G Is For Gumshoe

Irene's eyes brimmed. "Thank you. I appreciate that. Was she in pain? I can't stand to think about what she must have gone through."

"No, ma'am. I wouldn't say so. She might have been confused, but she didn't seem to be in pain or anything like that."

"Thank God for that. Did she ask for me?"

Color tinted his cheeks. "I couldn't say for sure. I know she mentioned somebody named Sheila."

"Sheila?" Irene said blankly.

"I'm pretty sure that was it. She did cry some. She said she was sorry to be a bother. I kept talking to her, telling her everything was fine. She quieted down after that and seemed all right till we got here. I know the staff did everything possible to save her. I guess sometimes they just go like that."

Irene's chin began to quiver. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth while she shook her head, whispering. "I had no idea she was dying. My God, if we'd only hurried we might have been here in time…"

The officer shifted uneasily. "I'll step out in the waiting room and finish filling out my report. I believe the sheriff's deputy's out there now. He'll need some information as soon as you're up to it." He moved out into the hall, leaving the door ajar.

After a moment, Clyde came in. He put his arm around Irene's shoulder and walked her out toward the reception area. Before the door closed again, I caught a glimpse of the sheriff's deputy in the corridor, conferring with his STPD counterpart. I gathered the city police had reported the death to the county coroner's office since Agnes was listed as missing and the last hours of her life were still unaccounted for. The coroner would make a determination as to the circumstances, ma

Alone with the body, I lifted one corner of the sheet, reaching for the cool, unyielding flesh of Agnes's left hand. Her knuckles were scraped. Two nails were broken. On her ring finger and her pinkie there was soil impacted under the nails. The receptionist came into the room behind me. I slipped her hand under the sheet again and turned. "Yes?"

"Mr. Gersh said to tell you he's taking his wife out to the car. The other gentleman is waiting."

"What happened to her personal effects?"

"There wasn't much. Dr. Stackhouse set aside the articles of clothing for disposition by the coroner. She didn't have anything else with her when she was brought in."

I scribbled a note to Dr. Palchak, asking her to call me. I left the message with the ER nurse as I passed the desk. Dietz wanted to call a cab, but Clyde insisted on dropping us back at my place. Irene cried inconsolably all the way home. I was grateful when Dietz finally unlocked the door and let us in. In the backseat of the Mercedes, he'd placed his hand beside mine, our little fingers touching in a way that made me feel my whole left side had been magnetized.

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…"