"V" is for Vengeance (4 page)

“And it's where, this fancy paid-for car of yours?”

“In the parking garage.”

“Valet?”

“I parked it myself to save the expense.”

“Well, aren't you the frugal one. How far up?”

“The top.”

“I ought to have my head examined.” He glanced at his brother. “You two go up with the kid here and take a look at his car, tell me what you think. I want it checked out. Find a local mechanic if you have to.” He turned to Phillip. “The car better be as advertised. I'm running out of patience.”

“I swear it is and thank you.”

“Take a good look at yourself. Time to give up this poker shit and get a job. You're wasting your life. Are you hearing me?”

“Absolutely. Yes. This will never happen again. It's been a valuable lesson. I'm out of here. I'm gone. No more poker, I swear. This has been a wake-up call. I can't thank you enough.”

“Cappi, you take care of this.” Dante dismissed Phillip with a gesture. “Jesus, put some clothes on. You look like a girl.”

All three men looked on without comment as Phillip gathered his clothes. He'd have preferred going into the bathroom to dress in privacy, but he didn't want to risk another round of verbal abuse. Three minutes later, Cappi, Nico, and Phillip traversed the hotel, bypassing the elevator in favor of the stairs. Phillip said, “Why can't we take the elevator?”

Cappi stopped so fast, Phillip nearly stumbled into him. Cappi poked him in the chest with his index finger. “Let me tell you something. I'm in charge now, you got that? We do it by the book, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

“I didn't hear him say we had to walk up.”

Cappi was in his face with his beefy breath. “You know what your problem is? You're always thinking someone has to make an exception for you. Do it your way, on your terms. That's not how it works. He says take you up. I'm taking you up. He wants to see how the car drives, okay? He wants to know what kind of shape it's in. You say pristine, but we only have your word for it. All he knows, it's a piece of shit.”

Phillip dropped the protest. Ten more minutes and this would all be over with. He'd cash in his four hundred dollars' worth of chips and buy a bus ticket home. The two began to climb, Phillip clearly out of shape. After two flights he was winded. He had no idea how he'd explain what had happened to his car, but he'd deal with one problem at a time.

They reached the top level of the parking garage. While only six stories high, the night view was dramatic, lights as far as he could see. He spotted the Lady Luck two blocks over, the Four Queens across the street, so close he felt he could reach out and touch the sign. The lot was jammed with vehicles, but the Porsche stood out, gleaming red in the light, not a speck of dust on it. Cappi snapped his fingers. “Lemme see the keys.”

Phillip fumbled in his pants pocket and came up with the car keys. Nico didn't seem interested. He stood with his arms crossed, looking off to one side like he had better things to do. Phillip thought he'd be the one who looked under the hood, but maybe he didn't know anything about cars. He doubted Cappi was any kind of expert.

Three guys stepped out of the elevator. Phillip thought they were mechanics or parking attendants until he noticed they wore blue latex gloves. This struck him as odd at first, and then as alarming. He backed up a step, but no one said anything and no one made eye contact. Without a word, they approached and picked him up, one grabbing him under the arms while another was lifting his feet. The third man pulled his wallet from his back pocket and flipped off his shoes. The two men hauled him closer to the parapet and began to swing him back and forth.

Phillip struggled, thrashing, his voice shrill with fear. “What are you doing?”

Irritably, Cappi said, “What's it look like? Dante says take care of it. I'm taking care of it.”

“Wait! We had a deal. We're square.”

“Here's the deal, Fuck Face.”

The men swinging him had built up momentum. He thought they might not be serious. He thought they were trying only to scare him. Then he felt himself hoisted over the rail. Suddenly he was airborne, falling so fast he couldn't make a sound before he hit the pavement below.

Cappi peered over the wall. “Now we're square, you little prick.”

So this is how it went down, folks. I turned thirty-eight on May 5, 1988, and my big birthday surprise was a punch in the face that left me with two black eyes and a busted nose. Contributing to the overall effect were the wads of gauze in both nostrils and a fat upper lip. My medical insurance sported me to the services of a plastic surgeon who repaired the old schnozz while I was blissfully sedated.

