V is for Vengeance

28

I backed the Mustang out of the driveway, shifted from reverse into drive, and peeled out with a screech of tires that sounded like I’d just run over a cat. Marvin stood on the street and watched me with disbelief. I’d hustled him out of my studio with only the briefest of excuses. Poor, sweet man. He’d come, hat in hand, humbling himself in order to persuade me to go back on the job, but I was anxious about Pinky’s disappearance and I couldn’t afford to stop and renegotiate. By my calculation, Pinky had a five-minute head start on me, and I’d have been willing to bet he was heading for home. Dodie couldn’t have called him because she didn’t know where he was. If the two had been in contact, he’d have had to call her. Given the total population of the Earth at that time, there were other possibilities. He might have contacted any one of the millions of other human beings who were stretched around the globe, but since he’d been so insistent on touching base with her, my supposition made sense. Why he’d called a cab and dashed off without telling me, I hoped to find out when I caught up with him. Whatever his motivation, he must have believed I wouldn’t buy into it and therefore he hadn’t wanted to risk informing me.

My apartment near the beach was approximately twelve blocks from Pinky’s duplex on Paseo, a mile and a half at most. The speed limit on most residential streets was thirty-five miles an hour. I didn’t want to think about stop signs and red lights and other automotive impediments that would slow my progress. I kept a heavy foot on the gas pedal, checking cross streets for approaching vehicles before I sailed through each intersection. I didn’t run any red lights but I came close. I was acutely tuned to the risk of black-and-whites in the area, being not that far away from the police department.

I headed north on Chapel, which at that hour didn’t have much traffic, so I was making good time. I didn’t see the problem until I was right up on it, preparing to turn left on Paseo. A barrier had been erected. A row of orange cones was neatly set out in front of six sections of portable fence, replete with a sign that said ROAD CLOSED TO THROUGH TRAFFIC. I debated an act of civil disobedience. Instead, I continued up Chapel, thinking to turn left at the next cross street, which was also blocked. This felt like a cruel hoax, but was more likely part of a public-works rehabilitation project relegated to off-hours instead of a plot cooked up specifically to inconvenience me. At the next block up, the street was open but marked one-way, the arrow urging me most emphatically to the right when I wanted to turn left. I said to hell with it and turned left anyway, driving the wrong way down a one-way street. At the back of my mind, I was aware that I wasn’t exactly stone-cold sober. Less than an hour before, I’d had a glass of wine-six ounces by my guess, but possibly eight-with my sandwich. At my height and body weight, I was flirting with the legal limit for blood alcohol content. I was probably under the.08 threshold, but if a cop stopped me for a moving violation, I might well be required to go through a whole song-and-dance routine. Even if I wasn’t compelled to submit breath or body fluids, a traffic ticket would take more time than I could spare.

I accelerated as far as Dave Levine Street, turned left, drove two blocks, and then turned left again on Paseo. There was a sleek new yellow Cadillac parked near the corner, with a bumper sticker that read I OWN THIS GLORIOUS CAR THANKS TO GLORIOUS WOMANHOOD. On the driver’s-side door, there was a golden figure of a woman with her arms upraised, surrounded by a shower of shooting stars. I found a convenient parking space along an unoccupied length of red-painted curb. I did a masterly job of parallel parking, obscuring the fire hydrant. I shut down the engine, and as I got out of the car, I hesitated. I went through a quick debate about taking my H &K. Pinky’s departure had generated a sense of urgency, but perhaps only in my fevered imagination. There was no reason to think a gun battle would ensue, so I left mine in the Mustang under the driver’s seat. I opened the trunk and shrugged into the windbreaker I keep on hand and then left my unwieldy shoulder bag locked inside. I tucked my keys into my jeans pocket and crossed the street to the duplex.

