V is for Vengeance

21

At this point I should have called the police. Ordinarily, I’m not shy about such things. In this instance, however, I had the following factors working against me: I didn’t know the make and model of the pale blue sedan. It was almost dark when I’d spotted the two guys getting into the car, which was half a block away. I couldn’t have sworn the two had actually been in my place, though I couldn’t imagine why else they’d be coming out of Henry’s backyard. There were no scratches on my front door lock and no obvious indications that anyone had been inside. I was convinced they’d broken in, but I had no evidence. If they’d searched the studio, they were probably smart enough not to leave fingerprints. So what was there to report? As far as I know, there isn’t a provision in the California penal code for the crime of “I believe a man might have put his hand in my underwear drawer.”

Assuming I was right and the guys had entered the studio, it was surely with an eye to retrieving the shitload of cash Vivian and I had turned over to law enforcement. There might have been an argument for calling the cops just to “have something on record,” as though a police report might pave the way for later action on my part. I knew I wouldn’t be filing a claim on my renter’s policy because I’m reasonably certain I’m not covered for damages resulting from someone peeking in my freezer, thinking I’d be dumb enough to hide masses of cash next to that ancient package of frozen peas.

In my phone conversation with Vivian, I’d told her to do as she saw fit. I didn’t think it was my place to advise her one way or the other. She said she was fine but would call her cousin to come pick her up. She didn’t want to be alone in the house, a sentiment I understood. She did say she had a shotgun that her husband had taught her to use to good effect, provided she had the nerve to blow an intruder off his feet. She doubted her ability and I applauded her good sense.

For my part, as soon as I hung up I armed myself with a butcher knife, went out to the Mustang, and fetched the briefcase that contained my Heckler & Koch. After I double-locked my door and made sure the windows were secured, I cleaned and loaded my gun. I left the desk lamp on downstairs and retired to my loft, where I fell asleep on top of the covers fully dressed. Three times I woke to investigate noises I probably hadn’t heard.

There’s much to be said for sleeping fitfully. The brain, when it isn’t swaddled in a happy cocoon of dreams, reverts to other means of amusing itself. Mine reviews all the data it’s accumulated during the day and sends me telegrams I wouldn’t stop to open if I were awake. The brain functions like a camera, clicking off a steady stream of pictures. Incoming data is automatically sorted so that what’s relevant can be stored for future reference and what’s irrelevant can be deleted. The problem is that we don’t know until much later which images count and which don’t. My subconscious nudged me, letting me know I’d seen something that might be more important than I’d thought. The idea would excite me for the moment and I’d make a mental note. Then I’d fall asleep and by the time I woke up again I’d forget what it was.

Sunday morning, I rose early and went out for a three-mile jog. As a rule, this is not something I do on weekends, which I reserve for rest and relaxation. However, in the previous week, I’d skipped the exercise because business required my presence elsewhere. Now it was time to take hold. I did my token thirty-minute jog along the beach, hoping to generate a moment of runner’s high. Mostly, my whole body hurt. Parts that had never given me trouble before spoke up to complain. On the plus side, there was the stress reduction and the following insight that popped to mind. I’d reached the end of my run and I’d slowed to a walk to cool down when I remembered the point my subconscious had been trying to make in the dead of night. Take another look, whispered she, at the stack of flattened cardboard boxes behind the consignment shop.

As soon as I’d showered, dressed, and bolted down a bowl of cereal, I checked my desk drawers for my Swiss Army knife, which I tossed into my shoulder bag. I found my steam iron and put it with my briefcase and gun. I returned to the Mustang and locked both in the trunk. I paused to make a careful study of the street, looking for the blue sedan, which was nowhere in sight. This was not a comfort. If the guys had tailed me from Vivian’s house the day before, they were probably smart enough to use more than one vehicle.

I took the 101 to Missile and then turned right on Dave Levine. I cruised past the strip mall where the consignment shop was located. Storefronts were dark as expected on a Sunday morning. At the corner, I turned right and entered the alley that ran behind the row of shops. When I pulled in the parking lot was empty, the trash cans still bulging. I let the Mustang idle while I crossed to the stack of cardboard boxes and used my Swiss Army knife to cut the twine. I flipped through quickly, glancing at each box in turn. Most had been used more than once, the recipient apparently unpacking the contents and using the same boxes for subsequent shipments. This was a frugal move on the part of the business owner and worked to my advantage because in almost every case, a new shipping label had been slapped over the old. As one does when tracing layers of sediment, I could work backward, tracking the boxes from one location to the one before. I loaded the stack in the trunk of my car. Better to dig for information in private instead of standing in a parking lot taking notes.

