They were all there. It was eerie to see them- Charlotte, Emily, and Anne-their gravestones lined up in date order, first to last. The markers were plain; information limited to the bare bones, as it were. Their parents, the elder Bronfens, were buried side by side: Maude and Herbert, bracketed on the left by two daughters who had apparently died young. Adjoining those plots, there was an empty space I assumed was meant for Patrick when the time came. On the other side were the three I knew of: Charlotte, born 1894, died in 1917; Emily, born 1897, died in 1926; and Anne, who was born in 1900 and died in 1940.
I stared off down the hill. Mt. Calvary was a series of rolling green pastures, bordered by a forest of evergreens and eucalyptus trees. Most of the gravestones were laid flat in the ground, but I could see other sections like this one, where the monuments were upright, most dating back to the late nineteenth century. The heat of the afternoon sun was beginning to wane. It wouldn't be dark for hours yet, but a chill would settle in as it did every day. A bird sang a flat note to me from somewhere in the trees.
I shook my head, trying to make the information compute.
Dietz had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, but his look said "What?" as clearly as if he'd spoken.
"It just makes no sense. If Sheila Bronfen and Agnes Grey are the same person, then why don't their ages line up right? Agnes couldn't have been seventy when she died. She was eighty-plus. I know she was."
"So the two aren't the same. So what? You came up with a theory and it didn't prove out."
"Maybe," I said.
"Maybe, my ass. Give it up, Millhone. You can't manipulate the facts to fit your hypothesis. Start with what you know and give the truth a chance to emerge. Don't force a conclusion just to satisfy your own ego."
"I'm not forcing anything."
"Yes, you are. You hate to be wrong-"
"I do not!"
"Yes, you do. Don't bullshit me-"
"That has nothing to do with it! If the two aren't the same, so be it. But then, who was Agnes Grey and how'd she end up with Irene Bronfen?"
"Agnes might have been a cousin or a family friend. She might have been the maid…"
"All right, great. Let's say it was the maid who ran off with the little girl. How come he didn't tell us that? Why pretend it was his wife. He's convinced Sheila took the child, or else he's lying through his teeth, right?"
"Come on. You're grasping at straws."
I sank down on my heels, pulling idly at the grass. My frustration was mounting. I'd felt so close to unraveling the knot. I let out a puff of air. I'd been secretly convinced Agnes Grey and Anne Bronfen were one and the same. I wanted Bronfen to be lying about Anne's death, but it looked like he was telling the truth-the turd. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dietz sneak a look at his watch.
"Goddamn it. Don't do that," I said. "I hate being pushed." I bit back my irritation. "What time is it?" I said, relenting.
"Nearly four. I don't mean to rush you, but we gotta get a move on."
"The Ocean View isn't far."
He clammed up and stared off down the hill, probably stuffing down a little irritation of his own. He was impatient, a man of action, more interested in Mark Messinger than he was in Agnes Grey. He bent down, picked up a dirt clod, and tossed it down the hill. He watched it as if it might skip across the grass like a pebble on water. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'll wait for you in the car," he said shortly and started off down the hill.
I watched him for a moment.
"Oh hell," I murmured to myself and followed him. I felt like a teenager, without a car of my own. Dietz insisted on my being with him almost constantly, so I was forced to trail around after him, begging rides, getting stuck where I didn't want to be, unable to pursue the leads that interested me. I doubled my pace, catching up with him at the road. "Hey, Dietz? Could you drop me off at the house? I could borrow Henry's car and let you talk to Rochelle on your own."
He let me in on my side. "No."
I stared after him with outrage. "No?" I had to wait till he came around. "What do you mean, 'No'?"
"I'm not going to have you running around by yourself. It's not safe."
"Would you quit that? I've got things to do."
He didn't answer. It was like I hadn't said a word. He drove out of the cemetery and left on Cabana Boulevard, heading toward the row of motels just across from the wharf. I stared out the window, thinking darkly of escape.
"And don't do anything dumb," he said.
I didn't say what flashed through my head, but it was short and to the point.
The Ocean View is one of those nondescript one-story motels a block off the wide boulevard that parallels the beach. It was not yet tourist season and the rates were still down, red neon vacancy signs alight all up and down the street. The Ocean View didn't really have a view of anything except the backside of the motel across the alley. The basic cinderblock construction had been wrapped in what resembled aging stucco, but the red tiles on the roof had the uniform shape and coloring that suggested recent manufacture.
