G is for Gumshoe (11 page)

Miraculously, I saw the guy toss the tire iron in the bed of the pickup as he slid back under the steering wheel and slammed the door. The window was rolled up on the passenger side, where a sheet of paper had been affixed. Like an eye test, I made out the top line of print which read
AS IS
, with several lines of print below; the temporary sticker from a used car lot. I thought I saw a face peering out at me briefly as the engine roared to life and the truck peeled out. I felt a jolt of recognition, which I didn't have time to process. The pain descended and I felt the blackness close in, narrowing my vision to a long, dark barrel with a glinting bull's-eye of daylight at the far end. I took a deep breath to clear my head and looked up in time to catch one last glimpse of the pickup as it headed north toward Mecca. The license plate had been caked with mud. No numbers were visible.

Two cars went by on the road, heading south. The driver in the second car, a vintage Ford sedan, seemed to do a double take, catching sight of the VW, which sat in the canal partially submerged. He braked to a stop and began to back up, transmission whining in reverse. The adrenaline surging through my system crested like a wave and I began to shake. It was over. I found myself weeping audibly, from pain, from fear, from relief.

“Need some help?” The old man had angled his car onto the shoulder of the road and rolled his window down. Dimly, I realized he was probably obscuring any tire tracks left by the Dodge, but the gravel shoulder seemed too hard-packed to take a print. To hell with it. I was safe and that's all I cared about. I shoved the gun in my bag and staggered to my feet, wading across the canal toward the road. I scrambled up the embankment, tennis shoes slipping in the mud. As I approached the sedan, the old man studied the knot on my forehead, my disheveled hair, my blood-streaked face, my blue jeans sopping wet. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, registering the streak of blood that I'd mistaken for tears. I swayed on my feet. I could feel the goose egg protruding from the middle of my forehead like I was suddenly sprouting a horn. Pain thundered in my head, and for the first time, nausea stirred. I crossed to his car, watching his concern mount when he saw how shaky I was. “Sister, you're a mess.”

“Is there any way you can get the highway patrol out here? Somebody just ran me off the road.”

“Well, sure. But don't you want a lift somewhere first? You look like you could use some medical attention. I just live up the road a piece.”

“I'm fine. I just need a tow truck . . .”

“Young lady, you listen here. I'll give the sheriff a call and get a tow truck out, too, but I'm not going to leave you standin' here by the road.”

“I don't want to leave my car.”

“That car's not going to budge and I'm not either unless you do as I say.”

I hesitated. The VW was totaled. The entire back end appeared foreshortened, the right rear fender crushed. The car had been suffering from countless dings and dents anyway, the beige paint oxidized to a chalky hue, highlighted with rust. I'd had the car nearly fifteen years. With a pang of regret, I turned back to the sedan, hobbling around to the passenger side. I felt like I was leaving a much-loved pet behind. I'd apparently banged my left leg from the knee right up my thigh and it was already stiffening up. When I finally dared to pull my jeans down, I was going to find a bruise the size and color of an eggplant. The old man leaned across and opened the door for me.

“I'm Carl LaRue,” he said.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I replied. I slid in, slouching down on the base of my spine so I could rest my head against the seat. Once I closed my eyes, the nausea subsided somewhat.

The sedan eased out into the highway again, heading south about a quarter of a mile before we made a left turn onto a secondary road. I sincerely hoped this was not part of some elaborate ruse, the old man in cahoots with the guy in the pickup truck. I flashed on the
AS IS
sticker in the window, the glimpse I'd had of someone peering out at me. Gingerly, I sat up, remembering where I'd seen the
face. It was at the rest stop where I'd eaten lunch on the way down to the desert. There'd been a kid there, a boy maybe five, playing with a Matchbox toy. His father had been napping with a magazine laid across his face . . . a white guy, with big arms, in a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. Once I made the connection, I knew I'd actually seen them twice. The same man had crossed the darkened motel parking lot with the kid perched up on his shoulders as they headed for the Coke machine. I felt a chill ripple through me at the recollection of how he'd tickled the kid. What sang in my memory was the peal of impish laughter, which seemed now as dainty and evil as a demon's. What kind of hit man would bring his kid along?

