V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“You bet. With stolen property, there’s always a fence. Nothing comes through us, in case you’re wondering.”

I smiled. “It did cross my mind.”

“It’s a common misconception. People think pawnshops are a magnet for stolen goods, but nothing could be further from the truth. We’re strictly regulated. By law, we are required to get a photo ID, a thumbprint, and a detailed description, including serial numbers, for every item we take in. We forward the information to the police department so they can check it against reported thefts. It works the other way too. If they’re investigating a burglary, they notify us so we’re aware of what’s in circulation.”

“So how does it work? Someone has to be on the buying end or the market would dry up.”

“Depends on the goods. Articles of clothing are stripped of store labels and moved out of the area. Same thing with items like athletic shoes. Who wants to pay full price if you can get the same thing for half? There’s a big market for brand-name goods overseas. Here too for that matter.”

“Someone suggested swap meets.”

“Sure, and there are other unregulated vendors—secondhand stores, flea markets, garage sales. You could even take a look at the classified ads in the local paper. The reason most off-market items are taken out of one community and circulated somewhere else is because it’s smart to put as much distance as possible between the source and the final sale. You don’t want someone recognizing a garment they just saw on the rack at Robinson’s.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “What do you know about the fences in town?”

She shook her head. “Can’t help you there.”

“But surely, word gets around.”

“You’d think. Problem is, you make a statement to that effect and you’re risking a lawsuit. These days, criminals have better lawyers than the rest of us.”

“That’s the truth,” I said. I took out a business card and gave it to her, jotting my home number on the back. I was so free with that number, I might as well print it on the front with my office number. “If you think of anything else, would you give me a call?”

“Not a problem,” she said. “Nice seeing you again.”

“Same here. You might see me again if I need additional help. I appreciate your time.” I reached across the counter and shook hands with her.

“One correction,” she said as I turned to go.

I looked back at her.

“You asked me what I know about fences. You didn’t ask me what I suspect.”

The consignment shop June suggested would be of interest was on Chapel in the middle of a run of storefronts I’d seen on countless occasions. There was a crappy-looking little fast-food place on the corner with a take-out window that opened onto the sidewalk. A few dispirited wrought-iron tables and chairs were arranged to one side for the sit-down trade. After rigorous inspection, the health department had awarded this establishment a C, which suggested cockroaches and rat turds where you least expected them. I was so hungry I’d have been willing to compromise my already low standards if the place had been open.

I found a parking spot right out in front, a cause for great joy until I realized all the stores were closed for the day. A sign in the window of the consignment shop indicated the business hours were Monday through Friday, 10:00 to 6:00, and Saturdays, 10:00 to 4:00. A quick look at my watch showed I’d missed by twenty minutes.

To the left of the consignment shop there was a store that sold wigs made of fibers that didn’t come close to resembling human hair. I’ve seen Barbie dolls sprouting better tresses in those evenly spaced plugs that always give me the creeps. The wigs, displayed on featureless Styrofoam heads, would have been perfect if you were forced to attend a costume party at gunpoint. Beyond the wig shop, there was an outlet for bawdy underwear, and beyond that an alleyway with a sign pointing to additional parking in the rear. I walked around to the back and had a look.

All I saw were bulging trash cans and empty parking spots. Every space was earmarked for one of the businesses, with the bawdy underwear store claiming the lion’s share. Behind the consignment shop there was a stack of battered cardboard boxes broken down and bound with twine. Nothing out of the ordinary as far as I could see, but at least I’d satisfied my curiosity.

I drove home and parked Henry’s station wagon in front of his garage beside my Mustang. In the morning, I’d return it to his garage. I did a walkabout in his house. Over the past few days, I’d seen lights winking on and off at burglar-fooling intervals. Living room lamps came on at 4:00 and went off at 9:00 when the bedroom lights came on and then off again at 10:30.