The Emerald Cat Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
folder.
Lindsey nodded. “Candidly, I’m just getting started on this. International Surety held a life policy on Mr. Simmons. We paid his widow. As far as we’re concerned, that aspect of the case is over.”
“Then—what?”
“There’s a lawsuit, Mrs. Simmons and the Marston and Morse Publishing Company are suing Gordian House. International Surety has an indemnity policy with Gordian, and I’m gathering information to help us deal with that.”
“I don’t get it.” Strombeck stood up. He took three steps to a hot plate where a pot of coffee was giving off its fragrance. “Like a cup, Mr. Lindsey?”
Lindsey accepted. Drinking coffee wasn’t exactly breaking bread, but it was close. Anything to establish a bond. You could never tell when it would come in handy.
Strombeck held his cup in front of his face, savored the odor rising from it, then lowered it to his desk. His uniform was severe. Midnight blue shirt, polished badge, a little enamel rectangle that Lindsey recognized as the Medal of Valor. Those didn’t come easy, and in his experience, officers who received them seldom cared to talk about the reason.
“I don’t get it, Mr. Lindsey. I’m afraid this is getting to be a cold case. It’s been a year. The official line, of course, is that we never close a homicide case until we’ve solved it. But it’s also true that most murders are resolved quickly. And most of them are pretty straightforward. Domestic violence cases that get out of hand, vehicular homicides. Take away those two and we’d be down to a small fraction of our caseload. The longer a case goes unsolved, the less likely it is that we’ll find the perpetrator. And after a year—unless we catch a break through a DNA sample or—well, never mind the or. I’m afraid the solve rate of older homicides is not very good.”
“I understand. Even so, I think these two cases are one, Sergeant.”
Strombeck lifted blond eyebrows, then nodded encouragingly.
“I’ve been talking with Mrs. Simmons.”
“Be careful, Mr. Lindsey.” Strombeck was suddenly serious, more serious than he had been. “You’re treading on dangerous ground. This is still a police case.” He paused. “And you are not a licensed investigator anyway, are you?”
Lindsey shook his head. “I’m an insurance adjuster. Or was. Thought I had a great career going until I got downsized into early retirement.”
Strombeck did a magic trick and made Lindsey’s business card reappear in his hand. “I don’t see retired anywhere on this.”
“Old card.”
The eyebrows and the encouraging nod again.
“I’m too young for Social Security. It’s nice to be too young for anything, these days. I get a modest pension from International Surety. In return for that they pull me back in every now and then as a kind of superannuated temp. That’s why I’m working this case.”
“Okay, that’s good.”
The concrete block walls of Strombeck’s office were starting to look like a jail cell. Lindsey squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again.
Strombeck went on, “But what does a squabble between two publishers—what were their names again?”
Lindsey told him.
Strombeck jotted notes. “Marston and Morse, Gordian House. I’ve heard of them both.”
“I didn’t know you were a literary man,” Lindsey smiled. “Is it true that every police officer has a novel in his desk drawer?”
“Not so. You’ve been watching too many Barney Miller reruns.”
Lindsey sipped his coffee. For office hot plate brew it was well above average. He waited for Strombeck to give him something and Strombeck waited for Lindsey to ask. What a fine game for two grown men to be playing. Finally Lindsey yielded.
“Simmons wrote paperbacks for Marston and Morse. Under a pseudonym. Had to do that to stay out of trouble at his day job. They all had the same hero, a private eye named.…” He reached for his pocket organizer and flipped pages until he found what he wanted. “…private eye named Tony Clydesdale. All the books had the same pattern for their title, Named for animals, Blue Gazelle, Pink Elephant, like that.”
“I’ve heard of that. Didn’t MacDonald use colors? And that Grafton woman uses the alphabet?”
This guy must be a reader! “That’s right.”
“So—I’m still looking for a connection, Mr. Lindsey.”
“So this other company, Gordian House, brought out a book with a similar title. The Emerald Cat. Different hero, if you can call him that, different byline. But Mrs. Simmons says that it was her husband’s last book, somebody just went over it and changed a few names and sold it to Gordian.”
“Ahah, the plot thickens.” Strombeck grinned. He had perfect teeth. Then the grin faded. “This sounds like a plagiarism case. I’m not an attorney, you understand, but all cops have to be at least jack-lawyers, and I don’t see any crime here. Sounds like a civil matter.”
Lindsey put away his pocket organizer. “That may be so. But I remember something Lieutenant Yamura used to say. Is she till on the force, Sergeant?”
The grin came back. Apparently Strombeck was fond of Dorothy Yamura. “She’s a captain now. Fine cop.”
“I’m sure that coincidences really happen, but they make me nervous,” Lindsey quoted.
Strombeck smiled and nodded, up and down, three times, precisely. “That’s Dorothy all right!”
“And another officer. The Berkeley Police Department was very helpful to me in resolving several cases, and I like to think I helped the police as well.”
Strombeck grunted encouragingly.
Lindsey said, “Marvia Plum. Sergeant Plum.” Oh, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. If Strombeck had X-ray vision he’d see Lindsey quivering inside when he spoke the name. How long had it been since he’d last worked with Marvia, last seen her, last touched her? But he managed to ask about her as if it were a passing thought.
Strombeck paused, then shook his head, left and right, three times, precisely. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. This is a small police force, Mr. Lindsey. Everybody knows everybody. We’re not quite Mayberry RFD but we’re small enough. Maybe Sergeant Plum is on the University of California force. They’re about as big as we are.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, maybe Oakland or Emeryville. Or Alameda County Sheriff?”
Strombeck sounded like a man trying to be helpful or at least sound helpful when he knew he wasn’t really offering anything.
Lindsey said, “I can see I have a lot of work to do. Thank you for your time, Sergeant Strombeck.”
“Any time, sir.”
“I’ll take you up on that.” Lindsey pushed back his chair and turned toward the doorway.
Strombeck said, “Remember, sir, you stick to that insurance claim. Stay out of homicide.”
Lindsey headed down the hallway. Coming toward him, captain’s bars shining on her uniform collar, was Dorothy Yamura. Her hair was no longer the glossy sable it had been when last Lindsey had seen her. Now it was streaked with gray. But otherwise she appeared unchanged.
Lindsey wondered if she would recognize him. He did not wonder long.
“Mr. Lindsey! I heard you were in the building. Is this a social call?”
Had Strombeck alerted Yamura that Lindsey was poking around in police matters again? Or was their encounter a coincidence? Dorothy Yamura did not look nervous.
“I