G is for GUMSHOE Page 17

  At close range, the man was attractive enough, though I saw no particular evidence of all the virtues Vera had ascribed to him. Nice hands. Nice mouth. Seemed a bit self-satisfied, but that might have been discomfort masquerading as arrogance. I noticed that when we talked about professional matters (his work, in other words) he exuded confidence. When it came to his personal life, he was unsure of himself and usually shifted the subject to safer ground. By the time the dessert came, we were still groping our way through various conversational gambits, casting about for common interests without much success.

  “Where’d you go to school, Kinsey?”

  “Santa Teresa High.”

  “I meant college.”

  “I didn’t go to college.”

  “Oh really? That surprises me. You seem smart enough.”

  “People don’t hire me for ‘smart.’ They hire me because I’m too dumb to know when to quit. Also, I’m a woman, so they think I’ll work cheap.”

  He laughed. I wasn’t being funny so I gave a little shrug.

  He pushed his dessert plate aside and took a sip of coffee. “If you got a degree, you could write your own ticket, couldn’t you?”

  I looked at him. “A degree in what?”

  “Criminalistics, I would guess.”

  “Then I’d have to go to work for the government or the local cops. I already did that and hated it. I’m better off where I am. Besides, I hated school, too. All I did was smoke dope.” I leaned toward him. “Now can I ask you one?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did you and Vera meet?”

  He was almost imperceptibly disconcerted, shifting slightly in his seat. “A mutual friend introduced us a couple of months ago. We’ve been seeing each other ever since… just as friends, of course. Nothing serious.”

  “Oh yeah, right,” I said. “So what do you think?”

  “About Vera? She’s terrific.”

  “How come you’re sitting here with me, then?”

  He laughed again, a false, hearty roar that avoided a reply.

  “I’m serious,” I said. His smile cooled down by degrees. He still wasn’t addressing the issue so I tried it myself. “You know what I think it is? I got the impression she had the hots for you herself and didn’t know how to handle it.”

  He gave me a look like I was speaking in tongues. “I have a hard time believing that,” he said. He thought about it for a moment. “Anyway, she’s a bit tall for me, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all. You look great together. I was watching when you came in.”

  He gave his head a slight shake. “I know it bothers her. She’s never actually come out and said so, but –”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  He looked at me. His face was beginning to appeal to me. His eyes held a nice light, conveying qualities of sincerity and competence. He was probably the kind of doctor you could call at 2:00 a.m., a man who’d sit up with your kid until the fever broke. I was about to hike up my pant leg and show him my bruise, but it seemed kind of gross.

  “You should hear the way she talks about you,” I went on. ” ‘Eight and a half on a scale of ten.’ That’s how she describes you. I swear to God.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Neil, come on. I wouldn’t kid about that. She’s completely smitten with you. She just hasn’t figured it out yet.”

  Now he laughed the kind of laugh that made his whole face light up. A boyish pleasure showed through and I could swear he blushed. He was really kind of cute. I glanced up in time to see Vera shoot me a stark look. I gave her a little finger wave and turned my attention back to him. “I mean, what the hell are relationships about?” I asked.

  “But she’s never given any indication…”

  “Well, I’m telling you for a fact. I’ve known her for ages and I’ve never heard her talk about a guy the way she talks about you.” He was taking it in, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

  “How tall are you?” I said. “You don’t look short to me.”

  “Five seven.”

  “She’s only five nine. What’s the big deal?” Mac Voorhies tapped on his glass with a spoon about then, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention…” He and Marie had been placed at table two, near the center of the room. Jewel and her husband were at the same table and I could see Jewel begin to squirm, anticipating the speech to come. Maclin Voorhies is one of the California Fidelity vice presidents, lean and humorless, with sparse, flyaway white hair and a perpetual cigar clamped between his teeth. He’s smart and fair-minded, honorable, conservative, ill-tempered sometimes, but a very capable executive. The notion of being publicly praised by this man had already brought the color to Jewel’s face. The room gradually quieted.

