G Is For Gumshoe

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 di

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 ma

Dietz turned to me. "You want a drink?"

"White wine," I said.

"Chardo

"Chardo

"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 sca

"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.