G is for Gumshoe (19 page)

Dietz said, “We need an ambulance, too,” and then to
Irene, “Take it easy. You'll be fine. We'll have help for you soon. Don't panic . . .”

I saw Irene nod, which was as much as she could manage.

In the midst of the confusion, Clyde Gersh appeared, drawn by the scattering of neighbors who were standing out in front. He told me later that when he saw the damages to the house his first thought was that Agnes had been discovered and had put up some kind of fight. The last thing he expected was to see Irene on the floor in the midst of a stage III asthma attack. Within minutes, the cops arrived, along with the paramedics, who administered oxygen and first aid, loaded Irene on a gurney, and hustled her away. In the meantime, I felt strangely removed. I knew what was expected and I did as I was told. I rendered a detailed account of events in a monotone, letting Dietz fill in the background. I'm not sure how much time passed before Dietz was allowed to take me home. Time had turned sluggish and it seemed like hours. I never even heard the name of the guy who owned the house. The last glimpse I saw of him, he was standing on the porch, looking like the sole survivor of an 8.8 earthquake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When we got home, I fumbled my way up to the loft. I pulled my shoes off. I stretched out on the bed, propping the pillows up behind me while I took stock of myself. All the niggling aches and pains in my body were gone, washed away by the wave of adrenaline that had tumbled over me during the attack. I was feeling drained, lethargic, my brain still crackling while my body was immobilized. Downstairs, I heard the murmur of Dietz talking on the phone.

I must have dozed, sitting upright. Dietz appeared. I opened my eyes to find him perched on the bed beside me. He was holding some papers in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. “Drink this,” he said.

I took the mug and held it, focusing on the heat. Tea has always smelled better than it tastes. I can still remember how startled I was as a kid when I was first allowed to have a sip. I glanced up at the skylight, which showed a circle of lavender and smoke. “What time is it?”

“Ten after seven.”

“Have we heard from Clyde?”

“He called a little while ago. She's fine. They treated her and sent her home. No sign of Agnes yet. How are you?”

“Better.”

“That's good. We'll have some supper in a bit. Henry's bringing something over.”

“I hate being taken care of.”

“Me, too, but that's bullshit. Henry likes to feel useful, I'm starving, and neither of us cook. You want to talk?”

I shook my head. “My soul's not back in my body yet.”

“It'll come. I got a line on the guy from the L.A. police. You want to take a look?”

“All right.”

There was a sheaf of LAPD bulletins, maybe six. I studied the first.
WANTED FELONY TRAFFIC SUSPECTS
. There were ten mug shots—like class photos—one circled in ballpoint pen. It was him. He looked younger. He looked pale. He looked glum—one of life's chronic offenders at the outset of his career. His name was Mark Darian Messinger, alias: Mark Darian; alias: Darian Marker; alias: Buddy Messer; alias: Darian Davidson. Male, Caucasian, thirty-eight years old, blond hair, blue eyes, tattoo of a butterfly on the web of his right hand (I'd missed that). His date of birth was July 7, Cancer, a real family man at heart. His California driver's license number was listed, his Social Security number, his NCIC file number, FBI number, his department report number, his warrant number. The arrest, apparently in the summer of 1981, was for violation of Vehicle Code Section 20001 (hit-and-run resulting in death) and Penal Code Section
192(3)(a) (vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence). The photograph was an inch and a half wide square, taken straight on. It helped to see him shrunk down to Lilliputian proportions, the size of a postage stamp. He looked like a low-life punk, the black-and-white mug shot not nearly as sinister as the flesh-and-blood reality.

The second police bulletin read:
ARREST FOR MURDER OF A POLICE OFFICER
, Felony Warrant LACA, with a string of numbers, charging Penal Code Section 187(a) (murder) and Section 664/187 (attempted murder) with a six-line narrative attached. “On October 9, 1981, two Los Angeles police officers responded to a domestic disturbance during which the above suspect fired an unknown type semiautomatic at his common-law wife. When the police officers attempted to subdue him, suspect shot one of the officers in the face, resulting in his death. The suspect then fled on foot.”

