Sue Grafton - G Is For Gumshoe

My mouth was dry. I cleared my throat. "How did you know where I was?"

"I put a bug on the Porsche the first night it was parked in front of your place. See this? My receiver. I've been following you guys everywhere in a couple of different rental cars."

"Why'd you kill Patrick?"

"Why not. He's a dickface."

I glanced over at him curiously. "Why'd you spare Ernie?"

"That old fart? Who knows? Maybe I'll go back and do him now you mention it," he said. His tone was teasing. A little hit-man humor to show what a devil-may-care kind of guy he was. He'd taken the gun away from my head and it rested now on his knee. "What's the story with this bodyguard? He's a pain in the ass. Two times I nearly had you and he stepped in."

I kept my eyes on the road. "He's good at his job."

He looked over at me. "You makin' it with him?"

"That's none of your business."

"Come on…"

"I've only known him four days!" I said, righteously.

"So what?"

"So I don't jump into bed with guys that quick."

"You should have done while you had the chance. Now he's a dead man. I'll make you a deal. How's this? Him or you. Better yet, Rochelle or him. Take your pick. If you don't choose, I kill all three of you."

"You're only getting paid for one."

"True, but I'll tell you, the money doesn't mean that much. When you do what you love, you'd do it for free, am I right?" He leaned toward the tape deck. "Want some music? I got jazz, classical, R B. No heavy metal or reggae. I hate that shit. You want Sinatra?"

"No thanks." I saw the off-ramp for the university and the airport and eased right. The road curved up and to the left, crossing the freeway, which now passed underneath. It was gone and we hit the straightaway. Two more minutes to the airport and what was I going to do? The digital clock on the instrument panel showed that it was 8:02. A mile farther on, the access ramp to Rockpit Road came into view on the right. I took the turn. I knew the ocean was close by, but all I could smell was the rotten-egg odor of the slough that hugged the road. A fog was rolling in, a dense bank of white against the blackened sky. The university sat up on the bluffs like a walled city, all lights and buff-colored towers. I'd never gone to college. I was strictly blue-collar lineage-like this guy, come to think of it. Like Dietz.

I took Rockpit for half a mile until the hangars and assorted outbuildings of Neptune Air appeared on the left. "Here," he said. I slowed the Rolls and turned in. Messinger sat forward, peering through the windshield, which had been spritzed with fine mist.

There were four miscellaneous vehicles parked in the lot, but there was no sign of Rochelle's rental car. Messinger had me park the Rolls in the lee of a metal-sided hangar. Under the inverted V of the roofline, illuminated by a single bulb, the sign read: flight instruction, FAA REPAIR STATION, 24 HOUR CHARTERS, PIPER dealer, and avionics sales services. The perimeter fence was made of chain link, wrapped with barbed wire on top, and padlocked. Warnings were posted at intervals. Floodlights on the far side of the hangar glowed blankly on the empty runway.

We left the car. It was cold and a wind whipped along the tarmac, blowing my hair in all directions. As we crossed the parking lot, Messinger took me by the elbow in a gesture so reminiscent of Dietz that the air caught in my throat.

The offices of Neptune Air were closed, the interior darkened, one dim light shining through the plate glass. We circled the building. A broad redwood deck stretched out across the rear. A picnic table and two benches had been set up for those waiting for their charter flights. I pictured the Neptune employees (all three of them) eating lunch out here, watching planes land, drinking canned sodas from the vending machine. To the right, there was a line of small private planes tied down on the tarmac. Beyond them, half a mile away, I could see the Santa Teresa Airport, the upper portion of its tower peeking up above a row of storage sheds. On one of the runways, a United 737 was lumbering across the field in preparation for takeoff. Messinger gestured and we sat down on opposite sides of the picnic table. "It's fuckin' cold out," he said.

I heard voices behind me. I turned and watched as two workmen, probably fuelers, locked the exit door to the hangar and moved off toward the parking lot. Messinger rose to his feet, peering in their direction. He pulled the nose of the.45 up and pointed, making little noises with his mouth… pow, pow. He blew imaginary smoke away from the barrel and then he smiled. "They don't know how lucky they are, do they?"

"I guess not," I said.

He sat down again.

His hair had dried into ringlets and the wind lifted them playfully. His eyes glinted in the light from a bulb at the upper corner of the building. He was watching me with interest. "Your daddy ever bring you out here to watch planes?"

"He died when I was five."

"Mine didn't either. Cocksucker. No wonder I turned out bad."

"What, he didn't show up to watch you play Little League?"

"He didn't do much of anything except drink, fornicate, and kill folk. That's where I got all my talent. From him."

My fear had receded and in its place, I was beginning to feel a characteristic crankiness settle in. It was one thing to die, and quite another being forced to sit around in a cold wind making small talk with a fatuous ass like Messinger. I'd been thinking I better make nice. Now I wondered what the point was. In the meantime, he was staring at my face. I stared back, just to see what it would feel like.

He nodded judiciously. "Your black eye's looking better."

I ran a finger along my orbital ridge. I kept forgetting what I must look like to the uninitiated observer. The last time I'd assayed my various injuries, I'd noticed the bruises had changed hues dramatically. A lemon-yellow backdrop now blended into lime-green, which was overlaid with plum. "You nearly got me that round."

He waved the compliment away. "That was just a warm-up. I wasn't serious."

"What'd Eric think of it?"

"Didn't bother him. Look at cartoons. Kids see violence all the time and it doesn't count for shit. People don't really die. It's all special effects."

"I doubt he's going to feel that way if you shoot his mom."

"Not if I shoot her-when." I saw his gaze shift.

Out on the runway, a tiny plane had landed, sounding like a VW in need of a new fan belt. I lost sight of the aircraft behind some outbuildings and then the plane appeared again, puttering toward us. He got to his feet. "I bet this is him. Come on. And keep your mouth shut or I'll pop you one."

The plane reached the concrete apron beside the hangar and the pilot made a miniature U-turn so that he was now facing out toward the runway. He cut the engine, doused the lights. Messinger had gripped me across the back of the neck, marching me toward the plane in quickstep. I imagined the pilot taking off his headset, writing in his logbook, loosening his seat belt. If this was Rochelle's brother, he was going to recognize Messinger as soon as he caught sight of him.

A column of fear wafted up my spine like smoke. I tried to hang back, resisting, but Messinger's fingers dug into my neck with excruciating pain. We had picked up the pace, almost trotting side by side until we reached the tail unit of the plane. Just in front of us, the door to the cockpit opened and the pilot stepped down. We were less than six feet away.

Messinger said, "Hey, Roy?"

I screamed a warning.

The pilot turned in surprise.

Spwt!

Roy dropped to his knees. He toppled forward on his face. His nose had been shattered by the bullet, which took out a chunk of skull when it exited. I cried out in horror, recoiling from the sight. I felt tears like a stinging blow. A quick cloud of gunpowder perfumed the night air. I put a hand against the plane for support. Messinger had already lifted the dead man by the arms and he was dragging him backward across the tarmac toward the slanted shadows of the hangar.