V is for Vengeance

by Sue Grafton

  “Guess again. It’s bullshit. The diamond’s flawed. It’s been subjected to a process called clarity enhancement, in which a resinlike material is used to correct imperfections. If he paid one twenty-five, he was robbed.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  “Or maybe he paid less and lied to her. The color’s bullshit too. The diamond probably didn’t score well so it’s been irradiated, which gives it the pink tint.”

  “We’re still talking five point four six carats.”

  “I didn’t say it was junk. I said it wasn’t worth seventy-five.”

  He smiled. “How much did I pay for your training?”

  She handed him the ring box. “Nineteen thousand for the certification as a gemologist, with an additional thirteen grand for certification in colored stones.”

  “Money well spent.”

  “At the time, you complained.”

  “Shame on me.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  He put the box in his suit coat pocket and patted the bulge. “Remind me and I’ll give you a bonus at the end of the year.”

  “I’d rather have it now.”

  “Done,” Dante said. “Give Maurice Berman a call and tell him what you told me.”

  When he got back to his office, Nora was standing at one of the circular windows, watching the pedestrians passing on the far side of the street.

  “Good for spying purposes,” he said. “Glass looks opaque from the outside, smoke black.”

  “I’ve seen the windows from the street. Odd to be seeing them from this side.” She smiled briefly and returned to her seat. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine. This was another matter altogether. Nothing to do with you.”

  He stopped at his desk and removed a big padded mailer from the bottom drawer and then crossed to the side wall and triggered the panel that concealed his office safe. He shielded the contents of the safe from view while he removed seven thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills bound in packets. He added one smaller bundle and placed all eight in the mailer. He returned to his seat before he gave it to her.

  She opened the mailer and glanced at the contents. She seemed startled and the color rose in her cheeks.

  “Seventy-five,” he said. “It’s all there.”

  “I expected a wire transfer or maybe you’d pay by check.”

  “You don’t want seventy-five grand showing up in your bank account. A deposit that size generates a report to the IRS.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t want to create a paper trail that starts with me and ends up with you. I’m under investigation. The IRS finds out you’ve done business with me, they’ll beat a path to your door. You don’t want our association coming to light.”

  “There’s nothing illegal about selling a ring.”

  “Unless you sell it to a guy the Feds are hot to prosecute.”

  “For what? You said you were a private banker.”

  “A private banker of sorts.”

  She stared at him. “You’re a loan shark.”

  “Among other things.”

  She held up the bulky mailer. “Where did this come from?”

  “I told you. I operate a number of businesses that generate cash. I’m passing some of it on to you.”

  “That’s why you didn’t haggle. I said seventy-five and you never batted an eye. You’re laundering money.”

  “It’s only ‘laundering’ if dirty money’s been integrated and it comes out clean. All you have to do is hang on to it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What good’s the cash if I can’t use it?”

  “Who said you couldn’t use it? Stash it in a safe-deposit box and move it into a checking or savings account in increments of less than ten grand. It’s no big deal.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? I have the ring. You have the cash. As long as you don’t call attention to it, we both benefit. The point is, it’s yours.”

  “I’m not that desperate.”

  “I think you are. I don’t know what’s happened in your life, but your husband’s a fool if he’s giving you grief.”

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  Nora rose from her chair and retrieved her handbag. Dante stood up at the same time. She pushed the padded mailer toward him. He held up his hands, refusing to accept the package. “Why don’t you think about it overnight?”

  “I don’t need to think about it,” she said, and tossed the mailer onto the chair.

  There was a brief knock at the door and Abbie appeared. “Mr. Abramson is here.”

  Nora said, “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Dante took the ring box from his pocket and placed it in her palm. “Change your mind, let me know.”

  Nora broke off eye contact, saying nothing as she left the room. Dante watched her depart, hoping she’d look back at him, which she refused to do.

  Abbie remained in the room.

  Dante looked at her. “Something else?”

  “I just wanted to remind you I’ll be out of town Thursday and Friday of this week. I’ll be back at work next Monday.”

