"V" is for Vengeance (27 page)

As the two walked from the parking lot to the loading dock, Dante filled him in on the basics. “Audrey was a trotter, the middleman between the whips and the baggers. She covered the tricounties, coordinating the central coast operation with San Francisco and points north. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have been on the scene, but one of our pickers was arrested on a bad check charge and she was filling in. You tossed her off the bridge and the entire circuit was thrown into disarray. We're still scrambling for coverage.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Cut the whining. I'm done hassling you on that score. You fucked up big-time. You should've asked, but we'll leave it at that. I'm trying to get you to understand how the system works. That's what you're so hot to hear about, right?”

“Well, yeah. If you want me to be useful.”

“All right. So the trotters pay the pickers for a day's work, usually runs about three grand in cash. The goods are called ‘the crop' or ‘the bale,' sometimes ‘the bag.' Workers we call ‘crop dusters' strip tags and remove identifying marks. They meet every couple of weeks.”

“Where?”

“Couple of places we rent. There's a regular route we call ‘the tour.' The guys who drive it, we call ‘cabbies.' Don't worry about job titles. I know it's a lot to take in. It's a tight fit. Take out any one of the players and you got a problem on your hands.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

“Enough. We make sure each crew knows as little as possible about the other crews so if there's a breakdown, no one's in a position to expose the rest. Eventually, the crop comes off the circuit and lands here for distribution.”

“To where?”

“That depends. San Pedro. Corpus Christi. Miami. At every point along the way, the crop's passing through the hands of people I know I can trust. Doesn't always work that way here. This is the current trouble spot. We've been hit twice. Last week, someone walked off with a pallet of pharmaceuticals. Now we're short cartons of infant formula. I can't even get a count on that. I thought it was a clerical error, someone puts a decimal in the wrong place and it throws everything off. This's not a paper loss.”

“Somebody's stealing from
us
? You gotta be kidding.”

“We don't recruit help from vacation Bible schools. Point is, we have to limit access to the loading docks. This is the area where we're most vulnerable. Guys come out for a smoke and end up hanging around. It doesn't look like they're doing much, but they've got no business being here. We're initiating new oversight procedures, which is where you come in.”

Cappi's tone of voice took on an edge. “And you want me to do what, stand here with a clipboard, counting widgets and making sure everybody has a hall pass?”

“If you want to look at it like that, yes. Once a shipment's inside the building, somebody has to reconcile the goods with the manifest—”

“What's with the lingo? What the fuck is a ‘manifest'?”

“A list of goods. Same as an invoice, an itemized account of what's been shipped to us and where it goes next. In the meantime, we hold everything here until it's ready to be moved.”

“Why didn't you say so in the first place? I can't learn anything with you lecturing me. You yap, yap, yap, and what goes in one ear goes out the other. I can't retain if I don't see it written down. Like I learn with my eyes. I need facts and figures so I can understand how all the pieces fit. You know what I'm saying? The pipeline. Accounts payable and stuff like that.”

“I have bookkeepers for that end of the business. I need you here.”

“Yeah, but you haven't really said where these shipments are coming from or where they go. I know it's Allied Distributors, but I don't have a clue what we distribute. Baby food? That don't make sense.”

“Doesn't have to make sense to you. It makes sense to me.”

“But where are all the records kept? Has to be written down someplace. You don't carry this stuff in your head. Something happens to you, then what?”

“Why the sudden curiosity? Years we've been doing this and you never gave a shit.”

“Fuck you. Pop said it was time I learned. I'm here doing the best I can and you criticize me for not showing interest before?”

“It's a legitimate question. Sorry if I seem skeptical, but what do you expect?”

“What kind of shit is that? You either trust me or you don't.”

“I don't.”

“You accusing me of something?”

“Why so defensive?”

“I'm not defensive. All I'm asking is how you run an operation this size without somebody writes it down.”

Dante dropped his gaze, working to control his temper. If Cappi was pressing for the information, he'd get information. Dante said, “Okay, fuck it. I'll tell you how. You see that computer terminal over there?”

To the right, just inside the door that led into the warehouse proper, there was an unmanned desk with a computer keyboard and monitor, the CPU tucked into the kneehole space. Dante could see Cappi's gaze shift to the darkened computer screen.

“What, that thing?”

“That ‘thing' as you refer to it is a remote terminal with access from the house and the office downtown. In the wall behind, there are dedicated lines laid in. It may not look like much but that's the brains of the business. It's how we keep track. We got backup on backup. Password changes from week to week, and the hard drive is purged every Thursday at noon. Clean slate. The only dollar figures left look legitimate.”

“You wipe out everything? How can you do that?”

“To all appearances, yes. If files are subpoenaed, they got nothing on us.”

“I thought files stayed in the machine even when it looks like it's erased.”

“Since when do you know shit about computers?”

“Hey, I hear stuff like everybody else. I thought the FBI had experts.”

“So do we.”

“What if there's a goof?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Power outage, something like that. Computer freezes up before a purge is complete.”

“Then we're screwed. Any other questions?”

Cappi said, “I'm cool.”

“Good. Now maybe we can move on to the problem at hand. This is the hole needs patching. I'd like to know who's bleeding us, but more important, I want to put a stop to it.”

“Why me? What if I don't want to stand out here in a coverall like some stupid-ass warehouse goon?”

Dante smiled, wishing he could punch his brother's lights out. “You have an attitude problem, you know that?”

“This is chicken shit. Pop said bring me in. What you're doing here is keeping me out.”

“This is in. Where you're standing right now. You want more, you can earn it like I did.”

