G is for Gumshoe (31 page)

“Thanks for coming up on such short notice,” Dietz was saying.

I don't know what I expected. I confess I'm as given to stereotyping as the next guy. My notion of ladies who work in massage parlors leans toward the tacky, the blowsy, and (face it) the low class. A tattoo wouldn't have surprised me . . . a hefty rear end, decked out in blue jeans and spike heels, tatty dark hair pulled up in a rubber band.

Rochelle Messinger was my height, very slim. She had flyaway blond hair, a carelessly mussed mop that probably cost her $125 to have touched up and snipped every four weeks. Her face was the perfect oval of a Renaissance painting. She had a flawless complexion—very pale, finely textured skin—pale hazel eyes, long fingers with
lots of silver rings, expensive ones by the look. She was wearing an ice-blue silk blouse, a matching silk blazer, pale blue slacks that emphasized her tiny waist and narrow hips. She smelled of some delicate blend of jasmine and lily of the valley. In her presence, I felt as dainty and feminine as a side of beef. When I opened my mouth, I was worried I would moo.

“God, how'd you end up with a piece of shit like Mark Messinger?” I blurted out instead.

She didn't react, but Dietz turned and gave me a hard look.

“Well, I really want to know,” I said to him defensively.

She cut in. “It's all right. I understand your curiosity. I met him one night at a party in Palm Springs. He was working as a bodyguard for a well-known actor at the time and I thought he had class. I was mistaken, as it turns out, but by then we'd spent a weekend together and I was pregnant—”

“Eric,” I said.

She nodded almost imperceptibly. “That was six years ago. I'd been told I could never have children, so for me, it was a miracle. Mark insisted on marriage, but I refused to compound the initial error in judgment. Once Eric was born, I didn't even want him to see the child. I knew by then how twisted he was. He hired a high-powered attorney and took me to court. The judge awarded him visitation rights. After that, it was simply a matter of time. I knew he'd make a try for Eric, but there was nothing I could do.”

So far, she'd left more unexplained than she'd managed to clarify, but I thought it was time to back off and give Dietz room to operate. By unspoken agreement, this was his gig
in much the same way the Bronfen interview had been mine. Dietz was getting into work mode, his energy intensifying, restlessness on the increase. He'd started snapping the fingers of his right hand against his left palm, a soft popping sound. “When did you last talk to him?” Dietz asked her.

“To Mark? Eight months ago. In October, he picked Eric up at the day-care center and took him to Colorado, ostensibly for a weekend. He called me shortly after that to say he wouldn't be returning him. He does allow the boy to call me from time to time, but it's usually from a pay phone and the contact's too brief to put a trace on. This is the first time I've actually known where he was. I want my child back.”

Dietz said, “I can appreciate that. We understand Mark has family in the area. Will they know where he is?”

She smiled contemptuously. “Not bloody likely. Mark's father denounced him years ago and his mother's dead. He does have a sister, but I don't believe they're on speaking terms. She turned him in to the police the last time he got in touch.”

“No other relatives? Friends he might have tried to contact?”

She shook her head. “He's strictly solo. He doesn't trust a soul.”

“Can you suggest how we can get a line on him?”

“Easy. Call all the big hotels. The cops quizzed me as to his whereabouts after the gold mart robbery. He'll be loaded and, believe me, he's the sort of man who knows how to treat himself well. He'll book himself into firstclass accommodations somewhere in town.”

Dietz said, “Do you have a telephone book?”

Rochelle crossed to the bed table and opened the drawer. Dietz sat down on the edge of the king-size bed and turned to the yellow pages. I could tell he was dying for a cigarette. Actually, if I were a smoker, I'd have wanted one myself. It was the same bed where I'd caught my ex-husband with a lover during the Christmas holidays. What a jolly season that was . . .

Dietz looked at me. “How many big hotels?”

I thought about it briefly. “There are only three or four that might appeal to him,” I said, and then to her, “Will he be registered under his real name?”

“I doubt it. When he's on the road, he tends to use one of his aliases. He favors Mark Darian or Darian Davidson, unless he's got a new one altogether, in which case I wouldn't know.”

