The Emerald Cat Killer (24 page)

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Getting Jack Burnside to agree to meet with Lindsey and Eric Coffman was like getting North Korea to sit down at a conference table. First, Burnside wouldn't take Lindsey's phone call, then he was too busy to have a sit-down, then he was paying International Surety through the nose to cover his risks, and he expected them to do their job and not bust his chops over every little uncrossed
T
and undotted
I
in his contracts. He was a publisher, not a lawyer—didn't anybody wearing a fancy suit understand that?

But finally Lindsey managed to convince him.

Lindsey arrived early for the meeting and waited on the sidewalk for Eric Coffman. When Coffman showed up he was leaning on a cane and he looked more like Raymond Burr than ever. He had his associate, Kelly McGee, at his side. She was carrying the briefcase.

They rode up to Jack Burnside's Gordian House office. He greeted them grudgingly. Suddenly Lindsey flashed again on who Burnside reminded him of. Lee J. Cobb. No question about that. Except for the fact that Cobb had always exuded a kind of gruff integrity behind his screen persona, no matter how abrasive he managed to make himself. And Burnside didn't do that. Didn't do it at all.

Coffman laid out the case that Marston and Morse and Angela Simmons had against Gordian. “I know their attorney, Jenny Caswell. And her principal, Paula Morse. I'm sure that Mrs. Simmons will go along with whatever arrangement Mrs. Morse recommends. They're being very reasonable, Mr. Burnside.”

“They're just a bunch of arrogant intellectuals trying to put me out of business.”

“They're not trying to put you out of business at all,” Kelly McGee put in. Lindsey suspected that a signal had passed between Coffman and McGee.

Burnside said, “If they don't want to put me out of business why the hell don't they just leave me alone? Let 'em go ahead and publish their books about meditation or growing your own organic endives. Leave the shoot-'em-ups to me. I know how to do those things; what the hell are Marston and Morse doing with private-eye books?”

“They have every right to publish them,” Coffman came back. “Just as you would have the right to publish books about—what did you say?—meditation and organic endive cultivation.” He leaned forward on his cane and tapped his finger on Burnside's desk. “The point, Jack, is that you published a book that belonged to them.”

“I know,
The Emerald Cat.
I wish I'd never heard of that thing. I bought it in good faith. Not my fault if the author was a crook. Or his agent. Another one of those airy-fairy new-age weirdos. I should have thrown her out on her cute little tooshy the first day she showed up here with a manuscript.”

“Nevertheless—”

“Nevertheless nothing. I bought the thing in good faith and it isn't my fault if Steve Damon was a plagiarist. Or whatever his name was.”

Burnside turned angrily to Lindsey. “You've been awfully quiet this morning. What the hell does International Surety have to say for itself?”

Lindsey blinked. Lee J. Cobb with that unshaven cleft chin jutting out. “Our attorney, Mr. Coffman here, recommends that we settle with Marston and Morse. International Surety agrees. I'm sure we can negotiate a very reasonable settlement and there will be no lawsuit.”

“Oh, really?” Burnside leaned away from the others. For the moment he didn't say anything else. His body language spoke clearly enough. But then he went on. “I'm not a quitter. I don't fold under pressure. That's the way I operate. It's brought me this far and I'm not changing now.”

Lindsey looked at the ceiling. Now was the time to play bad cop. It wasn't his style and he didn't like to do it. But he would if he had to. “If you force their hand, Marston and Morse will sue Gordian House. And if that happens, I'm sure that Mr. Coffman will mount the best possible defense, but from what I have learned, you'll probably lose. And if that happens, I can tell you right now, you will file a claim with International Surety, and International Surety will deny the claim.”

Burnside looked as if he was ready to explode. “Then I'll sue International Surety. The shysters will have a field day but I'll squeeze it out of I.S.!”

Lindsey looked at Coffman and said, “Eric, remember what you explained to me?”

Coffman looked at Kelly McGee and said, “Miss McGee, I know you're up to speed on the concepts of due diligence and full disclosure. Would you please explain those to Mr. Burnside?”

She was, and she did.

