V is for Vengeance Read online

  They made love that night, which was strange, given the strain between them. She initiated the sex, fueled by fury and despair. The reality of Channing with Thelma was like a dark aphrodisiac. If the woman was competition, then let her compete with this. She straddled him, pounding away as though riding him until the pleasure peaked between them, harsh and raw. He flipped her over on her back, dragging her to the edge of the bed and lifting her hips while he drove into her again, his legs braced. There was a barely suppressed violence in the encounter, something savage in the way they went at each other, and if what she felt wasn’t love, at least it was a feeling of some kind, intense and immediate.

  Afterward, they lay together, winded, and when he turned his head and looked at her, she knew he was present. In his face, she could see the Channing she’d loved once upon a time, the Channing who’d loved her even while her heart was broken and she was half dead, emotion drained out of her, leaving only dust. She felt tears welling and she turned over onto her side so he couldn’t see her face. She might have regained her composure if he hadn’t seemed so kind. He said, “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. She turned onto her back and covered her eyes, feeling the tears seep into her hair. There was no holding back. She felt herself dissolve, and she wept as she had as a child when pain and disappointment were at their sharpest. She wept as she had as an adult when she’d been dealt a blow so bitter there was no coming back. She allowed him to comfort her, which she hadn’t done in months. She remembered how sweet he’d been and how patient. “Oh, god. It all seems so hopeless,” she said. She tucked the sheet under her arms and pulled herself up into a sitting position, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  “Not so. Not hopeless at all.”

  He stroked her hair, which was tangled and wet from tears and from the sweat of their lovemaking.

  She reached over to snatch a tissue from the bed table and blew her nose. “Don’t look at me. I’m hideous. My face is all swollen and my eyes feel like ping-pong balls.”

  His smile was lazy in the half-light shining in from the street. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”

  “I know I’ve been distant, but sometimes I can’t help myself. It’s just so much easier to zone out and shut down.”

  “But you always come back to me. I look up and there you are,” he said. “Come here.” He opened his arms and she stretched out beside him, tucked into the crook of his shoulder. He was a spare man, narrow through the chest, and his skin felt two degrees cooler than hers. He smelled of sex and sweat and something sweet.

  She spoke into the hollow of his throat. “What about you, Channing? Where have you been?”

  “No place important. Go to sleep.”

  19

  Saturday morning, 6:00 A.M., I was back at my post. I’d managed four hours of sleep, after which I showered, dressed, and headed to the upper east side of town. En route, I stopped at McDonald’s and picked up a large coffee, an orange juice, and an Egg McMuffin. Before long, the coffee and OJ would send me in search of a public restroom, but I had to risk it for the moment. In times past, during surveillance work, I’ve used a tennis ball can for urinary emergencies. This was unsatisfactory. For women, strategy is problematic when it comes to body functions. Aim and positioning are more art than science, and I’d been wondering, of late, if a Rubbermaid food container wouldn’t be superior. Wide mouth, with an airtight lid. I was still running the pros and cons on the notion.

  When I pulled around the corner onto Juniper Lane, I parked on the same side of the street as the Prestwicks’ mock Tudor house. I stationed myself fifty feet away from the driveway, which kept me just outside their visual range. Or such was my hope. It was still dark out and as I settled in to wait, I saw headlights swing around the corner from Santa Teresa Street. A car approached, moving at a crawl. I slouched down on my spine, peering out at the street under the lower edge of the screen. Even with the screen in place, I knew I’d be visible if someone passing turned to look directly at me.

  I saw a newspaper fly out of the car window. I heard a thwop when it landed and then the car moved on. At the next house down, a second paper sailed out and into the yard. When the driver turned the corner at the end of the block, I got out and scurried around the side of the green stucco house. I plucked a plastic-wrapped newspaper from the steps and scurried back. In the car again, I removed the plastic sleeve and placed it on the passenger seat beside my camera and my clipboard. I made a note of the time in the interest of record keeping. There was no real imperative for me to do so. In theory, I was working off the hours Marvin had paid for, but he’d told me I could use the time any way that suited me without accounting to him. At this point, I was in it for the pleasure of the game, though I couldn’t afford to do so indefinitely. I had a business to run and bills to pay, matters I wasn’t at liberty to ignore.

  When it was light out, I read the paper, occasionally peering through the holes Henry’d cut in the screen. Not that there was anything to see. I searched for a Diana Alvarez byline, but she’d apparently fired off her best shot. There were already six letters to the editor commenting on the subject of the proposed suicide barrier, half in favor and half against. Everybody was indignant about the opinions and points of view that didn’t line up with their own.

  For the next three hours, I watched the neighborhood come to life. A jogger trotted into view on Santa Teresa Street, moving left to right. Three women walked their dogs, moving in the opposite direction. Two guys bicycled past in skintight bicycle shorts and what were surely shaved legs. It served no purpose to think about how bored I was. I went through my index cards, which I’d just about memorized. Surveillance is not for the fainthearted or for those dependent on external stimulation.

