"V" is for Vengeance (48 page)

Two big vultures had settled on the ground like sentinels, guarding their find. The male coyote had been caught in the second trap. Aside from the birds, she might not have noticed him except for the female trotting nervously back and forth across the path below her. Mr. Ishiguro had concealed the trap in a soft mound of dry grass. The coyote lay on his side, panting. There was no way of knowing how long he'd been there. His left hind leg was broken, the jagged bone end protruding. The ground around him was dark with blood. She stood stock still, not wanting to frighten the animal into a renewed attempt to escape. He rested. After a minute, he lifted his head again and twisted sideways to lick the wound. His suffering had to be acute, but he made no sound. His dull gaze settled on her with indifference. What was she to him when he was battling for his life?

The hillside was hot, the air dusty with the little eddies of wind that picked up now and then. Nora turned on her heel and went back to the house. She was fearful and weeping, desperate to do something to end the animal's suffering. She went upstairs. She opened the bed table on Channing's side and took out his gun. He'd showed her how to load and fire the High Standard pistol with its push-button barrel takedown. The rear sight was stationary and micro-adjustable for elevation and wind. He'd been reluctant to buy the gun but he'd done so at her insistence. She was there in the house alone on too many occasions to be left without a way to defend herself. She checked to see that it was loaded. The gun weighed fifty-two ounces and she had to hold it with both hands as she went downstairs and out the back door.

The female coyote had circled within range of her mate. She sat some distance away, in his line of sight, whining to herself. The male was diminished by pain. He lunged and thrust with his lean body, scrabbling for purchase against the weight of the trap. He looked at Nora. She could almost swear the coyote knew what she was about to do. In the depths of his yellow eyes, a spark of recognition flashed between them, her acknowledgment of his suffering and his acceptance of the bond. She had the power to free him and there was only one way out. He was too wild a creature to allow her to get close enough to release him, even if she had a way to do so. The vultures flapped upward and circled above, eyeing her with interest.

She wept. She couldn't bear to look at him, but she refused to look away. That this amazing beast had fallen, that he'd been subjected to such cruelty was unthinkable, but there he lay, exhausted, his breathing shallow. To delay his death meant extending his agony. If she had no way to spare him, then she couldn't spare herself. She fired. One bullet and he was gone. The female watched incuriously as Nora sank to the ground close to the male. His mate turned and trotted down the trail and out of sight. She'd return to her pups. She'd go out hunting alone. She'd teach them to hunt as well, venturing into civilized territory if that was the only way to find food. She'd show them the sources of water. If rabbits and squirrels and moles were scarce, she'd show them where to find insects, how to run down, topple, and disembowel house cats inadvertently left outside at night. She'd do the job that was left to her in the only way she knew, driven by instinct.

Nora returned to the house, holding the gun at her side. There was a black sedan parked next to her Thunderbird, and as she approached, two gentlemen in suits emerged and greeted her politely. There was nothing threatening about them, but she disliked them on sight. Both were clean-cut, one in his fifties, the other midthirties. The younger man said, “Mrs. Vogelsang?”

He handed her a business card. “I'm Special Agent Driscoll and this is my partner, Special Agent Montaldo. We're FBI. I wonder if we might talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Lorenzo Dante.”

She blinked at the two of them, making up her mind, and then went into the house without a word. The two men followed her in.

I waited until midafternoon to drive past the pawnshop. This time, there was no sign of Len's car. I went around the corner and parked in the pay lot, where I left my Grabber Blue Mustang between two pickup trucks. June spotted me as soon as I walked in and her expression went blank.

I said, “Hi, June. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Something's come up and I'm looking for Pinky. I thought you might know where he went.”

“No clue.”

“That's too bad. I talked to Dodie and she told me he was here.”

“I don't know where she got that idea.”

“Come on, June. You're lying and I know you're lying, which is almost as good as telling the truth. I don't know the details about Pinky's so-called plan, but the scheme is probably too harebrained to be worth his life.”

June stared at me with the helpless expression of someone watching a movie where she knows the ending isn't good. Len must have done a number on her like the one he'd done on me. She was tense and I wasn't sure how I was going to get through to her.

I tried again. “Look, I know Sergeant Priddy was in here yesterday because I saw his car parked out front. Trust me, whatever he's telling you is bullshit. You know the man's a turd.”

She licked her lips and then dried the corners with two fingers. “He says there's a bench warrant out. Pinky's wanted for questioning and if I don't turn him in, I'll be charged with aiding and abetting.”

“There's no bench warrant,” I scoffed. “What are you talking about? He's got it in for Pinky because he stole a set of photographs. Don't ask who he stole 'em from because I don't know that part. Len Priddy wants them back and came close to choking me to death because he thought I was holding out on him. He's probably threatened you with worse.”

Her voice was low. “He came to my house this morning before I left for work. He pushed his way in and tore the place apart.”

“Looking for the photographs.”

“Probably,” she said. “I told him I'd call the cops if he didn't get the hell out. He left and I thought that might be the end of it, but then he stopped again here demanding to search the shop. I'd already talked to my boss and he said not without a warrant, so now Sergeant Priddy's gone off to get one. Door opened just now, I thought it was him.”

“A warrant based on what? He's yanking your chain. It's a fishing expedition, pure and simple. How's he going to find a judge who'll sign off on that? He has to show probable cause.”

“He said he was almost sure he'd get an anonymous phone tip.”

“He's bullshitting.”

“Maybe so, but what if he's not?”

“I take it Pinky's here.”

She didn't nod but she dropped her eyes, conceding the point. “I was thinking once it got dark, I'd put him in the trunk of my car and take him someplace else. What do you suggest?”

I shook my head. “Bad idea. Len's probably planted someone to keep an eye on you, so it's better if you stay put.”