It went on for a while. Finally it looked as if Burnside had got the message. Coffman nodded to McGee. McGee pulled a folder out of her briefcase and removed a form. It was a memorandum covering the events of the meeting. Obviously, either she had been a Girl Scout or her employer had been a Boy Scout; in either case, they were definitely prepared.

McGee handed the memorandum to Burnside and asked him to read it carefully and sign it.

“I don't want to sign anything.”

“We really do need it.”

He muttered and lowered his face so he could read the memorandum without actually touching it. He looked up and announced, “I'm hungry.”

Coffman said, “Mister—”

“I never sign anything on an empty stomach. Never.” Burnside shoved the memorandum away from himself. It slid off the edge of his desk and was caught in a stray air current. Kelly McGee captured it and returned it to her briefcase.

Coffman said, “Will you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Burnside?” They moved to the outer office and the receptionist retreated to the editorial room that Lindsey had seen on his first visit to Gordian.

Lindsey said, “What do you think?”

Coffman tilted his head toward Kelly McGee.

McGee said, “Candidly? Candidly, this guy is either a moron, or an overgrown brat, or a shrewd operator.”

“And what do we do? What's your recommendation, counselor?” Coffman had brought his cane with him from Burnside's office and stood leaning on it. Lindsey was impressed by his recovery from his mugging, but still Coffman winced with pain when he moved.

Kelly McGee said, “We have to stick to our guns. Mr. Lindsey, you're not going to change your position, are you? I mean, International Surety's position?”

Lindsey shook his head. “He bought tainted goods. He published a book that belonged to somebody else. He's in a hole and we have to make him stop digging before he hits the water table.”

They trooped back into Burnside's office. He greeted them with, “I'm hungry.” He picked up his phone and hit a couple of buttons. “Sandwiches. Here, everybody write down your order, my girl will call out for sandwiches.”

Kelly McGee didn't even bristle at “my girl.” No one but Burnside placed an order.

Waiting for his meal to arrive, Burnside left his own office. “I've got a business to run. I'll be in Editorial. Don't anybody touch anything. I'll know if you do.”

Lindsey and Coffman and McGee exchanged shrugs until they heard a crash that shook the light fixtures in Burnside's office. Then Jack Burnside's roaring voice, indistinct but filled with rage, resounded from Editorial.

He slammed the door open and launched himself back into his swivel chair like a wrestler landing on a helpless opponent. “Where the hell is my lunch? I want my lunch!”

Burnside's receptionist entered the room with a covered tray. She placed it on Burnside's desk and removed the cover. Burnside tore into an overstuffed sandwich, dripping juice on the tray, on the papers on his desk, on his rumpled shirt and already-spotted tie. When he'd finished the sandwich he tugged the lid from a cardboard container. Wisps of steam and the odor of coffee emerged. Burnside lifted the container to his lips and slugged down its contents like a college boy chugging a can of beer.

He wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

He threw the remnants of his meal into a wastebasket.

“Now, you sons of bitches, what's the bottom line? If I fight these Brie-eaters do I have a chance? Any chance at all? Coffman, give it to me on the level.”

Eric Coffman intoned, “We lawyers are trained never to promise anyone anything. But if I had to make a promise, Mr. Burnside, I would promise you this. Fight this lawsuit and you will lose.”

Burnside snarled. “You, girlie, what's your name, MacDuff? Whatever. Does this stuffed shirt know what he's talking about? If I hire you away from him, will you fight this case for me?”

Kelly McGee kept her cool. Lindsey detected the ghost of a smile around Eric Coffman's mouth. “I don't think I could ethically go to work for you at this point, Mr. Burnside. But if I were your attorney, based on what I know of the case, I would urge you to settle.”

“And you? Linsley, what do you have to say?”

“Settle, Mr. Burnside. The other side isn't demanding unconditional surrender. Let Mr. Coffman talk to their lawyer. You'll be better off, believe me.”

Burnside jumped to his feet. He moved with remarkable speed for a man of his age and massive girth. “All right! All right! Gulliver pulled down by the Lilliputians. You're all against me. Every one of you. All right. You, MacWhatever, you, girlie, give me the goddamned paper and take it and get the hell out of my office!”

