"V" is for Vengeance (44 page)

I put my hands in the air, as though at gunpoint. “I don't have it. Honest. You've already searched my file cabinets and the desk drawers, so you know it's not there. Check my shoulder bag if you want.”

I set my bag on the desk. He didn't want to appear too interested, so he took his time, casually pawing through the miscellany. Wallet, makeup bag, a few over-the-counter meds, keys, spiral-bound notebook, which he stopped and leafed through before tossing it aside. I was fearful he'd spot the index cards and confiscate the lot of them, but he was focused on the image of an eight-by-ten envelope and disregarded anything that didn't match that description. I could feel the tension seep into my bones. I was reacting to Len the way I'd react to a street thug or a belligerent drunk, someone capable of violence if provoked. I didn't believe he'd attack me because an assault would leave him vulnerable to charges. There were no wants and warrants out against me, and he had no way to justify getting physical.

“Where's the safe?” he asked.

I pointed at the floor to one side of the room. My safe was concealed under a section of my bubble-gum-pink wall-to-wall carpeting. He gestured impatiently, indicating I was to hop to, and I complied. I knew there was no manila envelope, so what was it to me? He crossed the room and stood over me while I pulled the carpet back and exposed the safe to view. I hated his knowing where it was, but it was better to appear cooperative. I got down on one knee and dialed in the combination. When the door swung open, he was forced to assume the same kneeling posture so he could empty the contents. I glanced at the door, realizing if I intended to bolt, this would be the time to do it. I kept the impulse in check, believing it was wiser to let the situation play out. The safe held nothing of interest: insurance policies, bank information, and the modest amount of cash I like to keep on hand.

That's when I noticed he'd ripped the phone cord out of the wall and smashed the housing until it cracked in half. There was something about the savagery that scared me senseless. Too late, I realized I'd adopted the mind-set of a kidnap victim, thinking everything would be all right as long as I did as I was told. This notion was foolish on the face of it. It's always better to scream, run, or fight back. No one knew he was here. My bungalow is the only occupied structure on this side of the street. If he decided I was holding out on him, whether it was true or not, he could handcuff me, throw me in the trunk of his car, and pound the shit out of me in private until I gave him what he wanted. The fact that I didn't have the photographs wasn't relevant and would only net me more punishment.

He was still pulling papers out of my safe when I made a break for the outside door. The problem was I'd been standing stiffly at attention and I couldn't move fast enough. Even as I took the first two steps, I felt like I was weighted in place. He was on me before I'd gone six feet. I couldn't believe a man his size could act so quickly. He grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me backward off my feet, hooking an arm around my neck before I could marshal a defense. I knew the choke hold from my days as a rookie. This was called a lateral vascular neck restraint, or blood choke. With the crook of his elbow over the midpoint of my neck, all he had to do was increase the pressure, using his free hand for leverage. If I tried to turn around, it would only escalate the force of the hold. The pressure on my carotid arteries and jugular veins would result in hypoxia that would render me unconscious in seconds. Most police departments prohibit the use of the carotid hold unless an officer is threatened with death or serious injury. Len Priddy was from the old school, coming up through the ranks while the blood choke was still considered fair play. He was a full head taller and weighed a good hundred pounds more than I did.

I couldn't make a sound. I clung to his arm, holding on with both hands as though I might actually ease his grip when I knew the effort would be futile. The pain was excruciating and I was starved for oxygen.

Len had his mouth up against my ear, his voice low. “I know how to finish you off without leaving a mark on you. Complain about me and I'll hurt you so bad it'll put you out of commission for the rest of your life. I'm coming down on you hard for your own damn good. Audrey Vance is none of your business, you get that? Anything you hear about, you keep shut. Whatever you see, you'd best look the other way. I find out you have those photographs, I will come back and kill you. Make no mistake about it. If you tell anyone else about this, the same penalty applies. Is that clear?”

