The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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the policies for, you know. People had a hard, sad life. A good send-off to the other side was important. Very important. Some of the policies they issued were for even less than that.”
Mueller said, “Well, we can put it in through KlameNet. If National doesn’t issue a check, what the hell, we can take it out of the coffee money. You’ll chip in, won’t you, Lindsey?”
Lindsey said, “You’re getting too far ahead. There’s something odd about this.”
Mueller rocked back on his heels and exhaled. “Don’t tell me you want to pull this one, put it into SPUDS.”
“I don’t know.”
“Sheesh, I don’t see how this company stays in business. Hire a flake like you, turn you loose on every kind of fruitcake case you want to play with. You’re like a baby. Anything shiny, anything different, it grabs your attention.”
Lindsey said, “Now, Elmer, that isn’t fair. I’ve saved the company a lot of money on those odd cases. Those comic books that were stolen on Telegraph Avenue, and the Duesenberg that was driven away from the Kleiner Mansion at Lake Merrit—I had a lot of help on those cases, but we saved International Surety something like three quarters of a million dollars.”
“Yeah. And that B-17 that disappeared from the airport, I suppose you covered yourself with glory on that one, too.”
Lindsey tried not to blush. “That was a tragic case. And it did cost the company, I’ll admit that. But when there’s a legitimate claim, it’s our duty to pay.”
Mueller exhaled. “Exactly my point.” He patted Lindsey on the shoulder. “Exactly my point. We owe the little man $25. If he didn’t cash in his policy when it matured, that’s his problem. We don’t owe him four hundred. Let’s pay the twenty-five and get on with our business. We have no reason to poke around in some ancient policy.” He reached for his wallet. “Hell, if nobody else will pay, I’ll personally pony up the $25.”
Lindsey heard a dry, rustling sound from behind him. He turned. Mr. MacReedy was struggling to stand up, feeling his pockets frantically. “My papers,” he said, “where are my papers?”
Ms. Wilbur hurried to him and helped him stand. She said, “Here’s everything, Mr. MacReedy. Not to worry. We were just checking our computer records against your policy. Everything seems to be in order.”
Mr. MacReedy said, “I have to have my papers.”
Ms. Wilbur folded the policy and stuffed it back into the old envelope. She helped Mr. MacReedy place the envelope carefully in his inside jacket pocket. Ms. Wilbur said, “Here, wait just a moment.”
She turned back to her desk, opened the drawer and shut it again. She came back with an oversized safety pin and pinned Mr. MacReedy’s jacket pocket closed. Now the envelope was safe.
Elmer Mueller said, “You’re placing your claim, based on that life policy, Mr. MacReedy?”
MacReedy nodded. He appeared to be afraid of Mueller. Lindsey couldn’t blame him.
Mueller said, “We’ll need a death certificate for the insured and a birth certificate or other identification proving that you are the legal beneficiary of the policy.” He turned toward Lindsey and snickered. “For the price of a bottle of scotch.”
MacReedy said, “My wife died three weeks ago last Tuesday. She was buried three days later.”
Ms. Wilbur said, “Who paid for the funeral, Mr. MacReedy? I thought that was what you needed this money for.”
“No, the Center paid for the funeral. We lived at the Paul Robeson Benevolent Retirement Center. We lived there together for the past twenty years, since our last child died. We had grandchildren but they’ve all gone on to lives of their own. They don’t know us any more. They lost track of us. But the Center buries its members.”
Elmer Mueller said, “Do you have the death certificate?”
Mr. MacReedy said, “It’s in my room at the Center. We had two rooms but after my wife died I had to give up one of the rooms. It’s a rule.”
Mueller tapped his fingers on a desktop.
Lindsey looked around. Ms. Wilbur’s friends from the costume jewelry firm had made their exit. Ms. Wilbur hovered behind Mueller.
Elmer Mueller said, “You’ll have to file the death certificate and your own ID and then we can pay the claim. Do you understand that?”
Mr. MacReedy nodded. “I do understand.”
Ms. Wilbur said, “How did you come out here, Mr. MacReedy? I know the Robeson Memorial. My house is in north Oakland. It’s no trouble to swing through Berkeley on my way home.”
Mr. MacReedy lifted his head proudly. “I traveled here by the rapid transit train. I used to use the old Key System. You remember the Key System?”
Ms. Wilbur smiled. “I do. Now we have the new system.”
“I use it regularly,” said MacReedy.
“Well, I’m leaving here in just a few minutes.” Ms. Wilbur gathered the two floral displays. “I’ll be happy to give you a ride home, Mr. MacReedy. And I’ll be happy to see these beautiful flowers at the Center. I don’t need them in my house. My husband couldn’t care less.”
MacReedy said, “That’s very kind of you. Very kind. What did you say your name was?”
Ms. Wilbur said, “You may call me Mathilde.”
Mr. MacReedy could walk unassisted but Lindsey used the excuse of helping the old man—h elping Ms. Wilbur help the old man—to the garage. It got him out of Elmer Mueller’s presence. He could hardly believe that Ms. Wilbur was retired. She was his friend, had taught him the ropes of International Surety, had alerted him to more than one case of corporate backstabbing.
Now Mueller would bring in an office manager of his own choosing. Lindsey wasn’t formally assigned to the Walnut Creek office any longer. He just got desk space and computer support there. SPUDS was autonomous within the company and he could rent an office of his own if he chose. It was just him and Ducky Richelieu, he didn’t answer to Mueller or to Harden or even to Ms. Johanssen any more.
Maybe he’d do that. Rent an unobtrusive space somewhere, make it his secret headquarters, keep a set of tights in the closet, rush out to solve cases like a cartoon superhero. Insuranceman. Or maybe Captain Claims. Huh, that had a ring to it. Hobart Lindsey, Captain Claims. He smiled.
But how could he handle it without Ms. Wilbur?
He watched Ms. Wilbur’s Toyota pull out of the garage, Mr. MacReedy’s tiny form silhouetted in the passenger seat. Then he climbed into his Hyundai and followed the Toyota into the street. He stayed with the Toyota as far as the freeway on-ramp, then continued past it and headed home.
Mother had got there ahead of him. She looked tired from her day’s work, too tired even to change from her office clothes. But she had tied her apron over them and was making dinner for herself and him anyway. It was her week to cook and she wasn’t going to let him take over. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
Mother said, “You have a message on the answering machine. I played it back, I thought it might be for me. But it was for you. A woman named Aurora.”
SPUDS business, thought Lindsey. Aurora Delano had been in his training class in Denver, then been assigned to the New Orleans office. She’d worked with him on a case in Louisiana. If it wasn’t a screamer—he checked the tape, and it wasn’t—he’d call her back in the morning.
After dinner they were just settling into the living room when the phone burbled. The first words Lindsey heard were, “You’d better get over here, Bart.”
He recognized Ms. Wilbur’s voice. He said, “Over where?”
“Over to the Robeson Center. You know