They left with the signed memorandum in Kelly McGee's briefcase. They refrained from laughing until they reached the street.

Once there, Eric Coffman said, “I'll talk with Caswell. You'll be in town a little longer, Hobart?”

Lindsey said he would. “In fact, I don't know. I've lived in Walnut Creek for so long, I think I might make a permanent change.”

Coffman raised his Raymond Burr eyebrows. “Really?”

“You and Miriam are happy in Emeryville?”

“I'll be honest, it took some adjusting. You don't just pull up stakes and move and go on seamlessly. But, yes, we've been here a while now and no regrets.” He paused, then added, “Miriam wanted me to invite you for dinner again. Sorry about last time but I was otherwise detained. Not tonight, Hobart. I'm still recovering. What about some night next week? And by all means, bring your friend Marvia Plum. Miriam and I have always liked her.”

Lindsey was silent for a time, seemingly frowning down at his toes.

Coffman asked, “Metal or plastic?”

Lindsey was silent again. Finally he said, “I'm thinking about it.”

Kelly McGee stared at the two hysterical men as if they had gone mad.

SEVENTEEN

Kellen Jamison showed up as promised. He was dressed in a Cal Bears sweatshirt that had obviously seen better days, a pair of jeans that could stand a thorough washing, and a baseball cap with
FREE PALESTINE
embroidered on the front.

“Ready?”

A Plymouth sedan badly in need of paint and with half its body trim missing stood at the edge of the street.

Carolyn Horton stared at the battered car and shuddered. She was holding a white leather Gucci handbag—it was springtime now, nearly summer—and wearing Stuart Weitzman pumps.

In the car—it didn't even smell good—Jamison asked how her husband was doing.

“Not well. Not well at all, I'm afraid.”

Jamison said, “Sorry to hear that.”

“You will still be paid, Mr. Jamison. No need to worry about that.”

“I wasn't thinking that at all, ma'am.”

When he said “ma'am” he managed to make it sound like an insult.

“We're going to start at Berkeley High,” Jamison said. “I'm going to be driving. I'll go as slow as I can but I don't want us to be conspicuous. You keep an eye out for your daughter. If you see her, if you even see somebody you think might be her, you sound off, all right? Not to her. To me. All right?”

“I quite understand, thank you.”

“All right. If that doesn't work, I've got another idea. They need food and there's a big outlet store down on University near the railroad tracks. A lot of people get their groceries there to save money. We'll try the school first, do ripple surveillance, and if we come up empty we'll try University.”

The Plymouth's windshield had apparently not been cleaned since the last rainstorm. There were food crumbs on the floor. More to make conversation than because she cared, Carolyn asked, “Do they even build these cars anymore?”

Jamison smiled. “No, ma'am. This was one of the last. A real classic. Going to be collectible one day.”

The conversation lapsed.

Berkeley High was south of University and west of Shattuck, two of the city's main thoroughfares. By the time Jamison had covered enough territory without a sighting he said he would try the next option. “Gotta keep trying,” he announced.

They headed down University. The traffic was heavy. The sun beat down. The Plymouth didn't have air conditioning. The Plymouth pulled to a stop at a traffic light at San Pablo Avenue.

Carolyn Horton screamed. “I see her! I see her!”

“Where?”

“Right there,” she was crying. “Don't you see, don't you see, right there!”

“You gotta tell me
where,
damn it! ‘Right there' is no good. Left or right or—”

She pointed ahead of them and to their left, to the south, toward Emeryville and Oakland. “Oh, catch them, catch them!”

Traffic was flowing past them on San Pablo Avenue. They were in the wrong lane to make the turn. A truck painted with the name of a plumbing company blocked their path. Jamison leaned on the Plymouth's horn. Carolyn Horton pointed a well-manicured fingernail past him. He caught sight of a slate-gray BMW convertible, its top down. The driver wore a sporty cap. There were two figures crammed into the passenger seat, one of them a young girl with red hair. Jamison pounded his horn again and again. He even caught a glimpse of the Beamer's license tag. Long training came into play. He noted the vanity plate: BMRMEUP.