it,” Richelieu said.
Lindsey said, “I’ll need to study the file.”
“Take it.” He shoved the tobacco-brown folder across his desk. Lindsey peered at him questioningly. Richelieu said, “It’s all photocopies.”
Lindsey locked the folder in his attaché case and stood up. This time Richelieu didn’t try to stop him.
Mrs. Blomquist hadn’t changed his reservations, but he caught a United 737 as he’d planned and he was in Oakland in time to face the afternoon rush hour on his way home to Walnut Creek.
Marvia Plum had offered to pick him up at the terminal if she could clear her schedule with the Berkeley Police Department, but Lindsey had promised Mother that she could come out to the airport. She’d been staying in the present most of the time, a slow, steady improvement over her condition in recent years, and he wanted to reward her for staying connected.
He didn’t think it was really her fault, the way she strayed through time. He hadn’t understood when he was little, and she had managed somehow to cope with everyday realities. But as he’d grown up, Mother had got more and more disconnected from the calendar.
Her point of reference was always that dreadful day in 1953, the day she had received word of her husband’s death in the China Sea. Sometimes she knew what year it was and what day, and connected with people around her perfectly. Other times, she thought Jack Kennedy was in the White House, or Harry Truman, or Ike. Most often, Ike.
But as Lindsey had grown away from her, as his relationship with Marvia Plum had ripened from a partnership to a friendship to a troubled and intermittent romance, Mother had somehow regained her grasp on the reality of time. She was still young enough to build a life for herself, and Lindsey wanted to do all that he could to help her.
Now he made his way down the faux terrazzo corridor. He carried his attaché and flight bag. No dealing with luggage carousels! He spotted Mother, a thinner, older, female version of himself. But not really very much older. She’d been a young bride, just a teenager, when her husband had died and her son was born.
With her was Joanie Schorr, their neighbor. Joanie had babysat with Mother when Lindsey had to go out at night. Mrs. Hernández came during the day. Lindsey stayed with Mother most nights and weekends. But Joanie had been the real lifesaver. Even today, she had driven the Hyundai from Walnut Creek. With a start, Lindsey realized that little Joanie was as old as Mother had been when she’d given birth to him.
Both women waved.
Attaché case in one hand and flight bag in the other, Lindsey couldn’t wave back. He hoped they could see his smile. He wanted to get in the Hyundai and get home.
CHAPTER THREE
The telephone’s burbling woke Lindsey from a strange sleep. It was wonderful being in his own home, in his own bed. Mother was asleep in her room, and he’d spoken with Marvia the night before and made a dinner date with her.
But in his dreams images of Aurora Delano became confused with Mrs. Blomquist’s white powdery face. B-17s tumbled through the wartime sky, spiraling downward to crash into German munitions factories. A bomber’s smashed wing became Aurora’s shattered arm. The bomber, its stressed metal wings replaced by human limbs, circled over the Oakland Coliseum, threatening thousands of baseball fans.
The voice on the phone was female and remotely familiar. Lindsey hadn’t identified it as that of Mrs. Blomquist before she said, “Stand by for a call from Mr. Richelieu.”
Lindsey blinked at the clock. It was an hour later in Denver, but still, he couldn’t expect Richelieu and Mrs. Blomquist to be at work this early. What—
“Lindsey, get yourself together and start earning your paycheck. They beat you to the punch.”
Lindsey said, “Mr. Richelieu? I’ve just—”
“Never mind what you’ve just. I should have sent you back there early, or put someone else on this thing.”
“You mean—”
“Bessie Blue.”
Lindsey said, “Who?”
“Haven’t you read the case folder yet?”
Lindsey could only stammer.
“Good grief, feed ’em red meat and send ’em to the best of schools and they still don’t know a damn thing. That’s the name of the star airplane. And of the movie. Bessie Blue. They’ve already got their film crew in Oakland and they’re at work at the airport. Look for North Field. Find out what’s going on. Elmer Mueller’s already there, talk to him and take charge of the case. But don’t step on Elmer’s toes, Lindsey.”
“Yes, sir. But what happened?”
“Somebody got himself killed on the set. You just came through that airport, you must barely have missed the party. It’s still going on. Get your tail out there and see what’s happening. You’re off to some great start in SPUDS, Lindsey. Well, what are you waiting for?”
“You’re talking to me, Mr. Richelieu.”
“I don’t care. You should be on your way to Oakland by now. Try to get there before everybody else leaves. What do you think—”
Lindsey took him at his word, cradled the handset and headed for a quick shower. Minutes later he was en route to Oakland. The Bessie Blue folder, still unread, lay in his attaché case on the seat beside him. It was still dark out, the first rays of dawn raising a mist off the hills beside the freeway.
The Hyundai’s dashboard clock said it was four-thirty AM. Lindsey had turned on an all-news station and heard all about a threatened strike by supermarket clerks and a People’s Park protest is Berkeley. There was a piece about the aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln sailing from Alameda with its battle group for maneuvers in the Pacific. Made sense. America had to be defended against aggressive Easter Islanders, or maybe swarms of penguins attacking from the South Pole.
He switched to a jazz station. That was one thing Marvia Plum had done for him. She’d introduced him to something besides the discordant screeing that he’d thought synonymous with the word.
It was easy to find the Bessie Blue set. There were half a dozen police cars with their roof-lights flashing red and blue. Lindsey parked the Hyundai behind them. A TV news-van was pulling out of the lot as Lindsey pulled in. There was another vehicle there, a coroner’s wagon. The body might still be in place. Lindsey had never seen a fresh murder victim. He shuddered at the thought, but something else was going on inside him.
He felt his heart pounding and his blood pumping through his body. This had to be an adrenalin rush. He’d been involved with murders twice before, and there was nothing like the excitement they produced. He was getting addicted.
He’d parked the Hyundai in a square clearing behind an aircraft hangar. At first the surface looked like blacktop but then Lindsey realized that it was an old type dirt-and-gravel lot where they sprayed a layer of oil every now and then to keep down the dust. Talk about poisoning the earth!
The police cars were pulled up near the hangar. At the end of the line was a decade-old Cadillac. Area lights illuminated the parking area. They were bright enough for Lindsey to read