Downtown Santa Teresa was largely deserted at that hour and traffic was light. Department stores wouldn’t open until noon, so I was able to travel the surface streets with some confidence I wasn’t being followed. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, but I didn’t see any cars that seemed worrisome. I drove to the office, unloaded the boxes from the trunk, and carried them to the office door, where I let myself in. I filled my iron with water, plugged it in, and moved the lever to steam. Then I sat on the floor cross-legged while I worked my way through the stack of battered boxes.

I kept a record of the addresses as I uncovered them, wondering if a pattern would emerge. Most of the shipping had been done through a carrier I didn’t know. I made a note of the name, thinking I’d check with Vivian to see if it was a match for the service that had dropped off the package at Audrey’s door. I steamed off label after label, watching the addresses change. It was almost impossible to discern shipping dates. The tracking numbers had been blacked out and sometimes a label had been torn off entirely before another one was pasted on top. On the fifth box, under the top two labels, I found Audrey’s name and the rental address in San Luis Obispo. It looked like the boxes were being moved from one California location to another, the preponderance of it a short loop between Santa Teresa and San Luis Obispo. If stolen merchandise left the country, it was probably sent by way of a shipping company. Goods would be stripped, sorted for distribution, and sent on. Once I reached the bottom of the pile, I stood the boxes upright and shoved the flattened cardboard into the space between my file cabinet and the wall.

I locked the office and got back into my car. I pulled the Santa Teresa County map from my glove compartment, unfolded it, and propped it on the steering wheel. I checked the list of addresses I’d culled. Audrey’s in San Luis Obispo I knew. The other two were in Colgate. In the key of streets at the bottom of the map, I found both streets. The first skirted the boundaries of the airport and continued on to the university. The second address was half a mile from the first.

I took the 101 north. Traffic in the southbound lanes was picking up, visitors returning to Los Angeles after a weekend away. By midafternoon, vehicles would be bumper-to-bumper, barely moving. I was mindful of the cars behind me, watching to see if any seemed to replicate my route or appeared more often than was natural. When I took the Fairdale off-ramp, no one left the highway with me. Maybe the guys in the pale blue sedan had been called off once they failed to find the money. No profit in killing me. If I knew the whereabouts of the cash, I’d only be of use to them alive.

I stayed in the left-hand lane and followed the road up and to the left, crossing the highway on the overpass. Off to my right there was a research park, a drive-in theater, a nine-hole municipal course, two motels, three gas stations, and an auto-repair shop. At the intersection, I paused for a red light and then crossed the main thoroughfare, staying on the street leading to the airport. Not surprisingly, this was called Airport Road. While the surrounding terrain wasn’t as isolated as the area in San Luis Obispo where Audrey had rented her place, the neighborhood was far from residential. On the left I passed three small frame cottages that were almost certain to be rentals. Who else but tenants would pay good money to live in such a tacky, out-of-the-way location?

When I reached the airport, I did a turnaround and went back for another look at the cottages. The structures were probably meant for the migrant workers who labored for the owner of the adjacent agricultural fields. I hadn’t caught house numbers on the first pass, but there was nothing else out here except a post office sorting depot. Approaching from this direction, I could see a run of frame garages at the rear of the three vintage cottages, all of which appeared to be identical. The address on the first was a match for the address on one of the flattened cardboard boxes. There were no parked cars visible and no signs of life. When I reached the driveway between the first two cottages, I slowed and pulled in. No trash cans, no laundry hanging on the line.

I got out of my car, trying to look like someone who had business to conduct. I could feel my anxiety stir, but having committed myself, there was nothing for it but to proceed. The windows were bare and there were no crusty dog bowls in evidence. So far, so good. I went up the back porch steps and peered through the glass in the upper portion of the door. The kitchen was empty of furniture. I knocked nonetheless, thinking it was something I’d have done if I’d had a legitimate reason to be on the premises. Naturally, no one responded. I glanced over at the house next door, which also appeared to be unoccupied. No one was looking out of the window at me. In a rare moment of good sense, I didn’t whip out my key picks and let myself in.

Instead, I went around to the front door, where I saw for the first time the substantial padlock affixed to the hasp that had been screwed in place. I cupped my hands and looked in the two front windows. Curled against the glass on the right, there was a For Rent sign. I looked in at an empty living room. I crossed to the window on the left and stared at an empty bedroom. The interior was shabby but tidier than I’d expected. I wondered if a merry little band of thieves had convened here as they had at Audrey’s. Boxes had been sent to and from this address, so someone had been in residence these past few months. I wondered if this house, like Audrey’s rental in S.L.O., had been stripped after her death.

As long as I was about it, I checked the other two cottages, which were also deserted. As I crossed the yard returning to my car, I spotted a For Sale sign that had been propped on its side, half buried in the weeds. The support post looked as though a car had backed into it and sheared it in half. I made a note of the name and phone number of the real estate office for later reference.

