V is for Vengeance

by Sue Grafton

  “Just let it go, okay? I know you mean well …”

  “I don’t understand what’s at stake. I don’t want to make trouble. You know me better than that, so what’s the deal?”

  “You’re putting a CI in jeopardy.”

  “How so? I don’t know anything about a confidential informant. This is all news to me.”

  He studied me briefly. “I’ll tell you this if you swear you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

  “I swear.”

  “The retail-theft ring is only one part of the equation. Priddy’s under investigation as well. The informant’s working both sides of the street. Len thinks he’s milking the guy for information, but the CI is reporting back to us and feeding him lines while we build our case. His testimony will be critical. Priddy’s a slippery customer. In all these years, no one’s been able to nail him.”

  “Oh, I hear you,” I said. “I’d love nothing better than to see him brought down.”

  “Leave that to us. Len’s got cop friends who’d do anything for him. We know some of them, but not all, so walk a wide path around him. You can trust me but don’t talk to anyone else.” He took out his wallet and extracted a twenty and a ten and put it under his plate.

  “Lunch didn’t cost that much,” I said.

  “I like to leave a good tip so here’s one: bury the topic until I tell you it’s okay. I’ll send someone around to pick up any other copies of this you have on hand.” He folded the report and slid it into the inside pocket of his sport coat.

  Driving back to the office, I deconstructed the conversation, separating the elements for review. It was obvious the police department was running an investigation that paralleled mine, the two intersecting at more than one point. I wasn’t sure where they were in the process, but they had to be focused on the same operation I’d been looking at, though doubtless at a more sophisticated and comprehensive level. There was probably a task force in place, several agencies pooling their resources as they gathered intelligence. Cheney’s revelation both thrilled and troubled me. I didn’t expect him to bare all. These days, the legal system is so finely calibrated that a breach in security or a violation of procedure can spell disaster. As a rule, I keep my nose out of police business, though it’s not always easy. I do tend to fixate on a problem and worry it to death. Here, what I loved more than snooping was the idea of Len Priddy being exposed for what he was. Cheney’s warning had come too late to steer me off the subject of retail theft, but I intended to heed his caution about Len. What disturbed me was knowing just enough to feel I might be vulnerable.

  As I turned onto my block, I noticed a dark green Chevrolet parked in my usual place at the curb. I didn’t think much about it since parking is at such a premium. It’s first-come, first-served, and I’m often forced to hunt for the next available spot. I found a length of curb where my front bumper encroached on a private driveway, but only by three feet. At the end of the day, if I was lucky, I’d escape without a ticket.

  Coming up the walk, I stopped short of the front steps, alerted by the fact that the door was open when I knew I’d locked up when I left. I took four paces to the side and peered in the window, where I could see Len Priddy doing a finger-walk through my files. I tried to think how I’d behave with him if Cheney hadn’t warned me. Len already knew there was no love lost between us, but beyond our mutual dislike, I’d never had reason to be afraid of him. Now I was. I went into the outer office and when I appeared in the doorway, he didn’t even seem embarrassed at being caught in the act.

  I said, “You mind if I ask what you’re doing?”

  He turned. “Sorry. You weren’t here when I arrived so I let myself in. Is that a problem?” He had tossed any number of file folders on the floor, not because it was necessary, but to illustrate his contempt.

  “That depends on what you want.”

  I moved toward my desk, keeping as much distance between the two of us as I could muster. Glancing down, I could see he’d made a point of leaving my desk drawers ajar so I’d know he’d been through them as well. I made no comment.

  He said, “Relax. This is nothing official. I thought it was time for us to chat.” He removed a file folder and slid the drawer shut. He tossed the folder on the desk and then settled in my swivel chair, tilted back, propping his feet against the edge. He reached for the folder and pulled out the single sheet of paper, the photocopy of Marvin’s check. Cleverly, I’d filed the written report on Audrey elsewhere, so he had no way to determine what I knew.