I could see lights on upstairs in the McWherters’ apartment on the right. The Fords’ living room also showed lights on the ground floor to the left. The drapes were partially drawn, but I spotted Pinky sitting in an easy chair. Dodie sat on the couch to his right, largely blocked by the window hangings. The lights of the television flickered dully across their faces. If seeing Dodie was so important, I couldn’t understand why he looked so sulky. With his high cheekbones and swarthy complexion, his face appeared to be carved out of wood. I rang the bell and moments later he opened the door.

“Why’d you run off without telling me?”

“I was in a hurry,” he said.

“Well, clearly. Mind if I come in?”

“Might as well.” He stepped away from the door.

The foyer was about the size of a bath towel with the living room opening directly to the right. There was a fire in the fireplace, but the logs were fake and the flames appeared from an evenly spaced row of holes in the gas pipe under the grate. The logs were fabricated from a product that mimicked both the outer bark and the raw look of freshly hewn oak, but there was none of the pop and crackle of a live fire and no homely smell of wood smoke. Hard to believe a fire like that had much to offer in the way of warmth. Not that either Pinky or Dodie cared. His attention was fixed on the fellow with a gun pressed against the back of Dodie’s head. It looked like the guy had dragged in a chair from the dining room, and he sat behind the sofa, using the back of it to steady his hand.

The gun was a semiautomatic, but I didn’t have a clue about the manufacturer. For me, guns and cars fall into the same general category-some identifiable on sight, but many only meaningful by reason of their capacity to maim and kill. What I noticed about this gun was the large frame and the satin chrome finish on the barrel, which also featured a curlicue flourish of leaves engraved along the length. The caliber didn’t matter much because with the front sight pressed hard up against Dodie’s skull, she couldn’t have survived the trigger pull in any event.

She rolled an eye in my direction without moving her head. She was convinced the place was bugged, and she was probably holding out hope the conversation was being monitored, with the possibility of help on the way. I suspected if there was a bug at all, it was connected to a voice-activated tape recorder that would be left unattended until the tape ran out. I shifted my gaze and focused on the gunman. He was in his midforties with a thatch of dark blond hair that stuck up in places. He had two days’ worth of whiskers and a nose that angled slightly to the right. His lips were open as though breathing through his mouth was the preferred method for taking in air. Running shoes, jeans, synthetic shirt fabric looking formless and cheap. I might have considered him handsome if he hadn’t looked so dumb. Smart guys you can reason with. This mope was dangerous. His eyes flicked from Pinky to me. “Who’s this?”

“Friend of mine.”

“I’m Kinsey. Nice meeting you. Sorry to barge in,” I said.

“This is Cappi Dante,” Pinky said, to complete the formalities.

I remembered Cappi’s name from my conversation with Diana Alvarez and Melissa Mendenhall. His brother was the local loan shark who might or might not have played a part in Melissa’s boyfriend’s death. According to her account, Cappi had roughed up a friend of hers, and there was hell to pay when her friend complained to the Vegas police. Nice.

“When I called home earlier, he was already here, holding her at gunpoint. That’s why I called the cab and tore out of there without telling you.”

Cappi said, “Get her over here so I can watch you pat her down.”

“I left my gun in the car,” I said.

“Says you.” He gestured impatiently.

Pinky and I moved into range and the goon kept a close watch while I turned sideways and lifted my arms, allowing Pinky to run his hands down my sides and along the legs of my jeans. “She’s not armed,” he said.

“I told you so,” I said.

“Shut your smart-ass mouth and keep your hands up where I can see them,” Cappi said.

I complied, not wanting to annoy the man more than I already had. Pinky returned to the easy chair and took a seat while I stood with my palms turned up as though checking for rain. “Mind if I ask what’s going on?”

Cappi said, “I came to pick up a set of photographs.” He shifted his attention to Pinky. “You want to get on with it?”

Pinky unbuttoned the front of his shirt, extracted the manila envelope, and held it out to him. “These are Len’s, you know. He’s not going to appreciate any interference from you.”

