The Emerald Cat Killer (12 page)

Finishing the meal Coffman invited Lindsey back to his office. “I'll show it off. You'll be surprised. And we need to talk about this book business. That way, you can put this meal on your expense account and I can bill it to International Surety and we become brother
gonifs.
”

He signaled to their waitress. But to Lindsey, “Some dessert? No? Trust me, something you'll enjoy.” To the waitress, “Alexandra, darling, black-and-white cookie for Mr. Lindsey, chocolate macaroon for me. And put the meal on my account.” To Lindsey, “They take good care of their regulars. You'll love the cookie, trust me.” Coffman was true to his word.

Coffman's office was around the corner from Saul's, half a block up Vine Street. Coffman said, “Miriam encourages me to eat at Saul's. Climbing this hill back to my office afterward is the only exercise I get.” There was a mini-mall across the street, a wine-and-cheese establishment, a Peet's Coffee—Berkeley was not Starbucks country—a couple of artsy-craftsy outlets, a high-end shoe boutique, a gourmet dog biscuit shop.

Eric Coffman and Associates was reached via a couple of clanging iron gates and an outdoor flight of stairs. It was odd architecture, but Berkeley was known as an eccentric city and its wildly varied building styles fit in with its other oddities. The office itself was spare, comfortable, crammed with computers and other gear.

“A different world, isn't it, Hobart?” Coffman didn't wait for a reply. He introduced Lindsey to the associates of the firm's title. There was a young law school grad of the female persuasion who went by the name of Kelly McGee, an intern, and an office manager. Coffman directed Kelly McGee to brief Lindsey on the potential
Marston and Morse v. Gordian House
lawsuit.

When the youngster finished, Coffman said, “So, that's the legal-schmeagle stuff. What have you accomplished, my friend, playing Hawkshaw the Detective?”

Lindsey filled Coffman in on his own efforts. Tracing the much-traveled laptop, starting with his own meeting with Jack Burnside at Gordian House, from Burnside to the Rachael Gottlieb Literary Agency and
Pu-erh
Tea Emporium, on to his adventures in Fruitvale, and back to the Bishop Berkeley Music Shoppe.

Coffman stroked his gray-flecked beard Masonically. “So you don't have the computer?”

Lindsey shook his head.

“But you're still pursuing it?”

“Definitely. My next stop”—he checked his wristwatch—“if not today, then first thing tomorrow, is Universal Data Services Inc.”

“Good, good. They're competent and honest. They do our IT work for us.” He gestured at the computers and the other gear, silently blinking their lights like expectant dogs anticipating a tasty meal.

Eric Coffman had planted himself in a leather swivel chair and leaned back during the youngster's performance. Now he shifted his weight forward. “What you tell me of this fellow Chocron makes it look pretty bad for our side. But finding the file with
The Emerald Cat
on that computer makes Chocron out to be a thief. Found property, including intellectual property, still belongs to its owner. You can't just pick it up and drop it in your pocket like a quarter on the sidewalk.”

He gave a Perry Mason grunt, then continued. “While if we can't find it … what Mr. Chocron told you in a Fruitvale taco joint would never get into court, your statement would be pure hearsay. Chocron would have to show up and admit what he had done. And if Gordon Simmons's file, the closest thing, apparently, to an actual manuscript, doesn't turn up, then Gordian can make a different case altogether.”

He leaned back again. “I would really rather be representing Marston and Morse. Have you met Paula Paige Morse? Yes? I don't have to warn you about being careful when you talk to her. Or to Angela Simmons, either. But Mrs. Morse is a lovely woman. Maybe a little too New Agey; sometimes I think she's going to float away on a jasmine-scented breeze, but she's certainly an intelligent and spiritually advanced soul.”

Lindsey closed his pocket organizer and slipped it and his pen into his jacket's pocket. He thanked Coffman for the lunch and the briefing. “Eight tonight, your condo in Emeryville?”

Coffman pushed himself upright and shook Lindsey's hand. “I'd walk you to your car but I've got a lot of catching-up to do. Probably won't get out of here until pretty late tonight. But I'll be home for dinner. Wouldn't want to stand up our guest of honor!” He smiled that rueful Perry Mason smile. “Sorry the girls won't be there, but Miriam is deeply excited. She's already working on dinner, I'm sure. You'll love it, Hobart; so will I.”

