"V" is for Vengeance (29 page)

“I'd love one, but just until he arrives. I don't want to horn in on your dinner plans. Is that vodka and grapefruit juice?”

“It is. William brought in fresh-squeezed juice just for me. You ought to try it.”

“Hang on,” I said. We both turned to catch William's eye. Claudia held her drink up, indicating she needed a refill. I pointed to myself and held up two fingers. He nodded and leaned down to open the small refrigerator under the bar.

I turned back to Claudia. “So what's up?”

“Too bad you weren't here sooner. You just missed a friend of yours.”

“Sorry to hear that. Who?”

“Diana somebody. She works for the local paper.”

“You're kidding me. When was this?”

“I don't know, maybe fifteen minutes ago. She came in shortly after I did and introduced herself. She said she didn't want to be a bother, but she had a few questions about my encounter with Audrey Vance.”

“How did she know who you were?”

“I thought you told her.”

“I never said a word.”

“That's odd. She knew I worked at Nordstrom's and she knew I was there when Audrey was arrested. She said she was fact-checking a few items her editor wanted confirmed. I just assumed she'd spoken to you first and was filling in the holes.”

“No way. She showed up at my office on Wednesday, wanting to be all buddy-buddy. I don't talk to her about anything because I know how she operates. She'll extract all kinds of information while swearing up and down your comments are off the record.”

“She said that just now, literally word for word. I told her I couldn't discuss Nordstrom's business. Mr. Koslo takes a dim view of reporters. He's also paranoid about getting involved in the middle of a lawsuit. Not that there is one.”

“So what'd you tell her?”

“Nothing. I referred her to him. That seemed to annoy her, but I couldn't see putting my job at risk, even if she's a friend of yours.”

“She's not a friend. I swear. I can't stand the woman. She's a pushy, calculating bitch.” I gave her a summary of her relationship to Michael Sutton and how that disaster had played out.

“What's her interest in Audrey?” Claudia asked.

“She heard about Audrey's suicide and now she wants to write an article about all the people who've taken headers off the Cold Spring Bridge. She went to Audrey's visitation and saw my name in the guest register. Then she wheedled her way into Marvin's good graces and he made the mistake of sending her to me. I had a fit when I realized what was going on. He's since repented, I'm happy to report.”

“Oh, lord. She sounds like trouble. I had no idea.”

I looked up to see William approaching the table with my vodka and grapefruit juice in one hand and hers in the other. I said, “Thanks. This looks great.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” he said and then returned to the bar.

Claudia and I resumed our conversation, though there wasn't much more to say on the subject. She was relieved to hear she hadn't caused offense by refusing to discuss Audrey Vance with my good friend Diana Alvarez, and I was relieved she'd kept her mouth shut for reasons of her own.

 

 

In the interest of work, I skipped my run the next morning. I ate a bowl of Cheerios, then showered and donned my uniform à la Santa Teresa Services. Shoulder bag in tow, I put my sandwich-board sign in Henry's station wagon and backed out of the garage. The school day at Climping Academy started at 8:00. By 7:30 I was parked on the berm at the bottom of the drive with my sign, which read:

I stood on the side of the road in my uniform, tally counter in hand, clicking off cars as they passed. On the plus side of the ledger, my shin felt better, still bruised I knew, but not throbbing. On the minus side was a visitor. Five minutes after I set up shop, a Horton Ravine patrol car rolled by and pulled over to the side of the road. The driver got out and ambled in my direction. He was wearing dark trousers and a white short-sleeve shirt. I didn't think he was a “real” policeman. He might have been a cop wannabe, but he wasn't driving a black-and-white, he had no badge, and he wasn't wearing a regulation uniform for either the STPD or the sheriff's department. In addition, he wasn't carrying a handgun, a night stick, or a heavy-duty flashlight, which might serve as a weapon if I needed to be subdued. I was engrossed in my car count so I couldn't give him my undivided attention.

Blond, midthirties, trim, with a pleasant demeanor. He took out a pen and pad and prepared to take notes or write a ticket, I wasn't sure which. “Good morning. How are you?” he asked.

“I'm fine, thanks. How about yourself?”

“Good. May I ask what this is about?”

“Sure. I'm doing a vehicle count for the county.”

There was a brief delay while he processed my reply. “Are you aware this is a private road?”

“Absolutely. No doubt about it, but as long as there's public access, it goes into my report.”

Mentally, he was going through his checklist. “You have a permit?”

“For this? I was told I didn't need one to do a road-use analysis.”

“May I see some identification?”

“I have my driver's license in my shoulder bag. I'll be happy to show it to you if you can wait until there's a break in traffic.”

He watched as two cars came through the main entrance. One turned up the drive to the school and the other continued on into Horton Ravine.
Click. Click.
I counted both. At the first gap in passing cars, I reached through the open window and picked up my bag from the passenger seat. He waited patiently while I paused to count a car. I took out my wallet, flipped it open, and offered it to him. He took it and jotted down my name, driver's license number, and home address in his notebook.

