V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“Were you surprised to hear she jumped?”

Priddy addressed his response to Cheney, as though the two had been discussing the subject before I arrived, debating the relative merits of sudden death versus the judicial system. “Ask me, it’s a courtesy, her going off that bridge. Saves the taxpayers a chunk of change and spares the rest of us the aggravation. Besides which, jumping, you don’t leave a big ugly mess for someone else to clean up.”

“Any question of foul play?”

Priddy’s gaze slid over to mine. “Sheriff’s homicide detectives will approach it that way, sure. Protect evidence at the scene in case shenanigans come to light. She got off parole about six months ago and now here she comes again, facing another stretch. She’s engaged to some guy and there goes that life. Talk about depressing. I’d have hopped the rail myself.”

He shook loose the ice in his glass and upended it, letting a cube drop into his mouth. The crunching of ice sounded like a horse chewing on its bit.

Cheney said, “They’re running a toxi panel, but we won’t get results for three to four weeks. Meantime, the coroner says there’s nothing to suggest she was manhandled. He’ll probably release the body in another few days.”

I looked at him with puzzlement. “He’s already released the body, hasn’t he?”

“Nope.”

“I went to the visitation. There was a casket and two floral wreaths. You mean she wasn’t actually in there?”

“She’s still out at the morgue. I wasn’t at the post—Becker took that—but I know the body’s being held, pending blood and urine.”

“Why would they have an empty coffin?”

“You’d have to ask her fiancé,” Priddy said.

“I guess I will.”

“Sorry to be a hard-ass, but the kindhearted Mr. Striker had no idea what he was messing with when he took up with her.” Priddy looked up and I followed his gaze. A young woman in her late twenties was working her way across the patio. Ever the gentleman, Cheney rose from his seat as she approached. When she reached the table, she gave him a quick hug and then leaned over and gave Len a kiss on the cheek. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and dark hair to her waist. She wore tight jeans and high-heel boots. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in Len. He didn’t seem inclined to introduce us so Cheney did the honors.

“This is Len’s girlfriend, Abbie Upshaw,” he said. “Kinsey Millhone.”

We shook hands. “Nice meeting you,” I said.

Cheney held her chair for her and she sat down. Len caught the waitress’s eye and lifted a menu. I took it as a not-so-subtle suggestion that I should be on my way and I was happy to oblige.

I stopped off at a nearby deli and bought myself a tuna salad sandwich and Fritos, then returned to the office where I ate at my desk. While the information was fresh in my mind, I took out a pack of three-by-five index cards and jotted down the tidbits I’d picked up, including the name of Len’s girlfriend. The whole point of making notes is to be thorough about the details since it’s impossible to know in the moment which facts will be useful and which will not. I put the cards in my shoulder bag. I was tempted to gallop back to Marvin and drop the revelations at his feet like a golden retriever with a dead bird, but I didn’t want to add to his burden just yet. He hadn’t made his peace with the notion of Audrey shoplifting on one occasion, let alone having been convicted five times previously.

Modesty compels me to take only partial credit for being on target with my guess about her criminal history. A crime like shoplifting is more often a pattern than a one-shot deal. Whether the urge stems from necessity or impulse, that first success creates a natural temptation to try again. The fact that she’d been caught before should have cautioned her to brush up on her sleight-of-hand skills. Or maybe she’d been picked up only five times out of five hundred tries, in which case she was doing a damn fine job. At least until the previous Friday when she’d botched it royally.

I finished lunch, crumpled up the sandwich wrapping, and tossed it in the trash. I folded down the top of the cellophane bag with a generous helping of leftover Fritos and secured it with a paper clip. I slid them into my desk’s bottom drawer, saving them for a snack in case I felt peckish later in the afternoon. I heard the door in my outer office open and close. For a brief moment, I thought it might be Marvin and I looked up expectantly. No such luck. The woman who appeared in my doorway was Diana Alvarez, a reporter who worked for the local paper. While I’m not famous for my friendliness and charm, there aren’t many people whom I truly detest. She was at the top of my list. I’d met her in the course of the investigation I’d closed out the week before. Diana’s brother Michael had hired me to find two guys he’d suddenly remembered from an incident that occurred when he was six. The particulars don’t pertain so I’ll skip right over to the relevant part. Michael was highly suggestible, given to bending the truth. In his teens, he’d accused his family of hideous forms of sexual molestation after a shrink administered truth serum and regressed him to an earlier age. Turned out to be hogwash and Michael eventually recanted, but not before the family was destroyed. His sister, Diana—also known as Dee—was still bitter and did everything she could to undermine his credibility, even in death.