G is for GUMSHOE

by Sue Grafton

  I checked the street for Clyde, but he was nowhere to be seen. I climbed the steps and crossed to the front door. The owner of the board-and-care emerged just as I was preparing to ring the bell.

  He was a man who might have been hefty in his youth. Once-muscular shoulders had softened with age, sloping beneath his shirt. He was clean-shaven and balding, his extended forehead giving him a look of babyhood. He had pouches under his eyes and a mole stuck to his left cheek, like a raisin. “Something I can help you with?” His eyes strayed to Irene and I found my gaze following his. If she fainted, I was going to have a real problem on my hands.

  “She’ll be all right. She’s feeling light-headed and just needs to sit down for a bit,” I said. “A woman’s disappeared from the nursing home down the block and we’re checking with the neighbors, hoping someone’s seen her.”

  He had focused on my face, surveying me quizzically. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

  “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I was here a couple of weeks ago with a friend of mine –”

  “Right, right, right. I remember now. Spunky little redhead with a sister in a wheelchair. I was sorry we couldn’t accommodate her. She the one who’s missing?”

  “No. This is someone else,” I said. I held a hand up above my own head, describing her again. “Tall, very thin. She’s been gone since early this morning and we can’t seem to get a line on her. I can’t believe she got far.”

  “Some of those old folk move fast,” he said. “They can fool you if you don’t keep an eye out. Wish I could help you, but I’ve been working in the back. Have you called the police?”

  “They were notified first thing. I understand they’ve searched this whole area. We thought we’d try again.”

  “Happens occasionally, especially in this neighborhood. Usually they turn up.”

  “Let’s hope. Thanks, anyway.”

  His gaze strayed back to Irene still sitting on the bottom step. “How about a glass of water for your friend?”

  “She’ll be okay, but thanks,” I said. I closed the conversation with my usual request for assistance. “Here. Let me leave you my card. If you see the woman or talk to anyone who might have noticed her, could you let me know? If I’m not available, you can always call the nursing home.”

  He took my card. “Certainly,” he said. Someone spoke to him from inside, a feeble voice, faintly petulant. He excused himself and went in.

  I helped Irene up. We made our way down the walk and out the gate. She was shaky on her feet, her face drawn and tense.

  “I really think I ought to take you back,” I said.

  She shook her head emphatically. “Not yet. I’m feeling better.” She straightened her back as if to illustrate the point.

  I could see a fine mist of sweat beading on her forehead, but she seemed determined to go on. I had my doubts, but there wasn’t much I could do. “One more, then,” I said, “and then we’ll check back with Clyde.”

  The house next door was a blocky bungalow with a low-pitched roof, a story and a half sheathed in fawn-brown clapboard. The porch was open and wide, the overhang supported on squat brick stanchions with wooden railings between. We were heading up the walk when I saw one of the wooden porch rails split, raw wood opening up like a flower blossoming. I heard a popping sound and glass broke. I jumped, thinking that some shift in the earth was causing the structure to snap apart. I heard Dietz’s Porsche roar around the corner to our left. I turned to look for him and registered peripherally the UPS delivery truck still idling at the curb. The UPS man was coming up the walk behind us. He was smiling at me and I felt myself smile automatically in response. He was a big man, muscular, clean-shaven, with blond curly hair, stark blue eyes in a tan face, full mouth curving into dimpled cheeks. I thought I must know him because he seemed glad to see me, his eyes soft, the look on his face both sensual and warm. He moved nearer, bending toward me, almost as if he meant to kiss me. He was so close I registered the heady bouquet of his personal scent: gunpowder, Aqua Velva aftershave, and a whiff of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. I felt myself drawing back, perplexed. Behind me, wood snapped like a tree being cracked by lightning. I could see his face suffuse with heat, like a lover at the moment of his climax. He said something. I glanced down at his hands. He seemed to be holding the nozzle of a hose, but why would a UPS man wear gardening gloves? Light spurted from the hose. I blinked uncomprehendingly and then I understood. I grabbed Irene by the arm, nearly lifting her off her feet. I hauled her up the two low stairs and toward the front door. The occupant of the house, a middle-aged man, was opening the front screen, puzzled by the noise. I could tell from his expression he wasn’t expecting company. I snagged him by his shirtfront and shoved him aside, pushing him out of the line of fire as I shouldered us through the door. A front window shattered, spraying glass across the floor. Irene and I went down in a heap. She was too surprised to shriek, but I could hear the wind being knocked out of her as she hit the bare hardwood floor. The door banged back on its hinges, exposing the hallway and the stairs. The owner of the house had taken refuge in the living room, crouched beside the sofa, his arms folded across his head. He reminded me of a little kid who believes he’s invisible just because his eyes are squeezed shut. A bullet ripped a hole through the back wall. Plaster dust blew inward like a bomb going off, with a find cloud rising in its wake.