  He shook his head in disapproval. “Looks like you haven’t come up with anything on Audrey Vance, which surprises me. I thought you were a crack investigator and you’ve got bupkes. You take Marvin’s money, the least you could do is give him something in return.”

  Rapidly, I scrolled through the possible responses, trying to figure out how best to protect myself. “I haven’t started on it yet. I have a case that took precedence,” I said. The lie slipped out so easily, I didn’t think he caught the hesitation before I answered him.

  “Then you ought to give his money back.”

  “Good plan. I’ll have a chat with him and see if he feels the same.”

  “He does. He’s no longer in the market for your services.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. The game playing annoyed me, but it was better for him to think he had the upper hand. I didn’t want to antagonize him. No sass. No wisecracks. “If you tell me why you’re here, maybe I can help.”

  “I’m in no hurry. How about yourself? You have pressing business to conduct?” He peered closely at my empty calendar. “It doesn’t look like it.”

  He tossed Audrey’s file on the desk and got up. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and looked out the window at the street. By turning his back, he was showing me how sure he was of himself. He was a big man and seeing him in silhouette, I was unnerved by his bulk. Like many middle-aged men, he’d gained weight, twenty-five to thirty pounds by the look of him. In his case, most of it was muscle mass. He and Mickey had lifted weights together in the early days, a routine he’d apparently kept up. He seemed indifferent to any action I might take, but I knew better.

  He turned around to look at me, leaning a hip on the windowsill. “We have a mutual friend, who came to see you earlier.”

  “I’ve been out.”

  “Before you left for lunch.”

  He had to be referring to Pinky or Earldeen, and I was nominating Pinky. In a flash, I knew he was after the photographs. As quickly as it occurred to me, I suppressed the thought, cautious he’d pick up on my mental process. Many sociopaths, like Len, seem able to read minds, a skill that doubtless results from the in-built paranoia that motivates so much of what they do. I said, “I’m not sure who you mean.”

  “Your pal, Pierpont.”

  “Pierpont?” The name meant nothing. I shook my head.

  “Pinky.”

  “His real name is Pierpont?”

  “That’s what his jacket says. He has a long criminal history as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “I know he’s been in jail. Are you looking for him?”

  “Not him. A manila envelope. I believe he left it with you.”

  Len was either featured in one set of photographs or protecting the person who was. If the photos were of Len, I couldn’t imagine how he’d been compromised. Pinky viewed the pictures as his trump card, so what was that about?

  I said, “You’ve got it wrong. He asked me to hang on to the envelope and I refused.”

  He smiled. “Good try, but I don’t think so.”

  “It’s true. He wouldn’t tell me what was in the envelope so I said I couldn’t help. He took it with him when he left.”

  “Not so. He walked out empty-handed. I was watching.”

  What had Pinky done? I remembered the brief lag time between his leaving my inner office and his appearance on the street. The only thing I could think of was that he’d hidden the envelope under his shirt or
down the front of his pants. I was the one who’d suggested he might be under surveillance, so I’d unwittingly engineered my current difficulty, which was to persuade Len the envelope wasn’t in my possession.

  I put my hands in the air, as though at gunpoint. “I don’t have it. Honest. You’ve already searched my file cabinets and the desk drawers, so you know it’s not there. Check my shoulder bag if you want.”

  I set my bag on the desk. He didn’t want to appear too interested, so he took his time, casually pawing through the miscellany. Wallet, makeup bag, a few over-the-counter meds, keys, spiral-bound notebook, which he stopped and leafed through before tossing it aside. I was fearful he’d spot the index cards and confiscate the lot of them, but he was focused on the image of an eight-by-ten envelope and disregarded anything that didn’t match that description. I could feel the tension seep into my bones. I was reacting to Len the way I’d react to a street thug or a belligerent drunk, someone capable of violence if provoked. I didn’t believe he’d attack me because an assault would leave him vulnerable to charges. There were no wants and warrants out against me, and he had no way to justify getting physical.