Lindsey headed for the door.

*   *   *

Lindsey decided to hold off another day before talking to Universal Data Services. Instead, he tried Marvia Plum's cell phone and got through on the first try.

“Bart, you making progress?”

He started to tell her but she interrupted to ask where he was. When he told her Vine at Shattuck she said, “Listen, you're that close, come on over to my shop and we'll talk here.”

Shortly, he was sharing coffee with Marvia Plum and Olaf Strombeck. Strombeck was togged out in his so-perfect police sergeant's blues. Marvia wore a Powerpuff Girls sweatshirt and jeans. She said, “You'd never believe how great the Powerpuff Girls are for defusing confrontations. I think they've saved at least three lives just for me. I think I might recommend them for a medal.”

Lindsey repeated essentially the same information he'd provided to Eric Coffman. When he finished his report, Marvia Plum and Olaf Strombeck exchanged glances. Marvia Plum said, “Olaf, you do the talking for us, okay? Would you mind, Bart?”

Lindsey shook his head. “You're the boss.”

Strombeck said, “First of all—just for the record, right?—we're interested in this matter purely as a homicide case. Mr. Simmons was killed just over a year ago. We knew that the missing laptop was in effect the murder weapon but that was our only interest in it. The perp had been in Mr. Simmons's Chevy Malibu, presumably seeking shelter from the cold, wet weather. When Mr. Simmons approached, perp struck him with the laptop and fled.”

He paused. “We on the same page?”

Lindsey agreed.

“Okay, then this intellectual property case comes up, strictly civil, between these two publishing houses, not particularly interesting to BPD. But Lieutenant Plum tells me that you're on the trail of the computer for reasons of your own. If you find it, then we are interested. We are very much interested.”

Lieutenant Plum. Lindsey had not seen Marvia in uniform since resuming contact. He shot her a congratulatory glance. She responded with a wink and his pulse rate increased.

“The thing is, Mr. Lindsey, I think that you and we have started from the same point and proceeded in opposite directions.”

Lindsey frowned. “Not sure what you mean, Sergeant.” Again, he shot a glance at Marvia, this time one of inquiry rather than congratulation. She nodded back.

“You started with this fellow Burnside at Gordian House, is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“You were able to locate the missing laptop—in a sense—thanks to Mr. Chocron, and from there you've been following its trail forward.”

“Ah! See what you mean. Right.” Lindsey took a sip of the Berkeley Police Department's gourmet coffee. “I still hope to find the computer.”

“Indeed! But now we're going to follow up with Mr. Chocron. We'll need your contact information in Fruitvale, but between the leads you've already given us, the taqueria, the pawnshop, the Montoya family, I expect that we will find him.”

He leaned forward. “And once we talk to Mr. Chocron, we should be able to trace the laptop. Backtrack on its odyssey. Find out who gave it, or sold it, or swapped it to Chocron. Or from whom he stole it. Thieves love to steal already stolen goods. Their victims can't report the crime, you see?”

Lindsey saw.

Marvia walked to the lobby with him.

“You let Strombeck carry the ball,” Lindsey commented.

“He's a good cop. I'm planning to retire pretty soon. He's smart, honest, works hard. I'm getting him ready for my job.”

Lindsey thought,
Strombeck sounds like Universal Data Services Inc.

At the exit, Marvia shook his hand and told him to stay in touch.

Marvia shook his hand.

What the hell did that mean?

He drove back to his hotel and took a shower and a nap. He wanted to be fresh for Miriam Coffman's cooking.

*   *   *

Bobby and Red made it from Acton Street up to Northside in half an hour, alternately hiking and hitching rides. The last ride was a blast. Dude in a slate gray ragtop Beamer. Had the stereo on loud blasting punk rap all the way. Dropped them right at the corner of Shattuck and Vine and blasted off, headed toward the Solano Tunnel, El Cerrito, Vancouver, and the North Pole.

“Give my regards to Santy, you sucker!” Bobby called after the Beamer. The driver waved a friendly good-bye. Probably hadn't heard what Bobby said. Before the ragtop disappeared Bobby read the vanity license plate. BMRMEUP.

Red said, “I wish we had a car. Wouldn't it be great to have a car like that one? We could just go cruising around, music on the stereo, maybe stop for a jolt every so often. I'd never come down, Bobby. Never come down. Think of that! Stay jolted forever and ever and ever and ever and ever.”