I couldn't even nod. Next thing I knew he'd shoved me to the floor and backed off, breathing hard himself. I was down on my hands and knees, sucking air into my lungs. I put a hand against my throat, where the sensation of compression and restriction was still vivid. I leaned my forehead on the carpet and put my arms over my head, gasping for breath. I knew he was standing over me. I thought he'd punch me or kick me, but he probably didn't dare risk bruising me or cracking my ribs. Dimly, I was aware of his walking away. I heard the outer office door open and shut. I crawled after him and locked the door in his wake. It wasn't until I heard his car start and pull away that I started to shake.

I rolled over on my back and lay on the floor until my heartbeat had slowed and the blood no longer pounded in my ears. I sat up, doing a canvas of my physical and emotional state. Swallowing was painful and my confidence was shaken. Beyond that, I wasn't injured, but I was badly frightened. Now that the immediate threat had passed, I needed to pull myself together. I turned and stared at my office floor, which was littered with the papers Len had pulled from the safe. File folders and reports had been dumped from the file cabinets and lay scattered about. I wanted nothing more than to spend the next few minutes cleaning up the mess. Getting to my feet first would be a big help. My emotions were all over the place, and tidying my surroundings was the way I soothed myself in times of stress. For the moment, I'd have to forgo indulging my inner Cinderella because Pinky had priority. I didn't believe Len would kill me (unless he could be sure the deed wouldn't be traced back to him). Pinky was the obvious target. He was a low-level criminal with prison associates who probably already represented a risk to his health and safety. If he died, no one would think much about it. Why he imagined he could outwit someone like Len was a mystery. I used a guest chair to pull myself upright and went into the bathroom, where I stretched the rim of my turtleneck so I could examine my poor abused flesh. Len was right when he boasted he hadn't left a mark.

I picked up my broken telephone and tossed the hull in the trash. Fortunately, I still had the previous instrument I'd owned. I went into the kitchenette and opened and closed closet doors until I found it. It was an old black rotary phone, powdered with dust. I wiped it down with a towel and took it back to the office, where I plugged it into the old jack. I picked up the handset, reassured by the dial tone. I needed to contact Pinky and tell him what was going on.

I was acutely aware of Len's warning to keep away from matters related to Audrey Vance, but Pinky and the photographs were another matter—weren't they? I knew that if Len caught up with Pinky, he was dead meat. I had to make sure I got to him first. I wondered if Pinky had any idea the jeopardy he was in. He'd talked about using the photographs to get out of a jam, but trying to outsmart Len was trouble of a greater magnitude.

I sat down at my desk and checked my address book for Pinky's phone number. I seldom had occasion to call him, and for all I knew, the contact number I had was long out of date. I put the end of my index finger in the first hole, in which the number 9 appeared. I moved the dial to the right as far as the finger set and released it, thinking how odd it was to have to wait until the metal circle with the little holes in it rotated all the way back before hooking my finger into the next number in the sequence. Seemed to take forever. Lo and behold, the line rang. I listened, counting. At fifteen, I gave up hope and put the handset back in the cradle. I had no idea if he was actually home and too clever to answer the phone, or if he'd gone into hiding, as any sensible fugitive would do. I didn't even know if the number was still his. I was going to have to drive over to his place and check it out.

I left the disorder where it was and locked the office door behind me. Before I got in the Mustang, I went around and opened the trunk and took the H&K out of my briefcase. I didn't have a concealed carry permit but I wasn't going to leave myself unprotected. There was a fellow waxing his car in the driveway between my bungalow and the one next door. I wasn't aware a new tenant had moved in, but what did I know? He'd set a bucket and some rags to one side, and he was applying paste wax to the front fenders and hood of a black Jeep. A hose lay on the sidewalk, snaking out from between the buildings. He paid no attention to me, but I was careful nonetheless to slide the gun into my shoulder bag before I stepped into view. I got into the car and tucked the gun under the front seat before I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

My run-in with Len played in my head like an endless loop of film. I lived those moments over and over, but regardless of how many times I reviewed the encounter, it ended the same way. Self-preservation being what it is, I wouldn't have handled myself any differently, but I wondered if there were options that hadn't occurred to me. My neck still felt like it was caught in a noose. I kept putting a hand against my throat as though to assure myself of my ability to breathe.