  “Fine. Enjoy yourself.”

  Once she was gone, he returned to his desk and settled into his chair. Abramson came in and closed the door. He’d been in partnership with Dante for twenty years and he was one of the few men Dante trusted. He was in his fifties, balding, with a long, solemn face, and glasses with dark frames. He was tall and trim in a custom-made suit. He’d apparently had Novocaine on the left side of his mouth and it hadn’t worn off. There was a puffiness and a droop to his lip on that side as though he’d suffered a stroke. He said, “Audrey’s dead.” No preamble.

  It took Dante half a beat to shift his focus from Nora to Abramson. “Shit. When was this?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Yesterday? How?”

  “She got picked up for shoplifting. This was Nordstrom’s, Friday afternoon. I guess she couldn’t talk her way out of it so she was thrown in the clink. Her boyfriend put up bail, but by then she was hysterical. Word reached Cappi she was close to cutting a deal, so he and the boys took her up to Cold Spring Bridge and tossed her over the rail.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I’ve been telling you for months the kid is out of control. He’s reckless and dumb and it’s a dangerous combination. I think he’s leaking information to the cops.”

  “I’m too old for this shit,” Dante said. “I can’t have him whacked. I know it needs doing, but I can’t. Maybe once upon a time, but not now. I’m sorry.”

  “Your call, but you buy into the consequences. That’s all I’m saying.”

  7

  Monday morning, I dragged my sorry butt out of bed at 6:00, assembled myself, and went out for my jog. I wasn’t limping, but I was conscious of my bruised shin, which, the last time I peeked, was as dark and ominous as a thundercloud. My palm had scabbed over, but I’d be picking grit out of the wound for days. On the plus side, the sun was up and the April sky above was bright blue. There was talk of a storm coming in, a phenomenon known as the Pineapple Express—a system that rotates in from the South Pacific, picking up tropical moisture as it moves toward the coast. Any rain would be warm and the air would be balmy, my concept of spring in the south. We weren’t yet feeling the effects, except for the ragged rim of clouds piled up on the horizon like trash against a fence.

  Jogging was a chore, but I chugged on, feeling leaden to the bone, probably due to the change in barometric pressure. These are the days that require discipline, when exercise is pure duty and the good feeling only comes later, consisting solely of self-congratulations for having done the job at all. I walked the final block home. I’d barely broken a sweat, but my body temperature was dropping rapidly and I was cold. I reached the front gate and when I bent to pick up the morning paper, I experienced a whisper of depression. Henry’s copy of the Dispatch was usually lying on the sidewalk next to mine. He’d canceled
for the duration of his out-of-town stay, leaving my paper all alone and looking forlorn. Amazing the things I miss about the man when he’s gone.

  I let myself into my studio and put on a pot of coffee, then went up the spiral stairs to the loft. Once I’d showered and dressed, I trotted down again, spirits on the rise. I leafed through the paper until I found the obituaries and then flapped the section open and folded the pages back. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and added milk, spooning up breakfast while I read. I can’t remember when the daily death list became a matter of such interest. Usually, the names mean little or nothing. In a town of eighty-five thousand, the chances of being acquainted with the newly departed aren’t that great. I scan for ages and birth years, checking to see where mine falls in relation to the deceased. If the dead are my age or younger, I read the notices with close attention to circumstances. Those are the deaths I ponder, reminded every morning that life is fragile and not as much in our control as we’d like to think. Personally, I don’t endorse the notion of mortality. It’s fine for other folk, but I disapprove of the concept for me and my loved ones. Seems unfair that we’re not allowed to vote on the matter and not one of us is excused. Who made up that rule?

  I’d scarcely opened that section when I spotted a photograph in the middle of the page and found myself staring at the shoplifter I’d observed Friday afternoon. I drew back, looked again, and then read once quickly to get the gist. Audrey Vance, sixty-three, had passed away unexpectedly the day before, Sunday, April 24. The midsixties age range was about where I’d placed the woman, and the likeness was unmistakable. How odd was that? I skipped to the last line, which suggested that in lieu of flowers, donations should be made to the American Heart Association in Audrey’s name.

