V is for Vengeance

30

Late Wednesday afternoon, a uniformed officer finally stopped by my office to pick up copies of the report I’d passed along to Cheney Phillips. In point of fact, what I’d given him was my one and only copy-except for the carbon, which I confess I used to run off additional pages after I talked to him. I knew he’d feel better if he thought he’d corralled all the paperwork in my possession, so I handed the officer two more copies and we were all satisfied. The carbon I returned to its hiding place. As soon as the officer left, I put through a call to Cheney, hoping to fill him in on Len’s attack, the exchange of gunfire between Cappi and Pinky, and my subsequent conversation with Dante. He didn’t pick up the call and I made a note to myself to try again later.

I arrived home from work to find a message from Henry on my answering machine. He’d tried me at the office, but I must have been out the door by then. He said he was on his way to the nursing home to visit Nell. The doctors expected to release her sometime in the coming week. The purpose of his call was to let me know he was flying home the next day. He gave me his flight number and time of arrival-4:05 P.M. He said if I had prior plans and couldn’t get to the airport, he’d take a cab and not to worry. He also said he’d treat me to dinner at Emile’s-at-the-Beach if I was free. This was cheery news. I knew without even looking my calendar was clear, and I was excited by the prospect of having him home. I popped over to his house to make sure his plants were alive and well. It was also time to clean up the mess Pinky’d left in the hall when he dashed off. The tidying up didn’t take long. I dusted, dry-mopped, and vacuumed, and then opened the back door to air out the place.

I made a run to the supermarket and stocked the few items he’d need so he wouldn’t have to worry about shopping for groceries right away. The rest of Wednesday went by in a blur. I called the hospital twice for updates on Dodie, who seemed to be holding her own. The reports were superficial and didn’t contain much in the way of medical data, but since I wasn’t a family member, I couldn’t push for more. Pinky was impossible to track down. The floor nurses didn’t have the time or the inclination to roust him out of the waiting room and steer him to a phone. If he managed to get home for a shower and a few hours’ sleep, the last thing I wanted to do was disturb him.

It wasn’t until Thursday morning I had time to make a trip to St. Terry’s. I stopped by my office en route, sitting down at my desk just long enough to try Cheney again. In the wake of Len’s attack, I was losing my fear of him and anger was taking its place. When Cheney finally picked up, he was short with me. I wouldn’t say he was rude, but I knew by his tone he was in no mood to talk. I said I’d catch him later, but the call left me wondering what was going on. I’d no more than returned the handset to the cradle than the phone rang.

I answered, hoping Cheney had repented. Instead, I found Diana Alvarez on the line.

“Hi, Kinsey. This is Diana.” She’d adopted the breezy, good-natured tone of a close friend, and I didn’t have the energy to remind her she was no such thing. “Has Cheney said anything to you about some big deal coming down?”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. I was talking to one of my sources at the PD and got the impression there was something major in the works. I’d love to get the heads-up so I can file a story.”

“Can’t help you there. He hasn’t taken me into his confidence,” I said.

“Must be hot stuff, whatever it is. You know how cops are when it’s time for fun and games. If you hear anything, would you let me know?”

I said, “Sure.” We even exchanged brief pleasantries before she signed off. I sat and stared at the phone while a cartoon question mark formed above my head. Cheney was preoccupied about something. No doubt about that. I’d postulated the existence of a task force and an investigation that predated and superseded mine. Were they ready to make a move? If so, how had Diana picked up a hint of it when I was still in the dark?

The drive to St. Terry’s was an easy ten minutes. I found parking in the same lot I’d used Tuesday night when Dodie was admitted. I was hoping she’d be out of ICU by now and in a room of her own. At the very least, I hoped to connect with Pinky to see how he was holding up. I looked forward to telling them that Dante’d agreed to cover their bills and living expenses, which I hoped would be a source of relief. I wasn’t sure how much fast-talking I’d have to do to convince Pinky the offer was something other than charity. I regarded it as fair payment for services rendered. He’d provided Dante with valuable confirmation of his brother’s duplicity, which Dante could deal with in any manner that suited him, the more punitive the better as far as I was concerned.

I stopped in the lobby and asked the volunteer at the desk for Dodie’s room number. She checked her roster, which was revised and reprinted daily as patients were admitted, moved, or discharged. She was a woman in her seventies, probably a grandmother and a great-grandmother, though quite the looker for someone her age. She seemed momentarily confused and made a phone call to ICU for Dodie’s status, since her name wasn’t readily available. When she hung up, she said, “Mrs. Ford passed.”