  There was silence. I heard someone running, pounding steps receding in the grass, and I knew instinctively that Dietz would give chase. Crouching, I duck – waddled my way into the dining room and peered cautiously out the side window, eyes barely above the sill. I saw Dietz round the corner of the house and disappear. Behind me, Irene was beginning to wail, from fear, from injury, from shock and bewilderment. Belatedly, I felt a rush of adrenaline that made my heart thunder in my throat. My mouth went dry. I clung to the windowsill and laid my cheek against the cold wall, which was papered in cabbage roses, maroon and pink on a field of gray. I closed my eyes. In my mind, the moment was being played out all over again. First the man… that warm light in his eyes, mouth curving up in a familiar smile. The sense that he meant to kiss me, husky voice saying something, then the muzzle flash. From the sound, I knew he’d had a suppressor on the gun, but I’d seen light spurt out. Didn’t seem likely in daylight unless my mind had somehow supplied the image out of past experience. How many shots had he fired? Five? Six?

  Dietz came into the house, striding across the room. He was winded, tightly controlled, sweating, his manner grim. He pulled me to my feet, his face stony. I could feel his hands digging into my upper arms, but I couldn’t voice a protest.

  “Are you okay?”

  He gave me a shake and I nodded, feeling mute. He set me aside like a rag doll and moved away, crossing to Irene who was weeping as piteously as a three-year-old. She sat on the floor with her legs spread, skirt askew, arms limp in her lap, her palms turned up. Dietz put an arm around her, pulling her close. He kept his voice low, reassuring her, bending down so she could hear. He asked her a question. I saw her shake her head. She was gasping, unable to say more than a few words before she was forced to stop for breath.

  The owner of the house was standing in the hallway, his fear having given way to outrage. “What’s going on here? What is this, a drug bust? I open my door and I nearly get myself killed! Look at the damages. Who’s going to pay for this?”

  Dietz said, “Shut up and call the cops.”

  “Who are you? You can’t talk to me that way! This is a private residence.”

  I sank down on a dining room chair. Through the front window, I could see that neighbors had begun to congregate, murmuring anxiously among themselves – little groups of two and three, some standing in the yard.

  What had the man said to me? I ran it back again: I’d heard Dietz’s car rumbling in the street and that’s when I’d turned, smiling at the man who was smiling at me. I could hear his words now, understood at last what he’d said to me as he approach
ed – “You’re mine, babe” – his tone possessive, secretive, and then the incredible sexual heat in his face. I felt tears rise, blurring my vision. The window shimmered. My hands began to shake.

  Dietz patted Irene’s arm and returned to me. He hunkered at my side, his face level with mine. “You did great. You were fine. There was no way you could have known that would happen, okay?”

  I had to squeeze my hands between my knees so the shaking wouldn’t travel up my arms. I looked at Dietz’s face, gray eyes, the blunt nose. “He tried to kill me.”

  “No, he didn’t. He tried to scare you. He could have killed you the first time, in Brawley on the road. He could have nailed you just now with the first shot he fired. If he kills you, the game is over. That isn’t what he wants. He’s not a pro. He’s sick. We can use that to get him. Can you understand what I’m saying? Now we know his weakness.”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I said, forever flip. Actually, I didn’t understand much of anything. I’d looked into the face of Death. I’d mistaken him for a friend. Other people had tried to kill me – out of vengeance, out of hate. It had never really seemed personal until the man on the walk. No one had ever connected to me as intimately as he had.

  I glanced over at Irene. Her respiratory distress, instead of subsiding, seemed to be getting worse. Her breathing was rapid, shallow, and ineffectual, the wheezing in her throat like two high-pitched notes on a bagpipe. Her fingertips were turning a shadowy blue. She was suffocating where she sat. “She needs help,” I said.

