V is for Vengeance

you have a lot of good friends out there.”

“Scads,” I said. Maybe I was being paranoid, but to me the comment suggested that as long as I’d screwed Cheney for information, I’d doubtless screwed the entire sheriff’s department as well. “I’m actually more interested in whether she’d ever been picked up before.” I glanced at Cheney, but Priddy had decided the subject belonged to him.

He said, “For shoplifting? Oh, yeah. Big-time. That one’s been around the track. Different names, of course. Alice Vincent. Ardeth Vick. She also used the last name Vest. I can’t remember the first on that one. Ann? Adele? Some A name.”

“Really. Was this petit or grand theft?”

“Grand and I’d say five times at least. She had some shit-ass attorney busy filing six kinds of paperwork. He’d have her plead down and take reduced jail sentence plus community service. First two times she got off scot-free. That was nickel-and-dime stuff and charges were dismissed. Did alcohol rehab or some such. What a pile of crap that was. Last time, the judge wised up and threw her in jail. Score one for our side.” He paused, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound of a baseball being hit, followed by an auditory rendition of cheers from the crowd. “If these people did serious jail time from the get-go, it would cut down on the repeats. How else are they going to learn?”

“There’s more,” Cheney said. “Friday, when the female jail officer had her strip, it turned out she was wearing booster gear-pockets in her underwear stuffed with more items than she had in her shopping bag. Major haul. We’re talking two, three thousand dollars’ worth, which makes it grand theft again.”

“Were you surprised to hear she jumped?”

Priddy addressed his response to Cheney, as though the two had been discussing the subject before I arrived, debating the relative merits of sudden death versus the judicial system. “Ask me, it’s a courtesy, her going off that bridge. Saves the taxpayers a chunk of change and spares the rest of us the aggravation. Besides which, jumping, you don’t leave a big ugly mess for someone else to clean up.”

“Any question of foul play?”

Priddy’s gaze slid over to mine. “Sheriff’s homicide detectives will approach it that way, sure. Protect evidence at the scene in case shenanigans come to light. She got off parole about six months ago and now here she comes again, facing another stretch. She’s engaged to some guy and there goes that life. Talk about depressing. I’d have hopped the rail myself.”

He shook loose the ice in his glass and upended it, letting a cube drop into his mouth. The crunching of ice sounded like a horse chewing on its bit.

Cheney said, “They’re running a toxi panel, but we won’t get results for three to four weeks. Meantime, the coroner says there’s nothing to suggest she was manhandled. He’ll probably release the body in another few days.”

I looked at him with puzzlement. “He’s already released the body, hasn’t he?”

“Nope.”

“I went to the visitation. There was a casket and two floral wreaths. You mean she wasn’t actually in there?”

“She’s still out at the morgue. I wasn’t at the post-Becker took that-but I know the body’s being held, pending blood and urine.”

“Why would they have an empty coffin?”

“You’d have to ask her fiance,” Priddy said.

“I guess I will.”

“Sorry to be a hard-ass, but the kindhearted Mr. Striker had no idea what he was messing with when he took up with her.” Priddy looked up and I followed his gaze. A young woman in her late twenties was working her way across the patio. Ever the gentleman, Cheney rose from his seat as she approached. When she reached the table, she gave him a quick hug and then leaned over and gave Len a kiss on the cheek. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and dark hair to her waist. She wore tight jeans and high-heel boots. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in Len. He didn’t seem inclined to introduce us so Cheney did the honors.

“This is Len’s girlfriend, Abbie Upshaw,” he said. “Kinsey Millhone.”

We shook hands. “Nice meeting you,” I said.

Cheney held her chair for her and she sat down. Len caught the waitress’s eye and lifted a menu. I took it as a not-so-subtle suggestion that I should be on my way and I was happy to oblige.

I stopped off at a nearby deli and bought myself a tuna salad sandwich and Fritos, then returned to the office where I ate at my desk. While the information was fresh in my mind, I took out a pack of three-by-five index cards and jotted down the tidbits I’d picked up, including the name of Len’s girlfriend. The whole point of making notes is to be thorough about the details since it’s impossible to know in the moment which facts will be useful and which will not. I put the cards in my shoulder bag. I was tempted to gallop back to Marvin and drop the revelations at his feet like a golden retriever with a dead bird, but I didn’t want to add to his burden just yet. He hadn’t made his peace with the notion of Audrey shoplifting on one occasion, let alone having been convicted five times previously.

Modesty compels me to take only partial credit for being on target with my guess about her criminal history. A crime like shoplifting is more often a pattern than a one-shot deal. Whether the urge stems from necessity or impulse, that first success creates a natural temptation to try again. The fact that she’d been caught before should have cautioned her to brush up on her sleight-of-hand skills. Or maybe she’d been picked up only five times out of five hundred tries, in which case she was doing a damn fine job. At least until the previous Friday when she’d botched it royally.

I finished lunch, crumpled up the sandwich wrapping, and tossed it in the trash. I folded down the top of the cellophane bag with a generous helping of leftover Fritos and secured it with a paper clip. I slid them into my desk’s bottom drawer, saving them for a snack in case I felt peckish later in the afternoon. I heard the door in my outer office open and close. For a brief moment, I thought it might be Marvin and I looked up expectantly. No such luck. The woman who appeared in my doorway was Diana Alvarez, a reporter who worked for the local paper. While I’m not famous for my friendliness and charm, there aren’t many people whom I truly detest. She was at the top of my list. I’d met her in the course of the investigation I’d closed out the week before. Diana’s brother Michael had hired me to find two guys he’d suddenly remembered from an incident that occurred when he was six. The particulars don’t pertain so I’ll skip right over to the relevant part. Michael was highly suggestible, given to bending the truth. In his teens, he’d accused his family of hideous forms of sexual molestation after a shrink administered truth serum and regressed him to an earlier age. Turned out to be hogwash and Michael eventually recanted, but not before the family was destroyed. His sister, Diana-also known as Dee-was still bitter and did everything she could to undermine his credibility, even in death.

I took in the sight of her, reveling in my distaste. Seeing someone you dislike is almost as much fun as reading a really bad work of fiction. It’s possible to experience a perverse sense of satisfaction on every clunky page.

Diana was officious, superior, and aggressive. On top of that, I didn’t like the clothes she wore-though I’ll admit I’d adopted her habit of wearing black tights on the rare occasion when I wore a skirt. Today’s ensemble was a perky red-and-black plaid jumper with a red V-neck T-shirt under it. I repressed a tiny spark of appreciation.

I said, “Hello, Diana. I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“A surprise to me as well.”

“I’m sorry about Michael’s death.”

“It’s just like the Bible says: you reap what you sow. I know that sounds cold, but what else would you expect after what he did to us?”

I let the comment pass. “I thought I’d see something in the paper about his funeral.”

“There won’t be one. We’ve decided against. If we change our minds, I’ll be happy to contact you.”

She sat down without invitation, tucking her skirt under her in a manner meant to minimize wrinkles. She put her purse on the desk while she settled herself. The first time she came to my office, she’d carried a clutch not much bigger than a pack of cigarettes. This bag was substantially bigger.

Fully settled, she said, “I’m not here to talk about Michael. I’m here to talk about something else.”

I said, “Be my guest.”

“I went to the services for Audrey Vance. I saw your name in the guest book, but I didn’t see you.”