V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

I left the county building and drove back to Juniper Lane. I parked two doors down from the Prestwicks’ house and stared at the narrow slice of driveway I could see. I wasn’t officially on surveillance. I needed a place to sit while I sorted myself out and why not in range of two principal players? I took my index cards from the depths of my shoulder bag and made a few notes, discouraged by the paucity of facts. I had lots of good guesses and little evidence.

Now that Marvin Striker and I had parted company, I was on my own. While I liked not having to answer to him, I wouldn’t net a nickel for my services. This is a dumb way to run a business, especially when the usual bills came due and I’d find myself short on funds. I have a savings account to cover shortfalls, but I don’t fancy dipping into it. Despite my huffy claims to the contrary, I couldn’t afford to work for long without pay. The sensible course of action would be to collate the data I’d collected and hand it over to Cheney Phillips. I had no intention of dealing with Len Priddy, but if Cheney wanted to pass on the information, that was up to him.

I caught movement ahead and watched as Georgia emerged from her driveway on foot. She wasn’t dressed for exercise unless she leaned toward jogging in a tight skirt, panty hose, and strappy spike-heel shoes. She reached the corner and paused. As I looked on, a long black limousine pulled into view. The back door swung open and she got in, after which the limousine glided out of my line of sight. I fired up the Mustang and drove to the end of the block, where I nosed forward slightly and peered to my right. The limousine had pulled over to the curb and it sat there, engine idling. A very large man in a black suit had stepped out. He stood beside the vehicle, hands neatly folded in front of him while he scanned the immediate area. His gaze came to rest on my car, and I had no choice but to turn left and drive on as though that had been my intent. I didn’t even have time to pick up a plate number, which I could see was becoming a habitual failing of mine. Once again, I cursed the Grabber Blue Mustang, which was much too conspicuous. I couldn’t even speed around the block and approach from the opposite direction.

I returned to the office, and as I pulled up in front, I saw Pinky Ford sitting on my porch step, a manila envelope in hand. I’d been looking forward to time on my own, but that was apparently not in the cards. When he saw me, he stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. He wore the usual jeans, this time with a Western-cut shirt, black with silver studs up one side like upholstery tacks. He’d been there for some time judging by the number of dead cigarette butts at his feet. As I approached, he tucked the envelope under one arm and bent down to collect the butts. He held them cupped in one hand while he made a show of rubbing out the ashes with the toe of one boot.

I said, “Hey, Pinky. How are you? I hope you’re not here to tell me you hocked something else.”

“No, ma’am. I’ve been good,” he said. “About that, at any rate.”

I unlocked the door and he followed me in. “I can make a pot of coffee if you like.”

“I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“You want to have a seat or would that take too long?”

“I can sit,” he said.

I pulled the trash can from under my desk and held it out to him, waiting while he deposited his cigarette butts and wiped his hands on his jeans. Personally, I’d have loved a cup of coffee but I postponed the pleasure in the interest of speed and efficiency. He settled on the guest chair and placed the manila envelope on my desk. As I looked over, I saw that the light on my answering machine was winking merrily. “Hang on.”

I pressed play and the minute I heard “This is Dia . . .” I punched delete.

Pinky said, “Geez, I can tell you’re fond of her.”

“Long story,” I said. “Is that for me?”

He pushed the envelope forward an inch. “I was hoping you could hang on to it temporarily.”

“What is it?”

“Photographs.”

“Of?”

“Two different individuals in compromising circumstances. It’s better if you don’t know the particulars.”

“Why is it better? It doesn’t sound better to me.”

“The subject matter’s on the sensitive side. In the first set, someone’s reputation and good name are at stake.”

“You with another woman?”

“Not me. I don’t have a good name or reputation, either one. Besides which, I wouldn’t fool around on Dodie. She’s explained in some detail what she’d do to me if I strayed.”