G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

Dimly, I was aware that Dietz had opened the front door and stepped out into the backyard. When I finished my cereal, I washed my bowl and spoon and left them in the dish rack. Hesitantly, I moved to the front door and peered out, feeling like a housebound cat discovering that a door has inadvertently been left ajar. Was I allowed outside?

The marine layer was already beginning to dissipate, but the yard had that bleached look that a mist imparts. The foghorn was bleating intermittently-a calf separated from its mother-in the still morning air. The strong scent of seawater saturated the yard. Sometimes I half expect the surf to be lapping at the curb out front.

Dietz was hunkering near the flower beds. Henry had put in some bare root roses the year before and they were in full bloom: Sonia, Park Place, Lady X, names giving no clue about the final effect. "Aphids," he said. "He should buy some ladybugs."

I leaned against the doorframe, too paranoid to venture all the way out into the yard. "Are we going to talk about security again or did we cover it last night?"

He got to his feet, turning his attention to me. "We should probably discuss your schedule. Any standing appointments? Massage, beauty salon?"

"Do I look like someone with a standing appointment at a beauty salon?"

He studied my face with curiosity, but refrained from comment. "The point is, we don't want your movements predictable."

I rubbed my forehead, which was still smarting to the touch. "I gathered as much. Okay, so I cancel my masseuse, bikini wax, and the weekly pedicure. Now what?"

He smiled. "I appreciate your cooperation. Makes my job easier."

"Believe me, I'm not interested in being killed," I said. "I do need to go in to the office."

"What time?"

"Doesn't matter. I want to pick up my mail and get some bills paid. Minor stuff really, but I don't want to put it off."

"No problem. I'd like to see the place."

"Good," I said, turning to go back inside.

"Kinsey? Don't forget the body armor."

"Right. Make sure you wear yours, too."

Upstairs, I dutifully stripped off my sweatshirt and slipped on the bulletproof vest, pressing the Velcro straps into place. Dietz had told me this particular vest offered threat-level-one protection, which was good against a.38 Special or less. Apparently, he was assuming a hit man wouldn't use a 9-millimeter automatic. I tried not to think about garrotes, head wounds, blasted kneecaps, the penetrating power of ice picks-any one of a number of assaults not covered by the oversize bib I wore.

"Make sure it's tight enough," Dietz had called up from below.

"Got it," I said. I had pulled the sweatshirt on over the vest and checked myself in the mirror. I looked like I was eleven years old again.

At 8:45, we moved through the front gate. Dietz had gone out first to check the car and scan the street. He returned, motioning me forward. He walked slightly in front of me, his stride brisk, his eyes alert as we traversed the fifty paces to his Porsche. The whole maneuver had an urgency about it that made me feel like a rock star. "I thought a bodyguard was supposed to be inconspicuous," I said.

"That's one theory."

"Won't everybody guess?"

He looked over at me. "Let's put it this way. I'm not interested in advertising what I do, but if this guy's watching us, I want him to understand just how hard his job is going to be. Most attacks occur suddenly and at very close range. I'll try not to be obnoxious, but I'm sticking to you like glue."

Well, that answered that.

Dietz drove with his usual determination. He was a real A-type personality, one of those guys who lives like he's always late for some appointment, irritated at anybody who slows him down. Bad drivers caught him by surprise, as though they were the exception instead of the rule. I directed him to the downtown area, which, fortunately, was only ten minutes away. If he noticed I was bracing myself between the dashboard and the door frame, he didn't mention it.

At the entrance to the parking lot, he slowed the car, surveying the layout. "Is this where you usually park?"

"Sure, the office is right up there."

I watched him calculate. He was clearly hoping for a way to change my routine, but parking farther away was only going to make the walk longer, thus exposing us for an extended period. He pulled in, handed me the ticket, and found a parking space. "Anything looks weird," he said, "speak up right away. Any sign of trouble, we'll get the fuck out."

"Right," I said. It was amazing what this "we" business was doing to my head. I wasn't famous for letting guys tell me what to do and I was hoping I wouldn't get used to it.