Dietz pulled into the temporary space in front of the office, left the engine running, and went in. I sat and stared at the car keys dangling from the ignition. Was this a test of my character, which everyone knows is bad? Was Dietz inviting me to steal the Porsche? I was curious about the exact date Anne Bronfen had died and I was itching to check it out. I had to have a car. This was one. Therefore…
I glanced at the office door in time to see Dietz emerge. He got in, slammed the door, and put the car in reverse. "Number sixteen, around the back," he said. He smiled at me crookedly as he shifted into first. "I'm surprised you didn't take off. I left you the keys."
I let that one pass. I always come up with witty rejoinders when it's too late to score points.
We parked in the slot meant for room 18, the only space available along the rear. Dietz knocked. Idly, I felt for the gun in my handbag, reassured by its weight. The door opened. He was blocking my view of her and I had too much class to hop up and down on tiptoe for an early peek.
"Rochelle? I'm Robert Dietz. This is Kinsey Millhone."
"Hello. Come on in."
I caught my first glimpse of Rochelle Messinger as we stepped through the door into her motel room.
"Thanks for coming up on such short notice," Dietz was saying.
I don't know what I expected. I confess I'm as given to stereotyping as the next guy. My notion of ladies who work in massage parlors leans toward the tacky, the blowsy, and (face it) the low class. A tattoo wouldn't have surprised me… a hefty rear end, decked out in blue jeans and spike heels, tatty dark hair pulled up in a rubber band.
Rochelle Messinger was my height, very slim. She had flyaway blond hair, a carelessly mussed mop that probably cost her $125 to have touched up and snipped every four weeks. Her face was the perfect oval of a Renaissance painting. She had a flawless complexion-very pale, finely textured skin-pale hazel eyes, long fingers with lots of silver rings, expensive ones by the look. She was wearing an ice-blue silk blouse, a matching silk blazer, pale blue slacks that emphasized her tiny waist and narrow hips. She smelled of some delicate blend of jasmine and lily of the valley. In her presence, I felt as dainty and feminine as a side of beef. When I opened my mouth, I was worried I would moo.
"God, how'd you end up with a piece of shit like Mark Messinger?" I blurted out instead.
She didn't react, but Dietz turned and gave me a hard look.
"Well, I really want to know," I said to him defensively.
She cut in. "It's all right. I understand your curiosity. I met him one night at a party in Palm Springs. He was working as a bodyguard for a well-known actor at the time and I thought he had class. I was mistaken, as it turns out, but by then we'd spent a weekend together and I was pregnant-"
"Eric," I said.
She nodded almost imperceptibly. "That was six years ago. I'd been told I could never have children, so for me, it was a miracle. Mark insisted on marriage, but I refused to compound the initial error in judgment. Once Eric was born, I didn't even want him to see the child. I knew by then how twisted he was. He hired a high-powered attorney and took me to court. The judge awarded him visitation rights. After that, it was simply a matter of time. I knew he'd make a try for Eric, but there was nothing I could do."
So far, she'd left more unexplained than she'd managed to clarify, but I thought it was time to back off and give Dietz room to operate. By unspoken agreement, this was his gig in much the same way the Bronfen interview had been mine. Dietz was getting into work mode, his energy intensifying, restlessness on the increase. He'd started snapping the fingers of his right hand against his left palm, a soft popping sound. "When did you last talk to him?" Dietz asked her.
"To Mark? Eight months ago. In October, he picked Eric up at the day-care center and took him to Colorado, ostensibly for a weekend. He called me shortly after that to say he wouldn't be returning him. He does allow the boy to call me from time to time, but it's usually from a pay phone and the contact's too brief to put a trace on. This is the first time I've actually known where he was. I want my child back."
Dietz said, "I can appreciate that. We understand Mark has family in the area. Will they know where he is?"
She smiled contemptuously. "Not bloody likely. Mark's father denounced him years ago and his mother's dead. He does have a sister, but I don't believe they're on speaking terms. She turned him in to the police the last time he got in touch."
"No other relatives? Friends he might have tried to contact?"
She shook her head. "He's strictly solo. He doesn't trust a soul."
"Can you suggest how we can get a line on him?"
"Easy. Call all the big hotels. The cops quizzed me as to his whereabouts after the gold mart robbery. He'll be loaded and, believe me, he's the sort of man who knows how to treat himself well. He'll book himself into first-class accommodations somewhere in town."
Dietz said, "Do you have a telephone book?"