  Dietz turned to look at her. “Oh hell…”

  He was on his feet instantly, striding across the room.

  The owner of the house was standing at the telephone, repeating his address to the police dispatcher.

  Dietz said, “We need an ambulance, too,” and then to Irene, “Take it easy. You’ll be fine. We’ll have help for you soon. Don’t panic…”

  I saw Irene nod, which was as much as she could manage.

  In the midst of the confusion, Clyde Gersh appeared, drawn by the scattering of neighbors who were standing out in front. He told me later than when he saw the damages to the house his first thought was that Agnes had been discovered and had put up some kind of fight. The last thing he expected was to see Irene on the floor in the midst of a stage III asthma attack. Within minutes, the cops arrived, along with the paramedics, who administered oxygen and first aid, loaded Irene on a gurney, and hustled her away. In the meantime, I felt strangely removed. I knew what was expected and I did as I was told. I rendered a detailed account of events in a monotone, letting Dietz fill in the background. I’m not sure how much time passed before Dietz was allowed to take me home. Time had turned sluggish and it seemed like hours. I never even heard the name of the guy who owned the house. The last glimpse I saw of him, he was standing on the porch, looking like the sole survivor of an 8.8 earthquake.

  Chapter 14

  *

  When we got home, I fumbled my way up to the loft. I pulled my shoes off. I stretched out on the bed, propping the pillows up behind me while I took stock of myself. All the niggling aches and pains in my body were gone, washed away by the wave of adrenaline that had tumbled over me during the attack. I was feeling drained, lethargic, my brain still crackling while my body was immobilized. Downstairs, I heard the murmur of Dietz talking on the phone.

  I must have dozed, sitting upright. Dietz appeared. I opened my eyes to find him perched on the bed beside me. He was holding some papers in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. “Drink this,” he said.

  I took the mug and held it, focusing on the heat. Tea has always smelled better than it tastes. I can still remember how startled I was as a kid when I was first allowed to have a sip. I glanced up at the skylight, which showed a circle of lavender and smoke. “What time is it?”

  “Ten after seven.”

  “Have we heard from Clyde?”

  “He called a little while ago. She’s fine. They treated her and sent her home. No sign of Agnes yet. How are you?”

  “Better.”

  “That’s good. We’ll have some supper in a bit. Henry’s bringing something over.”

  “I hate being taken care of.”

  “Me, too, but that’s bullshit. Henry likes to feel useful, I’m starving, and neither of us cook. You want to talk?”

  I shook my head. “My soul’s not back in my body yet.”

  “It’ll come. I got a line on the guy from the L.A. police. You want to take a look?”

  “All right.”

  There was a sheaf of LAPD bulletins, maybe six. I studied the first. wanted felony traffic suspects. There were ten mug shots – like class photos – one circled in ballpoint pen. It was him. He looked younger. He looked pale. He looked glum – one of life’s chronic offenders at the outset of his career. His name was Mark Darian Messinger, alias: Mark Darian; alias: Darian Marker; alias: Buddy Messer; alias: Darian Davidson. Male, Caucasian, thirty-eight years old, blond hair, blue eyes, tattoo of a butterfly on the web of his right hand (I’d missed that). His date of birth was Jury 7, Cancer, a real family man at heart. His California driver’s license number was listed, his Social Security number, his NCIC file number, FBI number, his department report number, his warrant number. The arrest, apparently in the summer of 1981, was for violation of Vehicle Code Section 20001 (hit-and-run resulting in death) and Penal Code Section 192(3)(a) (vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence). The photograph was an inch and a half wide square, taken straight on. It helped to see him shrunk down to Lilliputian proportions, the size of a postage stamp. He looked like a low-life punk, the black-and-white mug shot not nearly as sinister as the flesh-and-blood reality.

  The second police bulletin read: arrest for murder of a police officer, Felony Warrant LACA, with a string of numbers, charging Penal Code Section 187(a) (murder) and Section 664/187 (attempted murder) with a six-line narrative attached. “On October 9, 1981, two Los Angeles police officers responded to a domestic disturbance during which the above suspect fired an unknown type semiautomatic at his common-law wife. When the police officers attempted to subdue him, suspect shot one of the officers in the face, resulting in his death. The suspect then fled on foot.”