“Pass ’em over to your friend. We’ll let her do the honors as long as she’s here.”

I took the envelope. Cappi gestured with the gun, motioning me to the fireplace.

I crossed the room. “I’m supposed to burn these?”

“Very good,” he said.

“It’ll go faster if I take ’em out and do them one by one,” I said. Having been threatened with death over the self-same photographs, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

Cappi thought for a moment, perhaps wondering if there was trickery afoot. I was a good fifteen feet away from him, and he must have realized my options were limited. There were no fireplace tools and nothing that might double as a weapon. “Suit yourself,” he said.

I tore open the flap and removed the photographs, taking care not to display overt curiosity. The prints were eight-by-tens, in glossy black-and-white. The first showed Len Priddy and Cappi sitting in a parked car. It was a night scene and the picture was taken with a zoom lens from across the street. The light wasn’t fabulous, but the closeup left no doubt who it was. I held the print to the fire and the corner began to curl. Dodie’s gaze was averted and Pinky’s expression was bleak. I tilted the picture to allow the flames to climb along the edge. When it was fully engulfed, I dropped it on top of the fake logs, where it continued to burn. I took the next print and subjected it to the same treatment. Len and Cappi were photographed from roughly the same angle at different locations, but the gist was the same. I focused on the job, guiding the flames as the fire chewed and digested the images. Judging from Cappi’s selection of tasteless shirts, he and Len met on six occasions.

While I worked my way through, I thought back to Cheney Phillips’s comment about my putting a confidential informant at risk. Dodie’d told me Len was using the mug shots of her to ensure that Pinky continued to funnel street rumors in his direction. If this second set of photographs was valuable, it probably meant Len was using them to keep Cappi in line as well. Len himself had nothing to fear from the images. The name of a CI is a closely guarded matter, and if his relationship with Cappi came to light, he could write it off as police business, which it probably was. On the other hand, I had to assume that if Dante found out his brother was having conversations with a vice detective, Cappi would be dead.

“Now the negatives,” Cappi said when the prints had been reduced to ash.

I removed the strips of negatives and held them to the blaze. The film flared and disappeared, leaving an acrid odor in the air. Once the photographs and negatives had been destroyed, I didn’t think the three of us would be in jeopardy. Cappi was currently on parole, already in serious violation because of the firearm he was waving around. Why would he add to his troubles? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he used the gun against us. We were no threat to him. Even if we blabbed about the photographs, the proof was gone. I maintained a cautious silence nonetheless, not wanting to set him off.

He glanced at me, saying, “Kick the ashes around and make sure nothing’s left.”

I used the toe of my boot to nudge the residue of burned photographic paper. One sheet had retained its soft rectangular shape, and I could have sworn the shadowy image remained, Len and Cappi, features blurred and nearly indistinct. The fragments separated and tumbled soundlessly around the logs.

Cappi got up and tucked the gun in the waist of his jeans at the small of his back. Now that the evidence had been reduced to soot, he seemed relaxed, ready to get on with his evening’s entertainment. “You folks sit tight and I’ll be on my way. I appreciate your cooperation,” he said, showing what an affable fellow he was. He must have seen the movies featuring crooks with good manners.

Dodie wept. She had a hand across her eyes, the tears coursing down her cheeks. She remained motionless, carefully suppressing any audible sobs. Cappi proffered his good-nights and ambled to the door. He had a thug’s sense of dignity to uphold, and he didn’t want to leave us with the impression he was fleeing the scene. He must have been as relieved as I was that his mission had gone smoothly. Pinky hadn’t moved a muscle and I was holding my breath, conscious the situation wouldn’t be resolved until Cappi was in his car and driving away. He opened the front door and went out, closing it behind him with an insolent smile.

Pinky screamed, “Son of a bitch!”

