V is for Vengeance

23

First thing Monday morning on my way into the office, I stopped by the Hall of Records and started a paper search, looking for information about Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. If the organization was a charity, it would have to be registered. In the state of California, as in most states I’m sure, any group seeking to obtain tax-exempt status is required to fill out forms, which are filed with the state, accompanied by the requisite filing fees. Whether the entity is a sole proprietorship, a partnership, a limited partnership, or a corporation, the applicant must list the name and address of the organization itself and the name and address of every partner, trustee, or officer.

I tried the registry of charitable trusts, which netted me nothing. I tried looking under nonprofits and reached another dead end. Baffled, I asked the clerk at the desk if she had a suggestion. She suggested I try “Fictitious Business Names,” also known as DBAs, short for “Doing Business As.” She directed me to another office. DBAs expire after five years, but a refiling is required within thirty days. I thanked her for her help. This time I was in luck, though the answer to the question took me right back to my starting point. Helping Hearts, Healing Hands was owned and operated by Dan Prestwick, husband of the very Georgia I’d been tailing for days.

It wasn’t clear what his purpose was in establishing this enterprise, but I assumed he’d acquired the proper licenses and permits, that he’d been assigned a federal tax ID number, and behaved himself in accordance with federal and state regulations in furtherance of his stated goals, whatever those might be. He was supposed to list funds, property, and other assets, but I couldn’t see any sign that he’d done so. I was sure people were dumping all manner of household items and used clothing in his donation bins, but I wasn’t sure what happened to the goods afterward. He certainly didn’t declare the potential value. Maybe he turned around and dumped the same goods into Salvation Army bins or left them at the drop-off point behind the Goodwill shop on Chapel.

Helping Hearts, Healing Hands appeared to be a shell company created to shelter Dan Prestwick from closer scrutiny. My best guess was this so-called charity was a conduit for stolen merchandise. Georgia did some of the journeyman shoplifting and she also had a hand in collecting stolen goods, judging from the bulging plastic bags she’d dumped in two separate bins as I looked on. Apparently, she wasn’t involved in the transportation of goods from point to point. My guess was that she off-loaded the stolen items as quickly as possible, passing them along to others in the loop. I couldn’t picture the Prestwicks at the top of the heap. More likely they were employed by someone higher up on the food chain. Audrey’s calls to Los Angeles, Corpus Christi, and Miami suggested an organization with branches in ports of call across the country. Somewhere along the line, cash had been generated and shipped to the now-deceased Audrey Vance. She probably used the money to pay the workers she’d assembled every other Saturday. Now what?

I left the county building and drove back to Juniper Lane. I parked two doors down from the Prestwicks’ house and stared at the narrow slice of driveway I could see. I wasn’t officially on surveillance. I needed a place to sit while I sorted myself out and why not in range of two principal players? I took my index cards from the depths of my shoulder bag and made a few notes, discouraged by the paucity of facts. I had lots of good guesses and little evidence.

Now that Marvin Striker and I had parted company, I was on my own. While I liked not having to answer to him, I wouldn’t net a nickel for my services. This is a dumb way to run a business, especially when the usual bills came due and I’d find myself short on funds. I have a savings account to cover shortfalls, but I don’t fancy dipping into it. Despite my huffy claims to the contrary, I couldn’t afford to work for long without pay. The sensible course of action would be to collate the data I’d collected and hand it over to Cheney Phillips. I had no intention of dealing with Len Priddy, but if Cheney wanted to pass on the information, that was up to him.

I caught movement ahead and watched as Georgia emerged from her driveway on foot. She wasn’t dressed for exercise unless she leaned toward jogging in a tight skirt, panty hose, and strappy spike-heel shoes. She reached the corner and paused. As I looked on, a long black limousine pulled into view. The back door swung open and she got in, after which the limousine glided out of my line of sight. I fired up the Mustang and drove to the end of the block, where I nosed forward slightly and peered to my right. The limousine had pulled over to the curb and it sat there, engine idling. A very large man in a black suit had stepped out. He stood beside the vehicle, hands neatly folded in front of him while he scanned the immediate area. His gaze came to rest on my car, and I had no choice but to turn left and drive on as though that had been my intent. I didn’t even have time to pick up a plate number, which I could see was becoming a habitual failing of mine. Once again, I cursed the Grabber Blue Mustang, which was much too conspicuous. I couldn’t even speed around the block and approach from the opposite direction.

