The Emerald Cat Killer (20 page)

“I mean, all Damon did—by the way, his real name is Rigoberto Chocron, lives in Oakland—all he did was change the names and the colors. Tony Clydesdale became Troy Percheron, Selena Thebes became Helena Cairo, the Ruby Red Pup became the Emerald Cat. If Burnside insists on going to court, Jenny Caswell is going to mop the floor with us.”

“Ouch!” Coffman nodded agreement. Lindsey wasn't sure whether the exclamation referred to their legal situation or to the pain the movement cause him.

“So, Lindsey, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay. A couple of concepts we guardians of the public weal like to toss around. Due diligence. Full disclosure. Are you familiar with these? You must be. In your line of work, you'd have been out the door and looking for another job in five minutes if you didn't know about these things. Have you read the contract between International Surety and Gordian House? Yes? Good. Then you know there's a due diligence clause in it. There has to be.”

“There is.”

“And that means, what?”

“It means the full disclosure by either party in any contractual relationship, of any factor that may have a negative effect upon the interests of the other party, O Socratic One.”

“Good. And what does full disclosure mean?”

“As they say in all the courtroom dramas, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Right. Good. Especially the whole truth. Did Steve Damon—you say his real name is Chocron—reveal to Gordian House that he was not the actual author of
The Emerald Cat
? Didn't his contract with Gordian have the usual clause to that effect, and that the property was truly his, unencumbered and his to dispose of? Did our Mister Chocron lie to Jack Burnside?”

“Burnside never met Chocron. Everything went through Chocron's agent. Rachael Gottlieb.”

“Really?”

“I interviewed her as well. She's a real throwback. Fancy tea, medieval chanting music, embroidered pillows on the floor.”

“Never mind that. If she signed the contract with Gordian then she and her client, Chocron, share responsibility. But more to the point, I take it that Jack Burnside did not investigate to make sure that the book was what Gottlieb or Chocron or both of them claimed it was. That is, an original work, written by Chocron and unencumbered.”

“And what does that mean to us, Eric?”

“It means that Jack Burnside brought his troubles down on himself. He didn't exercise due diligence, didn't obtain full disclosure from Gottlieb and Chocron. He can go after them if he wants to, if M-and-M sues him and prevails, but from what you tell me, Gottlieb won't have a sou to pay him with. And Chocron—what about him? Any assets?”

“I don't think so. He's a very slippery character. No known address, picks up telephone messages at a little restaurant out in Fruitvale.”

“Okay, okay. Lindsey, my boy, I think we have to have a very serious chat with Jack Burnside of Gordian House. If he is willing to make a reasonable settlement with M-and-M, I will advise International Surety to pay the two dollars. If he insists on fighting their claim, I will advise International Surety to deny his claim. Then he can engage counsel and bring suit against I.S., and if that happens I will happily represent I.S. and give Mr. Burnside a legal bloody nose.”

*   *   *

As soon as Lindsey got back to the Woodfin he sent his report to Denver. He was getting ready for a refreshing shower when his cell phone rang.

Ducky Richelieu.

Richelieu didn't waste any time on pleasantries. “Whose side are you on, Lindsey?”

“I guess you've read my report.”

“You bet I have. I sent you out there to look into this thing and save the company some money. And you're recommending that we pay these candy people. Why am I paying you?”

“Candy people? Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?”

It dawned on Lindsey that Richelieu had not made a joke. Not that the man had ever been known for his scintillating wit. But he really thought that International Surety was involved with a commercial confectioner.

“No, Mr. Richelieu, M-and-M isn't the candy company. They're Marston and Morse, Publishers. This is a copyright and commercial fraud suit.”

“And you want to throw in the towel before the first round even begins.”

“Mr. Richelieu, our client is in the wrong. If he fights he's going to lose. If that happens we either have to pay up or reject his claim and then he'll sue us. Everybody loses. As our local counsel advises us, pay the two dollars.”

Visions of Victor Moore and Edward Arnold.…

Richelieu grumbled into the telephone. Lindsey could see the man, barricaded behind his desk like the last defender of a fallen city, searching desperately for an escape route that he would not find.

“What are you going to do now, Lindsey?”