He was instantly on his feet. He tore out of the living room and into the hall where he yanked open the closet door and hauled items off the shelf in a tumble until he had his gun in hand. He checked the load and smacked the magazine into place while he ran to the door and flung it open, screaming Cappi’s name. I was right behind him, trying desperately to keep him under control. Cappi was halfway across the street, and when he turned, Pinky snapped off three shots, the muzzle kicking up each time. I heard a high-pitched shriek, but it was the sound of outrage instead of pain. Cappi hadn’t been hit but he was shocked at Pinky’s audacity. He was apparently unaccustomed to being a target and the reality made him sound as shrill as a girl. He pulled the gun from the small of his back and fired twice before he turned and raced away down the street, elbows pumping, his running shoes thumping on the pavement. A moment later, I heard his car door slam and the engine catch. In his haste, he banged into the car in front of him before he cleared the space and took off.

Pinky was panting, his own breathing hoarse with rage and adrenaline. I looked back at Dodie, thinking she’d flattened herself on the floor so she could use the easy chair for cover. Then I saw the blood. One of Cappi’s rounds had ripped through the frame wall, which slowed the trajectory of the bullet but not by much. It was my turn to shriek with surprise, but the sound was reduced to one of simple disbelief. Pinky froze, taking in the sight of her. He couldn’t seem to grasp her condition from the evidence in front of him. As with me, it was the blood that finally registered.

He scrambled to her side and turned her over onto her back. She’d caught the bullet in her chest on the right-hand side. It looked like her clavicle was shattered and blood oozed dully from the wound. Pinky pressed both his hands over the area and his face turned up to mine in helplessness and horror. I skittered out of the room and headed down the hall to the kitchen, where I snatched the handset from the wall-mounted phone and hit 9-1-1. When the dispatcher picked up, I gave her the bare bones-the nature of the emergency and the location where the shooting had taken place. I put a hand over the mouthpiece and called to Pinky. “Hey, Pinky. What’s your street address?”

He hollered out the number, which I conveyed to her.

The dispatcher was methodical, repeating her questions in a matter-of-fact fashion until she was satisfied with the information I’d provided. In the background, I could hear a second dispatcher take another call. The woman I was talking to broke off long enough to initiate the emergency response, launching aid and assistance.

When I returned to the living room, the first thing I spotted was Pinky’s gun lying on the floor. With an ambulance on the way to the shooting scene, that was the last thing we needed to be dealing with. I picked up the gun and went out to the hall, where the floor was still littered with the stuff he’d tossed out in his haste to find his weapon. I didn’t have the time or inclination to tidy up, so I did the next best thing, which was to return to the living room and stash the gun under a couch cushion. Pinky saw me doing it, but neither of us wanted to worry about searching for a better hiding place.

St. Terry’s was less than four blocks away, which worked in our favor. I knelt beside Pinky and we did what we could for Dodie, whose chest was heaving. She was already trembling from shock and blood loss. I’m not sure she had any idea what had happened, but her complexion was pasty and her system was reacting with a series of shudders. I patted and coaxed and reassured her while Pinky babbled whatever comfort and encouragement came to mind. It was the language of alarm and stress, hysteria kept under control by sheer necessity. In that one instant, everything had gone wrong. With the photographs burned, I thought the worst had passed, but it had only begun.

I watched Dodie with a curious sense of detachment. She was conscious, and while she had no way to assess her situation, she knew she was in trouble. I believe that in such circumstances a victim can decide whether to choose life or to let it go. Whatever the severity of her wound, we could talk her into staying with us if she accepted what we said, which was she was fine, she was okay, that she’d make it, help was coming, that she was doing great, that we were with her. It was a litany of life-affirming promises, a pledge that she was safe, that she’d be whole again, fully mended, and without pain. She was teetering on the brink, the abyss opening up before her. I watched her look down into the dark hole of death and then her eyes rolled back into her head. I gave her hand a shake. She opened her eyes again and looked from my face to Pinky’s. A message passed between them, silent and intent. If he was capable of calling her back, I knew he was doing so. The question was whether she was capable of responding to his plea.