Dietz had flipped through the yellow pages to the hotel/motel listings.

“Hey, Dietz?”

He looked up at me.

“I'd try the Edgewater first,” I said. “Maybe his showing up at the banquet last night was just a piece of dumb luck.”

He stared for a moment until the logic sank in. Then he laughed. “That's good. I like that.” He found the number and punched it in, his attention focusing as someone picked up on the other end. “May I speak to Charles Abbott in security? Yes, thanks. I'll hold.” Dietz put a palm over the mouthpiece of the receiver and used the interval to fill Rochelle in on events to date. He interrupted himself abruptly. “Mr. Abbott? Robert Dietz. We talked to you
yesterday about security on the banquet . . . Right. I'm sorry to bother you again, but I need a quick favor. I wonder if you can check to see if you have a guest registered there. The name is Mark Darian or Darian Davidson . . . possibly some variation. Same man. We believe he'll have his little boy with him . . . . Sure . . .”

Apparently, Dietz was on hold again while Charles Abbott checked with the reservations desk. Dietz turned to Rochelle and took up the narrative where he'd left it. She didn't seem to have any trouble following. Watching her, I began to realize how strung-out she was, despite the poised façade. This was a woman who probably didn't eat when she was under stress, who lived on a steady diet of coffee and tranqs. I'd seen mothers like her before—usually pacing back and forth in a cage at the zoo. No appearance of domestication would ever undercut the savagery or the rage. Personally, I was happy I'd never laid a hand on her pup.

By the time Dietz caught her up, her expression was dark. “You have no idea how ruthless he is,” she said. “Mark is very, very smart and he has all the uncanny intuitions of a psychopath. Have you ever dealt with one? It's almost like a form of mind reading . . . .”

Dietz was on the verge of replying when Charles Abbott cut back in. Dietz said, “You do. That's right, the boy is five.” He listened for a moment. “Thanks very much. Absolutely.” He placed the receiver in the cradle with exaggerated care. “He's there with the kid. They're in one of the cottages out in back. Apparently, the two of them have just gone down to the pool to have a swim. I told Mr. Abbott there'd be no trouble.”

She said, “Of course not.”

“You want to call the police?”

“No, do you?”

From the look that passed between them, they understood each other exactly. She picked up a leather handbag from the bed and took out a little nickel-plated derringer. Two shots. I gave him a smirky look, but his expression was neutral. God, and he'd criticized
my
gun.

“What's your intention if we succeed in getting Eric back? You can't go home,” he said to her.

“I have a rental car, which I'm dropping at the airport. My brother's a pilot and he'll pick us up at a charter place called Neptune Air. Mark and I used it once.”

Dietz turned to me. “You know it?”

“More or less. It's this side of the airport on Rockpit Road.”

He turned back to Rochelle. “What time's he flying in?”

“Nine, which should give us time enough, don't you think?”

“It should. What then?”

“I've got a place we can hole up for as long as we want.”

Dietz nodded. “All right. It sounds good. Let's do it.”

I held a finger up, snagging Dietz's attention. I tilted my head toward the door. “Could I have a word with you?”

He flicked a look at me, but made no move, so I was forced to charge on.

I said, “I've got something I want to check out and I need some wheels. Why can't I take the rental car while you two take the Porsche? You know where Messinger is and you're on your way over. I don't see why I need to be there.”

There was a silence. I had to struggle not to jump in with a lot of pointless dialogue. I'm too old to beg and whine. I just couldn't picture us in a motorcade, driving across town to a kidnapping or a shootout with Mark Messinger. My presence was redundant. I had other fish to fry. Rochelle was loading her gun—both chambers. It was too ludicrous for words, but something about it gave me a leaden feeling in my gut.

I could see Dietz debate my request. In an odd flash of ESP, I knew he'd have felt safer if I were going with him. He held out his car keys, not quite making eye contact. “Take my car. There's a chance Messinger might spot us if we pull into the hotel parking lot in it. We'll take the rental car. What I said before goes. Nothing dumb.”

