"V" is for Vengeance (52 page)

“You knew her?”

“Oh, sure. Her and me go way back. I did a couple jobs for her and don't ask what because I'm takin' that to my grave.”

“Did you talk to her?”

He shook his head. “I only seen her in passing so I never had a chance. Next day she called in a panic because of what she witnessed that night.”

“Which was what?”

“When she came out of the station after her boyfriend posted bail? There sat Cappi in a parked car with Len. She knew who he was because she worked for his brother. Didn't take a rocket scientist to know Cappi was on the police payroll, telling Priddy everything he knew. She knew she was dead meat if he realized she'd seen 'em together. Guess he must have done just that or she'd still be here.”

“So who threw her off the bridge?”

“Who do you think?”

“Cappi?”

“Of course. He had to shut her up or she'd have told Dante. Priddy may be corrupt but he wouldn't go that far. Yet. Anyway, subject closed. I shouldn't have let on, but I figured you must be concerned how I'd get caught up with the likes of him.”

“I did wonder,” I said.

“That asshole Cappi's not going to get away with this. I get my hands on him, he's dead.”

“If he's on the run, he might leave the state. You don't even know where he is.”

“I can sure as shit find out. I got street connections and I know where he lives. A guy like him can't disappear. He's not smart enough. He couldn't even get a job on his own. He's reduced to working in his brother's warehouse. That's how he gets the lowdown on all the stuff he's passing to the cops.”

“Just stay out of it.”

“Oh, no. No, no. He's not getting off that easy. I got ways to get even.”

“You can't afford to get even. You'll only make things worse.”

“You don't know worse. I know worse. I ought to plug him full of holes and let him see how it feels.”

“Come on, Pinky. I can understand your wanting revenge, but that'll put you back in prison and then what? Dodie's in trouble. She needs you. It's self-indulgent to brood about striking back when you've got more important issues to worry about. Leave him to the police.”

“After I get through, they can have him.”

“Forget that and focus on Dodie. I think we should hold good thoughts just in case it helps.”

“I am focused on Dodie. That's the point. What he did to her, he pays for. Plain and simple.”

I gave up. The more I argued, the more determined he became. No point in fueling his rage by putting up resistance. At 9:00 he agreed to go inside, and it was nearly 11:00 when the surgeon finally appeared. Judging from his ID tag, he was foreign-born with a surname I wouldn't know how to pronounce. I took one look at his face and left the two of them to confer. I wanted to hear what the doctor had to say, but it seemed tacky to listen in. As I watched Pinky's expression change, the news probably wasn't good. As soon as the surgeon departed, Pinky sank into a chair and wept. I sat down beside him and patted his back. I didn't think she'd died, but I was afraid to ask, so I simply murmured and patted and waited him out. The woman at the desk saw what was going on and she appeared with a box of tissues. Pinky grabbed a handful and mopped at his eyes.

“Sorry. Oh man, I'm not long for this world.”

“What'd the doctor say?”

“I don't know. He had an accent so thick, I couldn't understand a word. The minute he started talking, it was like I went deaf because I was so afraid he'd have bad news.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Too early to tell or at least that's what I think he said. He didn't seem all that happy and when he threw in all that medical gobbledygook my ears went out on me. His eyes were so sad, I nearly busted up right then. I think he said he'd know better in the next twelve hours . . . or some amount of time. She's been moved to ICU. I can stay if I want.”

Talking seemed to help, and by the time he'd pulled himself together, I felt like I was on the verge of collapse myself. Of course, Pinky opted to spend the night in the waiting room down the hall from ICU. I wanted to stay as well, but he urged me to go home. It didn't take much in the way of persuasion. I told him I'd get in a few hours' sleep and check with him in the morning to see how she was doing. Before I left, I volunteered to go down to the cafeteria and buy a couple of cups of coffee, for which he seemed grateful. I was the only one who seemed to be wandering the halls. I knew the location of the cafeteria from other occasions. The place would be closed, but I remembered a row of vending machines that would be humming with choices. When I reached the corridor, I took out two singles from my wallet and slid the bills into the slot, one by one. I punched the button for coffee, punched a second button to add cream, and picked up some sugar packets from a small cart nearby that stocked napkins and wooden stir sticks. I paid for a second coffee and carried the two Styrofoam cups with me back to the ER.

As I reached the waiting room, I saw a black-and-white pull into one of the parking spaces outside the entrance. An officer got out of the car and came in through the sliding doors, glancing at Pinky in passing. I did an about-face and remained in the hall while the mini-drama played out. I knew how it would go. The cop would ask the desk clerk for the victim's name and next of kin. He'd be directed to Pinky, after which he'd quiz him for however long it took to complete a detailed report about the shooting. I didn't want to participate. I was tired. I felt itchy and out of sorts and too impatient to put up with an interview. I'd be happy to tell the cops what I knew, but not right then. In any event, the officer would leave his business card with Pinky in case he thought of anything he wanted to add. I'd get his name from Pinky and go into the station in the morning. If he was off-duty, someone else would take my statement.

I peered into the waiting room where the two sat in one corner, Pinky slumping forward, talking with his head in his hands, while the officer took notes. I dumped the two cups of coffee in a trash bin and found an exit in another wing. The walk to the parking lot was longer but worth every step. I retrieved my car and drove home through the dark, deserted streets. I turned up the heat in the Mustang until it felt like an incubator and I still couldn't get warm. Once home, I crawled under the covers without bothering to undress.

