"V" is for Vengeance (41 page)

“Why would anyone believe a story like that?”

“By the time he blabs, he'll have the facts so fucked up no one will know what to think. They'll come after us on the off chance the asshole's telling the truth.”

“Nice to know something's under control.”

Dante pointed at the papers Saul had brought in. “What's that?”

Saul put the sheaf on Dante's desk. “The latest pound of pretrial paperwork. You want to go over it?”

“What for? I'm screwed either way. I lie, they got me for perjury. I tell the truth, I'm down the toilet. What am I supposed to do?”

“What's to debate? You lie through your teeth. It's up to them to prove otherwise.”

“I don't like the idea of lying under oath. It might seem like splitting hairs, given things I've done in my life, but I've got standards like everyone else.”

“Then go to Plan B: get out of the line of fire.”

“How can I do that? I step to one side, that leaves you exposed.”

“Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. If you're out of the picture, I can plead ignorance and blame it all on you.”

“It
is
on me.”

“I'll tell Lou Elle it's a go anytime you like.”

“Not yet. I've got things I want to take care of first.”

“Like what? Everything's in place. We've been working on this for months.”

“I know,” Dante said, irritably. “I just don't think now's the time.”

Cautiously, Saul said, “And why is that?”

“There's this woman I'm seeing.”

It took a brief moment for Saul to absorb what he'd said. “What about Lola?”

“That's over. She's still in the house, but she'll be gone before long.”

“I had no idea.”

“Me neither. She's the one who called it off or I'd still be in there fighting. I thought we were good. I was playing for keeps. Shows how much I know,” he said. “Meantime, I met someone else.”

“Who?”

“Don't worry about that. The point is, I'm in way over my head.”

“You?”

“Who else are we talking about?”

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday.”

First thing Monday morning on my way into the office, I stopped by the Hall of Records and started a paper search, looking for information about Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. If the organization was a charity, it would have to be registered. In the state of California, as in most states I'm sure, any group seeking to obtain tax-exempt status is required to fill out forms, which are filed with the state, accompanied by the requisite filing fees. Whether the entity is a sole proprietorship, a partnership, a limited partnership, or a corporation, the applicant must list the name and address of the organization itself and the name and address of every partner, trustee, or officer.

I tried the registry of charitable trusts, which netted me nothing. I tried looking under nonprofits and reached another dead end. Baffled, I asked the clerk at the desk if she had a suggestion. She suggested I try “Fictitious Business Names,” also known as DBAs, short for “Doing Business As.” She directed me to another office. DBAs expire after five years, but a refiling is required within thirty days. I thanked her for her help. This time I was in luck, though the answer to the question took me right back to my starting point. Helping Hearts, Healing Hands was owned and operated by Dan Prestwick, husband of the very Georgia I'd been tailing for days.

It wasn't clear what his purpose was in establishing this enterprise, but I assumed he'd acquired the proper licenses and permits, that he'd been assigned a federal tax ID number, and behaved himself in accordance with federal and state regulations in furtherance of his stated goals, whatever those might be. He was supposed to list funds, property, and other assets, but I couldn't see any sign that he'd done so. I was sure people were dumping all manner of household items and used clothing in his donation bins, but I wasn't sure what happened to the goods afterward. He certainly didn't declare the potential value. Maybe he turned around and dumped the same goods into Salvation Army bins or left them at the drop-off point behind the Goodwill shop on Chapel.

Helping Hearts, Healing Hands appeared to be a shell company created to shelter Dan Prestwick from closer scrutiny. My best guess was this so-called charity was a conduit for stolen merchandise. Georgia did some of the journeyman shoplifting and she also had a hand in collecting stolen goods, judging from the bulging plastic bags she'd dumped in two separate bins as I looked on. Apparently, she wasn't involved in the transportation of goods from point to point. My guess was that she off-loaded the stolen items as quickly as possible, passing them along to others in the loop. I couldn't picture the Prestwicks at the top of the heap. More likely they were employed by someone higher up on the food chain. Audrey's calls to Los Angeles, Corpus Christi, and Miami suggested an organization with branches in ports of call across the country. Somewhere along the line, cash had been generated and shipped to the now-deceased Audrey Vance. She probably used the money to pay the workers she'd assembled every other Saturday. Now what?

I left the county building and drove back to Juniper Lane. I parked two doors down from the Prestwicks' house and stared at the narrow slice of driveway I could see. I wasn't officially on surveillance. I needed a place to sit while I sorted myself out and why not in range of two principal players? I took my index cards from the depths of my shoulder bag and made a few notes, discouraged by the paucity of facts. I had lots of good guesses and little evidence.

Now that Marvin Striker and I had parted company, I was on my own. While I liked not having to answer to him, I wouldn't net a nickel for my services. This is a dumb way to run a business, especially when the usual bills came due and I'd find myself short on funds. I have a savings account to cover shortfalls, but I don't fancy dipping into it. Despite my huffy claims to the contrary, I couldn't afford to work for long without pay. The sensible course of action would be to collate the data I'd collected and hand it over to Cheney Phillips. I had no intention of dealing with Len Priddy, but if Cheney wanted to pass on the information, that was up to him.

