G is for Gumshoe (21 page)

“She's a good soul.”

“No doubt.” He finished cleaning his bowl without another word on the subject. It was hard to tell sometimes what he was really thinking and I didn't know him well enough to press.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We left for the hotel at six. Dietz had already cleaned up and was dressed for the occasion in casual pants, a dress shirt, patterned tie, and dark sport coat, cut western-style: broad across the shoulders, tapered at the waist. He was wearing black boots, visible where his cuffs broke, the toes polished to a hard shine. Under his sport coat, of course, he was wearing a Kevlar vest that would stop a .357 Magnum at ten feet. I'd also watched him strap on a holster that he wore behind the hip on his right-hand side, and into which he'd tucked his .45.

I'd showered and hopped right back in my jeans, turtleneck, and tennis shoes, intending to slip into the silk jumpsuit once I reached Vera's room. I'd tried it on quickly just before we left the house. The pants were slightly too long, but I'd bunched 'em up at the waist and that took care of it. I'd packed black pumps, panty hose, black underpants, and some odds and ends in a little overnight case. Dietz
had excused me from the bulletproof vest, which would have looked absurd with spaghetti straps. The Davis was tucked in an outside pouch of my big leather handbag, which looked more like a diplomatic pouch than an evening purse. The normally bulky bag was further plumped up by the inclusion of a nightscope Dietz had asked me to carry. The scope only weighed about a pound, but it was the size of a zoom lens for a 35-millimeter camera and made me list to one side. “Why're we taking this thing?” I asked.

“That's my latest toy. I usually keep it in the car, but I don't want to leave it in the hotel parking lot. Cost me over three thousand bucks.”

“Oh.”

Dietz took a roundabout route, saying little. Despite his assurances that Mark Messinger would be laying off me for a day or two, he seemed on edge, which made my stomach churn in response. He was focused, intense, already vigilant. He pushed the car lighter in and then reached reflexively toward his cigarettes. “Shit!” he said. He shook his head, annoyed with himself.

He rounded a corner, downshifting. “Times like this I envy the guys who do government work,” he remarked. “You'd have a squad of bodyguards. They've got unlimited manpower, access to intelligence sources, and the legal authority to kick butt. . . .”

I couldn't think what to say to that so I kept my mouth shut.

We pulled into the wide brick drive in front of the hotel and Dietz got out, slipping the usual folded bill to the parking attendant with instructions to keep the car within
sight. It was still light outside and the landscape was saturated with late afternoon sun. The grass was close-cropped, a dense green, the lawn bordered with pink and white impatiens and clumps of lobelia, which glowed an intense, electric blue. On the far side of the road, the surf battered at the seawall, clouding the air with the briny smell of the thundering Pacific.

In addition to the Edgewater's sprawling main building, there was a line of bungalows at the rear of the property, each the size of the average single-family dwelling in my neighborhood. The architecture was Spanish-style, white stucco exterior, heavy beams, age-faded red tile roofs, interior courtyards. Under an archway that led to the formal gardens, a wedding party was beginning to assemble: five bridesmaids in dusty pink and a manic flower girl skipping back and forth with a basket of rose petals. Two young men in tuxedos, probably ushers, looked on, contemplating the efficacies of birth control.

As usual, Dietz took me by the elbow, keeping himself slightly in front of me as he walked us toward the entrance. I found myself scanning, as he did, the smattering of guests in the immediate vicinity. He was keyed up, eyes watchful as we entered the spacious lobby, which was flanked by two oversize imported rose marble desks. We approached the concierge and had a brief chat. Dietz had apparently had a second conversation with the management up front because shortly afterward, Charles Abbott, the director of security, appeared. Introductions went around. Abbott was in his late sixties and looked like a retired Fortune 500 executive in a three-piece suit, complete with manicured nails and a Rolex watch. This was not a
man you'd ever refer to as Charlie or Chuck. His silver hair was the same tone as the pale gray of his suit and a diamond stickpin winked from the center of his tie. I had the feeling what he did now was lots more fun than whatever he did then. He led us over to a corner of the lobby where three big leather wing chairs were grouped together in the shelter of a ten-foot rubber plant.

