G is for Gumshoe (15 page)

I poured wine in a glass. “Want some?”

“Of course!”

I handed him the glass of wine and poured a second for myself. I felt like we should drink a toast to something, but I couldn't think what. “Are you hungry? I notice you picked up some bacon and eggs. We could have that if you like.”

“Fine. I wasn't sure what else to get. I hope you're not a vegetarian. I should have asked.”

“I eat anything . . . well, except tripe,” I said. I set the wineglass on the counter so I could get out the eggs. “Scrambled all right? I'm terrible at fried.”

“I can cook 'em.”

“I don't mind.” “It shouldn't be your responsibility. I'm not here as a guest.”

I hate bickering about who's going to be nicer. I got out the skillet and tried a new subject. “We never talked about money. Lee didn't mention your hourly rate.”

“Let's not worry about that. We'll work something out.”

“I'd feel better if we came to some agreement.”

“What for?”

I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said. “It's just more businesslike.”

“I don't want to charge you. I'm doing this for fun.”

I turned and stared at him. “You think this is fun?”

“You know what I mean. I've chucked the business anyway so this one's on me.”

“I don't like that,” I said. “I know you mean well, and believe me, I appreciate the help, but I don't like to feel indebted.”

“There's no debt implied.”

“I'm going to pay you,” I said, testily.

“Great. You do that. My rates just went up. Five hundred bucks an hour.”

I stared at him and he stared back. “That's bullshit.”

“That's
my
point. It's bullshit. We'll work something out. Right now I'm hungry so let's quit arguing.”

I turned back to the skillet with a shake of my head. The joy of being single is you always get to have your own way.

I went up to bed at nine, exhausted. I slept fitfully, aware that Dietz was up and prowling restlessly well into the night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I woke automatically at 6:00
A.M.
and rolled out of bed for my early morning run. Oh, wow, shit, hurt. I was sucking air through my teeth, on my hands and knees, staring at the floor when I remembered Dietz's advisory. No jogging, no lifting weights. He hadn't said a word about getting out of bed. I was clearly in no condition to work out anyway. The second day of anything is always the worst. I staggered to my feet and hobbled over to the loft rail, peering down at the living room. He was up. The sofa bed had been remade. I caught the smell of fresh coffee and a glimpse of him sitting at the kitchen counter with the L.A.
Times
open in front of him, probably wishing he could have his first cigarette of the day. From my perspective, foreshortened, his face seemed to be dominated by his furrowed brow and jutting chin, his body topheavy with bulky shoulders and biceps. He reversed the pages, flipping to the middle of the metro section, which is where all the juicy Los Angeles crime is detailed. I eased out of
his line of sight, climbed into bed again, and spent a few minutes staring up through the skylight. A marine layer had blanketed the Plexiglas dome with white. Impossible to tell yet what kind of day it would be. It seldom rains here in May. Chances were the clouds would lift and we'd have sunshine, mild breezes, the usual lush green. Sometimes perfection ain't that easy to bear. Meanwhile, I couldn't lie here all day, though I was tempted, I confess.

If I went downstairs, I'd have to be polite and interact with Dietz, making small talk of some as yet undetermined sort. New relationships are daunting, even when they're short-term. People have to trade all those tedious details about their previous lives. It made me tired to consider the sheer weight of the exchange. We'd touched on the preliminaries in the car coming home, but we had reams of data to cover yet. Chitchat aside, Dietz might turn on the radio again . . . more Roy Orbison. I couldn't face that at 6:05
A.M.

On the other hand, it was my house and I was hungry, so why shouldn't I go downstairs and eat? I didn't have to talk to him. I pushed the covers back and got up, limped into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. My face was still a Technicolor wonder, a rainbow of bruises after a shower of blows. I wiggled my eyebrows and studied myself. The contusion on my forehead was shifting subtly from dark blue to gray, my blackened eyes lightening from lavender to an eerie green. I've seen eye shadow in the same shade and it always puzzles me why women want to look like that. “I got belted in the chops last night,” is what it says. My hair was, as usual, mashed from the night's sleep. I'd showered the night before but I hopped in again, not for the
sake of cleanliness, but hoping to improve my mood. Having Dietz under the same roof was making my skin itch.