The names of two detectives assigned to the case were listed below that, along with several telephone numbers if information came to light. At the bottom of the page was a line in bold print.
KINDLY NOTIFY CHIEF OF POLICE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
, it said.
KINDLY KILL THIS MAN ON SIGHT
, I thought.

The third bulletin was dated less than two months back.
ONE MILLION DOLLAR ROBBERY INFORMATION WANTED
. And there he was again, in a police composite drawing, this time with a mustache, which he must have shaved off in the interim. According to the victim's account, the suspect had followed a wholesale gold dealer into a gold exchange business in the Jewelry Mart section of downtown Los Angeles on March 25, where he relieved the victim of
the gold he was transporting, valued in excess of $625,000. The suspect had produced a gun and robbed the victim and another employee of an additional $346,000 in gold “granules” and $46,000 in cash. Mark Messinger had been identified from fingerprints at the scene.

I leafed through the remaining bulletins. There was apparently no crime Mark Messinger was incapable of committing—the well-rounded felon with a major in murder and minors in armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He seemed to operate with equal parts impulse and brute force. He didn't go in for the intellectual stuff, nothing with finesse. The million-dollar robbery was probably the most sophisticated thing he'd ever done.

“Now we know how he can afford to take on a cut-rate hit,” I said.

Dietz tapped the paper, pointing to one of the last lines of print. A brief note indicated that the suspect was reported to have relatives in Santa Teresa. “That's how he knew Tyrone Patty. From here. They were cell-mates in the county jail four years ago. I guess they kept in touch.”

“Have the cops here talked to his family?”

Dietz nodded. “No luck. His father claims he hasn't talked to Messinger in years. He's probably lying, but you can't do much about that. Dolan says they delivered a stern lecture about aiding and abetting. The old man swore a Boy Scout oath he'd notify the cops if the guy showed up.”

I could feel a knot of dread begin to form in my gut. “Let's talk about something else.”

“Let's talk about fighting back.”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Right now, I'm not in the mood.”

“Drink your tea and get cleaned up. I'll see you downstairs.”

Henry had put together a meal of comfort foods: succulent meatloaf with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, homemade rolls, fresh lemon meringue pie, and coffee. He ate with us, saying little, watching me with worried eyes. Dietz must have cautioned him not to chide me for leaving the premises. It was clear Henry wanted to fuss, but he had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut. I felt guilty anyway, as if the attempt on my life was something I had done. Henry studied the police bulletins, memorizing Mark Messinger's face and the details of his (alleged) crimes. “A nasty piece of work. You mentioned a little boy. How does he figure into this?” he said to Dietz.

“He kidnapped the kid from his common-law wife. Her name is Rochelle. She works in a massage parlor down in Hollywood. I talked to her a little while ago and the woman's a mess. The kid's name is Eric. He's five. He was enrolled in a day-care center in Rochelle's neighborhood. Messinger picked him up about eight months ago and that's the last she's seen of him. I got boys of my own. I'd kill anyone came after them.” Dietz ate like he did everything else, with intense concentration. When he finished the last scrap of food, he sat back, patting automatically at the shirt pocket where he'd kept his cigarettes. I saw a quick head shake, as if he were amused at himself.

They moved on to other subjects: sports, the stock market, political events. While they talked, I gathered the
empty plates and utensils and took them to the kitchenette. I ran a sinkful of soapy water and slid the dishes in. There's nothing so restful as washing dishes when you need to separate yourself from other folk. It looks dutiful and industrious and it's soothing as a bubble bath. For the moment, I felt safe. I didn't care if I ever left the apartment again. What was wrong with staying right here? I could learn to cook and clean house. I could iron clothes (if I had any). Maybe I could learn to sew and make craft items out of Popsicle sticks. I just didn't want to go out again. I was beginning to feel about the real world as I did about swimming in the ocean. Off the Santa Teresa coast, the waters of the Pacific are murky and cold, filled with USTs (unidentified scary things) that can hurt you real bad: organisms made of jelly and slime, crust-covered creatures with stingers and horny pincers that can rip your throat out. Mark Messinger was like that: vicious, implacable, dead at heart.