Rochelle crossed to the bed table and opened the drawer. Dietz sat down on the edge of the king-size bed and turned to the yellow pages. I could tell he was dying for a cigarette. Actually, if I were a smoker, I'd have wanted one myself. It was the same bed where I'd caught my ex-husband with a lover during the Christmas holidays. What a jolly season that was…
Dietz looked at me. "How many big hotels?"
I thought about it briefly. "There are only three or four that might appeal to him," I said, and then to her, "Will he be registered under his real name?"
"I doubt it. When he's on the road, he tends to use one of his aliases. He favors Mark Darian or Darian Davidson, unless he's got a new one altogether, in which case I wouldn't know."
Dietz had flipped through the yellow pages to the hotel/motel listings.
"Hey, Dietz?"
He looked up at me.
"I'd try the Edgewater first," I said. "Maybe his showing up at the banquet last night was just a piece of dumb luck."
He stared for a moment until the logic sank in. Then he laughed. "That's good. I like that." He found the number and punched it in, his attention focusing as someone picked up on the other end. "May I speak to Charles Abbott in security? Yes, thanks. I'll hold." Dietz put a palm over the mouthpiece of the receiver and used the interval to fill Rochelle in on events to date. He interrupted himself abruptly. "Mr. Abbott? Robert Dietz. We talked to you yesterday about security on the banquet… Right. I'm sorry to bother you again, but I need a quick favor. I wonder if you can check to see if you have a guest registered there. The name is Mark Darian or Darian Davidson… possibly some variation. Same man. We believe he'll have his little boy with him. Sure…"
Apparently, Dietz was on hold again while Charles Abbott checked with the reservations desk. Dietz turned to Rochelle and took up the narrative where he'd left it. She didn't seem to have any trouble following. Watching her, I began to realize how strung-out she was, despite the poised facade. This was a woman who probably didn't eat when she was under stress, who lived on a steady diet of coffee and tranqs. I'd seen mothers like her before-usually pacing back and forth in a cage at the zoo. No appearance of domestication would ever undercut the savagery or the rage. Personally, I was happy I'd never laid a hand on her pup.
By the time Dietz caught her up, her expression was dark. "You have no idea how ruthless he is," she said. "Mark is very, very smart and he has all the uncanny intuitions of a psychopath. Have you ever dealt with one? It's almost like a form of mind reading…"
Dietz was on the verge of replying when Charles Abbott cut back in. Dietz said, "You do. That's right, the boy is five." He listened for a moment. "Thanks very much. Absolutely." He placed the receiver in the cradle with exaggerated care. "He's there with the kid. They're in one of the cottages out in back. Apparently, the two of them have just gone down to the pool to have a swim. I told Mr. Abbott there'd be no trouble."
She said, "Of course not."
"You want to call the police?"
"No, do you?"
From the look that passed between them, they understood each other exactly. She picked up a leather handbag from the bed and took out a little nickel-plated derringer. Two shots. I gave him a smirky look, but his expression was neutral. God, and he'd criticized my gun.
"What's your intention if we succeed in getting Eric back? You can't go home," he said to her.
"I have a rental car, which I'm dropping at the airport. My brother's a pilot and he'll pick us up at a charter place called Neptune Air. Mark and I used it once."
Dietz turned to me. "You know it?"
"More or less. It's this side of the airport on Rockpit Road."
He turned back to Rochelle. "What time's he flying in?"
"Nine, which should give us time enough, don't you think?"
"It should. What then?"
"I've got a place we can hole up for as long as we want."
Dietz nodded. "All right. It sounds good. Let's do it."
I held a ringer up, snagging Dietz's attention. I tilted my head toward the door. "Could I have a word with you?"
He flicked a look at me, but made no move, so I was forced to charge on.
I said, "I've got something I want to check out and I need some wheels. Why can't I take the rental car while you two take the Porsche? You know where Messinger is and you're on your way over. I don't see why I need to be there."
There was a silence. I had to struggle not to jump in with a lot of pointless dialogue. I'm too old to beg and whine. I just couldn't picture us in a motorcade, driving across town to a kidnapping or a shootout with Mark Messinger. My presence was redundant. I had other fish to fry. Rochelle was loading her gun-both chambers. It was too ludicrous for words, but something about it gave me a leaden feeling in my gut.
I could see Dietz debate my request. In an odd flash of ESP, I knew he'd have felt safer if I were going with him. He held out his car keys, not quite making eye contact. "Take my car. There's a chance Messinger might spot us if we pull into the hotel parking lot in it. We'll take the rental car. What I said before goes. Nothing dumb."
"Same to you," I said, perhaps more sharply than I intended. "I'll meet you out at the charter place."
"Take care."
"You too."