Sue Grafton - G Is For Gumshoe

"And don't do anything dumb," he said.

I didn't say what flashed through my head, but it was short and to the point.

The Ocean View is one of those nondescript one-story motels a block off the wide boulevard that parallels the beach. It was not yet tourist season and the rates were still down, red neon vacancy signs alight all up and down the street. The Ocean View didn't really have a view of anything except the backside of the motel across the alley. The basic cinderblock construction had been wrapped in what resembled aging stucco, but the red tiles on the roof had the uniform shape and coloring that suggested recent manufacture.

Dietz pulled into the temporary space in front of the office, left the engine running, and went in. I sat and stared at the car keys dangling from the ignition. Was this a test of my character, which everyone knows is bad? Was Dietz inviting me to steal the Porsche? I was curious about the exact date Anne Bronfen had died and I was itching to check it out. I had to have a car. This was one. Therefore…

I glanced at the office door in time to see Dietz emerge. He got in, slammed the door, and put the car in reverse. "Number sixteen, around the back," he said. He smiled at me crookedly as he shifted into first. "I'm surprised you didn't take off. I left you the keys."

I let that one pass. I always come up with witty rejoinders when it's too late to score points.

We parked in the slot meant for room 18, the only space available along the rear. Dietz knocked. Idly, I felt for the gun in my handbag, reassured by its weight. The door opened. He was blocking my view of her and I had too much class to hop up and down on tiptoe for an early peek.

"Rochelle? I'm Robert Dietz. This is Kinsey Millhone."

"Hello. Come on in."

I caught my first glimpse of Rochelle Messinger as we stepped through the door into her motel room.

"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 first-class 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 facade. 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.