V is for Vengeance

19

Saturday morning, 6:00 A.M., I was back at my post. I’d managed four hours of sleep, after which I showered, dressed, and headed to the upper east side of town. En route, I stopped at McDonald’s and picked up a large coffee, an orange juice, and an Egg McMuffin. Before long, the coffee and OJ would send me in search of a public restroom, but I had to risk it for the moment. In times past, during surveillance work, I’ve used a tennis ball can for urinary emergencies. This was unsatisfactory. For women, strategy is problematic when it comes to body functions. Aim and positioning are more art than science, and I’d been wondering, of late, if a Rubbermaid food container wouldn’t be superior. Wide mouth, with an airtight lid. I was still running the pros and cons on the notion.

When I pulled around the corner onto Juniper Lane, I parked on the same side of the street as the Prestwicks’ mock Tudor house. I stationed myself fifty feet away from the driveway, which kept me just outside their visual range. Or such was my hope. It was still dark out and as I settled in to wait, I saw headlights swing around the corner from Santa Teresa Street. A car approached, moving at a crawl. I slouched down on my spine, peering out at the street under the lower edge of the screen. Even with the screen in place, I knew I’d be visible if someone passing turned to look directly at me.

I saw a newspaper fly out of the car window. I heard a thwop when it landed and then the car moved on. At the next house down, a second paper sailed out and into the yard. When the driver turned the corner at the end of the block, I got out and scurried around the side of the green stucco house. I plucked a plastic-wrapped newspaper from the steps and scurried back. In the car again, I removed the plastic sleeve and placed it on the passenger seat beside my camera and my clipboard. I made a note of the time in the interest of record keeping. There was no real imperative for me to do so. In theory, I was working off the hours Marvin had paid for, but he’d told me I could use the time any way that suited me without accounting to him. At this point, I was in it for the pleasure of the game, though I couldn’t afford to do so indefinitely. I had a business to run and bills to pay, matters I wasn’t at liberty to ignore.

When it was light out, I read the paper, occasionally peering through the holes Henry’d cut in the screen. Not that there was anything to see. I searched for a Diana Alvarez byline, but she’d apparently fired off her best shot. There were already six letters to the editor commenting on the subject of the proposed suicide barrier, half in favor and half against. Everybody was indignant about the opinions and points of view that didn’t line up with their own.

For the next three hours, I watched the neighborhood come to life. A jogger trotted into view on Santa Teresa Street, moving left to right. Three women walked their dogs, moving in the opposite direction. Two guys bicycled past in skintight bicycle shorts and what were surely shaved legs. It served no purpose to think about how bored I was. I went through my index cards, which I’d just about memorized. Surveillance is not for the fainthearted or for those dependent on external stimulation.

For a brief period, I filled in what I could of the crossword puzzle in the local paper, a version Henry disdains as too simpleminded. He likes thorny puzzles based on common sayings spelled backward, or puzzles where all the answers have a tricky common link-birds of a feather, for instance, or famous last words. I got stuck on 2 Down: “Patron deity of Ur.” What kind of person knows shit like that? It made me feel dumb and uninformed.

Idly, I registered a shriek of metal on metal and when I looked up, I realized the Prestwicks’ front gate was sliding open. The black Mercedes eased out of the driveway and into the street. I squinted through the hole in the cardboard screen and caught a flash of blond as the driver turned right. Mother or daughter, I wasn’t sure which. As she slowed at the corner and took a second right onto Santa Teresa Street, I turned the key in the ignition. I snatched the screen off the windshield and tossed it over the seat. I headed after her at a modest rate of speed, hoping not to call attention to myself.

At the corner, I nosed the station wagon forward and caught the dull red glow of two taillights a block down on my right. She’d reached the T at Orchard Road and stopped for two cars that were speeding around the bend. She turned left toward State Street. I gunned it to the end of the block and took the same left she had. The Mercedes waited at the four-way stop, allowing cross traffic to pass. She turned right. I goosed it again and reached the four-way stop moments after she had. I turned right, straining for sight of her.

