G is for Gumshoe (22 page)

Dietz bought us each a drink. His was a plain soda water with lime, mine a white wine, and Vera's a tequila sunrise. She sucked that one down and bought herself another. I watched her with interest. I'd never seen Vera so tense. She turned to Dietz. “God, how can you drink without smoking a cigarette?”

“This isn't alcohol.”

She rolled her eyes. “That's even worse. I'm going to bum one,” she said. “No, I'm not. Well, maybe one. A puff.”

“Is that Neil?” I asked. A doctorish type was poised in the doorway, searching for a familiar face. Without a reference point, of course, it wasn't possible to tell just how short he was, but he looked okay to me. Pleasant face, dark hair cut stylishly. He wore a navy suit, pale blue shirt I could have bet would have monogrammed cuffs. The bow tie was unexpected—I hadn't seen one in years. Vera raised a hand. His face brightened when he spotted her. He made his way across the room while she moved to join him, tucking her arm in his when they connected at the
midpoint. She had to bend a bit to talk to him, but the disparity in their heights didn't seem remarkable to me. I tried to picture him with his head on my pillow, but it really didn't wash.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vera, in charge of the seating, had of course set it up so that Neil Hess and I were together. She and Dietz were at the table to our left. Dietz had apparently interceded to some extent, arranging it so that I was secured in one corner of the room, facing the entrance. Dietz was seated with his back to me, facing the entrance as well so he could keep an eye on the door. Vera was on his left, fully visible to me while all I could see of him was the back of his head. Both tables flanked an emergency exit that the security director had assured Dietz would remain unlocked for us during the course of the banquet.

By eight, everyone had arrived and the assembled group settled at the tables like a flock of birds. The noise level had risen several decibels as a result of the alcohol consumed. These were company relationships and there was a sense of giddiness and unease at the sudden shift from business to social behaviors. The three-course dinner
was served at a leisurely pace: a salad of baby lettuces, boneless chicken breasts sautéed with lemon and capers, miniature vegetables, hot breads, and finally a dense chocolate cake in a puddle of vanilla sauce. I ate like a forest animal, head coming up to check the door at any sign of movement, worried that Mark Messinger would show up with an Uzi and mow us down like weeds. Judging from the set of Dietz's shoulders, he was more relaxed than I, but then he was staring down the front of Vera's dress, a titillating distraction for any man.

I tuned in to the conversation at the table. Neil and I had been seated with two underwriters and their wives, a foursome talking bridge with an intensity I envied. I gathered they'd just returned from some kind of bridge-oriented cruise in which baby slams and gourmet foods were served up in equal measure. Much talk of no-trump, double finesses, and Sheinwold, whose strategies they were debating. Since neither Neil nor I played, we were left to our own devices, a possibility Vera had probably calculated well in advance.

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 selfsatisfied, 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 been 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.