“What about you? He says it's just for tonight.”

“Len'll be watching me the way he's watching you. He knows darn well Pinky's on the premises, so he'll anticipate any attempt to get him out of here and into a car. Doesn't matter whose. They'll make a traffic stop using some excuse and that'll be the end of it.”

“We have to do something.”

“I'm taking off. The longer I stay, the more it's going to look like we're hatching a scheme.”

“You're
leaving
me?”

“Briefly. I have an idea and if it works, you'll see me sooner than you think. Just don't make a move until I get back.”

“Okay.”

Once I was out of the shop, I proceeded to the corner at a leisurely pace. I was operating on the assumption that anyone watching would note my departure and then be forced to choose whether to follow me or stick with June. I turned right onto the side street, but instead of returning to my car, I continued walking until I reached Chapel. If Len had assigned a vehicle surveillance, the focus would probably be on the Grabber Blue Mustang. As long as that stayed where it was, I thought I might move with some degree of freedom. I crossed Chapel and went up to the next intersection, which put me in the same block as the consignment store.

I went in. The woman at the counter looked up and greeted me warmly, a practice meant to discourage shoplifters, who prefer to go unnoticed. I circled the store, browsing through racks of garments, with a particular eye to coats. The temperatures in Santa Teresa sink into the forties and fifties at night, and while heavy outerwear is uncommon, there's always a demand for something lightweight. I checked a couple of price tags and felt myself blanch. This was secondhand clothing, which I assumed was synonymous with “cheap.” Not so here. I tried to picture my last credit card statement, wondering if I had the wherewithal to charge the five or six hundred bucks the shop was asking. I'm a stickler for paying off my monthly balance if I charge at all, but I couldn't remember what my limit was. Had to be close to ten grand. I stopped and thought about the situation. I had good reason to believe the shop was tied to an organized retail-theft ring, which meant the woman who ran the place was a scofflaw. So why was I searching my conscience when she was the cheater? She appeared to my right.

“Can I help you with something in particular?”

“I'm looking for a winter coat. Is this all you have?”

“Let me check in the back. I have a few items that came in I haven't had a chance to ring into the system.”

She disappeared into the rear of the store and returned moments later with two coats on hangers. One was a double-breasted camel-hair coat for $395, plus change. The other, a full-length black shearling for a nifty $500.

“That one,” I said, pointing to the camel hair.

“Very nice. Let's see how it fits.”

She helped me slip my arms into the sleeves and then she adjusted the coat at the shoulder until it sat properly. She directed me to the wall-mounted mirror nearby, and I modeled the coat, taking a look at myself from the rear. It actually looked pretty good. “Kind of pricey, isn't it?”

“This is from Lord and Taylor. It retailed originally for fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I better snap it up,” I said.

I waited while she rang up the sale. The charge went through without a blip. I signed the slip and tucked my copy of the receipt in my jeans pocket, wondering if it was an expense I could write off. I allowed her to swaddle the coat in tissue paper before she placed it into a shopping bag.

I thanked her and left, making a quick right-hand turn into the wig shop next door, where I selected a head of shoulder-length blond hair for $29.95. I pulled it on, slicking my hair under the edges of the wig and out of sight. I stared at myself in the mirror, bemused by the woman looking back at me.

The salesclerk was male and clearly had opinions about what was suitable for someone who looked as clueless as I did. “Maybe something closer to your natural shade,” he said.

“I like this. It's perfect.” While it was already hot and scratchy, I was smitten with the image of myself as a blonde.

“I'm not a fan of synthetics, if you don't mind my saying so. I'd recommend real hair. We have hand- or machine-tied cranial prostheses with nonslip cap construction.”

“This is for a costume party. It's a joke.”

He was wise enough to keep additional remarks to himself, but his disappointment was palpable.

The transaction took longer than I thought was absolutely necessary, but it gave me a chance to pull out the coat and shrug myself into it. I put my shoulder bag in the twine-handled shopping bag, knowing that from a distance, my shoulder bag was as much a visual cue to my identity as my clothing.

“Nice coat,” he said as he handed me my change.

“Lord and Taylor.”

“I can tell.”

The short walk back to the pawnshop gave me the opportunity to scour the area for surveillance measures. While I didn't see anything that seemed out of place, that was no guarantee Len hadn't made the relevant arrangements. At the same time, I didn't believe he had an unlimited number of pals willing to volunteer their services regardless of the story he told.

When I reentered the pawnshop, June was busy with a customer but looked up. She wasn't fooled by my disguise but it wasn't meant to deceive her. As soon as she was free she gestured me over. The two guys working with her must have been aware what we were up to because neither paid much attention when she ushered me into the rear.

Pinky was holed up in a combination broom closet and bathroom where a toilet and small sink shared space with mops, a bucket on wheels, and storage shelves filled top to bottom with recently hocked power tools and small home appliances. The air smelled like motor oil and an air freshener that didn't even come close to freshening the air. A black-and-white television monitor on one side of the vanity displayed a view of the shop out front. As soon as Pinky realized it was me, he flashed me a big goofy grin, probably thinking June had talked me into helping him where he had failed. He took my hand in his and patted it. “Thank you.”

I wanted to point out I hadn't done anything yet, but I had another matter on my mind. “What are you doing here? I thought you'd set up a meeting with some guy to hand over the photographs. Wasn't that the plan?”

“That's just it. I been trying to get in touch with the fellow, but his office doesn't know where he is. June let me go out to the counter twice to use the phone, but then she put her foot down. She's worried Len'll come in or one of his guys will spot me through the window. Anyways, the guy's receptionist has been nice about it and says if I tell her where I am, she'll send someone to pick me up as soon as he arrives.”