Once I pulled on jeans and an old sweatshirt, I dumped my dirty clothes in the hamper, tucked the empty duffel in the closet, and made the bed. I went downstairs. Dietz murmured a good morning without lifting his eyes from the sports page. I helped myself to some coffee, poured a bowl of cereal with milk, grabbed the funnies, and toted it all into the living room, where I sat, bowl in hand, spooning cereal into my mouth absentmindedly while I read the comic page. The funnies never make me laugh, but I read them anyway in hopes. I caught up with Rex Morgan, M.D., the girls in Apartment 3G, and Mary Worth. It's comforting how slowly life moves in a comic strip. I hadn't read the paper in maybe four days and the professor was just now looking startled at something Mary'd said to him. What a wag she was. I could tell he was disconcerted by the wavy lines around his head.

Dimly, I was aware that Dietz had opened the front door and stepped out into the backyard. When I finished my cereal, I washed my bowl and spoon and left them in the dish rack. Hesitantly, I moved to the front door and peered out, feeling like a housebound cat discovering that a door has inadvertently been left ajar. Was I allowed outside?

The marine layer was already beginning to dissipate, but the yard had that bleached look that a mist imparts. The foghorn was bleating intermittently—a calf separated from its mother—in the still morning air. The strong scent of seawater saturated the yard. Sometimes I half expect the surf to be lapping at the curb out front.

Dietz was hunkering near the flower beds. Henry had
put in some bare root roses the year before and they were in full bloom: Sonia, Park Place, Lady X, names giving no clue about the final effect. “Aphids,” he said. “He should buy some ladybugs.”

I leaned against the doorframe, too paranoid to venture all the way out into the yard. “Are we going to talk about security again or did we cover it last night?”

He got to his feet, turning his attention to me. “We should probably discuss your schedule. Any standing appointments? Massage, beauty salon?”

“Do I look like someone with a standing appointment at a beauty salon?”

He studied my face with curiosity, but refrained from comment. “The point is, we don't want your movements predictable.”

I rubbed my forehead, which was still smarting to the touch. “I gathered as much. Okay, so I cancel my masseuse, bikini wax, and the weekly pedicure. Now what?”

He smiled. “I appreciate your cooperation. Makes my job easier.”

“Believe me, I'm not interested in being killed,” I said. “I do need to go in to the office.”

“What time?”

“Doesn't matter. I want to pick up my mail and get some bills paid. Minor stuff really, but I don't want to put it off.”

“No problem. I'd like to see the place.”

“Good,” I said, turning to go back inside.

“Kinsey? Don't forget the body armor.”

“Right. Make sure you wear yours, too.”

Upstairs, I dutifully stripped off my sweatshirt and
slipped on the bulletproof vest, pressing the Velcro straps into place. Dietz had told me this particular vest offered threat-level-one protection, which was good against a .38 Special or less. Apparently, he was assuming a hit man wouldn't use a 9-millimeter automatic. I tried not to think about garrotes, head wounds, blasted kneecaps, the penetrating power of ice picks—any one of a number of assaults not covered by the oversize bib I wore.

“Make sure it's tight enough,” Dietz had called up from below.

“Got it,” I said. I had pulled the sweatshirt on over the vest and checked myself in the mirror. I looked like I was eleven years old again.

At 8:45, we moved through the front gate. Dietz had gone out first to check the car and scan the street. He returned, motioning me forward. He walked slightly in front of me, his stride brisk, his eyes alert as we traversed the fifty paces to his Porsche. The whole maneuver had an urgency about it that made me feel like a rock star. “I thought a bodyguard was supposed to be inconspicuous,” I said.

“That's one theory.”

“Won't everybody guess?”

He looked over at me. “Let's put it this way. I'm not interested in advertising what I do, but if this guy's watching us, I want him to understand just how hard his job is going to be. Most attacks occur suddenly and at very close range. I'll try not to be obnoxious, but I'm sticking to you like glue.”

