V is for Vengeance

16

I waited until the Horton Ravine patrol car had pulled away. It was five minutes to eight and the cavalcade of arriving students had slowed to a trickle. I stayed at my post until 8:15 and then picked up my sign and tossed it into the backseat of the station wagon. Then I drove up the hill to Climping Academy and sailed into the parking lot. I cruised the rows of BMWs, Mercedes, and Volvos, and finally spotted the black sedan. The lot was full and I was forced to park in a slot intended for the vice principal. I left my engine running while I doubled back on foot. The girl had locked the car, which forestalled my rooting through the glove compartment for the registration and proof of insurance. I wrote down the license number, which was actually a vanity plate that read HOT CHIK. The frame on the plate was a match for the one Maria had pointed out as she wound and rewound the CCTV tape.

Now that I’d found the car, I had two choices. If I drove to the nearest pay phone, I could call Cheney Phillips and ask him to run the plate through his work computer. This would net me the name and address of the registered owner in a relatively short period of time. Strictly speaking, however, it’s against department policy, perhaps even illegal, to tap into the system for personal reasons. I was also acutely aware of Len Priddy’s presence in all of this. If I called Cheney, he’d want to know why I needed the information. The minute I told him I was on the track of Audrey’s shoplifting partner, he’d expect to be brought up to speed. Whatever I told him, even if I were vague and evasive, would go straight to Len Priddy, who was working the shoplifting angle for the Santa Teresa Police Department. While I know it’s very, very naughty to withhold information from law enforcement, I thought it wise to leave Cheney out of the equation and, thus, reduce the chances of Len Priddy getting wind of my pursuit.

My other option was to wait until school was out and tail the girl when she left. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of lurking on campus until classes were dismissed. I certainly couldn’t leave my car where it was. The vice principal was bound to show up and how could I explain my poaching her spot? I decided to take off and return closer to the time when classes ended for the day. If the girl ducked out early, I’d be screwed. I could always come back in the morning and count cars again, but I wasn’t sure how far I could push my EPA charade. Faux officer B. Allen might consult the Horton Ravine rule book, bone up on the regulations, and chase me off if he saw me again.

I surveyed my immediate surroundings. Tall hedges separated the parking lot from the administration building, with its second- and third-floor classrooms. No faces in the windows. No sign of a campus security guard. No students arriving late. I hunkered by the rear passenger side of the Mercedes and let the air out of the tire. I then went around and deflated the tire on the driver’s side. I figured when school was out and my honor roll student discovered the two flats, she’d call the automobile club or a parent to come pick her up. In either case, the delay would allow me a clear field. All the other students and faculty would be gone, and I could linger near the entrance to Horton Ravine until my quarry appeared.

I returned to my car and went home. I left Henry’s station wagon in the drive and let myself into my studio. I changed out of my uniform, which I hung in the closet, and substituted jeans. On my way out the door, I picked up the morning paper and shoved it in the outside pocket of my shoulder bag. Once at the office, I let myself in and gathered up the mail from the day before. I put on a pot of coffee. I had bolted down a quick bowl of cereal that morning before I left for Horton Ravine, but I hadn’t had my coffee or a chance to catch up on the news. While the coffee brewed, I took my leftover Fritos from the bottom drawer of my desk and put them in my bag. When I returned to my vigil in Horton Ravine, waiting for the girl to leave school, I’d have them with me to munch on.

Satisfied with my preparations, I settled at my desk and opened the paper. The first article that caught my eye, front page, left-hand column, had been filed under Diana Alvarez’s byline.

Police Launch Inquiry into Suicide Victim’s Link to Organized Crime

In the space of one sentence, I could see she’d abandoned the usual reporter imperatives-who, what, when, where, and how-and jacked up the tone for maximum emotional appeal.

The April 24 suicide of Audrey Vance, 63, was first thought to be the unfortunate consequence of her arrest on shoplifting charges two days before. Her fiancé, Marvin Striker, was shocked when the police arrived at his door to inform him that her body had been recovered from treacherous terrain off Highway 154. Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s K-9 unit and a search-and-rescue team were summoned to the scene when a passing motorist, Ethan Anderson, of Lompoc, noticed the victim’s car parked near the bridge. When he stopped to investigate, he found the vehicle unlocked with the keys in the ignition. A woman’s handbag and high heels had been neatly placed on the front seat. “I knew right then we had a problem on our hands,” Anderson said. Queried about a suicide note, authorities indicated later there was none.

