The Classic Car Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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opposite a railroad track and an industrial slum. But the condos themselves looked expensive, and with the estuary on the other side, it seemed a safe bet that the occupants wiped the sight of the factories and warehouses from their minds when they got home at night.
He parked and found Roberts’ apartment, and settled in to wait for the man to come home. Of course Roberts might be staying at Dr. Bernstein’s house for the rest of the day, but Lindsey didn’t want to tackle him there. Better to beard the lion in his den.
Roberts had a reserved parking spot with his name on a little wooden marker. It was one of a long row. It reminded Lindsey of a simple cross marking a grave in a national cemetery. Mother loved to page through copies of Life and Look magazines from the 1940s and ’50s and ’60s, and Lindsey had seen enough photos of Arlington and other burying grounds of the nation’s war dead to have the images burned into his mind.
The bright gray afternoon was deepening into the charcoal sky of dusk and Lindsey had turned on the Hyundai’s engine and heater to fight off the chill that crept palpably out of the estuary.
A silver-gray Porsche pulled into Roberts’ parking space. From the driver’s seat of the Hyundai, Lindsey could see the driver clutching the wheel. Roberts was returning alone. Dr. Bernstein must have dropped him off at his car. Roberts must have parked it in a guarded structure. No way that Porsche would have survived unscathed overnight in downtown Oakland!
Lindsey jotted down the Porsche’s license: JAZZ BBZ.
Roberts climbed out of the car, armed its alarm system, and headed for his apartment. Something else for Lindsey to check on—had the Duesenberg been equipped with an alarm? Had the thief known enough to disable it? Was there more evidence here of contributory negligence, or of an inside job?
He watched Roberts walk with his head down and his shoulders up, hands shoved in the pockets of an expensively cut overcoat. It was cold!
Lindsey followed Roberts to his front door and tapped him on the shoulder as he extended his key.
Roberts turned. He had a round face and thick, longish hair. At least, where it protruded from beneath his gray felt cap. His eyes looked red and he had clearly not shaved that day.
“Joseph Roberts?”
The man grunted.
“I’m Hobart Lindsey. International Surety Corporation. We chatted earlier today.”
Roberts drew back as if Lindsey’s touch was painful to him. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“You said not to come to Dr. Bernstein’s house. I didn’t. Thought you’d be more comfortable talking in your own home.”
Roberts stood there looking at Lindsey with distaste. The silence stretched out. Lindsey could hear the gentle lapping sound of the water in the estuary. It must be pleasant for the occupants of the condos. He managed to outwait Roberts.
“You guys work on Sundays?” Roberts turned and inserted his key in the lock.
“There’s a lot of money at stake, Mr. Roberts. I’ll only take a few minutes. Please.”
Roberts shoved the door open and gestured Lindsey inside.
“Thanks.” Lindsey preceded Roberts into the apartment, waited while he pulled the door shut. He stood uncomfortably while Roberts deliberately hung his overcoat and cap on a brass tree. Roberts’ luxuriant hair was thinning on top, and had worn through to his scalp in a silver-dollar sized spot in the back. In front, it was receding from a widow’s peak.
Making no attempt to take Lindsey’s coat or offer him a seat, Roberts headed for the end of the room. There was a small bar there, apparently built in by the thoughtful designers of the condo. He proceeded to make himself an oversized martini. He turned around and lifted the glass to his lips, his eyes on Lindsey.
Lindsey noticed that Roberts’ hand shook slightly as he raised the glass. Behind him on the bar stood the bottles he’d used. Gilbey’s gin. Frankenstein vermouth. Frankenstein? Must be some kind of joke. Sure, and Dracula wine—red, of course. Any day now. Nothing was impossible. Lindsey had waited long enough for Roberts to react. He lowered himself to the white-pebbled sofa and laid his pocket organizer on a blondwood coffee table. “Now, Mr. Roberts—it’s Joseph Roberts, is that correct?”
Roberts nodded minimally.
“The van Arndts tell me that you actually witnessed the theft of the Duesenberg.”
“Sort of.” Roberts pursed his mouth in obvious annoyance.
“What does that mean?”
“For one, it means that I was pretty blotto at the time and I wasn’t seeing much of anything.” Roberts lowered himself into a chair near the coffee table, set at 45 degrees from Lindsey’s position.
“For two, then?”
“For two, as much as I can remember. I went out for some fresh air. I’d been drinking a lot, and I was afraid I was going to black out. I think I’d made a little pass at Jayjay and she got pretty mad at me. Stupid hag, I was doing her a favor. I went outside, I figured fresh air would do me some good.” He covered his mouth with one hand, almost in time to conceal a belch.
Lindsey said, “Who’s Jayjay?”
“Jeanette James Smith. You know, the gal who runs the mansion for the City of Oakland.”
“Sorry I interrupted. You got outside.…” Lindsey nodded his head encouragingly, offering Roberts his most ingratiating smile.
Roberts resisted for a while, then said, “Look, here’s what I saw. I was standing on the edge of the lawn, looking toward the lake. You know, they fixed up the old necklace of lights surrounding the lake, and I was looking at the lights, at the reflections. They settled my stomach. I guess I had too much to drink and not enough to eat. You know buffet food. Looks great, tastes like watered cardboard. I was afraid I was going to barf if I didn’t black out. Maybe both.”
“Ah, but then—?”
“Well, I heard the car door slam and I heard the motor start up. But that was behind me, you see.”
“Yes. Did Duesenbergs have self-starters? Or did somebody have to crank it?”
“Good question. Yeah, it has a self-starter. I was checking on that a few weeks ago. They came in on the 1911 Caddie. Sure, all the Dusies had ’em.”
“Did you see how many people were in the car?”
“Not really.”
“How many door slams did you hear?”
Roberts pressed his glass to his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t say anything.
“Mr. Roberts?”
“Sorry. Look, you want a drink, Lindsey? One of these? Or a whiskey? A beer? Cup of coffee? I can put on the Melitta.”
“Oh, coffee, please. But—the number of slams.”
Roberts stood up. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Yeah. I was trying to remember. I assumed there was just one.”
“But…?”
Roberts frowned. “Now that I think about it, there might have been two.”
Lindsey’s eyebrows rose. “Might have been two?”
“Is it important?”
“I think so. Look, Mr. Roberts—”
“Joe.”
“If there was only one slam, there was probably only one thief. If there were two slams, there were probably two thieves. Maybe more. The Duesenberg is a convertible?”
“Four door convertible.”
“Top would have been in place.”
“On