The Emerald Cat Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
Читать онлайн книгу.
He swiveled, nodded permission to City Hall to stay where it was, then swung back toward Lindsey. “We’ve had to cut back, I can’t spare people to hold your hand, and I don’t like SPUDS poking its nose into my business.”
“Your business?” Lindsey raised his eyebrows.
“Running this branch. If Ducky has any complaints about the way I run this office he can call in Corporate.” He dropped a fist onto the sheet of gray-tinted glass that topped his desk. “How long since you worked out of this office, Lindsey?”
Lindsey smiled. “Twenty two years, Elmer.”
“Didn’t I see your name in the retirement column of IntSurNews a few years ago?”
“Ducky asked me to come back on special assignment.”
Mueller pursed his lips like an exasperated school teacher and swung his head slowly from side to side. “I suppose I might as well set you up. There’s an empty office in the suite. Remember Mrs. Blomquist?”
Lindsey said that he did.
“Dropped dead. Had her retirement papers in, bought a condo down in La Jolla, had her furniture shipped ahead. Moved into a motel for her last few days in Walnut Creek. Came in to clean out her desk and say good-bye and dropped dead. You can use her computer.”
Lindsey thanked him. The receptionist who’d greeted him showed him to the vacant office and handed him a printout of file access codes. She closed the door behind her. Lindsey got to work.
The computer files on the Simmons case were sparse. Policy date and number, premium payment records, date of death, cause of death, coroner’s and police reports, claim forms and record of payment to beneficiary. Everything looked normal. Lindsey felt sorry for Simmons’s widow, Angela. He wondered if there were any children. If so, they weren’t listed on the policy. But it had been in effect for a long time. Maybe Simmons took it when the couple were newlyweds and never added bennies when the tykes came along. Bad work by the agent, if that was so.
He printed out what he needed, checked the bennie’s phone number and placed a call to Mrs. Simmons. A neutral voice answered, “Rockridge Savings and Loan. If you know your party’s extension enter it now. Otherwise, please speak the name of your party and stay on the line for assistance. This call may be monitored for quality control.”
“Mrs. Simmons, please.”
She had a pleasant enough voice. She didn’t sound particularly grief-stricken and obviously she’d returned to work. But then it had been a year since Gordon Simmons’s death. Lindsey explained that he was investigating Simmons’s death in connection with a lawsuit. Mrs. Simmons said that she got off work at four o’clock and Lindsey arranged to come to her home.
Before he took his leave of the branch office, he returned Richelieu’s earlier call.
“Okay, got it, Mr. Richelieu.” Oh, how he longed to call him Ducky to his face—or to his telephone. Maybe someday. Maybe not. “Okay, you know that our client is looking at a nasty copyright infringement suit. We already paid a death claim related to this case, and now we’re on the other side of the fence.”
“For heaven’s sake, Lindsey, don’t babble back what I told you. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Who’s our lawyer? Shouldn’t that information be in the file?”
“Isn’t it there? You’ll be happy about that one, at least. You remember your old buddy Eric Coffman?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well he didn’t put in his retirement papers and go home to sit on his hindquarters and collect pay for no work. He’s still at work. And he’s our sheriff on this one if we can’t head the rustlers off at the pass.”
“He doesn’t work for I.S., does he?”
“He’s on retainer.”
“Okay, at least that’s good. I think I’ll round up a posse and get a feel for what’s going on before I call Eric. But if you feel like it, Mr. Richelieu, you send him a smoke signal to let him know I’m on the trail.”
And where the hell did all the cowboy talk come from?
* * * *
The Simmons home was a comfortable-looking craftsman bungalow on Eton Avenue, a short side street not far from Rockridge Savings and Loan. A ten-year-old gray Chevy stood in the driveway. A shoulder-high brick pillar set off concrete steps leading to a heavy wooden front door. The house looked like Depression-era construction, well kept, with a tidy front lawn and a small, carefully tended flower bed.
Lindsey had parked at the curb. He rang the doorbell and was greeted by a yipping dog.
Mrs. Simmons opened the door a crack and said, “Mr. Lindsey?”
Lindsey passed a business card through the opening. It read, International Surety / Special Projects Unit—Detached Service. There was a cartoon image of a potato, the visual pun for SPUDS, and Lindsey’s name.
“I hope you don’t mind Millicent.” Mrs. Simmons pushed the dog aside and admitted Lindsey. Millicent sniffed his trousers, decided he was not a burglar, and backed away.
Moments later, seated in the living room, Lindsey said, “Mrs. Simmons, I understand that you are suing Gordian House.”
“Angela Simmons, please. Marston and Morse and I.”
Lindsey found himself liking her. She was casually but neatly dressed, her medium brown hair done in a soft style, her manner relaxed. This was a woman who knew who she was, who lived comfortably, if modestly, who accepted herself on her own terms and the world on its.
He said, “Yes.”
“Gordon’s publishers.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize his byline. I’m afraid I don’t read as much as I ought to.”
“That’s all right, he didn’t use his real name. I’ve saved copies of his books. He was careless about them but I was proud of him, I saved all his editions.”
She crossed the room to a bookcase and returned carrying half a dozen paperbacks. She spread them on the coffee table. The covers featured colorful paintings and splashy lettering. The titles followed a pattern: The Blue Gazelle, The Pink Elephant, The Yellow Thrush, The White Bat, The Purple Cow.
Lindsey couldn’t keep from starting, “I’ve never seen a purple cow.…”
Angela put up her hand like a traffic cop stopping the flow of cars. “We laughed about that a lot. Nobody younger than forty seemed to get the joke.”
Lindsey scanned the book covers. The artwork wasn’t really too bad. His own father had been a cartoonist and Lindsey had an eye for skillful rendering. The subject matter on these was fairly lurid. The byline was Wallace Thompson. Lindsey looked a question at Angela Simmons.
“Gordon had a civil service job. There were government regulations about publishing outside work. I don’t know what they were afraid of. Maybe somebody would give away secrets of the Social Security system. Or maybe someone would write dirty books on the side and some politician would kick up a fuss. But it wasn’t a bad thing. Gordon liked to keep his day job and his writing separate anyway. No one at the office knew about Wallace Thompson.”
Lindsey reached inside his jacket for a notebook and a silver International Surety pen. He hadn’t got a gold watch but at least he’d got a silver pen and pencil when he said good-bye. “You don’t mind if I take some notes?”
She didn’t mind. In fact she offered to get them coffee, and Lindsey accepted with gratitude.
“Mr. Lindsey—”
“Hobart.”
“I don’t understand why International Surety has got involved. There’s no problem with Gordon’s life insurance, is there? You can’t take