Striker, while vehemently refuting the notion that his bride-to-be would intentionally harm herself, admitted she’d reacted with extreme emotional distress to recent events. Vance, who died Sunday after a fall from the Cold Spring Bridge, had been apprehended April 22 at Nordstrom department store after a local private investigator, Kinsey Millhone, witnessed the theft of several hundred dollars’ worth of lingerie and reported the incident to sales clerk Claudia Rines. According to reports, Rines, who declined to be interviewed for this article, notified Nordstrom’s loss-prevention officer, Charles Koslo, who detained the alleged shoplifter in the mall after electronically tagged goods concealed in a shopping bag tripped an alarm. Vance was subsequently taken into custody and charged with grand theft.

Letitia Jackson, public relations officer for the Santa Teresa Police Department, confirmed a report that a physical search of Vance by custodial officers revealed the presence of specially designed undergarments, known as booster gear, in which additional stolen merchandise had been hidden. Pressed for a response, Koslo said he wasn’t at liberty to comment because he hadn’t read the police report and wasn’t a party to all the facts in the case. “We extend heartfelt condolences to her loved ones,” Koslo was quoted as saying.

Marvin Striker, 65, who was newly engaged to Ms. Vance, has asserted repeatedly that his fiancéé would never have taken her own life. “Audrey was the last person in the world who’d consider such a step.” Asked to speculate whether her death was accidental or the result of foul play, Striker said, “That’s what I intend to find out.” Striker contacted Millhone, of Millhone Investigations, after a mutual acquaintance told him of her connection to the shoplifting incident. It was Millhone who suggested that Vance might be part of an organized retail crime ring operating in Santa Teresa and surrounding counties.

When questioned, Santa Teresa Vice Detective Leonard Priddy said his department was looking into the allegation. “As far as I know, there’s no truth to the rumor, which from our perspective appears to be purely fanciful.” Priddy said a full-scale investigation was under way but that he was confident no evidence of gang activity would surface. Millhone did not return repeated phone calls requesting comment.

Vance is the eighteenth Santa Teresa County resident to plunge to her death. Caltrans representative Wilson Carter called the loss of lives resulting from individuals jumping from the 400-foot-high bridge a “regrettable and entirely preventable tragedy.” Statistical studies show that barriers erected on comparable structures contribute significantly to the reduction in suicide attempts. Carter further stated, “The long-term emotional and financial toll as a direct result of suicide offers a compelling argument for the construction of such a barrier, which has long been under discussion by state and county officials.”

A bereaved Striker expressed the hope that his loss, however painful, might spur renewed interest in the project. In the meantime, the probe into the circumstances surrounding Vance’s death suggests few if any answers to the sad and troubling questions generated by her fall from a bridge where so many have ended their lives in despair and isolation.

My entire body was engulfed in heat. Diana Alvarez had slanted the truth, insinuating actions and attitudes I had no way to refute. It didn’t surprise me she’d talked to a Santa Teresa Police Department vice detective. The fact that it was Len Priddy was just my bad luck, unless she’d somehow picked up on his disdain for me. His use of the terms “allegation” and “purely fanciful” in the same sentence suggested I was deluded. It was obvious he considered me a buffoon. She’d also implied that Claudia and I were deliberately ducking her inquiries into a sensitive matter of importance to the community at large.

The woman was dangerous. I hadn’t understood before the power of her position. She could present the so-called facts in any light she wanted, using neutral-sounding language to drive her point home. How many times had I read similar accounts and taken the contents at face value? The gospel according to Diana Alvarez was anything she wanted the public to believe. She was sticking it up my nose because she knew I had no way to fight back. She hadn’t defamed me and nothing she’d said had been libelous. Taking issue with her would only make me appear defensive, which would further her views.

I got up and walked back to the kitchenette. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I had to hold the mug with two hands to keep the surface steady. I carried the coffee back to my desk, wondering how soon my phone would start to ring. What I was graced with instead was a visit from Marvin Striker, who had a copy of the paper tucked under one arm.

He looked as dapper as ever. Even in the midst of fuming, I had to admire the conservative dress code to which he adhered. No jeans and flannel shirts for him. He wore dark slacks, a muted sport coat, a white dress shirt, and a gray wool tie. His shoes were polished and he smelled of aftershave. In an earlier age, he would have been known as a dandy, or a swell, or a man about town.

