The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

chair next to High’s battered desk. Homicide in the Oakland Police Department worked out of a crowded, fluorescent-lit bullpen that would have driven Lindsey crazy if he’d had to spend his days there. Maybe that was what kept the detectives out on the job. Maybe it was a deliberate device intended to discourage them from lounging at their desks.

      He didn’t believe that for a minute. “What theory was that?” he asked. “Sergeant Finnerty’s theory.”

      “Narcotics.”

      Lindsey closed his eyes. “Every story in the paper seems to be about narcotics.”

      “Right.” High picked up a ball-point pen and stuck the tip of it between his teeth. He studied the pen for a moment, then laid it carefully on his desk and sighed. “You think that tobacco craving will ever go away? Or maybe the headshrinkers are right, pipe smokers just want their mother’s breast.”

      “Narcotics,” Lindsey reminded him.

      “Well, we get pretty close to a homicide a day here in Oakland. That’s no match for LA or Chicago. Half a dozen cities beat us, but then we’re not nearly as big a city as they are. Most of the homicides are related to narcotics. Not the users. Well, sometimes we’ll get somebody so strung out, he’ll kill for a fix. But not often. Mostly it’s the dealers. It’s turf wars, just like Prohibition. God, I wish I could smoke my pipe. First the doctor gave me hell, then they started passing laws about where a peaceful law-abiding citizen can smoke his pipe.”

      Lindsey nodded vigorously, willing High to get back to the point. Eventually he did.

      “Most of our gang activity is organized around the drug trade. Some of our enlightened citizens still have this image of young idealists in tie-dyed shirts and long dresses smoking nature or taking pills that will show them God.”

      He shook his head.

      “The reality is crack houses and Uzis. Toss-ups. You know what a toss-up is?”

      Lindsey said no.

      “Lowest form of prostitute. We get young women—and I mean really young, twelve, thirteen, even younger—young women so desperate for crack, they stay in the crack houses. They live there. They don’t have any money. They have sex with the customers for a hit of the stuff. Most often they perform oral sex because it’s quicker, they don’t have to get undressed or lie down first. They get lesions in their mouths and throats from the hot crack smoke, then they give some user a blow job and the semen gets in the lesions and they wind up with HIV. God, I wish I could smoke my pipe.”

      “Sergeant Finnerty thinks that’s what happened at the airport, to Mr. McKinney?”

      “We had one woman a few weeks ago, couple of crack dealers were fighting over who got sidewalk rights in front of her house. She went out and tried to chase them away, they killed her. Right there, on the spot, just pulled out their automatic weapons and killed the poor woman.”

      “Finnerty’s theory?” Lindsey said.

      “These old airplanes are coming up from Texas for this movie they’re making here in Oakland. Most of the stuff comes up from South America, a lot of it comes via Mexico. Most of the heroin still comes From Asia, but crack is a cocaine derivative. You knew that, right?”

      Lindsey nodded.

      “Right. I knew you knew that. The coca grows mainly in South America, and they bring a lot of cocaine in by air. If they could get it as far as Texas, Sergeant Finnerty thought, they could load it onto those old airplanes. Nobody thinks they’d be carrying cargo. They’re museum pieces, they’re just for this movie, right? So why not use them to carry the cocaine? Who would suspect?”

      “Sergeant Finnerty?” said Lindsey.

      “Right.”

      “But none of the planes have arrived yet, have they?”

      “No. I think they’re due in tomorrow. Mrs. Chandler would know that. But Sergeant Finnerty thinks that Mr. McKinney might have been involved. So we were really eager to see the post mortem on Mr. McKinney. Just in case he’s a user himself. Most of the dealers aren’t users. Especially at the higher levels. They’re too smart to get hooked on their own wares. But at the lower levels.… Well, Sergeant Finnerty thought Mr. McKinney might be a user. So we rushed the autopsy.”

      “And?”

      “He was pretty clean. Coroner found a little cannabis in his bloodstream, and a little alcohol. My guess is that Mr. McKinney was not a happy individual. Well, look, a man in his sixties, seventies, he’s lived all these years and worked all these years. He feels as if he’s paid his dues, he’s entitled to some kind of recognition. Am I right? What do you think, Lindsey?”

      “Okay.”

      “And here’s Mr. McKinney, sweeping up a hangar and swabbing out urinals at the airport. I can understand his wanting to start the day with a little fortification. A little something added to his morning coffee. A joint before he leaves the house. Then down the freeway, it’s just a hop, skip and a jump from Richmond to Oakland, and it’s another day, another dollar.”

      “What about the crack?”

      “Nothing to indicate he was involved at all.”

      “But those planes are coming in from Texas tomorrow.”

      High smiled. “We’ve already talked to the Feds. They’re all over those airplanes. Even as we speak, Lindsey, even as we speak. You didn’t think I’d tell anyone about this now, do you, if we were going to wait until they arrive to check them.”

      “Of course not,” Lindsey said. “Certainly not.”

      High pushed himself to his feet. “Come on, Lindsey. I’ll treat you to a cup of Oakland’s finest legal stimulant.” He led the way to a coffee machine. He held up his hand. “My treat.” He fished a coin from his pocket and slipped it into the machine. “I forget how you take it.”

      Lindsey pushed the buttons himself. When the machine had made his coffee he took a tiny sip and moaned.

      “You ever read Jim Thompson?” High asked. “Used to write paperback books. He wrote a book once about a deputy sheriff who tortured people by making them listen to clichés for hours on end. It isn’t the heat, it’s the humidity. He’d say that as if he’d just thought of it, it was some kind of profound discovery. The child is father to the man. He used to torture people that way.”

      Lindsey said, “I don’t think I ever read him.”

      High said, “I always thought that deputy sheriff missed something. He should have offered his victims machine-brewed coffee. Too many chefs spoil the broth. That kind of thing. And treat his victim to a cup of this oily-tasting muck.” He looked at Lindsey with soft, watery eyes. “Did you say you had another appointment, Lindsey?”

      Lindsey said, “Actually, I have to make a phone call.” High started to say something but Lindsey headed him off. “No, it’s all right, thanks. I’ll use the pay phone in the lobby.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Lindsey headed for Walnut Creek and the International Surety office after all. As he crossed the threshold he felt a wave of emotion sweep over him, a feeling of homecoming mixed with a sense of loss.

      Ms. Wilbur was at her desk, the same as ever. She looked up and gave a glad cry. She came around her desk in a fluid motion and wrapped Lindsey in her arms. She planted a kiss on his cheek. She was a few years older than Lindsey’s mother.

      He started to fend her off, then changed his mind and returned the kiss.

      They separated, laughing.

      “I thought you were too high and mighty to come and see us again, Bart!”

      He shook his head. “I missed you. I’ll still be working out of the office. You’ll see me around.” He took her hands. “How’s it been?”

      “You