  Mac took a moment to survey the crowd. “We’re here tonight to pay homage to one of the finest women I’ve ever been privileged to work with. As you all know, Jewel Cavaletto is retiring from the company after twenty-five years of service…”

  There’s something hypnotic about the tone and tenor of an after-dinner speech, maybe because everyone’s full of food and wine and the room’s too warm by then. I was sitting there feeling grateful that Mac had bypassed the canned humor and was getting straight to the point. I don’t know what made me look at the door. Everyone else was looking at Mac. I caught something out of the corner of my eye and turned my head.

  It was the kid. I blinked uncomprehendingly at first, as if confronted with a mirage. Then I felt a rush of fear.

  The only clear glimpse I’d ever had of him was that first encounter at the rest stop. Mark Messinger had been feigning sleep that day, stretched out on a bench with a magazine across his face while Eric knelt on the pavement with his Matchbox car, making mouth noises, shifting gears with his voice. I’d seen him again one night in the motel parking lot, his features indistinguishable in the poorly lighted alcove where his father had taken him to buy a soft drink. I’d heard his laughter echo through the darkness, an impish peal that reminded me of the shadowy underworld of elves and fairies. The last time I’d seen him, his face had beer partially obscured behind the paper sticker on the passenger side of the truck in which his father tried to run me down.

  He was small for five. The light in the corridor glinted on his blond head. His hair was getting long. His eyes were pinned on me and a half-smile played on his mouth. He turned to look at someone standing in the corridor just out of sight. He was being prompted, like a kid acting an unfamiliar part in the grade-school play. I could see him say, “What?” I didn’t wait to see what the next line would be.

  I grabbed my handbag and came up out of my seat, nearly knocking my chair over in the process. Dietz turned to look at me and caught the direction of my startled gaze. By the time he checked the entrance, it was empty. I bolted around Neil’s chair, heading toward the hall, tagging Dietz’s arm. “It’s the kid,” I hissed. His gun came out and he grabbed my arm, jerking me along behind him as he moved toward the door. Mac caught the commotion and stopped midsentence, looking up at us in astonishment. Other people turned to see what was going on. Some woman emitted a startled cry at the sight of Dietz’s .45, but by then he’d reached the entrance and had flattened himself against the wall. He peered around the doorway to the right, glanced left, and drew back. “Come on,” he said.

  Still propelling me by the arm, he walk-raced us down the corridor to the left, our footsteps thudding on the tiled surface. I half-expected him to stash me in Vera’s room while he ran reconnaissance, but instead he steered us toward the exit at the end of the hall. At the door, we stopped again abruptly while he made sure there was no one out there. The night air hit us like icy water after the warmth of the banquet room. We eased away from the light, hugging the shrubs as we rounded the corner, moving toward the parking lot.

 
“You’re sure it was him?” he asked, his tone low.

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  We were on a darkened walkway that bordered one of the interior courtyards. Crickets were chirring and I could smell the slightly skunky scent of marigolds. Voices up ahead. Dietz drew us into the shelter of some hibiscus bushes bunched against the building. I was clutching the Davis, my hand shoved down in the outside pocket of my shoulder bag. Dietz’s fingers dug painfully into the flesh of my right arm, but that was the only indication I had of how tense he was. A couple passed, two of the bridesmaids I’d seen earlier. I could hear their long taffeta skirts rustle as they hurried by.

  “Just what I need… a guy equipped with a Fourex,” one was saying.

  “Hey, come on. He’s buff… ,” the other said, voices fading as they turned through the archway to our left.

  Dietz moved out onto the walkway, keeping me close. “We’ll check the parking lot,” he murmured. “I want to make sure the guy’s not out there waiting for us.”

