V is for Vengeance Read online

  I got up and walked back to the kitchenette. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I had to hold the mug with two hands to keep the surface steady. I carried the coffee back to my desk, wondering how soon my phone would start to ring. What I was graced with instead was a visit from Marvin Striker, who had a copy of the paper tucked under one arm.

  He looked as dapper as ever. Even in the midst of fuming, I had to admire the conservative dress code to which he adhered. No jeans and flannel shirts for him. He wore dark slacks, a muted sport coat, a white dress shirt, and a gray wool tie. His shoes were polished and he smelled of aftershave. In an earlier age, he would have been known as a dandy, or a swell, or a man about town.

  He noticed the paper lying on my desk, which saved him beating around the bush. “I see you read the article, same as me. So what did you think?”

  “You come off looking a lot better than I do, that’s for sure,” I said. “I told you she was a troublemaker.”

  I gestured him into a chair.

  He sat down, posture erect, his hands on his knees. “I’m not sure I’d call her a troublemaker. Granted, she’s got a different point of view, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong. Like she says, she’s looking at the bigger picture. I already got two calls this morning, wanting me to sign a petition in support of the suicide-prevention barrier.”

  “Oh, come on, Marvin. That’s a smokescreen. She’s using the issue to stick it up my nose. She doesn’t like it that I won’t jump when she says jump.”

  He stirred uneasily. “I can see you’re taking this personally, which is a mistake in my opinion. I understand you don’t like criticism. None of us want to be held up to public scrutiny, so I don’t fault you for that.”

  I waited. He made no response. I said, “Finish the sentence. You don’t fault me for that so what do you fault me for?”

  “Well, you know … that vice detective didn’t exactly endorse your point of view. About Audrey and this gang stuff.”

  “Because he’s just like Diana Alvarez, thrilled at the chance to cast me in a bad light.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  I waved the question aside. “It’s not worth getting into. It’s ancient history. I won’t claim he hates me. That would be an exaggeration. Let’s just say he dislikes me and the feeling’s mutual.”

  “I gathered as much. I mean, I wasn’t sure how well you knew the guy, but he didn’t come across as a big fan of yours.”

  “He was a friend of my ex-husband’s, who was also a cop. Believe me, there’s no love lost between us. I think he’s a creep.”

  Marvin’s right knee began a subtle jumping that he stilled with one hand. “Yes, well, that’s an item I thought we should cover while we’re at it. You don’t like Diana Alvarez and now it turns out you don’t like the vice detective. No offense, but it sounds like they don’t like you either.”

  “Of course they don’t. That’s the point I just made.”

  “Which presents me with a problem. The newspaper gal I don’t care about so much as this vice cop, what’s his name.”

  “Priddy.”

  “Right. If you’ll remember our initial conversation, you said I should hire you because they considered you a professional. Now it looks like that’s not true.”

  “He doesn’t consider me a professional at any rate,” I said.

  “So that has me wondering.”

  “About what?”

  “If you’re the best person for the job. I thought we could kick the subject back and forth between us. I’m curious what you have to say for yourself.”

  “I’ve said my piece. You want to fire me, fire me.”

  “I never said anything about firing you,” he said, aggrieved.

  “I thought I’d save you some time. No need to dance around the subject. You want me gone, I’m gone.”

  “Don’t be in such a rush. Thing is, I don’t question your qualifications or your sincerity. It’s just the police don’t believe there’s anything to this business about a shoplifting gang. You have to admit it sounds farfetched, which I’ve said all along.”

  “I’m not going to argue. You know why? Because it would sound self-serving, like I’m promoting my theory to protect my job. You’re the boss. You can believe anything you want. Audrey was an angel, falsely arrested, and falsely charged. She didn’t throw herself off the bridge, she tripped and fell.”

  “Now you’re twisting my words. I accept Audrey stole things. I already gave you that the last time we talked. It’s this notion there was more going on, like this big conspiracy. The cop isn’t buying it and he should know, don’t you think?”

