“You said not to come to Dr. Bernstein’s house. I didn’t. Thought you’d be more comfortable talking in your own home.”
Roberts stood there looking at Lindsey with distaste. The silence stretched out. Lindsey could hear the gentle lapping sound of the water in the estuary. It must be pleasant for the occupants of the condos. He managed to outwait Roberts.
“You guys work on Sundays?” Roberts turned and inserted his key in the lock.
“There’s a lot of money at stake, Mr. Roberts. I’ll only take a few minutes. Please.”
Roberts shoved the door open and gestured Lindsey inside.
“Thanks.” Lindsey preceded Roberts into the apartment, waited while he pulled the door shut. He stood uncomfortably while Roberts deliberately hung his overcoat and cap on a brass tree. Roberts’ luxuriant hair was thinning on top, and had worn through to his scalp in a silver-dollar sized spot in the back. In front, it was receding from a widow’s peak.
Making no attempt to take Lindsey’s coat or offer him a seat, Roberts headed for the end of the room. There was a small bar there, apparently built in by the thoughtful designers of the condo. He proceeded to make himself an oversized martini. He turned around and lifted the glass to his lips, his eyes on Lindsey.
Lindsey noticed that Roberts’ hand shook slightly as he raised the glass. Behind him on the bar stood the bottles he’d used. Gilbey’s gin. Frankenstein vermouth. Frankenstein? Must be some kind of joke. Sure, and Dracula wine—red, of course. Any day now. Nothing was impossible. Lindsey had waited long enough for Roberts to react. He lowered himself to the white-pebbled sofa and laid his pocket organizer on a blondwood coffee table. “Now, Mr. Roberts—it’s Joseph Roberts, is that correct?”
Roberts nodded minimally.
“The van Arndts tell me that you actually witnessed the theft of the Duesenberg.”
“Sort of.” Roberts pursed his mouth in obvious annoyance.
“What does that mean?”
“For one, it means that I was pretty blotto at the time and I wasn’t seeing much of anything.” Roberts lowered himself into a chair near the coffee table, set at 45 degrees from Lindsey’s position.
“For two, then?”
“For two, as much as I can remember. I went out for some fresh air. I’d been drinking a lot, and I was afraid I was going to black out. I think I’d made a little pass at Jayjay and she got pretty mad at me. Stupid hag, I was doing her a favor. I went outside, I figured fresh air would do me some good.” He covered his mouth with one hand, almost in time to conceal a belch.
Lindsey said, “Who’s Jayjay?”
“Jeanette James Smith. You know, the gal who runs the mansion for the City of Oakland.”
“Sorry I interrupted. You got outside.…” Lindsey nodded his head encouragingly, offering Roberts his most ingratiating smile.
Roberts resisted for a while, then said, “Look, here’s what I saw. I was standing on the edge of the lawn, looking toward the lake. You know, they fixed up the old necklace of lights surrounding the lake, and I was looking at the lights, at the reflections. They settled my stomach. I guess I had too much to drink and not enough to eat. You know buffet food. Looks great, tastes like watered cardboard. I was afraid I was going to barf if I didn’t black out. Maybe both.”
“Ah, but then—?”
“Well, I heard the car door slam and I heard the motor start up. But that was behind me, you see.”
“Yes. Did Duesenbergs have self-starters? Or did somebody have to crank it?”
“Good question. Yeah, it has a self-starter. I was checking on that a few weeks ago. They came in on the 1911 Caddie. Sure, all the Dusies had ’em.”
“Did you see how many people were in the car?”
“Not really.”
“How many door slams did you hear?”
Roberts pressed his glass to his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t say anything.
“Mr. Roberts?”
“Sorry. Look, you want a drink, Lindsey? One of these? Or a whiskey? A beer? Cup of coffee? I can put on the Melitta.”
“Oh, coffee, please. But—the number of slams.”
Roberts stood up. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Yeah. I was trying to remember. I assumed there was just one.”
“But…?”
Roberts frowned. “Now that I think about it, there might have been two.”
Lindsey’s eyebrows rose. “Might have been two?”
“Is it important?”
“I think so. Look, Mr. Roberts—”
“Joe.”
“If there was only one slam, there was probably only one thief. If there were two slams, there were probably two thieves. Maybe more. The Duesenberg is a convertible?”
“Four door convertible.”
“Top would have been in place.”
“On a cold, wet night? Sure.”
“All right. How certain are you that you heard two slams? Not one, not three or four.”
Roberts walked out of the room. Lindsey heard him bustling around in the kitchen. There was a high-pitched whining sound. Unless Roberts was performing some self-administered dentistry, that had to be a coffee grinder. Some rattling, then Roberts came back and settled into his chair. “That’ll take a few minutes. Maybe I should have some with you instead of this ’toonie, but I couldn’t face it.”
“Think hard,” Lindsey persisted. “How many slams?”
“Two.” His martini was down to its last quarter-inch. Roberts disappeared the last of it and set the empty glass on an ebony coaster. “Definitely two. The more I think about it, the more certain I get. Two.”
“Did you tell Gutiérrez that?”
Roberts closed his eyes. “No.”
“You told him you heard just one slam?”
“I think I just told him I heard somebody slam the car door. He didn’t ask me how many slams, and I didn’t really think about it.”
Lindsey jotted a note. He looked up. “Then what?”
“Two slams, starter noise, lights went on, car pulled out of the driveway into Lakeside Drive.”
Lindsey nodded. “What did you do?”
“I just