I caught movement ahead and watched as Georgia emerged from her driveway on foot. She wasn't dressed for exercise unless she leaned toward jogging in a tight skirt, panty hose, and strappy spike-heel shoes. She reached the corner and paused. As I looked on, a long black limousine pulled into view. The back door swung open and she got in, after which the limousine glided out of my line of sight. I fired up the Mustang and drove to the end of the block, where I nosed forward slightly and peered to my right. The limousine had pulled over to the curb and it sat there, engine idling. A very large man in a black suit had stepped out. He stood beside the vehicle, hands neatly folded in front of him while he scanned the immediate area. His gaze came to rest on my car, and I had no choice but to turn left and drive on as though that had been my intent. I didn't even have time to pick up a plate number, which I could see was becoming a habitual failing of mine. Once again, I cursed the Grabber Blue Mustang, which was much too conspicuous. I couldn't even speed around the block and approach from the opposite direction.

I returned to the office, and as I pulled up in front, I saw Pinky Ford sitting on my porch step, a manila envelope in hand. I'd been looking forward to time on my own, but that was apparently not in the cards. When he saw me, he stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. He wore the usual jeans, this time with a Western-cut shirt, black with silver studs up one side like upholstery tacks. He'd been there for some time judging by the number of dead cigarette butts at his feet. As I approached, he tucked the envelope under one arm and bent down to collect the butts. He held them cupped in one hand while he made a show of rubbing out the ashes with the toe of one boot.

I said, “Hey, Pinky. How are you? I hope you're not here to tell me you hocked something else.”

“No, ma'am. I've been good,” he said. “About that, at any rate.”

I unlocked the door and he followed me in. “I can make a pot of coffee if you like.”

“I'm kind of in a hurry.”

“You want to have a seat or would that take too long?”

“I can sit,” he said.

I pulled the trash can from under my desk and held it out to him, waiting while he deposited his cigarette butts and wiped his hands on his jeans. Personally, I'd have loved a cup of coffee but I postponed the pleasure in the interest of speed and efficiency. He settled on the guest chair and placed the manila envelope on my desk. As I looked over, I saw that the light on my answering machine was winking merrily. “Hang on.”

I pressed play and the minute I heard “This is Dia . . .” I punched delete.

Pinky said, “Geez, I can tell you're fond of her.”

“Long story,” I said. “Is that for me?”

He pushed the envelope forward an inch. “I was hoping you could hang on to it temporarily.”

“What is it?”

“Photographs.”

“Of?”

“Two different individuals in compromising circumstances. It's better if you don't know the particulars.”

“Why is it better? It doesn't sound better to me.”

“The subject matter's on the sensitive side. In the first set, someone's reputation and good name are at stake.”

“You with another woman?”

“Not me. I don't have a good name or reputation, either one. Besides which, I wouldn't fool around on Dodie. She's explained in some detail what she'd do to me if I strayed.”

“What about the other set?”

“Second's more serious. I'd say life-or-death if it didn't sound like I was blowing smoke up your skirt.”

“How many photographs altogether? Doesn't matter. I'm just curious,” I said.

He thought about that, like the idea hadn't occurred to him before. “I'd say ten.”

“You're guessing ten or you've actually counted them?”

“I counted. There's also the negatives. Copies without the negatives aren't worth shit. Destroy one set and all a fellow has to do is print 'em up again.”

“Why give them to me?”

He paused to remove a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. “Good question,” he said without volunteering a response.

“Pinky, I'm not going to hang on to anything unless you tell me what's going on.”

“Understood,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling. “Let's see how I can explain and still exercise my fifth-amendment rights.”

“Take your time.”

He thought for a moment. “I may have picked my way into the premises of a person I believed was in possession of the material in the envelope. I'm not saying I did, but it's possible. It's also possible I'd looked for the items elsewhere and when they didn't come to light, I deduced their whereabouts.”

“Why get involved in the first place?”

“I wanted to eliminate the threat to a friend of mine. In the process, these other pictures came to light and that's what's put me in a bind. Big-time.”

“Doesn't that suggest that anyone
holding
the photographs would be in trouble if
someone else
figured it out?”

“Why would anyone suspect you?”

“What if you were followed? There could be a guy parked down the block with binoculars trained on my door. You come in with the envelope. You leave without it. The bad guys aren't stupid. I don't care who they are, they're going to figure it out.”

He shifted in his chair, apparently discomfited by the idea. The look he turned on me was shrewd. “You could give me another manila envelope to carry with me when I leave.”

I squinted. “You know what? This really doesn't sound like a good plan to me. You know I'd help if I could, but you've dug yourself a hole and I don't want to fall into it with you.”

This was not the response he was looking for. “How about I leave the photos for one day?”

“How do I know you'll come back for them?”

“Because I got a good use for them, but not right away. This is just for safekeeping. One day.” He held up one finger to dramatize the time frame like the number 1 was somehow ambiguous.

“I know you better than that. You'll do what's expedient and I'll be stuck.”

“Promise I'll come back for them. I swear.”

“I don't understand why one day will make a difference.”

“I'm setting up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon. I'm in a jam and the photos are my get-out-of-jail-free card, but only if I get them to the relevant party. Meantime, you can put the envelope in your safe and forget it's there.”

“What makes you think I have a safe?”

The look he gave me was pained, like it was obvious. “I'll pick 'em up by noon tomorrow and that's the last you'll hear.”

I wanted to slam my fingers in the pencil drawer, which in the end would have been less painful than his proposal. “Please don't ask me to do this.”

“I
am
asking you. I'm desperate.” He managed to look solemn and plaintive and helpless and dependent.

I stared at him. Jailbirds are so often like this, I thought. In prison or out, they wheedle and manipulate. Maybe they can't help it. They chain themselves to the proverbial railroad tracks knowing good souls, like me, will gallop to the rescue. When I do as predicted, guess who ends up under the train?