V is for Vengeance

by Sue Grafton

  She looked down at him. His was a face she loved, but she couldn’t tell him that. He tugged at her hand and she sat down beside him.

  He lifted her hand and put her fingers against his lips. “Nora, whatever happens—whether you go with me or not—you’ve gotta get out of that marriage. Maybe that’s what I am to you, a midwife, delivering you from him.”

  “We’ve been through a lot together. You don’t throw away a life because it’s rough now and then. History counts for something.”

  “No, it doesn’t. You think being in a bad relationship for a long time makes it worthwhile? It doesn’t. It’s more time wasted. Fourteen years of misery is fourteen too many.”

  “Channing and I have had good years. I don’t cut and run.”

  “What about your ex? You don’t think divorce is a form of running away?”

  “We didn’t divorce. He died.”

  “Of what?”

  “A fluke; a heart anomaly he’d had since birth, something the doctors missed. He was a banker. He had a great job. He was thirty-six years old with no idea whatsoever he was living on borrowed time. I thought life was perfect. We had each other, we had our boy. We also had a hefty mortgage and a lot of credit card debt. What we didn’t have was life insurance, so when he dropped dead, I was left without a dime. I was thirty-four years old and I’d never held a job. I was in a panic, desperate for someone to take care of me. I met Channing six months later and by the time Tripp had been gone a year, I was married to him. My son was eleven. Channing’s twin girls were thirteen.”

  Dante squinted at her. “What did you say?”

  “About what?”

  “Did you say ‘Tripp’?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were married to Tripp Lanahan?”

  “I’ve mentioned him before.”

  “You never said his name. I had no idea.”

  “Well, now you know,” she said. She glanced at him. The color had drained from his face and he was staring at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re white as a sheet.”

  He shook his head briefly, as though to ward off a ringing in his ears. “We did business once. He approved the loan when I was buying my house. No other banker in town would touch me because of what I did for a living.”

  She smiled. “He was a good judge of human nature and he wasn’t afraid to bend the rules.”

  Dante hung his head. He’d said the same thing about Tripp in referring to him. He ran a hand down his face, pulling his features out of alignment.

  She put her arm around him and gave him a squeeze. “I have to go. I told Channing I had a meeting with my broker in Santa Monica. It sounded like a lie when I said it, but it turns out to be the case. Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine.” He put his hand over hers without quite meeting her eyes.

  She tilted her head and leaned against him. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call and let you know. You drive safely.”

  “I will.”

  The meeting with her broker was brief. He was in his early seventies, lean and humorless. He’d managed her portfolio for twenty years, so long he thought of it as his own. When she told him she was cashing in her stocks, he seemed confused. “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I don’t like what the market’s doing. I want out.”

  He was silent for a moment, and she could see him struggle to frame his response. “I can appreciate your concern, but this isn’t the time to bail out. I’d have to advise against anything so precipitant. It’s not smart.”

  “Fine. You’ve advised me. You can transfer the money to my Wells Fargo account in Santa Teresa. Minus your commission, of course.”

  “Perhaps you’re having problems,” he said, too proper to ask outright.

  “Perhaps, but not of the sort you imagine.”

  “Because you know you can talk to me if there’s anything amiss. I’m in your camp.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty.”

  “Is this coming from Channing?”

  “Please, Mark. Just do what I’ve asked. Put in the sell orders and let me know when everything’s cleared.”

  In the car, driving north along Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Monica, she lowered the window and let her hair blow around her face. She hadn’t realized her intention until she spoke of it aloud. She liked the idea of having all that cash on hand … should the need arise. She wasn’t thinking about what might happen in the coming weeks. She wasn’t thinking of packing or of meeting Dante at the airport or of getting on a plane. All those actions lay beyond the realm of propriety, personal dignity, and common sense. But what if, at the last minute, she should change her mind? What if what seemed so impossible right now became imperative to her sense of herself? She needed to be prepared should the need arise. That’s how she thought of it. Should the need arise. That notion was the motivation for her stopping by the bank to empty her safe-deposit box before she’d left for Santa Monica that morning. It was the reason she’d kept her passport with her this past week, relieved the expiration date was still six years hence. Should the need arise had her counting the cash she had on hand, tucking her good jewelry in her handbag. If she didn’t go anywhere—which she probably wouldn’t—then what had she really lost? The cash would go back in the bank and she’d use the money she’d netted from the sale of her stocks to buy into the market again.

  Turning right off PCH, she began the long, twisted ascent to the house. Set against a wide, pale blue sky, she could see four enormous birds circling, wings outstretched, silver flight feathers visible as they rode the thermal currents. If there were ever an act she envied, it would be the graceful gliding of such birds, soaring without effort, sailing on the wind, the land spread out beneath them as they lifted and wheeled. It would be quiet up there, peaceful, and the ocean would go on for miles.

  She kept an eye on them, wondering what had drawn them to the mountain. As the road wound upward, she realized they were larger than she’d first thought, turkey vultures by the look of them, with six-foot wingspans. She’d seen them up close on occasion, tearing at carcasses on the road, their featherless heads and necks red and scaly-looking. They had a reputation for being gentle and efficient, nature’s humble servants cleaning up carrion. Being bald, they could plunge their heads deep inside a carcass to get at the rich inner meat.

