G is for Gumshoe

"I wouldn't do that," Messinger said. "The car's parked on the far side of the hangar. You can wait for me over there. Here's the keys."

"Mark?" Rochelle's voice sounded faint against the distant droning of an incoming plane. Tears were streaming down her face. "Can I kiss him good-bye?"

I heard him mutter. "Christ." He raised his voice. "Come ahead then, but make it quick." To Eric, he said, "You wait here for your mommy and then you go get in the car like I said. You eat any supper?"

"We stopped at McDonald's and had a Big Mac."

"I don't believe it. "You remember what I told you about junk food?"

Eric nodded, his eyes filling with tears. It was hard to know which parent he was supposed to listen to. In the meantime, Rochelle was walking toward us along a straight line, setting her high heels down one in front of the other as if in modeling school. Over her shoulder, Dietz's gaze locked down on mine. I thought he smiled his encouragement. I didn't want to see Dietz die, didn't think I could bear it, didn't want to live myself if it came down to that.

I looked at Rochelle. She'd stopped a few feet away. Eric walked over and buried his face against her. She leaned forward and laid her cheek against the top of his head. She was weeping openly. "I love you," she whispered. "You be a good boy, okay?"

He nodded mutely and then pulled away, hurrying toward the Rolls without a backward look. His father called after him.

"Hey, Eric? There's some tapes in the glove compartment. Play anything you like."

Rochelle stared at Mark. She pulled the derringer out of her pocket, aimed it straight at his head and pulled the trigger. The blast was remarkably loud for a weapon so petite. I heard his scream. He dropped the.45 and clutched his right eye with both hands, toppling sideways onto the pavement where he lay writhing in pain. Rochelle, with an efficiency she must have learned from him, stepped in close, and fired again. "You son of a bitch. You never honored a deal in your fuckin' life."

Messinger lay still.

Dietz began to cross the tarmac, moving toward me. I went out to meet him.

Epilogue

When the cops finally tore up the area around Bronfen's potting shed, four bodies came to light. The one buried in the footing was tagged as a former resident of the board-and-care, whose pension checks Bronfen had been cashing for a good five months. The pathologists are still working to identify the remaining dead, but one is most assuredly Bronfen's wife, Sheila. Irene is doing better now that she knows the truth. She's found a good therapist who's helping her sort it all out. It may take her years yet, but at least she's on the right path.

A third (and final) hired assassin was apprehended in Carson City shortly after Messinger was killed. Yesterday, I spoke to Lee Galishoff, who told me Tyrone Patty died of a knife wound, the result of a dispute with an inmate half his size.

As for Dietz, he was with me until August 29 when the job he was hoping for materialized. He's in Germany now, filming mock infiltrations of military bases.

He swears he's coming back. I'd like to believe him, but I'm not sure I dare. In the meantime, I have work of my own to do and a life that feels richer for his having been a part of it.