  “Marvin, she had hundreds of dollars’ worth of stolen items in her underwear, which was specifically designed for just that purpose. Shoplifting wasn’t a hobby. She was a pro.”

  “That doesn’t mean she was part of an organized ring. The cop pretty much said the whole idea was bogus.”

  “Len Priddy would scoff at anything I said. You have no idea how contemptuous he is of me.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. You go forward, he’s not going to cooperate, which means you and the cops are working at cross-purposes.”

  “What do you want to do? Just give me the bottom line here and let’s get on with it.”

  He shrugged, apparently not wanting to be pinned down without agonizing first. This was Marvin’s version of playing fair. “I thought we should toss around some possibilities, like maybe you could confine your questions to how she died and leave the other part to the police.”

  “If you think her death was a homicide, the sheriff’s department is in a better position to investigate than I am. They’ll bend over backward finding out what went on. I’m coming at events from the other end, trying to figure out what she was involved in and whether that got her killed.”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t feel right to me.”

  “It doesn’t feel right to me either.”

  “There’s gotta be a compromise. We split the difference, as it were, so you get what you want and I do too.”

  “This is a business arrangement. Compromise doesn’t come into it. I think it’s cleaner and more honest if we part company. No harm, no foul. You go your way and I go mine. We shake hands and walk away.”

  “I have a lot of respect for you.”

  “Uh-hun. Right.”

  “No, I mean it. So how about this? Go ahead and work off the money I paid you and then we’ll talk. That way, I don’t come off looking like I’m disloyal or a cheapskate.”

  “You’re not a cheapskate. Don’t be ridiculous. Who said that?”

  “Diana mentioned maybe I was reluctant to cut ties because you might not give my retainer back and I didn’t want to be out the bucks.”

  “Why don’t we leave her out of it, okay? Because here’s the issue as far as I’m concerned. I don’t think you should pay me when you’re so clearly convinced I’ve got my head up my ass. If you think I’m on the wrong track, it’s a waste of your money and my time to go on with this. It’s a vote of no confidence.”

  “I have confidence in you, just not the tack you’re taking. Problem is, you could turn out to be right and then how would it look if I, you know, terminated your employment?”

  “I can’t help how you look to other people. I can appreciate the bind you’re in and I’m letting you off the hook.”

  “Then why do I feel bad? I don’t like feeling bad.”

  “Fine. If it makes you feel bad, you don’t have to make the decision right now. Take your time. Whatever you want, I’ll be cool with it. We can’t keep going around and around like this.”

  “In that case, I gotta go back to my original proposition. How about you work off the dough I paid you up front? You can spend your time any way you want. You don’t even have to itemize where you went or what you did. Your prerogative entirely. Money runs out, we’ll talk just like this and you can tell me what you found.”

  “You don’t have to humor me.”

/>   “No, no. That’s not where I’m coming from. I’m fine with this,” he said. “How much time have you put in so far?”

  “I have no idea. I’d have to go back and calculate.”

  “Then figure it out and whatever time you have left, use as you see fit. We have a deal?”

  I stared at him for a moment. I didn’t like any of it, but I didn’t want Diana Alvarez and Len Priddy lording it over me.

  I said, “Sure.”

  We fumbled the conversation to a close and left the conflict with neither one of us at peace. The whole complexion of the game had changed. On the surface, it looked the same. I had the younger woman in my sights. Another half a day and I’d know where she lived and from that I could find out who she was. Sooner or later, she’d tip her hand. Inevitably, I’d reach a point where I’d be operating on my own dime. But so what? Even if I ended up with egg on my face, there are worse things than that. The little cynical voice in me piped up, saying, “Oh, yeah? Name one.”

  Aloud, I said, “Letting the bad guys win.”

