The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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A smile flashed across Richelieu’s lips so fast that Lindsey would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching for a reaction. “Sit down, Lindsey.” That was an improvement! “Mrs. Blomquist can phone Stapleton and take care of that. Harden is still running Regional and Mueller is running Walnut Creek but you’re working for me now. For me. You get that?”
Lindsey hesitated for a moment before slipping back into his chair. This wasn’t the FBI, despite what Desmond Richelieu might think. And it wasn’t the army and it wasn’t the Mafia. It was a corporation, for heaven’s sake, and if Lindsey just decided to walk out of here, there was nothing that International Surety could do to stop him.
Richelieu smiled. “This is your first assignment for SPUDS, and I’m going to make it a nice easy one for you. Just to help you get your feet wet. You understand?”
Lindsey nodded. If he answered verbally, even grunted, Richelieu could turn away and still continue the conversation. But if Lindsey spoke only in body language, Richelieu would have to stay focused on him. It was a subtle tug-of-war. Maybe it was something in the Rocky Mountain air that was changing Lindsey. Maybe it was his encounter the night before with Aurora Delano.
What kind of man would break his wife’s arm because he’d lost a job? A common enough type, if the TV feature stories about battered women were to be believed. Was that the kind of man who ran the governments and corporations and families of the world? What kind of man was Hobart Lindsey? What kind of man had he been since Hayward State, and what kind of man was he becoming?
“Make it a good one,” he said.
The ghost-smile flickered across Richelieu’s lips again. He reached under the edge of his desk. Lindsey assumed he was pushing a button to summon Mrs. Blomquist. Lindsey wondered whether Richelieu had a telephone in his office, or a computer, or any of the other tools of the modern corporation. Maybe he let Mrs. Blomquist deal with machinery.
The door opened behind Lindsey and he swung around to see Mrs. Blomquist carry in a folder. Lindsey chewed the inside of his lips. He’d lost a point to Richelieu. He followed Mrs. Blomquist’s progress as she carried the folder to Richelieu and laid it on his desk. Lindsey didn’t follow her as she retreated to the outer office. He figured that he’d got back maybe a quarter of the point he’d lost. It was really getting complicated when you had to calculate fractions of points.
“This is practically in your backyard,” Richelieu said. He hadn’t opened the folder, just left it lying on his desk. “Elmer Mueller has written a special policy for a film company that’s going to shoot some footage at the Oakland airport. You can stop and check this out on your way home today, Lindsey.”
“How much is involved?”
“Ah, this is a big policy. Cost of the aircraft, indemnity to the Port of Oakland, personal liability, life coverage of people involved in the film.”
“Why didn’t the movie company set up their own coverage?”
Richelieu tapped the folder with one fingertip. The folder was of tobacco-brown cardboard. Richelieu’s fingernails were perfectly manicured and coated with clear polish that caught the sunlight coming off Cherry Creek. “It’s an odd situation. Not a commercial studio. Somebody got a line on a bucket of foundation money, put together an ad hoc organization to make a film.”
He ran a polished fingernail over his neatly-trimmed moustache.
Lindsey said, “I don’t understand. Is there a claim on the policy?”
Richelieu shook his head. “If there were it would be Mueller’s problem, not mine. This is a risky operation. We’re getting a nice premium out of it, but if we have to pay off, we’ll be in a deep hole. We’re covering their aircraft, the flight crews, ground crews, passengers, the film crews, bystanders, physical plant—the works.”
He pulled his rimless glasses down his nose and peered at Lindsey over their tops. “What if a plane crashes and takes out a schoolyard full of kids? Or an office building? You had a light plane crack up in a shopping mall out there, didn’t you?”
“I remember it,” Lindsey said.
“Well, what if—say, what if one of these people pancakes into the ballpark out there during a baseball game? Can you imagine the claims? It could cost us millions. It could put us out of business!”
“And you want me to go out there and baby-sit these people? Make sure they run a nice safe operation? Is that it?”
“That’s it,” Richelieu said.
Lindsey said, “I’ll need to study the file.”
“Take it.” He shoved the tobacco-brown folder across his desk. Lindsey peered at him questioningly. Richelieu said, “It’s all photocopies.”
Lindsey locked the folder in his attaché case and stood up. This time Richelieu didn’t try to stop him.
Mrs. Blomquist hadn’t changed his reservations, but he caught a United 737 as he’d planned and he was in Oakland in time to face the afternoon rush hour on his way home to Walnut Creek.
Marvia Plum had offered to pick him up at the terminal if she could clear her schedule with the Berkeley Police Department, but Lindsey had promised Mother that she could come out to the airport. She’d been staying in the present most of the time, a slow, steady improvement over her condition in recent years, and he wanted to reward her for staying connected.
He didn’t think it was really her fault, the way she strayed through time. He hadn’t understood when he was little, and she had managed somehow to cope with everyday realities. But as he’d grown up, Mother had got more and more disconnected from the calendar.
Her point of reference was always that dreadful day in 1953, the day she had received word of her husband’s death in the China Sea. Sometimes she knew what year it was and what day, and connected with people around her perfectly. Other times, she thought Jack Kennedy was in the White House, or Harry Truman, or Ike. Most often, Ike.
But as Lindsey had grown away from her, as his relationship with Marvia Plum had ripened from a partnership to a friendship to a troubled and intermittent romance, Mother had somehow regained her grasp on the reality of time. She was still young enough to build a life for herself, and Lindsey wanted to do all that he could to help her.
Now he made his way down the faux terrazzo corridor. He carried his attaché and flight bag. No dealing with luggage carousels! He spotted Mother, a thinner, older, female version of himself. But not really very much older. She’d been a young bride, just a teenager, when her husband had died and her son was born.
With her was Joanie Schorr, their neighbor. Joanie had babysat with Mother when Lindsey had to go out at night. Mrs. Hernández came during the day. Lindsey stayed with Mother most nights and weekends. But Joanie had been the real lifesaver. Even today, she had driven the Hyundai from Walnut Creek. With a start, Lindsey realized that little Joanie was as old as Mother had been when she’d given birth to him.
Both women waved.
Attaché case in one hand and flight bag in the other, Lindsey couldn’t wave back. He hoped they could see his smile. He wanted to get in the Hyundai and get home.
CHAPTER THREE
The telephone’s burbling woke Lindsey from a strange sleep. It was wonderful being in his own home, in his own bed. Mother was asleep in her room, and he’d spoken with Marvia the night before and made a dinner date with her.
But in his dreams images of Aurora Delano became confused with Mrs. Blomquist’s white powdery face. B-17s tumbled through the wartime sky, spiraling downward to crash into German munitions factories. A bomber’s smashed wing became Aurora’s shattered arm. The bomber, its stressed metal wings replaced by human limbs, circled over the Oakland Coliseum, threatening thousands of baseball fans.
The voice on the phone was female and remotely familiar. Lindsey hadn’t identified it as that of Mrs. Blomquist before she said,