CHAPTER SIXCele Johnston didn’t just give her customers coffee, she offered them espresso. She sat behind a mahogany desk, tiny cup in one hand and matching saucer in the other. Lindsey sat opposite her in what Sam Spade would have called a client’s chair. Cele Johnston called it a Chippendale. His overcoat hung on a coat tree that could have stood in the palace at Versailles—if they had coat trees in the palace at Versailles.
“Mr. Lindsey, why are you looking for Castellini? Was he the beneficiary of a policy your company carried?”
Lindsey shook his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Well?”
She’d poured for him. The cups were tiny but the coffee was dense and strong; a demitasse would be more than enough. “Ms. Johnston, have you ever heard of Cletus Berry?”
“No.”
“He was one of our employe
