V Is for Vengeance

  “Scads,” I said. Maybe I was being paranoid, but to me the comment suggested that as long as I’d screwed Cheney for information, I’d doubtless screwed the entire sheriff’s department as well. “I’m actually more interested in whether she’d ever been picked up before.” I glanced at Cheney, but Priddy had decided the subject belonged to him.

  He said, “For shoplifting? Oh, yeah. Big-time. That one’s been around the track. Different names, of course. Alice Vincent. Ardeth Vick. She also used the last name Vest. I can’t remember the first on that one. Ann? Adele? Some A name.”

  “Really. Was this petit or grand theft?”

  “Grand and I’d say five times at least. She had some shit-ass attorney busy filing six kinds of paperwork. He’d have her plead down and take reduced jail sentence plus community service. First two times she got off scot-free. That was nickel-and-dime stuff and charges were dismissed. Did alcohol rehab or some such. What a pile of crap that was. Last time, the judge wised up and threw her in jail. Score one for our side.” He paused, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound of a baseball being hit, followed by an auditory rendition of cheers from the crowd. “If these people did serious jail time from the get-go, it would cut down on the repeats. How else are they going to learn?”

  “There’s more,” Cheney said. “Friday, when the female jail officer had her strip, it turned out she was wearing booster gear—pockets in her underwear stuffed with more items than she had in her shopping bag. Major haul. We’re talking two, three thousand dollars’ worth, which makes it grand theft again.”

  “Were you surprised to hear she jumped?”

  Priddy addressed his response to Cheney, as though the two had been discussing the subject before I arrived, debating the relative merits of sudden death versus the judicial system. “Ask me, it’s a courtesy, her going off that bridge. Saves the taxpayers a chunk of change and spares the rest of us the aggravation. Besides which, jumping, you don’t leave a big ugly mess for someone else to clean up.”

  “Any question of foul play?”

  Priddy’s gaze slid over to mine. “Sheriff’s homicide detectives will approach it that way, sure. Protect evidence at the scene in case shenanigans come to light. She got off parole about six months ago and now here she comes again, facing another stretch. She’s engaged to some guy and there goes that life. Talk about depressing. I’d have hopped the rail myself.”

  He shook loose the ice in his glass and upended it, letting a cube drop into his mouth. The crunching of ice sounded like a horse chewing on its bit.

  Cheney said, “They’re running a toxi panel, but we won’t get results for three to four weeks. Meantime, the coroner says there’s nothing to suggest she was manhandled. He’ll probably release the body in another few days.”

  I looked at him with puzzlement. “He’s already released the body, hasn’t he?”

  “Nope.”

  “I went to the visitation. There was a casket and two floral wreaths. You mean she wasn’t actually in there?”

  “She’s still out at the morgue. I wasn’t at the post—Becker took that—but I know the body’s being held, pending blood and urine.”

  “Why would they have an empty coffin?”

  “You’d have to ask her fiancé,” Priddy said.

  “I guess I will.”

  “Sorry to be a hard-ass, but the kindhearted Mr. Striker had no idea what he was messing with when he took up with her.” Priddy looked up and I followed his gaze. A young woman in her late twenties was working her way across the patio. Ever the gentleman, Cheney rose from his seat as she approached. When she reached the table, she gave him a quick hug and then leaned over and gave Len a kiss on the cheek. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and dark hair to her waist. She wore tight jeans and high-heel boots. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in Len. He didn’t seem inclined to introduce us so Cheney did the honors.

  “This is Len’s girlfriend, Abbie Upshaw,” he said. “Kinsey Millhone.”

  We shook hands. “Nice meeting you,” I said.

  Cheney held her chair for her and she sat down. Len caught the waitress’s eye and lifted a menu. I took it as a not-so-subtle suggestion that I should be on my way and I was happy to oblige.

