The Emerald Cat Killer (5 page)

She managed a laugh. “My mother's gone. Died two years ago. I warned her to calm down. She was a perfect candidate for a stroke and she had one. At least she went fast, that was a mercy. She could never have coped with being disabled.”

“I'm sorry.”

She nodded. “We never got along, you know. I think she was frustrated. I think she had dreams as a girl, wanted to … I don't really know, Hobart. I'm not sure that she knew herself. But those were the old days. There wasn't much chance for a black woman. She got out of the ghetto, made a decent living. She had a good husband. But forty years shuffling papers in a rabbit warren … she wanted more. I think so, anyway. And she laid her hopes on me.”

She made a funny sound, half moan and half grunt. “Do you have anything to drink, Bart?”

“You mean alcohol?”

She made a positive noise.

“I'll call room service.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Let's go out, then.”

“Yes, let's.”

In the elevator, Lindsey said, “I don't really know this town. Not anymore. Where should we go?”

“What's your pick, noisy or quiet?”

He thought about it. “Noisy.”

She drove a battered Ford Falcon.

As Lindsey climbed in he said, “Your brother still in the mechanic business?”

“He's got a shop on San Pablo. Takes customers only by referral, and there's a waiting list.”

She tapped a button on the dashboard and the car was filled with the sound of a Bach harpsichord piece.

She guided the Falcon under the freeway and parked at a converted railroad station. The sign over the entrance read,
BRENNAN'S—SINCE 1959
. Marvia had told the truth. It was noisy. The bartender, a woman with short-cropped hair and a welcoming smile, greeted Marvia. Marvia introduced Lindsey and the bartender shook his hand. She had a warm, firm grip.

The bartender poured a straight shot for Marvia and sent an inquiring look at Lindsey.

He said, “I'll have the same.”

Marvia grinned at him. “Well, you've decided to drink like a man.”

He lifted his glass, they clicked them together and each tossed back a shot.

The bar was full. The air was heavy with the odors of alcohol and food. Lindsey looked for the source of the latter and spotted a serving line. He asked Marvia if she was hungry and she said she wasn't. Neither was Lindsey.

When the bartender refilled their glasses Lindsey held his at eye level. Observed through the amber fluid, the scene at the bar looked like a moment in a film noir, an odd sepia print. In his mind's eye the drinkers were transformed into William Bendix, Lizabeth Scott, Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer. The bartender was Mercedes McCambridge.

He lowered the glass and shook his head to clear it of the image. He said, “I'm glad Tyrone's all right. I remember that old Volvo he upgraded for me. Sometimes I wish I still had it but I decided to sell it when I.S. sent me to Europe.”

Marvia's eyes widened. “Europe?”

“Had to go to Italy. Nasty case. One of my colleagues was murdered.”

“In Italy?”

“Sorry. No. In New York. Of course, the police in New York weren't happy to have this insurance man from Colorado—I was working out of Denver—poking around their case. But there was some hanky-panky with corporate funds, and I wound up having to work on that angle. Wound up in Rome. That didn't last long but Corporate got wind of it and I wound up back there for a few years.
Capeesh Italiano?
”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Me, neither. Not really, I picked up enough to take a taxi or order a meal. After a while I could even buy a pair of
scarpe.
”

Puzzled look.

“Shoes.”

“Oh.”

“I've forgotten most of it by now. Use it or lose it.” They were silent, surrounded by voices and activity. There were half a dozen TVs playing. If you glanced around the saloon at one set after another you'd never guess what sport was in season. It seemed as if they all were.

Lindsey said, “What about your son?”

“Jamie's made it. My mother would be happy, I think. He works at Pixar. Studied computer animation. He lived cartoons when he was a kid. Remember Jamie and his friend Hakeem?”

Lindsey said he did.

“I had a time keeping those kids out of trouble. Jamie smoked dope, stole a few things. Always pushing the envelope. Hakeem's family was so strict, he couldn't go to school without polishing his shoes and putting a knot in his tie.”

The bartender opened a bag of barbecued chips and filled a bowl with them. She put them down in front of Lindsey and Plum.

Lindsey said, “I remember.”

