Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

I couldn’t make a sound. I clung to his arm, holding on with both hands as though I might actually ease his grip when I knew the effort would be futile. The pain was excruciating and I was starved for oxygen.

Len had his mouth up against my ear, his voice low. “I know how to finish you off without leaving a mark on you. Complain about me and I’ll hurt you so bad it’ll put you out of commission for the rest of your life. I’m coming down on you hard for your own damn good. Audrey Vance is none of your business, you get that? Anything you hear about, you keep shut. Whatever you see, you’d best look the other way. I find out you have those photographs, I will come back and kill you. Make no mistake about it. If you tell anyone else about this, the same penalty applies. Is that clear?”

I couldn’t even nod. Next thing I knew he’d shoved me to the floor and backed off, breathing hard himself. I was down on my hands and knees, sucking air into my lungs. I put a hand against my throat, where the sensation of compression and restriction was still vivid. I leaned my forehead on the carpet and put my arms over my head, gasping for breath. I knew he was standing over me. I thought he’d punch me or kick me, but he probably didn’t dare risk bruising me or cracking my ribs. Dimly, I was aware of his walking away. I heard the outer office door open and shut. I crawled after him and locked the door in his wake. It wasn’t until I heard his car start and pull away that I started to shake.

I rolled over on my back and lay on the floor until my heartbeat had slowed and the blood no longer pounded in my ears. I sat up, doing a canvas of my physical and emotional state. Swallowing was painful and my confidence was shaken. Beyond that, I wasn’t injured, but I was badly frightened. Now that the immediate threat had passed, I needed to pull myself together. I turned and stared at my office floor, which was littered with the papers Len had pulled from the safe. File folders and reports had been dumped from the file cabinets and lay scattered about. I wanted nothing more than to spend the next few minutes cleaning up the mess. Getting to my feet first would be a big help. My emotions were all over the place, and tidying my surroundings was the way I soothed myself in times of stress. For the moment, I’d have to forgo indulging my inner Cinderella because Pinky had priority. I didn’t believe Len would kill me (unless he could be sure the deed wouldn’t be traced back to him). Pinky was the obvious target. He was a low-level criminal with prison associates who probably already represented a risk to his health and safety. If he died, no one would think much about it. Why he imagined he could outwit someone like Len was a mystery. I used a guest chair to pull myself upright and went into the bathroom, where I stretched the rim of my turtleneck so I could examine my poor abused flesh. Len was right when he boasted he hadn’t left a mark.

I picked up my broken telephone and tossed the hull in the trash. Fortunately, I still had the previous instrument I’d owned. I went into the kitchenette and opened and closed closet doors until I found it. It was an old black rotary phone, powdered with dust. I wiped it down with a towel and took it back to the office, where I plugged it into the old jack. I picked up the handset, reassured by the dial tone. I needed to contact Pinky and tell him what was going on.

I was acutely aware of Len’s warning to keep away from matters related to Audrey Vance, but Pinky and the photographs were another matter-weren’t they? I knew that if Len caught up with Pinky, he was dead meat. I had to make sure I got to him first. I wondered if Pinky had any idea the jeopardy he was in. He’d talked about using the photographs to get out of a jam, but trying to outsmart Len was trouble of a greater magnitude.

I sat down at my desk and checked my address book for Pinky’s phone number. I seldom had occasion to call him, and for all I knew, the contact number I had was long out of date. I put the end of my index finger in the first hole, in which the number 9 appeared. I moved the dial to the right as far as the finger set and released it, thinking how odd it was to have to wait until the metal circle with the little holes in it rotated all the way back before hooking my finger into the next number in the sequence. Seemed to take forever. Lo and behold, the line rang. I listened, counting. At fifteen, I gave up hope and put the handset back in the cradle. I had no idea if he was actually home and too clever to answer the phone, or if he’d gone into hiding, as any sensible fugitive would do. I didn’t even know if the number was still his. I was going to have to drive over to his place and check it out.

I left the disorder where it was and locked the office door behind me. Before I got in the Mustang, I went around and opened the trunk and took the H &K out of my briefcase. I didn’t have a concealed carry permit but I wasn’t going to leave myself unprotected. There was a fellow waxing his car in the driveway between my bungalow and the one next door. I wasn’t aware a new tenant had moved in, but what did I know? He’d set a bucket and some rags to one side, and he was applying paste wax to the front fenders and hood of a black Jeep. A hose lay on the sidewalk, snaking out from between the buildings. He paid no attention to me, but I was careful nonetheless to slide the gun into my shoulder bag before I stepped into view. I got into the car and tucked the gun under the front seat before I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

My run-in with Len played in my head like an endless loop of film. I lived those moments over and over, but regardless of how many times I reviewed the encounter, it ended the same way. Self-preservation being what it is, I wouldn’t have handled myself any differently, but I wondered if there were options that hadn’t occurred to me. My neck still felt like it was caught in a noose. I kept putting a hand against my throat as though to assure myself of my ability to breathe.

I cut over to Chapel and took a right, driving the eight blocks to Paseo Street, where Pinky and Dodie lived. I didn’t think I’d been followed, because why would Len bother? He knew where Pinky lived or if he didn’t, it would be a simple matter to pull up the data on his computer. I wondered if he had me in his sights, playing out enough rope to see if I’d make a beeline for Pinky. But if Len had known where he was, he wouldn’t have had to jump me for the whereabouts of the manila envelope. I checked my rearview mirror, but there was no sign of an approaching car or idlers on the street.

Gamely, I parked, got out of my car, and crossed the street. The front windows in both halves of the duplex were dark. I had no idea which was theirs, but I would soon find out. It was 1:50, sunshine, temperatures in the midseventies, the scent of honeysuckle in the air. The breeze was playful, making it hard to believe there was anything going on that wasn’t purely recreational in nature. But here I was looking for a goofball who thought he was smart enough to pull a fast one on a bad cop. This was probably the same skewed reasoning that got him thrown back in prison every time he got out. It was just my bad luck I liked the guy, but that might have been what Len was counting on when he cut me loose.

The name above the doorbell on the left was Ford, and on the right, McWherter. I rang the Fords’ bell and waited. If I were Dodie or Pinky, I wouldn’t open the door to anyone. I turned and scanned the street first in one direction and then the other. I didn’t see anyone sitting in a parked car, no one slipping furtively through the bushes.

I leaned my head close to the door and knocked. “Dodie? Are you in there? It’s Kinsey, a friend of Pinky’s.”