she had, smashed him in the face with the laptop computer.
There were more lights on in the house and the little yippy dog was going absolutely bonkers nuts.
The guy she’d hit lurched backwards, his head jerking backwards against the brick thingamabob, and then the front door of the house opened and a the little yippy dog came swarming at her followed by a dumpy old broad waving her arms and Red split, she turned around and she ran, ran back to the bigger street, turned, and ran, and ran, and ran, the laptop computer hugged to her chest, her feet soaked with icy rainwater that came up through the holes in her sneakers and she was screaming, “Bobby, Bobby, open up, Bobby, let me in, Bobby, Bobby, I’ve got something for you, Bobby, for us, Bobby, something wonderful. Oh, love me, Bobby, love me, Bobby, love me, Bobby.”
CHAPTER TWO
One year later…
“Lindsey?”
It only took one word to make the old synapses kick back in. If he’d been a retired soldier he’d have wanted to jump out of bed and stand at attention. If he’d been a retired fire horse he’d have snorted once, shaken himself, and been ready to pull the wagon to the conflagration.
Hobart Lindsey grunted, “Yes, Mr. Richelieu.”
He pressed the phone to his ear, swung himself around and planted his feet in his fleece slippers. How long had he been retired, himself? He’d had enough of International Surety to qualify for his pension. He wasn’t eligible for Social Security yet and the monthly checks from I.S. weren’t exactly lavish, but he’d been able to keep the little house in Walnut Creek after his mother remarried and moved to a gated retirement community in Carlsbad.
He waited to hear what Desmond Richelieu, his old chief at International Surety, top executive at Special Projects Unit / Detached Service, would be calling him about at this hour of the morning. In fact.… Lindsey frowned, peered at the glowing readout on his bedside clock, and waited for Richelieu to say what he had to say.
“Lindsey, I need you back on board.”
“I’m retired, Mr. Richelieu.” He couldn’t bring himself to call his old chief Ducky, the name that everyone used when Richelieu was out of earshot.
“I know that. You get a fat check every month for not working.”
“Mr. Richelieu, I earned it.”
“All right, look—wait a minute, where the hell are you, Lindsey?”
“Don’t you know? You called me. I’m at home.”
“Yeah, yeah, vegetating. I’m still working, why aren’t you?”
Lindsey didn’t even try to answer that. “Look, Chief, I’m sure you called me for a reason. You realize it’s an hour earlier here in California than it is there in Denver. Did you just want to wake me up, or is there some ulterior motive?”
“You’re getting feisty in your old age, Lindsey.”
“Yep.” He stretched, stood up, started toward the kitchen. Thanks be given for cordless telephones!
“You were always the go-to guy on wacko cases. I’ve got your file right here on my monitor. Comic books, that Duesenberg with the solid platinum engine, Julius Caesar’s toy chariot. You were always the oddball. Maybe that’s why you were so good at the loony cases.”
“Thanks, Chief. You should have said that at my retirement banquet when I got the gold wristwatch and the fond farewell. Oh, wait a minute, I didn’t have a retirement banquet, gold wristwatch, or fond farewell. I got a fond Don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out. Look, I am longing for a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs, and since there’s nobody here to make them, I need to get off the phone and do it myself. Unless there’s something you want.”
“You know about the consulting fee account.”
“Right.”
“I can offer you some nice bucks for a few hours of easy work.”
“Right. And there’s a really nice bridge you’d like to sell me.”
“No, I mean it.”
“Okay, hold on.” He laid the phone on the counter, turned on the coffee maker, got a couple of eggs out of the fridge and set them where he could keep a watchful eye on them, and plopped himself in a chromium-rimmed kitchen chair.
Desmond Richelieu’s voice came squirming out of the telephone. “Are you there? Are you there, damn you, Lindsey, where the hell did you go?”
Lindsey picked up the phone. “Sorry ’bout that, Chief. Now, what was it?”
“You ever hear of Gordon Simmons, Lindsey?”
Lindsey frowned. “I don’t think so.” The coffee maker was grunting and chugging like a happy little steam locomotive.
“You don’t keep up with things, do you?”
“Chief, please. He’s not related to Flash Gordon on the Planet Mongo, is he? I’ve always had a fondness for old Buster Crabbe.”
“Don’t joke, you—listen, don’t take it for granted that your pension is guaranteed, Lindsey. Don’t get me peeved.”
“Chief, it is guaranteed. Who is Gordon Simmons?”
“Not is. Was. He died a year ago. Murdered.”
“Sorry, Chief. Deponent knoweth not. You want to tell me more, or let me scramble my eggs. I’m hungry this morning.” He looked out the kitchen window. Beyond gauzy, pale blue curtains the sky was a vivid shade, almost cobalt, and the sun was bright. “Did we cover the decedent? Is there a problem with the claim? Why is this a case for SPUDS? I’m sorry Mr. Simmons was murdered but why are you calling me about it? Especially a year after his death.”
“It’s not about the death claim. We paid that off. No problem.”
Lindsey sighed. “Can I call you back after I’ve had my scrambled eggs? I think I’m going to have an English muffin and orange marmalade with them.”
“No, damn it, no! I don’t give a damn about your breakfast. Now listen. The guy lived in Berkeley. Simmons. He had a policy with us. Beneficiary was his wife. Walnut Creek office handled the claim. They paid the claim and we closed the case. This is a new case.”
“You’ll have to enlighten me, Chief.” Lindsey clutched the telephone between his jawbone and his shoulder, broke a muffin in half and dropped the pieces into the chrome-plated retro toaster on the counter. Except that the toaster wasn’t retro. It was original stock. It had stood on that counter for as long as Hobart Lindsey could remember.
“We’ve got a lawsuit pending. Mrs. Simmons is suing a publisher called Gordian House. It’s a plagiarism suit. She has a co-plaintiff, a publisher called Marston and Morse. Gordian House has kicked it over to us. If they lose the suit we have to pony up. And the Widder Simmons and M-and-M want big bucks. Big bucks, Lindsey.”
The toaster popped. Lindsey clutched the phone again between jawbone and shoulder. He spread some marmalade on