This end of State Street became livelier as it bore west. After a string of apartment buildings and condominiums, the area was given over to small storefront businesses. At the next light, a supermarket on the left anchored a strip mall that didn’t have much else to recommend it. In another three blocks, I’d pass Down the Hatch, where I’d met Marvin three nights before.

I expected the Mercedes to keep moving, but her left-hand turn signal began to blink. When the light changed, she turned onto the side street that bordered the supermarket parking lot. Commercial establishments in this part of town seemed to go from “Grand Opening” to “Liquidation Sale, Everything Must Go” without much in between. I kept well back as I followed her into the parking lot. She proceeded to the far aisle and came to a stop in front of a large metal donation bin, painted white with an oversize heart outlined in red. The lid of her Mercedes trunk popped up.

I reached for my camera, focused, and started clicking off pictures. I captured her image as she got out and left the car idling while she went around to the rear. I was happy to note this was Georgia and not her daughter. She hauled out two bulging black plastic garbage bags and dumped them in the bin. She must have done a closet cleaning, which I was due for myself. She slid back under the steering wheel and circled the parking lot until she found a spot. She went into the supermarket without a backward glance. I set my camera aside. I didn’t believe her actions were crime related, but it’s good to be alert and even better to keep in practice.

I found a parking spot two aisles away, locked my car, and followed her into the store. It was a sunny Saturday morning, and I figured I had just as much right as she did to go grocery shopping. She had no reason to think she’d run into me. Having bested me, she’d probably dismissed me from memory. The store was crowded and there were any number of areas where I could loiter if necessary, casually reading the nutritional content of whatever foodstuffs were close by. I walked the width of the store, glancing down each aisle in turn. By the time I saw Georgia, she was in the produce department, squeezing avocados. I left the store by the nearest exit. It was just shy of 10:00, so the other stores in the mall were still closed.

A few minutes later, she emerged with her cart. I turned and made an earnest study of the nearest storefront, which turned out to be Santa Teresa Prosthetics and Orthotics. There wasn’t much to see as (perhaps) the owners had thought better of creating a window display made up entirely of false feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Georgia load groceries into her car. While her attention was occupied, I returned to the station wagon. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to trail after her for an entire roster of Saturday chores. I was willing to tag along, but even a vehicle as nondescript as Henry’s would warrant notice with repeated sightings.

She pulled out of the lot and turned left on State Street, moving toward the La Cuesta Shopping Plaza. I felt my interest perk up, thinking she might go into Robinson’s and launch a madcap shoplifting spree. Instead, she drove into the mall parking lot along the back side of a row of shops and pulled up to another white donation bin that bore a big heart outlined in red. The lot was filling rapidly and I pulled into the nearest available spot within range of her. I reached for my camera and snapped photos of her as she popped open her trunk, walked around to the rear, and removed two more bulging black garbage bags that she dropped into the bin. Whatever the name of the charity, the bins were identical, and I couldn’t figure out why she needed two. Surely there wasn’t a limit on how much used clothing one could contribute at one time. I waited while she returned to her car and pulled out of the lot. I was more interested in what she’d dumped than where she intended to go next.

The minute she was out of sight, I grabbed my camera and proceeded to the bin. HELPING HEARTS, HEALING HANDS was written in curlicue letters around the border of the heart. I took two photographs of the logo. No address and no phone number. There wasn’t even a disclaimer forbidding idlers from helping themselves to all the secondhand shoes, clothing, and assorted household items. I was on the verge of lifting the lid so I could see what was in the plastic bags when a white panel truck approached and pulled up at the curb. HELPING HEARTS, HEALING HANDS was writ large on the side.

Casually, I moved away from the bin and walked toward the entrance to the mall. I resisted the urge to turn around to see what was going on behind me. I rounded the corner into one of the side avenues and then peered back at the panel truck. The driver had propped up the bin’s lid with one hand while he removed first one and then the other garbage bag and set them on the walk beside him. He dropped the lid with a bang and carried both bags to the back of his truck. He tossed them in and slammed the rear doors. I withdrew from his line of sight. Shortly after that, I heard the driver’s-side door slam shut with a muted bang.