I got in my car and backed out onto the road, returning to the major intersection where I turned left. The second address I’d picked up turned out to be a warehouse on a side road that ended in a cul-de-sac. Beyond its being remote, there was not much else to recommend it. This area would probably be zoned “light industrial,” though Colgate supports no heavy manufacturing. The property was surrounded by eight-foot-high fencing and the windows were covered with steel mesh. There was a truck yard at the rear, and closer to the main building, off-street parking for employees. The loading docks were empty and the retractable metal doors were rolled down and secured. The name on the sign read ALLIED DISTRIBUTORS.

This would be a convenient and remote location for distribution of stolen goods, thought I. The purpose of any carefully structured fencing operation is to put distance between the actual thieves and the ultimate dispensation of the merchandise. A company like Allied could put together a confusing mix of lawful and unlawful activities. I couldn’t even imagine the accumulation of evidence that would have to be assembled before law enforcement could move in. An illegal operation involving the crossing of state lines creates a jurisdictional nightmare for investigating agencies, which have been known to arrest one another’s undercover operatives and informants by mistake. Here long-haul trucks might be used for legitimate purposes and smaller trucks employed for goods that wouldn’t stand up to roadside weigh-station inspection.

I returned to the main road and from there to the 101, which took me into town. I went back to my office. The light on my answering machine was blinking, and I felt a flash of irritation because I wanted to get to work and I wasn’t in the mood for interruptions. Nonetheless, being a good girl, I pressed the play button. This was the message that awaited me:

“Kinsey, this is Diana. Somebody’s come to me with a story I think you should hear. I hope you’ll set aside whatever bad feelings you have about me and return this call. Please.” Then she recited her number.

To the machine I said, “Oh yeah, sure, Diana. Like I’m going to call you back after what you did to me.” Then I hit delete.

I hauled out my Smith-Corona portable typewriter and set it on my desk. I’m usually good about writing reports, always aware that it’s best to capture information while it’s fresh. If too much time passes, half the details get lost. With any investigation, the small revelations sometimes contribute as much to the whole as the more dramatic discoveries. So far, all Audrey’s file contained was a copy of Marvin’s check. Time to make amends. I pulled out a sheaf of typing paper with tissue carbons and rolled the first sheet into place. I set my index cards on the desk beside me and began typing up my notes.

When I finished it was close to noon. I was tired. I’m not a skilled typist, though I do better than hunt-and-peck. What I’d struggled with was the job of converting the bare facts into a coherent narrative. Some information was still in outline form with gaps where I hadn’t yet filled in the blanks. Aside from the missing links, it seemed clear I was onto something big. I made a neat stack of my typed notes and put one copy in my shoulder bag, along with the index cards, which I secured with a rubber band. I placed the second copy of my report in an unlocked file drawer in a folder labeled GYNECOLOGY & FEMININE HYGIENE ISSUES, subjects I hoped the average thief would find repellant.

Time to talk to Marvin, whose house was less than two miles away. I’d made progress, but I still had to frame my findings so they made sense to him. In essence, I’d been suspended without pay. Now I hoped to persuade him to underwrite the next phase of my investigation. If he wasn’t home, there was a good chance he’d be at the Hatch. A serious drinker sees Sunday as just another day of the week, except that it begins with a Bloody Mary and progresses to beer, bourbon, or tequila depending on the company and seasonal sporting events. I was starving as usual and thought I’d stop in at the Hatch for bar grub whether he was there or not.

I made a right turn onto State and drove the half mile to Marvin’s neighborhood. I parked and trotted up the walk to his front door. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again. Still nothing. I peered in the windows along the front of the house and saw no indication that he was home. I returned to my car and drove the additional block to the Hatch, parking on the side street as I had before.

It felt odd to be walking into a bar at such an early hour on a Sunday. Apparently, others felt fine about it because the place was doing a lively business. All four television sets were turned on. The jukebox blared, and there were ten or twelve patrons congregated at the bar where Ollie, the owner, seemed to be making drinks with both hands. The air was already hazy with cigarette smoke, and I could feel my eyes cross at the notion of particulate matter settling on my clothes.

Marvin was among those gathered, talking to one of the two women who were part of his inner circle-Earldeen Somebody-or-Other, if memory served. He toted a bourbon on the rocks as dark as strong iced tea. He put a fresh cigarette between his lips and extended a light to Earldeen before he applied it to his own. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and when he realized it was me, his expression downshifted ever so slightly from relaxed to disengaged. “Hey. Look who’s here. What’s up?”

His tone was flat and that should have been a clue, but it went right over my head. I saw the flicker in his eyes but thought he was embarrassed I’d caught him smoking again. That’s how far off track I was.

“I’ve updated my report,” I said. “If you have a second, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned since I saw you last.”

“Yeah, well, you caught me in the middle of something, so it might be better if we talk another time,” he said. His gaze drifted to one side.