Dietz had brought photocopies of the mug shots of Mark Messinger. “This is the guy we're worried about. I'd like to distribute these among the staff who'll be working the banquet tonight.”

Abbott gave a cursory glance to the pictures before he handed them back. He had luminous blue eyes and made lots of eye contact. “Mr. Dietz, I have to remind you that we're not equipped to handle any kind of sophisticated security measures for a private citizen. We cooperate with the Secret Service when the occasion arises, but the hotel can't accept any liability in the event of some kind of unfortunate incident. We're here primarily to protect the safety of our registered guests. As long as I'm kept informed, we'll be happy to do what we can, but beyond that I can't promise much.”

Dietz smiled. “I understand that,” he said pleasantly. “This is purely precautionary on our part. We don't anticipate any problems, but it's wise to tag a few bases just to ensure that everything goes smoothly.”

Abbott said, “Of course.”

Dietz was on his best behavior, casual, relaxed. He must have really needed this man's help.

Abbott's expression was bemused. He looked like the kind of man who'd use a cigarette holder and a small gold
Dunhill. “How else can I help? I can make one of my security staff available.”

“I don't think that'll be necessary, but thanks. We do have a California Fidelity employee, Vera Lipton, registered here for the night. I'd like to have her room number and the names of guests occupying the rooms on either side of her. Is that something you can do?”

Abbott considered the request. Under the smooth and easygoing manner, there was ice and flint. “I don't see why not.” He excused himself and moved over to the front desk. After a short conversation with the desk clerk, he jotted a note in a small leather notebook he'd taken from his right pocket. He returned, tore the leaf off, and handed it to Dietz.

“You know either of these couples?” Dietz asked.

“I know both. The Clarks have stayed here many times. Mr. and Mrs. Thiederman happen to be my aunt and uncle.”

Dietz tucked the paper away and shook Abbott's hand. “Thanks. We appreciate this.”

“Happy to be of help,” the man said.

We moved down a carpeted hallway to the right, following the room numbers in descending order. Dietz kept an eye on the corridor behind us, the ever-present hand on my elbow for leverage. At any unexpected occurrence, he had a modicum of control.

Vera's room was located in the same wing as the banquet room. “Did you set this up?” I asked him when I saw how close it was.

“I didn't want you hiking the length of the hotel, getting there and back.” He knocked once. There was a pause. My guess was that Vera was peering through the tiny fish-eye
porthole in the door. We heard a bolt turn, and there she was, squinting at us from behind the burglar chain. She was in a green silk kimono with a lot of cleavage visible where the fabric gaped in front. She glanced down and pulled the yawning lapels together with one hand. “I kept the chain on. Wasn't that smart?”

Dietz said, “You're a peach, Vera. Now let us in.”

She tilted her head, gaze angling down the hall. “How do I know somebody's not holding you at gunpoint?”

Dietz laughed. I looked at him quizzically. I'd only heard him laugh once. “Good point,” he said.

I personally didn't think the point was that good, but nobody was asking me, right?

Vera closed the door so she could slide the chain off and then let us in. The room was enormous: king-size bed, king-size antique armoire housing a king-size television set. The dominant color was pale yellow: thick pale yellow carpet, wallpaper strewn with delicate white Japanese irises. The pattern of the wallpaper had been repeated in the polished cotton bedspread and matching polished cotton drapes, pulled back on brass rods. The sheers were closed, lights outside indicating that the room faced the entrance drive. The two upholstered chairs were done in pale green with white latticework cut on the diagonal. Through a doorway, I spied a bathroom that continued the color scheme: a vase of white silk flowers, fat yellow hand towels rolled up in a willow basket on the sink.

Vera had her personal effects on every conceivable surface: discarded clothing tossed on the bed, hanging clothes hooked on the closet door, which stood open to the room. There were cosmetics on the chest of drawers, hot rollers
and a curling iron on the bathroom counter, a damp towel on the toilet seat. A suitcase open on the luggage rack revealed a frothy tumble of soft chiffon lingerie. A pair of panty hose had been flung on one of the upholstered chairs, sprawling there with the legs spread and the diamond-shaped cotton crotch looking like an arrow, pointing up. Dietz headed straight for the door to the adjoining room, making sure it was locked. Then he closed the drapes.