He left Cappi on the loading dock while he went up the metal stairs to the mezzanine level, where operations was housed in five offices behind a wall of waist-high windows. From there he could see much of the warehouse operation—guys on forklifts, speeding along the narrow corridors between two-story-high storage bays, guys engaged in private conversations, unaware that he was watching. His office here was crude, the basics, no refinement whatever. Dante didn't have a view of the loading dock, but he'd mounted security cameras in strategic locations.

Cappi was trouble. He'd been out of prison for six months, his release dependent on his having a job. Previously he'd worked construction as a heavy-equipment operator, making good money until he was fired for drinking on the job. His response had been to climb back on the bulldozer and plow into the construction trailer, destroying the trailer and all its contents, and narrowly missing the job-site supervisor, who was injured by flying debris. Along with a laundry list of property crimes, he'd been charged with aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder, which was how he'd ended up in Soledad.

Pop wanted him brought into the business, so Dante had put him on the payroll. Cappi reported this to his parole officer without mentioning he'd never shown up for work. He told Pop he needed time to get reacquainted with his wife and kids. What kept him busy was honing his pool skills in the family room of his house in Colgate. In public, he was careful to avoid bars, firearms, and the company of known criminals. At home, he went through two six-packs of beer a day and popped his wife in the face if she complained. After a month of this, Dante had finally insisted that Cappi show up for work, a move he now regretted.

In the absence of an intercom, Dante hollered for his secretary in the outer office. “Bernice? Could you come in here please?”

“In a minute. I got stuff to finish first.”

Dante shook his head. The girl was nineteen. He'd hired her four months before and she already had his number. He sorted through the papers on his desk until Bernice appeared in the door. She was tall and lanky with a big wad of frizzy blond hair she wore in a ponytail. She came to work in jeans and running shoes, which was fine with him. The low-cut top he could have done without. Weren't women these days taught anything about modesty?

“What?” she said.

“You know my brother?”

“I look like an idiot? Everybody knows Cappi. He's crazy as a loon.”

“I'd like you to keep an eye on him. He's new to the concept of work for pay. I don't think he's got the hang of it yet.”

“I charge extra to babysit,” she said.

“How about spying?”

That idea seemed more appealing to her. “You want regular reports?”

“That would be nice,” he said. “Meanwhile, get Dade O'Hagan on the line. His number's in there.” He pushed the Rolodex in her direction and watched as she worked her way through.

“O'Hagan, like the mayor?”

“Ex-mayor. You're behind the times. This is old business. I'm calling in a marker if it's any of your concern.”

She smiled. “Hot stuff.”

“You bet.”

I left Marvin's house at 2:15 with a promise to keep him posted on my progress. I was feeling more optimistic. Marvin's mention of time travel had sparked a train of thought. I too had regretted I couldn't go back to relive those moments in the parking garage when I'd blown the opportunity to pick up the plate number on the black sedan. The nice man who'd come to my aid had suggested I notify mall security and file a report. At the time, I'd been distracted by my outrage, my throbbing shin, and my badly scraped palm. With Marvin's offhand remark, it dawned on me that I did have a way to go back in time and review events. I knew the woman in charge of mall security.

Maria Gutierrez had been the beat officer assigned to my neighborhood some six years before. On the last case I'd worked, I'd crossed paths with her former partner, Gerald Pettigrew, who was now in charge of the K-9 unit at the Santa Teresa Police Department. Maria's name hadn't come up in conversation, but she'd been on my mind. Some months before, I'd found myself standing behind her in the checkout line at the supermarket. She looked familiar, but she wasn't in uniform and I didn't make the connection. She'd been quicker at the recognition. She greeted me by name and identified herself. As we inched our way closer to the register, we played a quick game of catch-up. I filled her in on my life, Henry's whereabouts, and my last encounter with Lieutenant Dolan, whom she knew from the police department. She told me she'd resigned from the PD in order to take a job in the private sector. That's when she'd given me her business card.

I stopped by my office and sorted through the pile of business cards I routinely toss in my bottom drawer. After a bit of digging I found hers, and I was just about to call when I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. I punched play.

“Hello, Kinsey. This is Diana Alvarez. Please don't hang up. I need to talk to you about the article I'm writing. I'm offering you the opportunity to clarify the facts and add any comments you might have. Otherwise, it's going in as is. My number is . . .”

I didn't bother to make a note.

I checked the phone number on Maria's business card and called her instead. I told her what had occurred and asked if I could have a look at security tapes for April 22. I thought she might be wary. Security measures are considered proprietary and, therefore, not to be disseminated to the general public. Information leaks are more likely to serve the criminal element than the law-abiding citizen, so it's better for all of us if crooks are kept in the dark about how the traps are set. Apparently, the fact that I was a PI and already known to her constituted a waiver. I gave her my guarantee that the information would remain confidential. She said she had a meeting at 3:00, but if I could make it to her office before then, she'd be happy to help. Two minutes later, I was in my car and on my way. Screw Diana Alvarez.

I found a parking spot at the Nordstrom's end of the underground structure at Passages Shopping Plaza. I bypassed the escalator and took the stairs up a level, where the retail storefronts had been designed to resemble an old Spanish town. The narrow shoulder-to-shoulder buildings varied in height. Most were stucco with the occasional picturesque chunk of plaster missing to expose the faux brick underneath. Some boasted pricey second- and third-floor offices, with shutters at the windows and flower boxes on the sills.

Along the wide central plaza corridor there were boutique restaurants with outdoor tables, benches for weary shoppers, and kiosks selling sunglasses, junk jewelry, and women's hairpieces. At the midpoint, a stage had been constructed where musicians played for summer tourists. I went up a wide set of red-tiled stairs to the second floor. To my right there was an auditorium available to local theater groups for stage productions. The mall business offices were located down a hall to the left.