  I stopped off at a nearby deli and bought myself a tuna salad sandwich and Fritos, then returned to the office where I ate at my desk. While the information was fresh in my mind, I took out a pack of three-by-five index cards and jotted down the tidbits I’d picked up, including the name of Len’s girlfriend. The whole point of making notes is to be thorough about the details since it’s impossible to know in the moment which facts will be useful and which will not. I put the cards in my shoulder bag. I was tempted to gallop back to Marvin and drop the revelations at his feet like a golden retriever with a dead bird, but I didn’t want to add to his burden just yet. He hadn’t made his peace with the notion of Audrey shoplifting on one occasion, let alone having been convicted five times previously.

  Modesty compels me to take only partial credit for being on target with my guess about her criminal history. A crime like shoplifting is more often a pattern than a one-shot deal. Whether the urge stems from necessity or impulse, that first success creates a natural temptation to try again. The fact that she’d been caught before should have cautioned her to brush up on her sleight-of-hand skills. Or maybe she’d been picked up only five times out of five hundred tries, in which case she was doing a damn fine job. At least until the previous Friday when she’d botched it royally.

  I finished lunch, crumpled up the sandwich wrapping, and tossed it in the trash. I folded down the top of the cellophane bag with a generous helping of leftover Fritos and secured it with a paper clip. I slid them into my desk’s bottom drawer, saving them for a snack in case I felt peckish later in the afternoon. I heard the door in my outer office open and close. For a brief moment, I thought it might be Marvin and I looked up expectantly. No such luck. The woman who appeared in my doorway was Diana Alvarez, a reporter who worked for the local paper. While I’m not famous for my friendliness and charm, there aren’t many people whom I truly detest. She was at the top of my list. I’d met her in the course of the investigation I’d closed out the week before. Diana’s brother Michael had hired me to find two guys he’d suddenly remembered from an incident that occurred when he was six. The particulars don’t pertain so I’ll skip right over to the relevant part. Michael was highly suggestible, given to bending the truth. In his teens, he’d accused his family of hideous forms of sexual molestation after a shrink administered truth serum and regressed him to an earlier age. Turned out to be hogwash and Michael eventually recanted, but not before the family was destroyed. His sister, Diana—also known as Dee—was still bitter and did everything she could to undermine his credibility, even in death.

  I took in the sight of her, reveling in my distaste. Seeing someone you dislike is almost as much fun as reading a really bad work of fiction. It’s possible to experience a perverse sense of satisfaction on every clunky page.

  Diana was officious, superior, and aggressive. On top of that, I didn’t like the clothes she wore—though I’ll admit I’d adopted her habit of wearing black tights on the rare occasion when I wore a skirt. Today’s ensemble was a perky red-and-black plaid jumper with a red V-neck T-shirt under it. I repressed a tiny spark of appreciation.

  I said, “Hello, Diana. I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

  “A surprise to me as well.”

  “I’m sorry about Michael’s death.”

  “It’s just like the Bible says: you reap what you sow. I know that sounds cold, but what else would you expect after what he did to us?”

  I let the comment pass. “I thought I’d see something in the paper about his funeral.”

  “There won’t be one. We’ve decided against. If we change our minds, I’ll be happy to contact you.”

  She sat down without invitation, tucking her skirt under her in a manner meant to minimize wrinkl
es. She put her purse on the desk while she settled herself. The first time she came to my office, she’d carried a clutch not much bigger than a pack of cigarettes. This bag was substantially bigger.

  Fully settled, she said, “I’m not here to talk about Michael. I’m here to talk about something else.”

  I said, “Be my guest.”

  “I went to the services for Audrey Vance. I saw your name in the guest book, but I didn’t see you.”

  “I left early.”

  “The reason I bring it up is I pitched a story to my editor about the people who’ve gone off the Cold Spring Bridge, starting with Audrey and working back to 1964 when the bridge was completed.”

  Her tone suggested she’d composed the lead in her head so she could try it out on me. My gaze strayed to the purse still sitting on my desk. Did the clasp harbor a teensy-weensy microphone attached to a recorder picking up every word we said? She hadn’t taken out her spiral-bound notebook, but she was clearly in reporter mode. “How did you know Audrey?” she asked.

