G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

"Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. If you hear from the guy again, or from anyone else, please let me know."

"I will. I'm so sorry. I had no idea…"

"I understand. There was no way you could know. Just get in touch with me if you hear from him again."

After I hung up, I went into the downstairs bathroom and stood in the tub, looking out the window at the street. It was not quite dark, that hazy twilight hour when light and shadow begin to merge. Lights in the neighborhood were beginning to come on. A car passed slowly along the street and I found myself pulling back. I didn't actually whimper, but that's how I felt. It was amazing to me how quickly I was losing my nerve. I consider myself a capable person (ballsy is the word that comes to mind), but I didn't like the idea of this guy breathing down my neck. I returned to the living room, where I circled restlessly in a space scarcely bigger than a nine-by-twelve rug.

At 6:45 there was a tap at the door. My heart volunteered an extra beat just to speed the adrenaline along. I peered through the porthole. Dietz was standing on the doorstep, his arms loaded with groceries. I unlocked the door and let him in. I took one bag of groceries while he put the other on the kitchen counter. I'm not sure what expression I had on my face, but he picked up on it. "What's wrong?"

My voice sounded abnormal, even to my own ears. "Some guy called the woman I was working for and asked about me. He told her about the accident and asked if I was back in town yet."

Dietz's hand moved toward the pocket where he'd kept his cigarettes. He flashed a look of annoyance, apparently meant for himself. "How'd he know about her?"

"I have no idea."

"Shit!"

"What'd the cops have to say?"

"Not much. At least they know now what's going on. They'll have the beat car cruise by at intervals."

"Whoopee-do."

"Cut the sarcasm," he said irritably.

"Sorry. I didn't know it would come out like that."

He turned back to one of the grocery bags, pulling out a garment that looked like the blue vests we'd worn in high school sports to distinguish one team from another. "Lieutenant Dolan suggested you wear this. It's a bulletproof vest, a man's, but it should do the job. Some rookie left it behind when he quit the force."

I took the thing, holding it up by one Velcro strap. It was heavier than it looked and it had all the sex appeal of an ace bandage. "What about you? Don't you need one of these?"

Dietz was taking his jacket off. "I've got one in the car. I'm going to clean up. We'll talk about supper in a bit."

I put groceries away while he showered in the downstairs bathroom. Judging from the items he'd bought, he must have snagged two each from every department he passed. I hadn't been in the apartment long enough to decide where anything should go, so I amused myself with paper goods and staples, cans, condiments, spices, and household cleaners. Fortunately, he'd had the presence of mind to buy a bottle of Jack Daniel's, two bottles of white wine, and a six-pack of beer. I'm ashamed to say how cheered I was by the sight. Given my current level of anxiety, I wasn't above a nip of alcohol. I put the beer away and got out the corkscrew.

The bathroom door opened and Dietz came out, dressed in jeans and a dress shirt, his feet bare, the scent of after-shave wafting toward me in a cloud. He was toweling his hair dry and it stood out around his head like straw. The gray in his eyes was as clean as ice. He spotted the radio on the kitchen counter and turned it on, tuning in a country-western song with lots of major chords and a rocking-horse rhythm that would probably drive me mad. My problem with country music is that I try to avoid the very situations the lyrics lament. However, having objected to his cigarettes, I didn't feel comfortable protesting his taste in music as well. He probably wasn't any happier with the proximity than I was.

I poured wine in a glass. "Want some?"

"Of course!"

I handed him the glass of wine and poured a second for myself. I felt like we should drink a toast to something, but I couldn't think what. "Are you hungry? I notice you picked up some bacon and eggs. We could have that if you like."

"Fine. I wasn't sure what else to get. I hope you're not a vegetarian. I should have asked."

"I eat anything… well, except tripe," I said. I set the wineglass on the counter so I could get out the eggs. "Scrambled all right? I'm terrible at fried."

"I can cook "em."