G is for Gumshoe (33 page)

“All the blood on the wall for one.”

The pause was of the wrong length. “What blood? That's a redwood stain. I refinished a piece of porch furniture and knocked the can off on the floor. Stuff sprayed all over, went everyplace. You never saw such a mess.”

“Arterial blood will do that. You get a pumping effect.” I tromped over the crumpled strip of paper, with a scrabbling sound, and washed my hands at the kitchen sink.

He put a half gallon of ice cream in the freezer, taking a moment to rearrange boxes of frozen vegetables. His rhythm was off. An accomplished liar knows how important the timing is in conveying nonchalance.

I dried my hands on a kitchen towel of doubtful origin. It might have been a part of a pillow case, a paint rag, or a diaper. “I drove over to Mt. Calvary and looked for Anne's grave.”

“Make your point. I got work to do. She's buried with the family on the side of the hill.”

“Not quite,” I said. I leaned against the counter, watching him unload canned goods. “I went into the office and asked to see the interment card. You bought her a stone, but there's no body in the grave. Anne left town with Irene in January nineteen forty.”

He tried to get huffy, but he couldn't muster any heat. “I paid to bring her all the way from Tucson, Arizona. If she wasn't in the coffin, don't tell me about it. Ask the fellow on the other end who said he put her there.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Let's cut to the chase. There wasn't any husband in Arizona and there weren't any little kids. You made that stuff up. You killed Charlotte and Emily. You killed Sheila, too. Anne was alive until late last
night and she told me most of it. She said Emily wanted to sell the house and you refused. She must have pressed the point and you were forced to eliminate her just to end the argument. Once you got Emily out of the way, there was only Anne to worry about. Have her declared dead and you collect the whole estate . . . .”

He began to shake his head. “You're a crazy woman. I got nothing to say to you.”

I crossed to the wall-mounted telephone near the hall door. “Fine with me. I don't care. You can talk to Lieutenant Dolan as soon as he gets here.”

Now he was willing to argue the point, any means to delay. “I wouldn't kill anyone. Why would I do that?”

“Who knows what your motivation was? Money is my guess. I don't know
why
you did it. I just know you did.”

“I did not!”

“Sure you did. Who are you trying to kid?”

“You don't have a shred of proof. You can't prove anything.”

“I can't, but somebody can. The cops are really smart, Patrick, and persistent? My God. You have no idea how persistent they are where murder's concerned. The whole of modern technology will be brought to bear. Lab techs, machinery, sophisticated tests. They've got experts out the wazoo and what do you have? Nothing. A lot of hot air. You don't stand a chance. Fifty years ago you might have fooled 'em, but not these days. You're up shit creek, pal. You are totally screwed . . .”

“Now see here. You wait a minute, young lady. I won't have that kind of talk used in my house,” he said.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot. You've got standards. You're not
going to tolerate a lot of smutty talk from me, right?” I turned back to the telephone. I had picked up the receiver when the window shattered in the back. The two acts came so close together, it looked like cause and effect. I pick up the phone, the window breaks out. Startled, I jumped a foot and dropped the phone in the process, jumping again as the handset thumped against the wall. I saw a hand come through the shattered window and reach around to unlock the door. One savage kick and the door swung back abruptly and banged against the wall. I had grabbed my handbag and was just reaching for my gun when Mark Messinger appeared, his own gun drawn and pointed at me. The suppressor created the illusion of a barrel fourteen inches long.

This time there was no smile, no aura of sexuality. His blond hair stood out around his head in damp spikes. His blue eyes were as cold and as blank as stone. Patrick had turned, heading toward the front door in haste. Messinger fired at him casually, not even pausing long enough to form an intent, the shooting as simple as pointing a finger.
Spwt!
The sound of the silenced .45 semiautomatic was almost dainty compared to its effect. The force of the bullet drove Patrick into the wall where he bounced once before he fell. Blood and torn flesh bloomed in his chest like a chrysanthemum, shreds of cotton shirting like the calyx of a flower. I was staring at him mesmerized when Messinger grabbed me by the hair, hauling my face up within an inch of his. He shoved the barrel of his gun under my chin, pressing so hard it hurt. I wanted to protest the pain of it, but I didn't dare move. “Don't shoot me!”

“Where's Eric?” he breathed.

“I don't know.”

“You're going to help me get him back.”

