G Is For Gumshoe

19

The minute I was inside, I headed for the loft, too exhausted to bother with social niceties.

"You want a glass of wine?" he asked.

I hesitated. I looked back at him, caught in midflight. I had one foot on the bottom step, my hand on the curved railing of the spiral staircase. "I don't think so. Thanks."

There was a pause. He said, "Are you all right?"

We were suddenly talking in ways that felt unfamiliar, as if each exchange had a hidden meaning. His face seemed the same, but there was something new in his eyes. Where before his gaze had been opaque, there was now an appeal, some request he couldn't quite bring himself to voice. Sexuality stirred the air like the blades of a fan. Exhaustion fell away. All the danger, all the tension had been converted into this, mute longing. I could feel the lick of it along my legs, seeping through my clothes: something ancient, something dark, humankind's only antidote to death. The heat seemed to arc through the space between us like a primitive experiment, born of night. This is what I understood: this man was like me, my twin, and suddenly, I knew that what I saw in him was a strange reflection of myself- my bravery, my competence, my fear of dependency. I'd been with him three days, separated by externals, neutered by survival instincts. Only desire could render us brave enough to cross that distance, but which of us would risk it?

I watched him lock the door. I watched him flick the lights out and cross the room. I started up the spiral staircase, turning at the third step. I held the railing, sank into a sitting position as he approached. Dietz was before me, his face level with mine. The room behind him was dark. Light spilled down from the loft, illuminating his solemn face. He leaned into the kiss, his mouth cold at first, his lips soft. My craving for him was as tangible as a finger of heat driven up through my core. I was lying on the stairs, metal risers cutting into my back until pain and desire had blended into a single sensation. I stroked his cheek, touched the silky strands of his hair while he buried his face against me, nuzzling my breasts through my cotton T-shirt. We moved together in mock intercourse, clothes on, bodies arching. I could hear the sound of fabric on fabric, his breathing, mine. I reached down and touched him. He made an inhuman sound, lifting away from me, pulling me after him as he moved up the spiral staircase. The bed was better and we undressed by degrees as we kissed. The first shock of heat when he laid his naked flesh along mine made him say, "Oh… sweet Jesus," very softly. After that, there were no words until the moment of oblivion. Making love with this man was like no other lovemaking I've experienced… some external chord resolved at its peak, ageless music resonating through our bones, the spilling of secrets, flesh on flesh, moment after moment until we were fused. I fell into a deep sleep, my limbs wound into his, and never knew a waking until daylight came. At six o'clock, I stirred, vaguely aware that I was alone in bed. I could hear Dietz moving around downstairs. He had the radio on and I caught strains of a Tammy Wynette tune poignant enough to rip your heart out. For once, I didn't care.

At some point, the doorbell rang… the UPS man (a real one) with the box I'd shipped up from Brawley. Dietz took delivery, as I was still dead to the world. Soon after that, the smell of perking coffee wafted up the stairs. I roused myself, made my bed, fumbled my way into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I showered, washed my hair, and then got dressed, slipping into the jeans and shirt I'd worn the night before. No point in contributing either to the laundry pile just yet. I went downstairs.

Dietz was perched on a bar stool at the counter, the paper open in front of him, empty juice glass and cereal bowl pushed to one side so he could read. He reached a hand back. I put my arms around him from behind. He kissed me with a mouth so fresh, I could taste the cereal. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yes. You?"

"Mmm. Your package arrived."

The box was sitting just inside the door, addressed to me in my own writing. "Have you inspected this for incendiary devices?"

His tone was dry. "It's clear. Go ahead."

I got a paring knife from the kitchen drawer and slit the strapping tape. The articles were packed as I remembered them, my all-purpose dress close to the surface. I pulled it out and inspected it, relieved to find it in better shape than I'd hoped. It was only moderately encrusted with mold, though it did smell of swamp gas, a scent that hovered somewhere between spoiled eggs and old toilet bowls.

