The Silver Chariot Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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      Lindsey could never get used to being called Mister. “No, I don’t.”

      “Well, even in good neighborhoods, people don’t like to get involved. In Hell’s Kitchen—well.…” He stopped speaking. He hummed softly.

      Lindsey wondered how much of Zissler’s humming it would take to get on his nerves. “You’re telling me all about this Fulton person. What’s our interest in him? Did he have a policy with I.S.?”

      “No, Mr. Lindsey, but when two bodies are found together, both of them shot—you see? And the cops knew Frankie Fulton. When they found the bodies and found Cletus Berry’s ID, they called International Surety. I talked to a detective. She knew all about Frankie Fulton. She didn’t know anything about Mr. Berry. She wanted to know about him. I couldn’t tell her much. I knew the guy. I met him a couple of times. That was all.”

      There was a lengthy silence.

      Lindsey said, “You met him? Tell me about that.”

      “Mr. Berry had his own office, he didn’t like to work out of Manhattan East, he just wanted us to pay his bills, get him office supplies. Typical SPUDS big shot. He rented this little place and put a computer and a futon and a microwave in it and made himself a little home-away-from-home. I was up there a couple of times to deliver documents. Arrogant, too good to hang out with us peons. Whoops—”

      Zissler paused.

      Lindsey waited.

      “I didn’t mean that you were, uh—”

      Lindsey said, “Never mind. What about Berry?”

      “Uh, just twice. I mean, he was just shot twice. Small caliber rounds, the detective said. Did I tell you that? Police don’t have a lab report yet but the detective told me the holes were small and there wasn’t much bleeding, almost certainly .22’s. That wouldn’t be too noisy, either, not like a .45 or a nine millimeter or even a Police Special.”

      Lindsey held the phone in his right hand and held his left hand in front of his face. It was shaking. “Where was Berry hit?”

      “Not nice,” Zissler said. “One gut-shot. That’s really nasty. You shoot somebody like that when you want him to take a long time dying and to suffer a lot. The detective told me that, see? And the other was through the head. Made a hole in his forehead, must have stayed in his brain, no exit wound. The detective said that the bullet must have bounced around inside his skull, chopped his brain to pieces. Probably still in there. Probably the coroner will get it out. The detective told me that.”

      Lindsey told Zissler he was coming to New York. Mrs. Blomquist would set up the trip from Denver, and would Zissler please make arrangements for him in New York. He took Zissler’s extension, got the name and number of the detective in charge of the case, and hung up. Lindsey had jotted notes on a yellow pad as Zissler spoke. He transferred the key information to his pocket organizer and slipped it into his jacket. He trotted back to Richelieu’s office.

      Richelieu had run a comb through his hair and was seated behind his desk; he was back to his usual imperial style. “You’re going.”

      “Of course.”

      “It’s I.S. business.”

      “It’s SPUDS business.”

      Richelieu looked up at Lindsey. “You’re after my job, aren’t you?”

      Lindsey said, “No way.”

      He went back to his own office and logged onto KlameNet/Plus. He used his SPUDS override code to get into Cletus Berry’s personnel file. How well had he really known Berry? After that first training course in Denver they’d only met a couple more times, always at SPUDS refresher meetings and seminars.

      Were they friends? Maybe. Colleagues, surely. Partners of a sort. But Lindsey had a feeling that if he left Cletus Berry’s murder in the hands of the NYPD odds were it would never be solved, and if he relied on Morris Zissler to handle the matter, the odds would be even worse.

      He heard a humming sound. He shook his head and it went away. He wasn’t going to let Morris Zissler haunt him. The man seemed earnest enough, just not too bright, and slightly on the smug side. Not a promising combination.

      * * * *

      Lindsey shut down the laptop and slid it into its case.

      The teenager in the Denver Nuggets cap and the Kiss Me shirt had sagged against Lindsey. Trying to get out from under the teenager’s weight, Lindsey squirmed. The kid twitched in his sleep, jumped, then climbed out of his seat and waddled up the aisle, toward the toilet. Halfway there he glanced back over his shoulder and gave Lindsey a dirty look.

      Lindsey pulled the in-flight magazine out of the pocket in front of him again and flipped through the pages. The reprint of A Christmas Carol was illustrated in colorful scenes that made Dickens’ London look a lot like the set of a Tim Burton movie. The publisher noted in tiny type that the story was abridged for the convenience of busy air travelers. The magazine was full of ads for tropical resorts, business suites in big city hotels, and offers of free sample watches, computer software, and carry-on luggage. Everybody was running a Christmas special, even on free offers.

      Lindsey sighed and gave up on the magazine. There was always the folder illustrating evacuation routes to study. It was a marvel of graphic communication, hardly a word in it. Perfect for getting a message to a multilingual audience.

      Outside the 777’s windows the December moon shone so brightly that it seemed to blaze. A cloud layer beneath the jet reflected the moonlight. Above the plane the black sky was dotted with stars. However, there was no sign of either Santa’s sleigh or the Star of Bethlehem.

      The captain’s voice broke Lindsey’s reverie. They would be landing at JFK in half an hour. The temperature was well below freezing and sleet was falling in New York.

      Lindsey slipped his International Surety credit card into the slot in front of him and made an air-to-ground telephone call.

      Morris Zissler had agreed to pick him up at the airport. At least the man was good for that. Lindsey wondered what Zissler looked like. Based on the man’s voice he expected a heavyset, middle-aged man in a brown suit. Zissler would be wearing a rumpled white button-down shirt and a worn, striped tie.

      Coming out of the jetway, Lindsey was engulfed in a maelstrom of travelers and the families and friends who turned out to greet them. Half the greeters and half the travelers had brightly-wrapped gifts in their hands. He spotted his seatmate, the massive teenager, waddling from the gate, a flight-bag in his hand.

      A spectacular blonde, as tall as the kid in the baseball cap but easily 200 pounds lighter, flew into his arms, hugging him and planting kisses on his face. Lindsey blinked. Maybe the fat kid had something that Lindsey didn’t know about. Maybe the spectacular blonde just liked them fat.

      By the time the crowd had thinned Lindsey spotted the man he guessed was Morris Zissler. His expectation was not disappointed. He approached the man, said, “Zissler?”

      “Yes, sir. Mr. Lindsey? Oh, I see you’ve got one of those little potato badges in your button hole, just like Mr. Berry. SPUDS, I get it. That’s clever. Just call me Moe, Mr. Lindsey. Welcome to New York.”

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