I kept my camera at the ready, and when the truck crossed my line of vision, moving toward the exit, I stepped out onto the walkway and took pictures of the back end. There was no license plate. I made a beeline for my car, but by the time I started the engine and pulled out, the panel truck had merged with passing traffic and disappeared.

I doubted the charity was legitimate. The name itself was so saccharine, it almost had to be a cover for a racket of some kind. At least it gave me a lead. In California, any organization claiming nonprofit status has to file articles of incorporation, listing the corporation’s address, the name and address of a “registered agent,” and the names of the directors. This was all part of the public record, available to anyone. I closed my eyes and patted my chest, mimicking a heartbeat. How much better could it get? One quick moment of payoff for all the hours I’d put in.

If I was right, Georgia’s job was to collect stolen merchandise and drop the goods in donation bins for retrieval by her cohorts. Audrey’s landlady had mentioned the presence of a white panel truck on the occasions when Audrey was staying in her little rented house. I was guessing the driver was responsible for collecting the bags and delivering them to San Luis Obispo. In the past, Audrey had worked every other weekend. Her death had doubtless disrupted the routine, but maybe the gang was back in the swing and ready to carry on. It was possible my conclusion was wrong, but I couldn’t think of another explanation that made quite as much sense. I put my surveillance on hold. I’d have to test my suspicions, but meanwhile, I didn’t want my cover blown.

I drove back into town and made another stop at the public library and proceeded to the reference department, where I checked both the current phone book and the current city directory for Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. No listing under “Charities.” Nothing under “Social Service Organizations,” “Women’s Shelters,” “Churches,” or “Rescue Missions.” I wasn’t surprised. I had other avenues to explore, but this was Saturday morning, which meant that all the usual sources-the Hall of Records, the courthouse, the tax assessor’s office-would be closed. I’d be back in business Monday morning, but for now I was out of luck.

On the way home, I did a supermarket run for essentials and then spent a few minutes putting groceries away. I started a load of laundry and would have gone on in this thrilling vein-scrubbing toilets, vacuuming-if not for the ringing of my telephone. I picked up and found Vivian Hewitt on the line.

I said, “Hey, Vivian. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home, but something’s come up. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all. What’s happening?”

“I did something I shouldn’t have and now I don’t know how to make it right.”

“Wow, I’m all ears,” I said.

“You’re going to think I’m awful.”

“Would you just get on with it?”

“I will, but you won’t like it.”

“Vivian…”

“Friday morning, Rafe left on a fishing trip and he won’t be back until Sunday night.”

“I see.”

“I’m just telling you why he’s not here to help me sort this out. Yesterday when I went over to Audrey’s to meet the locksmith, a delivery truck pulled in. Someone overnighted a package to Audrey and the driver needed a signature. When I said she wasn’t there, he asked if I’d sign for it and I agreed.”

I said, “Ah.”

“I don’t know what got into me. It was one of those situations where an opportunity presented itself and I took advantage. Now I’m thinking what I did was wrong.”

“You know, I’m not exactly the person to consult when it comes to tricky ethical issues. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.”

“But what am I supposed to do now? I feel so guilty. Rafe would have a fit if he knew.”

“It’s no big deal. Why don’t you call the company and tell them you made a mistake? Have them come pick up the package and return it to the sender.”

“I thought of that myself. The problem is I didn’t pay attention to the name of the courier so I have no idea who to call.”

“Isn’t there a label that gives the name?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“What about the locksmith? You think he’d remember?”

“He was changing the lock on the back door, so he didn’t see the truck.”

“Did you look in the yellow pages?”

“I did, but none of the names looked familiar. That’s the reason I called. I could open the package, but I didn’t want to do anything without talking to you first in case you wanted to be on hand.”

“Go ahead and open it. There’s no point in my driving up if it’s trivial. Are we talking about a box or a padded envelope?”

“A box, a big one, and sealed with so much packing tape it might as well be waterproof. Hold on a minute. I’m putting the phone down so I can tackle this. I can’t tell you how relieved I am you didn’t condemn what I did.”