I returned to the office, and as I pulled up in front, I saw Pinky Ford sitting on my porch step, a manila envelope in hand. I’d been looking forward to time on my own, but that was apparently not in the cards. When he saw me, he stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. He wore the usual jeans, this time with a Western-cut shirt, black with silver studs up one side like upholstery tacks. He’d been there for some time judging by the number of dead cigarette butts at his feet. As I approached, he tucked the envelope under one arm and bent down to collect the butts. He held them cupped in one hand while he made a show of rubbing out the ashes with the toe of one boot.

I said, “Hey, Pinky. How are you? I hope you’re not here to tell me you hocked something else.”

“No, ma’am. I’ve been good,” he said. “About that, at any rate.”

I unlocked the door and he followed me in. “I can make a pot of coffee if you like.”

“I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“You want to have a seat or would that take too long?”

“I can sit,” he said.

I pulled the trash can from under my desk and held it out to him, waiting while he deposited his cigarette butts and wiped his hands on his jeans. Personally, I’d have loved a cup of coffee but I postponed the pleasure in the interest of speed and efficiency. He settled on the guest chair and placed the manila envelope on my desk. As I looked over, I saw that the light on my answering machine was winking merrily. “Hang on.”

I pressed play and the minute I heard “This is Dia…” I punched delete.

Pinky said, “Geez, I can tell you’re fond of her.”

“Long story,” I said. “Is that for me?”

He pushed the envelope forward an inch. “I was hoping you could hang on to it temporarily.”

“What is it?”

“Photographs.”

“Of?”

“Two different individuals in compromising circumstances. It’s better if you don’t know the particulars.”

“Why is it better? It doesn’t sound better to me.”

“The subject matter’s on the sensitive side. In the first set, someone’s reputation and good name are at stake.”

“You with another woman?”

“Not me. I don’t have a good name or reputation, either one. Besides which, I wouldn’t fool around on Dodie. She’s explained in some detail what she’d do to me if I strayed.”

“What about the other set?”

“Second’s more serious. I’d say life-or-death if it didn’t sound like I was blowing smoke up your skirt.”

“How many photographs altogether? Doesn’t matter. I’m just curious,” I said.

He thought about that, like the idea hadn’t occurred to him before. “I’d say ten.”

“You’re guessing ten or you’ve actually counted them?”

“I counted. There’s also the negatives. Copies without the negatives aren’t worth shit. Destroy one set and all a fellow has to do is print ’em up again.”

“Why give them to me?”

He paused to remove a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. “Good question,” he said without volunteering a response.

“Pinky, I’m not going to hang on to anything unless you tell me what’s going on.”

“Understood,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling. “Let’s see how I can explain and still exercise my fifth-amendment rights.”

“Take your time.”

He thought for a moment. “I may have picked my way into the premises of a person I believed was in possession of the material in the envelope. I’m not saying I did, but it’s possible. It’s also possible I’d looked for the items elsewhere and when they didn’t come to light, I deduced their whereabouts.”

“Why get involved in the first place?”

“I wanted to eliminate the threat to a friend of mine. In the process, these other pictures came to light and that’s what’s put me in a bind. Big-time.”

“Doesn’t that suggest that anyone holding the photographs would be in trouble if someone else figured it out?”

“Why would anyone suspect you?”

“What if you were followed? There could be a guy parked down the block with binoculars trained on my door. You come in with the envelope. You leave without it. The bad guys aren’t stupid. I don’t care who they are, they’re going to figure it out.”

