V is for Vengeance

“When I called home earlier, he was already here, holding her at gunpoint. That’s why I called the cab and tore out of there without telling you.”

Cappi said, “Get her over here so I can watch you pat her down.”

“I left my gun in the car,” I said.

“Says you.” He gestured impatiently.

Pinky and I moved into range and the goon kept a close watch while I turned sideways and lifted my arms, allowing Pinky to run his hands down my sides and along the legs of my jeans. “She’s not armed,” he said.

“I told you so,” I said.

“Shut your smart-ass mouth and keep your hands up where I can see them,” Cappi said.

I complied, not wanting to annoy the man more than I already had. Pinky returned to the easy chair and took a seat while I stood with my palms turned up as though checking for rain. “Mind if I ask what’s going on?”

Cappi said, “I came to pick up a set of photographs.” He shifted his attention to Pinky. “You want to get on with it?”

Pinky unbuttoned the front of his shirt, extracted the manila envelope, and held it out to him. “These are Len’s, you know. He’s not going to appreciate any interference from you.”

“Pass ’em over to your friend. We’ll let her do the honors as long as she’s here.”

I took the envelope. Cappi gestured with the gun, motioning me to the fireplace.

I crossed the room. “I’m supposed to burn these?”

“Very good,” he said.

“It’ll go faster if I take ’em out and do them one by one,” I said. Having been threatened with death over the self-same photographs, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

Cappi thought for a moment, perhaps wondering if there was trickery afoot. I was a good fifteen feet away from him, and he must have realized my options were limited. There were no fireplace tools and nothing that might double as a weapon. “Suit yourself,” he said.

I tore open the flap and removed the photographs, taking care not to display overt curiosity. The prints were eight-by-tens, in glossy black-and-white. The first showed Len Priddy and Cappi sitting in a parked car. It was a night scene and the picture was taken with a zoom lens from across the street. The light wasn’t fabulous, but the closeup left no doubt who it was. I held the print to the fire and the corner began to curl. Dodie’s gaze was averted and Pinky’s expression was bleak. I tilted the picture to allow the flames to climb along the edge. When it was fully engulfed, I dropped it on top of the fake logs, where it continued to burn. I took the next print and subjected it to the same treatment. Len and Cappi were photographed from roughly the same angle at different locations, but the gist was the same. I focused on the job, guiding the flames as the fire chewed and digested the images. Judging from Cappi’s selection of tasteless shirts, he and Len met on six occasions.

While I worked my way through, I thought back to Cheney Phillips’s comment about my putting a confidential informant at risk. Dodie’d told me Len was using the mug shots of her to ensure that Pinky continued to funnel street rumors in his direction. If this second set of photographs was valuable, it probably meant Len was using them to keep Cappi in line as well. Len himself had nothing to fear from the images. The name of a CI is a closely guarded matter, and if his relationship with Cappi came to light, he could write it off as police business, which it probably was. On the other hand, I had to assume that if Dante found out his brother was having conversations with a vice detective, Cappi would be dead.

“Now the negatives,” Cappi said when the prints had been reduced to ash.

I removed the strips of negatives and held them to the blaze. The film flared and disappeared, leaving an acrid odor in the air. Once the photographs and negatives had been destroyed, I didn’t think the three of us would be in jeopardy. Cappi was currently on parole, already in serious violation because of the firearm he was waving around. Why would he add to his troubles? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he used the gun against us. We were no threat to him. Even if we blabbed about the photographs, the proof was gone. I maintained a cautious silence nonetheless, not wanting to set him off.

He glanced at me, saying, “Kick the ashes around and make sure nothing’s left.”

I used the toe of my boot to nudge the residue of burned photographic paper. One sheet had retained its soft rectangular shape, and I could have sworn the shadowy image remained, Len and Cappi, features blurred and nearly indistinct. The fragments separated and tumbled soundlessly around the logs.