“They both made it, Hobart. For once in my life I think I did something right. They both made it. Jamie's a manager at Pixar now. Hakeem runs a computer company in Oakland. They build systems to order and they do repairs. He and Jamie are talking about getting together and starting a company of their own. Jamie will do the creative work, Hakeem will be the tech man.”

She laughed. “I guess I did all right with Jamie. When his father dumped me, the only thing I got out of him was a last name for my son. At least there was that. There was a time…” Marvia downed her second drink, put her hand on Lindsey's and said, “What about this case, Bart? What are you doing in Berkeley?”

“Same old thing. Nothing dramatic. Marvia, is this official? Are you on duty?”

“You mean the old, never-drink-on-duty thing? That's half a myth, you know. Undercover, developing a suspect, late at night in a sleazy bar, and you tell the bartender, ‘I'll have a right fresh glass of that there sarsaparilla, ma'am.' I don't think so. But it just so happens that I'm officially off-duty anyway.”

“Is that why you're in civvies? I got a weird response from Strombeck when I asked about you. And from Dorothy Yamura, too.”

“Gordon Simmons was my friend's husband. I have a little account at that savings and loan where Angela works. We were acquaintances, then friends. When her husband was killed, it broke her up.”

“I talked with her. She seems to be doing all right.”

“It's been a year. BPD has a lot of other things on its plate, but I'm still working the Simmons case. Can we leave it at that?”

Lindsey shook his head. “I don't think so. I'm working on it, too.”

“In a different way, Hobart. What are you really after?”

He felt sheepish. What was a copyright suit compared to a murder case? Still … He explained it to Marvia. He concluded, “I think the answer is on Gordon Simmons's laptop.”

“I think we'll crack this case from both angles if we find that computer,” Marvia agreed.

She offered him a ride back to his hotel in her battered Falcon. It didn't run like an unrestored relic. When Lindsey commented on it Marvia said, “Protective coloration, Hobart. Tyrone's magic. This is a Falcon on the outside but it's a V-eight Mustang on the inside.”

At the Woodfin they exchanged cell-phone numbers. “Strictly unofficial, Hobart. Anything official goes through Olaf Strombeck. He's a good man. But keep me posted. I'll do the same for you.”

Later, in his hotel room, Lindsey turned on a late-night movie. He missed the opening credits but he recognized it anyway; he'd seen it half a dozen times. Rosalind Russell as Valerie Stanton, a Broadway comedienne with an itch to play Ibsen. Sydney Greenstreet as a middle-aged homicide detective. Massive, immobile, self-mocking, ironic, polite. And patient. Prodding, prodding, prodding. Ultimately invincible.

Somebody had been reading Rex Stout. Why Greenstreet's character was Captain Danbury instead of Nero Wolfe was a greater mystery than who killed Gordon Dunning. Probably a copyright problem.

FOUR

Gordian House wasn't a house at all. Not that Lindsey expected it to be one, but he'd looked forward to something more impressive than a dingy office suite on the sixth floor of an aging commercial building on Shattuck Avenue. The furnishings looked as if they hadn't been changed since Ike was president. There was actually a Remington Standard on the receptionist's desk and a half-height wooden room divider with a swinging door in it. The only thing missing was a PBX switchboard. They probably kept that in the storage closet, waiting for time to flow backward.

The receptionist looked as if she couldn't decide whether she was an unreconstructed hippie chick or a frowsy housewife, but when Lindsey presented his card she buzzed him through to an inner office. That was no more modern and no less dingy than the outer chamber. There was only one desk in the room, with a small sign reading
JACK BURNSIDE.

The shirtsleeved man behind the desk looked to be in his sixties with unkempt, graying hair and a bushy mustache to match. He stood up and removed a half-smoked cigar from his mouth. He snarled, “I hope you're not from the goddamned tobacco police.”

Lindsey said, “No, no. Nothing like that.”

Was Burnside joking or was there really such a thing as the tobacco police in this town? Never mind. Lindsey presented his card. “I'm from International Surety. We carry your liability policy.”

