V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“I left my gun in the car,” I said.

“Says you.” He gestured impatiently.

Pinky and I moved into range and the goon kept a close watch while I turned sideways and lifted my arms, allowing Pinky to run his hands down my sides and along the legs of my jeans. “She’s not armed,” he said.

“I told you so,” I said.

“Shut your smart-ass mouth and keep your hands up where I can see them,” Cappi said.

I complied, not wanting to annoy the man more than I already had. Pinky returned to the easy chair and took a seat while I stood with my palms turned up as though checking for rain. “Mind if I ask what’s going on?”

Cappi said, “I came to pick up a set of photographs.” He shifted his attention to Pinky. “You want to get on with it?”

Pinky unbuttoned the front of his shirt, extracted the manila envelope, and held it out to him. “These are Len’s, you know. He’s not going to appreciate any interference from you.”

“Pass ’em over to your friend. We’ll let her do the honors as long as she’s here.”

I took the envelope. Cappi gestured with the gun, motioning me to the fireplace.

I crossed the room. “I’m supposed to burn these?”

“Very good,” he said.

“It’ll go faster if I take ’em out and do them one by one,” I said. Having been threatened with death over the self-same photographs, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

Cappi thought for a moment, perhaps wondering if there was trickery afoot. I was a good fifteen feet away from him, and he must have realized my options were limited. There were no fireplace tools and nothing that might double as a weapon. “Suit yourself,” he said.

I tore open the flap and removed the photographs, taking care not to display overt curiosity. The prints were eight-by-tens, in glossy black-and-white. The first showed Len Priddy and Cappi sitting in a parked car. It was a night scene and the picture was taken with a zoom lens from across the street. The light wasn’t fabulous, but the closeup left no doubt who it was. I held the print to the fire and the corner began to curl. Dodie’s gaze was averted and Pinky’s expression was bleak. I tilted the picture to allow the flames to climb along the edge. When it was fully engulfed, I dropped it on top of the fake logs, where it continued to burn. I took the next print and subjected it to the same treatment. Len and Cappi were photographed from roughly the same angle at different locations, but the gist was the same. I focused on the job, guiding the flames as the fire chewed and digested the images. Judging from Cappi’s selection of tasteless shirts, he and Len met on six occasions.

While I worked my way through, I thought back to Cheney Phillips’s comment about my putting a confidential informant at risk. Dodie’d told me Len was using the mug shots of her to ensure that Pinky continued to funnel street rumors in his direction. If this second set of photographs was valuable, it probably meant Len was using them to keep Cappi in line as well. Len himself had nothing to fear from the images. The name of a CI is a closely guarded matter, and if his relationship with Cappi came to light, he could write it off as police business, which it probably was. On the other hand, I had to assume that if Dante found out his brother was having conversations with a vice detective, Cappi would be dead.

“Now the negatives,” Cappi said when the prints had been reduced to ash.

I removed the strips of negatives and held them to the blaze. The film flared and disappeared, leaving an acrid odor in the air. Once the photographs and negatives had been destroyed, I didn’t think the three of us would be in jeopardy. Cappi was currently on parole, already in serious violation because of the firearm he was waving around. Why would he add to his troubles? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he used the gun against us. We were no threat to him. Even if we blabbed about the photographs, the proof was gone. I maintained a cautious silence nonetheless, not wanting to set him off.

He glanced at me, saying, “Kick the ashes around and make sure nothing’s left.”

I used the toe of my boot to nudge the residue of burned photographic paper. One sheet had retained its soft rectangular shape, and I could have sworn the shadowy image remained, Len and Cappi, features blurred and nearly indistinct. The fragments separated and tumbled soundlessly around the logs.

Cappi got up and tucked the gun in the waist of his jeans at the small of his back. Now that the evidence had been reduced to soot, he seemed relaxed, ready to get on with his evening’s entertainment. “You folks sit tight and I’ll be on my way. I appreciate your cooperation,” he said, showing what an affable fellow he was. He must have seen the movies featuring crooks with good manners.