V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

I studied the porthole in my door. I scanned for lights, wondering if perhaps I’d catch the soft gray beam of a flashlight inside. I had every reason to believe the men in the pale blue sedan were gone, but what had they been doing there in the first place? I fumbled in my shoulder bag for my penlight and flicked it on. I leaned close to the lock. There was no sign of forced entry, which was not to say someone hadn’t used a set of key picks to get in. At least no one had kicked a big hole in my door or used a boot to bash it off its hinges.

My gun was in my briefcase, locked in the trunk of the Mustang, which was parked in the drive. I would have felt a whole lot braver if I’d had my H&K in hand, but I didn’t want to show myself on the street. It seemed a bit melodramatic when I really couldn’t be sure the two guys had been inside. Maybe they’d knocked and then left when it became clear no one was home. I removed my key ring and carefully inserted my key in the lock, turning it with care. Through the porthole, all I could see was flat darkness. I pushed the door open and leaned in to flip on the overhead light.

My living room and kitchen were empty. There was no sign of a disturbance. I’d half expected to see drawers pulled out, chairs overturned, and the sofa gutted with a kitchen knife. In movies, that’s how it’s done. Here, nothing of the sort.

“Hello?” I called.

I turned my gaze to the spiral stairs, listening for sounds. Reason told me there was no one on the premises. I locked the door behind me and walked around the ground floor with the same attention to detail I used when checking Henry’s place. There was no obvious evidence anyone had come in while I was out, but the longer I looked, the more indication I had that something was off. The bottom desk drawer was open a marginal half inch. I’m compulsive about closing drawers and cabinet doors, even in someone else’s home.

I went up the spiral stairs, pausing at the top to peer over the rail. I crossed to my bed table and studied the arrangement of items on top. The clock, the lamp, and the magazines were there, but not quite as I’d left them, which suggested someone had cleared the lid and looked inside. I opened one drawer after another, and while the contents weren’t jumbled, I sensed that someone had searched. I peered into my bathroom, which harbored no hiding places except for the laundry hamper. I was, of course, mindful of the box of cash Vivian and I had delivered to the sheriff’s department in San Luis. I was also thinking about the man who’d rung her doorbell inquiring about the package that had been delivered in error.

When the phone rang, I was so startled I jumped, and while I don’t believe I shrieked, I may well have yelped. I picked up the handset.

“Kinsey?”

It was Vivian, her tone plaintive. “Is everything all right at your place? Because I just got home from my stitching group and I think someone’s been here.”

21

At this point I should have called the police. Ordinarily, I’m not shy about such things. In this instance, however, I had the following factors working against me: I didn’t know the make and model of the pale blue sedan. It was almost dark when I’d spotted the two guys getting into the car, which was half a block away. I couldn’t have sworn the two had actually been in my place, though I couldn’t imagine why else they’d be coming out of Henry’s backyard. There were no scratches on my front door lock and no obvious indications that anyone had been inside. I was convinced they’d broken in, but I had no evidence. If they’d searched the studio, they were probably smart enough not to leave fingerprints. So what was there to report? As far as I know, there isn’t a provision in the California penal code for the crime of “I believe a man might have put his hand in my underwear drawer.”

Assuming I was right and the guys had entered the studio, it was surely with an eye to retrieving the shitload of cash Vivian and I had turned over to law enforcement. There might have been an argument for calling the cops just to “have something on record,” as though a police report might pave the way for later action on my part. I knew I wouldn’t be filing a claim on my renter’s policy because I’m reasonably certain I’m not covered for damages resulting from someone peeking in my freezer, thinking I’d be dumb enough to hide masses of cash next to that ancient package of frozen peas.

In my phone conversation with Vivian, I’d told her to do as she saw fit. I didn’t think it was my place to advise her one way or the other. She said she was fine but would call her cousin to come pick her up. She didn’t want to be alone in the house, a sentiment I understood. She did say she had a shotgun that her husband had taught her to use to good effect, provided she had the nerve to blow an intruder off his feet. She doubted her ability and I applauded her good sense.