“I'm going to set up a meeting as soon as I can, with our counsel, Eric Coffman, and the other parties. J.P. Caswell for M-and-M. Paula Paige Morse if she'll attend. Our esteemed client, Jack Burnside. And Rachael Gottlieb, the literary agent.”

“What about the author?”

“You mean Rigoberto Chocron? If we need anything more from him we'd do better to try and get a deposition. He's much too slippery a character to show up at a meeting. But it wouldn't hurt to have Mrs. Simmons there. She'll be party to the M-and-M suit if it happens.”

Richelieu growled. “I don't like it but anything else I can think of is worse. All right. Go ahead. Keep me posted. And, Lindsey, what about the local gendarmerie? Weren't you pretty chummy with a lady cop out there?”

“I was.”

“You were, eh? No more? That go
pfttt
?”

“Not exactly. We're still friends. I've had some cooperation from the police department.”

There was a long silence. Then Richelieu said, “All right. Break a leg, comrade.”

*   *   *

Lindsey was in the lobby within fifteen minutes. He stood gazing out the huge glass window at a black night punctuated only by rain, streetlamps, and the lights of passing vehicles. A storm had roared in off the Gulf of Alaska and the entire West Coast, from Vancouver to San Luis Obispo, was taking a soaking. At least, so said the local weather reporters.

Marvia Plum's forty-year-old Ford Falcon rolled to a halt beneath the hotel's marquee. The doorman on duty leaned to open the passenger door, open umbrella in his free hand, a look of palpable disdain on his face.

An attractive African-American woman climbed from the little car. She wore a tan raincoat and matching floppy-brimmed hat.

Puzzled, Lindsey exited the hotel lobby. The woman extended her hand. “I'm Mary Jones. Marvia's preparing dinner. She asked Tyrone and me to pick you up.”

Lindsey shook her hand. He leaned into the Falcon.

“Tyrone?”

“Mr. Lindsey. How long has it been?”

“Hobart, please. Or just Bart. And—since that crazy affair with the painter's model—fifteen years, easily. I still remember that Volvo you tarted up for me.”

Tyrone Plum laughed. “Come on, don't make Mary stand there in the cold and rain. Get in the car.”

As Tyrone piloted the Falcon to the Plum family home on Bonar Street, Mary Jones introduced herself. She and Tyrone were close friends, and she and Marvia were like sisters. She'd heard of Lindsey countless times. Meeting him was like encountering a character from a novel. All Lindsey could think of to say was that he hoped he wouldn't disappoint her.

The house on Bonar Street had received a coat of paint since Lindsey was last there. Other than that, at least at night, it had not changed visibly. Tyrone Plum pulled the Falcon into the driveway. Lights shone on the porch and Lindsey thought he heard music coming from inside the house.

They were the last guests to arrive. Hakeem White and another woman were sitting in the living room. They jumped up when Lindsey entered with Tyrone Plum and Mary Jones. Hakeem White gave Lindsey a grin. “Haven't seen you for hours.” Without waiting for a response he introduced his wife, Masani.

Masani White, Hakeem announced proudly, was a Luo. He'd met her on a vacation trip to Africa. “I went home to find my roots and I found my bride.”

Masani White glowed.

Opposite them, Lindsey recognized Jamie Wilkerson. He was all grown up, and holding hands with a beautiful woman wearing a turquoise satin blouse and tan trousers.

Wilkerson jumped up. “Mr. Lindsey! What a treat! You'll have to fill me in on the past dozen years.” He shook Lindsey's hand, helped his companion to her feet. “You've never met my wife, Tanya. Remember that brat from around the corner? Look at her now!”

Marvia Plum emerged from the kitchen. She crossed the room to Lindsey and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “Everyone sit down. Tyrone, lend a hand. Drinks and snacks.” The result was beverages all around, and cheese and crackers and celery stalks on a tray.

Chamber music came from concealed speakers. Lindsey didn't recognize the composition and asked what it was.

“That's a Cole Perkinson quartet,” Mary Jones supplied.

Tyrone Plum said, “Courtesy of Mary. She wouldn't claim credit, but it's her doing. Great music.”

Lindsey admitted that he'd never heard of Cole Perkinson.

Mary Jones said, “I actually met him once. He came to KRED.”