  There was a scattering of guests at the hotel entrance, waiting for their cars to be brought around by three white-jacketed valets who had spread out, at a trot, across the parking lot. The immediate area was washed by a wide spill of light. The windows along the wing to our left formed tall rectangles of yellow, casting soft oblongs of illumination on the grass below. Banana palms intersected the light source at intervals. To our right, against the darkness, a thick cluster of birds-of-paradise was highlighted in blue and green outdoor spots that made them look like a flock of beaky fowl staring intently into the middle distance. A car eased out of the driveway and turned right, headlights flashing across the upright supports of the seawall. The ocean beyond was a pounding presence limned in moonlight.

  The back end of Dietz’s red Porsche was in plain view, parked close to the line of shrubs that bordered the circular driveway.

  Dietz motioned for the nightscope, which I dug out of my handbag. He held the scope to his eye, scanning the grounds. “Here. You look,” he murmured and handed me the device. I peered through the scope, startled by the sudden eerie green clarity of the landscape. Where the black had seemed dense and impenetrable, there was now a fine haze of green, with objects outlined in neon. The kid was crouching in a thicket of ferns beside a palm tree. He was sitting on his heels, arms wrapped around his bony knees, which were bared in shorts. While I was watching, he lifted his head, peering toward the entrance, perhaps in hopes of catching sight of us. His young body conveyed all the tension of a game of hide-and-seek. I didn’t see Messinger, but he had to be somewhere close. I touched Dietz’s arm and pointed. He took the scope and scanned again.

  “Got him,” he murmured. He checked with his naked eye and then again with the scope. Without a word, we retreated, retracing our steps. We circled the main building, slipping into the hotel through a service entrance at the rear. Dietz used one of a bank of wall phones near the kitchen to call a cab, which picked us up on a side street behind the hotel minutes later.

  Chapter 18

  *

  By the time we got home it was nearly eleven o’clock and Dietz was in a foul mood. He’d been silent in the cab, silent as he unlocked the door and let us in. Impatiently, he stripped off his jacket. The right sleeve got hung up on his cuff link. He jerked it free, wadded the jacket up and flung it across the room, ignoring the fact that it didn’t go that far. He went into the kitchenette, opened the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and poured himself a jelly glass of whiskey, which he tossed down.

  I picked up the jacket from the floor and folded it across my arm. “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “The fuck it’s not,” he snapped. “I was the one who insisted we go tonight. It was stupid… way too risky… and for what? Messinger could have walked in there with an Uzi and mowed us all down.”

  Actually it was hard to argue that one, as the same thing had occurred to me. “What happened? Nothing happened.”

  He reached for a cigarette, but caught himself abruptly. “I’m going out,” he said.

  “And leave me here by myself?” I yelped.

  He flashed a dark look at me, his fingers tightened on the glass until I half-expected him to crush it in his grip. Something about the gesture made my temper climb.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Just cut it out, okay? The guy’s showing off again. Big deal. He wants me nervous and he wants you kicking your own butt. Well, so far, so good. You storm out to buy a pack of cigarettes and he can step in and finish me off without any interference. Thanks a lot.”

  He was silent for a moment. He set the glass aside and leaned, stiff-armed, against the counter, head down. “You’re right.”

  “Damn right I to right,” I said peevishly. “Lighten up and let’s figure out some way to kill his ass. I hate chickenshit guys trying to shoot me. Let’s get him first.”

  That gave his mood a lift. “How?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  There was a knock at the door and both of us jumped. Dietz whipped his gun out and motioned me into the kitchenette. He crossed to the front door and flattened himself against the wall to the right. “Who is it?”

  The voice was muffled. “Clyde Gersh.”

  I moved toward the door, but Dietz waved me back with a scowl. He tilted his head against the doorframe. “What do you want?”

  “Agnes was picked up. She’s in the emergency room at St. Terry’s and she’s asking for Kinsey. We left a couple of messages on the answering machine, but when we didn’t hear back, we thought we’d stop by. We’re on our way to the hospital. Is she home yet?”

