"V" is for Vengeance (43 page)

He said, “Sure. I've got time this afternoon if you want to stop by. What's good for you?”

“Not your office,” I said.

He was silent briefly. “Okay. Then where?”

“What about the Shack at Ludlow Beach?”

“Great. We can have lunch. My treat. See you there in twenty minutes.”

I hadn't called him looking for a lunch date, but the minute he mentioned it, I realized I was starving so why not? I'd chosen the location because it was off the beaten path, a tourist spot as opposed to a restaurant frequented by local residents. The place was bound to be somebody's favorite, but it wasn't popular with cops. The Shack was right on the beach, sheltered from the view of passing cars by a large parking lot. Blue-and-white-striped awnings shaded the deck where the tables were set out. Once upon a time, I'd come close to being killed in the big trash bin outside. This counts as nostalgia for someone like me.

I found a table for two in the corner on the far side and sat facing the entrance. When Cheney appeared, I lifted my hand to attract his attention. He threaded his way between the tables, and when he reached me he gave me the obligatory buss on the cheek before he pulled out a chair and sat down. He was in chinos, a white dress shirt, and a sueded silk sport coat the color of wild brown bunnies. Cheney came from money and while he'd declined to go into his father's banking business, a trust fund allowed him to dress with impeccable taste. He favored earth tones, colors that reminded me of nature's softer side, in sensual fabrics I wanted to reach out and touch. He also smelled better than almost any man I've known, some combination of soap, shampoo, aftershave, and body chemistry. There were moments I remembered from our short-lived affair and I had to resist the temptation to sexualize my contact with him.

We chatted and then ordered and then ate. As hungry as I'd been, I scarcely paid attention to the meal. I was anxious and I could feel myself stalling, not wanting to launch into my spiel. I don't know if I was afraid he wouldn't take me seriously or that he'd judge the facts too thin to act upon.

Cheney finally pushed the point. “What's on your mind?”

I reached into my shoulder bag, took out my report, and placed it facedown on the table. “I've put together some information that should probably go to Len, but I can't bring myself to deal with him. You know how he feels about me after what happened to Mickey. He'd dismiss anything I said, but he might pay attention if it came from you.”

“Give me the gist.”

“Organized retail theft. I wouldn't have known anything about it if it hadn't been for Audrey's death . . .”

I'd been engrossed in the subject for days and I laid it out for him in an orderly progression. I watched his expression alter as I worked my way through events from the beginning to the current moment. Cheney's a smart guy, and so I knew I didn't have to spell out the broader picture when I was already providing the specifics. At the end of my summary, he held out his hand for the report. I gave it to him and watched him leaf through the pages. Once or twice he looked at me in sharp surprise, which I confess I took as a compliment.

When he finished reading, he said, “How'd you come up with the connection to the consignment shop?”

“I was chatting with someone about fencing operations. The name came out of our conversation.” I told him about the boxes I'd picked up and the shipping labels.

He was momentarily quiet and not making eye contact, which didn't bode well. He seemed to be filtering the information through a framework different from mine.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Sorry. You caught me by surprise. I didn't realize what you were up to.”

“I didn't know you were so interested in Audrey Vance.”

“I don't know why not. I told you Marvin Striker hired me to look into her past. That's what I was asking about the day I ran into you and Len having lunch. What's going on?”

“Nothing you could have known about.”

“What, like there's already an investigation under way?”

“All I can tell you is you're treading on sensitive ground and I suggest you back off.”

“Well, if it's any comfort to you, I've come to a dead end,” I said. “If I knew what to do at this point, I wouldn't be here. This is your bailiwick, not mine.”

“True, and I appreciate what you've accomplished. Now promise me you'll let it drop.”

I said, “Ah. So I must be on track or you wouldn't be clamming up.”

“This is not your concern. I don't mean to be hard-nosed, but I know how you operate. You get on the scent of something and it's hard to pull you off. I'm not faulting you on that score or any other.”

“Imagine my relief,” I said.

He looked down at the report. “You have copies or is this it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I might need to confiscate the material for a period of time. I don't want the information floating around.”

“You're kidding.”

The look he gave me was utterly without mirth, so I thought it best to abandon my jocular tone.

I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “Jesus, Cheney. If I was stepping in a pile of shit, why didn't you say so at the time?”

“My fault entirely. I should have warned you.”

“Of what?”

“Just let it go, okay? I know you mean well . . .”

“I don't understand what's at stake. I don't want to make trouble. You know me better than that, so what's the deal?”

“You're putting a CI in jeopardy.”

“How so? I don't know anything about a confidential informant. This is all news to me.”

He studied me briefly. “I'll tell you this if you swear you won't breathe a word of it to anyone.”

“I swear.”

“The retail-theft ring is only one part of the equation. Priddy's under investigation as well. The informant's working both sides of the street. Len thinks he's milking the guy for information, but the CI is reporting back to us and feeding him lines while we build our case. His testimony will be critical. Priddy's a slippery customer. In all these years, no one's been able to nail him.”

“Oh, I hear you,” I said. “I'd love nothing better than to see him brought down.”

“Leave that to us. Len's got cop friends who'd do anything for him. We know some of them, but not all, so walk a wide path around him. You can trust me but don't talk to anyone else.” He took out his wallet and extracted a twenty and a ten and put it under his plate.

“Lunch didn't cost that much,” I said.

“I like to leave a good tip so here's one: bury the topic until I tell you it's okay. I'll send someone around to pick up any other copies of this you have on hand.” He folded the report and slid it into the inside pocket of his sport coat.