He shifted in his chair, apparently discomfited by the idea. The look he turned on me was shrewd. “You could give me another manila envelope to carry with me when I leave.”

I squinted. “You know what? This really doesn’t sound like a good plan to me. You know I’d help if I could, but you’ve dug yourself a hole and I don’t want to fall into it with you.”

This was not the response he was looking for. “How about I leave the photos for one day?”

“How do I know you’ll come back for them?”

“Because I got a good use for them, but not right away. This is just for safekeeping. One day.” He held up one finger to dramatize the time frame like the number 1 was somehow ambiguous.

“I know you better than that. You’ll do what’s expedient and I’ll be stuck.”

“Promise I’ll come back for them. I swear.”

“I don’t understand why one day will make a difference.”

“I’m setting up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon. I’m in a jam and the photos are my get-out-of-jail-free card, but only if I get them to the relevant party. Meantime, you can put the envelope in your safe and forget it’s there.”

“What makes you think I have a safe?”

The look he gave me was pained, like it was obvious. “I’ll pick ’em up by noon tomorrow and that’s the last you’ll hear.”

I wanted to slam my fingers in the pencil drawer, which in the end would have been less painful than his proposal. “Please don’t ask me to do this.”

“I am asking you. I’m desperate.” He managed to look solemn and plaintive and helpless and dependent.

I stared at him. Jailbirds are so often like this, I thought. In prison or out, they wheedle and manipulate. Maybe they can’t help it. They chain themselves to the proverbial railroad tracks knowing good souls, like me, will gallop to the rescue. When I do as predicted, guess who ends up under the train?

Everything in me cried out in protest. How many times have I said yes in situations like this with disastrous results? How many times have I fallen for just such a pitch? The purpose of intuition is to warn us when the wolf arrives at the door dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. I opened my mouth, not even certain what would come out. “Something about this doesn’t feel right to me,” I said. “Actually, none of it feels right.”

“You’re the only friend I have.”

“Stop that. There has to be somebody else.”

He shrugged, refusing to look me in the eye. “Let’s hope. Otherwise, I’m in a world of hurt.”

I sat there wondering which was worse: making the wrong decision and having a load of shit rain down on my head, or avoiding calamity and feeling overwhelmed with guilt. That was the moment that nearly did me in. I teetered on the brink and finally shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but if I agree, I’ll regret it.”

He stood up and I followed suit. When he reached across the desk to shake my hand, he managed to convey a sense of finality. “I don’t want you to feel bad for turning me down. I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”

“I hope you figure it out.”

“Me too. Meanwhile, I appreciate your time. You take care now. I can let myself out.”

“Will you keep in touch?”

“If possible,” he said.

We exchanged awkward good-byes and then he left my inner office, moving toward the outside door. I truly wondered if I’d ever see him again. I returned to the office window and looked out. It took a few seconds before he appeared in my field of vision. I should have known he was up to something, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I leaned my head against the glass, watching as he disappeared down the street. I half expected to hear gunfire or the squeal of tires as a license-plate-free vehicle accelerated and ran over him.

I sank into my swivel chair and experienced the full weight of my remorse. Next time he asked for anything-if he lived long enough-I’d say yes no matter what. This was one of those “little did I know” moments, though I wasn’t aware of it at the time. I don’t know how long I might have sat there berating myself, but I had another visitor.

I heard a tap on the outside door, which then opened and closed. I got up and crossed to the door, peering around the frame to find out who’d come in. Marvin’s bar buddy, Earldeen, was in the process of taking off her coat. It crossed my mind he might have sent her to apologize, being too cowardly and too embarrassed to do so himself.

I said, “Hey, Earldeen. I didn’t expect to see you.”

She held up one of the business cards I’d left at the Hatch. “Lucky Ollie had this or I wouldn’t have known where you were.”

“Come on in,” I said. “You want me to hang that up?”

“This is fine,” she said. She laid her coat over the back of one of the guest chairs while she took a seat in the other. She was easily a head taller than me and she’d probably fallen into the habit of bad posture as a teen in hopes of looking the same height as everyone else. The scent of bourbon hovered in the air around her, though she was sober as far as I could tell.

