Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

He said, “Relax. This is nothing official. I thought it was time for us to chat.” He removed a file folder and slid the drawer shut. He tossed the folder on the desk and then settled in my swivel chair, tilted back, propping his feet against the edge. He reached for the folder and pulled out the single sheet of paper, the photocopy of Marvin’s check. Cleverly, I’d filed the written report on Audrey elsewhere, so he had no way to determine what I knew.

He shook his head in disapproval. “Looks like you haven’t come up with anything on Audrey Vance, which surprises me. I thought you were a crack investigator and you’ve got bupkes. You take Marvin’s money, the least you could do is give him something in return.”

Rapidly, I scrolled through the possible responses, trying to figure out how best to protect myself. “I haven’t started on it yet. I have a case that took precedence,” I said. The lie slipped out so easily, I didn’t think he caught the hesitation before I answered him.

“Then you ought to give his money back.”

“Good plan. I’ll have a chat with him and see if he feels the same.”

“He does. He’s no longer in the market for your services.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. The game playing annoyed me, but it was better for him to think he had the upper hand. I didn’t want to antagonize him. No sass. No wisecracks. “If you tell me why you’re here, maybe I can help.”

“I’m in no hurry. How about yourself? You have pressing business to conduct?” He peered closely at my empty calendar. “It doesn’t look like it.”

He tossed Audrey’s file on the desk and got up. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and looked out the window at the street. By turning his back, he was showing me how sure he was of himself. He was a big man and seeing him in silhouette, I was unnerved by his bulk. Like many middle-aged men, he’d gained weight, twenty-five to thirty pounds by the look of him. In his case, most of it was muscle mass. He and Mickey had lifted weights together in the early days, a routine he’d apparently kept up. He seemed indifferent to any action I might take, but I knew better.

He turned around to look at me, leaning a hip on the windowsill. “We have a mutual friend, who came to see you earlier.”

“I’ve been out.”

“Before you left for lunch.”

He had to be referring to Pinky or Earldeen, and I was nominating Pinky. In a flash, I knew he was after the photographs. As quickly as it occurred to me, I suppressed the thought, cautious he’d pick up on my mental process. Many sociopaths, like Len, seem able to read minds, a skill that doubtless results from the in-built paranoia that motivates so much of what they do. I said, “I’m not sure who you mean.”

“Your pal, Pierpont.”

“Pierpont?” The name meant nothing. I shook my head.

“Pinky.”

“His real name is Pierpont?”

“That’s what his jacket says. He has a long criminal history as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I know he’s been in jail. Are you looking for him?”

“Not him. A manila envelope. I believe he left it with you.”

Len was either featured in one set of photographs or protecting the person who was. If the photos were of Len, I couldn’t imagine how he’d been compromised. Pinky viewed the pictures as his trump card, so what was that about?

I said, “You’ve got it wrong. He asked me to hang on to the envelope and I refused.”

He smiled. “Good try, but I don’t think so.”

“It’s true. He wouldn’t tell me what was in the envelope so I said I couldn’t help. He took it with him when he left.”

“Not so. He walked out empty-handed. I was watching.”

What had Pinky done? I remembered the brief lag time between his leaving my inner office and his appearance on the street. The only thing I could think of was that he’d hidden the envelope under his shirt or down the front of his pants. I was the one who’d suggested he might be under surveillance, so I’d unwittingly engineered my current difficulty, which was to persuade Len the envelope wasn’t in my possession.

I put my hands in the air, as though at gunpoint. “I don’t have it. Honest. You’ve already searched my file cabinets and the desk drawers, so you know it’s not there. Check my shoulder bag if you want.”

I set my bag on the desk. He didn’t want to appear too interested, so he took his time, casually pawing through the miscellany. Wallet, makeup bag, a few over-the-counter meds, keys, spiral-bound notebook, which he stopped and leafed through before tossing it aside. I was fearful he’d spot the index cards and confiscate the lot of them, but he was focused on the image of an eight-by-ten envelope and disregarded anything that didn’t match that description. I could feel the tension seep into my bones. I was reacting to Len the way I’d react to a street thug or a belligerent drunk, someone capable of violence if provoked. I didn’t believe he’d attack me because an assault would leave him vulnerable to charges. There were no wants and warrants out against me, and he had no way to justify getting physical.

“Where’s the safe?” he asked.

I pointed at the floor to one side of the room. My safe was concealed under a section of my bubble-gum-pink wall-to-wall carpeting. He gestured impatiently, indicating I was to hop to, and I complied. I knew there was no manila envelope, so what was it to me? He crossed the room and stood over me while I pulled the carpet back and exposed the safe to view. I hated his knowing where it was, but it was better to appear cooperative. I got down on one knee and dialed in the combination. When the door swung open, he was forced to assume the same kneeling posture so he could empty the contents. I glanced at the door, realizing if I intended to bolt, this would be the time to do it. I kept the impulse in check, believing it was wiser to let the situation play out. The safe held nothing of interest: insurance policies, bank information, and the modest amount of cash I like to keep on hand.

That’s when I noticed he’d ripped the phone cord out of the wall and smashed the housing until it cracked in half. There was something about the savagery that scared me senseless. Too late, I realized I’d adopted the mind-set of a kidnap victim, thinking everything would be all right as long as I did as I was told. This notion was foolish on the face of it. It’s always better to scream, run, or fight back. No one knew he was here. My bungalow is the only occupied structure on this side of the street. If he decided I was holding out on him, whether it was true or not, he could handcuff me, throw me in the trunk of his car, and pound the shit out of me in private until I gave him what he wanted. The fact that I didn’t have the photographs wasn’t relevant and would only net me more punishment.

He was still pulling papers out of my safe when I made a break for the outside door. The problem was I’d been standing stiffly at attention and I couldn’t move fast enough. Even as I took the first two steps, I felt like I was weighted in place. He was on me before I’d gone six feet. I couldn’t believe a man his size could act so quickly. He grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me backward off my feet, hooking an arm around my neck before I could marshal a defense. I knew the choke hold from my days as a rookie. This was called a lateral vascular neck restraint, or blood choke. With the crook of his elbow over the midpoint of my neck, all he had to do was increase the pressure, using his free hand for leverage. If I tried to turn around, it would only escalate the force of the hold. The pressure on my carotid arteries and jugular veins would result in hypoxia that would render me unconscious in seconds. Most police departments prohibit the use of the carotid hold unless an officer is threatened with death or serious injury. Len Priddy was from the old school, coming up through the ranks while the blood choke was still considered fair play. He was a full head taller and weighed a good hundred pounds more than I did.