LITMIR.BIZ

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of marine geology from the University of Nevada at Reno. “Lake Tahoe is more than a quarter of a mile deep,” the professor intoned. “Once you get past the surface layers, the temperature is a uniform 40 degrees Fahrenheit, year round. We don’t really know what lies at the bottom of the lake—or who.” The professor allowed himself a little laugh. “But you can be sure, if anybody rode that helicopter to the bottom of the lake, he isn’t alive now.”

      “Haven’t you tried this technique before, Professor, looking for Tahoe Tessie?”

      “A lot of people laugh at Tessie, call her our own version of the Loch Ness Monster. But we’ve found some amazing species in recent decades. Why, no one believed that a live coelacanth could possibly be swimming around today, until.…”

      Lindsey jumped when the telephone rang at his elbow. As he picked up the handset he glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 at night; it had been a long day and evening but everyone including the ten-year-olds was too energized to sleep. “Stand by for Mr. Richelieu.” Lindsey grimaced and mouthed his boss’s name. Marvia mimed back in alarm.

      Richelieu said, “Lindsey, I’m surprised you’re still awake.” He sounded like Jack Nicholson on valium, Lindsey thought. “You’re not watching CNN by any chance, are you, Lindsey?”

      Amazing. Did the man have bugs everywhere? “As a matter of fact, I am.”

      “Do you know who died this afternoon?”

      “You mean Albert Crocker Vansittart?”

      “Go to the head of the class. That was you and your girlfriend in the, what was its name—”

      “Tahoe Tailflipper.”

      “God, you California people are so cute I want to throw up. Yes, I thought that was you. Well, Hobart Lindsey, International Surety’s hero du jour. I don’t know how you always manage to land in hot water, but you’re in it again.”

      Lindsey shook his head. Obviously, Richelieu had never dipped his toes into Lake Tahoe. Lindsey had carried the telephone as far away from the TV as he could, closed himself in the bathroom with the cord snaked under the door. Too bad the lodge didn’t have cordless phones, but then guests would surely carry them away like souvenir towels.

      “I don’t understand, Mr. Richelieu. Why am I in this? What does this have to do with International Surety? What does it have to do with SPUDS?” And why, Lindsey wondered, had the director of the Special Projects Unit/Detached Service, tracked him down to a lakeside lodge in Tahoe City long after business hours?

      “Good thing Mrs. Blomquist and I were working late tonight and happened to turn on the set here in the office.”

      Lindsey didn’t rise to that one.

      “Vansittart has one of our flag policies. Had, I should say. I assume the coroner out there is going to certify that he’s dead.”

      “Without a body, Mr. Richelieu?”

      “Come on, Lindsey. Enough witnesses saw that ’copter crash. Including you of all people. And it’s on tape. And the pilot—what’s his name—”

      “O’Farrell.”

      “—says it was Vansittart.”

      “Okay. Vansittart had an International Surety policy?”

      “Four million dollars worth.”

      “Four—four million?”

      “That’s right. Been paying in on it since 1951. Biggest life policy I.S. ever wrote.”

      “Well…well…I guess we’ll just have to pay off, then. If they can recover the body. Or, ah, once the coroner certifies that he’s dead. I don’t suppose we can wait seven years? And no double indemnity?”

      Richelieu’s chuckle was oilier than Jack Nicholson’s. “No seven years. And no double indemnity, either. I looked. Give thanks for small blessings.”

      Lindsey rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch again. It was quarter-to-twelve. Quarter-to-one in Denver. Sure, Mr. Richelieu and Mrs. Blomquist were working late. On a Friday night. Just like Nelson Rockefeller and his editor were when the Rock bought the farm.

      “I don’t see why you called me, Mr. Richelieu. I’m on vacation. Well, a weekend getaway, anyhow. That’s a huge policy, and the death of the insured will have to be certified, but it still sounds like a job for the nearest branch office. Why don’t they just enter the event through KlameNet and—”

      “You aren’t listening, Lindsey. This is a flag policy, understand? And there’s something peculiar about it, aside from the circumstances of Vansittart’s death.”

      He paused, waiting for Lindsey to ask what was peculiar about Vansittart’s $4,000,000 policy.

      Lindsey liked his job.

      “What’s peculiar about Vansittart’s policy?”

      “The beneficiary. Cripes, I’d never write a policy like this one, I don’t care who the insured was, I don’t care how much he was paying in premiums.”

      Lindsey did not ask who the beneficiary was. He didn’t like his job that much.

      Richelieu cleared his throat. “The beneficiary is the girl on the cover of Death in the Ditch.”

      “What?”

      “The girl on the cover of Death in the Ditch.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “Lindsey, you know me. I hand-picked you out of that crummy little office you were in. I gave you your big break in this company. You know I don’t kid.”

      “Right. Okay. Who’s the girl on the cover of Death in the Ditch?”

      “I have not the foggiest. That’s what International Surety is paying you to find out.”

      “Sounds like a book. I mean—the girl on the cover. Kind of like that porn star who posed for the baby food label or the soap flakes package or whatever it was. But Death in the Ditch wouldn’t be baby food or soap. It sounds like a book.”

      “Find out, Lindsey. And find the girl. We owe her three million dollars.”

      “Whoa. I thought you said four million.”

      “Right. I told you this was a flag policy. If we find the girl and pay the benefits, International Surety gets a twenty-five percent finder’s fee. That’s a cool million smackers.”

      “And if we don’t find her? I mean, this sounds like a long shot. When did you say the policy was written?”

      “1951.”

      “After more than forty years, well, she may not even be alive. What happens if we can’t find her? Or if she’s deceased?”

      “Then, Hobart, then.… I told you this was a flag policy. If we can’t find her, or if she’s deceased, the money goes to something called the World Fund for Indigent Artists. Sounds like Vansittart was hung up on artists and models. Wouldn’t be the first.”

      “And you want me to find the girl.”

      “Find the girl, right. Cherchez la femme.”

      “How long do we have to find her?”

      “Policy doesn’t specify. But we have to notify the artists’ fund, and once they smell four million bucks, they’re going to start pressing us hard.”

      “And there’s no finder’s fee.”

      “That’s right, Lindsey. I swear, young feller, you keep on showing your smarts like you been, you’ve got a bright future with this company.”

      “I’ll get on it first thing Monday morning, Mr. Richelieu.”

      A moment later Lindsey could have sworn that he felt a blast of heat come through the telephone

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