I heard sirens and moments later saw lights flashing beyond the living room windows. I left Pinky with Dodie and went to the door, waving my arms as though that might hurry them along. The miracle of emergency personnel is the calm response to situations that would otherwise disintegrate into chaos. There were four of them, all men and younger than seemed possible, a team of children with all the optimism of skill and training, four strong boys rising to the occasion. I could see Dodie taking in the sight of their faces, caring and kind. Even Pinky seemed soothed as they tended to the immediate first-aid measures. Pulse, blood pressure. One put in an IV line and another administered oxygen. The four of them wrapped her in blankets and lifted her onto the gurney. It was a practiced and smoothly coordinated effort, and she seemed to give up her confusion and surrender to their care as though reduced to infancy.

As soon as she was out the door, I put an arm around Pinky’s shoulder, which was both solid and oddly bony, a small man in a protective armor of muscle. As we emerged from the house, I noticed that his next-door neighbors had turned off their lights, not wanting to be roped in. I walked Pinky to my car and let him in on the passenger side. I made sure he was reaching for his seat belt so I wouldn’t slam his fingers in the door. I went around to my side and slid in under the wheel. I turned the key in the ignition, put the car in drive, and eased away from the curb. I thought I was speeding, but the car seemed to move at a crawl as I covered the distance from Pinky’s apartment to the hospital. There was no conversation between us, though I reached for his hand at one point and squeezed.

The ambulance had reached the ER ahead of us. I dropped Pinky at the door and told him I’d find parking. Dodie’s gurney disappeared through the sliding doors in a rolling flutter of white coats. She’d been swallowed up, leaving him behind. By the time I pulled into the nearby lot and scavenged the closest possible parking spot, my composure was fading and my heart had started to thunder. I grabbed my bag from the trunk and then jogged the half block back. The reception area was bright with overhead lights, and the waiting room was empty. Pinky was sitting in a glass cubicle with a woman in civilian clothing who was typing information onto a form, filling in the blanks as Pinky provided answers.

I took a seat, keeping an eye on the two until she’d finished with him. He looked miserable as he left the cubicle and plodded to the front door. I followed, watching as he sank to the steps outside with his head between his knees. I sat down beside him and we waited. It felt like two in the morning, but when I looked at my watch, it was only 8:35. This was a Tuesday night, and I was guessing the emergency-room personnel had been enjoying a respite from the usual weekend onslaught of the injured and half dead. I pictured cuts and bloody noses and allergic reactions, food poisoning, heart attacks, broken bones. Also, the host of minor illnesses that by rights should have been relegated to the nearest clinic the next day. We were lucky Dodie wasn’t having to compete for attention. Wherever they’d taken her, I knew she was in good hands. I got up and went inside, where the aide, a young black guy in scrubs, was sitting at the desk.

I said, “Hi. I’m wondering if you can tell us anything about Dodie Ford, who was brought in by ambulance a few minutes ago. Her husband’s been filling out the paperwork and I know he’d appreciate word.”

“I can check.” He got up and crossed to the double doors that opened onto the medical bays in back. The glimpse I caught of the interior showed two empty gurneys with the curtains pushed back along the tracks laid in the ceiling. There was medical apparatus at the ready, but no sign of nurses or doctors, and no sense of hubbub. The aide closed the door behind him and returned in less than a minute.

“They’re taking her up to surgery. The doctor will be out in a bit. Sorry I can’t tell you more. I’m telling you what they told me.”

I went outside and gave Pinky the paltry information I’d been given. I was wearing my windbreaker, but the fabric was light and I might as well have done without. He’d gone through four cigarettes, lighting each from the one he was about to stub out. I said, “Why don’t we go inside? I’m about to freeze to death out here.”

