The Silver Chariot Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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СКАЧАТЬ light, but for once he had checked his flight bag and for once the bag had made its way from Denver to JFK without disappearing, getting bashed beyond recognition, or taking a side trip to York, England.

      Zissler insisted on carrying the heavy flight bag from the claim area to the parking lot. The sleet was falling and Lindsey turned up the collar of his seldom-used overcoat. He didn’t have a hat, and he could feel his hair starting to crust over with sleet. Maybe the kid in the Nuggets hat had more on the ball than met the eye.

      With a grunt that interrupted his humming, Zissler hefted Lindsey’s flight bag into the trunk of a new sedan. Lindsey was too tired and sore to notice what kind of sedan it was. He held onto the laptop. He thought he might get used to this VIP treatment in time. It wasn’t really so bad.

      “You picked a rough night to fly, Mr. Lindsey.” Zissler actually held the door open for him.

      “Cletus Berry picked a rough night to get murdered.”

      Zissler started the engine and put the sedan into gear. Lindsey noticed that the car was full of peppermint fumes. He leaned his elbow against the door and squeezed his eyes between forefinger and thumb.

      Even at this hour of the morning, and even in miserable, freezing, wet December weather, the freeway leading into Manhattan was jammed.

      No, Lindsey told himself, they don’t call them freeways here.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Lindsey scrunched down inside the futon, alternately cursing himself for not calling ahead for a hotel reservation and either Mrs. Blomquist or Corporate Travel for not thinking to ask if he needed one. No, it was his own fault for relying on Morris Zissler’s judgment.

      It was cold. Of course—this was an office building, why would the landlord provide heat late at night? Fortunately, Berry had brought in a space heater. It helped a little. Only a little.

      In his years with International Surety, Lindsey had done plenty of traveling, and he’d always stayed in comfortable accommodations. But when Moe Zissler asked Lindsey where to drop him off, Lindsey had no answer.

      Zissler had suggested his using Cletus Berry’s pied à terre, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lindsey had agreed. Zissler rattled a key to the place, and when he drove through the Queens Midtown Tunnel and through Manhattan’s slushy streets, Lindsey got his first real look at New York.

      He’d have to learn the city fast if he was going to do anything with this puzzle. It was the first time he’d taken a case for International Surety where the company had no financial stake. Normally, Desmond Richelieu would have squelched any effort like this one, but for all the Director’s faults, he was loyal to his troops and he wasn’t going to let Cletus Berry’s murder stand as just one more statistic in the most murderous country in the world.

      Zissler drove uptown for a few blocks, then pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript commercial building on West 58th Street. “This is it.”

      He raced around the car and opened the door for Lindsey.

      The heater had been on, and the flow of warm, stuffy air had lulled Lindsey into a half-doze. He climbed out of the car and drew cold air into his lungs. That woke him up.

      Torrington Tower. That was the name of the building, engraved into the granite lintel above the thick glass and tarnished cast-iron doors. Lindsey craned his neck. The Torrington Tower might have been considered a tower when it was erected; now, it was dwarfed by its neighbors.

      “How are we going to get in?” Lindsey asked.

      Zissler separated a pair of keys from a massive batch. “I had an extra set made when I heard you were coming to town, Mr. Lindsey. There’s a guard in the lobby, but we’ve got keys to the lobby door and to Mr. Berry’s office, both.”

      He hauled Lindsey’s flight bag out of the sedan’s trunk. Lindsey clung to his laptop computer in its carrying case. Zissler opened the lobby door and stood aside while Lindsey entered. The door locked itself behind them with a click.

      The guard was behind the desk, as Zissler had promised. He stood up when Zissler and Lindsey entered. He’d been reading; now he laid his book down on his desk, spine upward. Lindsey read the title. Principles of Modern Accounting for the Medium-Sized Business.

      The guard was a tall Hispanic with rich wavy hair and a small mustache. He wore a name tag. It said, R. Bermúdez.

      R. Bermúdez said, “Hello, Mr. Zissler. This gentleman with you?”

      Zissler said, “This is Mr. Lindsey. Rodrigo Bermúdez.”

      Lindsey extended his hand.

      The guard smiled and shook it. “Rigo. Please just call me Rigo.”

      Zissler led the way to a small elevator that creaked and wobbled its way up six stories. On the way up, Zissler said, “Rodrigo’s twin brother works here, too. Can’t tell ’em apart except by their schoolbooks. Rodrigo’s studying accounting. Benjamino’s out to be a lawyer.”

      Once they reached Cletus Berry’s erstwhile home-away-from-home Zissler put Lindsey’s flight bag on the carpet, then handed him the keys.

      “Didn’t the coroner put a seal on this place?” Lindsey asked. “Or the police?”

      Zissler shook his head. “This is New York, Mr. Lindsey.” Apparently he regarded that as a full explanation.

      Maybe it was.

      Lindsey reached for his pocket organizer. He opened it and said to Zissler, “I want to make sure I’ve got this right. The detective on the case is named Marcie Sokolov. You’ve met her?”

      Zissler shook his head. “I spoke with her. By telephone.”

      Lindsey chewed his lower lip. This guy wasn’t going to be much help, that was obvious. He was like a big, good-natured, not-very-bright dog. He wanted desperately to please, but unless you kept the instructions simple, really simple, he was more likely to mess up than to help out.

      “What was your impression of this, ah, Detective Sokolov?”

      “She was okay.”

      Lindsey looked around the office for a chair. The furnishings weren’t quite as sparse as Zissler had indicated. There was a nondescript gray rug on the floor and a couple of cheap prints of Rome on the walls. In addition to the computer, the microwave, and the futon, there were a desk with a telephone on it, a couple of chairs, and a filing cabinet. One window offered a view that surprised Lindsey. Some quirk of architecture had left a narrow line of sight to the north. He recognized Central Park from a hundred movies and a thousand postcards. He imagined he could see Dick Haymes and Deanna Durbin riding through the park pursued by the dastardly Boss Tweed, played by Vincent Price, in an AMC revival of Up in Central Park.

      There were three doors in the room. One, Lindsey and Zissler had come through. Lindsey opened the others. A bathroom complete with shower stall. Okay. And a closet. A rack of clothes, a lightweight, mini-, what the heck did they call it, dresserette maybe. A shelf with a few pairs of shoes and a little TV set. The TV was one of those compact models with a built-in VCR.

      Huh.

      Lindsey dropped to his hands СКАЧАТЬ