 

 

 

 

 

 

While Mr. LaRue put a call through to the county sheriff's department, I found myself folding up like a jackknife on the lumpy couch in his living room, overwhelmed by sleepiness. My head was pounding. My neck was stiff from whiplash, my rib cage bruised. I felt cold and little, as I had just after the accident in which my parents were killed. In a singsong voice, inexplicably, my brain began feeding back to me the text I'd read in the morning paper. “Palms grow to 70 feet and can produce 300 pounds of dates. A mature palm will grow 15 to 18 bunches of dates. Each cluster, when the fruit has reached the size of a pea, must be protected with brown paper covers to ward off birds and rain. . . .” What I couldn't remember anymore was where I was or why I hurt so bad.

Carl was shaking me persistently. He'd apparently placed a call to the hospital emergency room and had been told to bring me in. His wife, whose name kept slipping
away, had soaked a washcloth in ice water so she could dab the dirt and crusted blood off my face. My feet had been elevated and I'd been wrapped in a down comforter. At their urging, I roused myself and shuffled out to the car again, still wrapped in the puffy quilt like a bipedal worm.

By the time we reached the emergency room, I had come out of my stupor sufficiently to identify myself and make the correct answers to “How many fingers am I holding up?” and similar neurological pop quizzes I took while lying flat on my back. The ceiling was beige, the cabinets royal blue. Portable X-ray equipment was wheeled in. They X-rayed my neck first, two views, to make sure it wasn't broken, and then did a skull series, which apparently showed no fractures.

I was allowed to sit up then while a young doctor peered at me eye to eye, our breaths intermingling with a curious intimacy as he checked my corneal reflexes, pupil size, and reaction to light. He might have been thirty, brown curly hair receding from a forehead creased with fine horizontal lines. Under his white jacket, he wore a buff-colored dress shirt and a tie with brown dots. His aftershave lotion smelled of newly cut grass, though his electric mower had missed a couple of hairs just under his chin. I wondered if he realized I was noting his vital signs while he was noting mine. My blood pressure was 110 over 60, my temperature, pulse, and respirations normal. I know because I peeked every time he jotted anything down. In a box at the bottom of the page, he scrawled the words “postconcussional syndrome.” I was happy to realize the accident hadn't impaired my ability to read upside down. Various forms of first aid were administered and
most of them hurt, including a tetanus shot that nearly made me pass out.

“I think we should keep you overnight,” he said. “It doesn't look like you sustained any major damage, but your head took quite a bump. I'd be happier if we could keep an eye on you for the next twelve hours, at any rate. Anybody you want notified?”

“Not really,” I murmured. I was too battered to protest and too scared to face the outside world anyway. He moved out to the nurses' station, which I could see through an interior window shuttered for privacy by partially closed rust-red venetian blinds. In the corridor, a sheriff's deputy had appeared. I could see horizontal slats of him chatting with the young female clerk who pointed over her shoulder to the room where I sat. The other cubicles in the emergency room were empty, the area quiet. The deputy conferred with the doctor, who evidently decided I was fit enough to answer questions about how my car came to be sitting in an irrigation ditch.

The deputy's name was Richie Windsor, one of those baby-faced cops with an uptilted nose and plump cheeks reddened by sunburn. He had to be a rookie, barely twenty-one, the minimum age for a sheriff's deputy. His eyes were hazel, his hair light brown and cut in a flattop. He hadn't been at it long enough to adopt the noncommittal, paranoid expression that most cops assume. I described the incident methodically, sparing no details, while he took notes, interjecting occasional enthusiastic comments in a borrowed Mexican accent. “Whoa!” he would say, or “Get real, kemosabe!” He seemed nearly envious that someone had tried to kill me.

When I finished my recital, he said he'd have the dispatcher broadcast a “be on the lookout” in case the Dodge was still somewhere in the area. We both knew the chances of intercepting the man were slim. If the guy was smart, he'd abandon the vehicle at the first opportunity. As the deputy turned to leave, I found myself snagging impulsively at his uniform sleeve.