  At 2:45 I parked just outside the entrance to Horton Ravine, angling the station wagon so the long drive up to Climping Academy was in plain view. I couldn’t imagine a tow truck driver opting to remove the disabled Mercedes through the rear entrance to the Ravine, but I was prepared to follow him either way. In the meantime, since I wasn’t actually in Horton Ravine, I was beyond the jurisdiction of the proto-cop. He’d been nice enough on our first encounter, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I shut down my engine and removed a map of California from the glove compartment. I opened the map fully and laid it across the steering wheel, hoping I looked like a tourist who’d pulled off the road to get her bearings. I turned on the radio, tuning in to a station that played hit songs twenty-four hours a day. I listened to two Michael Jackson cuts and then Whitney Houston’s “Where Do Broken Hearts Go.” The DJ announced she’d just knocked Billy Ocean out of the number one spot. I didn’t know if this was good news or bad.

  At 3:00 the cars began their exodus, pouring down the hill from Climping, one luxury vehicle after another. When I was in high school, I’d used public transportation. Aunt Gin had a fifteen-year-old Oldsmobile that she used to get back and forth to work. In those days, teenagers had no rights and no sense of entitlement. We knew we were second-class citizens, entirely at the mercy of adults. There were kids who had their own cars, but it wasn’t the norm. The rest of us knew better than to bitch. I pictured this crop of youngsters, not spoiled so much as unaware of how fortunate they were.

  Three thirty came and went, and just when I was getting worried, a tow truck approached from my left, passed me, and headed up the hill. In my mind’s eye, I could see the parking lot, which would be largely deserted by now. The damsel in distress would be easy to spot. The driver would pull up in the empty lane and get out of his truck. The girl would explain the problem while gesturing at the tires. I could picture him hunkering down to have a look, quickly realizing, as she must have, that human mischief was at the root. I’d left the two valve caps on the pavement, one sitting neatly beside each flat tire. She was bound to have spotted them, and if she’d complained about being the victim of a prank, the driver had probably brought along a portable air compressor. It would be a simple matter then of his inflating one tire at a time and screwing the valve caps back into place. This would take no more than three minutes, maybe four taking into account the back-and-forth of polite conversation.

  I checked my watch, fired up my engine, and turned off the radio. I looked up as though cued and said, “Ah!” because there came the tow truck, turning right at the foot of the hill. The Mercedes followed. Though I knew the upscale private school drew students from all over the city, I’d assumed the girl lived somewhere in Horton Ravine. However, instead of turning left and heading into the heart of the Ravine, she took a right as well. I kept my face averted, making a serious study of the map still open in front of me. She didn’t know me from Adam, but on the off chance we crossed paths in the future, I didn’t want her making the connection. The tow truck passed me, slowed at the intersection, and took a right. She was two car lengths behind. I was already folding up the map, which I left on the passenger seat. As soon as she’d cleared the intersection, I checked for oncoming traffic, made an illegal U-turn, and followed her.

  The tow truck continued on across the freeway overpass. The Mercedes moved into the right lane. The girl took the 101 on-ramp and merged with the stream of speeding cars heading south. I slowed, adjusting my speed to allow another car between us. Traffic was light and it wasn’t difficult keeping up with her. She stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the off-ramp at Little Pony Road. She got off on the Missile Street exit and kept to the left in preparation for a turn. The car between us sped on. We were both caught at the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp. I could see her adjust the rearview mirror and reapply her lipstick. When the light changed, it took her a moment to register the fact. I was patient, not wanting to call attention to myself with even a quick toot of my horn.

  She turned left and kept to surface streets, which meant we encountered a stop sign or a stoplight at just about every intersection. I stayed three car lengths behind her. She didn’t seem aware of me, and why would she? There was no reason for her to fret about an old station wagon. I watched her shake her shoulders and bounce on the seat. She lifted her right arm, fingers snapping in time to music audible only to her. I flipped on my radio again, picking up the same pop music station I’d listened to before. I didn’t recognize the female vocalist, but the girl’s car dancing was perfectly synchronized with the song.

