The Silver Chariot Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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Lindsey waited.
“I didn’t mean that you were, uh—”
Lindsey said, “Never mind. What about Berry?”
“Uh, just twice. I mean, he was just shot twice. Small caliber rounds, the detective said. Did I tell you that? Police don’t have a lab report yet but the detective told me the holes were small and there wasn’t much bleeding, almost certainly .22’s. That wouldn’t be too noisy, either, not like a .45 or a nine millimeter or even a Police Special.”
Lindsey held the phone in his right hand and held his left hand in front of his face. It was shaking. “Where was Berry hit?”
“Not nice,” Zissler said. “One gut-shot. That’s really nasty. You shoot somebody like that when you want him to take a long time dying and to suffer a lot. The detective told me that, see? And the other was through the head. Made a hole in his forehead, must have stayed in his brain, no exit wound. The detective said that the bullet must have bounced around inside his skull, chopped his brain to pieces. Probably still in there. Probably the coroner will get it out. The detective told me that.”
Lindsey told Zissler he was coming to New York. Mrs. Blomquist would set up the trip from Denver, and would Zissler please make arrangements for him in New York. He took Zissler’s extension, got the name and number of the detective in charge of the case, and hung up. Lindsey had jotted notes on a yellow pad as Zissler spoke. He transferred the key information to his pocket organizer and slipped it into his jacket. He trotted back to Richelieu’s office.
Richelieu had run a comb through his hair and was seated behind his desk; he was back to his usual imperial style. “You’re going.”
“Of course.”
“It’s I.S. business.”
“It’s SPUDS business.”
Richelieu looked up at Lindsey. “You’re after my job, aren’t you?”
Lindsey said, “No way.”
He went back to his own office and logged onto KlameNet/Plus. He used his SPUDS override code to get into Cletus Berry’s personnel file. How well had he really known Berry? After that first training course in Denver they’d only met a couple more times, always at SPUDS refresher meetings and seminars.
Were they friends? Maybe. Colleagues, surely. Partners of a sort. But Lindsey had a feeling that if he left Cletus Berry’s murder in the hands of the NYPD odds were it would never be solved, and if he relied on Morris Zissler to handle the matter, the odds would be even worse.
He heard a humming sound. He shook his head and it went away. He wasn’t going to let Morris Zissler haunt him. The man seemed earnest enough, just not too bright, and slightly on the smug side. Not a promising combination.
* * * *
Lindsey shut down the laptop and slid it into its case.
The teenager in the Denver Nuggets cap and the Kiss Me shirt had sagged against Lindsey. Trying to get out from under the teenager’s weight, Lindsey squirmed. The kid twitched in his sleep, jumped, then climbed out of his seat and waddled up the aisle, toward the toilet. Halfway there he glanced back over his shoulder and gave Lindsey a dirty look.
Lindsey pulled the in-flight magazine out of the pocket in front of him again and flipped through the pages. The reprint of A Christmas Carol was illustrated in colorful scenes that made Dickens’ London look a lot like the set of a Tim Burton movie. The publisher noted in tiny type that the story was abridged for the convenience of busy air travelers. The magazine was full of ads for tropical resorts, business suites in big city hotels, and offers of free sample watches, computer software, and carry-on luggage. Everybody was running a Christmas special, even on free offers.
Lindsey sighed and gave up on the magazine. There was always the folder illustrating evacuation routes to study. It was a marvel of graphic communication, hardly a word in it. Perfect for getting a message to a multilingual audience.
Outside the 777’s windows the December moon shone so brightly that it seemed to blaze. A cloud layer beneath the jet reflected the moonlight. Above the plane the black sky was dotted with stars. However, there was no sign of either Santa’s sleigh or the Star of Bethlehem.
The captain’s voice broke Lindsey’s reverie. They would be landing at JFK in half an hour. The temperature was well below freezing and sleet was falling in New York.
Lindsey slipped his International Surety credit card into the slot in front of him and made an air-to-ground telephone call.
Morris Zissler had agreed to pick him up at the airport. At least the man was good for that. Lindsey wondered what Zissler looked like. Based on the man’s voice he expected a heavyset, middle-aged man in a brown suit. Zissler would be wearing a rumpled white button-down shirt and a worn, striped tie.
Coming out of the jetway, Lindsey was engulfed in a maelstrom of travelers and the families and friends who turned out to greet them. Half the greeters and half the travelers had brightly-wrapped gifts in their hands. He spotted his seatmate, the massive teenager, waddling from the gate, a flight-bag in his hand.
A spectacular blonde, as tall as the kid in the baseball cap but easily 200 pounds lighter, flew into his arms, hugging him and planting kisses on his face. Lindsey blinked. Maybe the fat kid had something that Lindsey didn’t know about. Maybe the spectacular blonde just liked them fat.
By the time the crowd had thinned Lindsey spotted the man he guessed was Morris Zissler. His expectation was not disappointed. He approached the man, said, “Zissler?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Lindsey? Oh, I see you’ve got one of those little potato badges in your button hole, just like Mr. Berry. SPUDS, I get it. That’s clever. Just call me Moe, Mr. Lindsey. Welcome to New York.”
He helped Lindsey collect his baggage. Lindsey liked to travel light, but for once he had checked his flight bag and for once the bag had made its way from Denver to JFK without disappearing, getting bashed beyond recognition, or taking a side trip to York, England.
Zissler insisted on carrying the heavy flight bag from the claim area to the parking lot. The sleet was falling and Lindsey turned up the collar of his seldom-used overcoat. He didn’t have a hat, and he could feel his hair starting to crust over with sleet. Maybe the kid in the Nuggets hat had more on the ball than met the eye.
With a grunt that interrupted his humming, Zissler hefted Lindsey’s flight bag into the trunk of a new sedan. Lindsey was too tired and sore to notice what kind of sedan it was. He held onto the laptop. He thought he might get used to this VIP treatment in time. It wasn’t really so bad.
“You picked a rough night to fly, Mr. Lindsey.” Zissler actually held the door open for him.
“Cletus Berry picked a rough night to get murdered.”
Zissler started the engine and put the sedan into gear. Lindsey noticed that the car was full of peppermint fumes. He leaned his elbow against the door and squeezed his eyes between forefinger and thumb.
Even at this hour of the morning, and even in miserable, freezing, wet December weather, the freeway leading into Manhattan was jammed.
No, Lindsey told himself, they don’t call them freeways here.
CHAPTER TWO
Lindsey scrunched down inside the futon, alternately cursing himself for not calling ahead for a hotel reservation and either Mrs. Blomquist or Corporate Travel for not thinking to ask if he needed one. No, it was his own fault for relying on Morris Zissler’s judgment.
It was cold. Of course—this was an office building, why would the landlord provide heat late at night? Fortunately, Berry had brought in a space heater. It helped a little. Only a little.
In his years with International Surety, Lindsey had done plenty of traveling, and he’d always stayed in comfortable accommodations. But when Moe Zissler asked Lindsey where to drop him off, Lindsey had no answer.