“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
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 fiance 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 fiance 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
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-hundrd-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
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
“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