“I’m happy to offer absolution if it makes you feel better,” I said.

I listened to a stretch of Vivian breathing and making remarks to herself, a running account of her progress, accompanied by the sound of paper tearing. “Okay, got the wrapping off. Oh, rats. The box is taped shut around the edges. Let me get a kitchen knife.”

A silence while she labored and then she said, “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ meaning what?”

“I’ve never seen so much cash in my life.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I pushed the speed limit and an hour and a half later, I rang the bell and she opened the door, her face pale and drawn. She peered at the street behind me and hurried me in. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, saying, “Things just got worse.”

“What now?”

She moved to the living room windows and lowered the shades. “After we hung up, I assembled my embroidery supplies. I have my stitching group at three and my cousin is picking me up a few minutes before. I wanted to have everything ready.”

I made a rolling gesture with one hand, hoping she’d get to the point. “Next thing I knew, someone knocked on my door.”

“Why am I thinking Uh-oh? Was this the courier?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t say so, but he implied he was. He said a package had been delivered erroneously and he’d come to pick it up.”

“Erroneously? He actually said that?”

“He did and it seemed like an odd choice of words. Aside from the fact he wasn’t wearing a uniform, I couldn’t see handing over all that cash to a man I’d never laid eyes on. It didn’t seem right.”

“So far, so good. I can’t wait to hear what you did.”

“I told him I didn’t have it. I said I notified the company a package was delivered to the wrong address and they picked it up half an hour before.”

“And he believed you?”

“I suppose. He didn’t seem happy, but there wasn’t much he could do.”

“Ah. So he didn’t know you’d opened it.”

“He might have. The box was sitting right there.”

I looked over at the dining room table, which was clearly visible from where I stood. She’d placed the lid upside down on the box to conceal the cash, but the wrapping paper was in plain sight. I crossed to the table and set the lid to one side. I stared at the money with the same admiration and disbelief she’d expressed on the phone. I nudged the brown paper wrapping, turning it over with the kitchen knife she’d used to cut the tape. The return address was a post office box in Santa Monica. I copied the number into my notebook and returned to a study of the cash. “How much do you think we’re looking at?”

“No telling, but I don’t think we should touch anything.”

“Hey, I’m with you. I don’t want my fingerprints showing up on this thing. Bad enough you handled the package before we knew what it was.”

The box was roughly twelve by twelve by twelve, packed with bundles of bills, the uppermost of which were hundreds.

Vivian said, “What do you think we should do?”

“Turn it over to the police.”

“And say what? Isn’t it against the law to intercept someone else’s mail?”

“Good point. It’s federal. I’ve done it lots of times but never netted anything like this. On the other hand, anyone who claimed the cash would have some serious explaining to do.”

“What about me? I can’t claim I just happened to come across it on Audrey’s porch, because the driver knows I signed for it and he put it in my hands.”

“You’ll just have to level with them.”

“I will? Why not you?”

“Look at the logic here. Audrey’s dead. You’re her landlady, so it’s not out of line for you to pick up her mail, especially when you know she was charged with a crime. Isn’t that why you took the package in the first place?”

“Sort of. It was an impulse-a bad one, as I’d be the first to admit.”

“You did them a service. The police can use the return address to trace the package back to its origin.”

“This is making me nervous. I still don’t see why you can’t take care of it.”

“Nope. Don’t think so,” I said.

I was already picturing myself showing up in Cheney Phillips’s office with the contraband cash, which was most assuredly connected to Audrey’s shoplifting, which meant that Len Priddy would be apprised of it, which meant I’d be subject to the scrutiny of a man who didn’t like me to begin with. At the same time, withholding evidence of this magnitude probably constituted a crime far worse than mail tampering.

“What other options do we have?” she asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” I said. “Situations like this, it’s better to do what’s right and take the heat. I’m not going to haul the money home and hide it under my bed.”

“I don’t suppose you could handle it without bringing my name into it. I don’t want Rafe to find out.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, shit,” she said, which seemed so out of character I laughed.

