"V" is for Vengeance (58 page)

Dante checked the terminal with its small waiting room and sliding glass doors. No sign of Nora and no sign of the police, so maybe he was home free. He'd given Abbie enough misinformation to throw the cops off the scent. He knew she'd leak it all to Priddy, who no doubt prided himself on having the inside dope. In the meantime, Dante had told Lou Elle to change the first-class tickets to Manila from Nora's name and his to her own name and her husband's. He'd sport the couple to the trip as a reward for services rendered over the past fifteen years. If the CHP intercepted the limousine on its way to LAX, they'd discover the fish had slipped out of the net.

Dante climbed the steps and boarded the plane, ducking to clear the door as he proceeded to his seat. The interior was cream-colored leather and burled high-gloss cherry with a forward galley and an aft lavatory. He carried a toothbrush in his pocket, but aside from that, all he had was the cash. He chose the second forward-facing club chair on the right. One of the two pilots left the cockpit and made his way through the cabin so he could brief Dante about emergency exits and the drop of oxygen masks if the plane lost altitude. He also told him there was freshly brewed coffee and assorted snacks, along with the catered meals Dante had ordered in advance.

“Questions?”

“I'm good. I've flown privately before.”

“Let me know if you need anything. We'll be under way shortly.”

Dante picked up one of the newspapers that had been provided. He buckled his seat belt and opened the bottle of water offered in the console. The engines came to life and he could see the two pilots go through their preflight routine. The plane began to taxi down the runway. He could almost feel the familiar sensation of the aircraft lifting and climbing. In moments, he'd be gone. He hadn't expected the sense of loss to be so sharp. He was a patriotic guy. He loved his country. Now that departure was imminent, he couldn't imagine that he'd never again set foot in America. There was no compromising his defection. The number and nature of his crimes made it impossible to remain in the United States with his freedom intact. The plane slowed to a stop.

Ahead, in the cockpit, he saw the pilot unbuckle his seat belt and make a second trip into the cabin. When he reached the door, he swung the handle to the left in preparation for opening it. The door pivoted outward and the retractable stairway settled into place. Dante looked out the window and saw Nora's turquoise Thunderbird speed along the runway. The car came to a stop and the engine shut down. She got out on the driver's side, pausing to remove a garment bag and an overnight case from the trunk. She was as beautiful as he'd ever seen her, in soft-fitting black sweats that looked comfortable for travel. A young man emerged from the passenger side and came around the front of the car to trade places with her. She tossed him the car keys and headed for the plane. The pilot walked out to meet her so he could carry her bags.

As she boarded, she said, “I left Channing a note, telling him good-bye and god bless. I left instructions for my lawyer, so he can handle the rest of it. I ought to have my head examined.”

Dante said, “For that, we've got time.”

 

There's always a story that comes after the end of a story. How could there not be? Life doesn't come in tidy packages, all neatly wrapped up with a pretty bow on top. The raid resulted in seventeen arrests, with criminal charges filed against twelve. To all intents and purposes, the theft ring was shut down and the organization at large suffered crippling effects—at least until they gear up again. If it hadn't been for Len, Pinky Ford would be dead, which Pinky claims he'd have preferred. With Dodie gone, he doesn't feel he has anything to look forward to, but that may change in time. Len was put on administrative leave and then decided to take early retirement before Internal Affairs could conduct a review. With thirty officers and an additional two dozen witnesses on hand, the facts about Cappi's shooting death were never in dispute. After consideration, the district attorney's office decided not to pursue the issue. Publicly, Len was hailed as a hero, which annoyed me no end. I remembered all too well the shooting years before, when he'd been called to an accounting for inadvertently killing a fellow officer during a drug bust gone bad. At the time, he was cleared, but I was never convinced he was without blame. Word on the street had it that the other officer had threatened to report Len for certain questionable transactions that he'd observed in the course of their partnership. In the matter of Cappi's death, the consensus was that Len had done law enforcement a favor, so nobody cared if I begrudged him the praise.

As for Dante, he disappeared while I was still bleeding on his scuffed linoleum floor. After he decked me, I remembered seeing him slip into his office, where he grabbed the suitcase from his desk and moved out of my line of sight. When the FBI agents burst in, I expected him to be escorted out in handcuffs. By then, he was gone. There were numerous explanations for his escape. Some said there was a secret room where he concealed himself until the police wrapped up the raid and departed. Others speculated he'd gone out the window and hung on to the frame while he hauled himself and his suitcase up onto the roof and made his way to the fire escape on the far end of the building. Even when the hidden staircase came to light, the man himself had vanished so completely, he might as well have been B. D. Cooper jumping out of that plane.

