G is for Gumshoe (23 page)

“Got him,” he murmured. He checked with his naked eye and then again with the scope. Without a word, we retreated, retracing our steps. We circled the main building, slipping into the hotel through a service entrance at the rear. Dietz used one of a bank of wall phones near the kitchen to call a cab, which picked us up on a side street behind the hotel minutes later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time we got home it was nearly eleven o'clock and Dietz was in a foul mood. He'd been silent in the cab, silent as he unlocked the door and let us in. Impatiently, he stripped off his jacket. The right sleeve got hung up on his cuff link. He jerked it free, wadded the jacket up and flung it across the room, ignoring the fact that it didn't go that far. He went into the kitchenette, opened the bottle of Jack Daniel's, and poured himself a jelly glass of whiskey, which he tossed down.

I picked up the jacket from the floor and folded it across my arm. “It's not your fault,” I said.

“The fuck it's not,” he snapped. “I was the one who insisted we go tonight. It was stupid . . . way too risky . . . and for what? Messinger could have walked in there with an Uzi and mowed us all down.”

Actually it was hard to argue that one, as the same thing had occurred to me. “What happened? Nothing happened.”

He reached for a cigarette, but caught himself abruptly. “I'm going out,” he said.

“And leave me here by myself?” I yelped.

He flashed a dark look at me, his fingers tightened on the glass until I half-expected him to crush it in his grip. Something about the gesture made my temper climb.

“Oh, for God's sake. Just cut it out, okay? The guy's showing off again. Big deal. He wants me nervous and he wants you kicking your own butt. Well, so far, so good. You storm out to buy a pack of cigarettes and he can step in and finish me off without any interference. Thanks a lot.”

He was silent for a moment. He set the glass aside and leaned, stiff-armed, against the counter, head down. “You're right.”

“Damn right I'm right,” I said peevishly. “Lighten up and let's figure out some way to kill his ass. I hate chickenshit guys trying to shoot me. Let's get him first.”

That gave his mood a lift. “How?”

“I don't know how.”

There was a knock at the door and both of us jumped. Dietz whipped his gun out and motioned me into the kitchenette. He crossed to the front door and flattened himself against the wall to the right. “Who is it?”

The voice was muffled. “Clyde Gersh.”

I moved toward the door, but Dietz waved me back with a scowl. He tilted his head against the doorframe. “What do you want?”

“Agnes was picked up. She's in the emergency room at St. Terry's and she's asking for Kinsey. We left a couple of messages on the answering machine, but when we didn't
hear back, we thought we'd stop by. We're on our way to the hospital. Is she home yet?”

Dietz said, “Hang on.” He pointed to the answering machine, which rested on the bookshelf behind the sofa. I eased across the room and checked the message light, which indicated that two calls had been recorded. I turned the volume down, pushed the auto playback button, and listened to the tape. The first message was from Irene, the second from Clyde, both saying much the same thing. Agnes had been found and was asking for me. Dietz and I exchanged a look. He lifted his brows in a facial shrug. He flipped the porch light on, peered through the spyhole, and opened the door with caution. Clyde was standing by himself on the doorstep in a circle of wan light. Beyond him, all was darkness. The fog was rolling in and I could see faint wisps of it curling around the light. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. “I don't like to disturb people this late, but Irene insisted.”

“Come on in,” Dietz said, stepping back so Clyde could enter. Dietz closed the door behind him and motioned Clyde to have a seat, an offer Clyde declined with a brief shake of his head. “Irene's waiting in the car. I don't want to leave her too long. She's anxious to get over there.”

He was looking weary, his baggy face weighted with anxiety. He wore a tan gabardine topcoat, hands shoved down in his pockets. His gaze flickered across Dietz's holster but he refrained from comment, as if mentioning the gun might be a breach of etiquette.

“How's Agnes doing? Has anybody said?” I asked.

“We're not really sure. The doc says minor cuts and bruises . . . nothing serious . . . but her heartbeat's irregular
and I guess they put her on some kind of monitor. She'll be admitted as soon as we sign the paperwork. I gather it's nothing life-threatening, but the woman is eighty-some-odd years old.”