“Passed what?” I said. I thought she was talking about a test. Then my mind skipped to the notion of a blood clot or a kidney stone. This seemed like an odd piece of medical data to be sharing with me. She was clearly uncomfortable at my pressing the point.

“She passed over first thing this morning, but that’s as much as I was told.”

“Passed over,” I repeated. “You mean, she died?”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“She died? But that can’t be true. How could she do that?”

“I wasn’t given an explanation.”

“But I called twice yesterday and I was told she was fine. Now you’re telling me she passed? What kind of word is that anyway, passed. Why don’t you call a spade a spade?”

The woman’s cheeks were suffused with pink, and I noticed that two visitors seated in the lobby had turned to stare at me.

“Would you like to speak to the chaplain?”

“No, I don’t want to speak to the chaplain,” I snapped. “I want to talk to her husband. Is he here?”

“I don’t have information about next of kin. I’d imagine he’s meeting with a funeral director about services. Really, I’m so sorry to upset you. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll have someone bring you a cup of water.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” I said.

I turned and headed for the door. I didn’t doubt her word. I just thought it was ridiculous that Dodie had died when she’d been fine last I checked. Ever quick with the old defense mechanisms, I was using anger as a counterweight to my surprise. I didn’t feel sorrow. I didn’t know Dodie well enough to experience the loss. Pinky would be devastated, and what sprang to mind was his vow of retaliation if anything happened to her. Now that he was faced with the worst-case scenario, he’d go off on a rampage, and Cappi would be his target.

I drove the four blocks to the duplex. I had no idea the state I’d find him in or what I’d say to him. I parked across the street, noticing that Dodie’s gaudy yellow Cadillac was gone. I felt a prick of anxiety, like the tip of a knife touching me between the shoulder blades. I took the porch steps two at a time and knocked on the front door while simultaneously ringing the bell. There was no response, so I did the next best thing, which was to try the knob. The door was unlocked. I opened it and stuck my head in. “Pinky?”

The house had that empty air of lingering food scents and humming appliances. I called his name again, though I was silly to do so when I knew he wasn’t on the premises. I moved into the living room. One of the couch cushions had been tossed on the floor and Pinky’s gun was gone. I sat down abruptly and put my head in my hands. There was no doubt in my mind he’d gone after Cappi. It was exactly the sort of rash move he’d make. What chance would I have of reaching Cappi before he did? More important, how would I find him? Rapidly, I ran through my options. My first impulse was to dial 9-1-1. And say what? I could describe Dodie’s car. I could describe the man driving it, but that was that. I could call Dante and warn him Pinky was on the loose. He was the man most likely to know where his brother was. Maybe he could put out a companywide alert and let him know what was going on. My third option was to warn Cappi myself if I could figure out where he was.

I tried to clear my mind of chatter. I remembered Pinky mentioning something in the course of his morbid ramblings the night Dodie was shot. What had he said? That Cappi couldn’t find a job so he’d been reduced to working in his brother’s warehouse, which was how he was able to leak Dante’s business to the cops. I’d been to a warehouse in Colgate that I surmised was associated with the retail-theft ring. I roused myself and returned to my car.

I merged with traffic on the 101. Time must have skipped six beats, because I couldn’t remember traveling on surface streets to reach the access ramp. My impulse was to jam the gas pedal to the floor, which with a Mustang is the equivalent of being shot out of a cannon. However, as I pressed down with my foot, I caught sight of a black-and-white passing on my left. I eased off, marveling at my good luck. Nothing worse than peeling out when you’ve got a cop car next to yours, equipped with radar. I stuck to the middle lane, so bound by good behavior that I almost missed the appearance of a second black-and-white sailing by on my right. Neither patrol car was traveling at great speed, but the driver closest to me was intent. There was something purposeful in his posture, as though he didn’t want to be late for festivities I hadn’t been told about. A party, parade, some coplike activity requiring him to be punctual.