I cut over to Chapel and took a right, driving the eight blocks to Paseo Street, where Pinky and Dodie lived. I didn't think I'd been followed, because why would Len bother? He knew where Pinky lived or if he didn't, it would be a simple matter to pull up the data on his computer. I wondered if he had me in his sights, playing out enough rope to see if I'd make a beeline for Pinky. But if Len had known where he was, he wouldn't have had to jump me for the whereabouts of the manila envelope. I checked my rearview mirror, but there was no sign of an approaching car or idlers on the street.

Gamely, I parked, got out of my car, and crossed the street. The front windows in both halves of the duplex were dark. I had no idea which was theirs, but I would soon find out. It was 1:50, sunshine, temperatures in the midseventies, the scent of honeysuckle in the air. The breeze was playful, making it hard to believe there was anything going on that wasn't purely recreational in nature. But here I was looking for a goofball who thought he was smart enough to pull a fast one on a bad cop. This was probably the same skewed reasoning that got him thrown back in prison every time he got out. It was just my bad luck I liked the guy, but that might have been what Len was counting on when he cut me loose.

The name above the doorbell on the left was Ford, and on the right, McWherter. I rang the Fords' bell and waited. If I were Dodie or Pinky, I wouldn't open the door to anyone. I turned and scanned the street first in one direction and then the other. I didn't see anyone sitting in a parked car, no one slipping furtively through the bushes.

I leaned my head close to the door and knocked. “Dodie? Are you in there? It's Kinsey, a friend of Pinky's.”

I waited.

Finally, I heard a muffled “Show me.”

I recognized Dodie's voice, so I moved over to the living room window that was blocked by drawn drapes. Dodie made a small opening between the panels and stared out at me. A moment later, I heard her turn the deadbolt and slide the chain back on its track. She opened the door a crack and I sidled in. I stood to one side as she reversed the locking process. If Len Priddy decided to come after her, all the locks in the world wouldn't do any good. He'd bash in the front window and that would be the end of that. I didn't mention the likelihood, thinking there was no point in scaring her when she was already scared to death.

In the living room to my right, the television set was on with the sound turned down. She put a finger to her lips and then gestured toward the back of the house. We tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen, during which time I had the opportunity to register the changes in her. She'd been transformed by the weight loss. Pinky had told me she'd dropped sixty pounds and the difference was amazing. Her bright blue eyes had always been her best feature. Now she had a better color on her hair, a better cut, and better makeup as a result of her new occupation. She'd also improved her wardrobe. The outfit she wore—long-sleeve V-neck sweater, well-tailored slacks, and expensive high heels—gave her the elongated look of a fashion model, though Pinky was right about her tush.

When we reached the kitchen, I whispered, “You look great.”

“Thanks,” she whispered back.

“Why are we whispering?”

She held up a finger and wagged it, like I wasn't supposed to ask. She grabbed a pen and a copy of the newspaper and wrote a note in the margin that said, “Bugged.”

Under her breath, she said, “You must be looking for Pinky. What's he done now?”

“He's pissed off a cop named Len Priddy, which is not a good idea.”

“Oh, him,” she murmured. “He stopped by a while ago and I said Pinky'd gone to see you.”

I closed my eyes, suppressing a shriek. No wonder Len had showed up. He'd already spied on Pinky at my office that morning and now she'd steered him right back.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “You know anything about the photographs he stole?”

She blinked. “Photographs?”

I waited, hoping she'd cough up what she knew. “Dodie, you gotta trust me. So far, I'm operating in the dark. I can't help him unless I know what's going on.”