I leaned my head back on the seat, staring out the car window while Dietz circled the area surrounding the hotel. I could see that he was committing various routes to memory, getting a sense of the sections of the road where we might be vulnerable to attack. I wasn't that interested in attending the dinner. Now that I thought about it, what the hell did I care? Jewel was a nice lady, but I really didn't know her well. I wasn't feeling that good and-just to get basic-I didn't have a thing to wear. The all-purpose dress-the only one I owned- had been in my car at the time of the accident. In the auto body lot down in Brawley, I remembered packing soggy items in a cardboard box, which hadn't arrived in Santa Teresa yet. When the dress did get here, it was probably going to smell like a swamp, complete with primordial life forms wiggling out of the wet. I could always ask Vera to lend me some rags. She towered over me, outweighing me by a good twenty pounds, but I'd seen her wearing a sequined tunic cut right to her crotch. It would probably hit me at the knee. Not that I could wear a skirt in my current condition, of course. I was sporting a bruised leg that made me look like spoiled fruit. On a more optimistic note, once I strapped on my body armor, what difference would it make that her bazookas were twice the size of mine?
Dietz had apparently satisfied himself with the general layout of the neighborhood and we were getting down to the particulars. He pulled into the Edgewater parking lot and turned his Porsche over to a parking attendant, passing the guy a folded bill. "Keep the car up here close and let me know if anyone takes an interest."
The attendant glanced down at the bill. "Yessir! Hey, sure!"
Dietz and I moved toward the entrance.
"Why so quiet?" he asked as he steered me through the lobby by the elbow like the rudder of a boat.
I pulled my arm away automatically. "Sorry," I murmured. "I've been thinking about the banquet and it's put me in a bad mood."
"Anything I can help with?"
I shook my head. "What's this feel like to you?"
"What, the job?"
"Yeah. Trailing around with me everywhere. Doesn't it get on your nerves?"
"I don't have nerves," he said.
I turned and scanned his face, wondering if that was really true.
He hunted down the hotel manager and had a long talk with him about the banquet room, the closest medical facility, and matters of that ilk. I would have jettisoned the whole plan, but by now we'd invested so much time and energy, I felt I was obligated to follow through. Meanwhile, Dietz was triggering all the disagreeable aspects of my personality. I was beginning to remember certain personal traits that had probably contributed to my divorces. I prefer to believe it was all their fault, but who are we trying to kid here…
I left Dietz in the manager's office and wandered down the corridor. Just off the hotel lobby, there were little shops where rich people browsed, looking for ways to spend money without having to leave the premises. I went into a clothing boutique and circled the place. The merchandise seemed unreal to me, outfits laid out with all the color-coordinated accessories. My notion of accessories is you wear your gym socks with matching rims. The air smelled of one of those movie-star perfumes that cost a hundred and twenty bucks an ounce. Just for laughs, I checked the sale rack. Even marked down, most items cost more than my monthly rent. I crossed to the section where the evening wear was arranged: long skirts in brocade, tops stiff with sequins, everything embroidered, hand-stitched, hand-painted, applique'd, beaded and otherwise bejeweled. The saleswoman glanced over at me with a practiced smile. I could see her expression falter slightly and I was reminded, yet again, how unnerving my appearance must be to those unprepared for it. I was hoping I looked like I'd just had cosmetic surgery. A little nose bob, eye tucks. For all she knew I was holing up here with some sugar daddy until the swelling went down.
Dietz appeared in the doorway and I moved in his direction. As usual, he grabbed me by the elbow without ceremony and marched me down the hall. He was brusque, distracted, probably mentally several moves ahead. "Let's have lunch."
"Here?" I said, startled. I'm more the Burger King type myself.
"Sure, why not? It'll cheer you up."
We'd reached the entrance to the hotel restaurant, a vast room enclosed in glass, with polished red tile floors and white wicker furniture. The room was dense with greenery: palms and rubber plants, potted ficuses lending an air of tropical elegance. The patrons were actually very casually dressed: tennis outfits, golf shirts, and designer sweats. Dietz was wearing the same jeans and tweed sport coat he'd worn for two days, while I was in my jeans and tenny-bops. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to us, except for the occasional look of curiosity that flickered to my face.
He spotted a sheltered table near a fire exit with a sign prominently displayed above it: this door must BE KEPT UNLOCKED DURING BUSINESS HOURS. Perfect if needed to make a fast getaway. The service area nearby was being used as a station for linen and flatware. A waitress had been sentenced to folding napkins into cloth boats.
