The Comic Book Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
collect their salaries.”
Lieutenant O’Hara leaned forward and poked a blunt finger toward Lindsey’s face. “Let me tell you something. This town has one of the most highly trained and hardest working police forces in the United States. We are also one of the busiest, and I would say the most constrained by rules and political interference.
“Now, I’m a fairly high-ranking officer on this police force, Mr. Lindsey, and in another four years I plan to retire on what you would call my nice fat pension. In my years of service I’ve been run down by a maniac, shot twice, I’ve saved a child from drowning and delivered eleven babies, and if you want to see my medals and certificates of commendation I keep ’m in this drawer in my desk along with my lunch box.
“Now, this town has a large transient population because of the University and the street people, and we’ve got very serious problems with murders, rapes, and drug-pushing all the way from the schoolyards and the flatlands to the rich people in the hills. You understand that? I am not going to pull an officer off residential burglary investigations with their potential for violence and death, to have her chase down a box of comic books to save your company paying off an insurance claim!”
Lindsey felt his face getting hot and red. “These aren’t just comic books, Lieutenant O’Hara! There’s a lot of money involved. Have you read that folder? Have you talked to Officer Plum? We’re talking about a quarter of a million dollars!”
O’Hara said, “If anybody tries to fence those comic books, we’ll hear about it and you’ll get them back. If the burglar wanted ’em for himself, I’m afraid they’re gone forever. If that satisfies you, that’s very good. If it doesn’t, then you’re free to try and track ’m down yourself, provided you don’t overstep your rights as a citizen.
“And now I’m goin’ to sit here on me fat Irish duff and eat me lunch of arroz con pollo. Don’t let the door smack you on the ass on your way out!”
Lindsey opened and shut his mouth. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally he picked up his briefcase and stamped out of O’Hara’s office.
On the staircase outside he came face to face with Officer Plum. She looked up at him, startled. “Mr. Lindsey! Were you looking for me?”
He ground his teeth and shook his head. “Never mind!”
“Did you get some new information on that Comic Cavalcade case?” she asked.
Lindsey said, “Never mind! One thing I’m learning, if you want something done around here, you have to do it yourself!”
He shoved past her and headed for the street.
CHAPTER FIVE
What now? It was obvious that the Berkeley Police Department was not going to help. They had their priorities, they responded to their town’s political agenda and their own bureaucratic interests. Damn O’Hara! He looked and sounded like a good old-fashioned Irish cop but when push came to shove he was just another worthless Berkeley hack. And damn Officer Plum! Damn her and her—Lindsey clenched his teeth and hissed an exhalation.
He climbed into his Hyundai and sat with his pocket organizer open, trying to decide what to do. He flipped to his notes on the Comic Cavalcade claim, read the address for Ridge Technology Systems and then unfolded a map. The RTS offices were in the Rockridge section that straddled the Berkeley-Oakland city line.
* * * *
Ridge Technology turned out to be standard California yuppie operation. Natural-stained redwood paneling, thick carpeting, bent-chrome-and-cushion furniture, framed prints of nature scenes on the walls. A receptionist dressed in up-to-the-minute casual chic smiled helpfully when he walked in.
“I’m looking for George Dunn,” Lindsey told her.
“Is Mr. Dunn expecting you, sir?” At least she seemed to be well trained.
“No.” Let her stew on that.
“Would you care to tell me the purpose of your visit, Mister...”
Lindsey didn’t bite. “I’ll take that up with Mr. Dunn.”
With a frown the receptionist picked up a telephone handset, punched a button, murmured briefly. Lindsey could see her appraising him all the while. Business suit, briefcase, neatly groomed. Probably safe but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.
“Mr. Dunn is very busy but he says he’ll take your call.” She pointed. “Please use the visitor’s telephone.”
Lindsey followed her gesture. He sat down on a chrome-and-cushion settee and picked up the phone.
“George Dunn here. Can I help you?”
Lindsey gave his name and affiliation. “Perhaps you were aware of the burglary at Comic Cavalcade in Berkeley. Terry Patterson gave me you name, Mr. Dunn. I think you’d better speak to me. In your own interest, Mr. Dunn.” In your own interest had at least a sixty-seven percent effectiveness rating.
Dunn’s voice had been a pleasant, youthful baritone. Suddenly it escalated an octave. “Burglary?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Uh, I’ll be right out.”
Before Lindsey could replace the telephone and pick up his briefcase, a door swung open and a thirtyish male hustled through. He wore a button-down shirt and immaculate jeans. Beneath razor-cut hair his face showed stress.
“I didn’t know anything about any burglary. Patterson said he was just about finished assembling the collection. Are the comic books safe? When did all this happen? You’d better come with me.”
He grabbed Lindsey by the elbow and steered him past the receptionist, through the doorway and down a short corridor. He started to push open another door when Lindsey heard the receptionist scurrying after them. “Wait a minute,” she gasped.
Lindsey turned around. The receptionist handed him a plastic badge with a monogrammed RTS on it and a superimposed word, guest. “Please be sure to return this to me on your way out.”
Lindsey clipped the badge to his lapel.
Dunn led him into an office containing two desks. One was Dunn’s. At the other a woman was working at a computer terminal. She looked up at Lindsey and Dunn as they entered. She was wearing a shirt like George Dunn’s; Lindsey expected she was probably wearing jeans like Dunn’s as well. But where Dunn wore his shirt open by two buttons, the woman’s was open three. Did she buy all her shirts a size too small, or had this one simply shrunk to fit?
George Dunn said, “Lindsey, this is Selena Mabry. She’s Marty Saxon’s technical aide. I’m his admin aide. We share this office. Marty’s through there.” He pointed at a door to an inner office. He also sent a high sign to Selena.
She logged off her computer and stood up. “I’m heading for that meeting at the Marriott. Marty doesn’t want to go so I’m the official RTS rep. I hate meetings. I don’t see why we can’t just teleconference. Some of those old geezers don’t think it’s real if they can’t spill their martinis down your cleavage.”
She headed out the door. She was wearing jeans like Dunn’s, a size too small and shrink-to-fit.
Dunn indicated a visitor’s chair beside his desk, sat down at the desk himself. He hit a couple of buttons on a keypad. “Hope you don’t mind my recording this. Easier than making notes. More accurate too.”
Lindsey said, “Uh, I guess not.”
Dunn said, “Now, tell me about this burglary.”
Lindsey said, “It happened last night. Someone broke into Comic Cavalcade and stole a bunch of comic books. Thirty five comic books, according to Terry Patterson.”
“Our collection,” Dunn said.
“That’s what he says. I hope you’ll explain that to me. Did you own the comic books?”
Dunn