Driving back to the office, I deconstructed the conversation, separating the elements for review. It was obvious the police department was running an investigation that paralleled mine, the two intersecting at more than one point. I wasn't sure where they were in the process, but they had to be focused on the same operation I'd been looking at, though doubtless at a more sophisticated and comprehensive level. There was probably a task force in place, several agencies pooling their resources as they gathered intelligence. Cheney's revelation both thrilled and troubled me. I didn't expect him to bare all. These days, the legal system is so finely calibrated that a breach in security or a violation of procedure can spell disaster. As a rule, I keep my nose out of police business, though it's not always easy. I do tend to fixate on a problem and worry it to death. Here, what I loved more than snooping was the idea of Len Priddy being exposed for what he was. Cheney's warning had come too late to steer me off the subject of retail theft, but I intended to heed his caution about Len. What disturbed me was knowing just enough to feel I might be vulnerable.

As I turned onto my block, I noticed a dark green Chevrolet parked in my usual place at the curb. I didn't think much about it since parking is at such a premium. It's first-come, first-served, and I'm often forced to hunt for the next available spot. I found a length of curb where my front bumper encroached on a private driveway, but only by three feet. At the end of the day, if I was lucky, I'd escape without a ticket.

Coming up the walk, I stopped short of the front steps, alerted by the fact that the door was open when I knew I'd locked up when I left. I took four paces to the side and peered in the window, where I could see Len Priddy doing a finger-walk through my files. I tried to think how I'd behave with him if Cheney hadn't warned me. Len already knew there was no love lost between us, but beyond our mutual dislike, I'd never had reason to be afraid of him. Now I was. I went into the outer office and when I appeared in the doorway, he didn't even seem embarrassed at being caught in the act.

I said, “You mind if I ask what you're doing?”

He turned. “Sorry. You weren't here when I arrived so I let myself in. Is that a problem?” He had tossed any number of file folders on the floor, not because it was necessary, but to illustrate his contempt.

“That depends on what you want.”

I moved toward my desk, keeping as much distance between the two of us as I could muster. Glancing down, I could see he'd made a point of leaving my desk drawers ajar so I'd know he'd been through them as well. I made no comment.

He said, “Relax. This is nothing official. I thought it was time for us to chat.” He removed a file folder and slid the drawer shut. He tossed the folder on the desk and then settled in my swivel chair, tilted back, propping his feet against the edge. He reached for the folder and pulled out the single sheet of paper, the photocopy of Marvin's check. Cleverly, I'd filed the written report on Audrey elsewhere, so he had no way to determine what I knew.

He shook his head in disapproval. “Looks like you haven't come up with anything on Audrey Vance, which surprises me. I thought you were a crack investigator and you've got bupkes. You take Marvin's money, the least you could do is give him something in return.”

Rapidly, I scrolled through the possible responses, trying to figure out how best to protect myself. “I haven't started on it yet. I have a case that took precedence,” I said. The lie slipped out so easily, I didn't think he caught the hesitation before I answered him.

“Then you ought to give his money back.”

“Good plan. I'll have a chat with him and see if he feels the same.”

“He does. He's no longer in the market for your services.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. The game playing annoyed me, but it was better for him to think he had the upper hand. I didn't want to antagonize him. No sass. No wisecracks. “If you tell me why you're here, maybe I can help.”

“I'm in no hurry. How about yourself? You have pressing business to conduct?” He peered closely at my empty calendar. “It doesn't look like it.”

He tossed Audrey's file on the desk and got up. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and looked out the window at the street. By turning his back, he was showing me how sure he was of himself. He was a big man and seeing him in silhouette, I was unnerved by his bulk. Like many middle-aged men, he'd gained weight, twenty-five to thirty pounds by the look of him. In his case, most of it was muscle mass. He and Mickey had lifted weights together in the early days, a routine he'd apparently kept up. He seemed indifferent to any action I might take, but I knew better.

He turned around to look at me, leaning a hip on the windowsill. “We have a mutual friend, who came to see you earlier.”

“I've been out.”

“Before you left for lunch.”

He had to be referring to Pinky or Earldeen, and I was nominating Pinky. In a flash, I knew he was after the photographs. As quickly as it occurred to me, I suppressed the thought, cautious he'd pick up on my mental process. Many sociopaths, like Len, seem able to read minds, a skill that doubtless results from the in-built paranoia that motivates so much of what they do. I said, “I'm not sure who you mean.”

“Your pal, Pierpont.”

“Pierpont?” The name meant nothing. I shook my head.

“Pinky.”

“His real name is Pierpont?”

“That's what his jacket says. He has a long criminal history as I'm sure you're aware.”

“I know he's been in jail. Are you looking for him?”

“Not him. A manila envelope. I believe he left it with you.”

Len was either featured in one set of photographs or protecting the person who was. If the photos were of Len, I couldn't imagine how he'd been compromised. Pinky viewed the pictures as his trump card, so what was that about?

I said, “You've got it wrong. He asked me to hang on to the envelope and I refused.”

He smiled. “Good try, but I don't think so.”

“It's true. He wouldn't tell me what was in the envelope so I said I couldn't help. He took it with him when he left.”

“Not so. He walked out empty-handed. I was watching.”

What had Pinky done? I remembered the brief lag time between his leaving my inner office and his appearance on the street. The only thing I could think of was that he'd hidden the envelope under his shirt or down the front of his pants. I was the one who'd suggested he might be under surveillance, so I'd unwittingly engineered my current difficulty, which was to persuade Len the envelope wasn't in my possession.