On my release, I retreated to my studio apartment, where I lay on my sofa, keeping my head elevated to minimize the swelling. This allowed me time to brood about my ill treatment at the hands of a virtual stranger. Five or six times a day, I'd check my reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching handsome red-and-purple bruises migrate from my eye sockets to my cheeks, blood settling in circles as conspicuous as rouge on a clown's face. I was grateful my teeth had been spared. Even so, I spent days explaining my sudden resemblance to a raccoon.

People kept saying, “Oh, wow! You finally got your nose done. It looks great!”

This was entirely uncalled for as no one had ever complained about my nose before, at least not to my face. My poor snout had been broken on two previous occasions and it never occurred to me that I'd suffer a repetition. Of course, the indignity was my own fault, since I was sticking said nose into someone else's business when I was so rudely assaulted by a short-arm blow.

The incident that heralded my fate seemed insignificant at first. I was standing in the lingerie department at Nordstrom's department store, sorting through ladies' underpants on sale—three pair for ten bucks, a bonanza for someone of my cheap bent. What could be more banal? I don't like to shop, but I'd seen a half-page ad in the morning paper and decided to take advantage of the bargain prices. It was Friday, April 22, a date I remember because I'd wrapped up a case the day before and I'd spent the morning typing my final report.

For those of you just making my acquaintance, my name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm a licensed private detective in Santa Teresa, California, doing business as Millhone Investigations. In the main, I deal with bread-and-butter jobs—background checks, skip tracing, insurance fraud, process serving, and witness location, with the occasional rancorous divorce thrown in for laughs. Not coincidentally, I'm female, which is why I was shopping for ladies' underwear instead of men's. Given my occupation, I'm no stranger to crime and I'm seldom surprised by the dark side of human nature, my own included. Further personal data can wait in the interest of getting on with my sad tale of woe. In any event, I have additional groundwork to lay before I reach the stunning moment that did me in.

I left the office early that day and made my usual Friday bank deposit, taking back a portion in cash to carry me over the next two weeks. I drove from the bank to the parking garage under the Passages Shopping Plaza. I generally frequent the low-end chain stores, where aisles are jammed with racks of identical garments, suggesting cheap manufacture in a country unfettered by child labor laws. Nordstrom's was a palace by comparison, the interior cool and elegant. The floors were gleaming marble tile and the air was scented with designer perfumes. The store directory indicated that women's intimate apparel was located on 3, and I headed for the escalator.

What caught my eye as I entered the sales area was a display of silk pajamas in a dazzling array of jewel tones—emerald, amethyst, garnet, and sapphire—neatly folded and arranged by size. The original unit price was $199.95, marked down to $49.95. I couldn't help flirting with the notion of two-hundred-dollar pj's against my bare skin. Most nights, I sleep in a ratty oversize T-shirt. At $49.95, I could afford to indulge. Then again, I'm single and sleep alone so what would be the point?

I found a table piled with scanties and picked my way through, debating the merits of high-cut briefs versus boy-shorts versus hiphuggers, distinctions that meant absolutely nothing to me. I don't often buy undies, so I'm usually forced to start from scratch. Styles have changed, lines have been discontinued, entire manufacturing plants have apparently burned to the ground. I vowed if I found something I liked, I'd buy a dozen at the very least.

I'd been at it ten minutes and I was already tired of holding lacy scraps across my pelvis to judge the fit. I scanned the area, looking for assistance, but the nearest clerk was busy advising another customer, a hefty woman in her fifties, in spike-heel shoes and a tight black pantsuit that made her thighs and butt bulge unbecomingly. She would have done well to emulate the sales clerk, younger by a good ten years, in her conservative dark blue dress and sensible flats. The two stood in front of a rack of matching lacy bra-and-bikini sets on little plastic hangers. I couldn't imagine the chunky woman in bikini underwear, but there's no accounting for taste. It wasn't until the two parted company that I saw the younger woman's big leather purse and shopping bag and realized she was simply another customer, shopping for lingerie like everyone else. I returned to my task, decided a size small would do, and gathered an assortment of pastels, adding animal prints until I had forty dollars' worth.