  “I didn’t. I went to the funeral home with a friend, who was there to pay his respects.”

  “So your friend was a friend of hers?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  She steadied a look on me, one brow rising slightly. “Really. And why is that? Is there something going on?”

  “The woman died. I never met her. Sorry I can’t help you turn her miserable demise into a feature-length article.”

  “Oh, please. You can drop the pious tone. I’m not in it for the sentiment. This is work. I understand there’s a question about whether or not she jumped. If you think I’m exploiting her death, you’re missing the bigger picture.”

  “Let’s just say this. I’m not a good source. You should try someone else.”

  “I did. I spoke to her fiancé. He says he hired you to investigate.”

  “Then I’m sure you understand why I can’t comment.”

  “I don’t know why not when he’s the one who suggested I talk to you.”

  “I thought it was because you saw my name in the guest book and couldn’t wait to chat.”

  Her smile was thin. “I’m sure you’re as interested as I am in finding out what happened to the poor woman. I thought we could team up.”

  “Team up? As in what?”

  “Sharing information. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

  “Uh, no. I think not.”

  “What if it was murder?”

  “Then you can get the inside dope from the cops. In the meantime, don’t you have a string of suicides to research?”

  “I’m not your enemy.”

  I said nothing. I swiveled in my swivel chair, which made a satisfying squeak. In the silence department, I could outlast her, which she must have realized.

  She put the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I’d heard you were difficult, but I had no idea.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  The minute she was gone I picked up the phone and called Marvin. He was in a chatty mood. I was not.

  “Excuse me for cutting in,” I said, “but did you send Diana Alvarez over here to talk to me?”

  “Sure. Nice gal. I figured it would help if we had someone like her on our team. She says newspaper coverage can make a big difference. ‘Huge’ is what she said. You know, getting the word out to the public something fishy’s going on. She said it would encourage people to come forward. Somebody might have seen something without realizing what it was. She suggested I offer a reward.”

  I suppressed the urge to bang my head on the desk. “Marvin, I’ve dealt with her before . . .”

  “I know. She told me. Her brother was murdered so she’s sympathetic to the situation.”

  “She’s as sympathetic as a piranha gnawing on your leg.”

  He laughed. “Good line. I like that. So how’d you do with her? I thought the two of you could brainstorm and come up with a game-plan, maybe develop a few leads.”

  “She’s a bitch. I don’t talk to her about anything.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s your call, but you’re making a mistake. She could do us some good.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to her. Or better yet, she can talk to the police. These are two of the three suggestions I have for her. The third I won’t repeat.”

  “You sound testy.”

  “I am testy,” I said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Actually, there is. I’ve been thinking about this shoplifting stuff and I don’t see that much to get upset about. Sure, Audrey might have lifted a couple of items. I’m willing to concede the point, but so what? It’s not like I approve, but in the greater scheme of things, it’s not that big a deal, right? I’m not whitewashing her actions. All I’m saying is shoplifting’s not the same as knocking off banks.”

  “Oh, really. Well, maybe I can put it in perspective,” I said. “Audrey wasn’t operating on her own. You’re disregarding what I told you before, which is that I saw her working with another woman. Trust me when I tell you, there are others involved. These people are highly organized. They make a regular circuit, moving from town to town, stealing anything that isn’t nailed down.”

  “I can do without the lecture.”

  “No, you can’t. Has anyone ever given you the formula for calculating losses due to retail theft? I learned this years ago at the academy so I may be fuzzy on the math, but what it boils down to is this: the profit margin on each of those pairs of pajamas she stole is roughly five percent.

  “This is after subtracting the cost of the goods, salaries, operating expenses, rent, utilities, and taxes. Which means that out of the $199.95 retail price, the store makes $9.99, which we’ll round off to ten bucks just to keep it simple, okay?”

  “Sure. I can see that.”