"How about that one," he said. The hostess nodded and led the way, showing us to our seats without questioning his taste.
She handed us two oversized menus bound in leather. "Your waiter will be right with you," she said and moved away. I'll admit I checked the menu with a certain curiosity. I'm used to fast-food chains where the menus feature glossy photos of the food, as if the reality itself is bound to disappoint.
The edibles here were itemized on a quarto of parchment, handwrit by some kitchen scribe who had mastered Foodspeak. "… lightly sauced pan-smoked filets of free range veal in a crib of fresh phyllo, topped with squaw bush berries, and accompanied by hand-formed gaufrettes of goat cheese, wild mushrooms, yampa root, and fresh herbs…" $21.95. I glanced at Dietz, who didn't seem at all dismayed. As usual, I could tell I was completely out of my element. I hardly ever eat squaw bush berries and yampa root.
I checked the other patrons. My view was actually half-obscured by a Boston fern. Next to the plant stand was a cylindrical cage in which finches were twittering. There were small bamboo baskets affixed to the wire sides and the little birds hopped in and out with strips of newspaper, making nests. There was something charming about their bright-eyed busyness. Dietz and I watched them idly while we waited for our waiter.
"You know anything about crows?" he asked.
"I'm not much on birds."
"I wasn't either until I met one personally. I used to have a crow named Albert. Bertie, when I got to know him better. I got him when he was just a little guy and had him for years. A young crow doesn't navigate well and they'll sometimes crash-land. They're called branchers at that age-that's about all they can do, lumber awkwardly from branch to branch. Sometimes they get stuck and they wail like babies until you get ' em down. Bertie must have bitten off a bit more than he could chew and he'd tumbled to the ground. I had a cat named Little John who brought him in, squawking hellishly. LJ and I had a tussle to see who was going to take possession. Fortunately for Bertie, I won the contest. He and the cat became friends later, but it was touch-and-go for a while there. LJ was pissed off because he thought this was Thanksgiving dinner and I was getting in his way…"
Dietz looked up. The waiter was approaching, dressed like an usher at a wedding, complete with white gloves.
"Good afternoon. Something to drink before lunch?" The waiter's manner was circumspect and he avoided making eye contact.
Dietz turned to me. "You want a drink?"
"White wine," I said.
"Chardonnay, sauvignon blanc?" the waiter asked.
"Chardonnay."
"And you, sir?"
"I'll have a beer. What do you have imported?"
"Amstel, Heineken, Beck's dark, Beck's light, Dos Equis, Bohemia, Corona…"
"Beck's light," Dietz said.
"Are you ready to order?"
"No."
The waiter stared at Dietz, then nodded and withdrew.
Dietz said, "We probably won't see him for half an hour, but I hate being bullied into ordering."
He picked up his story again about Bertie the crow, who liked to take long walks on foot and lived on a diet of M M's, hard-boiled eggs, and dry cat food. While Dietz talked, his gaze shifted restlessly around the room. He seldom looked at faces, always at hands, checking for concealed weapons, sudden movements, signals perhaps. Some underling arrived, bearing our drinks, but the waiter didn't return. Dietz scanned the dining room, but there was no sign of Mm. Twenty minutes passed. I could see Dietz take note and in a surge of uneasiness, he finally tossed a bill on the table and got up. "Let's get out of here. I don't like this."
"Do you see everything as part of some plot?" I asked, trotting after him.
"That may be all that keeps the two of us alive." I shrugged to myself and let it go at that. When we reached the front entrance, the Porsche was parked right up against the shrubs. He snagged the keys off the board himself and helped me into the car. He got in on his side and fired up the engine.
We drove home along the beach. I was exhausted and my head was starting to pound. When we got to my apartment, Dietz hauled out his portable alarm system, which he showed me how to arm and disarm. He affixed it to the door.
"I'll tell Henry to keep an ear turned while I'm out…"
"You're going off somewhere?" I felt a little bubble of panic arise, testimony to how quickly I'd come to depend on him for my sense of personal safety.
"I want to have another chat with Lieutenant Dolan. He said he'd talk to the Carson City DA and try to get an ID on this guy with the kid. Somebody must have heard of him. Maybe we can pick up a mug shot and at least figure out what he looks like. I'll be back in half an hour. You'll be fine here. Get some rest. You look beat."
