

He’d have to get a look at Mrs. MacReedy’s death certificate as soon as Edward Joseph MacReedy obtained a duplicate from the county. He wanted to see the name on it, the date of birth—and the cause of death. If necessary he’d call Vital Records on Fallon Street in Oakland himself. Maybe they were set up to fax the information to him by now.

He called home and heard his own voice invite him to leave a message. He told Mother that he might not be home for dinner. Not to wait, in any case. She was still at work, the best thing that had ever happened to her. Maybe if she’d had a job forty years ago she would never had got as crazy as she had. But back then she’d been a young widow with a baby. She’d had to stay home, crying day and night and putting all her efforts into caring for him. It had harmed him almost as much as it had her. It had warped and stunted him. But he was finding his way in the world, and Mother was finding her way and finding herself as well. It was never too late.

He phoned Marvia Plum at Berkeley Police Headquarters. He got through on the first try. She was glad to hear from him but she sounded harried. She said, “Is this business or personal, Bart?”

“Both.”

“Oh, Jeez. I don’t know whether to be the sergeant or the sweetheart. Please, I’m really up to here in horse-stuff.”

“Horse-stuff. I almost thought you were going to say a naughty word. How about dinner then, your place or yours?”

“Okay. Let yourself in. Whenever.”

That was quick.

* * * *

She met him at the door, dressed in civvies. That was a relief. He got a long kiss. “Was I brusque, Bart? I didn’t mean it. I’ve just been—never mind.”

“No. How’s your appetite?”

She smiled, the grin showing off the whiteness of her teeth against the blackness of her skin. “I’m ravenous.”

“Got a craving?”

“You ever tried Vietnamese? I know a great place in Oakland. Down on Jefferson.”

It was called Le Cheval. The neighborhood would have frightened Chuck Norris and an army of Kung Fu masters but the food was amazing. They relaxed over a couple of Xingha beers and a firepot of fresh shellfish.

They kept the talk personal during the meal. Somewhere between the firepot and an order of broiled New Zealand green mussels there was a series of pops from Jefferson. They’d driven from Oxford Street in Marvia’s 1965 Mustang and left it under the watchful eye of a recovering alcoholic across the street from Le Cheval.

Marvia ran to the window. Lindsey stood behind her. Three Oakland police cruisers were flashing their bar-lights in front of a grocery store at the corner of Jefferson and Fourteenth.

After a minute Lindsey and Marvia Plum returned to their table. Lindsey said, “As long as the Mustang is safe.”

“I hope nobody bothers Doc High at home about this. He was starting to look a little peaked, last time I saw him.” Marvia sliced a morsel of grilled lemon grass pork chop. “This is great food.”

Lindsey swallowed a mussel. “Delicious. Let’s not talk about cops, okay? One of these day, High will make captain and then he won’t want to talk to the likes of us.”

“Maybe not, maybe yes. You know he’s still trying to recruit me away from Berkeley. If I ever left, Dorothy Yamura would have a fit.”

Lindsey sipped his Xingha. “I haven’t seen Jamie lately. Everything all right?”

“Jamie’s fine. He likes his school, he’s doing his homework, he’s getting ready for baseball season, he’s excited about Little League.”

“What are you worried about? Not your ex again, is it?”

“No.” Marvia lowered her face into her hands. When she looked up again there were tears on her cheeks.

“What is it?”

She took his hand. Her own was cold and it trembled. “It’s my dad.”

Lindsey knew what was coming. He felt a panicked impulse to change the subject but he couldn’t. This was one time Marvia needed him, and he needed to be strong for her.

“He isn’t doing so well. You know he’s got a time bomb in his chest, waiting to explode. It’s in his lungs.”

“I know.”

She looked into his eyes. “Well, the bomb is exploding. Dad belongs in the hospital and he won’t go. One day he refuses to admit that he’s even sick. Another day he says he’s dying and there’s nothing the doctors can do for him so he might as well stay home.”

Lindsey nodded. He’d known that Marvia’s father had pulmonary asbestosis and that it would someday kill him, but he’d always imagined that day as a remote future time, never as the present. Marvia was still clutching his hand. He put the other on top of hers. “Maybe he’s right. I mean, if he’s right, that there’s nothing the doctors can do.”

She shook her head. “There isn’t. Not really.”

“Then maybe he should stay home. Wherever he wants. I mean, why not?”

Marvia disengaged her hand, sniffled into a handkerchief and managed a feeble smile. She lifted a mussel deftly with chopsticks and chewed it slowly.

Lindsey asked, “What about your mom?”

Marvia swallowed the mussel and followed it with a sip of Xingha. “She’s okay. She hasn’t quit work or anything. Dad can still get around the house a little, and Jamie’s only home for about an hour before Mom gets home. Once he is gone—” She hesitated. “Am I a monster to talk about it like that?”

Lindsey said, “No, no,” soothingly. He used the tone you’d use to calm a frightened infant. He could just as well have recited the fifty state capitols, so long as the tone was right.

Marvia said, “Who’s going to take care of Jamie once Dad is gone? Mom still has to support herself, there wasn’t that much money from the company. And I can’t afford to quit my job.”

“How about Jamie’s dad?”

Marvia made a miserable sound. “Maybe. I don’t know. He sends me a note once in a while. On his new wife’s office stationery, no less. You know. Ferré, Borden, Squires, Ferré, Quaid: Corporate and Estate Law. James Senior is going great guns. He’s Mister War Hero now. Claudia’s father is bankrolling him. The media out there in Texas love him. They’ve got a big house in Austin and a ranch somewhere in Waythehellout. That’s their legal residence, out there in the boondocks, and he’ll probably be in the House of Representatives in a couple of years. I think he wants to run for John Tower’s old Senate seat, eventually, eventually.”

Senator James Wilkerson, R-Tex.

Lindsey drew a deep breath. “Have you told Jamie about your dad? Does he understand.…” He hesitated, then said it, “Death?”

“He does. I mean, he sees the news on TV. He knows what death is, that it isn’t just like getting killed in a video game. But he’s never really seen it. I don’t know how he’ll deal with it. He knows that his granddad has a very serious disease, he has to know what the outcome can be.”

She was crying a little. Lindsey dabbed at the corner of her eye with the corner of his napkin and she managed a small laugh. She said, “Thanks.”

The subject of marriage had not come up, but Lindsey had got Marvia’s ring size and he was going shopping soon.

The waiter brought them Vietnamese coffee, and there was a quiet spell while the strong coffee dripped into the sweetened condensed milk. It felt to Lindsey like time to change the subject. Across Jefferson Street the popping sounds had long since stopped, and now the police cruisers were also gone. After his first sip of coffee, Lindsey asked Marvia if she’d worked the Art Museum case. It might have started as Arson’s case, he knew, but once the body of Annabella Buonaventura had been found, it was Homicide’s.