  “If you look at the numbers, this means that for every pair of silk pajamas stolen, Nordstrom’s has to make twenty additional sales to break even on the loss of that one. Audrey stole two pairs. Are you following?”

  “So far.”

  “Good, because this is like a thought problem in elementary school, only you have to multiply by thousands because that’s how many shoplifters are out there year after year. And who do you think pays for the losses in the end? We do, because the cost gets passed on. The only difference between Audrey’s crime and the guy who robs banks is that she didn’t use a gun!”

  Then I banged down the phone.

  12

  Henry had encouraged me to park in his driveway while he was out of town. Without his lighted kitchen window to greet me, it felt like the energy had been sucked out of the entire neighborhood. I let myself in to his place. The first thing I did was to put his oven on preheat, just for the scent of warm spices. I did my walkabout in a haze of caramelized sugar and cinnamon, turning on lights where necessary. I checked the kitchen, laundry room, and both baths to make sure pipes hadn’t burst and a gas leak wasn’t threatening to blow the place sky-high. Bedrooms were clear, no broken windows and no signs of forced entry. I took messages off the answering machine, making sure he wasn’t missing anything critical. I went on to water his plants, first sticking a finger down into the potting soil to make sure I wasn’t overdoing it. Sometimes I think routine is everything in life. The weekend would never come and when it did, it would seem endless. My only hope was to retreat to Rosie’s Tavern as often as possible. I fully expected Marvin to fire me for insolence, but so what? It would save me the annoyance of dealing with Diana Alvarez.

  I turned off the oven, doused the lights, and locked up. I stopped in at my place long enough to turn on table lamps and avail myself of the facilities. Then I walked to Rosie’s, where I ordered a glass of Chardonnay and a bite to eat. Dinner wasn’t the worst example I’ve had of Rosie’s cooking, but it was a fair approximation. In the dazzling rotation of dishes in her madcap cuisine, she presents me with a corker on an average of once a month.

  I chatted with William, gave my compliments to th
e chef, said a brief hello to a couple of people I knew, and scurried out the door. By the time I let myself into my place, it was 7:00. I’d managed to kill an hour. Big whoopee-do. This was April. It wouldn’t be full dark until close to nine, so leaving lights on for myself was evidence of my optimism, thinking I could while away an entire evening with one glass of wine and a plate of pork and sauerkraut. Fortunately, my message light was blinking and I fell on the play button like it might provide communication from outer space.

  Marvin said, “Hey, Kinsey. This is Marvin.” In the background I could hear the clatter of dishes, the clinking of glasses, and more laughter than was probably warranted by the conversation under way. He had to be calling from the Cheers-type bar where he’d met Audrey. There was a sudden surge of guffaws. I had to squint and press a hand against one ear to pick up his end of the call.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said and I understand where you’re coming from. You don’t want this Alvarez woman messing with your investigation, which is understandable. We’re talking about professional integrity and I admire that. Your point about shoplifting versus a bank heist, well, I get that too. This is the first I’ve ever been exposed to any kind of crime and it’s hard to put it all in context. Whyn’t you call me and we’ll talk. I still want you to drive up to Audrey’s place in San Luis Obispo. Get back to me when you can.”

  Well, that sucked. How was I supposed to hang on to righteous anger when he’d totally surrendered? It would be politic to head over to the bar and have a heart-to-heart with the man . . . and more important, with Audrey’s friends. Problem was, no one had mentioned the name of the place. All I knew was that it was somewhere in Marvin’s neighborhood. I pulled out the telephone book and looked him up, and for once scored a hit. Often the phone book is a waste of time, but not in this case. I made a note of his address, which was on the far side of town, just at the big bend on State Street before it becomes Holloway. I debated a change of clothes but decided against it. I looked fine as I was. Jeans, boots, and a turtleneck. I was looking for a neighborhood bar, not a pickup joint. I shrugged into a denim jacket, slung my bag over one shoulder, and went out to my car.