V is for Vengeance Read online

  “Sure.”

  “Melissa contacted me at the paper. She hadn’t heard about Audrey’s dive off the bridge until she read the article last Thursday. The minute she saw it she went to the police, because her boyfriend died exactly the same way two years ago. She thought they’d want to pursue the connection, so she gave them all the relevant information. She hasn’t heard from them since.”

  I said, “That’s not unusual. An inquiry like that takes time.”

  “The guy stonewalled her right there. She thought he’d follow up, but he won’t return her calls.”

  “Who’d she talk to?”

  “That’s just it. Sergeant Priddy …”

  Melissa said, “The fuckhead. He was horrible. He treated me like shit.”

  She looked too dainty and feminine to use such foul language. This, of course, elevated her in my opinion, and I hoped she was just warming up. People are all the time wanking on me about my potty mouth, so I like being able to point out someone worse.

  “Tell her what you told me,” Diana said to her.

  Our proximity discouraged conversation face-to-face. Melissa had delivered her remarks to my front windshield, and Diana was leaning forward avidly, with her head between us like a dog eager for a Sunday drive. This was the second time I’d referred to dogs and Diana in the same breath and I apologized silently to mutts everywhere.

  “My boyfriend committed suicide two years ago, or so I thought. I was devastated. I had no idea anything was wrong, so I couldn’t come to grips with what he’d done. I knew Phillip had gambling debts, but he was basically an optimist and talked like he was getting his shit together. Next thing I knew, he jumped off the side of a parking garage …”

  “Binion’s in Vegas. Sixth floor,” Diana said, always one for the telling detail.

  Melissa went on. “What struck me about Diana’s article was the business about the woman’s high heels and handbag side by side on the front seat of her car and the absence of a note. Phillip’s wallet and his shoes were arranged just like that in his Porsche and he didn’t leave a note either.”

  Diana said, “Now she’s convinced he didn’t kill himself and here we are with Marvin who feels the same way.”

  I thought the analogy was thin but I wanted to hear the rest of it. “The police in Vegas must have investigated your boyfriend’s death.”

  “They blew me off,” Melissa said. “All I wanted was someone to look into it and tell me if he did it on purpose or not. I didn’t really believe it, but I figured that was just me in denial. Like maybe he was in over his head and this was his only way out.”

  Diana said, “She got her tires slashed.”

  “I was getting to that,” Melissa said sharply.

  “Sorry.”

  “Phillip had been to Vegas three times in three weeks and lost a bundle playing poker, or so the detective said. It still didn’t sit right because his parents are loaded and they’d have come to his rescue if he was in that much trouble. I explained all this and the cops shut me down. I wasn’t happy about it, but I knew they heard stories like this all the time and I didn’t expect special treatment. Then the vandalism started. I got my tires slashed, my apartment broken into, and all my ski gear stolen.”

  “You needed ski gear in Vegas?” I asked.

  “No, no. I was working in Vail, which is where I went after college, just for something to do. Phillip used to come up and visit every couple of months. We both loved to ski and it was easy to work all year long because it’s so beautiful up there. A lot of people come in the summer as well.”

  “Can I say something?” Diana asked.

  I pointed at Diana, as though calling on her.

  She said, “A friend of hers—this was someone who worked at one of the Vegas casinos—told Melissa she must have stepped on some toes because she had the same thing happen to her when she complained about this goon who roughed her up one time. Guy’s name was Cappi Dante. He just got out of prison on a conviction for assault. His family lives here in town. His older brother’s a loan shark. You might have heard of him, Lorenzo Dante? This is junior, not senior, though I understand the dad was just as bad in his day.”

  Dodie had just mentioned Lorenzo Dante, the loan shark from whom Pinky had borrowed two grand. “I know the name but I’ve never met the man.”

  “Melissa found out Phillip borrowed ten grand from him and that’s what he lost at poker shortly before he died.”

  “Or was killed,” Melissa corrected.

  “Are you telling me this loan shark’s reach stretched from Vegas to Vail?”

  “Look. All I know is what happened when I made a stink. I’d heard Dante’s name and I thought the Vegas police should be told. Then the problems started and I took my cue. I packed up my stuff and came back to Santa Teresa because my parents are here and I really felt I needed to hang out someplace safe. Now I’m living with them and working as a nanny, so my name doesn’t appear in public records, like telephone and utility hookups.”

  “And you explained this to Sergeant Priddy?”

  “Every word of it. I told him Audrey’s suicide and Phillip’s were identical and I thought they should contact the Las Vegas police about reopening the case to see if there was a link to Lorenzo Dante here.”

  “Police don’t always appreciate being told their business,” I remarked.

  Diana said, “Now she’s scared. She thinks she saw Sergeant Priddy drive past her parents’ house, like he wants her to know he knows where she lives.”

  “The car was dark green, but I couldn’t tell you what kind.”

  “So what do you think?” Diana asked, in a rare concession that I might have something to contribute.

  “I don’t know what to think, but here’s my take on it: You made a mistake going to the Santa Teresa police. Len Priddy works vice and he’s handling the shoplifting angle of Audrey’s case. The Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s homicide detectives are the ones in charge of the death investigation. You should drive out to Colgate and tell them.”

