V is for Vengeance

11

Once Marvin left, I set up a file for Audrey Vance. Ordinarily, I’d have had Marvin sign a boilerplate contract, specifying what he’d hired me to do and agreeing to my rates. In this matter, we were operating on a handshake and my assignment was open-ended. He wrote me a check for fifteen hundred dollars as a retainer, against which I’d bill. If my charges exceeded the total, he had the option of authorizing additional expenses. Much would depend on how effective I’d been. I made a copy of his check, tucked it in the file folder, and set the check itself aside to be deposited.

In essence, I was doing a background investigation on a dead woman. In terms of our attitudes, he and I were at odds. I thought he was in denial, resisting the truth about Audrey when it didn’t tally with his hopes. I had my suspicions, but I understood his hanging on to his belief in her innocence. He didn’t want to think he’d been played for a fool. I was convinced she was a professional crook and he’d been duped. I simply hadn’t proved it yet. At the same time, I was irritated with him for being too stubborn to admit he’d fallen in love with a skunk. I’ve done the same thing myself, so if you want to consider the underlying motivation, you might say I was acting in his behalf as a way of taking care of myself. Psychobabble 101. In the past, when I was embroiled with rogues, I’d been as blind as he was and just as intractable. Here, I had a chance to take action instead of sitting around in a stew of misery. Anger is about power. Tears are about weakness. Guess which category I prefer?

I put a call through to Cheney Phillips at the STPD. Cheney was a fabulous resource and usually generous with information. I thought I’d start with him and work forward from there. Lieutenant Becker picked up the call and told me Cheney’d just gone out for lunch. Lunch? I checked my watch, trying to figure out where the morning had gone. It was clear I’d have to go hunting for him. I knew his favorite haunts-three restaurants in a four-block radius, within walking distance of the police department. Since my office was in the area, the trek couldn’t have been easier. I tried the Bistro first, the closest of the three eateries. I struck out there and struck out again at the Sundial Café. My efforts finally paid off at the Palm Garden, which was located in a downtown arcade, replete with art galleries and jewelry stores, leather shops, high-end luggage and travel goods, along with a boutique that sold trendy clothing made of hemp. The palm trees, for which the restaurant was named, survived in large square gray boxes, responding to their cramped conditions by sending out air roots that crept over the edges like worms. Really appetizing if you were sitting next to one.

Cheney was at a table on the patio, accompanied by Sergeant Detective Leonard Priddy, whom I hadn’t seen for years. Len Priddy had been a friend of my first ex-husband, Mickey Magruder, who’d been killed two years earlier. I’d met and married Mickey when I was twenty-one years old. He was fifteen years my senior and working for the Santa Teresa PD. He left the department under a cloud, as they say, accused of police brutality in the beating death of an ex-convict. On the advice of his attorney, he resigned long before he went to trial. Eventually, he was cleared in criminal court, but not before his reputation had sustained major damage. Our marriage, shaky from the start, imploded for largely unrelated reasons. Nonetheless, Priddy had seen my leaving Mickey as my abandoning him when he needed me most. He’d never said as much but on the rare occasions when our paths crossed, he made clear his contempt. Whether his attitude toward me had softened was anybody’s guess.

I’d heard plenty about him because his career had taken a similar left-hand turn after a shooting incident in which a fellow officer had been killed in the course of a drug raid gone sour. Len Priddy was a maverick to begin with, written up on more than one occasion for violations of department policy. Twice he’d been the subject of a citizen’s complaint. During the months-long Internal Affairs investigation, he was suspended with pay. IA finally concluded the shooting was accidental. He’d salvaged his standing with his colleagues, but his career had stalled out. It was nothing you could put your finger on. Rumor had it, if he took an exam, hoping for advancement, his grades weren’t quite good enough and his annual reviews, while acceptable, were never sufficient to rectify the blow to his good name.

Mickey swore he was a stand-up guy, someone you could count on in a fight. I had no reason to doubt him. In those days, there was a posse of cops known as the Priddy Committee-Len’s boys, rowdy, rough, and given to busting heads when they thought they could get away with it. Mickey was one of them. That was the era of the Dirty Harry movies, and cops, despite protests to the contrary, took a secret satisfaction in the lawlessness of the Clint Eastwood character. The department had changed radically over the years, and while Priddy had hung on, he hadn’t been promoted since. Most cops in his position would have moved on to other work, but Len came from a long line of police officers, and he was too identified with the job to do anything else.

In Priddy’s company, Cheney seemed to take on a different coloration. Or maybe my perception was affected by my knowledge of Priddy’s notoriety. Whatever the case, I was tempted to avoid the pair, postponing the conversation with Cheney until later. On the other hand, I’d searched him out in hopes of getting the lowdown on Audrey Vance, and it seemed cowardly to veer off when he was only fifteen feet away.

Cheney spotted me as I approached and stood up by way of greeting. Priddy glanced in my direction and then diverted his gaze. He made a faint show of acknowledgment and then became absorbed in the packet of sugar he was tapping into his iced tea.

Cheney and I had once had what is euphemistically referred to as a “fling,” meaning a short-lived dalliance without any lasting effect. We were now studiously polite, behaving as though we’d never trifled with each other when we were both hyperconscious of the once-fiery exchange. He said, “Hey, Kinsey. How’s it going? You know Len?”

“From way back. Good to see you.” I didn’t offer to shake hands with him and Len didn’t bother to rise from his chair.

Priddy said, “I didn’t realize you were still around.” As though my past ten years as a PI had completely slipped his mind.

“Still hangin’ in there,” I replied.

Cheney pulled a chair back. “Have a seat. You want to join us for lunch? We’re waiting for Len’s girlfriend so we haven’t ordered yet.”

“Thanks, but I’m here to ask a couple of questions that shouldn’t take long. I’m sure you have things to talk about.”

Cheney took his seat again and I perched on the edge of the chair he’d offered just to put myself at eye level with the two men.

“So what’s up?” he asked.

“I’m curious about Audrey Vance, the woman who-”

“We know who she is,” Priddy cut in. “What’s the nature of your interest?”

“Ah. Well, as it happens I was a witness to the shoplifting incident that resulted in her arrest.”

Priddy said, “Good news. I caught that. I’m working vice these days. Cold Spring Bridge is county so the sheriff’s department is looking into her death. You have questions about that, you ought to talk to them. I’m sure you have a lot of good friends out there.”

“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 wrinkles. 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.