V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

This would be a convenient and remote location for distribution of stolen goods, thought I. The purpose of any carefully structured fencing operation is to put distance between the actual thieves and the ultimate dispensation of the merchandise. A company like Allied could put together a confusing mix of lawful and unlawful activities. I couldn’t even imagine the accumulation of evidence that would have to be assembled before law enforcement could move in. An illegal operation involving the crossing of state lines creates a jurisdictional nightmare for investigating agencies, which have been known to arrest one another’s undercover operatives and informants by mistake. Here long-haul trucks might be used for legitimate purposes and smaller trucks employed for goods that wouldn’t stand up to roadside weigh-station inspection.

I returned to the main road and from there to the 101, which took me into town. I went back to my office. The light on my answering machine was blinking, and I felt a flash of irritation because I wanted to get to work and I wasn’t in the mood for interruptions. Nonetheless, being a good girl, I pressed the play button. This was the message that awaited me:

“Kinsey, this is Diana. Somebody’s come to me with a story I think you should hear. I hope you’ll set aside whatever bad feelings you have about me and return this call. Please.” Then she recited her number.

To the machine I said, “Oh yeah, sure, Diana. Like I’m going to call you back after what you did to me.” Then I hit delete.

I hauled out my Smith-Corona portable typewriter and set it on my desk. I’m usually good about writing reports, always aware that it’s best to capture information while it’s fresh. If too much time passes, half the details get lost. With any investigation, the small revelations sometimes contribute as much to the whole as the more dramatic discoveries. So far, all Audrey’s file contained was a copy of Marvin’s check. Time to make amends. I pulled out a sheaf of typing paper with tissue carbons and rolled the first sheet into place. I set my index cards on the desk beside me and began typing up my notes.

When I finished it was close to noon. I was tired. I’m not a skilled typist, though I do better than hunt-and-peck. What I’d struggled with was the job of converting the bare facts into a coherent narrative. Some information was still in outline form with gaps where I hadn’t yet filled in the blanks. Aside from the missing links, it seemed clear I was onto something big. I made a neat stack of my typed notes and put one copy in my shoulder bag, along with the index cards, which I secured with a rubber band. I placed the second copy of my report in an unlocked file drawer in a folder labeled GYNECOLOGY & FEMININE HYGIENE ISSUES, subjects I hoped the average thief would find repellant.

Time to talk to Marvin, whose house was less than two miles away. I’d made progress, but I still had to frame my findings so they made sense to him. In essence, I’d been suspended without pay. Now I hoped to persuade him to underwrite the next phase of my investigation. If he wasn’t home, there was a good chance he’d be at the Hatch. A serious drinker sees Sunday as just another day of the week, except that it begins with a Bloody Mary and progresses to beer, bourbon, or tequila depending on the company and seasonal sporting events. I was starving as usual and thought I’d stop in at the Hatch for bar grub whether he was there or not.

I made a right turn onto State and drove the half mile to Marvin’s neighborhood. I parked and trotted up the walk to his front door. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again. Still nothing. I peered in the windows along the front of the house and saw no indication that he was home. I returned to my car and drove the additional block to the Hatch, parking on the side street as I had before.

It felt odd to be walking into a bar at such an early hour on a Sunday. Apparently, others felt fine about it because the place was doing a lively business. All four television sets were turned on. The jukebox blared, and there were ten or twelve patrons congregated at the bar where Ollie, the owner, seemed to be making drinks with both hands. The air was already hazy with cigarette smoke, and I could feel my eyes cross at the notion of particulate matter settling on my clothes.

Marvin was among those gathered, talking to one of the two women who were part of his inner circle—Earldeen Somebody-or-Other, if memory served. He toted a bourbon on the rocks as dark as strong iced tea. He put a fresh cigarette between his lips and extended a light to Earldeen before he applied it to his own. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and when he realized it was me, his expression downshifted ever so slightly from relaxed to disengaged. “Hey. Look who’s here. What’s up?”