The two patrol units left the highway at the Fairdale exit, with me bringing up the rear. What was the deal here? When I spotted a third patrol car coming up on my tail, I pulled into the right-hand lane and let them catch up with one another. I reached the intersection, where the red traffic light inspired a stop on my part while the police cars slowed briefly and slid through. By the time I turned right, the three patrol cars seemed to have vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. I continued half a mile until I passed the oversize screen of the now-defunct drive-in theater, popular when I was a kid. I turned right onto the adjacent side road. The orchard of speakers on stands had been removed. I glanced at the empty acres of cracked asphalt and nearly ran off the road. The entire lot was being used as a staging area for patrol cars and unmarked vehicles. Two dozen uniformed officers were milling around, law-enforcement personnel in an assortment of jackets reading FBI, POLICE, and SHERIFF. I was guessing all wore Kevlar vests under their shirts. I jerked my gaze back to the road, but I knew the significance of what I’d seen. Diana had heard something big was going down and this had to be it. No wonder Cheney had been short with me. The only location of significance in the area was the Allied Distributors warehouse. The joint police agencies had to be gearing up for a raid. Whatever intelligence gathering they’d done over the previous months and years had now culminated in an armed response. My heart was thunking and a rush of adrenaline coursed through my frame, making me feel electric. Pinky, the gunslinger, if he managed to catch up with Cappi here, would find himself in the midst of a cadre of officers and FBI agents more hyped up than he was.

A quarter of a mile farther down the road, the warehouse appeared at the end of the cul-de-sac. Crisscrossing lines of railroad tracks ran behind the building. It was possible in times past, goods were moved from the warehouse by train, a miniterminal devoted to the business of commercial transport. Now the tracks were the sole domain of the Amtrak freight and passenger trains that went through town three and four times a day. Abruptly, I put my foot on the brake. To my right, Dodie’s yellow Cadillac sat at an angle, wheels off the side of the road and slightly sunk in the grass. Pinky hadn’t bothered to park carefully. Then again, he was on his way to shoot a man, so perhaps the finer points of roadside etiquette had escaped him.

The wide metal gates to the warehouse property stood open. The employee parking lot appeared on my right with the warehouse itself on the left. Six tractor-trailers had been backed up to the loading docks and all the rolling metal doors stood open. Five or six guys seemed to be enjoying a smoke while two forklift operators wheeled in and out of the warehouse with loads. At the far end of the building, two white panel trucks sat side by side, back doors open while men shifted boxes from the pallets on a flatbed and into the interiors. I scanned for Cappi but didn’t see anyone with his build and body type. I didn’t see Pinky either, and I didn’t know what to make of it. Dante’s employees were caught up in an ordinary day at work, no urgency, no threat, no cause for alarm.

I parked in the employee lot and crossed to the main building. The two-story structure was a quirky blend of the old and the new. Parts of the building were aging brick and frame, with a newer steel addition affixed to the front. The whole of it was probably twenty-five thousand square feet of space. I entered by way of a side door, avoiding the receiving area, which had to be hazardous if you didn’t know what you were doing. At the mezzanine level, I could see the business offices. Around the perimeter, catwalks were affixed to the ceiling by a series of cables and steel posts. The offices overlooked the storage blocks that were separated by wide aisles. I spotted zigzagging sets of stairs every hundred feet or so, like fire escapes in a tenement. The place seemed well organized, with a system at work that only the practiced eye could assimilate.

I passed the restrooms, a locker room, and then a lunchroom lined with vending machines. The ten tables I saw were sparsely occupied by a smattering of workers on a coffee break. I crossed the concrete floor and climbed the stairs to the offices, moving as quickly as I could. It’s hard to remember what I was thinking at the time. Under the circumstances, I shouldn’t have been there at all, but I felt I had to intercept Pinky before all hell broke loose. Judging from the fevered activity I’d seen at the drive-in, a raid was imminent. The strategy had been worked out and the cops were suited up and ready to roll. The goal would be to contain and control the warehouse, subduing its occupants by hitting hard, then moving in rapidly before anyone could escape or destroy the evidence they were after. They’d have arrest and search warrants in hand, and they’d seize files, records, computers, and anything else that would provide details of illegal activities. Who knew how many guys they’d round up in the process?

At the top of the stairs, the offices were enclosed in waist-high wainscoting, with glass panels above. The door was open, and a young girl with a mass of frizzy blond hair sat at her desk. There was a computer in front of her and an old-fashioned typewriter on a rolling table nearby. Unlike Dante’s downtown offices, this place was grubby-plain linoleum on the floor, fluorescent lights overhead, battered wooden desks, and cheap rolling chairs. The room was rimmed with file cabinets, and I knew the raiding party would be all over them. She looked up at me. “Can I help you?”

I was caught off guard by the calendar on her desk. It was one of those thick blocks of sheets with the date writ large on each page, which would be torn off and discarded at the end of the day. Even upside down, I could see it was Thursday, May 5, and I could barely suppress a yelp. May 5th is my birthday. That’s why Henry had made a point of coming home. That’s why he’d offered to take me to dinner. The downside of being single and alone is having a birthday come around and catch you by surprise. I was suddenly thirty-eight years old. Still distracted, I said, “Is Mr. Dante here?”

