G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

Henry grabbed my jacket. "You'll do no such thing," he said snappishly. "You can wait till Dietz gets back and go over there with him."

I could feel my temper climb in response to his. I grabbed the jacket back, the two of us tugging like kids in a schoolyard. The cleaver he was holding made it treacherous work.

The second time he reached for the jacket, I held it up and away from him. "Henry," I said warningly. "I'm a free human being. Dietz knows I'm going over there. I called Dolan's office and talked to him myself. He's on his way."

"You did not. I know you. You're lying through your teeth," Henry said.

"I did call!"

"But you didn't talk to him."

"I left a message. That's just as good."

"What if he never gets it?"

"Then you can tell him where I am! I'm going."

"No, you're not!"

I had to argue for five minutes before I was allowed to leave the premises. Meanwhile, the cab driver had already tooted twice and he appeared from around the corner looking for his fare. I don't know what he must have thought when he caught sight of us… me with my battered face, Henry in his Calvin Klein skivvies with a cleaver in his mitt. Fortunately, Henry knew the guy and after earnest reassurances on all sides, he finally consented to my departure. He didn't like the idea, but there wasn't much he could do. The cabbie was still shaking his head with mock disgust. "Get some pants on, Pitts. You could get arrested like that."

By the time I reached the nursing home on the Upper East Side, it was nearly two o'clock. I realized as the cab pulled up that I knew the neighborhood. Rosie and I had combed the entire area, looking for a board-and-care for her sister, Klotilde. The houses, for the most part, were built on a grand scale: rambling interiors with high ceilings, oversize windows, wide porches, surrounded by massive oaks and old, shaggy palms.

In contrast, the nursing home from which Agnes had disappeared was a two-story Victorian structure with a carriage house in the rear. The frame siding was a pale gray, with the trim done in fresh white. The steeply pitched roof was made of slate tiles, overlapping like fish scales. At the second-story level, a raw-looking L of decking and a set of wooden stairs had been added as a fire escape. The house sat on a large corner lot, the property shaded by countless trees, dotted with flower beds, and bordered with shrubs, which were pierced by the protruding upright arrows of an ornamental iron fence. There were several cars visible in the small parking lot in the rear.

Irene had apparently been watching for my arrival. I paid the driver and emerged from the cab in time to see her moving toward me down the front walk, followed by a gentleman I assumed was Clyde Gersh. Again, I was struck by the aura of illness that surrounded her. She was stick-thin and seemed unsteady on her feet. The shirtwaist dress she wore was a jade-green silk that only emphasized the unearthly pallor of her skin. She'd clearly gone to some trouble with her appearance, but the effect was stark. Her foundation makeup was too peachy a shade, and the false lashes made her eyes jump out of her face. A swath of blusher high on each cheek gave her the look of someone in the throes of a fever. "Oh, Kinsey. God bless you." She reached for me with trembling hands that were cold to the touch.

"How are you, Irene? Is there any sign of her?"

"I'm afraid not. The police have taken the report and they've issued on of those… oh, what do you call them…"

Clyde spoke up. "A 'be on the lookout' bulletin."

"Yes, that's it. Anyway, they'll have a patrol car cruising the neighborhood. I'm not sure what else they can do for the time being. I'm just sick."

Clyde spoke up again, extending his hand. "Clyde Gersh."

Irene seemed flustered. "Oh, I'm sorry. This is Miss Millhone. I don't know what I was thinking of."

Clyde Gersh was probably in his late fifties, some ten years older than his wife. He was tall and stooped, wearing an expensive-looking suit that seemed to hang on his frame. He had a thinning head of gray hair, a lined face, his brow knotted with concern. His features had the droopy quality of a man resigned to his fate. His wife's state of health, whether real or self-induced, must have been a trial to him. He'd adopted an air of weary patience. I realized I had no idea what he did for a living. Something that entailed a flexible schedule and wingtip shoes. A lawyer? Accountant?

The two of us shook hands. He said, "Nice to meet you, Miss Millhone. I'm sorry for the circumstances."