“I know that, I know that.” Burnside transferred the cigar to his other hand and extended a callused paw to Lindsey. He gestured Lindsey to a battered wooden chair that must have come from a liquidation sale at a thrift shop. “Look, I don't know what these high-tone bluebloods at Marston and Morse have against an honest businessman. Christ, Linsley—”

“Lindsey.”

“That's what I said. Linsley.”

“Lindsey.”

“Jesus Christ on a crutch, did you come in here to interrupt me every five words? Look, I've been in this racket all my life. You know I worked with Aaron Wyn in New York? I sold pictures for Irving Klaw. You wouldn't believe it, I once put a move on Bettie Page. So innocent she didn't even know what was going on. But there was some hot, hot stuff. I mean, hot. I worked for Hamling in Chicago. I gave Milton Luros his start. I was publishing pulps that would make a Donnenfeld blush and Miltie painted covers for me.”

He had placed his cigar on the edge of a huge cut-glass ashtray. The cigar had fallen off and added a blackened spot to the many already on the wooden desktop before burning out. He picked it up, clicked a butane lighter into life, and reignited the cigar. After a couple of puffs he leaned back in his chair and started up again, looking and sounding to Lindsey like the great Lee J. Cobb.

“These snooty SOBs want to put me out of business. I'll fight the bastards. I'll fight 'em all the way. I'll whip their asses in court.”

Lindsey raised his hand, feeling like a schoolboy asking permission to leave the room.

Burnside grunted acknowledgement but he kept on rolling. “There's no way they can beat me but if they do it's on your backside, not mine. International Sure-As-Hell, that's what I call you guys. International Sure-As-Hell. If I lose—no way I lose, I'm going to clank their clock, those arrogant SOBs—but if they do win, International Sure-As-Hell has to pay, not Gordian House.”

He paused again to draw on his cigar. Before he could resume, Lindsey said, “Mr. Burnside—”

Burnside exhaled a cloud of blue-gray smoke. “Jack. Call me Jack. What's your first name?” He squinted at Lindsey's business card. “Hobart. Hobart. What the hell kind of name is that? I think I bought a Hobart stove one time. Or was it a dishwasher? My wife buys these things. I give her an allowance, I don't know what she does with the money half the time.”

“Yes, well, that's my name. You'd have to ask my mother how she picked it. Jack. All right. Jack. What I need to know is your side of this story.”

“You been talking to those snobs at Murder and Monkeyshines?”

“No, sir. I haven't talked to them yet. I hope I can get this matter straightened out. If Gordian House is blameless I hope we can convince the other side to drop their case. If not, International Surety will try and work out a settlement. We don't want a court fight and I hope they don't want one, either. Nobody wins that kind of battle except for the lawyers.”

“You want to hear my side?”

Lindsey nodded.

“I already told my lawyer all about it. What's-her-name Caswell. J. P. Caswell. Won't even use a first name. I call her Jaypee. Firm is Hopkins, MacKinney, Black. In Oakland.”

“Yes, I'll talk with them. With Ms. Caswell. But I'd like to hear it in your own words, Mister … ah, Jack.”

“Okay. Here we go.”

He pushed himself up and opened a door to another room. Lindsey peered though the doorway. The room was full of modern equipment. A crew of young men and women sat at computers, busily clicking away at keyboards. Burnside disappeared. Lindsey waited. Burnside reappeared, closed the door behind him. He tossed a paperback book at Lindsey. Lindsey managed to catch it. He turned it over and studied the package.

The cover painting showed a woman wearing an off-the-shoulder blouse and a short, tight skirt sitting on a barstool. A tough-looking, unshaven male in a T-shirt and jeans had one hand on her thigh. His other hand held a revolver. The whole scene was framed in a porthole-shaped window. The title of the book, lettered in simulated neon tubing, was
The Emerald Cat.

“This is the
casus belli
?” Lindsey asked.

“The what?”

“The cause of all the trouble.”

“Yeah, right. See the byline on that thing?”

Lindsey read it aloud. “Steve Damon.” He opened the book, looked at the copyright page. The book was credited to Gordian House, Inc.

“Why isn't it copyrighted by the author?”

Burnside said, “Huh. We bought it. Agent sold it to us. What they call work-done-for-hire, even though it wasn't done for us. But it's ours now.”

“You bought it from Steve Damon?”