  “You think they’ll take her seriously?”

  “Well, I know for sure they won’t drive past her house, scaring her out of her wits.”

  26

  NORA

  Dante had given her a key to the beach house. In her mind’s eye she was already there, waiting for him to appear. In reality, Channing had postponed his return to L.A. until Tuesday morning, which nearly drove her insane. She’d managed to get in a quick call to Dante’s private line, where she left a message indicating she couldn’t see him that day. Monday went on forever, so dull and flat she wondered how she’d endured before Dante came along. Tuesday morning, she and Channing ate breakfast together, their conversation pleasant and inconsequential. The entire time she thought about Dante. It was almost as though he were sitting at the table with them, and she wondered if Thelma was present as well. She pondered the complexities of the human heart, cunning, opaque, unknowable, and impervious to judgment. What one did in the world at large might be condemned, but thoughts and feelings and daydreams were protected by the simple expedient of silence. How easy it was to deceive Channing, whose inner state was as unavailable to her as hers was to him. How many times had they sat at this same table, conducting the ordinary business of life? Courtesy served as an artful disguise that veiled the more profound dialogue of fantasy and desire. Toast, coffee, talk of her appointment in Santa Monica later in the day. She told Channing she’d set up a meeting with her broker to review her portfolio. He urged her to stop by the office and she demurred, citing a round of errands. The exchange was perfunctory. She’d never understood Channing so well or liked him so little, but at least her infidelity had evened the score. Maybe one day she’d tell him. She hadn’t decided yet. She walked with him to the door and they kissed briefly. She took care to give no indication of her impatience to have him gone or the giddiness she felt at what was to come. The minute he was out of the house, she put on her sweats and walking shoes and drove to t
he house on Paloma Lane.

  She left her car in the motor court at the beach house and tramped through the soft sand to the hard pack. She did her four miles on the beach, timing herself since she had no way to measure distances. Beach access was blocked in places, which forced her into detours that took her up a set of steep wooden stairs built into the hillside and through two gated communities otherwise closed to the public. She emerged on the two-lane road that passed in front of the Edgewater Hotel, pausing to allow two cars to pass. The first turned into the driveway leading to the hotel entrance. The second came to a stop. She heard a horn toot and looked over as the driver rolled down her window.

  “I thought I recognized you,” the woman said, with what passed for gaiety. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

  Imelda Malcolm lived two doors away from the Vogelsangs’ Montebello house. She was in her early sixties and bird thin, with sparse hair dyed a tawny shade. She pushed her sunglasses up on her head and her washed-out gray eyes were sharp. Imelda walked the neighborhood streets, and Nora had learned to avoid the woman by varying her time and route so their paths wouldn’t cross. Imelda was a vicious gossip, unapologetic about her rumormongering. Nora had joined her a few times just after they moved to town and noted that even in the open air, Imelda’s comments were made under her breath, as though the intimacies she passed along weren’t meant to be overheard. It gave Nora the uncomfortable sense that she was supporting Imelda’s malevolence.

  “I like the occasional change of scene,” Nora said. “How about you?”

  Imelda made a face. “I told Polly I’d sport her to a facial. You know Rex filed for Chapter 13 or maybe it was Chapter 7, I forget which. Talk about a low blow.”

  “I heard. That’s too bad.”

  “Horrible,” Imelda said. “Polly says she can’t bear to walk into the club, and not just because they’re so far in arrears. I’m sure Mitchell will find a way to let them know they’re not welcome anymore, though he has too much class to make a scene. She says the women aren’t actually cutting her, but the pity is more than she can stand. Have you seen her lately?”

  “Not since New Year’s.”

  “Oh, my god. She looks awful. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but I promise you she’s aged fifteen years. And she didn’t look that good to begin with, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

  “I’m sure they’ll weather the storm,” Nora said. She glanced at her watch and Imelda picked up on the hint.

  “I won’t keep you,” she said. “I’m glad I ran into you. I was going to call you about bridge tomorrow afternoon. Mittie’s doing pre-op appointments for the work she’s having done, and I thought with Channing gone, you’d have time on your hands.”

  “Won’t work,” Nora said promptly. “I have to be in L.A. I’m just waiting for a call back from our accountant to set a time. Besides, I haven’t played for months. I’d make a miserable partner for anyone.”

  “Don’t be silly. This is four tables. Lunch and lots of wine so no one takes it seriously. We’re playing again on Friday, so I’ll put your name down.”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you.”

  “My house. Eleven thirty. We’re usually done by three.”

  She did a little finger wave, rolled up her window, and glided away.

  Nora closed her eyes, so irritated with the woman she could hardly move. She loathed presumption. She loathed the sort of female aggression Imelda wielded as a matter of course. As soon as she reached the beach house, she’d call and leave a message on Imelda’s answering machine saying she’d forgotten a prior engagement. So sorry. Kiss, kiss. Maybe another time. Imelda would know she was lying, but what could she do? Nora continued to the seawall and picked her way down the battered concrete stairs that put her back on the beach. If Imelda ever got wind of Nora’s relationship with Dante, she’d have a field day.