  She turned left on Santa Teresa Street, drove three blocks, and then turned right on Juniper Lane, which was an abbreviated half block long. Ten yards before reaching the corner, I pulled over to the curb in front of a small green stucco house that fronted on Santa Teresa Street. I shut down the engine and got out, trying to behave as though I were in no particular hurry. There were newspapers piled up on the front porch steps and the letter box bulged with mail. I blessed the householder for being away and at the same time faulted him for not having someone cover the house for him while he was gone. Burglars were now at liberty to break in and help themselves to his coin collection and his wife’s silverware.

  I cut across the yard on the diagonal, happy I didn’t have to worry about witnesses. An oversize weeping willow occupied one corner of the lot. Four-foot hedges grew along the edge of the property as far as a detached two-car garage with an apron of concrete in front sufficient to allow guest parking for two.

  I peered over the neatly trimmed shrubs. There were only three houses on the far side of Juniper Lane. The centerpiece was a two-story mock Tudor, with a one-story ranch-style house on the left and a one-story board-and-batten cottage on the right. The Mercedes was idling at the entrance to the Tudor. As I watched, the wide wrought-iron gate slid open with a screech of metal on metal, and the black Mercedes sedan turned into the drive. Through the wrought-iron fence I saw the middle of three garage doors rumble up. The girl pulled in and a moment later, the gate slid shut again, squealing as it had before.

  I reversed my steps and returned to the car. I unearthed pen and paper from my shoulder bag. I looked to my right and made a note of the street number on the green stucco house where I’d parked. I turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and proceeded to the corner. I turned right and drove at a sedate two miles an hour as was appropriate on a residential street of such short duration. As I passed, I scribbled down house numbers for the three houses on the left: 200, 210, and 216. On the right-hand side of the street there were four houses, respectively numbered 209, 213, 215, and 221. At the end of the block, I turned right and drove to the parking garage adjacent to the public library.

  17

  I took a seat at my favorite table in the reference room at the public library. I’d plucked the Santa Teresa City Directory from the shelf and I worked my way through, running my finger do
wn the page. In the section I’d turned to, streets were listed alphabetically. For each street, the house numbers were arranged in an orderly progression. Opposite each number, the name and occupation of the householder was given, with the spouse’s name in parentheses. In a separate section, residents were listed in alphabetical order by name, this time including a phone number as well as the address. By flipping from section to section, crisscrossing, so to speak, one could pick up more information than you’d think.

  In my notebook, I jotted down the names of the occupants I was interested in, including those of the mock Tudor, the neighbors on either side, and the families across the street. I also looked up the owner of the green stucco house that fronted on Santa Teresa Street at the corner of Juniper Lane. This is what constitutes happiness in my life—the garnering of facts. The younger woman, Audrey’s accomplice, was Georgia Prestwick. I now knew her address and her phone number, which I would probably never have occasion to use. Her husband’s name was Dan. His occupation was “retired.” If I wanted to know what he’d done before retirement, I could track through past city directories until I caught him in the act. From a different source, I knew the Prestwicks had a daughter, who was an honor roll student at Climping Academy.

  The owner of the green stucco house was Ned Dornan, whose wife’s name was Jean. He worked for the city planning commission, though the directory didn’t specify in what capacity. I left the library, retrieved my car, and went home. It was 4:30 by then and my day wasn’t even close to being done. I sat down at my desk. My answering machine was blinking merrily. Apparently I had any number of messages and I was guessing all of them were related to the article in the paper. I didn’t have the patience to listen to the blah, blah, blah. I’d be hearing from people I hadn’t spoken to in years and why did I owe them an explanation? I opened my bottom drawer and hauled out the phone book. I paged through until I found the all-purpose number for the City of Santa Teresa. I punched in the number and when the operator picked up, I asked to be connected to the city planning offices. When a woman answered in that department, I asked to speak to Mr. Dornan. She said he was out of the office and wouldn’t be back until Monday, May 2. She offered to redirect my call. I thanked her and declined, saying I’d call again.