LINDSEY CHASES A GHOSTThe hotel lobby rose twenty-four stories into a towering atrium. Wild tales, perhaps apocryphal, were told of clouds forming at its apex, on occasion condensing and raining on startled guests hundreds of feet below.
There was nothing apocryphal about the spectacular view of Monterey Bay as seen from the revolving restaurant and lounge atop the hotel. Tonight a full moon reflected off the black surface of the bay. The lights of Santa Cruz twinkled in the distance.
Hobart Lindsey and Artemis Jansen sat side by side facing a white-jacketed bartender. His steel-gray hair was combed over his ears and curved over his forehead in Beatles-era bangs. He wore dark-rimmed glasses, their arms disappearing behind each ear into a heavy cord. A big Joe Stalin mustache covered his