He noticed the paper lying on my desk, which saved him beating around the bush. “I see you read the article, same as me. So what did you think?”

“You come off looking a lot better than I do, that’s for sure,” I said. “I told you she was a troublemaker.”

I gestured him into a chair.

He sat down, posture erect, his hands on his knees. “I’m not sure I’d call her a troublemaker. Granted, she’s got a different point of view, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong. Like she says, she’s looking at the bigger picture. I already got two calls this morning, wanting me to sign a petition in support of the suicide-prevention barrier.”

“Oh, come on, Marvin. That’s a smokescreen. She’s using the issue to stick it up my nose. She doesn’t like it that I won’t jump when she says jump.”

He stirred uneasily. “I can see you’re taking this personally, which is a mistake in my opinion. I understand you don’t like criticism. None of us want to be held up to public scrutiny, so I don’t fault you for that.”

I waited. He made no response. I said, “Finish the sentence. You don’t fault me for that so what do you fault me for?”

“Well, you know… that vice detective didn’t exactly endorse your point of view. About Audrey and this gang stuff.”

“Because he’s just like Diana Alvarez, thrilled at the chance to cast me in a bad light.”

“Why would he do that?”

I waved the question aside. “It’s not worth getting into. It’s ancient history. I won’t claim he hates me. That would be an exaggeration. Let’s just say he dislikes me and the feeling’s mutual.”

“I gathered as much. I mean, I wasn’t sure how well you knew the guy, but he didn’t come across as a big fan of yours.”

“He was a friend of my ex-husband’s, who was also a cop. Believe me, there’s no love lost between us. I think he’s a creep.”

Marvin’s right knee began a subtle jumping that he stilled with one hand. “Yes, well, that’s an item I thought we should cover while we’re at it. You don’t like Diana Alvarez and now it turns out you don’t like the vice detective. No offense, but it sounds like they don’t like you either.”

“Of course they don’t. That’s the point I just made.”

“Which presents me with a problem. The newspaper gal I don’t care about so much as this vice cop, what’s his name.”

“Priddy.”

“Right. If you’ll remember our initial conversation, you said I should hire you because they considered you a professional. Now it looks like that’s not true.”

“He doesn’t consider me a professional at any rate,” I said.

“So that has me wondering.”

“About what?”

“If you’re the best person for the job. I thought we could kick the subject back and forth between us. I’m curious what you have to say for yourself.”

“I’ve said my piece. You want to fire me, fire me.”

“I never said anything about firing you,” he said, aggrieved.

“I thought I’d save you some time. No need to dance around the subject. You want me gone, I’m gone.”

“Don’t be in such a rush. Thing is, I don’t question your qualifications or your sincerity. It’s just the police don’t believe there’s anything to this business about a shoplifting gang. You have to admit it sounds farfetched, which I’ve said all along.”

“I’m not going to argue. You know why? Because it would sound self-serving, like I’m promoting my theory to protect my job. You’re the boss. You can believe anything you want. Audrey was an angel, falsely arrested, and falsely charged. She didn’t throw herself off the bridge, she tripped and fell.”

“Now you’re twisting my words. I accept Audrey stole things. I already gave you that the last time we talked. It’s this notion there was more going on, like this big conspiracy. The cop isn’t buying it and he should know, don’t you think?”

“Marvin, she had hundreds of dollars’ worth of stolen items in her underwear, which was specifically designed for just that purpose. Shoplifting wasn’t a hobby. She was a pro.”

“That doesn’t mean she was part of an organized ring. The cop pretty much said the whole idea was bogus.”

“Len Priddy would scoff at anything I said. You have no idea how contemptuous he is of me.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You go forward, he’s not going to cooperate, which means you and the cops are working at cross-purposes.”

“What do you want to do? Just give me the bottom line here and let’s get on with it.”

He shrugged, apparently not wanting to be pinned down without agonizing first. This was Marvin’s version of playing fair. “I thought we should toss around some possibilities, like maybe you could confine your questions to how she died and leave the other part to the police.”

“If you think her death was a homicide, the sheriff’s department is in a better position to investigate than I am. They’ll bend over backward finding out what went on. I’m coming at events from the other end, trying to figure out what she was involved in and whether that got her killed.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t feel right to me.”

