Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

Monday morning, Saul came into Dante’s office with a thick packet of papers in hand. “We’ve got a problem.”

Dante was sitting at his desk, toying with a letter opener that he then tossed to one side. He folded his hands in front of him. He was not a happy man and the last thing he needed was another problem. “What.”

“Georgia called. She needs to meet with you.”

“Why is that a problem? Tell her I’ll pick her up at the usual place.”

“That’s not the problem I was referring to.”

“Forget the bad news. You look grimmer than usual and I don’t want to hear about it.”

Saul was silent.

Aggravated, Dante said, “Fuck you. What?”

“Maybe I can come back later.”

Dante made an “out with it” gesture with his hand.

“The payroll was intercepted. That’s why Georgia wants to talk to you. Some schmo in Miami didn’t get word Audrey was out of the loop so he shipped the cash as usual. Her landlady intercepted the package. The money’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone? When was this?”

“Friday.”

“And Georgia’s just now reporting in? Tell her to get it the fuck back.”

“She tried, only now there’s a local private eye in the mix. I guess she and the landlady are in it together. Georgia sent guys to both places, here and up there, and there’s no trace. Rumor has it they turned it over to the sheriff’s department in San Luis Obispo.”

“Well, that’s terrific,” Dante said. “What else?”

“Georgia thinks the PI has been tailing her.”

“Georgia’s PMSie. Every thirty days, she turns paranoid and thinks someone’s after her. Fuckin’ drama queen.”

“Sounds convincing to me. Maybe you ought to hear it from her.”

Dante waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. You got more? Because so far you’ve only darkened my mood by half. You can do better than that.”

“I wondered if you’d given any further thought to Cappi. He’s asking too many questions and I don’t like his drift.”

“I gave him a nugget of information and we’ll see what he does with it. I told him we purge business records every Thursday at noon. I made it up on the spot, but what does he know? He’s double-dealing, he’ll hightail it back to whoever’s running him and tattle on us. I figure the feds will show up with search warrants and tear the place apart. Destroy his credibility and then what’s he worth?”

“Why would anyone believe a story like that?”

“By the time he blabs, he’ll have the facts so fucked up no one will know what to think. They’ll come after us on the off chance the asshole’s telling the truth.”

“Nice to know something’s under control.”

Dante pointed at the papers Saul had brought in. “What’s that?”

Saul put the sheaf on Dante’s desk. “The latest pound of pretrial paperwork. You want to go over it?”

“What for? I’m screwed either way. I lie, they got me for perjury. I tell the truth, I’m down the toilet. What am I supposed to do?”

“What’s to debate? You lie through your teeth. It’s up to them to prove otherwise.”

“I don’t like the idea of lying under oath. It might seem like splitting hairs, given things I’ve done in my life, but I’ve got standards like everyone else.”

“Then go to Plan B: get out of the line of fire.”

“How can I do that? I step to one side, that leaves you exposed.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. If you’re out of the picture, I can plead ignorance and blame it all on you.”

“It is on me.”

“I’ll tell Lou Elle it’s a go anytime you like.”

“Not yet. I’ve got things I want to take care of first.”

“Like what? Everything’s in place. We’ve been working on this for months.”

“I know,” Dante said, irritably. “I just don’t think now’s the time.”

Cautiously, Saul said, “And why is that?”

“There’s this woman I’m seeing.”

It took a brief moment for Saul to absorb what he’d said. “What about Lola?”

“That’s over. She’s still in the house, but she’ll be gone before long.”

“I had no idea.”

“Me neither. She’s the one who called it off or I’d still be in there fighting. I thought we were good. I was playing for keeps. Shows how much I know,” he said. “Meantime, I met someone else.”

“Who?”

“Don’t worry about that. The point is, I’m in way over my head.”

“You?”

“Who else are we talking about?”

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday.”

First thing Monday morning on my way into the office, I stopped by the Hall of Records and started a paper search, looking for information about Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. If the organization was a charity, it would have to be registered. In the state of California, as in most states I’m sure, any group seeking to obtain tax-exempt status is required to fill out forms, which are filed with the state, accompanied by the requisite filing fees. Whether the entity is a sole proprietorship, a partnership, a limited partnership, or a corporation, the applicant must list the name and address of the organization itself and the name and address of every partner, trustee, or officer.

I tried the registry of charitable trusts, which netted me nothing. I tried looking under nonprofits and reached another dead end. Baffled, I asked the clerk at the desk if she had a suggestion. She suggested I try “Fictitious Business Names,” also known as DBAs, short for “Doing Business As.” She directed me to another office. DBAs expire after five years, but a refiling is required within thirty days. I thanked her for her help. This time I was in luck, though the answer to the question took me right back to my starting point. Helping Hearts, Healing Hands was owned and operated by Dan Prestwick, husband of the very Georgia I’d been tailing for days.

It wasn’t clear what his purpose was in establishing this enterprise, but I assumed he’d acquired the proper licenses and permits, that he’d been assigned a federal tax ID number, and behaved himself in accordance with federal and state regulations in furtherance of his stated goals, whatever those might be. He was supposed to list funds, property, and other assets, but I couldn’t see any sign that he’d done so. I was sure people were dumping all manner of household items and used clothing in his donation bins, but I wasn’t sure what happened to the goods afterward. He certainly didn’t declare the potential value. Maybe he turned around and dumped the same goods into Salvation Army bins or left them at the drop-off point behind the Goodwill shop on Chapel.

Helping Hearts, Healing Hands appeared to be a shell company created to shelter Dan Prestwick from closer scrutiny. My best guess was this so-called charity was a conduit for stolen merchandise. Georgia did some of the journeyman shoplifting and she also had a hand in collecting stolen goods, judging from the bulging plastic bags she’d dumped in two separate bins as I looked on. Apparently, she wasn’t involved in the transportation of goods from point to point. My guess was that she off-loaded the stolen items as quickly as possible, passing them along to others in the loop. I couldn’t picture the Prestwicks at the top of the heap. More likely they were employed by someone higher up on the food chain. Audrey’s calls to Los Angeles, Corpus Christi, and Miami suggested an organization with branches in ports of call across the country. Somewhere along the line, cash had been generated and shipped to the now-deceased Audrey Vance. She probably used the money to pay the workers she’d assembled every other Saturday. Now what?

I left the county building and drove back to Juniper Lane. I parked two doors down from the Prestwicks’ house and stared at the narrow slice of driveway I could see. I wasn’t officially on surveillance. I needed a place to sit while I sorted myself out and why not in range of two principal players? I took my index cards from the depths of my shoulder bag and made a few notes, discouraged by the paucity of facts. I had lots of good guesses and little evidence.