Sue Grafton - G Is For Gumshoe

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.

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."