“They won’t let me smoke in there.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue and I didn’t want him sitting by himself. I resumed my seat, tucking my hands between my knees for warmth. Beside me, he sighed and hung his head, shaking it back and forth. “My fault. Shit, shit, shit. This is all my fault. I shoulda left well enough alone.”

“Pinky, don’t get into that. It’s not going to help.”

“But why’d I go after him? That’s what I’m asking myself. It was over and done and if I’dda kept my cool, he’d have been gone.”

“You want to talk about it? Fine. If it’s going to make you feel any better, I’m listening.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Anything happens to her, I’m going to kill that prick. Swear to god I am.”

“Dodie’s in good hands.”

He turned and looked at me. “How am I going to pay for her care? You should’ve heard what the lady in there was asking me. And what was I supposed to say? We got no insurance, no credit, no savings, nothing in the checking account. Dodie’s hurt bad and we’re racking up thousands in medical bills. She hasn’t been here an hour and I’m already in the poorhouse. She’s bound to be laid up, which means no income from her. I’m an ex-con. I can’t get a job for shit. And look at all the other bills we got. How will those get paid?”

“I’m sure there’s some form of financial assistance through the county,” I said.

“I don’t want handouts! Me and her are proud. We’re not deadbeats, we’ve just been down on our luck, and now we’re totally sunk…”

I kept my mouth shut and let him ramble. Dodie’s fate was unknown. He didn’t dare assume she’d live and he couldn’t own up to the fact that she might just as easily die. He was superstitious enough to avoid talk about either possibility lest he tip the scales. Instead, he focused on the financial upheaval, which he was equally ill equipped to deal with. He must have felt safer thinking about the bills he’d be facing, which were at least concrete and more nearly in his control than Dodie’s perilous state. I crossed my arms, hunching over to keep warm, thinking he could just as easily give vent to his worries in the hospital waiting room. He never once mentioned running out on his obligations, but his fretting was self-perpetuating. I felt like a Hallmark card when I suggested he deal with his troubles one day at a time. What was this, a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous?

I said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

He was silent, still brooding. “You know how all this started, don’t you?”

I shook my head.

“With Audrey Vance.”

“Audrey?”

“Yeah, I thought you must have figured it out. I was there the day of her arrest. I borrowed Dodie’s Cadillac late afternoon to take a little spin and got busted on a DUI. Audrey was brought in about the same time.”

“You knew her?”

“Oh, sure. Her and me go way back. I did a couple jobs for her and don’t ask what because I’m takin’ that to my grave.”

“Did you talk to her?”

He shook his head. “I only seen her in passing so I never had a chance. Next day she called in a panic because of what she witnessed that night.”

“Which was what?”

“When she came out of the station after her boyfriend posted bail? There sat Cappi in a parked car with Len. She knew who he was because she worked for his brother. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to know Cappi was on the police payroll, telling Priddy everything he knew. She knew she was dead meat if he realized she’d seen ’em together. Guess he must have done just that or she’d still be here.”

“So who threw her off the bridge?”

“Who do you think?”

“Cappi?”

“Of course. He had to shut her up or she’d have told Dante. Priddy may be corrupt but he wouldn’t go that far. Yet. Anyway, subject closed. I shouldn’t have let on, but I figured you must be concerned how I’d get caught up with the likes of him.”

“I did wonder,” I said.

“That asshole Cappi’s not going to get away with this. I get my hands on him, he’s dead.”

“If he’s on the run, he might leave the state. You don’t even know where he is.”

“I can sure as shit find out. I got street connections and I know where he lives. A guy like him can’t disappear. He’s not smart enough. He couldn’t even get a job on his own. He’s reduced to working in his brother’s warehouse. That’s how he gets the lowdown on all the stuff he’s passing to the cops.”

“Just stay out of it.”

“Oh, no. No, no. He’s not getting off that easy. I got ways to get even.”

“You can’t afford to get even. You’ll only make things worse.”

“You don’t know worse. I know worse. I ought to plug him full of holes and let him see how it feels.”

