Belmont, California, home to a destination in Reno.”
On the TV screen the helicopter hovered, the whup-whup-whup of its blades hesitated and the ’copter shook, then began to whirl as it fell toward the lake. Almost miraculously, Jamie had kept the Handycam image steady and clear. Maybe the boy did have a future as a cameraman.
“The pilot, John Frederick O’Farrell of Mountain View, California, is a Viet Nam veteran who operates a private air-taxi service. He was rushed to Doctors’ Hospital in Truckee and is in Intensive Care, suffering from a compound fracture of the leg and internal injuries. A hospital spokesperson says that doctors are guardedly optimistic regarding O’Farrell’s condition. Coast Guard authorities at Lake Tahoe said that only the quick action of Captain Kevin MacKenzie of the Bayliner Tahoe Tailflipper saved O’Farrell’s life.”
The screen showed O’Farrell climbing out of the lake, Marvia Plum hauling him by one dripping sleeve while O’Farrell clung to the boat-hook that MacKenzie and Lindsey had passed to him. On the video tape, the injuries to O’Farrell’s leg were horrifyingly obvious.
Then the image cut to a still picture of a white-haired, business-suited man. The surroundings were unquestionably an office. Letters running across the bottom of the screen read, File Photo. The announcer furnished a voice-over. “Albert Crocker Vansittart was the last scion of a pioneer California family. A lifelong bachelor, Vansittart inherited a fortune estimated at fifty million dollars and ran its worth up to ten times that amount. A lifelong resident of Belmont, Vansittart was traveling to Reno on holiday.”
The scene cut back to Lake Tahoe. The news network must have hired a helicopter of its own and had it hover over the crash site. Now it was nighttime; the footage must have been shot within the past hour. A Coast Guard cutter had returned and its crew were working by floodlight, dropping lines into the black water. They hauled them back without results.
The announcer introduced a professor of marine geology from the University of Nevada at Reno. “Lake Tahoe is more than a quarter of a mile deep,” the professor intoned. “Once you get past the surface layers, the temperature is a uniform 40 degrees Fahrenheit, year round. We don’t really know what lies at the bottom of the lake—or who.” The professor allowed himself a little laugh. “But you can be sure, if anybody rode that helicopter to the bottom of the lake, he isn’t alive now.”
“Haven’t you tried this technique before, Professor, looking for Tahoe Tessie?”
“A lot of people laugh at Tessie, call her our own version of the Loch Ness Monster. But we’ve found some amazing species in recent decades. Why, no one believed that a live coelacanth could possibly be swimming around today, until.…”
Lindsey jumped when the telephone rang at his elbow. As he picked up the handset he glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 at night; it had been a long day and evening but everyone including the ten-year-olds was too energized to sleep. “Stand by for Mr. Richelieu.” Lindsey grimaced and mouthed his boss’s name. Marvia mimed back in alarm.
Richelieu said, “Lindsey, I’m surprised you’re still awake.” He sounded like Jack Nicholson on valium, Lindsey thought. “You’re not watching CNN by any chance, are you, Lindsey?”
Amazing. Did the man have bugs everywhere? “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Do you know who died this afternoon?”
“You mean Albert Crocker Vansittart?”
“Go to the head of the class. That was you and your girlfriend in the, what was its name—”
“Tahoe Tailflipper.”
“God, you California people are so cute I want to throw up. Yes, I thought that was you. Well, Hobart Lindsey, International Surety’s hero du jour. I don’t know how you always manage to land in hot water, but you’re in it again.”
Lindsey shook his head. Obviously, Richelieu had never dipped his toes into Lake Tahoe. Lindsey had carried the telephone as far away from the TV as he could, closed himself in the bathroom with the cord snaked under the door. Too bad the lodge didn’t have cordless phones, but then guests would surely carry them away like souvenir towels.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Richelieu. Why am I in this? What does this have to do with International Surety? What does it have to do with SPUDS?” And why, Lindsey wondered, had the director of the Special Projects Unit/Detached Service, tracked him down to a lakeside lodge in Tahoe City long after business hours?
“Good thing Mrs. Blomquist and I were working late tonight and happened to turn on the set here in the office.”
Lindsey didn’t rise to that one.
“Vansittart has one of our flag policies. Had, I should say. I assume the coroner out there is going to certify that he’s dead.”
“Without a body, Mr. Richelieu?”
“Come on, Lindsey. Enough witnesses saw that ’copter crash. Including you of all people. And it’s on tape. And the pilot—what’s his name—”
“O’Farrell.”
“—says it was Vansittart.”
“Okay. Vansittart had an International Surety policy?”
“Four million dollars worth.”
“Four—four million?”
“That’s right. Been paying in on it since 1951. Biggest life policy I.S. ever wrote.”
“Well…well…I guess we’ll just have to pay off, then. If they can recover the body. Or, ah, once the coroner certifies that he’s dead. I don’t suppose we can wait seven years? And no double indemnity?”
Richelieu’s chuckle was oilier than Jack Nicholson’s. “No seven years. And no double indemnity, either. I looked. Give thanks for small blessings.”
Lindsey rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch again. It was quarter-to-twelve. Quarter-to-one in Denver. Sure, Mr. Richelieu and Mrs. Blomquist were working late. On a Friday night. Just like Nelson Rockefeller and his editor were when the Rock bought the farm.
“I don’t see why you called me, Mr. Richelieu. I’m on vacation. Well, a weekend getaway, anyhow. That’s a huge policy, and the death of the insured will have to be certified, but it still sounds like a job for the nearest branch office. Why don’t they just enter the event through KlameNet and—”
“You aren’t listening, Lindsey. This is a flag policy, understand? And there’s something peculiar about it, aside from the circumstances of Vansittart’s death.”
He paused, waiting for Lindsey to ask what was peculiar about Vansittart’s $4,000,000 policy.
Lindsey liked his job.
“What’s peculiar about Vansittart’s policy?”
“The beneficiary. Cripes, I’d never write a policy like this one, I don’t care who the insured was, I don’t care how much he was paying in premiums.”
Lindsey did not ask who the beneficiary was. He didn’t like his job that much.
Richelieu cleared his throat. “The beneficiary
