The Emerald Cat Killer (19 page)

When a uniformed police officer appeared in the doorway of Ms. Templeton's classroom a buzz ran through the seated students. The teacher was a trim, dark-skinned, gray-haired woman, the kind who terrified children the first day of each school year and with whom they fell in love before a month was out.

She signaled to the students and they dutifully opened books and began studying, or at least pretended to begin studying, while their teacher conferred with the visitors. After a brief conference Ms. Templeton reentered the classroom and summoned a boy and girl to join her in the hallway.

“William, Hillary, this is Officer Rossi and Mr. Lindsey. They need to take your computer.”

William started to protest but Hillary asked more calmly, “Why?”

Ms. Templeton explained that the computer was needed as part of a police investigation.

Hillary nodded understandingly.

William exclaimed, “Cool!” He ran back into the classroom and returned with the computer. Officer Rossi took it from his hands.

Hillary asked, “Will we get it back?”

Jo Rossi said, “I'm really not sure. It's evidence.”

“But our Uncle Max gave it to us,” William whined.

“I'm sorry. I'm sure he'll get you another.”

Jo Rossi gave the twins a receipt for their computer and handed a copy to Ms. Templeton.

They headed back to Grand Avenue.

*   *   *

“Sure, we can clone the disk. No problem. But then what will you do with it? You want it on an external hard drive, or what?”

Lindsey said that would be great. He'd left his own machine back at the Woodfin. Once he got back there he could slip the new drive into a USB port and either use the new drive as his data source or transfer the crucial file to the computer itself.

If he had that file!

Jo Rossi could have the original, the machine stolen from Gordon Simmons, the machine that had been used as an impromptu weapon, the weapon that sent Simmons crashing backward into the brick structure and brought bone splinters slamming into his brain. Hobart Lindsey would settle happily for the clone.

White said, “Come on then, this will only take a little while. Max and Fabia will get the thing set up for you. We'll go next door for a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”

Jo Rossi took the time to call her office at BPD. When she got off the phone they settled in for a dose of sugar and caffeine. Then it was Lindsey's turn.

Marvia Plum's voice came through the cell phone. “Rossi says you've got it.”

Lindsey admitted that was the case.

“That file you wanted on it?”

“I don't know yet. I will in a little while.”

“Okay. Good luck. Listen, Bart, we're having a little get-together at my house tonight. You're invited. You'll be at the Woodfin? Good. Lobby around seven-thirty, okay?”

That was definitely okay.

Hakeem White picked up the tab for doughnuts and coffee.

THIRTEEN

The new drive booted up and Lindsey found Gordon Simmons's Tony Clydesdale novels neatly lined up in a directory titled
Wallace Thompson.
Each novel was in a folder, annotated with the date Simmons had started work, character and setting notes, plot outline, date of completion, and date of publication.

The last folder in the directory was titled
The Ruby Red Pup.

The Ruby Red Pup.

And Rigoberto Chocron's—Steve Damon's—one and only thriller was
The Emerald Cat.
At least Chocron had been honest when he admitted that he didn't have much imagination. Lindsey opened his copy of
The Emerald Cat
and laid it on the writing desk in his hotel room beside his newly enhanced laptop computer.

He riffled the pages to the novel's opening scene.

Troy Percheron pushed his battered fedora onto the back of his head as he climbed onto the barstool and leaned wearily against the mahogany. He knew that the name of the establishment was spelled out in the glass window behind him. Looking straight ahead into the back-bar mirror, the reversed lettering got the turnaround treatment again so he was able to read it. Spelled out in lurid green neon it read,
THE EMERALD CAT.
An image of a stylized feline completed the display.

Percheron felt a hand on his wrist. He looked down. The fingers were long and thin, the nails were polished an astonishing shade of green, almost as if the color had been chosen to match the neon reflecting from the back-bar mirror.

“Buy a girl a drink, sailor?” The woman breathed sexuality. Her green satin blouse was cut low, showing a pair of gorgeous headlights that could have caught the attention of a blind paraplegic.

