the police and have Ms. Wilbur send him a claim form. In fact, he’d rather have Ms. Wilbur handle the whole thing, only she was still on the phone with Mr. Candliss and Lindsey was in no mood to wait.
He jotted down the phone number for Comic Cavalcade, then dialed. He studied his Timex electric while the phone rang. It was a quarter after nine and the shop had not opened for business. Maybe they sleep late in Berkeley and open whenever they feel like it, he thought.
The reedy voice that matched Terry Patterson’s on the tape said, “Comic Cavalcade, the store is open from eleven A.M. to ten P.M., seven days a week. If you wish to leave a message, please wait for the signal.”
Lindsey snorted. When the sound came over the line he said, “This is Hobart Lindsey at International Surety in Walnut Creek, returning your—”
“Mr. Lindsey!”
Patterson must have been monitoring calls.
“Mr. Lindsey, thank you for calling. You got my message?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Mr. Patterson.”
“Oh, this is terrible. Thank you, Mr. Lindsey. I think you’d better come over here.”
He sounded less distraught than he had on the tape. He’d probably spent the time since he’d left the message putting his thoughts in order, and realized what a penny-ante matter it was.
“I don’t know if that will be necessary,” Lindsey said. “Have you notified the police?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the store?”
Lindsey ignored the question and asked again, “Have you notified the police?”
“Yes, sure. First thing. There’s an officer here right now, but I think you’d better come in.”
A police officer—that was a pleasant surprise. Lindsey hadn’t expected that the Berkeley police would bother with something like a burglary at a comic book store. At a jeweler’s or a camera shop or a stereo store, yes—but comic books?
“How great is the loss, Mr. Patterson?”
“I haven’t priced everything out. I’ve done an inventory, I think I know everything they took. But—”
“Was this a break-in?” Bart asked.
“No. Uh, maybe. I mean, the back door, I think they, uh, jimmied the lock. They didn’t break in, like, uh, break in, you know. They didn’t smash the window or anything. But I guess you could say they broke in, sort of.”
“Well, it sounds like a police matter to me. How much do you estimate your loss to be?” Lindsey looked at the display screen to check Comic Cavalcade’s deductible. If it was a petty loss, it wouldn’t even be worth processing the claim.
“I’m not sure.”
“Give me an approximation.” Lindsey rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. Patterson would probably inflate the amount, Lindsey would have to go to the store and examine the premises, disallow the claim. Patterson would yowl and threaten to sue International Surety. Then they’d start haggling like a couple of rug merchants. What a mess. Well, at least Patterson had called the police. And how much could some trashy comic books be worth, even if he did inflate the amount?
“Uh, I’ll have to double-check this, Mr. Lindsey, against the price guides and such. But I figure they got some really choice items.”
Lindsey counted to five. “Yes, Mr. Patterson. Could you give me a rough dollar estimate of the value of those comic books? Just a preliminary figure.”
Patterson didn’t say anything.
“Try,” Lindsey urged. He let his breath out with a soft hiss. “Guess.”
“Uh, about a quarter mil, give or take. About that.”
Lindsey gasped. Ms. Wilbur had finished consoling Mr. Candliss and was typing an envelope. She looked up and stared at Bart. Into the telephone he said, “How much did you say?”
“Uh, ab-about a quarter of a million, Mr. Lindsey. A lot of the things were on consignment, you understand. So I d-d-didn’t just lose my own stock, I’ll have to make good to the owners. I can’t pay that kind of money, M-Mr. Lindsey. International Surety has to stand by me. You have to. Please!”
Lindsey yelped.
Ms. Wilbur turned to look at him. “Are you all right?”
He muttered something into the phone and hung up.
Ms. Wilbur asked if he wanted a cup of coffee.
He shook his head and stammered, “N-No. I couldn’t hold the c-cup!”
CHAPTER TWO
Lindsey asked Ms. Wilbur to hold the fort while he took a run into Berkeley. He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. He got his Hyundai out of its basement parking spot and fought his way into the traffic.
For a minute Lindsey thought about telephoning Harden at Regional, but he decided against it. He’d rather take the initiative. He liked to be known as a can-do guy in International Surety. He’d bring Harden on board when he had some solid information to present. Something the company could dig its teeth into.
Lindsey considered the case before him. For all that he’d never met Terry Patterson, he could tell from their telephone conversation that Patterson was some kind of a wimp. That was no surprise—a grown man who made his living selling comic books to children. And he’d waffled about the burglary. Was it a break-in, or wasn’t it? Had there even been a burglary at all? Maybe it was a case of employee pilfering. Maybe Patterson had stolen those comic books himself. Maybe he was making the whole thing up, there had never been any comic books, and he was attempting to defraud International Surety of a quarter-million dollars.
Possible fraud, Lindsey jotted in his pocket organizer as he waited at a traffic light on Monument Boulevard. At least—contributory negligence. Already he was coming up with some good ideas about how to save the company money. That’s how a man makes himself valuable to an organization!
Maybe he’d send a memo to Harden about it, and copy Legal. Or...maybe better to send the memo to Legal and copy Harden! Lindsey knew Harden, and he did not trust the man. He knew Harden wasn’t above taking his ideas to Legal and presenting them as his own. Harden would get the glory, then toss a couple of crumbs to Lindsey after the fact.
But first things first. Get the facts on the case.
Lindsey got on the freeway and headed for Berkeley. He ran his hand over the leatherette seat covering, savoring the newness of the Hyundai. It had more performance than his old Mercury Capri had ever shown. Much more. He was a little concerned that the Hyundai was foreign made, but at least it was from Korea, not from Japan or Germany. The Koreans had been on our side—the South Koreans had, anyway—and that eased Lindsey’s conscience.
He parked in a municipal garage and walked to Comic Cavalcade on Telegraph Avenue. UC was back from semester break and foot traffic was heavy. A vagrant snap of wind stirred a flutter of newspapers and fast-food containers along the pavement.
He