“One thing,” I said. “The doctor wants me here overnight. Is there any way we can keep my admission under wraps? This is the only hospital in the area. All the guy has to do is call Patient Information and he'll know exactly where I am.”

“Good point,
amigo.
Let me see what I can do,” he said. He tucked his pen away.

Within minutes, the admissions office had sent a young female clerk over with a wheelchair, a clipboard full of forms to be completed, and a patient identification strip in a cloudy plastic band, which she affixed to my wrist with a device that looked like a hole punch.

Carl LaRue and his wife had been sitting patiently in the corridor all this time. They were finally ushered in to see me while last-minute arrangements were being made for a bed. The deputy had apparently cautioned the old couple about the situation.

“Your whereabouts is safe with us,” Carl said. “We won't say a word.”

His wife patted my hand. “We don't want you to worry now. You just get some rest.”

“I appreciate everything you've done,” I said. “Really. I can't thank you enough. I'd probably be dead if you hadn't come along.”

Carl shifted uncomfortably. “Well, now. I don't know about that. I'm happy to be of help. We got kids of our own and we'd want somebody helping them under similar circumstances.”

His wife tucked her arm in his. “We best get a move on. They'll want to put you to bed.”

As soon as they departed, I was whisked up to the second floor by freight elevator to a private room, probably on the contagious-disease ward where no visitors were allowed. It was only three in the afternoon and the day looked like it'd be a long one. I didn't get zip for painkillers because of the head injury, and I wasn't allowed to sleep lest I slip into some coma from which I might never wake. My vital signs were checked every hour. The meal carts were long gone, but a kindly nurse's aide found me a cup of muscular cherry Jell-O and a packet of saltines. I pictured the ward clerk filling out a charge slip for twenty-six dollars. I could probably hold my hospital bill down to seven or eight hundred bucks, but only if I didn't need a Band-Aid or a safety pin. I had insurance, of course, but it offended me to be charged the equivalent of the down payment on a car.

My eye lighted on the telephone. There was a telephone book in the bottom of the nightstand. I looked up the area code for Carson City, Nevada (702 all locations, in case you really want to know), dialed Information, and got the listing for Decker/Dietz Investigations, which I dialed in turn. The phone rang five times. I half-expected a service to pick up or a machine to kick in, but someone picked up abruptly on the sixth ring, sounding brusque and out of sorts. “Yes?”

“May I speak to Robert Dietz?”

“I'm Dietz. What can I do for you?”

“I'm not sure if you remember me,” I said. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm a friend of Lee Galishoff's and he suggested I get in touch. I called you about a year ago from Santa Teresa. You helped me locate a woman named Sharon Napier . . .”

“Right, right. I remember now. Lee said you might call.”

“Yeah, well it looks like I'm going to need some help. I'm in Brawley, California, at the moment in a hospital bed. Some guy ran me off the road—”

He cut in. “How bad are you hurt?”

“I'm okay, I guess. Cuts and bruises, but no broken bones. They're just keeping me for observation. The car was totaled, but a passing motorist came along before the guy could finish me off—”

Dietz broke in again. “Where's Brawley? Refresh my memory.”

“South of the Salton Sea, about ninety minutes east of San Diego.”

“I'll come down.”

I squinted, unable to repress a note of surprise. “You will?”

“Just tell me how to find you. I have a friend with a plane. He can fly me into San Diego. I'll rent a car at the airport and be there by midnight.”

“Well, God, that's great. I mean, I appreciate your efficiency, but tomorrow morning's fine. They're probably not going to let me out before nine
A.M
.”

“You haven't heard about the judge,” he said flatly.

“The judge?”

“Jarvison. They got him. First name on the list. He was gunned down this morning in the driveway of his house.”

“I thought he had police protection.”

“He did. From what I understand, he was supposed to be sequestered with the other two but he wanted to be at home. His wife just had a baby and he didn't want her left alone.”

“Where was this, in Carson City?”