Free The Emerald Cat Killer by Richard A. Lupoff Page A

There had been a copy of the obit in the case file Lindsey received. “It didn’t mention that he was a mystery writer.”
    â€œWhat’s this to me?” Chocron said.
    â€œMr. Chocron—”
    â€œCall me Rigo.”
    â€œYes. Yes. We have reason to believe—”
    â€œI’ll ask you again, are you a cop? If you are, good-bye and I hope the fish makes you puke.”
    â€œI’m not a cop, Rigo. I’m an insurance man, that’s all. Here.” He gave Chocron his business card and a promotional ballpoint pen with the SPUDS logo and International Surety laser-engraved on the barrel.
    Chocron studied the card and the pen, and slipped them into his jeans pocket.
    Lindsey tried again. “We have reason to believe that the man who used the name Wallace Thompson wrote The Emerald Cat. Either that, or essentially that book. When he died”—no need to go into the details of Gordon Simmons’s death—“when he died, his computer disappeared. A laptop. His wife says that her husband had been working at the library, he had his computer with him and was using it there, and after his death it was never recovered.”
    Chocron laughed. “That thing wasn’t worth five hundred dollars. Old and worn out and—”
    â€œYou know that?”
    Chocron’s face fell. “Son of a gun. Got me, didn’t you. All right. What do you really want? You gonna try and get my advance back for Gordian?”
    Lindsey shook his head. “Nothing like that. But if I could get my hands on that computer, I might be able to solve this case.”
    They turned a corner onto Calle Catorce. More color, more bustle, more sidewalk vendors, more Spanish in the air.
    Chocron frowned, suddenly nervous. “You wearin’ a wire?”
    Lindsey said, “No, no. Look.” He peeled back his jacket. “Nothing. I told you, Rigo, I’m not a police officer, and as far as I know you’re not in any trouble. Gordian might try to get their advance back from you, but I don’t think they’d have much of a chance. Once a publisher pays an author, they pretty much write off the money.”
    â€œYeah. And I was so dumb and didn’t even get a royalty deal. There wasn’t no advance. Just one check and adios, amigo! I guess that was my agent’s fault, really, but she’s such an innocent spirit I guess she didn’t know no better, neither.”
    They passed a Mexican restaurant. Cocina Sinaloense. Lindsey’s appetite was sated from the meal he’d eaten at Los Arcos, but the aroma of Cocina Sinaloense made him wish he was still hungry.
    â€œThere’s a lawsuit brewing between Gordian House and Thompson’s publisher, Marston and Morse. If I can get hold of Thompson’s computer I might be able to settle the dispute once and for all. That’s all I want from you. The computer itself if you still have it, or a reliable lead to it.”
    â€œI don’t have it.”
    â€œWho does?”
    â€œNobody. I threw it away.”
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    â€œI threw it away.” Angrily.
    â€œCome on, Rigo. You stand to make some nice money. I think you could use it. I need the truth.”
    â€œFive hundred. Cash. Today. You see that bank across Calle Catorce, they got an ATM. I give you what you need, we walk over there and you pull out the money and lay it on me and we never see each other again.”
    Lindsey shook his head. “Not good enough. I told you, Rigo, all right, a hundred guaranteed. The rest depending on what you give me and how good it is.”
    â€œThree hundred guaranteed. What happened to your memory?”
    â€œOkay. Sorry. Three.”
    â€œStop right here.”
    They halted in front of a plate-glass window filled with a variety of guitars, mandolins, trumpets, amplifiers, TV sets, clothing, tools, a couple of desktop computers— and a laptop . Even a bicycle.