I said, “That's Millhone with two L's. Lotta people leave out that second L.” His name, I noticed, was B. Allen. “The car belongs to my landlord. He said I could use his today because mine's in the shop. The registration's in the glove compartment, if you want to have a look. You'll see that my address and his are one house number apart.”

“That's not necessary,” he said. He handed me my license and turned to watch cars approaching.

One car passed and I dutifully clicked. He'd already fallen into the rhythm of these intermittent interruptions.

He looked back at me. “I don't see an EPA badge.”

“Don't have one yet. This is the first time I've been asked to do this. The Department of Transportation conducts an annual survey and I was tapped for it this time. Lucky me.”

“How long do you anticipate being here?”

“A day and a half, max. I tally an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon unless I'm sent somewhere else. You never know with these clowns.”

I held up a finger, saying “Hang on,” while I clicked off another car turning up the drive to Climping. “Sorry about that. We forward statistics to Sacramento and that's the end of it as far as I know. Typical governmental boondoggle, but the pay's good.”

He pondered the proposition. It must have been clear I wasn't breaking the law. Finally, he said, “Well. Just so you don't interfere with traffic.”

“I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

“I'll let you go on about your business. Have a nice day.”

“You too. I appreciate your courtesy.”

“Sure thing.”

I was so busy maintaining the fiction that I nearly missed the Mercedes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black sedan speeding up the hill toward Climping, a young girl at the wheel. I couldn't read the bumper sticker, but it was pasted in the right spot and worth a closer look.

I waited until the Horton Ravine patrol car had pulled away. It was five minutes to eight and the cavalcade of arriving students had slowed to a trickle. I stayed at my post until 8:15 and then picked up my sign and tossed it into the backseat of the station wagon. Then I drove up the hill to Climping Academy and sailed into the parking lot. I cruised the rows of BMWs, Mercedes, and Volvos, and finally spotted the black sedan. The lot was full and I was forced to park in a slot intended for the vice principal. I left my engine running while I doubled back on foot. The girl had locked the car, which forestalled my rooting through the glove compartment for the registration and proof of insurance. I wrote down the license number, which was actually a vanity plate that read HOT CHIK. The frame on the plate was a match for the one Maria had pointed out as she wound and rewound the CCTV tape.

Now that I'd found the car, I had two choices. If I drove to the nearest pay phone, I could call Cheney Phillips and ask him to run the plate through his work computer. This would net me the name and address of the registered owner in a relatively short period of time. Strictly speaking, however, it's against department policy, perhaps even illegal, to tap into the system for personal reasons. I was also acutely aware of Len Priddy's presence in all of this. If I called Cheney, he'd want to know why I needed the information. The minute I told him I was on the track of Audrey's shoplifting partner, he'd expect to be brought up to speed. Whatever I told him, even if I were vague and evasive, would go straight to Len Priddy, who was working the shoplifting angle for the Santa Teresa Police Department. While I know it's very,
very
naughty to withhold information from law enforcement, I thought it wise to leave Cheney out of the equation and, thus, reduce the chances of Len Priddy getting wind of my pursuit.

My other option was to wait until school was out and tail the girl when she left. I wasn't crazy about the idea of lurking on campus until classes were dismissed. I certainly couldn't leave my car where it was. The vice principal was bound to show up and how could I explain my poaching her spot? I decided to take off and return closer to the time when classes ended for the day. If the girl ducked out early, I'd be screwed. I could always come back in the morning and count cars again, but I wasn't sure how far I could push my EPA charade. Faux officer B. Allen might consult the Horton Ravine rule book, bone up on the regulations, and chase me off if he saw me again.

I surveyed my immediate surroundings. Tall hedges separated the parking lot from the administration building, with its second- and third-floor classrooms. No faces in the windows. No sign of a campus security guard. No students arriving late. I hunkered by the rear passenger side of the Mercedes and let the air out of the tire. I then went around and deflated the tire on the driver's side. I figured when school was out and my honor roll student discovered the two flats, she'd call the automobile club or a parent to come pick her up. In either case, the delay would allow me a clear field. All the other students and faculty would be gone, and I could linger near the entrance to Horton Ravine until my quarry appeared.

I returned to my car and went home. I left Henry's station wagon in the drive and let myself into my studio. I changed out of my uniform, which I hung in the closet, and substituted jeans. On my way out the door, I picked up the morning paper and shoved it in the outside pocket of my shoulder bag. Once at the office, I let myself in and gathered up the mail from the day before. I put on a pot of coffee. I had bolted down a quick bowl of cereal that morning before I left for Horton Ravine, but I hadn't had my coffee or a chance to catch up on the news. While the coffee brewed, I took my leftover Fritos from the bottom drawer of my desk and put them in my bag. When I returned to my vigil in Horton Ravine, waiting for the girl to leave school, I'd have them with me to munch on.

Satisfied with my preparations, I settled at my desk and opened the paper. The first article that caught my eye, front page, left-hand column, had been filed under Diana Alvarez's byline.

In the space of one sentence, I could see she'd abandoned the usual reporter imperatives—who, what, when, where, and how—and jacked up the tone for maximum emotional appeal.