“Mary's music director there,” Tyrone supplied.

“He showed up just to introduce himself. A wonderful man. I love his music. I stocked up on it at KRED. I don't know how he heard about us, but he was in town as guest conductor at the Oakland Symphony and he just walked into KRED and asked for the music director. I almost fainted when he thanked me for playing his music. He said he'd been channel-surfing in his rented car, and he heard his own music and came over to say hello.”

She handed Lindsey a CD jewel box. The pamphlet featured a picture of Perkinson, gray-haired, portly, tuxedoed, wielding a baton. He was back-lit, his very dark skin outlined in a nimbus against a black background.

“He died in 2004. You just wait. There's a renaissance coming.”

Lindsey said, “I thought … I hope you don't mind … I've always thought of black, er, African composers as writing jazz or, ah, hop-hip—”

“Hip-hop,” Hakeem White corrected.

“Anyway…”

“Don't be embarrassed, most people think that. Including most black people. That's my mission in life, to educate everyone about our classical music. Look at this.” She handed him another CD, selected from a row in a bookcase. The cover featured a black man in a powdered wig decked out like an eighteenth-century dandy. Like Cole Perkinson, he was poised as if conducting an orchestra, but instead of a baton he held a fencing foil upraised.

“Bet you never heard of Joseph de Bologne, Mr. Lindsey.”

“Please, Bart.”

“He was a brilliant composer, violinist, harpsichordist. He's my personal hero. Well, after Cole Perkinson. Joseph de Bologne was born on Christmas Day, 1745 on the island of Guadeloupe. He was a great swordsman, too. Fled Guadeloupe after he killed an enemy in a duel. He was personally pardoned by the King of France. A brilliant musician. At the time he was known as
Le Mozart Noir,
but I personally think of Mozart as
Le Bologne Blanc.
Joseph was eleven when Mozart was born. I'm still researching the matter, but I think Mozart knew Bologne's music and was influenced by it.”

Lindsey shook his head. “Why haven't I ever heard of this man?”

Mary Jones's expression might be called a smile, but it was not a happy smile. “Did you know that France had eliminated slavery in all its colonies in the eighteenth century? When the great liberator Napoleon became emperor, he reinstituted slavery in the colonies. In 1803. That's a day that will live in infamy, in my book, anyway. After that. Bologne's music was forgotten. I won't exactly say it was suppressed. It just— Joseph was dead by then, at least he didn't have to see what happened … his music just quietly disappeared.”

She paused for breath.

Marvia Plum appeared in the doorway. “Come on, everyone.”

As she got up, Mary Jones said, “I'm bringing him back. My mission in life. Joseph de Bologne, and Cole Perkinson, and all the rest.”

Marvia Plum's dining room was brightly lit. A shelf along one wall was lined with brightly colored porcelain figures, Mammies and Uncle Remuses and others that would have been long since removed from any white household but were historical reminders in this one.

The room was decorated with colorful canvases. Again, Lindsey had to plead ignorance until they were identified as the work of Charles Bibbs and Margaret Warfield.

The meal was a roast with greens and baby potatoes and crisp salad and several bottles of red Zinfandel from Sonoma County. Over coffee, Tyrone Plum stood up to make an announcement.

“Miss Jones has agreed to do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Applause, handshakes, kisses, tears.

Mary Jones said, “The only condition I insisted on was that I choose all the music for the wedding.”

Laughter and more applause.

After dinner Mary Jones and Hakeem White's wife, Masani, cleared the table while Tyrone, and Hakeem, and Lindsey retreated to the living room to talk about the current basketball playoffs and the coming baseball season. That much, at least, was pure tradition.

It was raining harder than ever, and a westerly wind howled through the trees. Eventually Hakeem and Masani, Tyrone and Mary, and Jamie and Tanya took their leave.

Lindsey faced Marvia Plum as they sat on the couch. “I'll call a cab,” he said. “It was a wonderful evening. The meal. The family. I guess…”

“What, Bart?”

“Since you and I, Marvia … well, and now that Mother is remarried and, and she seems to be doing so well. She was a widow for more than forty years. I'll be honest, I had serious doubts. But it's been a good marriage for her. I've visited them down in Carlsbad and they're living in a modern condo; I've never seen her so happy.”