  She turned into the driveway and left her car on the parking pad. She’d expected to see Mr. Ishiguro’s pickup truck with its cargo of rakes and brooms. The housecleaning crew had come and gone. She saw the bulging bags of trash they’d discarded in their wake. The vultures were directly overhead, like fast-moving clouds that blotted the sunlight. One vulture had settled on top of a garbage can, and he fixed her with a look, his posture hunched and cunning. The vulture hissed at her and launched itself laboriously, with a noisy flap of its wings. She opened the lid of the garbage can and recoiled from the stench and the swarm of flies. Mr. Ishiguro had discarded a rotting chicken carcass. Nora banged down the lid, hand against her mouth as though to shield herself from the repulsive clot of flesh.

  Channing said he’d bait the leg-hold traps with chicken carcasses, but how many had he set? Taped to the glass in the back door, she found an envelope that contained the receipts for three traps Mr. Ishiguro had purchased. The chicken carcasses he must have acquired without charge. She unlocked the back door and tossed her handbag and the envelope on the counter. She flipped off her sandals and found a pair of running shoes she pulled on without socks. She grabbed two pieces of firewood and went out the back door again. She pushed through the gate in the retaining wall and set off along the fire path, her gaze raking the landscape for signs of a trap. She found the first in a tangle of brush that Mr. Ishiguro had apparently used to disguise the heavy iron jaws of the device. The carcass was still there, and she used one piece of firewood
to trip the mechanism. The jaw snapped shut and broke the four-inch-thick branch in half, sending the pieces flying past her face. Nora jumped, shrieking, and then set off again, nimbly avoiding the paddle cactus that threatened her on all sides. She found nothing more on that narrow dirt lane, and when she reached an intersecting path, she eased down along the incline, hoping she wouldn’t fall.

  Two big vultures had settled on the ground like sentinels, guarding their find. The male coyote had been caught in the second trap. Aside from the birds, she might not have noticed him except for the female trotting nervously back and forth across the path below her. Mr. Ishiguro had concealed the trap in a soft mound of dry grass. The coyote lay on his side, panting. There was no way of knowing how long he’d been there. His left hind leg was broken, the jagged bone end protruding. The ground around him was dark with blood. She stood stock still, not wanting to frighten the animal into a renewed attempt to escape. He rested. After a minute, he lifted his head again and twisted sideways to lick the wound. His suffering had to be acute, but he made no sound. His dull gaze settled on her with indifference. What was she to him when he was battling for his life?

  The hillside was hot, the air dusty with the little eddies of wind that picked up now and then. Nora turned on her heel and went back to the house. She was fearful and weeping, desperate to do something to end the animal’s suffering. She went upstairs. She opened the bed table on Channing’s side and took out his gun. He’d showed her how to load and fire the High Standard pistol with its push-button barrel takedown. The rear sight was stationary and micro-adjustable for elevation and wind. He’d been reluctant to buy the gun but he’d done so at her insistence. She was there in the house alone on too many occasions to be left without a way to defend herself. She checked to see that it was loaded. The gun weighed fifty-two ounces and she had to hold it with both hands as she went downstairs and out the back door.

  The female coyote had circled within range of her mate. She sat some distance away, in his line of sight, whining to herself. The male was diminished by pain. He lunged and thrust with his lean body, scrabbling for purchase against the weight of the trap. He looked at Nora. She could almost swear the coyote knew what she was about to do. In the depths of his yellow eyes, a spark of recognition flashed between them, her acknowledgment of his suffering and his acceptance of the bond. She had the power to free him and there was only one way out. He was too wild a creature to allow her to get close enough to release him, even if she had a way to do so. The vultures flapped upward and circled above, eyeing her with interest.

  She wept. She couldn’t bear to look at him, but she refused to look away. That this amazing beast had fallen, that he’d been subjected to such cruelty was unthinkable, but there he lay, exhausted, his breathing shallow. To delay his death meant extending his agony. If she had no way to spare him, then she couldn’t spare herself. She fired. One bullet and he was gone. The female watched incuriously as Nora sank to the ground close to the male. His mate turned and trotted down the trail and out of sight. She’d return to her pups. She’d go out hunting alone. She’d teach them to hunt as well, venturing into civilized territory if that was the only way to find food. She’d show them the sources of water. If rabbits and squirrels and moles were scarce, she’d show them where to find insects, how to run down, topple, and disembowel house cats inadvertently left outside at night. She’d do the job that was left to her in the only way she knew, driven by instinct.

  Nora returned to the house, holding the gun at her side. There was a black sedan parked next to her Thunderbird, and as she approached, two gentlemen in suits emerged and greeted her politely. There was nothing threatening about them, but she disliked them on sight. Both were clean-cut, one in his fifties, the other midthirties. The younger man said, “Mrs. Vogelsang?”

