The Emerald Cat Killer by Richard A. Lupoff Page A

Chocron’s address.
    â€œI don’t have it. He dropped out of the class. I think he dropped out of Laney altogether. He was a pretty elusive character, as a matter of fact.” She paused, tilted her head to one side, listening, Lindsey decided, to the gentle voices, women’s voices, coming from a set of speakers in the corners of the room.
    She smiled that smile again.
    â€œHe told me he has a favorite restaurant where he picks up telephone messages. I can give you that.”
    Lindsey took it, with thanks. He got to his feet, not as quickly or easily as he might have a few decades earlier. He thanked Rachael Gottlieb for her help.
    Just at the doorway he stopped and turned back, feeling like Peter Falk in a rumpled trench coat. “Just one more thing, Miss Gottlieb.”
    She nodded, holding her cup of pu-erh tea to her lips, smiling amusedly at him over the rim.
    Lindsey decided that she was a Columbo fan after all.
    She waited expectantly on her floor cushion.
    â€œHow did Mr. Damon—Chocron—give you his book?”
    She looked puzzled.
    â€œI mean, was it a typewritten manuscript or a computer printout or—you see?”
    â€œOh, yes. It was on a disk. Mr. Burnside said they don’t bother with paper manuscripts anymore. They ask their authors to e-mail their manuscripts, or else to turn them in on CDs. I told Rigoberto and he said, okay, he’d download the book and give me the CD at our next class. That was before he dropped out of the poetry class.”
    Lindsey said, “Do you know anything about his computer?”
    She smiled gently. “No. No, I don’t. Good-bye, Mr. Lindsey. I hope you enjoyed the pu-erh tea.” She floated to her feet and crossed the room to close the door.
    On the porch of the Dana Street house he blinked at the late afternoon sunlight, wondering how long he had spent in Rachael Gottlieb’s apartment listening to Hildegard’s music. Whoever Hildegard was. He checked his watch. Next stop—? He had to make a plan.
    He returned to his hotel room, opened his own laptop, plugged it into a phone jack, and sent a report to Denver. Then he did a Web search for Marston and Morse, Publishers, and placed a phone call. He made an appointment for the following morning.
    He closed down the laptop and stretched out on the hotel bed. It wasn’t time for dinner yet. He’d earned his day’s pay from International Surety. He kicked off his shoes and burrowed into the pillow to take a nap. Somehow the nap stretched into a good night’s sleep. He must have awakened enough to climb out of his clothes during the night, because he woke up with sunlight streaming through the window and his clothing neatly hung in the closet.

FIVE
    Marston and Morse, Publishers, was located in a new building on University Avenue. The company occupied a suite on the top floor. The décor was a combination of modern efficiency and green chic. There were plants in the lobby and a female receptionist who had to be older than she looked.
    When Lindsey extended his International Surety card, she took his hand in both of hers, extracted the card, and released his hand as if she was sorry to let go. She whispered into a bead-mike mounted on a hair-thin wire, smiled at Lindsey, and said, “Please, have a seat. Mrs. Morse will be right with you.”
    Before Lindsey had time to settle himself into a chrome-and-burlap chair, he found himself facing a slim, business-suited woman in her fifties. At least, her silver-gray hair said as much. Her unlined face could have said thirty. Her deep green eyes could have said anything.
    She said, “Mr. Lindsey, won’t you please come in?” She led the way into a comfortable office. Large windows faced toward the bay. They were high enough in the building that he could see Alcatraz Island, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Marin Highlands.
    â€œI’m Paula Paige Morse. I’m the president and