V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

I found a table for two in the corner on the far side and sat facing the entrance. When Cheney appeared, I lifted my hand to attract his attention. He threaded his way between the tables, and when he reached me he gave me the obligatory buss on the cheek before he pulled out a chair and sat down. He was in chinos, a white dress shirt, and a sueded silk sport coat the color of wild brown bunnies. Cheney came from money and while he’d declined to go into his father’s banking business, a trust fund allowed him to dress with impeccable taste. He favored earth tones, colors that reminded me of nature’s softer side, in sensual fabrics I wanted to reach out and touch. He also smelled better than almost any man I’ve known, some combination of soap, shampoo, aftershave, and body chemistry. There were moments I remembered from our short-lived affair and I had to resist the temptation to sexualize my contact with him.

We chatted and then ordered and then ate. As hungry as I’d been, I scarcely paid attention to the meal. I was anxious and I could feel myself stalling, not wanting to launch into my spiel. I don’t know if I was afraid he wouldn’t take me seriously or that he’d judge the facts too thin to act upon.

Cheney finally pushed the point. “What’s on your mind?”

I reached into my shoulder bag, took out my report, and placed it facedown on the table. “I’ve put together some information that should probably go to Len, but I can’t bring myself to deal with him. You know how he feels about me after what happened to Mickey. He’d dismiss anything I said, but he might pay attention if it came from you.”

“Give me the gist.”

“Organized retail theft. I wouldn’t have known anything about it if it hadn’t been for Audrey’s death . . .”

I’d been engrossed in the subject for days and I laid it out for him in an orderly progression. I watched his expression alter as I worked my way through events from the beginning to the current moment. Cheney’s a smart guy, and so I knew I didn’t have to spell out the broader picture when I was already providing the specifics. At the end of my summary, he held out his hand for the report. I gave it to him and watched him leaf through the pages. Once or twice he looked at me in sharp surprise, which I confess I took as a compliment.

When he finished reading, he said, “How’d you come up with the connection to the consignment shop?”

“I was chatting with someone about fencing operations. The name came out of our conversation.” I told him about the boxes I’d picked up and the shipping labels.

He was momentarily quiet and not making eye contact, which didn’t bode well. He seemed to be filtering the information through a framework different from mine.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Sorry. You caught me by surprise. I didn’t realize what you were up to.”

“What I was up to?”

“I didn’t know you were so interested in Audrey Vance.”

“I don’t know why not. I told you Marvin Striker hired me to look into her past. That’s what I was asking about the day I ran into you and Len having lunch. What’s going on?”

“Nothing you could have known about.”

“What, like there’s already an investigation under way?”

“All I can tell you is you’re treading on sensitive ground and I suggest you back off.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I’ve come to a dead end,” I said. “If I knew what to do at this point, I wouldn’t be here. This is your bailiwick, not mine.”

“True, and I appreciate what you’ve accomplished. Now promise me you’ll let it drop.”

I said, “Ah. So I must be on track or you wouldn’t be clamming up.”

“This is not your concern. I don’t mean to be hard-nosed, but I know how you operate. You get on the scent of something and it’s hard to pull you off. I’m not faulting you on that score or any other.”

“Imagine my relief,” I said.

He looked down at the report. “You have copies or is this it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I might need to confiscate the material for a period of time. I don’t want the information floating around.”

“You’re kidding.”

The look he gave me was utterly without mirth, so I thought it best to abandon my jocular tone.

I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “Jesus, Cheney. If I was stepping in a pile of shit, why didn’t you say so at the time?”

“My fault entirely. I should have warned you.”