"V" is for Vengeance (49 page)

I said, “Really. Well, that's accommodating. What's she think is going on?”

“Beats me. I didn't tell her nothing.” He tapped his head to show he was using his brains. “So, now what do we do?”

“Transform you into a girl and get you out of here.” I turned to June. “I need you to call a taxi. Tell the dispatcher the pickup's a blond woman in a camel-hair coat who'll be on Hidalgo at the side entrance to the Butler Hotel.”

“How soon?”

“Ten minutes. And tell the cabbie to wait in case it takes longer than we think.”

“I'll leave you two alone,” June said as she moved away.

I made Pinky perch on the toilet lid while I took the wig from my head and secured it to his. He didn't look that bad as a blonde, though his wide shoulders and swarthy complexion gave him the look of a middle-aged Miami transvestite. Once he slipped into the camel-hair coat, most of his tattoos disappeared. I thought he'd pass muster from afar. With luck, he'd be able to walk the half block, slip in the hotel's front entrance, and out the side door.

I wrote Rosie's address on the back of the receipt from the wig shop and gave him thirty bucks in cash. “I'll call and tell her you're coming. She'll keep you out of sight until I get home. It won't be until after dark so don't get antsy on me. Any questions?”

“Can you call Dodie and tell her I'm okay? I know she's worried about me.”

“That can wait. I talked to her a while ago and she's fine.”

“She'll feel better if she hears my voice.”

“Listen to me. Are you
listening
? Do
not
call her. She thinks the house is bugged and she may well be right. A phone conversation would be picked up.”

“I wouldn't say where I was.”

“What if your home line has a trap on it?”

“Wouldn't matter. I'd be quick. I could use a special code to let her know I'm safe.”

“How can you concoct a code without talking to her first?”

“I could ask about the parrot, which she knows we don't have. I could say, ‘Is the parrot fine?' and like that.”

“Pinky, please don't make life any more complicated than it is. This is all beside the point. Dodie told me about the mug shots of her. Where'd you put the second set of photographs?”

He parted the front of his shirt slightly, and I could see a portion of the manila envelope. “I'm not letting go of this until I hand it over.”

“Good plan.”

Shyly, he patted the sides of the blond wig. “How do I look?”

“Adorable,” I said. “Here's the drill. I'm going to stroll out the front door and go around the corner to the parking lot where I'll pick up my car. You wait five or six minutes and then leave and head in the opposite direction. You know where the Butler is?”

“Sure. It's up on the corner.”

“Perfect. You take the cab to Rosie's and stay put. Her husband will bring you to my place after dark. Are we clear?”

“I guess.”

“All right. Once I leave, you wait . . .”

“I got it already. Five minutes and I hoof it up to the Butler.”

“Don't hoof it. Stroll. See you later.”

June let me borrow the phone and I called Rosie's. William answered and when I explained what we were doing, he said he'd be happy to help. I told him to stick Pinky in a booth with his back to the door. I'd be grateful if Rosie agreed to feed him supper, though I did caution him with regard to alcohol, as I wasn't sure about Pinky's tolerance. As soon as it was fully dark, William was to walk Pinky to Henry's house, using the alleyway that runs along his rear property line. I figured a nice-looking elderly couple out and about at that hour wouldn't attract much notice.

I retrieved my car and headed for home. My route was straightforward, though I did stop briefly at the supermarket to pick up milk and toilet paper. I hoped to give any surveillance types the impression that I was dull-witted and unsuspecting. I still hadn't identified a tail, but it was a safe bet one was there. When I finally pulled into Henry's driveway, I left the Mustang parked in front of the garage doors. I let myself into the studio and turned on the lights. I closed the lower bank of shutters in the living room and went up the spiral stairs to the bedroom, where I turned on additional lights. When I came downstairs again, I spent a few minutes crawling along the baseboards again, looking for a listening device. The studio was still clean, at least as far as I could tell. I turned on the television set, sound slightly higher than I liked it in case anyone was there to overhear. I turned off the outside lights as though I were in for the night and then eased out the door again and crossed the patio to Henry's house.