He took off while I downed a pain pill and headed up to the loft. I had promised to call Irene and I could feel the tiny voice of my conscience whining deep within. The phone rang just as I was pulling off my shoes. Dietz had told me not to answer it if he wasn't there, but I couldn't help myself. I leaned across the bed and picked up the receiver.
It was Irene Gersh. "Oh good, it's you. I'm calling from the nursing home. I'm so glad you're there. I was afraid you were still out."
"We just got in. I was thinking I should call you, but I hadn't worked up the energy."
"Is this a bad time?"
"It's fine. Don't worry about it. What's happening?"
"Nothing. That's the point. I'm sorry to be such a pest, but I'm just beside myself. Mother's been gone now for eight hours and there's simply no sign of her. Clyde feels maybe we should get out and check the neighborhood ourselves."
"Sounds smart," I said. "You need any help knocking on doors?" In that split second my concern for Agnes's safety overrode my worries about myself.
"Thank you. We'd appreciate it. The longer Mother's on the loose, the more frightened I get. Somebody must have seen her."
"You'd think so," I said. "When do you need me there?"
"Soon if you could. Clyde called from work and he's on his way over now. If it's not too much trouble…" She gave me an address in the eleven hundred block of Concorde.
"I'm on my way," I said and hung up. I put a quick call through to Lieutenant Dolan's office and left word for Dietz to meet me at the nursing home, reiterating the address. That done, I picked my way carefully down the stairs. I craved action. My whole body was seizing up in the wake of the accident and my joints felt stiff with rust. Certain postures caused excruciating pains to shoot through my neck, causing me to murmur, "Ow, ow, ow." I was hoping the painkiller would do its work before long.
I found a jacket and my handbag, checked to make sure my little.32 was accounted for, and headed for the door, searching for my car keys in the outside leather pouch. Where the hell were they? I stopped dead, perplexed, and then it dawned on me. I didn't have transportation. My VW was still down in Brawley at the auto body shop. Well, hell, I thought.
I turned on my heel, picked up the phone again, and called a cab. By that point, I had already begun to internalize some of Dietz's precautions. I knew better than to loiter outside on the curb in plain sight. I waited, dutifully standing in the tub in the downstairs bathroom, where I could look out the window until the cab appeared in front. For the second time, I snatched up my jacket and my handbag. When I opened the front door, the alarm system went off, scaring me so badly that I nearly wet my pants.
Henry's back door banged open and he came running out with a meat cleaver in his hand. All he had on was a pair of turquoise briefs and his face was pale as bread dough. "My God, what happened? Are you all right?"
"Henry, I'm fine. I accidentally set off the alarm."
"Well, get back inside. You scared the hell out of me. I was about to take a shower when that damn thing went off. Why are you out here? Dietz said you were napping. You look awful. Go to bed." His panic had rendered him a little cranky, I thought.
"Would you quit worrying? There's no cause for hysteria. Irene Gersh called me and I'm on my way over to the nursing home to help look for her mom. I've got a cab waiting out in front."
Henry grabbed my jacket. "You'll do no such thing," he said snappishly. "You can wait till Dietz gets back and go over there with him."
I could feel my temper climb in response to his. I grabbed the jacket back, the two of us tugging like kids in a schoolyard. The cleaver he was holding made it treacherous work.
The second time he reached for the jacket, I held it up and away from him. "Henry," I said warningly. "I'm a free human being. Dietz knows I'm going over there. I called Dolan's office and talked to him myself. He's on his way."
"You did not. I know you. You're lying through your teeth," Henry said.
"I did call!"
"But you didn't talk to him."
"I left a message. That's just as good."
"What if he never gets it?"
"Then you can tell him where I am! I'm going."
"No, you're not!"
I had to argue for five minutes before I was allowed to leave the premises. Meanwhile, the cab driver had already tooted twice and he appeared from around the corner looking for his fare. I don't know what he must have thought when he caught sight of us… me with my battered face, Henry in his Calvin Klein skivvies with a cleaver in his mitt. Fortunately, Henry knew the guy and after earnest reassurances on all sides, he finally consented to my departure. He didn't like the idea, but there wasn't much he could do. The cabbie was still shaking his head with mock disgust. "Get some pants on, Pitts. You could get arrested like that."