“Same to you,” I said, perhaps more sharply than I intended. “I'll meet you out at the charter place.”

“Take care.”

“You too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was 4:42 when I turned into the entrance to Mt. Calvary for the second time that day. A long line of eucalyptus trees laid lean shadows across the road. I passed through them as though through a series of gates as I wound my way up the hill. I turned left into a parking area near the office and pulled in beside a splashing stone fountain in a circle of grass. Bright orange goldfish darted among the soft, dark green filaments of algae. I locked the car. The tall carved wooden doors to the nondenominational chapel were standing open. The stone interior was dark.

I passed a double row of flat monuments, displaying various types of granite markers and styles of lettering. Hard to decide which I preferred at such a quick examination. I reached the office and pushed through the glass door. The reception area was empty, the desk bare except for a neat stack of postcards depicting the crematorium. What kind of person would you write to on one of those? I spotted a discreet sign saying
PRESS BUZZER FOR SERVICE
attached to a device about the size of an electric letter opener. I pressed a lever. Magically, a woman appeared from around the corner. I wasn't really up on the fine points of cemetery ethics so, of course, I told a lie. “Hello. I wonder if you could help me . . .”

From the woman's expression, she was wondering the same thing. She was in her forties, dressed in prim office clothes: a gray wool dress with a touch of white at the neck. I was sporting my usual jeans and tennis shoes. “I certainly hope so,” she said. She kept her judgment in reserve just in case I was rich and had a passel of dead relatives in need of lavish burial.

“I believe my aunt is buried here and I need to know the date she died. My mother's in a nursing home and she's worried because she can't remember. Is there some way to check?”

“If you'll give me the name.”

“The last name is Bronfen. Her first name was Anne.”

“Just a moment.” She disappeared. It was hard to picture how she'd find the information. Was all this stuff on a computer somewhere? In some old file cabinet in the back? If the date and place of death didn't coincide with Bronfen's story, I was going to do some digging and see if I could come up with the death certificate. It might mean a few phone calls to Tucson, Arizona, but I'd feel better knowing what had really happened to Anne.

She returned in a remarkably short period of time, holding a white index card which she passed to me. There wasn't much on the face of it, but it was all pertinent. I soaked up the typed information in a flash. Surname, Chapman. Given name, Anne Bronfen. Age, forty. Birthdate,
January 5, 1900. Sex, female. Color, white. Place of birth, Santa Teresa, California. Place of death, Tucson, Arizona.

Ah. Date of death, January 8, 1940. That was interesting.

Date of interment, January 12, 1940. The space allotted to the funeral director had been left blank, but the lot number and the plot number were filled in.

“What's this?” I asked. I held the card out, pointing to the bottom line on which the word
cenotaph
had been handwritten in black ink.

“That's a commemorative headstone for someone who's not actually buried in that plot.”

“She's not? Where is she?”

The woman took the card. “According to this, she died in Tucson, Arizona. She's probably interred there.”

“I don't get it. What's the point?”

“The Bronfens might have wanted her remembered in the family plot. It's a great comfort sometimes to feel that everyone's together.”

“But how do you know this woman's really dead?”

She stared at me. “Not dead?”

“Yeah. Don't you require any proof? Can I just come in here and fill out one of these cards and buy somebody a gravestone?”

“It's hardly that simple,” she said, “but yes, essentially . . .”

She had launched into an explanation of the particulars, but I was on my way out.

I drove to the board-and-care in a state of suspended animation. All I'd really wanted was corroboration of Bronfen's tale, and here I was with another possibility altogether.
Maybe Agnes Grey and Anne Bronfen
were
the same person after all. I thumbed my nose in Dietz's general direction as I turned right on Concorde.

I parked the Porsche at the curb and got out. For once, there was no little twitch of the curtain as I pushed through the gate. I went up the porch steps and rang the bell. I waited. Several minutes passed. I moved over to the porch rail and peered toward the back of the house. At the far end of the driveway, I spotted a single-car garage. Attached to it was a lath house and a dark green potting shed with a big handsome padlock hanging open in the hasp.