  For a brief period, I filled in what I could of the crossword puzzle in the local paper, a version Henry disdains as too simpleminded. He likes thorny puzzles based on common sayings spelled backward, or puzzles where all the answers have a tricky common link—birds of a feather, for instance, or famous last words. I got stuck on 2 Down: “Patron deity of Ur.” What kind of person knows shit like that? It made me feel dumb and uninformed.

  Idly, I registered a shriek of metal on metal and when I looked up, I realized the Prestwicks’ front gate was sliding open. The black Mercedes eased out of the driveway and into the street. I squinted through the hole in the cardboard screen and caught a flash of blond as the driver turned right. Mother or daughter, I wasn’t sure which. As she slowed at the corner and took a second right onto Santa Teresa Street, I turned the key in the ignition. I snatched the screen off the windshield and tossed it over the seat. I headed after her at a modest rate of speed, hoping not to call attention to myself.

  At the corner, I nosed the station wagon forward and caught the dull red glow of two taillights a block down on my right. She’d reached the T at Orchard Road and stopped for two cars that were speeding around the bend. She turned left toward State Street. I gunned it to the end of the block and took the same left she had. The Mercedes waited at the four-way stop, allowing cross traffic to pass. She turned right. I goosed it again and reached the four-way stop moments after she had. I turned right, straining for sight of her.

  This end of State Street became livelier as it bore west. After a string of apartment buildings and condominiums, the area was given over to small storefront businesses. At the next light, a supermarket on the left anchored a strip mall that didn’t have much else to recommend it. In another three blocks, I’d pass Down the Hatch, where I’d met Marvin three nights before.

  I expected the Mercedes to keep moving, but her left-hand turn signal began to blink. When the light changed, she turned onto the side street that bordered the supermarket parking lot. Commercial establishments in this part of town seemed to go from “Grand Opening” to “Liquidation Sale, Everything Must Go” without much in between. I kept well back as I followed her into the parking lot. She proceeded to the far aisle and came to a stop in front o
f a large metal donation bin, painted white with an oversize heart outlined in red. The lid of her Mercedes trunk popped up.

  I reached for my camera, focused, and started clicking off pictures. I captured her image as she got out and left the car idling while she went around to the rear. I was happy to note this was Georgia and not her daughter. She hauled out two bulging black plastic garbage bags and dumped them in the bin. She must have done a closet cleaning, which I was due for myself. She slid back under the steering wheel and circled the parking lot until she found a spot. She went into the supermarket without a backward glance. I set my camera aside. I didn’t believe her actions were crime related, but it’s good to be alert and even better to keep in practice.

  I found a parking spot two aisles away, locked my car, and followed her into the store. It was a sunny Saturday morning, and I figured I had just as much right as she did to go grocery shopping. She had no reason to think she’d run into me. Having bested me, she’d probably dismissed me from memory. The store was crowded and there were any number of areas where I could loiter if necessary, casually reading the nutritional content of whatever foodstuffs were close by. I walked the width of the store, glancing down each aisle in turn. By the time I saw Georgia, she was in the produce department, squeezing avocados. I left the store by the nearest exit. It was just shy of 10:00, so the other stores in the mall were still closed.

  A few minutes later, she emerged with her cart. I turned and made an earnest study of the nearest storefront, which turned out to be Santa Teresa Prosthetics and Orthotics. There wasn’t much to see as (perhaps) the owners had thought better of creating a window display made up entirely of false feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Georgia load groceries into her car. While her attention was occupied, I returned to the station wagon. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to trail after her for an entire roster of Saturday chores. I was willing to tag along, but even a vehicle as nondescript as Henry’s would warrant notice with repeated sightings.

  She pulled out of the lot and turned left on State Street, moving toward the La Cuesta Shopping Plaza. I felt my interest perk up, thinking she might go into Robinson’s and launch a madcap shoplifting spree. Instead, she drove into the mall parking lot along the back side of a row of shops and pulled up to another white donation bin that bore a big heart outlined in red. The lot was filling rapidly and I pulled into the nearest available spot within range of her. I reached for my camera and snapped photos of her as she popped open her trunk, walked around to the rear, and removed two more bulging black garbage bags that she dropped into the bin. Whatever the name of the charity, the bins were identical, and I couldn’t figure out why she needed two. Surely there wasn’t a limit on how much used clothing one could contribute at one time. I waited while she returned to her car and pulled out of the lot. I was more interested in what she’d dumped than where she intended to go next.

  The minute she was out of sight, I grabbed my camera and proceeded to the bin. HELPING HEARTS, HEALING HANDS was written in curlicue letters around the border of the heart. I took two photographs of the logo. No address and no phone number. There wasn’t even a disclaimer forbidding idlers from helping themselves to all the secondhand shoes, clothing, and assorted household items. I was on the verge of lifting the lid so I could see what was in the plastic bags when a white panel truck approached and pulled up at the curb. HELPING HEARTS, HEALING HANDS was writ large on the side.

  Casually, I moved away from the bin and walked toward the entrance to the mall. I resisted the urge to turn around to see what was going on behind me. I rounded the corner into one of the side avenues and then peered back at the panel truck. The driver had propped up the bin’s lid with one hand while he removed first one and then the other garbage bag and set them on the walk beside him. He dropped the lid with a bang and carried both bags to the back of his truck. He tossed them in and slammed the rear doors. I withdrew from his line of sight. Shortly after that, I heard the driver’s-side door slam shut with a muted bang.