Henry left at ten o'clock. Dietz turned the TV on, waiting up for the news while I went back to bed. I stirred twice during the night, glancing at the clock; once at 1:15
A.M.
, and again at 2:35. The light was still on downstairs and I knew Dietz was awake. He seemed to thrive on very little sleep while I never got quite enough. The light coming over the loft rail was a cheery yellow. Anyone coming after me would be forced to contend with him. Reassured, I drifted off again.

Given my anxiety level, I slept well and woke with some of my old energy, which lasted almost until I got downstairs. Dietz was still in the shower. I made sure the
front door was locked. I considered loitering outside the bathroom, listening to him sing, but I was afraid he'd catch me at it and perhaps take offense. I made a pot of coffee, set out the milk, the cereal boxes, and the bowls. I peered out one of the windows, opening the wooden shutter just a crack. All I could see was a slit of the flower bed. I pictured Messinger across the street with a bolt-action sniper rifle with a 10x scope trained so he could blow my head off the minute I stirred. I retreated to the kitchenette and poured some orange juice. I hadn't felt this threatened since my first day in elementary school.

Coming out of the bathroom, Dietz seemed surprised to find me up. He was wearing chinos and a form-fitting white T-shirt. He looked solid and muscular, without an ounce of extra fat. He disarmed the portable alarm system, opened the door, and brought the paper in. I noticed I was careful to hang back out of the line of fire. Some forms of mental illness probably feel just like this. I pulled a stool out and sat down.

He tossed the paper on the counter and then did a brief detour into the living room. He came back with the Davis, which he'd apparently taken from my purse. He placed it on the counter in front of me. He poured himself some coffee and sat down on the stool across from mine.

I murmured, “Good morning.”

He nodded at the Davis. “I want you to dump that.”

“What for?”

“It's a pocket pistol. Useless under the circumstances.”

I resisted the temptation to say something flip. “I just got that!”

“Get another one.”

“But why?”

“It's cheap and unreliable. It's not safe to carry with a round in the chamber, which means you have to keep the magazine full, the chamber empty, and the safety off. If you're in trouble, I don't want you having to rack the slide to chamber a round in order to put it into action. You can get a new holster while you're at it.”

I stared at him. He didn't seem that impressed with the look I was giving him.

He said, “Where's the closest gun shop?”

“I don't have the money. You're talkin' five or six hundred bucks.”

“More like eleven hundred for the gun you should have.”

“Which is what?”

“Heckler & Koch P7 in nine-millimeter. You can get it used somewhere. It's the latest yuppie firearm. It looks good in the glove compartment of a BMW, but it's still right for you.”

“Forget it!” I said.

This time he stared at
me.

I felt myself faltering. “Even if I bought a gun today, I'd have to wait two weeks to pick it up.”

“You can use the Davis until then, but not with those cartridges. You should be using a high-velocity hollow-point like the Winchester Silvertip or a pre-fragmented round like the Glaser Safety Slug. I suggest the Winchester Silvertip.”

“Why those?” Actually it didn't matter. I was just feeling stubborn and argumentative.

He ticked his reasons off, using his fingers for emphasis.
“It's less expensive for one thing and it's fairly widely used by law enforcement. With the underpowered thirty-two round, penetration is the most important—”

“All right. I got it,” I said irritably. “Is that all you did last night? Sit around thinking up this stuff?”

“That's all I did,” he said. He opened the paper and checked the front page. “Actually I have a Colt .45 out in the car. You can practice with both guns when we go up to the firing range.”

“When are we doing that?”

“After the gun shop opens at ten.”

“I don't want to go out.”

“We're not going to let the guy affect your life this way.” His gray eyes came up to mine. “Okay?”

“I'm scared,” I said.

“Why do you think we're doing this?”

“What about the banquet?”

“I think we should go. He won't make another move for days. He wants you to think about your mortality. He wants your anxiety to mount until you jump every time the phone rings.”