Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

When the phone rang, I was so startled I jumped, and while I don’t believe I shrieked, I may well have yelped. I picked up the handset.

“Kinsey?”

It was Vivian, her tone plaintive. “Is everything all right at your place? Because I just got home from my stitching group and I think someone’s been here.”

At this point I should have called the police. Ordinarily, I’m not shy about such things. In this instance, however, I had the following factors working against me: I didn’t know the make and model of the pale blue sedan. It was almost dark when I’d spotted the two guys getting into the car, which was half a block away. I couldn’t have sworn the two had actually been in my place, though I couldn’t imagine why else they’d be coming out of Henry’s backyard. There were no scratches on my front door lock and no obvious indications that anyone had been inside. I was convinced they’d broken in, but I had no evidence. If they’d searched the studio, they were probably smart enough not to leave fingerprints. So what was there to report? As far as I know, there isn’t a provision in the California penal code for the crime of “I believe a man might have put his hand in my underwear drawer.”

Assuming I was right and the guys had entered the studio, it was surely with an eye to retrieving the shitload of cash Vivian and I had turned over to law enforcement. There might have been an argument for calling the cops just to “have something on record,” as though a police report might pave the way for later action on my part. I knew I wouldn’t be filing a claim on my renter’s policy because I’m reasonably certain I’m not covered for damages resulting from someone peeking in my freezer, thinking I’d be dumb enough to hide masses of cash next to that ancient package of frozen peas.

In my phone conversation with Vivian, I’d told her to do as she saw fit. I didn’t think it was my place to advise her one way or the other. She said she was fine but would call her cousin to come pick her up. She didn’t want to be alone in the house, a sentiment I understood. She did say she had a shotgun that her husband had taught her to use to good effect, provided she had the nerve to blow an intruder off his feet. She doubted her ability and I applauded her good sense.

For my part, as soon as I hung up I armed myself with a butcher knife, went out to the Mustang, and fetched the briefcase that contained my Heckler & Koch. After I double-locked my door and made sure the windows were secured, I cleaned and loaded my gun. I left the desk lamp on downstairs and retired to my loft, where I fell asleep on top of the covers fully dressed. Three times I woke to investigate noises I probably hadn’t heard.

There’s much to be said for sleeping fitfully. The brain, when it isn’t swaddled in a happy cocoon of dreams, reverts to other means of amusing itself. Mine reviews all the data it’s accumulated during the day and sends me telegrams I wouldn’t stop to open if I were awake. The brain functions like a camera, clicking off a steady stream of pictures. Incoming data is automatically sorted so that what’s relevant can be stored for future reference and what’s irrelevant can be deleted. The problem is that we don’t know until much later which images count and which don’t. My subconscious nudged me, letting me know I’d seen something that might be more important than I’d thought. The idea would excite me for the moment and I’d make a mental note. Then I’d fall asleep and by the time I woke up again I’d forget what it was.

Sunday morning, I rose early and went out for a three-mile jog. As a rule, this is not something I do on weekends, which I reserve for rest and relaxation. However, in the previous week, I’d skipped the exercise because business required my presence elsewhere. Now it was time to take hold. I did my token thirty-minute jog along the beach, hoping to generate a moment of runner’s high. Mostly, my whole body hurt. Parts that had never given me trouble before spoke up to complain. On the plus side, there was the stress reduction and the following insight that popped to mind. I’d reached the end of my run and I’d slowed to a walk to cool down when I remembered the point my subconscious had been trying to make in the dead of night. Take another look , whispered she, at the stack of flattened cardboard boxes behind the consignment shop.

As soon as I’d showered, dressed, and bolted down a bowl of cereal, I checked my desk drawers for my Swiss Army knife, which I tossed into my shoulder bag. I found my steam iron and put it with my briefcase and gun. I returned to the Mustang and locked both in the trunk. I paused to make a careful study of the street, looking for the blue sedan, which was nowhere in sight. This was not a comfort. If the guys had tailed me from Vivian’s house the day before, they were probably smart enough to use more than one vehicle.

I took the 101 to Missile and then turned right on Dave Levine. I cruised past the strip mall where the consignment shop was located. Storefronts were dark as expected on a Sunday morning. At the corner, I turned right and entered the alley that ran behind the row of shops. When I pulled in the parking lot was empty, the trash cans still bulging. I let the Mustang idle while I crossed to the stack of cardboard boxes and used my Swiss Army knife to cut the twine. I flipped through quickly, glancing at each box in turn. Most had been used more than once, the recipient apparently unpacking the contents and using the same boxes for subsequent shipments. This was a frugal move on the part of the business owner and worked to my advantage because in almost every case, a new shipping label had been slapped over the old. As one does when tracing layers of sediment, I could work backward, tracking the boxes from one location to the one before. I loaded the stack in the trunk of my car. Better to dig for information in private instead of standing in a parking lot taking notes.

Downtown Santa Teresa was largely deserted at that hour and traffic was light. Department stores wouldn’t open until noon, so I was able to travel the surface streets with some confidence I wasn’t being followed. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, but I didn’t see any cars that seemed worrisome. I drove to the office, unloaded the boxes from the trunk, and carried them to the office door, where I let myself in. I filled my iron with water, plugged it in, and moved the lever to steam. Then I sat on the floor cross-legged while I worked my way through the stack of battered boxes.

I kept a record of the addresses as I uncovered them, wondering if a pattern would emerge. Most of the shipping had been done through a carrier I didn’t know. I made a note of the name, thinking I’d check with Vivian to see if it was a match for the service that had dropped off the package at Audrey’s door. I steamed off label after label, watching the addresses change. It was almost impossible to discern shipping dates. The tracking numbers had been blacked out and sometimes a label had been torn off entirely before another one was pasted on top. On the fifth box, under the top two labels, I found Audrey’s name and the rental address in San Luis Obispo. It looked like the boxes were being moved from one California location to another, the preponderance of it a short loop between Santa Teresa and San Luis Obispo. If stolen merchandise left the country, it was probably sent by way of a shipping company. Goods would be stripped, sorted for distribution, and sent on. Once I reached the bottom of the pile, I stood the boxes upright and shoved the flattened cardboard into the space between my file cabinet and the wall.

I locked the office and got back into my car. I pulled the Santa Teresa County map from my glove compartment, unfolded it, and propped it on the steering wheel. I checked the list of addresses I’d culled. Audrey’s in San Luis Obispo I knew. The other two were in Colgate. In the key of streets at the bottom of the map, I found both streets. The first skirted the boundaries of the airport and continued on to the university. The second address was half a mile from the first.