Well, that answered that.

Dietz drove with his usual determination. He was a real A-type personality, one of those guys who lives like he's
always late for some appointment, irritated at anybody who slows him down. Bad drivers caught him by surprise, as though they were the exception instead of the rule. I directed him to the downtown area, which, fortunately, was only ten minutes away. If he noticed I was bracing myself between the dashboard and the door frame, he didn't mention it.

At the entrance to the parking lot, he slowed the car, surveying the layout. “Is this where you usually park?”

“Sure, the office is right up there.”

I watched him calculate. He was clearly hoping for a way to change my routine, but parking farther away was only going to make the walk longer, thus exposing us for an extended period. He pulled in, handed me the ticket, and found a parking space. “Anything looks weird,” he said, “speak up right away. Any sign of trouble, we'll get the fuck out.”

“Right,” I said. It was amazing what this “we” business was doing to my head. I wasn't famous for letting guys tell me what to do and I was hoping I wouldn't get used to it.

Again, he came around to the passenger side and opened the door, his gaze sweeping the lot as I emerged into the open air. He took my elbow, walking me rapidly across the lot to the back stairs. I wanted to laugh. It felt like having a parent march you up to your room. He entered the building first. The second-floor corridor was deserted. California Fidelity offices weren't open yet. I unlocked my office door. Dietz stepped in ahead of me and took a quick look around, making sure there weren't any goons lurking behind the furniture.

He scooped up the mail that had piled up on the floor
just under the slot. He sorted through it quickly. “Let me tell you what we're looking for, in case I'm not here to do this. An unfamiliar return address, or one done by hand. Anything marked personal, extra postage due to weight, oil stains . . .”

“A bulky package with a fuse hanging out the side,” I said.

He handed me the stack, his expression bland. It's hard to warm to somebody who looks at you that way. Apparently, he didn't think I was as funny as I thought I was. I took the stack of mail and sorted through it as he had. Much of it was third-class, but I did have a few checks coming in—all with return addresses I could identify on sight. Together we listened to the few messages on my machine. None were threatening. Dietz wanted time to acquaint himself with the building and its environs, so he went off to inspect the premises while I put on a pot of coffee.

I opened the French doors and paused, suddenly reluctant to step out on the balcony. Across the street, I could see the tiers of the parking garage and it occurred to me that anyone could drive up two levels, park, and get a bead on me. I wasn't even sure a high-powered rifle would be required. You could almost throw a rock from there and pop me in the noggin. I stepped away from the doors, withdrawing into the shadowy safety of the office. I really hated this.

At 9:05, I put a call through to my insurance agent and reported the accident. She said there was no blue book on the VW because of its age. It looked like I was going to be lucky if I picked up two hundred bucks on the claim, so
there was no point in having the car towed. Finding an adjuster in Brawley who would go out and take a look was almost more trouble than the car was worth. She said she'd check into it and get back to me. This conversation failed to fill me with happiness. I have a savings account, but the purchase of a car would seriously deplete my funds.

Dietz returned to the office in time to intercept Vera, who had stopped in to say hello on her way into the office next door.

“My God, what happened to you?” she said when she saw my face.

“My car ended up in an irrigation ditch down in Brawley,” I said. “This is Robert Dietz. He was nice enough to drive me back. Vera Lipton, from the offices next door.”

They shook hands briefly. She was wearing a black leather miniskirt that fit her like automobile upholstery and made a creaking sound when she eased into one of my client chairs. Dietz moved over and parked a hip on the edge of my desk. It was amusing to watch them size each other up. Unknown to Vera, Dietz was viewing her as a potential assassin while I suspect she was evaluating his qualifications for a roll in the hay—whether hers or mine, I couldn't say. From her expression, she assumed he'd picked me up hitchhiking and since she considers me hopelessly conservative when it comes to men, I thought the possibility might lend me a certain stature in her eyes. I tried to look like the kind of woman who'd flag down a stranger on the road, but she wasn't interested in me—she was studying him. I was going to have to call this doctor friend of hers so we could double-date.