“The cops picked her up?”

Clyde nodded. “Some woman spotted her, wandering in the street. She was the one who called the police. The officer who called said Agnes is disoriented, has no idea where she is or where she's been all this time. The doc says she's been talking about you since they brought her in. We'd appreciate your coming with us if it's not too much trouble.”

I said, “Sure. Let me change my clothes. I don't want to go like this.”

“I'll let Irene know you're coming,” he said to me. And then to Dietz, “Will you follow in your car or ride with us?”

“We'll come in your car and grab a cab back,” Dietz said.

I was on my way up to the loft, stripping off the black silk jacket as I went, kicking off my shoes. I leaned my head out over the railing. “Where'd they find her?”

Clyde turned his face up to mine with a shrug. “Same neighborhood as the nursing home . . . somewhere close by . . . so she didn't get far. I can't figure out how we missed her unless she saw us and hid.”

“I wouldn't put it past her.” I ducked back, peeling off the jumpsuit, hopping on one foot as I tugged my jeans on over the black panty hose. I put a bra on, grabbed a polo shirt out of the chest of drawers, pulled it on, and shook my hair out. I stepped into my high-top Reeboks and left
the laces for later. I was clopping down the narrow staircase two seconds later, reaching for my shoulderbag.

“Let's hit it,” I said, as Dietz opened the door.

Clyde's white Mercedes sedan was parked at the curb. Irene, in the front, turned a worried face toward us as we approached.

The fifteen-minute drive to St. Terry's was strained. Dietz and I sat in the back seat with Dietz angled sideways so he could check out the back window for any cars following. I was perched, leaning forward, arms resting on the front seat close to Irene, who clutched my hand as if it were a lifeline. Her fingers were icy and I found myself listening unconsciously for the wheezing that might signal another asthma attack. No one said much. The information about Agnes was limited and there didn't seem to be any point in repeating it.

The small parking lot in front of the emergency room was full. A black-and-white occupied the end slot. Clyde pulled up to the entrance and let us out, then went off to find parking on the street. Irene hung back, evidently reluctant to go in without him. She wore a lightweight spring coat, double-breasted, bright red, which she pulled around her now as if for warmth. I could see her peering off toward the streetlights, hoping to catch sight of him.

“He'll be with us shortly,” I said.

She clung to my arm while Dietz brought up the rear. The double doors slid open automatically as we approached. We passed into the reception area, which was deserted as far as I could tell. I was struck by the silence. Somehow I'd expected activity, urgency, some sense of the medical drama that plays out in every ER: patients with
broken bones, puncture wounds, cuts, insect bites, allergic reactions, and superficial burns. Here, the rooms felt empty and there was no indication of acute care of any sort. Perhaps it was the hour, perhaps an unpredictable lull in the ordinary course of events.

Irene and I waited at the curved front counter, a C-shape enclosing a desk papered with forms. To our immediate right were two patient registration windows, shuttered at this hour. On our left, there was a room divider with two pay phones on the near side and a waiting area beyond. I could see a color television set, turned to a news show, the sound too low to register. Everything was done in muted blues and grays. All was in order, tidy and quiet. Through an open doorway, I caught a glimpse of the nurses' station, ringed by examining rooms. There was no sign of the police officer or hospital personnel.

Dietz was restless, snapping his fingers against the palm of his hand. He ambled over to the interior door and peered in, checking the layout, automatically eyeballing avenues of escape in case Messinger showed up again. The receptionist must have spotted him because she emerged from the rear moments later, smiling at us politely. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How may I help you?”

“We're here to see Agnes Grey,” I said.

She was a woman in her forties, wearing ordinary street clothes: polyester pants, cotton sweater, rubber-soled shoes. A stethoscope, like a pendant, dangled from her neck. Her eyes were a rich chocolate brown, lending warmth to her face. She checked some papers on her desk and then looked up at Irene. “Are you Mrs. Gersh?”

“That's right,” Irene said.

