The Emerald Cat Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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practitioner of the craft.
Okay. He breathed a sigh of relief, slipped the paperback into his jacket pocket, and headed for the garage. Traffic wasn’t too heavy and he reached his destination in a matter of minutes.
He’d expected the Gottlieb Literary Agency to be located in an office building like the one that housed Gordian House but in fact he found himself standing in front of a well-maintained Victorian. He looked at the address in his organizer again, then at the house number. He climbed the steps and found a row of doorbells.
There was a hand-written card marked simply, Gottlieb, next to the buzzer for 4A. Maybe this was the agent’s home. Why would Burnside give him her home address rather than that of her office?
He rang the bell and was answered with a loud buzzing. He pressed the latch and the door opened. He made his way to apartment 4A. A young woman greeted him at the door.
Jack Burnside’s vulgar description of Rachael Gottlieb might have been reasonably accurate for a twenty-something female with an olive complexion, reasonably attractive features, and dark hair drawn back in a pony tail. She was attired in blue jeans and a sweatshirt with a picture of a woman Lindsey did not recognize on the chest.
She looked questioningly at Lindsey. He introduced himself, proffered his business card and said, “Miss Gottlieb?”
She admitted as much. From the apartment behind her Lindsey could hear voices raised in slow, mellow music. There were rugs and cushions on the floor and a narrow column of gray rising from what had to be an incense burner.
The young woman asked Lindsey’s business.
He asked if she was indeed Steve Damon’s literary agent, Rachael Gottlieb. She was. He wondered if this was a convenient time to discuss a business matter involving Mr. Damon. Or would she prefer to meet him at her office?
“This is my office.” She had a soft voice that would have been at home with the singing—more like chanting—from inside the apartment. “You can come in.”
Either Rachael Gottlieb couldn’t afford much furniture or she preferred to do without it. Lindsey found himself seated on a floor cushion, listening to the recorded chants. Rachael Gottlieb left the room briefly, returned carrying a cast-iron pot, and poured a cup for Lindsey. “It’s pu-erh. It’s very soothing. I find that it harmonizes the body with the music of Hildegard. Do you know the Antiphon for Saint Ursula? It elevates the spirit.”
She lowered the cast iron pot to a three-legged trivet and herself to a floor cushion facing Lindsey. “Now, Mr. Lindsey, what do you wish to know?”
Lindsey sipped the pu-erh tea. He didn’t know whether it would harmonize his body or not, but it tasted good. He said that he was investigating an alleged plagiarism case involving Steve Damon and asked if Miss Gottlieb could put him in touch with the author.
“That’s not so easy.”
Lindsey asked why not.
“I’m afraid he’s dropped the class.”
Lindsey frowned. “I’m sorry, you’re losing me. What class is that? Aren’t you an agent? Isn’t he your client?”
She did have a sweet smile. Somehow the spirit of a generation ago survived, at least a little bit, in this eccentric town.
“We were taking a class together at Laney. You know Laney College, in Oakland?”
“I know of it.”
“‘Female Poets from Sumalgalamata to Maya Angelou.’ You see?” She waved a hand gracefully toward a small stack of books. Lindsey didn’t recognize many of the bylines but he was willing to take her word.
“Rigoberto was the only man in the class. He—” She stopped when she saw Lindsey’s frown.
He said, “Rigoberto?”
“Oh.” The smile again. “Steve Damon is a pseudonym. Rigoberto, Rigoberto Chocrón, was in the class. We went out for coffee afterwards, it was an evening class, we went out for coffee a few times and he told me he’d written a novel and he didn’t know how to market it. I told him he should ask Professor Rostum, Rosemary Rostum, she taught the poetry class, but he thought she wouldn’t like his book. So I suggested that he just go to the library and get a directory of publishers and try to sell it himself but he didn’t want to.”
She paused to sip her own pu-erh.
Lindsey asked if Damon—Chocrón—had said why he didn’t want to market the book himself.
“He’d been in a certain amount of trouble. He was getting a stipend from some kind of rehabilitation people for going to school. He seemed afraid of publicity. He asked if I would do it for him. I thought maybe he was just shy. Anyway, I looked up local publishers and there was Gordian House so I called them up and went to see Mr. Burnside and he bought the book. That’s about all there was to it. I didn’t even take a commission. I just cashed the Gordian House check and paid Rigoberto in cash. He said he didn’t have a bank account and he couldn’t cash a check himself.”
Lindsey asked Rachael Gottlieb for Chocrón’s address.
“I don’t know. He dropped out of the class. I think he dropped out of Laney altogether. He was a pretty elusive character, as a matter of fact.” She paused, tilted her head to one side, listening, Lindsey decided, to the gentle voices coming from a set of speakers in the corners of the room.
She smiled that smile again.
“He told me he has a favorite restaurant where he picks up telephone messages. I can give you that.”
Lindsey took it, with thanks. He got to his feet, not as quickly or easily as he might have a few decades earlier. He thanked Rachael Gottlieb for her help.
Just at the doorway he stopped and turned back, feeling like Peter Falk in a rumpled trench coat. “Just one more thing, Miss Gottlieb.”
She nodded, holding her cup of pu-erh tea to her lips, smiling amusedly at him over the rim.
Lindsey decided that she was a Colombo fan after all.
She waited expectantly on her floor-cushion.
“How did Mr. Damon—Chocrón—give you his book?’
She looked puzzled.
“I mean, was it a typewritten manuscript or a computer printout or—you see?”
“Oh, yes. It was on a disk. Mr. Burnside said they don’t bother with paper manuscripts any more. They ask their authors to email their manuscripts, or else to turn them in on CDs. I told Rigoberto and he said, okay, he’d download the book and give me the CD at our next class. That was before he dropped out of the poetry class.”
Lindsey said, “Do you know anything about his computer?”
She smiled gently. “No. No, I don’t. Good-bye, Mr. Lindsey. I hope you enjoyed the pu-erh tea.” She floated to her feet and crossed the room to close the door.
On the porch of the Dana Street house he blinked at the late afternoon sunlight, wondering how long he had spent in Rachael Gottlieb’s apartment listening to Hildegard’s music. Whoever Hildegard was. He checked his watch. Next stop—? He had to make a plan.
He returned to his hotel room, opened his own laptop, plugged it into a phone jack and sent a report to Denver. Then he did a web search for Marston and Morse, Publishers, and placed a phone call. He made an appointment for the following morning.
He closed down the laptop and stretched out on the hotel bed. It wasn’t time for dinner yet. He’d earned his day’s pay from International Surety. He kicked off his shoes, burrowed into the pillow, and took a nap.
He was astonished when he woke up and discovered that it was the next day. He checked his watch, ordered an egg and toast from room service, took a shower and climbed into a fresh outfit.
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