  I kept my camera at the ready, and when the truck crossed my line of vision, moving toward the exit, I stepped out onto the walkway and took pictures of the back end. There was no license plate. I made a beeline for my car, but by the time I started the engine and pulled out, the panel truck had merged with passing traffic and disappeared.

  I doubted the charity was legitimate. The name itself was so saccharine, it almost had to be a cover for a racket of some kind. At least it gave me a lead. In California, any organization claiming nonprofit status has to file articles of incorporation, listing the corporation’s address, the name and address of a “registered agent,” and the names of the directors. This was all part of the public record, available to anyone. I closed my eyes and patted my chest, mimicking a heartbeat. How much better could it get? One quick moment of payoff for all the hours I’d put in.

  If I was right, Georgia’s job was to collect stolen merchandise and drop the goods in donation bins for retrieval by her cohorts. Audrey’s landlady had mentioned the presence of a white panel truck on the occasions when Audrey was staying in her little rented house. I was guessing the driver was responsible for collecting the bags and delivering them to San Luis Obispo. In the past, Audrey had worked every other weekend. Her death had doubtless disrupted the routine, but maybe the gang was back in the swing and ready to carry on. It was possible my conclusion was wrong, but I couldn’t think of another explanation that made quite as much sense. I put my surveillance on hold. I’d have to test my suspicions, but meanwhile, I didn’t want my cover blown.

  I drove back into town and made another stop at the public library and proceeded to the reference department, where I checked both the current phone book and the current city directory for Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. No listing under “Charities.” Nothing under “Social Service Organizations,” “Women’s Shelters,” “Churches,” or “Rescue Missions.” I wasn’t surprised. I had other avenues to explore, but this was Saturday morning, which meant that all the usual sources—the Hall of Records, the courthouse, the tax assessor’s office—would be closed. I’d be back in business Monday morning, but for now I was out of luck.

  On the way home, I did a supermarket run for essentials and then spent a few minutes putting groceries away. I started a load of laundry and would have gone on in this thrilling vein—scrubbing toilets, vacuuming—if not for the ringing of my telephone. I picked up and found Vivian Hewitt on the line.

  I said, “Hey, Vivian. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home, but something’s come up. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not at all. What’s happening?”

  “I did something I shouldn’t have and now I don’t know how to make it right.”

  “Wow, I’m all ears,” I said.

  “You’re going to think I’m awful.”

  “Would you just get on with it?”

  “I will, but you won’t like it.”

  “Vivian …”

  “Friday morning, Rafe left on a fishing trip and he won’t be back until Sunday night.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m just telling you why he’s not here to help me sort this out. Yesterday when I went over to Audrey’s to meet the locksmith, a delivery truck pulled in. Someone overnighted a package to Audrey and the driver needed a signature. When I said she wasn’t there, he asked if I’d sign for it and I agreed.”

  I said, “Ah.”

  “I don’t know what got into me. It was one of those situations where an opportunity presented itself and I took advantage. Now I’m thinking what I did was wrong.”

  “You know, I’m not exactly the person to consult when it comes to tricky ethical issues. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.”

  “But what am I supposed to do now? I feel so guilty. Rafe would have a fit if he knew.”

  “It’s no big deal. Why don’t you call the company and tell them you made a mistake? Have
them come pick up the package and return it to the sender.”

  “I thought of that myself. The problem is I didn’t pay attention to the name of the courier so I have no idea who to call.”

  “Isn’t there a label that gives the name?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “What about the locksmith? You think he’d remember?”

  “He was changing the lock on the back door, so he didn’t see the truck.”

  “Did you look in the yellow pages?”

  “I did, but none of the names looked familiar. That’s the reason I called. I could open the package, but I didn’t want to do anything without talking to you first in case you wanted to be on hand.”

  “Go ahead and open it. There’s no point in my driving up if it’s trivial. Are we talking about a box or a padded envelope?”

  “A box, a big one, and sealed with so much packing tape it might as well be waterproof. Hold on a minute. I’m putting the phone down so I can tackle this. I can’t tell you how relieved I am you didn’t condemn what I did.”

  “I’m happy to offer absolution if it makes you feel better,” I said.

  I listened to a stretch of Vivian breathing and making remarks to herself, a running account of her progress, accompanied by the sound of paper tearing. “Okay, got the wrapping off. Oh, rats. The box is taped shut around the edges. Let me get a kitchen knife.”

  A silence while she labored and then she said, “Oh.”

  “‘Oh,’ meaning what?”

  “I’ve never seen so much cash in my life.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I pushed the speed limit and an hour and a half later, I rang the bell and she opened the door, her face pale and drawn. She peered at the street behind me and hurried me in. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, saying, “Things just got worse.”

  “What now?”

  She moved to the living room windows and lowered the shades. “After we hung up, I assembled my embroidery supplies. I have my stitching group at three and my cousin is picking me up a few minutes before. I wanted to have everything ready.”