  Dietz said, “Hang on.” He pointed to the answering machine, which rested on the bookshelf behind the sofa. I eased across the room and checked the message light, which indicated that two calls had been recorded. I turned the volume down, pushed the auto playback button, and listened to the tape. The first message was from Irene, the second from Clyde, both saying much the same thing. Agnes had been found and was asking for me. Dietz and I exchanged a look. He lifted his brows in a facial shrug. He flipped the porch light on, peered through the spyhole, and opened the door with caution. Clyde was standing by himself on the doorstep in a circle of wan light. Beyond him, all was darkness. The fog was rolling in and I could see faint wisps of it curling around the light. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. “I don’t like to disturb people this late, but Irene insisted.”

  “Come on in,” Dietz said, stepping back so Clyde could enter. Dietz closed the door behind him and motioned Clyde to have a seat, an offer Clyde declined with a brief shake of his head. “Irene’s waiting in the car. I don’t want to leave her too long. She’s anxious to get over there.”

  He was looking weary, his baggy face weighted with anxiety. He wore a tan gabardine topcoat, hands shoved down in his pockets. His gaze flickered across Dietz’s holster but he refrained from comment, as if mentioning the gun might be a breach of etiquette.

  “How’s Agnes doing? Has anybody said?” I asked.

  “We’re not really sure. The doc says minor cuts and bruises… nothing serious… but her heartbeat’s irregular and I guess they put her on some kind of monitor. She’ll be admitted as soon as we sign the paperwork. I gather it’s nothing life-threatening, but the woman is eighty-some-odd years old.”

  “The cops picked her up?”

  Clyde nodded. “Some woman spotted her, wandering in the street. She was the one who called the police. The officer who called said Agnes is disoriented, has no idea where she is or where she’s been all this time. The doc says she’s been talking about you since they brought her in. We’d appreciate your coming with us if it’s not too much trouble.”

  I said, “Sure. Let me change my clothes. I don’t want to go like this.”

  “I’ll let Irene know you’re coming,” he said to me. And then to Dietz, “Will you follow in your car or ride with us?”

  “We’ll come in your car and grab a cab back,” Dietz said.

  I was on
my way up to the loft, stripping off the black silk jacket as I went, kicking off my shoes. I leaned my head out over the railing. “Where’d they find her?”

  Clyde turned his face up to mine with a shrug. “Same neighborhood as the nursing home… somewhere close by… so she didn’t get far. I can’t figure out how we missed her unless she saw us and hid.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.” I ducked back, peeling off the jumpsuit, hopping on one foot as I tugged my jeans on over the black panty hose. I put a bra on, grabbed a polo shirt out of the chest of drawers, pulled it on, and shook my hair out. I stepped into my high-top Reeboks and left the laces for later. I was clopping down the narrow staircase two seconds later, reaching for my shoulderbag.

  “Let’s hit it,” I said, as Dietz opened the door.

  Clyde’s white Mercedes sedan was parked at the curb. Irene, in the front, turned a worried face toward us as we approached.

  The fifteen-minute drive to St. Terry’s was strained. Dietz and I sat in the backseat with Dietz angled sideways so he could check out the back window for any cars following. I was perched, leaning forward, arms resting on the front seat close to Irene, who clutched my hand as if it were a lifeline. Her fingers were icy and I found myself listening unconsciously for the wheezing that might signal another asthma attack. No one said much. The information about Agnes was limited and there didn’t seem to be any point in repeating it.

  The small parking lot in front of the emergency room was full. A black-and-white occupied the end slot. Clyde pulled up to the entrance and let us out, then went off to find parking on the street. Irene hung back, evidently reluctant to go in without him. She wore a lightweight spring coat, double-breasted, bright red, which she pulled around her now as if for warmth. I could see her peering off toward the streetlights, hoping to catch sight of him.