“It doesn’t feel right to me either.”

“There’s gotta be a compromise. We split the difference, as it were, so you get what you want and I do too.”

“This is a business arrangement. Compromise doesn’t come into it. I think it’s cleaner and more honest if we part company. No harm, no foul. You go your way and I go mine. We shake hands and walk away.”

“I have a lot of respect for you.”

“Uh-hun. Right.”

“No, I mean it. So how about this? Go ahead and work off the money I paid you and then we’ll talk. That way, I don’t come off looking like I’m disloyal or a cheapskate.”

“You’re not a cheapskate. Don’t be ridiculous. Who said that?”

“Diana mentioned maybe I was reluctant to cut ties because you might not give my retainer back and I didn’t want to be out the bucks.”

“Why don’t we leave her out of it, okay? Because here’s the issue as far as I’m concerned. I don’t think you should pay me when you’re so clearly convinced I’ve got my head up my ass. If you think I’m on the wrong track, it’s a waste of your money and my time to go on with this. It’s a vote of no confidence.”

“I have confidence in you, just not the tack you’re taking. Problem is, you could turn out to be right and then how would it look if I, you know, terminated your employment?”

“I can’t help how you look to other people. I can appreciate the bind you’re in and I’m letting you off the hook.”

“Then why do I feel bad? I don’t like feeling bad.”

“Fine. If it makes you feel bad, you don’t have to make the decision right now. Take your time. Whatever you want, I’ll be cool with it. We can’t keep going around and around like this.”

“In that case, I gotta go back to my original proposition. How about you work off the dough I paid you up front? You can spend your time any way you want. You don’t even have to itemize where you went or what you did. Your prerogative entirely. Money runs out, we’ll talk just like this and you can tell me what you found.”

“You don’t have to humor me.”

“No, no. That’s not where I’m coming from. I’m fine with this,” he said. “How much time have you put in so far?”

“I have no idea. I’d have to go back and calculate.”

“Then figure it out and whatever time you have left, use as you see fit. We have a deal?”

I stared at him for a moment. I didn’t like any of it, but I didn’t want Diana Alvarez and Len Priddy lording it over me.

I said, “Sure.”

We fumbled the conversation to a close and left the conflict with neither one of us at peace. The whole complexion of the game had changed. On the surface, it looked the same. I had the younger woman in my sights. Another half a day and I’d know where she lived and from that I could find out who she was. Sooner or later, she’d tip her hand. Inevitably, I’d reach a point where I’d be operating on my own dime. But so what? Even if I ended up with egg on my face, there are worse things than that. The little cynical voice in me piped up, saying, “Oh, yeah? Name one.”

Aloud, I said, “Letting the bad guys win.”

At 2:45 I parked just outside the entrance to Horton Ravine, angling the station wagon so the long drive up to Climping Academy was in plain view. I couldn’t imagine a tow truck driver opting to remove the disabled Mercedes through the rear entrance to the Ravine, but I was prepared to follow him either way. In the meantime, since I wasn’t actually in Horton Ravine, I was beyond the jurisdiction of the proto-cop. He’d been nice enough on our first encounter, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I shut down my engine and removed a map of California from the glove compartment. I opened the map fully and laid it across the steering wheel, hoping I looked like a tourist who’d pulled off the road to get her bearings. I turned on the radio, tuning in to a station that played hit songs twenty-four hours a day. I listened to two Michael Jackson cuts and then Whitney Houston’s “Where Do Broken Hearts Go.” The DJ announced she’d just knocked Billy Ocean out of the number one spot. I didn’t know if this was good news or bad.

At 3:00 the cars began their exodus, pouring down the hill from Climping, one luxury vehicle after another. When I was in high school, I’d used public transportation. Aunt Gin had a fifteen-year-old Oldsmobile that she used to get back and forth to work. In those days, teenagers had no rights and no sense of entitlement. We knew we were second-class citizens, entirely at the mercy of adults. There were kids who had their own cars, but it wasn’t the norm. The rest of us knew better than to bitch. I pictured this crop of youngsters, not spoiled so much as unaware of how fortunate they were.

