Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

“It’s only ‘laundering’ if dirty money’s been integrated and it comes out clean. All you have to do is hang on to it.”

“That’s ridiculous. What good’s the cash if I can’t use it?”

“Who said you couldn’t use it? Stash it in a safe-deposit box and move it into a checking or savings account in increments of less than ten grand. It’s no big deal.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I have the ring. You have the cash. As long as you don’t call attention to it, we both benefit. The point is, it’s yours.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“I think you are. I don’t know what’s happened in your life, but your husband’s a fool if he’s giving you grief.”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

Nora rose from her chair and retrieved her handbag. Dante stood up at the same time. She pushed the padded mailer toward him. He held up his hands, refusing to accept the package. “Why don’t you think about it overnight?”

“I don’t need to think about it,” she said, and tossed the mailer onto the chair.

There was a brief knock at the door and Abbie appeared. “Mr. Abramson is here.”

Nora said, “I’ll let you get back to work.”

Dante took the ring box from his pocket and placed it in her palm. “Change your mind, let me know.”

Nora broke off eye contact, saying nothing as she left the room. Dante watched her depart, hoping she’d look back at him, which she refused to do.

Abbie remained in the room.

Dante looked at her. “Something else?”

“I just wanted to remind you I’ll be out of town Thursday and Friday of this week. I’ll be back at work next Monday.”

“Fine. Enjoy yourself.”

Once she was gone, he returned to his desk and settled into his chair. Abramson came in and closed the door. He’d been in partnership with Dante for twenty years and he was one of the few men Dante trusted. He was in his fifties, balding, with a long, solemn face, and glasses with dark frames. He was tall and trim in a custom-made suit. He’d apparently had Novocaine on the left side of his mouth and it hadn’t worn off. There was a puffiness and a droop to his lip on that side as though he’d suffered a stroke. He said, “Audrey’s dead.” No preamble.

It took Dante half a beat to shift his focus from Nora to Abramson. “Shit. When was this?”

“Sunday.”

“Yesterday? How?”

“She got picked up for shoplifting. This was Nordstrom’s, Friday afternoon. I guess she couldn’t talk her way out of it so she was thrown in the clink. Her boyfriend put up bail, but by then she was hysterical. Word reached Cappi she was close to cutting a deal, so he and the boys took her up to Cold Spring Bridge and tossed her over the rail.”

“Fuck.”

“I’ve been telling you for months the kid is out of control. He’s reckless and dumb and it’s a dangerous combination. I think he’s leaking information to the cops.”

“I’m too old for this shit,” Dante said. “I can’t have him whacked. I know it needs doing, but I can’t. Maybe once upon a time, but not now. I’m sorry.”

“Your call, but you buy into the consequences. That’s all I’m saying.”

Monday morning, I dragged my sorry butt out of bed at 6:00, assembled myself, and went out for my jog. I wasn’t limping, but I was conscious of my bruised shin, which, the last time I peeked, was as dark and ominous as a thundercloud. My palm had scabbed over, but I’d be picking grit out of the wound for days. On the plus side, the sun was up and the April sky above was bright blue. There was talk of a storm coming in, a phenomenon known as the Pineapple Express-a system that rotates in from the South Pacific, picking up tropical moisture as it moves toward the coast. Any rain would be warm and the air would be balmy, my concept of spring in the south. We weren’t yet feeling the effects, except for the ragged rim of clouds piled up on the horizon like trash against a fence.

Jogging was a chore, but I chugged on, feeling leaden to the bone, probably due to the change in barometric pressure. These are the days that require discipline, when exercise is pure duty and the good feeling only comes later, consisting solely of self-congratulations for having done the job at all. I walked the final block home. I’d barely broken a sweat, but my body temperature was dropping rapidly and I was cold. I reached the front gate and when I bent to pick up the morning paper, I experienced a whisper of depression. Henry’s copy of the Dispatch was usually lying on the sidewalk next to mine. He’d canceled for the duration of his out-of-town stay, leaving my paper all alone and looking forlorn. Amazing the things I miss about the man when he’s gone.

I let myself into my studio and put on a pot of coffee, then went up the spiral stairs to the loft. Once I’d showered and dressed, I trotted down again, spirits on the rise. I leafed through the paper until I found the obituaries and then flapped the section open and folded the pages back. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and added milk, spooning up breakfast while I read. I can’t remember when the daily death list became a matter of such interest. Usually, the names mean little or nothing. In a town of eighty-five thousand, the chances of being acquainted with the newly departed aren’t that great. I scan for ages and birth years, checking to see where mine falls in relation to the deceased. If the dead are my age or younger, I read the notices with close attention to circumstances. Those are the deaths I ponder, reminded every morning that life is fragile and not as much in our control as we’d like to think. Personally, I don’t endorse the notion of mortality. It’s fine for other folk, but I disapprove of the concept for me and my loved ones. Seems unfair that we’re not allowed to vote on the matter and not one of us is excused. Who made up that rule?

I’d scarcely opened that section when I spotted a photograph in the middle of the page and found myself staring at the shoplifter I’d observed Friday afternoon. I drew back, looked again, and then read once quickly to get the gist. Audrey Vance, sixty-three, had passed away unexpectedly the day before, Sunday, April 24. The midsixties age range was about where I’d placed the woman, and the likeness was unmistakable. How odd was that? I skipped to the last line, which suggested that in lieu of flowers, donations should be made to the American Heart Association in Audrey’s name.

The notice was short and on the stingy side. I went back to the beginning and read again with care. Audrey was described as “vivacious and fun-loving, admired by all who knew her.” Not a word about her parents, her education, her hobbies, or good deeds. Her survivors included a son, Don, of San Francisco, and a daughter, Elizabeth, also living in San Francisco. There were numerous unnamed nieces and nephews “left to mourn her passing.” In addition, she would be greatly missed by her fiancé and loving companion, Marvin Striker. The visitation was at Wynington-Blake Mortuary, Tuesday, 10:00 to noon, with a service to follow at 2:00 at Wynington-Blake. There was no mention of the burial.

I could hardly take it in. I wondered if the trauma of her arrest had triggered her collapse. It was not beyond the realm of possibility. Audrey had looked matronly and middle class, not out of place in an upscale department store. Until I saw her shoplift, I’d have pegged her as the type who returned her library books on time and wouldn’t have dreamed of fudging on her income tax forms. What a shock she must have experienced when the loss-prevention officer caught up with her. She’d made it as far as the mall and must have thought she was in the clear, even with the store alarm bleating behind her. From what Claudia had said about her weeping and wailing, she was either a first-rate actress or truly desperate. Sincerity aside, she must have felt humiliated being hauled off in handcuffs. I was thrown in jail once myself and I can tell you it’s not an experience you want to repeat. Habitual criminals are probably undismayed by the booking process, associating as they do with other miscreants for whom pat-downs and strip searches are the norm. All they care about is finding a bail bondsman as fast as possible so they can fork over the 10 percent and get themselves cut loose. Poor Audrey Vance. What a strange turn of events. I wondered how much, if anything, her fiancé knew about her ordeal.