G Is For Gumshoe

14

When we got home, I fumbled my way up to the loft. I pulled my shoes off. I stretched out on the bed, propping the pillows up behind me while I took stock of myself. All the niggling aches and pains in my body were gone, washed away by the wave of adrenaline that had tumbled over me during the attack. I was feeling drained, lethargic, my brain still crackling while my body was immobilized. Downstairs, I heard the murmur of Dietz talking on the phone.

I must have dozed, sitting upright. Dietz appeared. I opened my eyes to find him perched on the bed beside me. He was holding some papers in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. "Drink this," he said.

I took the mug and held it, focusing on the heat. Tea has always smelled better than it tastes. I can still remember how startled I was as a kid when I was first allowed to have a sip. I glanced up at the skylight, which showed a circle of lavender and smoke. "What time is it?"

"Ten after seven."

"Have we heard from Clyde?"

"He called a little while ago. She's fine. They treated her and sent her home. No sign of Agnes yet. How are you?"

"Better."

"That's good. We'll have some supper in a bit. Henry's bringing something over."

"I hate being taken care of."

"Me, too, but that's bullshit. Henry likes to feel useful, I'm starving, and neither of us cook. You want to talk?"

I shook my head. "My soul's not back in my body yet."

"It'll come. I got a line on the guy from the L.A. police. You want to take a look?"

"All right."

There was a sheaf of LAPD bulletins, maybe six. I studied the first. wanted felony traffic suspects. There were ten mug shots-like class photos-one circled in ballpoint pen. It was him. He looked younger. He looked pale. He looked glum-one of life's chronic offenders at the outset of his career. His name was Mark Darian Messinger, alias: Mark Darian; alias: Darian Marker; alias: Buddy Messer; alias: Darian Davidson. Male, Caucasian, thirty-eight years old, blond hair, blue eyes, tattoo of a butterfly on the web of his right hand (I'd missed that). His date of birth was Jury 7, Cancer, a real family man at heart. His California driver's license number was listed, his Social Security number, his NCIC file number, FBI number, his department report number, his warrant number. The arrest, apparently in the summer of 1981, was for violation of Vehicle Code Section 20001 (hit-and-run resulting in death) and Penal Code Section 192(3)(a) (vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence). The photograph was an inch and a half wide square, taken straight on. It helped to see him shrunk down to Lilliputian proportions, the size of a postage stamp. He looked like a low-life punk, the black-and-white mug shot not nearly as sinister as the flesh-and-blood reality.

The second police bulletin read: arrest for murder of a police officer, Felony Warrant LACA, with a string of numbers, charging Penal Code Section 187(a) (murder) and Section 664/187 (attempted murder) with a six-line narrative attached. "On October 9, 1981, two Los Angeles police officers responded to a domestic disturbance during which the above suspect fired an unknown type semiautomatic at his common-law wife. When the police officers attempted to subdue him, suspect shot one of the officers in the face, resulting in his death. The suspect then fled on foot."

The names of two detectives, assigned to the case, were listed below that, along with several telephone numbers if information came to light. At the bottom of the page was a line in bold print. kindly notify chief OF POLICE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, it said. KINDLY KILL THIS MAN ON SIGHT, I thought.

The third bulletin was dated less than two months back. ONE MILLION DOLLAR ROBBERY INFORMATION wanted. And there he was again, in a police composite drawing, this time with a mustache, which he must have shaved off in the interim. According to the victim's account, the suspect had followed a wholesale gold dealer into a gold exchange business in the Jewelry Mart section of downtown Los Angeles on March 25, where he relieved the victim of the gold he was transporting, valued in excess of $625,000. The suspect had produced a gun and robbed the victim and another employee of an additional $346,000 in gold "granules" and $46,000 in cash. Mark Messinger had been identified from fingerprints at the scene.

I leafed through the remaining bulletins. There was apparently no crime Mark Messinger was incapable of committing-the well-rounded felon with a major in murder and minors in armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He seemed to operate with equal parts impulse and brute force. He didn't go in for the intellectual stuff, nothing with finesse. The million-dollar robbery was probably the most sophisticated thing he'd ever done.

"Now we know how he can afford to take on a cut-rate hit," I said.

Dietz tapped the paper, pointing to one of the last lines of print. A brief note indicated that the suspect was reported to have relatives in Santa Teresa. "That's how he knew Tyrone Patty. From here. They were cellmates in the county jail four years ago. I guess they kept in touch."

"Have the cops here talked to his family?"

Dietz nodded. "No luck. His father claims he hasn't talked to Messinger in years. He's probably lying, but you can't do much about that. Dolan says they delivered a stern lecture about aiding and abetting. The old man swore a Boy Scout oath he'd notify the cops if the guy showed up."

I could feel a knot of dread begin to form in my gut. "Let's talk about something else."

"Let's talk about fighting back."

"Right now, I'm not in the

"Tomorrow," I said. "Right now I'm not in the mood."

"Drink your tea and get cleaned up. I'll see you downstairs."

Henry had put together a meal of comfort foods: succulent meatloaf with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, homemade rolls, fresh lemon meringue pie, and coffee. He ate with us, saying little, watching me with worried eyes. Dietz must have cautioned him not to chide me for leaving the premises. It was clear Henry wanted to fuss, but he had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut. I felt guilty anyway, as if the attempt on my life was something I had done. Henry studied the police bulletins, memorizing Mark Messinger's face and the details of his (alleged) crimes. "A nasty piece of work. You mentioned a little boy. How does he figure into this?" he said to Dietz.

"He kidnapped the kid from his common-law wife. Her name is Rochelle. She works in a massage parlor down in Hollywood. I talked to her a little while ago and the woman's a mess. The kid's name is Eric. He's five. He was enrolled in a day-care center in Rochelle's neighborhood. Messinger picked him up about eight months ago and that's the last she's seen of him. I got boys of my own. I'd kill anyone came after them." Dietz ate like he did everything else, with intense concentration. When he finished the last scrap of food, he sat back, patting automatically at the shirt pocket where he'd kept his cigarettes. I saw a quick head shake, as if he were amused at himself.

They moved on to other subjects: sports, the stock market, political events. While they talked, I gathered the empty plates and utensils and took them to the kitchenette. I ran a sinkful of soapy water and slid the dishes in. There's nothing so restful as washing dishes when you need to separate yourself from other folk. It looks dutiful and industrious and it's soothing as a bubble bath. For the moment, I felt safe. I didn't care if I ever left the apartment again. What was wrong with staying right here? I could learn to cook and clean house. I could iron clothes (if I had any). Maybe I could learn to sew and make craft items out of Popsicle sticks. I just didn't want to go out again. I was begi