Cappi got up and tucked the gun in the waist of his jeans at the small of his back. Now that the evidence had been reduced to soot, he seemed relaxed, ready to get on with his evening’s entertainment. “You folks sit tight and I’ll be on my way. I appreciate your cooperation,” he said, showing what an affable fellow he was. He must have seen the movies featuring crooks with good manners.

Dodie wept. She had a hand across her eyes, the tears coursing down her cheeks. She remained motionless, carefully suppressing any audible sobs. Cappi proffered his good-nights and ambled to the door. He had a thug’s sense of dignity to uphold, and he didn’t want to leave us with the impression he was fleeing the scene. He must have been as relieved as I was that his mission had gone smoothly. Pinky hadn’t moved a muscle and I was holding my breath, conscious the situation wouldn’t be resolved until Cappi was in his car and driving away. He opened the front door and went out, closing it behind him with an insolent smile.

Pinky screamed, “Son of a bitch!”

He was instantly on his feet. He tore out of the living room and into the hall where he yanked open the closet door and hauled items off the shelf in a tumble until he had his gun in hand. He checked the load and smacked the magazine into place while he ran to the door and flung it open, screaming Cappi’s name. I was right behind him, trying desperately to keep him under control. Cappi was halfway across the street, and when he turned, Pinky snapped off three shots, the muzzle kicking up each time. I heard a high-pitched shriek, but it was the sound of outrage instead of pain. Cappi hadn’t been hit but he was shocked at Pinky’s audacity. He was apparently unaccustomed to being a target and the reality made him sound as shrill as a girl. He pulled the gun from the small of his back and fired twice before he turned and raced away down the street, elbows pumping, his running shoes thumping on the pavement. A moment later, I heard his car door slam and the engine catch. In his haste, he banged into the car in front of him before he cleared the space and took off.

Pinky was panting, his own breathing hoarse with rage and adrenaline. I looked back at Dodie, thinking she’d flattened herself on the floor so she could use the easy chair for cover. Then I saw the blood. One of Cappi’s rounds had ripped through the frame wall, which slowed the trajectory of the bullet but not by much. It was my turn to shriek with surprise, but the sound was reduced to one of simple disbelief. Pinky froze, taking in the sight of her. He couldn’t seem to grasp her condition from the evidence in front of him. As with me, it was the blood that finally registered.

He scrambled to her side and turned her over onto her back. She’d caught the bullet in her chest on the right-hand side. It looked like her clavicle was shattered and blood oozed dully from the wound. Pinky pressed both his hands over the area and his face turned up to mine in helplessness and horror. I skittered out of the room and headed down the hall to the kitchen, where I snatched the handset from the wall-mounted phone and hit 9-1-1. When the dispatcher picked up, I gave her the bare bones-the nature of the emergency and the location where the shooting had taken place. I put a hand over the mouthpiece and called to Pinky. “Hey, Pinky. What’s your street address?”

He hollered out the number, which I conveyed to her.

The dispatcher was methodical, repeating her questions in a matter-of-fact fashion until she was satisfied with the information I’d provided. In the background, I could hear a second dispatcher take another call. The woman I was talking to broke off long enough to initiate the emergency response, launching aid and assistance.

When I returned to the living room, the first thing I spotted was Pinky’s gun lying on the floor. With an ambulance on the way to the shooting scene, that was the last thing we needed to be dealing with. I picked up the gun and went out to the hall, where the floor was still littered with the stuff he’d tossed out in his haste to find his weapon. I didn’t have the time or inclination to tidy up, so I did the next best thing, which was to return to the living room and stash the gun under a couch cushion. Pinky saw me doing it, but neither of us wanted to worry about searching for a better hiding place.

St. Terry’s was less than four blocks away, which worked in our favor. I knelt beside Pinky and we did what we could for Dodie, whose chest was heaving. She was already trembling from shock and blood loss. I’m not sure she had any idea what had happened, but her complexion was pasty and her system was reacting with a series of shudders. I patted and coaxed and reassured her while Pinky babbled whatever comfort and encouragement came