  The notice was short and on the stingy side. I went back to the beginning and read again with care. Audrey was described as “vivacious and fun-loving, admired by all who knew her.” Not a word about her parents, her education, her hobbies, or good deeds. Her survivors included a son, Don, of San Francisco, and a daughter, Elizabeth, also living in San Francisco. There were numerous unnamed nieces and nephews “left to mourn her passing.” In addition, she would be greatly missed by her fiancé and loving companion, Marvin Striker. The visitation was at Wynington-Blake Mortuary, Tuesday, 10:00 to noon, with a service to follow at 2:00 at Wynington-Blake. There was no mention of the burial.

  I could hardly take it in. I wondered if the trauma of her arrest had triggered her collapse. It was not beyond the realm of possibility. Audrey had looked matronly and middle class, not out of place in an upscale department store. Until I saw her shoplift, I’d have pegged her as the type who returned her library books on time and wouldn’t have dreamed of fudging on her income tax forms. What a shock she must have experienced when the loss-prevention officer caught up with her. She’d made it as far as the mall and must have thought she was in the clear, even with the store alarm bleating behind her. From what Claudia had said about her weeping and wailing, she was either a first-rate actress or truly desperate. Sincerity aside, she must have felt humiliated being hauled off in handcuffs. I was thrown in jail once myself and I can tell you it’s not an experience you want to repeat. Habitual criminals are probably undismayed by the booking process, associating as they do with other miscreants for whom pat-downs and strip searches are the norm. All they care about is finding a bail bondsman as fast as possible so they can fork over the 10 percent and get themselves cut loose. Poor Audrey Vance. What a strange turn of events. I wondered how much, if anything, her fiancé knew about her ordeal.

  Following on the heels of my initial surprise, I experienced a twinge of guilt. I’d been thrilled to hear about her arrest, happy to know she was being called to account. The idea that she’d been slapped with consequences suited me just fine. We’re each responsible for our own choices, and if she’d elected to break the law, why should she have been spared? At the same time, as much as I’d rejoiced at her comeuppance, I hadn’t expected her to die. In this country (at least as far as I know), shoplifting isn’t deemed a capital offense. I didn’t imagine wielding such influence in the universe that my very enmity had pushed her into the grave. Where I faulted myself was in my sense of moral superiority.

  Idly, I wondered if she’d been charged with a felony or a misdemeanor. The two pairs of pajamas at full price (including tax) would have pushed her over the four-hundred-dollar limit, shifting her offense from petit to grand theft. But what about the sale? Was she more or less culpable in the eyes of the law? At 75 percent off, was a felony discounted down to a lesser charge?

  In either case, the poor woman was dead and that seemed bizarre. Maybe she’d suffered from a chronic medical condition that left her vulnerable to stress. Or maybe she’d experienced chest pains and (like so many women) had decided to say nothing because she didn’t want to make a fuss. Even if she was under a doctor’s care, death might have come as a surprise. She might have appeared to be in perfect health, asymptomatic, and still toppled over dead with little apparent provocation. I’d been a witness, standing by in the final days of her life, with no idea how little time she had left. It was freakish to contemplate and I could hardly get it out of my mind.

  I grabbed my jacket and car keys, taking the paper with me. I drove to the office in hopes of distracting myself with the business of doing business. Once at my desk, I caught up with my paperwork. I was doing okay until the telephone rang. “Millhone Investigations.”

  “Kinsey?” A woman’s voice.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This is Claudia Rines. Did you see the article in this morning’s paper?”

  I put an automatic hand against my heart. “I did and I feel like such a turd. What are the odds of a heart attack? Jesus. I wonder if she knew what was happening to her.”

  There was a moment of quiet. “You didn’t see the article.”

  “I did too. Audrey Vance, sixty-three years old. Two grown kids and she was engaged to some guy. I have the newspaper right here.”

  “Fine, but she didn’t die of a heart attack. She jumped off the Cold Spring Bridge.”