The lights in the front rooms were on timers, but the kitchen wasn't part of the circuit. I left the room in darkness, using my penlight to do my usual walkabout, making sure all was well. Then I used his phone to place a call to him in Michigan. While it didn't appear Len had bugged my studio, I thought Henry's phone was clean. I asked about Nell and he filled me in on her condition, which was much improved. After that, I brought him up to date on my falling out with Marvin, the recording device on my office phone, and the problem I had with Pinky on my hands. I didn't need to justify my request to park him at Henry's for the night. I swore I'd call him again in the morning and fill him in on anything that transpired from that point on.

Darkness had settled over the neighborhood by then. I sat on Henry's back step to wait. Ten minutes later, I heard a rustling in the shrubbery along the alleyway. If you pushed the chicken wire fence until it bowed, it was possible to slip through the gap. I got up and crossed to the side of the garage. When Pinky pushed through, it was a simple matter to usher him into Henry's kitchen. I had to pray William wouldn't go back to Rosie's and blab the whole scheme to anyone who came in looking for a drink.

I locked the door behind us and led Pinky into the inner sanctum of Henry's hallway. I closed the doors leading to the bedrooms, the living room, and the kitchen, and finally turned to him. He looked like he was having the time of his life, which I found irritating. He was surveying the hallway, probably hoping there was something to steal. “This is your place? I remembered it different.”

“It belongs to a friend of mine who's out of town. You can stay here tonight, but you have to promise you won't go into any of the other rooms. There are timers on the lights so they'll be going off and on. People in the neighborhood know Henry's gone, so if you're moving around, someone might notice and call the cops, thinking there's been a break-in.”

“Hey, right. Cops are the last thing we need.”

“That's correct. Can you behave yourself?”

“Oh, sure, but I gotta tell you, I'm so hungry, I could eat my own arm. I been in the pawnshop all day and the only thing June had handy was a box of Milk Duds that made my teeth hurt.”

“Rosie was supposed to give you supper.”

“She did, but you should've seen it. I didn't even know what it was. Little gristle bits in sauce. I pretended to eat and enjoy myself, but I have a delicate stomach and it was all I could do to keep from hurling chunks. Your friend have anything I could eat?”

“Hold on and I'll check.”

I went through Henry's kitchen cabinets in search of food. I knew all the perishables were gone because he'd given them to me. I found a box of Cheerios, but no milk. He did have a bottle of cold Coke and a small can of V-8. He also had a can of cashews, a packet of graham crackers, and some peanut butter. I considered the Jack Daniel's, which Pinky could probably use, but decided not to tempt fate. I took out a tray and placed the items on it along with a paper napkin and some flatware. I wouldn't have minded such a feast myself, but opted against keeping Pinky company. I took the tray into the inner hall and set it down for him. He popped open the Coke and chugged about half. While he was slapping peanut butter between graham crackers, I went into the bathroom and closed the blinds.

Coming out, I said, “You can use the bathroom if you leave the light off. Do you swear?”

Mouth full, Pinky nodded and held two fingers to his temple as though taking a Boy Scout oath. I've done the same thing myself and know how little it means.

He swallowed and then used his finger to clear the peanut butter from his teeth. “Can I trouble you for a blanket and pillow?”

“Fine.” The man was exasperating, but I'd signed on of my own free will and didn't feel I had a right to complain. I opened the door to the hall closet, where Henry keeps his linens. I pulled out a pillow, a wool blanket, and a big puffy comforter. “You can put down a couple of big bath towels if the floor gets too hard.”

“Thanks. This'll do nice.”

I pointed at him sternly. “Behave.”

“I'm not
doing
anything.”