  “Where’s the safe?” he asked.

  I pointed at the floor to one side of the room. My safe was concealed under a section of my bubble-gum-pink wall-to-wall carpeting. He gestured impatiently, indicating I was to hop to, and I complied. I knew there was no manila envelope, so what was it to me? He crossed the room and stood over me while I pulled the carpet back and exposed the safe to view. I hated his knowing where it was, but it was better to appear cooperative. I got down on one knee and dialed in the combination. When the door swung open, he was forced to assume the same kneeling posture so he could empty the contents. I glanced at the door, realizing if I intended to bolt, this would be the time to do it. I kept the impulse in check, believing it was wiser to let the situation play out. The safe held nothing of interest: insurance policies, bank information, and the modest amount of cash I like to keep on hand.

  That’s when I noticed he’d ripped the phone cord out of the wall and smashed the housing until it cracked in half. There was something about the savagery that scared me senseless. Too late, I realized I’d adopted the mind-set of a kidnap victim, thinking everything would be all right as long as I did as I was told. This notion was foolish on the face of it. It’s always better to scream, run, or fight back. No one knew he was here. My bungalow is the only occupied structure on this side of the street. If he decided I was holding out on him, whether it was true or not, he could handcuff me, throw me in the trunk of his car, and pound the shit out of me in private until I gave him what he wanted. The fact that I didn’t have the photographs wasn’t relevant and would only net me more punishment.

  He was still pulling papers out of my safe when I made a break for the outside door. The problem was I’d been standing stiffly at attention and I couldn’t move fast enough. Even as I took the first two steps, I felt like I was weighted in place. He was on me before I’d gone six feet. I couldn’t believe a man his size could act so quickly. He grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me backward off my feet, hooking an arm around my neck before I could marshal a defense. I knew the choke hold from my days as a rookie. This was called a lateral vascular neck restraint, or blood choke. With the crook of his elbow over the midpoint of my neck, all he had to do was increase the pressure, using his free hand for leverage. If I tried to turn around, it would only escalate the force of the hold. The pressure on my carotid arteries and jugular veins would result in hypoxia that would render me unconscious in seconds. Most police departments prohibit the use of the carotid hold unless an officer is threatened with death or serious injury. Len Priddy was from the old school, coming up through the ranks while the blood choke was still considered fair play. He was a full head taller and weighed a good hundred pounds more than I did.

  I couldn’t make a sound. I clung to his arm, holding on with both hands as though I might actually ease his grip when I knew the effort would be futile. The pain was excruciating and I was starved for oxygen.

  Len had his mouth up against my ear, his voice low. “I know how to finish you off without leaving a mark on you. Complain about me and I’ll hurt you so bad it’ll put you out of commission for the rest of your life. I’m coming down on you hard for your own damn good. Audrey Vance is none of your business, you get that? Anything you hear about, you keep shut. Whatever you see, you’d best look the other way. I find out you have those photographs, I will come back and kill you. Make no mistake about it. If you tell anyone else about this, the same penalty applies. Is that clear?”

  I couldn’t even nod. Next thing I knew he’d shoved me to the floor and backed off, breathing hard himself. I was down on my hands and knees, sucking air into my lungs. I put a hand against my throat, where the sensation of compression and restriction was still vivid. I leaned my forehead on the carpet and put my arms over my head, gasping for breath. I knew he was standing over me. I thought he’d punch me or kick me, but he probably didn’t dare risk bruising me or cracking my ribs. Dimly, I was aware of his walking away. I heard the outer office door open and shut. I crawled after him and locked the door in his wake. It wasn’t until I heard his car start and pull away that I started to shake.