Fear had pierced my chest wall like splinters. All the adrenaline was coursing upward to my brain, driving out thought. I had a brief image of Dietz with Rochelle Messinger. They'd evidently succeeded in plucking the kid from his father's grasp. I could smell chlorine from the swimming pool, mingled with Messinger's breath. He probably couldn't take his gun to the pool without calling attention to himself. I pictured him in the water, Eric on the side just waiting to jump in. If his mother appeared, he'd have run straight to her with a shriek of joy. By now they were probably barreling out to the airport. The plane had been chartered for nine to allow time for the snatch. I willed the thought away. Made my mind blank.

Messinger slapped me across the face hard, setting up a ringing in my head. I was dead. I wouldn't get out of this one alive. He shoved me toward the back door, kicking a chair out of my path. I caught sight of Ernie, the old guy, shuffling toward the kitchen. His expression was perplexed, especially when he spotted Patrick on the floor with the corsage of blood pinned to the center of his chest. Mark Messinger turned and pointed the gun at the old man.

“Oh don't!” I burbled. My voice sounded strange, highpitched and hoarse. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the
spwt!
I looked back. The old fellow had pivoted and was shuffling away in panic. I could hear his howls echo down the hall, as frail and helpless as a child's. Messinger watched him retreat, indecision flickering in his eyes. He lost interest and turned his attention back to me. “Get the car keys.”

I saw the bag where I'd dropped it on the floor near the phone. I pointed, temporarily unable to speak. I longed for my gun.

“We'll take my car. You drive.”

He grabbed me by the head and buried his grip in my hair again, propelling me with a fury that made me cry out in fear.

“Shut up,” he whispered. His face was close to mine as we descended the back stairs. I stumbled, grabbing at the rail with my right hand for balance. My heel slipped off the stair and I nearly went down. I thought he'd pull all my hair out, effectively scalping me with his closed fist, which held me like a vise. I couldn't look down, couldn't move my head to either side. I could feel the gravel driveway underfoot. I proceeded like a blind woman, hands out, using senses other than sight. The car was parked in the drive near the shed. I wondered briefly if a neighbor would spot our clumsy progress. Nearly dark now. In my mind's eye, I could see Rochelle's face. Please be on the plane, I thought. Please be in the air. Take Dietz with you forever and keep him somewhere safe. I pictured his impatience, his intensity. I willed him into a taxi, drove him away from the danger. I couldn't save him, couldn't even save myself this time around. Messinger yanked open the door on the passenger side and pushed me across the front seat. He was driving a yellow Rolls-Royce: walnut dashboard, leather upholstery.

“Start the car,” he said. He got in after me, crowding close. He placed the barrel of the gun against my temple. He was breathing hard, his tension concentrated in his grip on the gun. If he shot me, I wouldn't feel it. I'd be dead before
the pain could travel along my nerve ends and get the message to my brain. I willed the act, wanted it over with. “Do it,” he said. I thought the voice was mine, so nearly did it mimic my thought.

“Start the fuckin' car!”
His anger was erratic, sometimes fire, sometimes ice, his command of himself veering inexplicably from unbridled impulse to rigid control.

I felt for the keys in the ignition.

“Where'd they take my son?”

“They didn't tell me.”

“You lying
bitch
! I'll tell
you
then.” He dropped his voice and I could feel the force of his words against my cheek. The sexuality was back, the same tickle of desire that rises when you dance with a man for the first time—some awareness of the flesh and all the possibilities that wait. He was calm again, confident, his throaty laugh nearly jubilant. “Rochelle's got a twin brother flies a plane,” he said. “She knows better than to take Eric back to her place because I'd find him first thing and she'd be dead before she shut the door. She'll try to get him out by air, take him off and hide him somewhere till things cool down.” He moved the gun away from my head, gesturing with the barrel. “Back out on the street and take a left. We'll head out to the airport, there's a charter place out there. Drive carefully, okay?”

I nodded dumbly, my mood shifting as abruptly as his. So far, I was alive, not maimed or disabled. I was grateful he hadn't hurt me, thrilled I wasn't dead. I did as I was told. I felt absurdly happy that his manner was pleasant, his tone nearly friendly as I backed out of the drive. He'd
reduced my habitual cockiness to humility. There was still hope. There was still a chance. Maybe they'd already left. Maybe they were gone. Maybe I could kill him before he killed me. I had a flash of Rochelle being shot in the chest. He'd kill her as carelessly as he'd killed Patrick Bronfen, with the same matter-of-factness, the same casualness, the same ease. Dietz would die. Messinger would trade me for Eric at the outset and then kill us all. Rochelle, Dietz, and me, in whatever order would maximize the horror. I focused on the road, suddenly conscious of the car. I could smell leather seats, the fresh rose in a crystal vase. The car glided in silence. I turned right on 101 and flew north. There was not a highway patrol car in sight.

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.