  The names of two detectives, assigned to the case, were listed below that, along with several telephone numbers if information came to light. At the bottom of the page was a line in bold print. kindly notify chief OF POLICE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, it said. KINDLY KILL THIS MAN ON SIGHT, I thought.

  The third bulletin was dated less than two months back. ONE MILLION DOLLAR ROBBERY INFORMATION wanted. And there he was again, in a police composite drawing, this time with a mustache, which he must have shaved off in the interim. According to the victim’s account, the suspect had followed a wholesale gold dealer into a gold exchange business in the Jewelry Mart section of downtown Los Angeles on March 25, where he relieved the victim of the gold he was transporting, valued in excess of $625,000. The suspect had produced a gun and robbed the victim and another employee of an additional $346,000 in gold “granules” and $46,000 in cash. Mark Messinger had been identified from fingerprints at the scene.

  I leafed through the remaining bulletins. There was apparently no crime Mark Messinger was incapable of committing – the well-rounded felon with a major in murder and minors in armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He seemed to operate with equal parts impulse and brute force. He didn’t go in for the intellectual stuff, nothing with finesse. The million-dollar robbery was probably the most sophisticated thing he’d ever done.

  “Now we know how he can afford to take on a cut-rate hit,” I said.

  Dietz tapped the paper, pointing to one of the last lines of print. A brief note indicated that the suspect was reported to have relatives in Santa Teresa. “That’s how he knew Tyrone Patty. From here. They were cellmates in the county jail four years ago. I guess they kept in touch.”

  “Have the cops here talke
d to his family?”

  Dietz nodded. “No luck. His father claims he hasn’t talked to Messinger in years. He’s probably lying, but you can’t do much about that. Dolan says they delivered a stern lecture about aiding and abetting. The old man swore a Boy Scout oath he’d notify the cops if the guy showed up.”

  I could feel a knot of dread begin to form in my gut. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Let’s talk about fighting back.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “Right now I’m not in the mood.”

  “Drink your tea and get cleaned up. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  Henry had put together a meal of comfort foods: succulent meatloaf with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, homemade rolls, fresh lemon meringue pie, and coffee. He ate with us, saying little, watching me with worried eyes. Dietz must have cautioned him not to chide me for leaving the premises. It was clear Henry wanted to fuss, but he had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut. I felt guilty anyway, as if the attempt on my life was something I had done. Henry studied the police bulletins, memorizing Mark Messinger’s face and the details of his (alleged) crimes. “A nasty piece of work. You mentioned a little boy. How does he figure into this?” he said to Dietz.

  “He kidnapped the kid from his common-law wife. Her name is Rochelle. She works in a massage parlor down in Hollywood. I talked to her a little while ago and the woman’s a mess. The kid’s name is Eric. He’s five. He was enrolled in a day-care center in Rochelle’s neighborhood. Messinger picked him up about eight months ago and that’s the last she’s seen of him. I got boys of my own. I’d kill anyone came after them.” Dietz ate like he did everything else, with intense concentration. When he finished the last scrap of food, he sat back, patting automatically at the shirt pocket where he’d kept his cigarettes. I saw a quick head shake, as if he were amused at himself.

  They moved on to other subjects: sports, the stock market, political events. While they talked, I gathered the empty plates and utensils and took them to the kitchenette. I ran a sinkful of soapy water and slid the dishes in. There’s nothing so restful as washing dishes when you need to separate yourself from other folk. It looks dutiful and industrious and it’s soothing as a bubble bath. For the moment, I felt safe. I didn’t care if I ever left the apartment again. What was wrong with staying right here? I could learn to cook and clean house. I could iron clothes (if I had any). Maybe I could learn to sew and make craft items out of Popsicle sticks. I just didn’t want to go out again. I was beginning to feel about the real world as I did about swimming in the ocean. Off the Santa Teresa coast, the waters of the Pacific are murky and cold, filled with USTs (unidentified scary things) that can hurt you real bad: organisms made of jelly and slime, crust-covered creatures with stingers and horny pincers that can rip your throat out. Mark Messinger was like that: vicious, implacable, dead at heart.