V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“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.”

7

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?