“Why, if it isn't my old sweetheart, Helena Cairo. How are things in the nasty business, Helena?”

The green-jacketed bartender cleared his throat, getting Troy's attention. “The usual, Troy?” he rasped. A brass badge on his jacket read,
MARTY
.
He was one of those bozos who insisted on wearing a ponytail even though he was bald on top and gray in back.

Percheron nodded. “And give the lady anything she wants.”

Not exactly great literature, but certainly as good as several hundreds of others published every year.

Lindsey turned his attention to his computer screen, to the opening of
The Ruby Red Pup.

Tony Clydesdale pushed his battered fedora onto the back of his head as he climbed onto the barstool and leaned wearily against the mahogany. He knew that the name of the establishment was spelled out in the glass window behind him. Looking straight ahead into the back-bar mirror, the reversed lettering got the turnaround treatment again so he was able to read it. Spelled out in lurid bloodred neon, it read
THE RUBY RED PUP
. An image of a stylized canine completed the display.

Clydesdale felt a hand on his wrist. He looked down. The fingers were long and thin, the nails were polished an astonishing shade of crimson, almost as if the color had been chosen to match the neon reflecting from the back-bar mirror.

“Buy a girl a drink, sailor?” The woman breathed sexuality. Her scarlet satin blouse was cut low, showing a pair of gorgeous headlights that could have caught the attention of a blind paraplegic.

“Why, if it isn't my old sweetheart, Selena Thebes. How are things in the nasty business, Selena?”

The crimson-jacketed bartender cleared his throat, getting Tony's attention. “The usual, Tony?” he rasped. A brass badge on his jacket read,
MORTY
.
He was one of those bozos who insisted on wearing a ponytail even though he was bald on top and gray in back.

Clydesdale nodded. “And give the lady anything she wants.”

Lindsey decided to give it another try. He flipped the pages to a chapter break, read the first lines of chapter Twelve:

Percheron winced as the bucket of ice water sloshed across his battered face. Elmer hadn't removed the ice cubes, either, and they slammed into Percheron's wounded features, almost eliciting a groan of pain, but Percheron wouldn't give Elmer that satisfaction. The monstrous moron grinned happily, bloody drool sliding between the jagged stumps of the teeth that Percheron's fists had slugged away during their free-for-all.

Lindsey did a word search on “bucket of ice water.” The monitor screen blinked once and up popped the matching phrase and the surrounding paragraph:

Clydesdale winced as the bucket of ice water sloshed across his battered face. Homer hadn't removed the ice cubes, either, and they slammed into Clydesdale's wounded features, almost eliciting a groan of pain, but Clydesdale wouldn't give Homer that satisfaction. The monstrous moron grinned happily, bloody drool sliding between the jagged stumps of the teeth that Clydesdale's fists had slugged away during their free-for-all.

One more, one more, not that he needed any more convincing than what he'd had, but one more anyway, just for good measure. He flipped to the last page of the paperback novel and read:

Toeing the remains of what was left of Elmer after his fourteen-floor tumble from the roof of the Union Jack Hotel, Helena Cairo pressed her voluptuous body hard against the muscular form of Troy Percheron.

“We can have some fun if you want to, baby,” Percheron growled, “but if you think that's gonna keep your pretty little hindquarters out of the big ladies' lockup in the valley, you've got another think coming.”

Gordon Simmons's file said:

Toeing the remains of what was left of Homer after his fourteen-floor tumble from the roof of the Stars and Stripes Hotel, Selena Thebes pressed her voluptuous body hard against the muscular form of Tony Clydesdale.

“We can have some fun if you want to, baby,” Clydesdale growled, “but if you think that's gonna keep your pretty little hindquarters out of the big ladies' lockup in the valley, you've got another think coming.”

The case had looked bad for Gordian House—and consequently for International Surety—from the start. But this was the last straw, the smoking gun, the final nail in the coffin, all rolled into one.

He picked up the phone and punched in the number of Eric Coffman's office on Vine Street. The office manager put him through to Coffman's young associate, Kelly McGee.