In the morning, I skipped my run. After I'd showered and dressed and downed my usual bowl of cereal, I pulled out the telephone book and looked for Lorenzo Dante's name. There was no home address given, but I spotted a listing for Dante Enterprises, which was located downtown in the Passages Shopping Plaza. Though it was strictly in the none-of-your-business category, I thought it was time to bring Cappi's brother into the equation. I had no idea what the relationship was between the two, but if Cappi wasn't going to take responsibility for what he'd done, then maybe his brother would step up to the plate. With a police report now on file, the judicial system would grind into gear, eventually pulling Cappi into its maw. His parole officer would file a notice with the parole board, and he'd be picked up and detained until a Morrissey hearing could be held. As the shooter, he'd be entitled to counsel and would be accorded any number of constitutional rights. Meanwhile, Dodie, as victim, had no rights at all. If Cappi's parole was revoked, he'd be sent back to prison while Dodie would be sent into a rehab facility for a long, slow, and painful period of recovery—assuming she survived. Pinky would pay a stiff price either way and that didn't sit right with me.

I drove into the underground parking garage that ran the length of the shopping center. Stores weren't yet open, so all of the parking spaces were available. I chose one at the far end of the lot, close to the elevators. I ran an eye down the wall-mounted directory, which listed the companies with offices on the second and third floors, above the retail establishments. Dante Enterprises occupied the penthouse suite. I took the elevator up. I don't know what I expected from the digs of a loan shark, but the complex was elegant and beautifully furnished, with pale gray short-cut pile carpeting and interior walls of glass and high-gloss teak. The reception desk was empty, and I waited, not quite sure what to do with myself. I took a seat on a lush gray leather chair and leafed through a magazine with one eye on the elevator. Finally, the doors opened and a tall, balding man wearing glasses emerged and crossed to the inner door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Is someone helping you?”

I set the magazine aside and stood up. “I'm looking for Lorenzo Dante, the younger one. I understand there are two.”

“You have an appointment?”

I shook my head. “I was hoping he could see me. I just took a chance he'd be in.”

“He's usually here by now, but I didn't see his car in the garage. Is this something I can help you with?”

“I don't think so. It's a private matter. Do you have any idea what time he'll be in?”

The man checked his watch. “Should be soon. If you take a seat, I can have the receptionist bring you a cup of coffee while you wait.”

By then I was feeling anxious, suddenly uncertain what I was doing there and what I hoped to accomplish. I can tattle with the best of them, but I prefer to do so when I know my audience. Here, I had no idea what sort of reception to expect. “You know what? I think I'll run a couple of errands and come back in a bit.”

“If you change your mind about the coffee, let the receptionist know,” he said. He disappeared into the inner corridor just as the receptionist came out and returned to her desk. I had already moved to the elevator, where I pressed the down button. I was intent on exiting before Dante showed up, so it was only by chance that I glanced back at her as she took her seat. She noticed I was staring at her and she gave me the blank look of someone who hasn't yet registered what's going on.

I said, “Aren't you Abbie Upshaw?”

Still the blank look. “Yes.”

“I'm Kinsey Millhone. I met you the other day at lunch. You're Len Priddy's girlfriend.”

Her gaze locked on mine, and I could see her formulate the recollection of who I was and where we'd met. It dawned on her that I was a friend of Cheney Phillips's and someone who now knew more about her than I should. I was still putting the pieces together but I'd already gotten the picture. It was
her
house Pinky had broken into when he stole Len's packet of pictures. She'd probably taken the photographs herself, documenting the link between the vice detective and Dante's brother. What I knew without even asking was that she'd been planted in Dante's office to pick up the same sort of inside dope that Cappi was spilling to the cops.

I heard a soft ping. The elevator doors opened and I stepped in. She watched, transfixed, as the doors slid shut. She was pale and her expression had turned from fear to dread.

It was a moment I enjoyed perhaps more than I should have.

In the rear of the limousine, Dante donned his reading glasses while he studied the spreadsheet Saul had sent to the house by messenger the night before. This was a comprehensive view of his finances, pages he'd shred when he'd absorbed the content. He'd meant to go over the report when it first arrived, but he was distracted by the revelation from Nora's offhand remark at the beach house that day. He wondered if there was any way he could have known she'd been married to Tripp Lanahan, of all people. Dante could count on the fingers of one hand men who'd come to his defense. Tripp had seen value in him, had successfully challenged bank policy for him, an unprecedented gesture of trust and confidence. Tripp had also taken a raft of shit from the bank for approving the loan, but he'd shrugged off the criticism and stuck to his guns. Dante was never sure why he'd done it, but it meant the world to him. In his mind, buying the big old house made him almost respectable, and he'd never missed a payment. In fact, he'd paid it off six years early and now owned it free and clear. Since then he'd worked hard to erase the taint of gangsterdom that dogged his days. It was a reputation he couldn't seem to shake. He was tired of the burden and tired of trying to free himself from the power struggles and the necessity for domination. Until recently when he'd pictured his escape, it was always in the vague and cloudy future. It had helped immensely to know he had a way out, but now that the reality loomed before him, he was reluctant to act. It would make all the difference if Nora agreed to go with him, but what were the chances once she knew the part he'd played in Phillip's death? He was doomed if he stayed and doomed if he left without her. Uncle Alfredo was another loss he wasn't ready to face. Alfredo loved him as his father never had, and even with his life slipping away, he was Dante's anchor. Dante couldn't imagine leaving while the man could still draw breath.

Then there was the end of his relationship with Lola, and that depressed him as much as anything. That morning, when he'd finished showering and getting dressed, he'd come into the bedroom to find her already up and in her travel clothes. She had a suitcase open on the bed and a garment bag hooked over the open closet door, with the inner flap unzipped. She'd already moved a number of dresses, skirts, and suits still on hangers into its interior.

“What's this about?”

“What's it look like? I'm packing my things.”

“You don't have to leave so soon.”

“Of course I do. The whole world doesn't revolve around you. I have needs and desires of my own.”

“Where are you going?”