“In there, but he said no interruptions.”

Dante opened the door and stepped out of his private office into the reception area. “I’ll take care of this, Bernice,” he said to her. He turned a flat look on me. “What can I do for you, Ms. Millhone? You have no business being here. I hope you know that.”

He’d seemed friendlier in the limousine, but I needed his help, so I decided to overlook his surly attitude. I put my hand in the crook of his elbow while I steered him out of reception and into his private office. “Pinky’s got a gun and he’s either here on the premises or not far away. Dodie died this morning and he’ll kill Cappi if he catches up with him.”

I expected him to react, but he was engaged in a more important task. His wall safe was open, and he was transferring thick packets of cash into a soft-sided suitcase that lay on his desk. He didn’t seem to care that Cappi’s life was in jeopardy or that Pinky was on the verge of bursting in with a loaded gun. His manner was relaxed; his movements efficient and methodical. He had a job to do and he was doing it with no wasted energy.

“Do you know where Cappi is?” I asked.

“I sent him on an errand to get him out of my hair. Sorry about Pinky’s wife. I never met the woman, but I know he was devoted. I suggest you get out before he and Cappi cross paths. Neither one of us has a dog in their fight.”

“Can’t you put a stop to it?”

“No more than you can.”

I stared at him, fascinated by his calm when I was in such a state of panic. I said, “It gets worse. You’ve got three dozen cops down the road about to descend on this place.”

“That’s Cappi for you. The guy can’t keep his trap shut and this is what comes of it. My best guess, he’ll make sure he’s rounded up with everyone else so it looks like he’s in the same jam. He better hope he succeeds. This isn’t a business where a snitch gets away with it. If Pinky doesn’t kill him, someone else will.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What’s it look like?”

As though on cue, I heard shouting down below, and Pinky’s voice echoed through the vast warehouse space. “Cappi! This is me, Pinky. I got a debt to settle with you. Show your face, you son of a bitch.”

I moved toward the door.

Dante said, “Don’t go out there.”

I ignored him and left the office. I went out on the landing and looked over the rail. Pinky was drunk and weaving on his feet. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and when he’d managed it, he’d slept in the same clothes. He held the gun in his right hand, relaxed at his side. If Cappi showed up, he probably didn’t want him to spot the weapon until he took aim and fired.

I called down to him. “Hey, Pinky? Up here.”

Pinky did a lazy visual search until he spotted me one floor up. “You seen Cappi?”

“What do you want with him?”

“Dodie died. I’m going to kill his ass.”

“I heard about her. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. If I come down, can we talk?”

“Soon as I shoot him, we can chat all you like.”

I could feel the despair surging from my feet all the way up my frame. Pinky had nothing to lose. Violence was about to erupt and I didn’t want him to die. How was I going to talk him out of this dumb plan of his? He was beyond listening to reason. Worse, I didn’t think I’d be persuasive when he had a gun in his hand and murder on his mind.

Across the concrete apron that jutted out from the loading docks, men had stopped what they were doing. Most seemed poised for action… most likely, running away. All waited to see if a deadly confrontation would actually develop. Maybe this was nothing more than big talk from a drunk with a gun, or maybe this would turn into a movie-style showdown with real blood and real death.

Cappi appeared at the side door. He stopped in his tracks, surprised at the tableau of guys standing motionless, eyes turned to the man in the center of the floor who swayed unsteadily. Cappi’s gaze traveled to the object of their interest. The minute he realized it was Pinky, he took off at a run. Pinky wheeled. He extended his arm, gun pointed at Cappi as he took the stairs two at a time, using the handrail to propel himself upward. I heard his footsteps on the metal treads, the sound half a beat behind the actual impact. The effect was much like a jet flying overhead, the aircraft itself moving faster than the sound that follows in its wake. In a curious way, it was the perfect distraction for the raid, which was suddenly in progress.

Six black-and-whites pulled in and screeched to a halt. Cops poured into the loading area and fanned out. Several were armed with sledgehammers and two hauled a battering ram. Workers scattered in all directions. The officers with sledgehammers began smashing into the wall near a computer terminal, the pounding magnified in the confinement of the metal structure. One man broke through the outer shell of cinder block, wielding the sledgehammer with a force that made his arms quiver from his elbows to his shoulders.