She stopped when he grabbed her by both arms and shook her, hard. That was okay, it was okay, it was better than getting hit, it was okay.

“Now listen,” Bobby hissed. “Pay attention!” It was dark out now. Illumination came from the headlights of passing cars. There was also light in the Peet's across the street and in the little restaurants on the other side of Shattuck.

Oh, cripes, Bobby thought, if Red didn't get her act together he was going to have to get rid of her. And soon. He needed a bitch and Red just wasn't cutting it anymore. She couldn't snag the johns, she was just too scrawny and strung out, she scared 'em away instead of hauling 'em in. She wasn't even any good to Bobby himself in bed. Skinny, dirty, smelled bad. Well, not a big worry, just an annoyance. It would be easy enough to replace her.

He shook his head.

“Is something wrong, Bobby? Didn't I—”

“Nothing, nothing.” He had to focus, himself! He looked at the little office building halfway up Vine toward Walnut. “Look at that place.” He took her head in his hands and turned her so she had to see the upstairs light. “Do you see that?”

He felt her try to nod to indicate that she saw it all right, but he gave her a shake and said, “Talk to me, stupid, do you see that?”

She managed to stammer an answer.

“All right.” Bobby sat down next to her. There was a public bench there on the sidewalk, on the same side as the office building, facing the little mall. He leaned in close, put his arms around her. Anybody walking past would take them for a couple of kids, a bony, hot-to-trot girl and her on-the-make boyfriend.

“Now listen. There's an old guy works up there. I've been up here before, I've seen this guy. He's old and he's fat and he can hardly move, he's so decrepit. He likes to work late and then leave. Now look, we can see the light in his place from here. When he turns it out he comes down those outside stairs and through that iron gate. He parks his car in a garage up on Walnut. Are you with me? Are you with me, you brainless shit?”

“Bobby, I—”

“Shut up! Keep the Bobby-I business to yourself. Just listen to what I'm telling you, Red. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“As soon as he turns off the light, we beat it up the hill. We'll be past that gate before he's even halfway down the stairs. We get to the corner up there. When he turns to go get his car on Walnut, you come up in front of him. Give him a come-on. These ancient guys, they all have crazy ideas about making it with little girls, you understand? You've had plenty of ancient johns, he's just one more.”

She nodded, eager to please. “Yes, Bobby.”

“If he goes for it, you get him a little farther away from the people on Vine and I'll come from behind. We should be able to take him for everything he's got. Money, BlackBerry, whatever the hell he's got.”

“Bobby, Bobby, I'll try. I'll do my best. But what if he doesn't go for it? Some of these old guys don't go for it.”

“Don't worry about that, bitch. Just do your job and if anything goes wrong I'll take care of it.”

“Okay, Bobby. I'll do it.”

“You trust me, don't you, Red?”

“I do.”

“Okay. Look, look up there. The light just went out. Get a move on, now!”

“Bobby, please, one more thing. Just one thing, Bobby.”

“For crissake, he's coming down the stairs. Get a move on. What is it, Red?”

“Yes, yes, that's it, Bobby. Please, I love it when you call me Red. Don't call me bitch or stupid shit. Just call me Red, Bobby, please.”

*   *   *

Eric Coffman used his BlackBerry to phone Miriam and tell her he was on his way. Sorry he'd been delayed at the office but he was on Vine Street already, almost at the corner. He'd be in the car and on the way in five minutes, home in less than a half hour.

The retail stores on Vine were all dark but Peet's at the corner of Walnut was hopping with academics and other Berkeley professionals on the rise and on the make. Downhill, Shattuck Avenue had turned to its task of feeding the town's yuppie gourmets.

Seeing Hobart Lindsey again had been a pleasure, and having him to the Emeryville condo for dinner would be more of the same. The case of
Marston and Morse v. Gordian House
was more of a detective story than a legal problem. If it ever even happened. Under other circumstances, he would have lobbied International Surety for authorization to hire an investigator but I.S. had already put their own man onto the case, and that was good enough for Eric Coffman. He knew Hobart Lindsey, knew that the pleasant-demeanored, sometimes almost timid, onetime claims adjuster was in fact a highly effective investigator. He was something of a plodder, Coffman knew that, but his closure rate was better than that of many a flashier operative.