  He handed her a business card. “I’m Special Agent Driscoll and this is my partner, Special Agent Montaldo. We’re FBI. I wonder if we might talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Lorenzo Dante.”

  She blinked at the two of them, making up her mind, and then went into the house without a word. The two men followed her in.

  27

  I waited until midafternoon to drive past the pawnshop. This time, there was no sign of Len’s car. I went around the corner and parked in the pay lot, where I left my Grabber Blue Mustang between two pickup trucks. June spotted me as soon as I walked in and her expression went blank.

  I said, “Hi, June. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Something’s come up and I’m looking for Pinky. I thought you might know where he went.”

  “No clue.”

  “That’s too bad. I talked to Dodie and she told me he was here.”

  “I don’t know where she got that idea.”

  “Come on, June. You’re lying and I know you’re lying, which is almost as good as telling the truth. I don’t know the details about Pinky’s so-called plan, but the scheme is probably too harebrained to be worth his life.”

  June stared at me with the helpless expression of someone watching a movie where she knows the ending isn’t good. Len must have done a number on her like the one he’d done on me. She was tense and I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through to her.

  I tried again. “Look, I know Sergeant Priddy was in here yesterday because I saw his car parked out front. Trust me, whatever he’s telling you is bullshit. You know the man’s a turd.”

  She licked her lips and then dried the corners with two fingers. “He says there’s a bench warrant out. Pinky’s wanted for questioning and if I don’t turn him in, I’ll be charged with aiding and abetting.”

  “There’s no bench warrant,” I scoffed. “What are you talking about? He’s got it in for Pinky because he stole a set of photographs. Don’t ask who he stole ’em from because I don’t know that part. Len Priddy wants them back and came close to choking me to death because he thought I was holding out on him. He’s probably threatened you with worse.”

  Her voice was low. “He came to my house this morning before I left for work. He pushed his way in and tore the place apart.”

  “Looking for the photographs.”

  “Probably,” she said. “I told him I’d call the cops if he didn’t get the hell out. He left and I thought that might be the end of it, but then he stopped again here demanding to search the shop. I’d already talked to my boss and he said not without a warrant, so now Sergeant Priddy’s gone off to get one. Door opened just now, I thought it was him.”

  “A warrant based on what? He’s yanking your chain. It’s a fishing expedition, pure and simple. How’s he going to find a judge who’ll sign off on that? He has to show probable cause.”

  “He said he was almost sure he’d get an anonymous phone tip.”

  “He’s bullshitting.”

  “Maybe so, but what if he’s not?”

  “I take it Pinky’s here.”

  She didn’t nod but she dropped her eyes, conceding the point. “I was thinking once it got dark, I’d put him in the trunk of my car and take him someplace else. What do you suggest?”

  I shook my head. “Bad idea. Len’s probably planted someone to keep an eye on you, so it’s better if you stay put.”

  “What about you? He says it’s just for tonight.”

  “Len’ll be watching me the way he’s watching you. He knows darn well Pinky’s on the premises, so he’ll anticipate any attempt to get him out of here and into a car. Doesn’t matter whose. They’ll make a traffic stop using some excuse and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “I’m taking off. The longer I stay, the more it’s going to look like we’re hatching a scheme.”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “Briefly. I have an idea and if it works, you’ll see me sooner than you think. Just don’t make a move until I get back.”

  “Okay.”

  Once I was out of the shop, I proceeded
to the corner at a leisurely pace. I was operating on the assumption that anyone watching would note my departure and then be forced to choose whether to follow me or stick with June. I turned right onto the side street, but instead of returning to my car, I continued walking until I reached Chapel. If Len had assigned a vehicle surveillance, the focus would probably be on the Grabber Blue Mustang. As long as that stayed where it was, I thought I might move with some degree of freedom. I crossed Chapel and went up to the next intersection, which put me in the same block as the consignment store.

  I went in. The woman at the counter looked up and greeted me warmly, a practice meant to discourage shoplifters, who prefer to go unnoticed. I circled the store, browsing through racks of garments, with a particular eye to coats. The temperatures in Santa Teresa sink into the forties and fifties at night, and while heavy outerwear is uncommon, there’s always a demand for something lightweight. I checked a couple of price tags and felt myself blanch. This was secondhand clothing, which I assumed was synonymous with “cheap.” Not so here. I tried to picture my last credit card statement, wondering if I had the wherewithal to charge the five or six hundred bucks the shop was asking. I’m a stickler for paying off my monthly balance if I charge at all, but I couldn’t remember what my limit was. Had to be close to ten grand. I stopped and thought about the situation. I had good reason to believe the shop was tied to an organized retail-theft ring, which meant the woman who ran the place was a scofflaw. So why was I searching my conscience when she was the cheater? She appeared to my right.

  “Can I help you with something in particular?”

  “I’m looking for a winter coat. Is this all you have?”

  “Let me check in the back. I have a few items that came in I haven’t had a chance to ring into the system.”

  She disappeared into the rear of the store and returned moments later with two coats on hangers. One was a double-breasted camel-hair coat for $395, plus change. The other, a full-length black shearling for a nifty $500.