“Come on, Pinky. I can understand your wanting revenge, but that’ll put you back in prison and then what? Dodie’s in trouble. She needs you. It’s self-indulgent to brood about striking back when you’ve got more important issues to worry about. Leave him to the police.”

“After I get through, they can have him.”

“Forget that and focus on Dodie. I think we should hold good thoughts just in case it helps.”

“I am focused on Dodie. That’s the point. What he did to her, he pays for. Plain and simple.”

I gave up. The more I argued, the more determined he became. No point in fueling his rage by putting up resistance. At 9:00 he agreed to go inside, and it was nearly 11:00 when the surgeon finally appeared. Judging from his ID tag, he was foreign-born with a surname I wouldn’t know how to pronounce. I took one look at his face and left the two of them to confer. I wanted to hear what the doctor had to say, but it seemed tacky to listen in. As I watched Pinky’s expression change, the news probably wasn’t good. As soon as the surgeon departed, Pinky sank into a chair and wept. I sat down beside him and patted his back. I didn’t think she’d died, but I was afraid to ask, so I simply murmured and patted and waited him out. The woman at the desk saw what was going on and she appeared with a box of tissues. Pinky grabbed a handful and mopped at his eyes.

“Sorry. Oh man, I’m not long for this world.”

“What’d the doctor say?”

“I don’t know. He had an accent so thick, I couldn’t understand a word. The minute he started talking, it was like I went deaf because I was so afraid he’d have bad news.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Too early to tell or at least that’s what I think he said. He didn’t seem all that happy and when he threw in all that medical gobbledygook my ears went out on me. His eyes were so sad, I nearly busted up right then. I think he said he’d know better in the next twelve hours… or some amount of time. She’s been moved to ICU. I can stay if I want.”

Talking seemed to help, and by the time he’d pulled himself together, I felt like I was on the verge of collapse myself. Of course, Pinky opted to spend the night in the waiting room down the hall from ICU. I wanted to stay as well, but he urged me to go home. It didn’t take much in the way of persuasion. I told him I’d get in a few hours’ sleep and check with him in the morning to see how she was doing. Before I left, I volunteered to go down to the cafeteria and buy a couple of cups of coffee, for which he seemed grateful. I was the only one who seemed to be wandering the halls. I knew the location of the cafeteria from other occasions. The place would be closed, but I remembered a row of vending machines that would be humming with choices. When I reached the corridor, I took out two singles from my wallet and slid the bills into the slot, one by one. I punched the button for coffee, punched a second button to add cream, and picked up some sugar packets from a small cart nearby that stocked napkins and wooden stir sticks. I paid for a second coffee and carried the two Styrofoam cups with me back to the ER.

As I reached the waiting room, I saw a black-and-white pull into one of the parking spaces outside the entrance. An officer got out of the car and came in through the sliding doors, glancing at Pinky in passing. I did an about-face and remained in the hall while the mini-drama played out. I knew how it would go. The cop would ask the desk clerk for the victim’s name and next of kin. He’d be directed to Pinky, after which he’d quiz him for however long it took to complete a detailed report about the shooting. I didn’t want to participate. I was tired. I felt itchy and out of sorts and too impatient to put up with an interview. I’d be happy to tell the cops what I knew, but not right then. In any event, the officer would leave his business card with Pinky in case he thought of anything he wanted to add. I’d get his name from Pinky and go into the station in the morning. If he was off-duty, someone else would take my statement.

I peered into the waiting room where the two sat in one corner, Pinky slumping forward, talking with his head in his hands, while the officer took notes. I dumped the two cups of coffee in a trash bin and found an exit in another wing. The walk to the parking lot was longer but worth every step. I retrieved my car and drove home through the dark, deserted streets. I turned up the heat in the Mustang until it felt like an incubator and I still couldn’t get warm. Once home, I crawled under the covers without bothering to undress.