Dietz caught one whiff and turned to me, his face twisted with distaste. "What is that? Good God…"

"This is my best dress," I said. "I just need to throw it in the wash and it'll be fine."

I set it aside and worked my way through the remaining contents, removing tools and other odds and ends. In the bottom was the child's tea set, still packed in the carton I'd pulled from under Agnes Grey's trailer. "I should drop this off at Irene's," I remarked, placing the carton near the door. There were few, if any, personal items left to commemorate Agnes Grey's eighty-three years on earth and I thought Irene might appreciate the articles.

Dietz looked up from his paper. "Which reminds me. Dr. Palchak called at seven thirty this morning with the autopsy results. She wanted you to call her whenever you got up."

"That was fast."

"That's what I thought. She says she likes to get in at five when she's got a post."

I dialed the number for St. Terry's and asked for pathology. I'd dealt with Laura Palchak maybe twice before. She's short, plain, heavyset, competent, hardworking, thorough, and very smart, one of several pathologists under contract to the county, handling postmortem examinations for the coroner's office. "Palchak," she said when she came on the line. "Hi, Laura. Kinsey Millhone. Thanks for responding to my note. What's the story on Agnes Grey?"

There was a brief pause. "The coroner's office will be contacting Mrs. Gersh a little later this morning so this is just between us, okay?"

"Absolutely."

"The autopsy was negative. We won't have the toxi results back for weeks, but the gross came up blank."

"So what's the cause of death?"

"Essentially, it was cardiac arrest, but hell… everybody dies of cardiac or respiratory arrest if you want to get right down to it. The point is there was no demonstrable organic heart disease and no other natural findings that contributed to death. Technically, we have to list the cause of death as undetermined."

"What's that mean, 'technically'? I don't like the way you said that."

She laughed. "Good question. You're right. I have a hunch about this one, but I need to do some research. I've talked to the hospital librarian about tracking down an article I read a few years back. I don't know what made me think of it, but something about this situation rang a little bell."

"Like what? Can you fill me in?"

"Not yet. I'm having my assistant set up some tissue slides that I can probably take a look at by this afternoon. I have sixteen cases lined up before this one, but I'm curious."

"Do you need anything from me?"

"I do have a suggestion if you're open to this. I'm very interested in what happened to this woman during the hours she was missing. It would be a big help if you can find out where she was all that time."

"Well, I can try," I said, "but it may turn out to be a trick. Am I looking for anything in particular?"

"She had what looked like rope burns on her right wrist, torn and broken nails on her left-"

"Oh yeah, I saw that," I said with sudden recollection. "The knuckles on her left hand were scraped, too."

"Right. It's possible she was held someplace against her will. You might see if anybody has a potting shed or a greenhouse. I took some soil traces from her fingernails and we might find a match. She also had superficial abrasions and contusions across her back. I saw a kid just last week with similar marks on his thighs and buttocks. He'd been beaten with a coat hanger… among other things."

"Are you saying she was beaten?"

"Probably."

"Does Lieutenant Dolan know about this?"

"He and the police photographer were both present for the post, so he saw the same things I did. The truth is, there was no internal trauma and the injuries were too minor to be considered the cause of death."

"What's your theory then?"

"Unh-unh. Not till I do a bit of checking first. Call me this afternoon, or better yet, let me call you when I've seen what we've got here. By then you may have something to report yourself."

She hung up. I settled the receiver in the cradle and sat there, perplexed.

Dietz was watching me. From my end of the conversation, he could tell there'd been a shift. "What's wrong?"

"Let's pick up your car and go by Irene's. I'd like to talk to Clyde." I made a quick call to let them know we'd be stopping by and then called a cab.

I detailed the situation on the way over to the hotel, Irene's carton in my lap. When we reached the Edge-water, Dietz took his time with the Porsche, inspecting the engine and the electrical system. This wasn't the same car-park attendant we'd dealt with the night before and while the kid swore no one had been near the car, Dietz didn't want to trust him.