By now it was apparent he was angry about something and I realized I’d have to stop and deal with his pissy mood before I went on.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think you’d be interested. You don’t take kindly to anyone challenging your point of view.”

“Come on, Marvin. You’re obviously frosted about something. You want to fill me in?”

“Just what I said. It’s your way or the highway.”

I glanced at Earldeen, who was avidly watching the exchange. She didn’t seem perplexed by his attitude, which suggested this was something he’d discussed with her previously.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“This is good enough right here.”

“Then tell me what’s happened.” In my experience, when people like Marvin get mad, it doesn’t take much coaxing before they unload.

“I’ll be happy to, as long as I’m not on the receiving end of an argument.”

“I’m not arguing,” I said argumentatively.

“Word on the grapevine has it that an ex-con was seen in the area right about the time Audrey went off the bridge. This is a guy just out of prison with dangerous associates. It’s possible she came across information that would have put him away, so he threw her over the rail.”

“What information?”

“Sorry, but I can’t say. This was told to me in confidence, so you’ll have to take my word for it. If you’ll remember, she was in jail for a couple of hours before I arrived with the bail. Speculation has it she saw something she wasn’t supposed to see.”

“Such as what?”

“I already told you I can’t get into it. Point is, if she’d blown the whistle on the guy, he’d have gone back in the slammer. Might have been more to it. Cops are not above tampering with evidence. Maybe that’s what she got wind of.”

“You’re saying she was murdered because of something she found out.”

“At the station. That’s what I just said.”

“So she wasn’t affiliated with a retail-theft ring.”

“Would you quit harping on that? Right from day one, you’ve exaggerated the whole incident. She pilfered a few items. Big deal.”

“What about the booster gear?”

“There’s no proof she wore booster gear. That’s all part of the attempt to discredit her. Did you see it yourself? I doubt it.”

“Of course not. I didn’t know Audrey at that point, so how would I know anything about her underwear?”

“Just stick to the facts. Did you or did you not see booster gear? The answer is no. The entire time I knew her, did I ever see this alleged gear? No, again. Just because some cop put it in the police report doesn’t make it true.”

I stood and stared at him, processing what he’d said. I was about to remind him I hadn’t read the police report, but that was beside the point. He’d reverted to whitewashing Audrey’s character, but what had caused the shift? I glanced over at Earldeen, who’d propped her chin on her fist, fascinated by the discussion. I wanted to slap her face but thought better of it.

He said, “This is refreshing. For once, you’re at a loss for words.”

“Because what I’m hearing you say is you now believe Audrey was the victim of a conspiracy that originated with the police.”

“Makes a lot more sense to me than your theory.”

“What prompted your change of heart?”

“There’s no change of heart. I said from the get-go she was innocent. So what if she snitched a teddy? For cripes sake, that doesn’t make her a hard-core criminal.”

I shut my mouth and let him run on.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked. He pointed with his cigarette, which came perilously close to my face. “You want to believe the worst about people. Doesn’t matter to you if there’s proof or not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were married to a police officer accused of beating a guy to death, right?”

“I told you about that.”

“No, you did not. You mentioned you were married to a cop who was a friend of Detective Priddy’s and you said Priddy was a creep. What you didn’t say was your ex-husband was exonerated. Interesting you elected to leave that part out.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“You don’t? Well, think about it. You were so sure you were right, you abandoned the guy when he needed you most.” He dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it.

“It didn’t happen that way,” I said.

“You can quibble all you like, but I’m close enough, am I correct?”

“Marvin, you’re trying to draw a parallel between my relationship with my ex and my belief in Audrey’s guilt. You’re saying Mickey was eventually cleared and therefore she will be too. Is that it?”

“Right. And she’s dead, same as the guy you were married to.” He looked skyward and tapped his chin like a cartoon character. “Hmmm. Let’s see. What do these two stories have in common?”

I said, “Those two situations are so different I can’t even begin to set you straight.”

“Don’t be so defensive. I’m just telling you what I was told.”

“By Len Priddy.”

“I didn’t say it was him.”

“Of course it was.”

He shrugged. “You don’t like the guy, that doesn’t mean he’s trying to do you in,” he said. “At any rate, I apologize for being rude. I should have asked why you’re here. Let me guess. You used up the balance of the retainer and you’re hoping to hit me up for more.”

“That’s true, but the game has changed, hasn’t it?” I said mildly. I was keeping my voice low because my rage was rising to a white-hot peak and I didn’t dare give vent to it.

“Oh, geez. Now you’re pissed off. I hope you’re not telling me you quit,” he said facetiously.

“Quit? No, sweetheart. I’m in this for the long haul whether you pay me or not.”

He drew back. “You can’t do that. I won’t have you meddling in her affairs. Audrey’s past is none of your business.”

“Sorry to disagree, but this is my job and I’m on it. Too bad you didn’t fire me when you had the chance.”