 

 

I returned to my studio. I would have loved getting into my robe and slippers, but my day wasn't over yet. Closer to bedtime, I'd pay Pinky another visit to make sure all was well. He struck me as a man with a limited imagination, which meant that entertaining himself might prove strenuous.

For dinner, I made myself a hot hard-boiled egg sandwich with mayo and put it on a paper plate. Then I poured myself a glass of Cake-bread Chardonnay and picked up the
Santa Teresa Dispatch
, still folded for delivery. I settled on the couch, opened the paper, and munched my sandwich while I read the news. It was the first chance I'd had to relax since I'd left home that morning. The obituaries were unremarkable and world news was standard: war in six different places on the planet, a train wreck, a mine collapse, and an infant born to a woman who was sixty-two years old. The Dow was down, the NASDAQ up, or it might have been the other way around.

The only item of note—and this made me sit up straight—was a squib on page 6 in a section that listed brief reports of local crime. This was the daily summary of chicaneries too minor to warrant full-on reporting. Most were simple: a car had been jacked up and the tires removed; a wallet had been snatched from a woman on lower State Street. What caught my eye was a wee paragraph that indicated that a homeowner, returning after a weekend away, discovered someone had broken into her house and removed a fire safe, previously bolted to the closet floor. Abigail Upshaw, age twenty-six, estimated her losses (which included jewelry, cash, silverware, and assorted items of sentimental value) at approximately three thousand dollars.

Ah. Abbie Upshaw was Len Priddy's girlfriend, and I thought it safe to assume Pinky was the one who'd burgled the place. According to what he'd told me, he'd gone in search of the damning photographs of Dodie, which he must have thought Len was hiding at his place. That jaunt was fruitless so Pinky had turned his attention to the girlfriend. I still had no idea who was featured in the second set of photographs or what made them so priceless as barter, but maybe I'd find out in due course.

Almost subliminally, I heard the squeaking of my front gate and I looked up from the paper. The arrow on my inner sensor whipped into the red zone. I set the paper aside and went to the front door, where I flipped on the porch light and looked out through the porthole. Marvin Striker appeared on my doorstep, looking impish and ill at ease.

I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“How'd you know where I lived?”

“I asked Diana Alvarez. She knows everything. You might keep that in mind in case something comes up. May I come in?”

“Why not?” I said. I stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

“Mind if I sit down?”

I gestured at the seating in my wee living room. His choices were the sofabed or one of my two royal blue director's chairs. He choose one chair and I sat down in the other, which caused both our canvas seats to make embarrassing noises.

I wasn't feeling cranky with the man, but I didn't think I should act like we were still the same good buddies we'd been before he'd tried to fire my ass. “What can I do for you?”

“I owe you an apology.”

“Really.”

He reached into his inner suit-coat pocket and pulled out a windowed envelope with a yellow strip across the bottom. The return address in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope was the Wells Fargo Bank in San Luis Obispo, complete with a tiny stagecoach. I took the envelope and read the name of the recipient. Audrey Vance. The yellow strip indicated a change of address from the little house in San Luis to Marvin's in Santa Teresa. Vivian Hewitt had apparently filled out a form at the post office, forwarding Audrey's mail to him as I'd asked her to do. He'd already torn open the envelope.

I said, “May I look?”

“That's why I brought it. Help yourself.”

The statement was subdivided into numerous blocks of information, some in bold print, including phone numbers available for those who wanted to conduct a conversation in English, Spanish, or Chinese. Other nationalities were screwed. There were also columns giving dollar figures for total assets, total liabilities, available credit, interest, dividends, and other income. All of Audrey's transactions had been itemized, deposits going back to the first of the year. To date, she had $4,000,944.44 in her account. No withdrawals. I was impressed by how quickly the minimal interest on four million added up.

“I don't think she got that much money managing wholesale accounts,” he remarked.

“Probably not.”

“I wondered if you'd consider taking up your investigation where you left off?”