Three thirty came and went, and just when I was getting worried, a tow truck approached from my left, passed me, and headed up the hill. In my mind’s eye, I could see the parking lot, which would be largely deserted by now. The damsel in distress would be easy to spot. The driver would pull up in the empty lane and get out of his truck. The girl would explain the problem while gesturing at the tires. I could picture him hunkering down to have a look, quickly realizing, as she must have, that human mischief was at the root. I’d left the two valve caps on the pavement, one sitting neatly beside each flat tire. She was bound to have spotted them, and if she’d complained about being the victim of a prank, the driver had probably brought along a portable air compressor. It would be a simple matter then of his inflating one tire at a time and screwing the valve caps back into place. This would take no more than three minutes, maybe four taking into account the back-and-forth of polite conversation.

I checked my watch, fired up my engine, and turned off the radio. I looked up as though cued and said, “Ah!” because there came the tow truck, turning right at the foot of the hill. The Mercedes followed. Though I knew the upscale private school drew students from all over the city, I’d assumed the girl lived somewhere in Horton Ravine. However, instead of turning left and heading into the heart of the Ravine, she took a right as well. I kept my face averted, making a serious study of the map still open in front of me. She didn’t know me from Adam, but on the off chance we crossed paths in the future, I didn’t want her making the connection. The tow truck passed me, slowed at the intersection, and took a right. She was two car lengths behind. I was already folding up the map, which I left on the passenger seat. As soon as she’d cleared the intersection, I checked for oncoming traffic, made an illegal U-turn, and followed her.

The tow truck continued on across the freeway overpass. The Mercedes moved into the right lane. The girl took the 101 on-ramp and merged with the stream of speeding cars heading south. I slowed, adjusting my speed to allow another car between us. Traffic was light and it wasn’t difficult keeping up with her. She stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the off-ramp at Little Pony Road. She got off on the Missile Street exit and kept to the left in preparation for a turn. The car between us sped on. We were both caught at the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp. I could see her adjust the rearview mirror and reapply her lipstick. When the light changed, it took her a moment to register the fact. I was patient, not wanting to call attention to myself with even a quick toot of my horn.

She turned left and kept to surface streets, which meant we encountered a stop sign or a stoplight at just about every intersection. I stayed three car lengths behind her. She didn’t seem aware of me, and why would she? There was no reason for her to fret about an old station wagon. I watched her shake her shoulders and bounce on the seat. She lifted her right arm, fingers snapping in time to music audible only to her. I flipped on my radio again, picking up the same pop music station I’d listened to before. I didn’t recognize the female vocalist, but the girl’s car dancing was perfectly synchronized with the song.

She turned left on Santa Teresa Street, drove three blocks, and then turned right on Juniper Lane, which was an abbreviated half block long. Ten yards before reaching the corner, I pulled over to the curb in front of a small green stucco house that fronted on Santa Teresa Street. I shut down the engine and got out, trying to behave as though I were in no particular hurry. There were newspapers piled up on the front porch steps and the letter box bulged with mail. I blessed the householder for being away and at the same time faulted him for not having someone cover the house for him while he was gone. Burglars were now at liberty to break in and help themselves to his coin collection and his wife’s silverware.

I cut across the yard on the diagonal, happy I didn’t have to worry about witnesses. An oversize weeping willow occupied one corner of the lot. Four-foot hedges grew along the edge of the property as far as a detached two-car garage with an apron of concrete in front sufficient to allow guest parking for two.

I peered over the neatly trimmed shrubs. There were only three houses on the far side of Juniper Lane. The centerpiece was a two-story mock Tudor, with a one-story ranch-style house on the left and a one-story board-and-batten cottage on the right. The Mercedes was idling at the entrance to the Tudor. As I watched, the wide wrought-iron gate slid open with a screech of metal on metal, and the black Mercedes sedan turned into the drive. Through the wrought-iron fence I saw the middle of three garage doors rumble up. The girl pulled in and a moment later, the gate slid shut again, squealing as it had before.

I reversed my steps and returned to the car. I unearthed pen and paper from my shoulder bag. I looked to my right and made a note of the street number on the green stucco house where I’d parked. I turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and proceeded to the corner. I turned right and drove at a sedate two miles an hour as was appropriate on a residential street of such short duration. As I passed, I scribbled down house numbers for the three houses on the left: 200, 210, and 216. On the right-hand side of the street there were four houses, respectively numbered 209, 213, 215, and 221. At the end of the block, I turned right and drove to the parking garage adjacent to the public library.