The Emerald Cat Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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He wasn’t eligible for Social Security yet and the monthly checks from I.S. weren’t exactly lavish, but he’d been able to keep the little house in Walnut Creek after his mother remarried and moved to a gated retirement community in Carlsbad.
He waited to hear what Desmond Richelieu, his old chief at International Surety, top executive at Special Projects Unit / Detached Service, would be calling him about at this hour of the morning. In fact.… Lindsey frowned, peered at the glowing readout on his bedside clock, and waited for Richelieu to say what he had to say.
“Lindsey, I need you back on board.”
“I’m retired, Mr. Richelieu.” He couldn’t bring himself to call his old chief Ducky, the name that everyone used when Richelieu was out of earshot.
“I know that. You get a fat check every month for not working.”
“Mr. Richelieu, I earned it.”
“All right, look—wait a minute, where the hell are you, Lindsey?”
“Don’t you know? You called me. I’m at home.”
“Yeah, yeah, vegetating. I’m still working, why aren’t you?”
Lindsey didn’t even try to answer that. “Look, Chief, I’m sure you called me for a reason. You realize it’s an hour earlier here in California than it is there in Denver. Did you just want to wake me up, or is there some ulterior motive?”
“You’re getting feisty in your old age, Lindsey.”
“Yep.” He stretched, stood up, started toward the kitchen. Thanks be given for cordless telephones!
“You were always the go-to guy on wacko cases. I’ve got your file right here on my monitor. Comic books, that Duesenberg with the solid platinum engine, Julius Caesar’s toy chariot. You were always the oddball. Maybe that’s why you were so good at the loony cases.”
“Thanks, Chief. You should have said that at my retirement banquet when I got the gold wristwatch and the fond farewell. Oh, wait a minute, I didn’t have a retirement banquet, gold wristwatch, or fond farewell. I got a fond Don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out. Look, I am longing for a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs, and since there’s nobody here to make them, I need to get off the phone and do it myself. Unless there’s something you want.”
“You know about the consulting fee account.”
“Right.”
“I can offer you some nice bucks for a few hours of easy work.”
“Right. And there’s a really nice bridge you’d like to sell me.”
“No, I mean it.”
“Okay, hold on.” He laid the phone on the counter, turned on the coffee maker, got a couple of eggs out of the fridge and set them where he could keep a watchful eye on them, and plopped himself in a chromium-rimmed kitchen chair.
Desmond Richelieu’s voice came squirming out of the telephone. “Are you there? Are you there, damn you, Lindsey, where the hell did you go?”
Lindsey picked up the phone. “Sorry ’bout that, Chief. Now, what was it?”
“You ever hear of Gordon Simmons, Lindsey?”
Lindsey frowned. “I don’t think so.” The coffee maker was grunting and chugging like a happy little steam locomotive.
“You don’t keep up with things, do you?”
“Chief, please. He’s not related to Flash Gordon on the Planet Mongo, is he? I’ve always had a fondness for old Buster Crabbe.”
“Don’t joke, you—listen, don’t take it for granted that your pension is guaranteed, Lindsey. Don’t get me peeved.”
“Chief, it is guaranteed. Who is Gordon Simmons?”
“Not is. Was. He died a year ago. Murdered.”
“Sorry, Chief. Deponent knoweth not. You want to tell me more, or let me scramble my eggs. I’m hungry this morning.” He looked out the kitchen window. Beyond gauzy, pale blue curtains the sky was a vivid shade, almost cobalt, and the sun was bright. “Did we cover the decedent? Is there a problem with the claim? Why is this a case for SPUDS? I’m sorry Mr. Simmons was murdered but why are you calling me about it? Especially a year after his death.”
“It’s not about the death claim. We paid that off. No problem.”
Lindsey sighed. “Can I call you back after I’ve had my scrambled eggs? I think I’m going to have an English muffin and orange marmalade with them.”
“No, damn it, no! I don’t give a damn about your breakfast. Now listen. The guy lived in Berkeley. Simmons. He had a policy with us. Beneficiary was his wife. Walnut Creek office handled the claim. They paid the claim and we closed the case. This is a new case.”
“You’ll have to enlighten me, Chief.” Lindsey clutched the telephone between his jawbone and his shoulder, broke a muffin in half and dropped the pieces into the chrome-plated retro toaster on the counter. Except that the toaster wasn’t retro. It was original stock. It had stood on that counter for as long as Hobart Lindsey could remember.
“We’ve got a lawsuit pending. Mrs. Simmons is suing a publisher called Gordian House. It’s a plagiarism suit. She has a co-plaintiff, a publisher called Marston and Morse. Gordian House has kicked it over to us. If they lose the suit we have to pony up. And the Widder Simmons and M-and-M want big bucks. Big bucks, Lindsey.”
The toaster popped. Lindsey clutched the phone again between jawbone and shoulder. He spread some marmalade on one half of the English, butter on the other half, and closed it up. He opened the fridge and put away the eggs.
“Lindsey, here’s what I want you to do. The case file is on the SPUDS server. Get into the Walnut Creek office and read through it. Nobody there has enough brains to pour piss out of a boot with the instructions on the heel. Just read the file and call me back and tell me you’ll handle this one.”
Lindsey poured himself a cup of coffee, added some half-and-half, took a generous bite of English and washed it down with coffee. He didn’t say anything.
There was a lengthy silence.
Then Desmond Richelieu said, “Please.”
It was the first time Lindsey had ever heard him say that word. True, Lindsey could tell, even from the distance of a thousand miles, that Richelieu said it through clenched teeth and very nearly with tears in his eyes. Still, he said it. “Please.”
To Lindsey, that constituted an offer he couldn’t refuse.
* * * *
The Walnut Creek office of International Surety occupied a suite in a modern high rise building across North Main Street from City Hall. Lindsey left his Dodge Avenger in the parking garage beneath the office building. He liked everything about the car, especially its safety features, except for the name. Why name a car after a World War Two torpedo bomber?
He rode up in an elevator full of hard-strivers half his age.
The receptionist at International Surety looked up from her monitor screen and stared at him as if she feared that he would die on the spot of superannuation. He said, “I’m from SPUDS. Need to talk with the branch manager about the Simmons case.”
The woman hit a buzzer on her desk and Elmer Mueller emerged from somewhere. He’d added weight and lost hair since Lindsey had seen him last. And how long had that been? Lindsey wondered.
Elmer Mueller offered a reluctant handshake and ushered Lindsey into his private office. Behind Mueller’s desk and across North Main, City Hall gleamed in the March sunlight. Elmer Mueller gestured Lindsey to a chair.
The décor was modern. Elmer Mueller’s desktop was clear except for a keyboard and monitor. That seemed to be the standard of the day. But the portraits on Elmer Mueller’s