People no longer believe you can judge a man by his handshake, but Lindsey didn’t buy that. Professor Nathan ben Zinowicz might end up being an important help in cracking this case, but from his handshake, Lindsey knew he wasn’t going to like him.
He retrieved his Hyundai from the municipal garage, obtaining a receipt so he could put the fee on his expense account along with the mileage between Walnut Creek and Berkeley and the money he’d spent on Terry Patterson’s breakfast. He drove back to the International Surety office in Walnut Creek.
Ms. Wilbur looked up from her work when Lindsey entered the office. “Call Mr. Harden at Regional.”
Bart took off his jacket and put it over a hanger, set his briefcase on the floor beside his desk and sat down. Then he responded to Ms. Wilbur’s words. “Did he call me?”
“He wants to know about the Comic Cavalcade claim.”
“There’s no such claim.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Hobart!”
“I talked to Patterson and to the Berkeley police. Patterson has a set of claim forms but he hasn’t filed them yet.”
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Wilbur said, “you know it’s standing procedure to notify Regional at once of all claims above $100,000. I phoned Regional. Mr. Harden wants you to call him right away. And Mrs. Hernández wants you to call home. Your mother is having a bad day. You might have to leave early.”
Lindsey didn’t answer. Sometimes the only way to handle people like Ms. Wilbur is to ignore them. He picked up the telephone and dialed Regional. Harden was on another call but his secretary told him to hold, Harden wanted to talk to Lindsey right away. Lindsey sat there drumming his fingers on the steel desktop, waiting.
Finally Harden came on. “Listen, Lindsey, what’s this about comic books?”
“It was on the overnight tape. Comic Cavalcade, it’s a retail shop in Berkeley. Standard commercial account. They had a burglary.”
“Ms. Wilbur says it’s a claim for a quarter million. A quarter million dollars worth of comic books? What are comics worth nowadays? My kid has stacks of the things, they cost him a buck apiece. Are you telling me this store got taken for a quarter million in comic books? Do you know how much space that would take? What the hell are they trying to pull? What are you doing about it?”
That was just like Harden—excitable, always ready to assume the worst, always ready to think Lindsey hadn’t been on the ball. But this time Hobart Lindsey was ready for him!
“They’re collectibles, Mr. Harden. They’re worth prices into five figures, according to the insured. He referred me to the standard price guides and to a consultant at the University of California. I’ve already had one meeting with the consultant, and I’ll need Regional’s authorization to pay his fee.”
Harden cleared his throat. “What does this big-dome charge?”
Lindsey told him.
“And how many hours will it take?”
“I don’t know for sure, Mr. Harden. But I don’t think it should take more than half a day. Or a day at most.” He expected Harden to hit the ceiling when he put that together with ben Zinowicz’s five-hundred-dollar hourly rate, but all Harden did was grunt.
“That doesn’t sound so bad, but what’s your plan? Do you think the claim is sound?”
Lindsey could tell what Harden was thinking. If this thing got messed up, it would be his fault and Harden would jump on a jet and fly into Oakland and take the thing out of the local office’s hands. Then he’d try to save International Surety a pile of money by finding a way to disallow the claim. If he succeeded, he’d be a hero at National, and if he failed, he’d lay the blame on Walnut Creek—on Hobart Lindsey’s desk.
“I don’t know yet whether it’s sound. I’ve already visited the store, interrogated the proprietor, consulted the police and contacted an outside consultant. All of that in”— consulted his Timex –“less than five hours. I’ll keep you posted on my progress, Mr. Harden.”
Lindsey could hear him snort. “Not good enough, Lindsey. Look, we don’t want to pay out any quarter million bucks. If you can pin this on the insured and disallow the claim, that’s great. If you can’t, you’re to recover the stolen property. You know what I’m talking about?”
“You want me to play detective?” Harden didn’t respond. Sometimes the unspoken word means more than the spoken. “Do you want me to try and get the comics back through a fence?”
“I’m not telling you what to do. You know the way this industry operates. We’ll offer a reward for the stolen goods if that’s what it takes. Insurers have been known to buy items back from third parties, no questions asked. Do you understand me? If it’s going to cost us a quarter mil one way or a fraction of that the other, which do you think the company will go for?”
“Well, uh—”
“Do you understand me, Lindsey? This is a big claim and we don’t want it botched. I don’t want it botched. Do you understand me? If you don’t think you can handle it, just say so and I’ll send somebody out there who can.”
You bet he would! Somebody named C. C. Harden.
“I can handle it, sir! I’ve never let you down before and I’m not going to start now.”
As Lindsey hung up he looked at the back of Ms. Wilbur’s head. Whose side is she on? he wondered. At International Surety it wasn’t uncommon for spies to be planted in other people’s offices. Up the ladder and down, it worked both ways, but of course it was easier to work it downward than up. And if that takeover happened, there could be a bloodbath around here!
You didn’t even have to place the mole, sometimes you could turn somebody who was already on site. Just let a subordinate’s secretary understand that you wanted informal reports on activities in the office. Her boss was not to know about it. And then if there was ever any problem between secretary and boss, suddenly she had a friend on high! All she had to do in the meantime was keep her eyes peeled, her ears tuned—and send off a little confidential message, strictly untraceable, whenever anything interesting happens.
Lindsey cleared his throat. “Ms. Wilbur, would you phone for a sandwich for me? Have the deli send up a ham and cheese.”
She said, “Huh.” He knew she didn’t like performing tasks like that; she considered them unprofessional. But she picked up her phone and dialed.
Lindsey punched the other line and dialed home.
With hardly a syllable of greeting, Mrs. Hernández launched into a diatribe. “You better come home, Meester Leensley. Your mama she’s not having such a good day. She been talking about bad things. She threaten me, Meester Leensley. I try and get her to lie down but I don’ know if I can get her to do it. Maybe you can do something with her, Meester Leensley.”
He sighed. Maybe a little butter would help. A little—what did Mrs. Hernández call it—mantequilla. “You know you’re wonderful with her, Mrs. Hernández. Maybe because you’re a woman you understand her better than I do. Don’t you think you can handle it?”
Mrs. Hernández mumbled.
“Maybe a cup of tea,” he suggested. “And you know how she loves the old movies on TV. Maybe you could find one for her.”
Mrs. Hernández said, “I guess so. I guess I give it a try. Maybe she take a nap for me, even.”
Lindsey said, “You’re a gem, Mrs. Hernández.”
“But Meester Leensley, are you sure you really wanna go on like thees? I don’ know how much I can take. I might have to get a different job. Don’ you think your mama might be better off—you know—in a—you know—home, Meester Linsley?”
Maybe she would be, he thought.