From my vantage point, it was like watching short clips of film. I saw a man in coveralls scale the fence and disappear into the weedy field next door. Three others banged out the back door and scrambled down into the drainage ditch that some of their pals were already using as an escape route. Officers advanced along the ditch from opposite directions, blocking their escape. Though I couldn’t see them from where I stood, I heard guys shouting as they scurried along the railroad tracks. None of the warehouse employees were armed. Why would they carry guns when, for most of them, their jobs were so mundane?

Cappi and Pinky were as oblivious as lovers who had eyes only for each other. Pinky scrambled up the stairs after Cappi, who’d pulled his own gun from the small of his back. Both fired randomly to no particular effect. Bullets pinged off the steel beams that supported the roof and ricocheted into the corrugated metal walls at the rear. I backed up, all too aware how wild and inexpert the shooting match was. This was not a gentlemanly duel at ten paces with pistols raised. This was a two-man war. The window next to me shattered and I dropped to the floor. Dante appeared suddenly behind me and grabbed me under the arms, pulling me up, propelling me toward his inner office.

“Stick with me. I’ll get you out of here.”

“No! Not until I see Pinky’s okay.”

“Forget about him. He’s a dead man.”

In all the shouting it was nearly impossible to separate police orders from the uproar on the loading dock. I pulled away and returned to the front windows so I could see what was going on. Dante disappeared into his office. I stood where I was, sick with fear. Violence scares me silly, but it felt cowardly to run off when Pinky’s life was at stake. Below, one of the tractor-trailers growled to life. The driver stomped on the gas pedal. The cab shot forward, careening toward the road where two police cars were parked, blocking the exit. Officers took cover, their guns drawn. The driver refused to give ground and plowed into one of the black-and-whites, which seemed to levitate before coming to rest with a bang. The impact smacked the trucker against the steering wheel and he slumped to one side, blood running down his face. I half expected him to open the door and make a run for it, but he was out cold. By that time, most of the workers had had the good sense to give up the fight. They were herded into the open, where they were ordered to get down on the ground, hands over their heads.

Mesmerized, I scanned the loading platform, where I saw Cheney Phillips. Next to him was Len Priddy with his face upturned. Both ducked out of sight and came up on the far side of a semi, using the cab to shield themselves as they popped up in range of the two shooters. I was certain all the officers had been cautioned about the unwarranted firing of their weapons. Pinky and Cappi, of course, were free of such restraints.

Behind me, Dante’s office girl had taken cover under her desk, phone in hand. Her instinct was probably to call the police, but the place was already overrun with officers. Meanwhile, Cappi had circled half the warehouse on the elevated walkway. He ran toward me, approaching from my right. He pushed me aside and headed toward the nearest stairway. He must have thought if he could get down to ground level, he’d be close enough to the side door to get out. He was so focused on reaching safety that he ignored the fact that officers were blocking the exit. Pinky was still to my right and closing the gap between them. Cappi turned and fired twice, and Pinky went down, his right leg going out from under him. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet away from me. Cappi was out of ammunition, and that changed the dynamic of the game for him. Abruptly, he turned, his face set. Maybe having wounded Pinky, he’d flipped from victim to aggressor. He moved toward me at a measured pace, reloading as he walked. Pinky pulled himself up. I screamed. “Pinky, RUN!”

I meant for him to go back the way he’d come, but he hobbled in my direction, his gaze fixed on mine. This put him directly in Cappi’s path. My instinct was to grab him and pull him out of the line of fire. Dante apparently had a similar impulse, but he was focused on me. His face was dark with anger. “I told you to get down!”

I glanced back and realized he was two feet behind me, screaming in my ear. He grabbed me for a second time and dragged me toward his inner office.

“Let go!” I broke his grip, desperate to protect Pinky if there was any way I could. In retrospect, it seems pointless, my thinking to intervene. I have no idea how I could have affected the outcome. Far from helping, I was only putting myself in harm’s way. Dante turned me with a quick yank that threw me off balance, saying, “Sorry about this.”

I stumbled, and I might have caught myself if I hadn’t been so astonished at the sight of his fist coming at my face. There was no way to avoid the impact. The blow caught me dead center and he landed a punch to my nose that dropped me to my knees. I put my arms out, tumbling forward until I supported myself on my hands and knees. My brain clanged around in my skull like the clapper in a bell. I collapsed into a sitting position and put my hands to my face. Blood gushed through my fingers, and at the sight of it I could feel my eyes roll back in my head. I heard one more shot fired, but the sound came from a long distance away, and I knew the shooter wasn’t aiming at me. I blacked out briefly and then I was dimly aware of officers swarming up the stairs.