In the morning, I skipped my run. After I’d showered and dressed and downed my usual bowl of cereal, I pulled out the telephone book and looked for Lorenzo Dante’s name. There was no home address given, but I spotted a listing for Dante Enterprises, which was located downtown in the Passages Shopping Plaza. Though it was strictly in the none-of-your-business category, I thought it was time to bring Cappi’s brother into the equation. I had no idea what the relationship was between the two, but if Cappi wasn’t going to take responsibility for what he’d done, then maybe his brother would step up to the plate. With a police report now on file, the judicial system would grind into gear, eventually pulling Cappi into its maw. His parole officer would file a notice with the parole board, and he’d be picked up and detained until a Morrissey hearing could be held. As the shooter, he’d be entitled to counsel and would be accorded any number of constitutional rights. Meanwhile, Dodie, as victim, had no rights at all. If Cappi’s parole was revoked, he’d be sent back to prison while Dodie would be sent into a rehab facility for a long, slow, and painful period of recovery-assuming she survived. Pinky would pay a stiff price either way and that didn’t sit right with me.

I drove into the underground parking garage that ran the length of the shopping center. Stores weren’t yet open, so all of the parking spaces were available. I chose one at the far end of the lot, close to the elevators. I ran an eye down the wall-mounted directory, which listed the companies with offices on the second and third floors, above the retail establishments. Dante Enterprises occupied the penthouse suite. I took the elevator up. I don’t know what I expected from the digs of a loan shark, but the complex was elegant and beautifully furnished, with pale gray short-cut pile carpeting and interior walls of glass and high-gloss teak. The reception desk was empty, and I waited, not quite sure what to do with myself. I took a seat on a lush gray leather chair and leafed through a magazine with one eye on the elevator. Finally, the doors opened and a tall, balding man wearing glasses emerged and crossed to the inner door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Is someone helping you?”

I set the magazine aside and stood up. “I’m looking for Lorenzo Dante, the younger one. I understand there are two.”

“You have an appointment?”

I shook my head. “I was hoping he could see me. I just took a chance he’d be in.”

“He’s usually here by now, but I didn’t see his car in the garage. Is this something I can help you with?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a private matter. Do you have any idea what time he’ll be in?”

The man checked his watch. “Should be soon. If you take a seat, I can have the receptionist bring you a cup of coffee while you wait.”

By then I was feeling anxious, suddenly uncertain what I was doing there and what I hoped to accomplish. I can tattle with the best of them, but I prefer to do so when I know my audience. Here, I had no idea what sort of reception to expect. “You know what? I think I’ll run a couple of errands and come back in a bit.”

“If you change your mind about the coffee, let the receptionist know,” he said. He disappeared into the inner corridor just as the receptionist came out and returned to her desk. I had already moved to the elevator, where I pressed the down button. I was intent on exiting before Dante showed up, so it was only by chance that I glanced back at her as she took her seat. She noticed I was staring at her and she gave me the blank look of someone who hasn’t yet registered what’s going on.

I said, “Aren’t you Abbie Upshaw?”

Still the blank look. “Yes.”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone. I met you the other day at lunch. You’re Len Priddy’s girlfriend.”

Her gaze locked on mine, and I could see her formulate the recollection of who I was and where we’d met. It dawned on her that I was a friend of Cheney Phillips’s and someone who now knew more about her than I should. I was still putting the pieces together but I’d already gotten the picture. It was her house Pinky had broken into when he stole Len’s packet of pictures. She’d probably taken the photographs herself, documenting the link between the vice detective and Dante’s brother. What I knew without even asking was that she’d been planted in Dante’s office to pick up the same sort of inside dope that Cappi was spilling to the cops.

I heard a soft ping. The elevator doors opened and I stepped in. She watched, transfixed, as the doors slid shut. She was pale and her expression had turned from fear to dread.

It was a moment I enjoyed perhaps more than I should have.