The Sepia Siren Killer

CHAPTER TWO-1

CHAPTER TWOYou wouldn’t call it a great party. Ms. Wilbur wore a dress to the office for the first time in Hobart Lindsey’s recollection, a floral print that looked like an Impressionist version of the sss rain forest. A couple of women from the costume jewelry distributor across the hall had chipped in to buy her a corsage. At best, the corsage disappeared into the print of Ms. Wilbur’s dress.

In fact, the party had a distinctly floral theme. Harden at Regional had sent a small display and Ms. Johanssen at National had sent a slightly larger one. The morning’s Oakland Tribune was spread on a desk to protect valuable company property from any water that dripped from the flowers. Both displays bore friendly, handwritten messages congratulating Ms. Wilbur on her retirement and wishing her great happiness in the future. And Elmer Mueller, the Walnut Creek branch manager, had sprung for sandwiches and punch.

It was all according to the International Surety Operations Manual. Lindsey ought to know that. He’d worked for International Surety for his entire professional life, and the OpsMan was the loyal employee’s Bible. Lindsey had sat in the very chair Elmer Mueller now occupied before he’d strayed from the true path of the OpsMan. In the course of so doing, he had trod on a few sensitive toes and got himself kicked upstairs to the Special Projects Unit/Detached Service. If SPUDS was the graveyard of International Surety careers, then Desmond Richelieu, its chief, was the company’s in-house undertaker. Desmond Richelieu sat in his tower office in Denver and sent out the word. Demote. Suspend. Terminate.

It was not a good thing to be invited to a meeting with Desmond Richelieu, yet Lindsey had survived several such. Maybe Richelieu considered him too small a gadfly to bother swatting. Or maybe he liked having somebody around who could break the rules when he felt that a higher good was involved. It was a funny way to do business, and no one had ever accused Richelieu of having a sense of humor.

Somehow, Lindsey had hung onto his job.

Conversation was desultory, drifting from talk of marriages good and bad to children and grandchildren to recipes and television shows. It was woman talk. Lindsey let his eye drift to the Oakland Tribune peeking out from under the flowers. The local news section was visible; it featured a photograph of a blocky, modernistic building and a headline about the fire at the Pacific Film Archive.

Lindsey slid the page out from under the flowers and read the story. Most of it he knew. Less than twenty-four hours had passed, and the fire was jostling a dozen other stories for space. Another day and it would disappear. It would be replaced by a scandal on the Oakland School Board or a drug bust in Richmond or a real estate scam in Alamo.

But in Berkeley, the Anti-Imperialist Front for the Liberation of People’s Park had issued a manifesto claiming responsibility for the fire and threatening “More Deaths, More Destructin Until Justis Is Serve.” The Central Coordinator of the Front, one Dylan “Che” Guevara, had appeared at police headquarters to demand that the Pacific Film Archive and its host institution, the University Art Museum, be converted into rent-free permanent residences for the poor, to be financed and maintained by the city.

Lindsey wondered if Guevara was the wild-eyed orator of the previous afternoon. But Guevara denied that the Front was responsible for the fire. “We can spell better than that,” he said.

Anthony Roland, manager of research projects for the Archive, condemned the attack as cowardly. “Besides,” Roland was quoted as saying, “the Archive has nothing to do with People’s Park. I was gassed in ’68 and I’m all for the park. Why would they attack us?” The body of the dead researcher, Annabella Buonaventura, would be returned to her family in Milan, Italy, for burial. Condolences would be forwarded to the parents via the Italian consulate in San Francisco.

So Roland had calmed down enough to talk to a reporter. That was something.

Lindsey ran his eye over a few other stories. The most interesting from an insurance viewpoint was the latest in a series of industrial burglaries. The favorite target nowadays was computer components. Somebody had hit a warehouse in Fremont and driven away with a load of top-of-the-line processor chips worth half a million dollars. The loot was literally worth more than its weight in gold. There was no end to human ingenuity when it came to finding ways to make a crooked buck.

With a sigh, Lindsey slid the page back under the floral arrangement.

One of Ms. Wilbur’s friends from the jewelry distributor had brought a portable stereo and the music, something by Barry Manilow out of Neil Diamond, very nearly drowned out the timid tapping at the door.

You could only tell there was a visitor at all because International Surety had rented space in a building nearly due for demolition. They don’t build them that way any more, but each office suite still had a stained-wood door with a frosted glass upper panel and the tenant’s name stenciled on it in gold. It wouldn’t be surprising to open a door like that and see Edward Arnold seated behind a mammoth desk, tough-as-nails Barbara Stanwyck perched on a swivel chair just out of the portly Arnold’s reach, taking dictation and wisecracking every couple of lines.

A visitor’s silhouette was visible against the frosted panel. Ms. Wilbur had been chatting with her female friends while Lindsey and Elmer Mueller, cordial enemies, maintained a stony silence. Mueller had the habit of popping mentholated cough drops into his mouth and crunching them between his teeth. He exuded the minty odor of menthol. Ms. Wilbur started to break away from her friends but Lindsey moved first, relieved to have an excuse to escape from the loathsome Mueller.

For an instant Lindsey thought the visitor was a child delivering an envelope. His mind flashed to Whitey Benedict, a 1940s actor who’d made a career of delivering telegrams, flowers, and department store packages in scores of black-and-white movies.