A girl-child of about three scurried past and concealed herself in the inner recesses of a rack of loungewear, knocking several hangers to the floor. I could hear the raised voice of an anxious mother.

“Portia, where are you?”

There was a movement in the loungewear; Portia wiggling deeper into her hiding place.

“Portia?”

The mother appeared at the end of the aisle, a woman in her twenties, probably trying not to sound as anxious as she felt. I raised a hand and pointed at the rack, where I could still see a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes and two sturdy legs.

The mother pushed the clothes aside and dragged the child out by one arm. “Goddamn it! I told you not to move,” she said, and swatted her once on her backside before she retreated to the elevators with the little girl in tow. The child seemed totally unaffected by the reprimand.

A woman standing nearby turned with a disapproving look and said to me, “Disgusting. Someone should call the floor manager. That's child abuse.”

I shrugged, remembering the many swats I'd endured at my Aunt Gin's hands. She always assured me she'd really give me something to cry about if I wanted to protest.

My attention was drawn back to the woman in the black pantsuit, who was now peering wistfully at the silk pajamas, much as I had. I confess I took a certain proprietary interest, having lusted after them myself. I glanced at her and then I blinked with disbelief as she slid two pairs of pajamas (one emerald, one sapphire) into her shopping bag. I shifted my gaze, wondering if the strain of panty buying had caused me to hallucinate.

I paused, feigning interest in a rack of house robes while I kept an eye on her. She rearranged the display to disguise the gap where the stolen pajamas had been resting mere moments before. To the average observer, she appeared to be restoring order to an untidy tabletop. I've done the same thing myself after rooting through a pile of sweaters in search of my size.

She glanced at me, but by then I was scrutinizing the construction of a house robe I'd removed from the rack. She seemed to take no further notice of me. Her manner was matter-of-fact. If I hadn't just witnessed the sleight of hand, I wouldn't have given her another thought.

Except for this one tiny point:

Early in my career, after I'd graduated from the police academy and during my two-year stint with the Santa Teresa Police Department, I'd worked a six-month rotation in property crimes—the unit handling burglaries, embezzlement, auto theft, and retail theft, both petit and grand. Shoplifters are the bane of retail businesses, which lose billions annually in what's euphemistically referred to as “inventory shrinkage.” My old training kicked in. I noted the time (5:26 P.M.) and studied the woman as though I were already leafing through mug shots, looking for a match. Briefly, I thought back to the younger woman in whose company I'd first seen her. There was no sign of the younger woman now, but it wouldn't have surprised me to find out they were working in tandem.

With the older woman now in close range, I upgraded her age from midfifties to midsixties. She was shorter than I and probably forty pounds heavier, with short blond hair back-combed to a puff and sprayed to a fare-thee-well. In the clear overhead light, her makeup glowed pink while her neck was stark white. She crossed to a table display of lace teddies, touching the fabrics appreciatively. She checked the whereabouts of the sales staff and then, with her index and middle fingers, she gathered one of the teddies, compressing it into accordion folds until it disappeared like a handkerchief crumpled in her hand. She eased the garment into her shoulder bag and then removed her compact as though that had been her intent. She powdered her nose and made a minor correction to her eye makeup, the teddy now safely deposited in her purse. I glanced at the rack of bras and panties where I'd first seen the two women. The rack had been thinned considerably, and I was guessing she or the other woman had added any number of items to her cache of stolen goods. Not to criticize, but she should have quit while she was ahead.

I went straight to the register. The sales clerk smiled pleasantly as I placed my selection on the counter. Her name tag read CLAUDIA RINES, SALES ASSISTANT. We were nodding acquaintances, in that I saw her from time to time at Rosie's Tavern, half a block from my apartment. I frequented the place because Rosie was a friend, but I couldn't think why anyone else would go there, aside from certain undiscerning neighbors of the alcoholic sort. Tourists shunned the restaurant, which was not only shabby and outdated, but devoid of charm; in other words, innately appealing to the likes of me.