  In truth, she was embarrassed she’d slept with the man. What was the matter with her that she’d succumbed so easily? She knew there was anger at Channing buried in the act. What distressed her was the truth about herself embedded in her decision. Apparently, she didn’t require longevity or trust or the sanctity of marriage. All she needed was the opportunity and there she was, flinging off her clothes in a white-hot flash of desire. Granted, Dante was spectacular, giving and tireless and loving and complimentary—the latter being another source of dismay. Remembering certain things he’d said to her, she felt easily gulled, a woman so shallow that the slightest praise had her flat on her back with her legs in the air. Had Thelma surrendered as easily? Good wine, a few superficial strokes, and she’d hopped in the sack without regard to Channing’s marital status. Now Nora had tossed aside loyalty and fidelity, and while she was ashamed of her behavior, she was also unrepentant. The recollection made her shiver and the shivering made her smile.

  By 10:00, she was showered and lying naked on a double chaise longue on the deck at the beach house, protected from view by the half wall and the darkly tinted glass windbreak above. The sun felt extraordinary on her skin. She sensed the tension draining out of her, and without even meaning to she fell asleep.

  She was wakened by a rustling and opened her eyes to see Dante, also naked, sitting on the chaise next to hers. He had her handbag at his feet and her passport in his hand.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Memorizing the number on your passport. I can do that when I put my mind to it. It’s like taking a picture.”

  “Where’d you get my passport?”

  “It was in your bag. Why keep it with you, are you going someplace?”

  “I picked it up at the bank the other day and forgot to leave it at the house. Why are you going through my handbag?”

  “It seemed rude to ask how old you are so I thought I’d see for myself.”

  She smiled. “My age is no secret.”

  “Now it’s not. March 15th. The Ides,” he said. “Here’s something you probably don’t know: The Ides refers to the 15th of March, May, July, and October. Refers to the 13th of all other months. My birthday’s November 13th, so that’s the Ides, just like yours.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Nothing. I just think it’s interesting,” he said.

  He returned the passport and moved forward until he was kneeling on the deck. He placed his mouth on her breast. She made an involuntarily sound, low in her throat, as the heat opened her at the core. The two of them moved into their lovemaking with an ease that suggested they’d been together for years. There was an intensity she couldn’t remember ever experiencing, and she gave up all sense of herself, responding with a tenderness that matched his.

  Afterward they showered together and then wrapped themselves in terry cloth bath sheets and returned to the deck. Dante had brought a bottle of Champagne and two crystal flutes, and they toasted their own joy. It felt wicked to sip Champagne at this hour of the day. “Almost forgot,” Dante said. He got up and went into the bedroom, returning moments later with a handful of travel brochures he dropped into her lap.

  “What are these?”

  “The Maldives. That’s where I’m going when the time comes. Maybe the Philippines, I haven’t decided yet. I brought brochures for both because I thought you might like to see them.” He sat down on the edge of the chaise and loosened his towel.

  She opened the first brochure, which showed photographs of the Maldives, teal and aquamarine waters with islands like stepping-stones spread out across the sea. She sent him a curious look, wondering how serious he was. “I thought you were under indictment. They’re not going to let you go out of the country.”

  “Just because they won’t let me doesn’t mean I won’t go.”

  “Aren’t they holding your passport?”

  “I’ve got another.”

  “What if they intercept you at the airport?”

  “They can’t intercept me if they don’t know. I’ve got a fortune in offshore bank accounts. I’ve
been planning this for years.”

  She held up the brochures. “Why the Maldives? I don’t even know where they are.”

  “The Indian Ocean, two hundred and fifty miles southwest of India. Temperatures run between seventy and ninety-one year round. They don’t have extradition treaties with the U.S. There are other choices—Ethiopia or Iran, if you’d prefer. You like Botswana, I’ll throw it in for laughs.”

  “What in the world would you do with yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Rest. Read. Eat. Drink. Make love to you. Study the language.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’ll find out when I get there. I’ll have Lou Elle call you with the details, but only if you’re coming with me. Otherwise, the less you know, the better.”

  “You think I’d go?”

  “Why not? There’s nothing keeping you here. All you need with you is an overnight case. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “No problem. I understand you need time to consider. I’m laying it out so you know what we’re dealing with.”

  “You know I’m not going.”

  “I don’t know that and neither do you.”

  She sat up, pulling the towel around her. “Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

  “What is it ‘not’?”

  “It’s not deep or complex or even very significant. It’s a way to spend the morning when I’m not getting my hair done.”

  “So I’m just a trivial screw?”

  “I never said you were trivial.”

  “But I’m just some guy you’re screwing. It doesn’t mean anything more to you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Yes, I’m lying. Let’s just leave it at that.” She knotted the towel in front and got up.

  He grabbed her hand. “Don’t go. Don’t walk away from me. Sit.”

  “There’s no point in talking about a future when we don’t have one.”

  “Listen to me. Would you just listen? Don’t hide from me. Don’t hold back. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is just a fling, but that’s not what it feels like to me. If this is all we have, then let’s be honest with each other. Can’t we do that?”