We took my car since Rafe had taken theirs. The only compromise I could think of was to deliver the cash to the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department instead of the city police. This had certain built-in advantages. The sheriff’s department and the Santa Teresa Police Department were separate jurisdictions. With luck, it would take time for one law-enforcement agency to communicate with the other. I didn’t think there was any rivalry between the two, but there was probably a pecking order and the usual bureaucratic bullshit standing in the way. The longer it took for Len Priddy to get wind of the cash, the happier I’d be.

We said little on the drive over, each of us contemplating the possible repercussions-she from Rafe and I from Sergeant Priddy. We presented ourselves as model citizens, the equivalent of Good Samaritans turning in a wallet full of money found on the street. The deputy at the desk made a phone call and the matter was redirected to a Sergeant Detective Turner, who came out to the counter. We signed in and were given self-adhesive passes that we stuck to our shirts. He escorted us through the inner offices to his cubicle. Once seated, I launched into an explanation of how we’d come by the cash. Vivian nodded frequently but managed to remain silent, lest anything she said could and would be used against her in a court of law.

Once I got into the spirit of the tale, I was even so forthcoming as to fill them in on Audrey’s arrest and subsequent death leap. I made no mention of Sergeant Priddy as the detective investigating the shoplifting incident. They could figure that out for themselves. I did explain Marvin’s hiring me and my enlisting Vivian’s assistance in searching Audrey’s place. We did a bit of hand-waving when it came to the issue of how she’d ended up with the package, though it actually made perfect sense. If the cash was connected to a criminal enterprise, better to turn it over to the authorities than see it fall into the wrong hands. Even the investigator we spoke to didn’t seem to think we’d done anything wrong. If we were dishonest, we could have filled our own coffers and no one would have been the wiser.

It occurred to me to suggest Sergeant Detective Turner count the cash before we let it out of our sight, but I didn’t want to insult the man. Since we were busy persuading him of our honorable intentions, it didn’t seem wise to question his. The package was booked into evidence and whisked away to Property, where it would sit on a shelf until somebody decided what to do next.

When we finally left the station and drove back to Vivian’s house, we were feeling sweaty with guilt even though what we’d done was honest and aboveboard. It was 2:00 by then, and I was eager to hit the road. I followed her to the kitchen, where she filled an electric kettle with water and plugged it in.

“Thank goodness that’s over with. Do you have time to join me in a cup of tea?”

“I should be getting back. Would you mind if I took a quick look at your phone book?”

She removed the phone book from a kitchen drawer close to the wall-mounted phone. “What are you looking for?”

“A charity called Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. Ever heard of it?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

I started with the yellow pages, checking for social service agencies. I tried the white pages as well and bombed out on both. “They’ve got a couple of donation bins in Santa Teresa, but the organization isn’t listed. I thought it might be headquartered here.”

“What’s the relevance to Audrey?”

“Sorry. I should have brought you up to speed.” I told her how I’d identified Georgia Prestwick and ended up following her that morning. The story was almost as long and boring as the surveillance itself. “I remembered your mentioning a white panel truck parked next door on the nights Audrey worked late.”

“Absolutely. It was always there when she was in town.”

“If you see it again would you let me know? I snapped a couple of photos as it was speeding away. I also took a shot of the logo on the bin. Once I get the film developed, I’ll let you take a look. It would be great if you recognized either one.”

It was 2:20 when I finally turned onto the southbound 101. I maintained a sedate sixty miles an hour. It was a gorgeous afternoon with perfect road conditions, and I used the drive time to assess my discoveries to date. I was happy with the progress I’d made. I wasn’t certain how Marvin would feel or whether he’d be willing to underwrite my continued investigation. I’d have to have a long chat with him before I did anything else.

As is so often the case in life, I pictured myself in a holding pattern, like an airplane circling a field. I knew where I’d been and I had a sense of where I’d land. All I needed was clearance from the tower. In hindsight, I see how complacent I was, lulled by a feeling of accomplishment. If I’d been alert and kept an eye on the rearview mirror, I might have spotted the pale blue sedan that had fallen in behind me as I left Vivian’s house.