Vera crossed to the coffee table. She'd had a bottle of champagne delivered, resting in a frosted silver ice bucket with four champagne flutes on a tray. She picked the bottle up by the neck and began to loosen the foil. “Grab a seat. We can have a drink.”

“Not for me, thanks. I have to work,” he said. And then to me, “Keep the door locked. If the phone rings, you can answer it, but don't identify yourself. If it's someone you know, keep the conversation brief. Don't give out information of any sort to anyone. If you get a wrong number, let me know. It's probably someone checking to see if the room is still occupied.” He glanced at his watch. “I'll be back at seven, straight up, to walk you over to the banquet room.”

Once Dietz left the room, she held her arms up and shimmied. “Let's get down!” she said and then did a little bump and grind, accompanied by a whoop. She twisted the wire off the champagne bottle and draped a towel across the top, working the cork back and forth with both thumbs until it popped. She filled two flutes and handed me one. “I've already done my makeup,” she said. “Why don't you hop in the shower while I get dressed? Then we'll do your hair.”

“I've already showered. All I have to do is put on the jumpsuit and I'm done.”

She gave me a look to let me know how wrong I was.

Under her critical gaze, I slipped out of my jeans and into the jumpsuit. She only winced a little bit at the sight of my bruises. Meanwhile, my facial expression was probably the equivalent of an ailing dog on its way to the vet's. Ugh. Makeup. I pulled the suit on and started tucking the pants up at the waist.

She smacked at my hand. “Don't do that,” she said. She knelt and turned my pant legs under to a length that suited her and then secured them with fabric tape she'd brought in her purse.

“You think of everything,” I said.

“ ‘Prepared' is my middle name, honeybun.”

Then she went to work on the rest of me.

I sat on the closed toilet lid with a towel around my neck, Vera's body inserted between me and the wall-to-wall mirror that ran along the countertop. “What are you going to do about the bruises on my face?”

“Trust me, kid.”

She had bottles and powders, lotions, creams, goo in jars, brushes, applicators, sponges, Q-tips. She worked with her face very close to mine, issuing instructions. “Close your eyes. Now look up . . . God, quit blinking! You're making a mess.” She painted on lipstick with a brush, her own lips forming the shape she wanted me to form with mine.

Forty minutes later, she stepped back, scrutinizing her handiwork. She twisted the lipstick back down in the
tube. “Yeah. I like it,” she said. “What do you think?” She moved aside so I could see my reflection in the mirror.

I looked at myself. Suddenly, I had these dramatic eyes, all the color of a maiden in the first blush of youth, dewy mouth, hair standing out in a dark windblown tumble. I cracked up.

“Go ahead and laugh,” she said acidly. “You look damn good.”

Dietz returned to the room at seven, glancing at us both without remark. Vera had done herself up in six minutes flat, her personal best, she said. She was wearing a black dress with a low-cut top filled to the brim with bulging breasts, black hose with a seam up the back, black spike heels. She stopped dead in her tracks and put her hands on her hips. “What do you say, Dietz? Come on. Cough it out.”

“You look great. No shit. Both of you look swell.”

“ ‘Swell' doesn't even come close.” And then to me, “I'll bet he still calls women ‘gals.' ”

“Not so far,” I said.

Dietz smiled to himself, but refused to engage. He propelled us across the hall and down three doors into the safety of the banquet room, which was small and elegant: chandelier, white woodwork, walls padded in cream-colored silk. Six tables for six had been laid out with a spray of orchids as the centerpiece. Each table was numbered and I could see that place cards were set out, names in script.

Many of the CF employees were already there, standing
together in groups of three and four, drinks in hand. I spotted Mac Voorhies and his wife Marie, Jewel and her husband (whom I'd only met once), Darcy Pascoe and her boyfriend, the (allegedly) dope-peddling mailman. Vera slipped her hand through Dietz's arm and the three of us circled the room while everyone was introduced to everyone else and we all promptly forgot who was who. I could see Vera doing an eyeball cruise, checking across the heads to see if Neil Hess had arrived yet. I was just hoping he'd be tall enough for her to spot.