V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“What about the other set?”

“Second’s more serious. I’d say life-or-death if it didn’t sound like I was blowing smoke up your skirt.”

“How many photographs altogether? Doesn’t matter. I’m just curious,” I said.

He thought about that, like the idea hadn’t occurred to him before. “I’d say ten.”

“You’re guessing ten or you’ve actually counted them?”

“I counted. There’s also the negatives. Copies without the negatives aren’t worth shit. Destroy one set and all a fellow has to do is print ’em up again.”

“Why give them to me?”

He paused to remove a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. “Good question,” he said without volunteering a response.

“Pinky, I’m not going to hang on to anything unless you tell me what’s going on.”

“Understood,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling. “Let’s see how I can explain and still exercise my fifth-amendment rights.”

“Take your time.”

He thought for a moment. “I may have picked my way into the premises of a person I believed was in possession of the material in the envelope. I’m not saying I did, but it’s possible. It’s also possible I’d looked for the items elsewhere and when they didn’t come to light, I deduced their whereabouts.”

“Why get involved in the first place?”

“I wanted to eliminate the threat to a friend of mine. In the process, these other pictures came to light and that’s what’s put me in a bind. Big-time.”

“Doesn’t that suggest that anyone holding the photographs would be in trouble if someone else figured it out?”

“Why would anyone suspect you?”

“What if you were followed? There could be a guy parked down the block with binoculars trained on my door. You come in with the envelope. You leave without it. The bad guys aren’t stupid. I don’t care who they are, they’re going to figure it out.”

He shifted in his chair, apparently discomfited by the idea. The look he turned on me was shrewd. “You could give me another manila envelope to carry with me when I leave.”

I squinted. “You know what? This really doesn’t sound like a good plan to me. You know I’d help if I could, but you’ve dug yourself a hole and I don’t want to fall into it with you.”

This was not the response he was looking for. “How about I leave the photos for one day?”

“How do I know you’ll come back for them?”

“Because I got a good use for them, but not right away. This is just for safekeeping. One day.” He held up one finger to dramatize the time frame like the number 1 was somehow ambiguous.

“I know you better than that. You’ll do what’s expedient and I’ll be stuck.”

“Promise I’ll come back for them. I swear.”

“I don’t understand why one day will make a difference.”

“I’m setting up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon. I’m in a jam and the photos are my get-out-of-jail-free card, but only if I get them to the relevant party. Meantime, you can put the envelope in your safe and forget it’s there.”

“What makes you think I have a safe?”

The look he gave me was pained, like it was obvious. “I’ll pick ’em up by noon tomorrow and that’s the last you’ll hear.”

I wanted to slam my fingers in the pencil drawer, which in the end would have been less painful than his proposal. “Please don’t ask me to do this.”

“I am asking you. I’m desperate.” He managed to look solemn and plaintive and helpless and dependent.

I stared at him. Jailbirds are so often like this, I thought. In prison or out, they wheedle and manipulate. Maybe they can’t help it. They chain themselves to the proverbial railroad tracks knowing good souls, like me, will gallop to the rescue. When I do as predicted, guess who ends up under the train?

Everything in me cried out in protest. How many times have I said yes in situations like this with disastrous results? How many times have I fallen for just such a pitch? The purpose of intuition is to warn us when the wolf arrives at the door dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. I opened my mouth, not even certain what would come out. “Something about this doesn’t feel right to me,” I said. “Actually, none of it feels right.”

“You’re the only friend I have.”

“Stop that. There has to be somebody else.”