I returned to my desk and sat down. “Is there some way I can be of help?”

“More like I’m here to help you. Something came up I thought you ought to know about.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Well, after you left the Hatch yesterday, this fellow came in. I hadn’t seen him for a while, but he knew Audrey pretty well, because the two of them used to have these long heart-to-heart talks. This was a year ago, before she and Marvin started stepping out together. I haven’t seen him since. I thought he must be an ex-husband or an old boyfriend, someone she didn’t want Marvin to know about.”

“And was that the case?”

“At the time, I wasn’t sure, but I’ll admit I was curious. He’s a good-looking guy. Midfifties, tall, with curly gray hair, and these big old brown eyes. He and Audrey always had their heads together and when I asked who he was, she brushed the question aside. They were a bad match in my opinion. She was a good ten years older than him and, no disrespect intended, he was much too handsome for the likes of her. I know that sounds terrible, but it’s the truth.”

“Did he come in looking for her yesterday?”

Earldeen shook her head. “He was meeting someone else. This was a woman who didn’t have any business in a place like the Hatch. She was more the country-club type, if you know what I mean.”

“Close enough,” I said. “What happened?”

“Nothing much. They chatted for a minute or two and then he ushered her out the side door and that was the last I saw of them.”

“Why tell me?”

“Well, that’s just it. Back when this was going on, I asked Ollie who he was and he told me his name is Lorenzo Dante. Have you heard of him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He goes by the name Dante so nobody gets him mixed up with his dad, Lorenzo Dante Senior. Ollie says he’s a gangster.”

“The father or the son?”

“Both. I guess the father’s retired. Of course, I don’t travel in those circles, but I hear this fellow has a hand in a number of shady dealings.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, he’s a loan shark for one thing. He also owns an import-export warehouse out in Colgate called Allied Distributors. I have a hunch Audrey worked for him.”

My heart had started to thump because I’d seen that same warehouse the day before. “Why didn’t you tell me this a week ago? I’ve been busting my butt trying to figure out what she was up to. This would have been a big help.”

“I got sidetracked, I guess. I was so upset thinking she killed herself, it didn’t occur to me her death might be connected to her boss. It wasn’t until I saw him yesterday, the penny dropped.”

“Does Marvin know?”

“Let’s put it this way. I told him straight out, but that doesn’t mean he got the message. He doesn’t want to hear Audrey was working for a crook. He thinks she’s a saint and he won’t listen to anything else.”

“That’s the same charge he leveled at me.”

“Oh, I know. It’s called projection. I see it all the time at the Hatch. You accuse someone else of having traits you refuse to acknowledge in yourself,” she said. “Don’t look so shocked. I got a college education back in the day. I majored in psychology with a minor in fine arts.”

“Sorry. I’m just trying to take this in. You’d think Marvin would be thrilled. He’s convinced she was murdered and this supports the claim, don’t you think?”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Earldeen said. “Audrey and this Dante fellow were thick as thieves, if you’ll pardon the pun. She worked hard. She was always on the road and she made a ton of money. To me, that’s the mark of success. Why would he kill her when she was so good at what she did?”

“Maybe she got too big for her britches and threatened to take over.”

“I guess it’s possible. You heard what Marvin said. Somebody talked him into the notion she was tossed off the bridge because she knew too much. The question is what?”

“Beats me,” I said. I considered the implications. Based on the sketchy facts I had in my possession, I had no clue what she might have discovered.

Earldeen fidgeted. “What do you think I should do?”

“Well, if I were you, I’d go to the police.”

“I tried that. Before I came here, I went down to the police department and asked to speak to someone about Audrey’s death. The fellow at the desk made a call and said Sergeant Priddy would be right out. I said never mind and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. I don’t like how his name keeps coming up. Anyway, I just hope Marvin doesn’t find out I was here or he’ll chew me a new one.”