Len Priddy, on the other hand, was much in the public eye—smug, self-satisfied, and apparently bulletproof. He was a bad man, but a clever one, and he'd managed to dance out of the reach of the law. With Dante gone and Cappi dead, there were no corroborating witnesses to substantiate Priddy's relationship with the crime family. For those who'd hoped to see him behind bars, disappointment was keen that there was no justice in sight.

Three weeks later I had a visitor. I was sitting at my desk when a woman appeared in the doorway, saying, “Hi, I'm Lou Elle. Are you Kinsey?”

“I am.” By then, most of my facial bruises were gone and my nose was only mildly swollen, so I didn't feel I needed to explain my appearance. She probably didn't know the difference since I'd never met her before. I said, “What can I do for you?”

“I work for Lorenzo Dante. Or maybe I should say I
worked
for him, past tense. Mind if I have a seat?”

“Be my guest. I hope you're here to tell me what happened to him.”

“Yes and no. He got in touch with me once, but says I won't be hearing from him again. It's probably just as well. The less I know about him the better for both of us. Dante Enterprises is out of business.”

“But you came out of it okay?”

“I'm fine. He made sure I wouldn't be caught in the mess. I'm not sure you'll appreciate this, but he had Abbie buy plane tickets for himself and a companion, leaving for Manila on Thursday night. He had me buy a second pair of tickets so when the CHP intercepted the limousine on its way to LAX, they found my husband and me in the backseat instead of him. You should have seen the looks on their faces. Talk about disappointed! They were all set to make the arrest. Instead, they had to wave us on our merry way.”

“How did he manage to get away?”

“Sleight of hand. In a year or two, I'll fill you in, but at the moment, all you need to know is he's landed safely and he's set for life.”

“I hope so. I only met him once, but I liked him.”

“He must have liked you too. Despite the punch in the nose,” she added.

“I was never so surprised in my life.”

“He felt bad about it. I'm sure he would have apologized in person if he'd had time.” She opened her bag and took out a thick envelope and passed it across the desk. “For you.”

I picked up the envelope and opened the flap widely enough to catch sight of a fat packet of currency, bound by a rubber band. Topmost was a one-hundred-dollar bill and I was guessing the rest were duplicates.

“That's not a gift,” she pointed out. “It's reimbursement for pain and suffering.”

“No need,” I said. “That's what medical insurance is for.”

“It's also payment for a job he wants done if you're agreeable.”

“A job?”

“Short-term. Nothing egregious. Let's call it a task.”

“And what might that be?”

“Check the envelope again. You missed something.”

When I opened the envelope the second time, I found a tape cassette wrapped in plain white paper.

“He thinks that should have an airing.”

“What is it?”

“I don't know. He says you'll get the idea. He's trusting you to do anything you like with the information as long as it's made public.”

“Have you heard it?”

“Nope, but if I know him, it's worth whatever he's paying you.”

At that, she got up and headed for the door.

“What if I decide against doing it?”

“The money's yours anyway.”

I said, “Why?”

She smiled. “He says you play straight and he thinks you're a woman of your word.”

When I heard the outer door close behind her, I opened the middle drawer of my desk and took out my tape player. I hadn't used it for so long, I had to replace the batteries before I could get it to work. Once I was set, I popped the tape into place and pressed play.

The sound quality was excellent. I heard Dante say,

The conversation took six minutes and ended with Len saying,

And that's where the tape ended.

I sat and pondered the possibilities, rubbing my nose thoughtfully. Cheney would be ecstatic and so would the district attorney. The problem was I couldn't count on either one to push the revelations to maximum effect. They were more likely to delay exposure of the tape until they were ready to take action. In legal circles, this can take years. There had to be somebody out there who was fearless and aggressive, someone who could manipulate the facts and drive the message home while managing to sidestep the repercussions.

I left my desk, pulled the carpet back, and put the packet of cash in my office safe without counting it. I returned to my swivel chair, lifted the handset, and called Diana Alvarez.

When she picked up, I said, “Hey, Diana. Kinsey Millhone.”

There was a momentary pause. She must have been assessing my tone, which I confess was friendlier than it had been in times past. Cautiously, she said, “What can I do for you?”

“It's the other way around. Buy me a decent glass of Chardonnay and I'll do something for you.”

 

Respectfully submitted,

Kinsey Milhone

 

Kinsey Millhone mysteries