"I doubt Messinger knows his ass from his elbow when it comes to bombs, but this is no time to be surprised," he said. I waited while he stretched out on the driveway, inching partway under the car so he could scrutinize the underside. Evidently, there were no unidentified wires, no visible blasting caps, and no tidy bundles of dynamite. Satisfied, he got up and brushed himself off, then ushered me into the passenger seat. Dietz started the car and pulled out of the lot.

For once he drove slowly, his expression preoccupied.

"What are you chewing on?" I asked.

"I've been thinking about Messinger and I wonder if it wouldn't be smart to talk to his ex-wife."

"Down in Los Angeles?"

"Or get her up here. We know he's got Eric with him, at least as of last night. She'd probably jump at the chance to get the kid back. Maybe we could help her and she could turn around and help us."

"How?"

Dietz shrugged. "I don't know yet, but it's better than doing nothing."

"You know how to get in touch with her?"

"I thought I'd drop you off and go talk to Dolan."

"Sounds good. Let's do that."

We parked in front of the Gershes'. Dietz held the carton for me while I extricated myself from the low-slung seat. When we reached the front porch, he left the carton by the door while I rang the bell. Our agreement was that I would wait here until he came back to pick me up. "Make it fast," I murmured. "I don't want to be stuck with Irene all day."

"Forty-five minutes max. Any longer, I'll call. Be careful." He backed me against the house with a kiss that made my toes curl, then gave a careless wave and moved off down the walk.

Jermaine opened the front door, stepping back to admit me as the Porsche ignition turned over and the car pulled away from the curb. I was still collecting myself, trying to look like a sober private investigator when, in truth, my drawers were wet. Jermaine and I made the proper mouth noises at one another. I could hear the telephone ring somewhere in the house. She heard it too and raised her voice, as if projecting to the rear of an auditorium. "I'll get it!" She excused herself, waddling toward the kitchen with surprising grace.

The house was otherwise silent, the living room veiled in shadow from the junipers along the property line. I crossed to one of the end tables and snapped on a lamp. I leaned sideways, peering through an archway to my left. Irene was sitting at a little desk in the solarium just off the living room. A small portable radio was playing classical music and I assumed that's why she hadn't heard the front doorbell. She wore a bathrobe and slippers, looking worse than she had the night before. Her complexion, always pale, had taken on the tone of skin bleached by adhesive tape. It was clear she'd wept a good deal and my guess was that she hadn't slept much. The false lashes were gone and her eyes seemed puffy and remote.

"Irene?"

Startled, she looked up, her gaze searching the room for the source of the sound. When she caught sight of me, she pushed herself to her feet, using the desk for leverage. She came into the living room on shaky feet, hands held toward me like a toddler on a maiden voyage, making little mewing sounds as if every step hurt. She clung to me as she had before, but with an added note of desperation.

"Oh, Kinsey. Thank goodness. I'm so glad you're here. Clyde had a meeting at the bank, but he said he'd be back as soon as he could make it."

"Good. I was hoping to talk to him. How are you?"

"Awful. I can't seem to get organized and I can't bear to be alone."

I guided her toward the couch, struck by the sheer force of her neediness. "You don't look like you've slept much."

She sank onto the couch, refusing to let go of my hands. She clutched at me like a drunk, sloppy with excess, grief perfuming her breath like alcohol. "I sat down here most of the night so I wouldn't disturb Clyde. I don't know what to do. I've been trying to fill out Mother's death certificate and I discover I don't know the first thing about her. I can't remember anything. It's inconceivable to me. So shameful somehow. My own mother…" She was beginning to weep again.

"Hey, it's okay. This is something I can help you with." I held a hand up, palm toward her. "Just sit. Relax. Is the form in there?"

She seemed to collect herself. She nodded mutely, eyes fixed on me with gratitude as I moved into the adjacent room. I gathered up a pen and the eight-by-eight-inch square form from the desk and returned to the couch, wondering how Clyde endured her dependency. Whatever compassion I felt was being overshadowed by the sense that I was shouldering a nearly impossible burden.