The woman's tone was pleasant, but I could see her smile falter. Her attitude suggested the carefully controlled neutrality you'd merit if the actual test results were not what you'd been led to expect. “Why don't you come on back and have a seat in the office,” she said. “The doctor will be right with you.”

Irene blinked at her fearfully, her voice close to a whisper. “I'd like to see Mother. Is she all right?”

“Dr. Stackhouse would prefer to talk to you first,” she said. “Would you like to follow me, please?”

I didn't like it. Her manner was entirely too kindly and benign. She could have made any one of a number of responses. Maybe she'd been advised not to discuss medical matters. Maybe she'd been chastised for offering her opinion before the doctor could offer his. Maybe hospital policy forbade her to editorialize about the patient's condition for complicated reasons of liability. Or maybe Agnes Grey was dead. The woman glanced at me. “Your daughter's welcome to come with you . . .”

“You want me to come?” I asked.

“Yes, please,” Irene said to me. Then to the receptionist, “My husband's parking the car. Will you tell him where we are?”

Dietz spoke up. “I'll let him know. You two go on back. We'll be right there.”

Irene murmured a thank-you. Dietz and I exchanged a look.

The receptionist stood by the open door while we passed through. She led the way while we followed along a corridor with high-gloss white flooring. She showed us into an
office evidently used by any doctor on duty. “It won't be long. Can I get you anything? Coffee? A cup of tea?”

Irene shook her head. “This is fine.”

We sat down in blue tweed chairs with upholstered seats. There were no exterior windows. The Formica shelf-desk was bare. There was a gray leather couch showing doctor-size indentations in the cushions. As an impromptu daybed, it was slightly too short and I could see where his shoes had scraped against the arm at one end. A white Formica bookcase was filled with standard medical texts. The potted plant was fake, a Swedish ivy made of paper with curling vines as stiff as florist's wire. The only pictures on the wall looked like reproductions from
Gray's Anatomy.
Personally, I can do without all the skinless arms and legs. The saphenous vein and its branches looked like an overview of the Los Angeles freeway system.

Irene shrugged her coat off and smoothed the lap of her skirt. “I can't believe there weren't any papers to fill out. They must have admitted her.”

“You know hospitals. They have their own way of doing things.”

“Clyde has the insurance information in his wallet. Blue Cross, I think, though I'm not sure she's covered.”

“Bill the nursing home,” I said. “It's their responsibility.”

We sat for a moment saying nothing. I wondered if this was what it felt like to have family. Geriatric crises, accompanied by homely discussions about what should be done with Granny. We heard footsteps in the hall and the doctor came into the room. I was half-expecting the receptionist with Clyde and Dietz in tow, so it took me a second
to compute the expression on this guy's face. He was in his early thirties, with carrot-colored curly hair and a ruddy complexion. He was wearing an unstructured cotton shirt in a hospital green, V-neck, short sleeves, matching cotton pants, soft-soled baggy shoes. He had a stethoscope around his neck and a white plastic name tag that read, “Warren Stackhouse, MD.” With his red hair and freckles, the surgical greens gave him a certain Technicolor vibrancy, like a cartoon character. He smelled like adhesive tape and breath mints and his hands looked freshly scrubbed. He was holding a manila folder, which contained only one sheet. He placed that on the desk, lining up the edges.

“Mrs. Gersh? I'm Dr. Stackhouse.” He and Irene shook hands and then he leaned against the desk. “I'm afraid we lost her.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Irene snapped. “Can't anybody keep track of her?”

Uh-oh, I thought, Irene wasn't getting it. “I don't think he means it that way,” I murmured.

“Mrs. Grey went into cardiac arrest,” he said. “I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but we weren't able to revive her.”

Irene grew still, her face blank, her tone of voice nearly petulant. “Are you saying she's dead? But that's impossible. She couldn't be. You've made some mistake. Clyde said her injuries were minor. Cuts and bruises. I thought he talked to you.”

I was watching the doctor and I could see him pick his words with care. “When she was first brought in, she was already showing symptoms of cardiac arrhythmia. She
was confused and disoriented, suffering from exposure and stress. In a woman her age, given her fragile state of health . . .”