  25

  I rolled over on my back and lay on the floor until my heartbeat had slowed and the blood no longer pounded in my ears. I sat up, doing a canvas of my physical and emotional state. Swallowing was painful and my confidence was shaken. Beyond that, I wasn’t injured, but I was badly frightened. Now that the immediate threat had passed, I needed to pull myself together. I turned and stared at my office floor, which was littered with the papers Len had pulled from the safe. File folders and reports had been dumped from the file cabinets and lay scattered about. I wanted nothing more than to spend the next few minutes cleaning up the mess. Getting to my feet first would be a big help. My emotions were all over the place, and tidying my surroundings was the way I soothed myself in times of stress. For the moment, I’d have to forgo indulging my inner Cinderella because Pinky had priority. I didn’t believe Len would kill me (unless he could be sure the deed wouldn’t be traced back to him). Pinky was the obvious target. He was a low-level criminal with prison associates who probably already represented a risk to his health and safety. If he died, no one would think much about it. Why he imagined he could outwit someone like Len was a mystery. I used a guest chair to pull myself upright and went into the bathroom, where I stretched the rim of my turtleneck so I could examine my poor abused flesh. Len was right when he boasted he hadn’t left a mark.

  I picked up my broken telephone and tossed the hull in the trash. Fortunately, I still had the previous instrument I’d owned. I went into the kitchenette and opened and closed closet doors until I found it. It was an old black rotary phone, powdered with dust. I wiped it down with a towel and took it back to the office, where I plugged it into the old jack. I picked up the handset, reassured by the dial tone. I needed to contact Pinky and tell him what was going on.

  I was acutely aware of Len’s warning to keep away from matters related to Audrey Vance, but Pinky and the photographs were another matter—weren’t they? I knew that if Len caught up with Pinky, he was dead meat. I had to make sure I got to him first. I wondered if Pinky had any idea the jeopardy he was in. He’d talked about using the photographs to get out of a jam, but trying to outsmart Len was trouble of a greater magnitude.

  I sat down at my desk and checked my address book for Pinky’s phone number. I seldom had occasion to call him, and for all I knew, the contact number I had was long out of date. I put the end of my index finger in the first hole, in which the number 9 appeared. I moved the dial to the right as far as the finger set and released it, thinking how odd it was to have to wait until the metal circle with the little holes in it rotated all the way back before hooking my finger into the next number in the sequence. Seemed to take forever. Lo and behold, the line rang. I listened, counting.
At fifteen, I gave up hope and put the handset back in the cradle. I had no idea if he was actually home and too clever to answer the phone, or if he’d gone into hiding, as any sensible fugitive would do. I didn’t even know if the number was still his. I was going to have to drive over to his place and check it out.

  I left the disorder where it was and locked the office door behind me. Before I got in the Mustang, I went around and opened the trunk and took the H&K out of my briefcase. I didn’t have a concealed carry permit but I wasn’t going to leave myself unprotected. There was a fellow waxing his car in the driveway between my bungalow and the one next door. I wasn’t aware a new tenant had moved in, but what did I know? He’d set a bucket and some rags to one side, and he was applying paste wax to the front fenders and hood of a black Jeep. A hose lay on the sidewalk, snaking out from between the buildings. He paid no attention to me, but I was careful nonetheless to slide the gun into my shoulder bag before I stepped into view. I got into the car and tucked the gun under the front seat before I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

  My run-in with Len played in my head like an endless loop of film. I lived those moments over and over, but regardless of how many times I reviewed the encounter, it ended the same way. Self-preservation being what it is, I wouldn’t have handled myself any differently, but I wondered if there were options that hadn’t occurred to me. My neck still felt like it was caught in a noose. I kept putting a hand against my throat as though to assure myself of my ability to breathe.

  I cut over to Chapel and took a right, driving the eight blocks to Paseo Street, where Pinky and Dodie lived. I didn’t think I’d been followed, because why would Len bother? He knew where Pinky lived or if he didn’t, it would be a simple matter to pull up the data on his computer. I wondered if he had me in his sights, playing out enough rope to see if I’d make a beeline for Pinky. But if Len had known where he was, he wouldn’t have had to jump me for the whereabouts of the manila envelope. I checked my rearview mirror, but there was no sign of an approaching car or idlers on the street.