“Mr. Lindsey?”

He admitted that he was who he was.

“Mr. Coffman phoned and asked me to give you this message. He's out of Intensive Care now and in a private room. He'd like to talk with you. You are to come to Alta Bates; come up to his room. They'll direct you at the lobby desk.”

Lindsey thanked the baby lawyer and headed from Emeryville, up to the hospital on Ashby Avenue in Berkeley. When he got to Eric Coffman's room he found Coffman looking better than he'd feared, worse than he'd hoped. Miriam Coffman was there, reading to her husband from a hardcover book. He caught a glimpse of the dust jacket. She was reading
Enemies, A Love Story,
by Isaac Bashevis Singer. Rebecca had presumably returned to her charges in Oakland.

Not sure how to announce himself, Lindsey performed the English butler's discreet cough stunt. Eric Coffman had been lying with eyes closed, either sleeping or listening to his wife's rendition of the Singer narrative. Now he opened his eyes and managed a small smile.

Miriam Coffman closed the book and turned. “Hobart.” He nodded. “Thank you for coming, Hobart. I know you were here when Eric first came in but everything was so—was in such a whirl, did I even say hello? We were expecting you for dinner and … it didn't work out.”

The lawyer's head was still bandaged and the darkness around his eyes made him look more like Raymond Burr than ever. One arm was semi-immobilized, an IV tube providing a steady drip into his vein. “So, Lindsey, did you bring a camera? I want you to be careful, photograph me only from my good side.”

“And what side is that?” What a relief! If the injured man could joke, that was half the battle right there.

Miriam Coffman said, “Is this a social visit, or do you two big men want to talk business?”

“Up to your husband. I'd phoned Eric's office and what's-her-name—”

Coffman growled, “McGee. Kelly McGee.”

“Right. How old is that baby lawyer, Eric? Ten, maybe? Shouldn't she be playing with Powerpuff Girls?”

“They turn 'em out younger every year, don't they? But she was top of her class at Boalt. You can tell the law students on the Cal campus—they all dress like Republicans. Smart as a whip. What did she tell you?”

“To hustle over to Alta Bates for a clambake.”

“Good. Miriam, this is going to be business for a little while. Why don't you go home and rest? You've been here for so many hours, I don't want you getting sick taking care of me.”

Then, to Lindsey he said, “I've been thinking about this case of the M-and-Ms versus Gordian. Lying here, you know, once the morphine wears off and you get your mind back, there's too much time to think. You see that thing behind you?”

Lindsey turned and saw a television receiver mounted high in a corner of the room.

“They gave me a remote. What you call good service. All of three channels. I have my choice of Oprah, Jerry, and Dr. Phil. Hooray for Hollywood. I have a little trouble yet, holding a book and reading. God bless my beloved spouse for reading to me. You ever read Isaac Singer? You don't have to be Jewish, you know.”

“Eric, I'm really happy to see you're getting to be yourself again. But was there a business reason for this summons, or did you just want another visitor?”

“Hobart, lying in this bed, I've had hours to stare at the ceiling, stare at the window, stare at those trees and the birds coming and going. So I figure, Why not accumulate some billable hours?”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking about Gordian and that fool Jack Burnside. I've had a couple of meetings with Marston and Morse's lawyer, Jenny Caswell. She's a decent sort, not eager to get out the flamethrowers. And her principal, Paula Morse—”

“I've met her.”

“Then you know, she doesn't really want to start hurling grenades, either.”

“So we settle, right? Look, Eric, I have to tell you that I've recovered Gordon Simmons's computer. It wound up at a company in Oakland. The motherboard was fried. At least that's what they told me. Whatever that means. Anyway, they got the thing repaired and cloned the hard drive. I have a copy. It has all of Simmons's Tony Clydesdale novels on it. Including an unpublished one called
The Ruby Red Pup
that is virtually identical to
The Emerald Cat
by Steve Damon.”

Coffman opened his Raymond Burr eyes wider. “What do you mean, virtually identical?”