  “What?”

  “The Dispatch. Front page of the second section, just below the fold. If you have it handy, I can wait.”

  “Hang on.” I tucked the receiver against my ear and secured it with one shoulder while I dragged my bag from under the desk and pulled out the paper I’d brought from home. The obituaries were uppermost. The photograph of Audrey still occupied center stage. I put the phone down on the desk and used both hands to flap the pages back to their original configuration. I leaned close to the mouthpiece, saying, “Sorry about that. Hang on a minute.”

  First page, bottom left. There was no photograph of the victim and Audrey’s name wasn’t mentioned. According to the article, a Santa Teresa man was coming over the pass Sunday afternoon when he noticed a car parked on the berm. He stopped to investigate, thinking the vehicle was disabled and the motorist might need help. There was no sign of a flat tire and no note on the windshield indicating the driver had gone in search of the nearest service station. The car was unlocked and he could see the keys in the ignition. What caught his attention was the handbag on the front seat. A pair of high heels had been placed neatly on the seat beside the bag. This was not good.

  He’d walked to the nearest call box and notified the county sheriff’s department. An officer arrived seven minutes later and assessed the situation in much the same way the motorist had. He called for backup and a ground search was instigated. The chaparral below the bridge was so dense that both the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s K-9 unit and a search-and-rescue team were brought in. Once the dog had located the body, it was a forty-five-minute struggle across treacherous terrain to bring it out. Since the bridge was completed in 1964, seventeen people had made the leap and none had survived the four-hundred-foot drop. The victim’s driver’s license was in her handbag. Identification was withheld, pending notification of the next of kin.
r />   “Are you sure it was her?”

  “I am now. When I first read the article, I didn’t put it together with the obit. The police made the connection when they ran her name through their computer system. They called and talked to Mr. Koslo, who’d filed the charges against her. Mr. Koslo mentioned it to the guy who monitors the closed-circuit security cameras. Ricardo rang me up as soon as Mr. Koslo was out the door.”

  “This is terrible,” I said. I could see where someone in the throes of mental or physical anguish might view suicide as a form of relief. The problem was, there was no backing up. The remedy was harsh and precluded alternatives. Life might have looked better in a day or two. “Why would she do such a thing? It’s just so weird.”

  “I guess she wasn’t faking the hysteria.”

  “No kidding. And here I was feeling so gleeful.”

  “Hey, me too,” Claudia said. “I mean, what if I hadn’t notified Security? Would she be alive today?”

  “Oh, man. I wouldn’t head down that road if I were you. I wonder what her accomplice is going through.”

  “Nothing good,” she said. “Anyway, I gotta scoot. I’m on my break. I’ll give you my number and you can call me later if you want to talk.”

  I made a note of the number, though I couldn’t imagine having anything more to say. For the moment, I was hung up on the idea that the woman had killed herself. Built into bad news is that sense of profound disbelief. The mind struggles to absorb the bare facts, defending itself against the larger implications. I didn’t feel responsible for what had happened, but I did feel ashamed that I’d wished the woman ill. I harbor a huffy dislike of scofflaws, unless the breach is mine, of course, in which case I find ways to justify my bad behavior. Who was I to judge? I’d pointed a pious finger and now the woman I’d so heartily condemned had hurled herself off a bridge.

  I spent the remainder of the morning and half the afternoon organizing my files, a self-inflicted penance that pulled my attention down to the mundane. Where did this receipt go? Which of these folders could I relegate to the box I was retiring to storage? Whose phone number was this scratched on a stray piece of paper? Keep it or toss? I’m not sure which I hate more, the pig piles on my desk or the task of dismantling the mess and setting it to rights. By 4:00, the surfaces in my office were clear and my hands were filthy, which seemed appropriate. I washed up, and when the mail was delivered I busied myself sorting the bills from the junk. There was a notice from the water department, letting me know the water to the office would be shut off for eight hours the following Monday to replace a leaky water main. I made a mental note to work from home that day so I wouldn’t be stranded in an office with no working toilet.