By the time I reached the nursing home on the Upper East Side, it was nearly two o'clock. I realized as the cab pulled up that I knew the neighborhood. Rosie and I had combed the entire area, looking for a board-and-care for her sister, Klotilde. The houses, for the most part, were built on a grand scale: rambling interiors with high ceilings, oversize windows, wide porches, surrounded by massive oaks and old, shaggy palms.
In contrast, the nursing home from which Agnes had disappeared was a two-story Victorian structure with a carriage house in the rear. The frame siding was a pale gray, with the trim done in fresh white. The steeply pitched roof was made of slate tiles, overlapping like fish scales. At the second-story level, a raw-looking L of decking and a set of wooden stairs had been added as a fire escape. The house sat on a large corner lot, the property shaded by countless trees, dotted with flower beds, and bordered with shrubs, which were pierced by the protruding upright arrows of an ornamental iron fence. There were several cars visible in the small parking lot in the rear.
Irene had apparently been watching for my arrival. I paid the driver and emerged from the cab in time to see her moving toward me down the front walk, followed by a gentleman I assumed was Clyde Gersh. Again, I was struck by the aura of illness that surrounded her. She was stick-thin and seemed unsteady on her feet. The shirtwaist dress she wore was a jade-green silk that only emphasized the unearthly pallor of her skin. She'd clearly gone to some trouble with her appearance, but the effect was stark. Her foundation makeup was too peachy a shade, and the false lashes made her eyes jump out of her face. A swath of blusher high on each cheek gave her the look of someone in the throes of a fever. "Oh, Kinsey. God bless you." She reached for me with trembling hands that were cold to the touch.
"How are you, Irene? Is there any sign of her?"
"I'm afraid not. The police have taken the report and they've issued on of those… oh, what do you call them…"
Clyde spoke up. "A 'be on the lookout' bulletin."
"Yes, that's it. Anyway, they'll have a patrol car cruising the neighborhood. I'm not sure what else they can do for the time being. I'm just sick."
Clyde spoke up again, extending his hand. "Clyde Gersh."
Irene seemed flustered. "Oh, I'm sorry. This is Miss Millhone. I don't know what I was thinking of."
Clyde Gersh was probably in his late fifties, some ten years older than his wife. He was tall and stooped, wearing an expensive-looking suit that seemed to hang on his frame. He had a thinning head of gray hair, a lined face, his brow knotted with concern. His features had the droopy quality of a man resigned to his fate. His wife's state of health, whether real or self-induced, must have been a trial to him. He'd adopted an air of weary patience. I realized I had no idea what he did for a living. Something that entailed a flexible schedule and wingtip shoes. A lawyer? Accountant?
The two of us shook hands. He said, "Nice to meet you, Miss Millhone. I'm sorry for the circumstances."
"Me, too. I prefer 'Kinsey,' if you would. What can I do to help?"
He glanced apologetically at his wife. "We were just discussing that. I'm trying to talk Irene into staying here. She can hold down the fort while we get out and bump doors. I told the director of this two-bit establishment he'll have a lawsuit on his hands if anything's happened to Agnes…"
Irene shot him a look. "We can talk about this later," she said to him. And to me, "The nursing home has been wonderful. They feel Mother was probably confused. You know how willful she is, but I'm sure she's fine…"
"Of course she is," I said, though I had my doubts.
Clyde's expression indicated he had about as much faith as I did. "I'm just heading out if you'd care to join me," he said. "I think we should check the houses along Concorde as far as Molina and then head north."
Irene spoke up. "I want to come, Clyde. I won't stay hereby myself."
An expression of exasperation flickered briefly in his face, but he nodded agreement. Whatever opposition he may have previously voiced, he now set aside, perhaps in deference to me. He reminded me of a parent reluctant to discipline a kid in front of company. The man wanted to look good. I glanced along the street for some sign of Dietz.
Irene caught my hesitation. "Something wrong, dear? You seemed worried."
"Someone's meeting me here. I don't want to take off without leaving word."
"We can wait if you like."
Clyde gestured impatiently. "You two do what you want. I'm going on," he said. "I'll take this side and you can take that. We'll meet here in thirty minutes and see how it looks." He gave Irene's cheek a perfunctory kiss before he headed off. She stared after him anxiously. I thought she was going to say something, but she let the moment pass.
"Would you like to tell someone at the nursing home where we'll be?"
"Never mind," I said. "Dietz will figure it out."