The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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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