The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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СКАЧАТЬ by commuters headed for LA or San Diego or Seattle. Lindsey got himself an English muffin and a cup of coffee. Mueller ordered bacon and eggs up and a prune Danish, and proceeded to dip the Danish in the egg yolk.

      Mueller had the peculiar talent of always looking just a little bit dirty and just a little bit greasy.

      “So, how you like SPUDS?” Mueller tore off a gob of egg-covered Danish with his teeth. He hadn’t shaved and a yellow blob adhered to the stubble just below his lip.

      “It’s all right.” Lindsey wanted to limit the conversation to business. “Look, fill me in on Bessie Blue and this McKinney fellow. Lieutenant High showed me what happened, but what’s really going on? What does it mean to International Surety?”

      He still had the case folder in his attaché case, and he still hadn’t had a chance to read it. He should have studied it on the flight from Denver; he was annoyed with himself for that, but he promised himself that’s he’d clear a couple of hours and give the paperwork a thorough examination.

      “Bessie Blue? Name of a B-17. I don’t know what the name means, ask a jig and see if he’ll tell you.”

      Lindsey felt his jaw clench. “Please, Elmer.”

      Mueller looked up, surprised. “What?”

      Lindsey lowered his voice. “Jig.”

      “Oh, right. I keep forgetting what a good liberal boy you are, Hobie. Don’t ask a jig.” Mueller looked at Lindsey with something that might have been an impish grin. “Ask an American Africoon.”

      Lindsey shoved himself to his feet and left. All the way to the exit he heard Elmer Mueller laughing. He took a cab back to North Field and climbed into the Hyundai. He was entitled to desk space at the Walnut Creek office, and to admin support. Meaning that Ms. Wilbur would handle his mail and keep him posted on company gossip. But he wasn’t going in today. There was a chance that Elmer Mueller would show up.

      As long as he was in Oakland, he drove to Lake Merritt and parked near the Kleiner Mansion. The mansion was closed at this hour so he found a bench on the grassy bank and opened his attaché case. There were joggers and dog-walkers on the footpaths and ducks on the lake.

      The Bessie Blue folder was in standard International Surety format, with plenty of paperwork. The company had computerized its operations in recent years, but cautious heads still insisted on keeping hard copies of everything, and a series of computer virus scares had left the corporate structure in a state of electronic paranoia.

      The umbrella policy was made out to Double Bee Enterprises, as Lindsey had expected after talking to Lieutenant High. The policy covered all equipment, personnel, and operations of Double Bee and all its officers, employees, consultants, agents and independent contractors engaged in lawful activities in behalf of the company in the course of the development, production, post-production, promotion, distribution and exhibition of the film tentatively titled Bessie Blue.

      The coverage included the insured’s operation at Oakland International Airport, all grounds and facilities thereof, travel and transportation to and from, and other related movements and activities taking place at any location throughout the entire universe.

      Lindsey laughed. A jogger in spandex and headband stared. Lindsey turned to the policy appendixes. Double Bee Enterprises listed the airplanes it was going to use in Bessie Blue. A Stearman PT-17, a North American AT-6, a Lockheed P-38, a Bell P-39, a Curtiss P-40, a Republic P-47, a North American P-51, a Boeing B-17F, a Messerschmitt 109, a Focke-Wulf 190, and a Mitsubishi A6M2 Zero.

      There were photos of all the aircraft. Wonderful machines, all of them packed with character. They were like something from another age. They were as real to Lindsey as suits of armor or Roman catapults would have been.

      Where in the world were they going to get a fleet of fifty-year-old warplanes, in flying condition?

      Study the folder, study the folder. They’d taught him that from his first day with International Surety, and they’d drilled it into him all over again at the SPUDS seminar. Desmond Richelieu would be proud of him.

      Right. Aircraft to be provided by the National Knights of the Air Historical Association and Aerial Museum of Dallas, Texas. One more question answered.

      There were signatures from all sorts of corporate officers at Double Bee and at International Surety. Every item in the policy carried a separate dollar value. The whole policy faced out at $100,000,000.

      Lindsey’s ears rang.

      He shook his head, placed the airplane photos, the appendixes and the policy itself back in the folder inside his attaché case, and snapped the brass locks on the case. He locked the attaché case in the Hyundai and found a restaurant on Grand Lake Boulevard.

      A late breakfast by himself was a lot pleasanter than his abortive early one with Elmer Mueller.

      When he phoned Oakland police headquarters he was able to reach Lieutenant High. He had the number of High’s private line and was able to avoid the Broadway bureaucracy. High agreed to see him. Lindsey headed across town.

      There was even a visitor’s badge ready when he hit the front desk. Upstairs, High greeted him. “You should have come over earlier, Lindsey. You missed the show.”

      Lindsey asked what show that was.

      High grinned. “You could have attended the autopsy on Mr. McKinney. You’re following up on that, of course. Have you ever attended one?”

      Lindsey shook his head.

      “Always interesting. Always the same, and yet always different.”

      “Coroner must have been in an awfully big rush.”

      “Well, yes. We don’t usually get to post mortems this fast, but Sergeant Finnerty had an interesting theory about the McKinney killing. The evidence squad hasn’t brought in its report yet, so we don’t know about that, but I thought we should get the PM report on the victim as quickly as we could.”

      Lindsey grunted. He was sitting in a hardbacked chair next to High’s battered desk. Homicide in the Oakland Police Department worked out of a crowded, fluorescent-lit bullpen that would have driven Lindsey crazy if he’d had to spend his days there. Maybe that was what kept the detectives out on the job. Maybe it was a deliberate device intended to discourage them from lounging at their desks.

      He didn’t believe that for a minute. “What theory was that?” he asked. “Sergeant Finnerty’s theory.”

      “Narcotics.”

      Lindsey closed his eyes. “Every story in the paper seems to be about narcotics.”

      “Right.” High picked up a ball-point pen and stuck the tip of it between his teeth. He studied the pen for a moment, then laid it carefully on his desk and sighed. “You think that tobacco craving will ever go away? Or maybe the headshrinkers are right, pipe smokers just want their mother’s breast.”

      “Narcotics,” Lindsey reminded him.

      “Well, we get pretty close to a homicide a day here in Oakland. That’s no match for LA or Chicago. Half a dozen cities beat us, but then we’re not nearly as big a city as they are. Most of the homicides are related to narcotics. Not the users. Well, sometimes СКАЧАТЬ