Then Lindsey realized that the visitor was a wizened little man. He might once have stood five-six but now he couldn’t be more than four feet, ten or eleven inches tall. He wore a threadbare black suit, a frayed white dress shirt and a narrow black necktie. He held a business size envelope in front of him, flat side upward, thin end extended toward Lindsey.

He said, “I want the Global National Guarantee Life Company.”

Lindsey said, “I’m sorry. This is International Surety.”

The little man said, “I can read. I’ve been at the library for weeks. Ever since it happened.”

Lindsey said, “I’m sorry, sir.” He peered down into the man’s face. There was something in his eyes that held Lindsey’s attention. They were almost as dark as his black, wrinkled skin, except for the milky pools of half-formed cataracts. Lindsey said, “Can you see?”

The man said, “Well enough.”

Lindsey studied the man’s face. He said, “Please, come in. Maybe we can help you. This is the International Surety Corporation. I’ve never heard of Global—what was it again?”

“Global National Guarantee Life Company.”

The little man held the envelope so Lindsey could see the return address. There was a corporate logo that looked like a remnant of the Warren Harding era. In typography equally ancient, and in ink that might once have been a vivid green but was now a faded yellowish olive, the name of the company was spelled out.

Lindsey tried to take the envelope but the little man clutched his end. Lindsey tilted his head and looked at the two-cent postage stamp and the faded cancellation mark. The letter had been mailed in Los Angeles, California, on January 31, 1931.

Lindsey detected the odor of menthol announcing the approach of Elmer Mueller.

Mueller said, “What’s this all about?”

The little man started to ask his question again, but Mueller cut him off. “No personal visitors at this office. We process claims here. You got personal business, take it up with your insurance agent.”

The little man said, “But, I couldn’t find—”

Mueller grabbed the envelope. It came loose from the little man’s fingers and the little man pawed futilely, trying to get it back. Lindsey thought he was going to burst into tears. He whirled angrily. Mueller was turning the envelope over, eyeing it with casual curiosity. The little man made a sound that was half a whimper and half a moan.

Lindsey felt his face growing hot. He took Mueller’s wrist in his fingers and dug into the veins. With his other hand he lifted the envelope and returned it to the little man. He said, “You’d better keep this in your pocket, sir.”

He put his arm around the little man’s shoulders and guided him into the office. The little man felt as light and as dry as an empty corn husk. Lindsey expected him to crackle as he walked. He guided him to a leather couch that had stood against the office wall for longer than Lindsey could remember. He asked the man if he’d like a drink or a snack and the little man said, “Thank you, sir, I would.”

Lindsey watched the little man out of the corner of his eye while he gathered a sandwich and a cup of punch for him. If Mueller moved on him again, Lindsey was prepared to drop the paper plate and set himself between the two. But Mueller only glowered.

The little man took the paper plate gratefully, and set it down on the broad leather arm of the couch. He lifted the sandwich and painstakingly tore a corner from it. He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. When he swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbed in his thin neck. Lindsey wondered if he had any teeth. He took a sip of the punch.

He looked at Lindsey and said, “I trust there is no intoxicant in this?”

Lindsey smiled. “No, sir.” He pulled over a computer chair and faced the old man. “Now, sir, what was this about Global National, uh—”

“Guarantee Life.”

“Right.”

“And the library.”

The old man said, “I tried to locate the company through the pages of the telephone directory, but they were not listed. I called directory assistance but they were unable to assist me.”

His voice was dry, too, and fragile. He spoke as if he had just enough strength to move the air over his vocal cords.

He said, “And then I thought I might learn something from the library. A very helpful young lady assisted me. And here I am.”

Lindsey said, “You might have tried the State Insurance Commissioner in Sacramento.”

Elmer Mueller’s rough voice said, “Maybe he still ought to.” He put his hand on Lindsey’s shoulder. Waves of menthol smeared themselves onto Lindsey. Normally Lindsey worked in his shirtsleeves, but in honor of Ms. Wilbur’s retirement party he’d kept his tan jacket on in the office.

He said, “Leave the man alone, Elmer.”

Mueller said, “He knows we don’t take visitors here. You know it too. What, since you’re a big shot out of Denver, you too good to follow the rules like the rest of us?”

“Elmer, I’m just trying to help this man.” He dropped his voice, hoping that the little man wouldn’t be hurt. “For heaven’s sake, Elmer, look at him. He must be ninety years old. What do you want to do?”

Mueller said, “I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to call Security and have the geezer gently but firmly removed from the premises. What if he dies in our office?”

A woman’s hand separated Lindsey and Mueller. “Break it up, boys.” Ms. Wilbur squatted in front of the old man. “Are you all right, sir? What’s your name?”

The old man peered at Ms. Wilbur. Lindsey wondered what the world looked like through those ancient eyes. Did the old man see everything through layers of gauze? Did everyone acquire the soft focus of an aging romantic star photographed through a smear of petroleum jelly?

“My name is Edward Joseph MacReedy.” He turned from Ms. Wilbur to address Lindsey again. “The librarian suggested contacting the Insurance Commissioner but there was no record in Sacramento of the Global National Guarantee Life Company.”